"Robert Jordan - Ravens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

brightness of the morning.

Widow Aynal's Meadow - it had been called that as long as
anyone could remember, though no one knew which Aynal
widow it had been named after - the tree-ringed meadow stood
empty most of the year, but now people and sheep crowded the
whole long length of it, a good many more sheep than people.
Large stones stuck out of the ground here and there, a few almost
as tall as a man, but they did not interfere with the activity in the
meadow.

Farmers came from all around Emond's Field for this, and
village folk came out to help relatives. Everyone in the village
had kith or kin of some sort on the farms. Shearing would be
going on all across the Two Rivers, down at Deven Ride and up
to Watch Hill. Not at Taren Ferry, of course. Many of the women
wore shawls draped loosely over their arms and flowers in their
hair, for the formality and so did some of the older girls, though
their hair was not in the long braid the women had. A few even
wore dresses with embroidery around the neck, as if this really
were a feastday. In contrast, most of the men and boys went
coatless, and some even had their shirts unlaced.

Egwene did not understand why they were allowed to do
that. The women's work was no cooler than the men's.

Big, wooden-railed pens at the far end of the meadow held
sheep already sheared, and others held those waiting to be
washed, all watched by boys of twelve and up. The sheepdogs
sprawled around the pens were no good for this work. Groups of
those older boys were using wooden staffs to herd sheep to the
river for washing, then to keep them from lying down and getting
dirty again until they were dry for the men at this end of the
meadow who were doing the shearing. Once the sheep were
shorn, the boys herded them back to the pens while men carried
the fleece to the slatted tables where women sorted the wool and
folded it for baling. They kept a tally, and had to be careful that
no one's wool was mixed with anyone else's. Along the trees to
Egwene's left, other women were beginning to set out food for
the midday meal on long trestle tables. If she was good enough at
carrying water, maybe they would let her help with the food or
the wool next year, instead of two years later. If she did the best
job ever, no one would ever be able to call her a baby again.

She began making her way through the crowd, sometimes
carrying the bucket in both hands, sometimes shifting it from one
to the other, pausing whenever someone motioned for a dipper of
water. Soon she began to perspire again, sweating dark patches
on her woolen dress. Maybe the boys with their shirts unlaced
were not just being foolish. She ignored the younger children,