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

about nine or ten years old. On our way to the sticklebrook to fish we had decided to test out our stick and
string rods on the mill-pond, in the vain hope of snaring one of the predatory fish that lived there. As we
crouched by the water (we only ever dared to go out in the boat with Alphonse) we saw movement in the
trees, across on the other bank. It was a bewildering vision that held us enthralled for the next few
moments, and not a little terrified: standing watching us was a man in brown, leathery clothes, with a
wide, gleaming belt around his waist, and a spiky, orange beard that reached to his chest: on his head he
wore twigs, held to his crown by a leather band. He watched us for a moment only, before slipping back
into the darkness. We heard nothing in all this time, no sound of approach, no sound of departure.

Running back to the house we had soon calmed down. Christian decided, eventually, that it must have
been old Alphonse, playing tricks on us. But when I mentioned what we'd seen to my father he reacted

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 Mythago Wood

almost angrily (although Christian recalls him as having been excited, and bellowing for that reason, and
not because he was angry with our having been near the forbidden pool). It was father who referred to the
vision as 'the Twigling', and soon after we had spoken to him he vanished into the woodland for nearly
two weeks.

'That was when he came back hurt, remember?' We had reached the grounds of Oak Lodge, and Christian
held the gate open for me as he spoke.

'The arrow wound. The gypsy arrow. My God, that was a bad day.'

'The first of many.'

I noticed that most of the ivy had been cleared from the walls of the house; it was a grey place now, small,
curtainless windows set in the dark brick. The slate roof, with its three tall chimney stacks, was partially
hidden behind the branches of a big old beech tree. The yard and gardens were untidy and unkempt, the
empty chicken coops and animal shelters ramshackle and decaying. Christian had really let the place slip.
But when I stepped across the threshold, it was as if I had never been away. The house smelled of stale
food and chlorine, and I could almost see the thin figure of my mother, working away at the immense
pinewood table in the kitchen, cats stretched out around her on the red-tiled floor.

Christian had grown tense again, staring at me in that fidgety way that marked his unease. I imagined he
was still unsure whether to be glad or angry that I had come home like this. For a moment I felt like an
intruder. He said, 'Why don't you unpack and freshen up. You can use your

old room. It's a bit stuffy, I expect, but it'll soon air. Then come down and we'll have some late lunch.
We've got all the time in the world to chat, as long as we're finished by tea.' He smiled, and I thought this
was some slight attempt at humour. But he went on quickly, staring at me in a cold, hard way, 'Because if
you're going to stay at home for a while, then you'd better know what's going on here. I don't want you
interfering with it, Steve, or with what I'm doing.'

'I wouldn't interfere with your life, Chris - ' 'Wouldn't you? We'll see. I'm not going to deny that I'm
nervous of you being here. But since you are . . .' He trailed off, and for a second looked almost
embarrassed. 'Well, we'll have a chat later on.'