"Michael Flynn - The Promise Of God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

human being, but neither ready to retreat, either. When it turned, Nealy could
see the badly healed scar along its flank, the stiffness with which one hind leg
moved; explanation, at least, for why it had chosen the sheep pens. Nealy
pointed a finger at the beast.

"You killed Fat Emma, you!" he shrieked, as only young boys can shriek over a
favorite animal lost; and never mind that Emma would betimes have graced his own
table. A t seven, the future is a hazy thing. He made a gesture with his hands.
Anger and instinct moved his arms; and he felt something -- he felt some thing
-- course through him like water through a pipe, as if the pulse in his veins
gushed forth in a great spray.

And the wolf howled and twisted, leaped upon itself and lay still.

Nealy's breaths came in short gusts. His brow and face were hot and flushed and
his chest heaved. His head ached and he felt very, very tired. The sheep milled
about in the pen, bleating and bleating and bleating and bleating. Stupid
beasts, Nealy thought. Lackwits. Sheep deserved what happened to them. He made
another gesture and the fleece upon Gray Harry began to blacken and smolder.
Harry shook himself. Smoke rolled off him, then flames. Harry ran, still unsure
where the danger lay, knowing only to run and escape.

With a cry, Nealy dropped to his knees in the mud and covered his face with his
hands. His head throbbed. What had he done? What had he done? He felt his
father's arms gather him in, banding him tight against his sweet-smelling linen
shirt. Between sobs, Nealy told him what had happened; and his father kept
saying, "I know, Nealy. I saw."

After a while, his father stood him upright and brushed him off and straightened
his clothes. "There, "he said with a catch in his voice. "You look more
presentable now. The wolfskin is yours, you know. It will make a fine cloak. You
can wear it to school and the other kids will be jealous."

"Buh-- Buh-- But, Gray Harry-- "Nealy's words bobbed in his throat.

His father looked past him, at the dead animals in the pen. He could feel Papa's
head shaking as he buried his face in his father's chest. "You shan't have that
fleece, Nealy," he heard him say. "No, you shan't have that one."

The rapping at the door was repeated three times. Nealy twisted in his seat and
stared at it, wondering who it was. Not Greta, for she would not have knocked. A
neighbor? Someone from the village? The knocking boomed: a fist against the
thick, wooden slats. Finally, a kick and a muffled voice. "I know you be within,

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Master Cornelius. I saw your wifman leave."

Nealy nodded to himself. Someone craving admittance. Perhaps he should open the