"Charles De Lint - Spiritwalk" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

what she brought up to his studyтАФa tiny ivorynetsuke carved in the shape of a badger crawling out of a
teapot, a flat stone with curious scratches on it that looked like Ogham scriptтАФhe could spin out a tale of
its origin that might take them right through the afternoon to suppertime.

That he dreamed up half the stories only made it more entertaining, for then she could try to trip him up
in his rambling explanations, or even just try to top his tall tales.

But if she was intellectually precocious, emotionally she still carried scars from her parents' death and the
time she'd spent living with her other uncleтАФher father's brother. For three years Sara had been left in the
care of a nanny during the dayтАФamusing herself while the woman smoked cigarettes and watched the
soapsтАФwhile at night she was put to bed promptly after dinner. It wasn't a normal family life; she could
only find that vicariously, in the books she devoured with a voracious appetite.

Coming to live with her Uncle Jamie, then, was like constantly being on holiday. He doted on her, and
on those few occasions when hewas too busy, she could always find one of the many houseguests to
spend some time with her.

All that marred her new life in Tamson House was her night fears.

She wasn't frightened of the House itself. Nor of bogies or monsters living in her closet. She knew that
shadows were shadows, creaks and groans were only the House settling when the temperature changed.
What haunted her nights was waking up from a deep sleep, shuddering uncontrollably, her pajamas stuck
to her like a second skin, her heartbeat thundering at twice its normal tempo.

There was no logical explanation for the terror that gripped herтАФonce, sometimes twice a week. It just
came, an awful, indescribable panic that left her shivering and unable to sleep for the rest of the night.

It was on the days following such nights that she went into the garden. The greenery and flowerbeds and
statuary all combined to soothe her. Invariably, she found herself in the very center of the garden, where
an ancient oak tree stood on a knoll and overhung a fountain. Lying on the grass sheltered by its boughs,
with the soft lullaby of the fountain's water murmuring close at hand, she would find what the night fears
had stolen from her the night before.

She would sleep.

And she would dream the most curious dreams.

"The garden has a name, too," she told her uncle when she came in from sleeping under the oak one day.

The House was so big that many of the rooms had been given names just so that they could all be kept
straight in their minds.

"It's called the Mondream Wood," she told him.

She took his look of surprise to mean that he didn't know or understand the word.

"It means that the trees in it dream that they're people," she explained.

Her uncle nodded. 'The dream of life among men.' It's a good name. Did you think it up yourself?"