"Tom Easton - Mood Wendigo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

mannishness she would be worth shielding from all grief. Perhaps it was the eyes. Maybe it was just
Sarah. "But you can help," she said "You know people, and..."

"But what do you need help with?"

She shrugged and took the paper from her bag. She unfolded it and handed it to me. "Look at this," she
said. "It's French-Canadian, a rhyme, collected back in the thirties by the WPA people. I found it in the
university library, buried in the folklore files."

The paper was covered with a penciled scrawl, a copy of a poem that must have been set down by
someone who wished to capture the flavor of a speech pattern:

Ze Wendigo, Zat crazy beast, 'E never eats, But loves t'go. In darkest night, 'E runs and screams And
stirs ze dreams Of second sight. But when you go To join ze run, 'E stays unknown, Ze Wendigo

I packed and lit my pipe, studying the rhyme, before I spoke "Interesting," I said. I sent a cloud of smoke
toward the ceiling. "But what does it have to do with a leave of absence?"

Her fingers tensed around her tea cup. She had come to me, but she seemed unwilling to reveal her
problem. Could it be so rare or odd or shameful? Suppose it was, I told myself, and then I guessed the
answer.

"You want to go wendigo hunting." I laughed.

Her lips tightened, and I was immediately sorry for the laughter. That was just the reaction she had
feared. Of course. No one wants to be thought a nut, a crackpot, even if their ideas are a bit off the
beaten track. "But go on," I said, trying to save the situation. "Maybe I can help. At least, I'm game to
try."

She relaxed as if that was all she had wanted. I caught a faint whiff of perfume or cologne. And she
began to talk. She told me of the wendigo class, of her own interest in the strange, of her sense of
fairness that led her to the library, of her conviction that all the legends must reflect some grain of truth, of
her wish to seek that truth. She had come to me for suggestions on where to seek, a guess at the chances
of success, perhaps even a partner in the strange quest.

Why me? Well, I do have a reputation for imagination. Last year's ad program for my oil business
certainly stirred folks up enough. And then there were the gimmicks I had come up with to get more
tourists into the area. And then, too, there had been a few incidents now and again to connect me with
the strange. Really, I should have been more surprised if Lydia had not come to me.

But what could I do? I wouldn't know a wendigo if I saw one. Or heard one, rather. She was silent while
I relit my pipe and thought. She didn't fidget much, only turning her empty cup back and forth between
her hands. Finally, I said, "There's at least one fellow in this town who could help. If you'll come to the
town hall tomorrow after school, I'll ask him to meet us there."

She nodded and sighed. Her breath whistled as if she had been holding it. So I would help, after all. Her
voice was softer when she spoke. "Do you really think we can...?"

"How can we know?" I grimaced, sympathetically, I hoped. "We've no idea what it looks like or where
to look. But we can try."