Повелитель мух / Lord of the Flies

Ralph waved the conch.

“Shut up! Wait! Listen!”

He went on in the silence, borne on his triumph.

“There’s another thing. We can help them to find us. If a ship comes near the island they may not notice us. So we must make smoke on top of the mountain. We must make a fire.”

“A fire! Make a fire!”

At once half the boys were on their feet. Jack clamored among them, the conch forgotten.

“Come on! Follow me!”

The space under the palm trees was full of noise and movement. Ralph was on his feet too, shouting for quiet, but no one heard him.

All at once the crowd swayed toward the island and was gone—following Jack. Even the tiny children went and did their best among the leaves and broken branches. Ralph was left, holding the conch, with no one but Piggy.

Piggy’s breathing was quite restored.

“Like kids!” he said scornfully. “Acting like a crowd of kids!”

Ralph looked at him doubtfully and laid the conch on the tree trunk.

“I bet it’s gone tea-time,” said Piggy.

“What do they think they’re going to do on that mountain?”

He caressed the shell respectfully, then stopped and looked up.

“Ralph! Hey! Where you going?”

Ralph was already clambering over the first smashed swathes of the scar. A long way ahead of him was crashing and laughter.

Piggy watched him in disgust.

“Like a crowd of kids—”

He sighed, bent, and laced up his shoes. The noise of the errant assembly faded up the mountain. Then, with the martyred expression of a parent who has to keep up with the senseless ebullience of the children, he picked up the conch, turned toward the forest, and began to pick his way over the tumbled scar.

* * *

Below the other side of the mountain top was a platform of forest. Once more Ralph found himself making the cupping gesture.

“Down there we could get as much wood as we want.”

Jack nodded and pulled at his underlip. Starting perhaps a hundred feet below them on the steeper side of the mountain, the patch might have been designed expressly for fuel.

Trees, forced by the damp heat, found too little soil for full growth, fell early and decayed: creepers cradled them, and new saplings searched a way up.

Jack turned to the choir, who stood ready. Their black caps of maintenance were slid over one ear like berets.

“We’ll build a pile. Come on.”

They found the likeliest path down and began tugging at the dead wood.