"Robert Holdstock - Mythago Wood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

And he more than anything. I could hardly believe that this was the chipper, perky young man who had
left with his army unit in 1942. He had aged incredibly, his hair quite streaked with grey, more noticeable
for his having allowed it to grow long and untidy at the back and sides. He reminded me very much of
father: the same distant, distracted look, the same hollow cheeks and deeply wrinkled face. But it was his
whole demeanour that had shocked me. He had always been a stocky muscular chap; now he was like the
proverbial scarecrow, wiry, ungainly, on edge all the time. His gaze darted about, but never seemed to
focus upon me. And he smelled. Of mothballs, as if the crisp white shirt and grey flannels that he wore
had been dragged out of storage; and another smell beyond the naphtha ... the hint of woodland and grass.
There was dirt under his fingernails, and in his hair, and his teeth were yellowing.

He seemed to relax slightly as the minutes ticked by. We sparred a bit, laughed a bit, and walked around
the pond, whacking at the rushes with sticks. I could not shake off the feeling that I had arrived home at a
bad time.

'Was it difficult. . . with the old man, I mean? The last days.'

He shook his head. 'There was a nurse here for the final two weeks or so. I can't exactly say that he went
peacefully, but she managed to stop him damaging himself . . . or me, for that matter.'



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 Mythago Wood

'I was going to ask you about that. Your letters suggested hostility between the two of you.'

Christian smiled quite grimly, and glanced at me with a curious expression, somewhere between
agreement and suspicion. 'More like open warfare. Soon after I got back from France, he went quite mad.
You should have seen the place, Steve. You should have seen him. I don't think he'd washed for months. I
wondered what he'd been eating . . . certainly nothing as simple as eggs and meat. In all honesty, for a few
months I think he'd been eating wood and leaves. He was in a wretched state. Although he let me help
him with his work, he quickly began to resent me. He tried to kill me on several occasions, Steve. And I
mean that, really desperate attempts on my life. There was a reason for it, I suppose . . .'

I was astonished by what Christian was telling me. The image of my father had changed from that of a
cold, resentful man into a crazed figure, ranting at Christian and beating at him with his fists.

'I always thought he had a touch of affection for you; he always told you the stories of the wood; I
listened, but it was you who sat on his knee. Why would he try to kill you?'

'I became too involved,' was all Christian said. He was keeping something back, something of critical
importance. I could tell from his tone, from his sullen, almost resentful expression. Did I push the point or
not? It was hard to make the decision. I had never before felt so distant from my own brother. I wondered
if his behaviour was having an effect on Guiwenneth, the girl he had married. I wondered what sort of
atmosphere she was living in up at Oak Lodge.

Tentatively, I broached the subject of the girl.

Christian struck angrily at the rushes by the pond. 'Guiwenneth's gone,' he said simply, and I stopped,