"Garry Kilworth - The Silver Collar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

тАЬSam. You must call me Sam.тАЭ

I told him I would and there was a period of silence while we regarded each other. Peat is not a
consistent fuel, and tends to spurt and spit colorful plumes of flame as the gases escape, having been held
prisoner from the seasons for God knows how long. Nevertheless, I was able to study my host in the
brief periods of illumination that the fire afforded. He could have been any age, but I knew he was my
senior by a great many years. The same thoughts must have been passing through his own head, for he
remarked, тАЬJohn, how old are you? I would guess at twenty.тАЭ

тАЬNearer thirty, Sam. I was twenty-six last birthday.тАЭ He nodded, saying that those who live a solitary
life, away from others, have great difficulty in assessing the ages of people they do meet. Recent events
slipped from his memory quite quickly, while the past seemed so close.

He leaned forward, into the hissing fire, as if drawing a breath from the ancient atmospheres it released
into the room. Behind him, the earthen walls of the croft, held together by rough timbers and unhewn
stones, seemed to move closer to his shoulder, as if ready to support his words with confirmation. I
sensed a story coming. I recognized the pose from being in the company of sailors on long voyages and
hoped he would finish before I had to leave.

тАЬYouтАЩre a good-looking boy,тАЭ he said. тАЬSo was I, once upon a time.тАЭ He paused to stir the flames and a
blue-green cough from the peat illuminated his face. The skin was taut over the high cheekbones and
there was a wanness to it, no doubt brought about by the inclement weather of the islesтАФthe lack of
sunshine and the constant misty rain that comes in as white veils from the north. Yes, he had been
handsomeтАФstill was. I was surprised by his youthful features and suspected that he was not as old as he
implied.

тАЬA long time ago,тАЭ he began, тАЬwhen we had horse-drawn vehicles and things were different, in more
ways than oneтАжтАЭ

A sharp whistling noteтАФthe wind squeezing through two tightly packed logs in the croftтАФdistracted me.
Horse-drawn vehicles? What was this? A second-hand tale, surely? Yet he continued in the first person.

тАЬтАж gas lighting in the streets. A different set of values. A different set of beliefs. We were more pagan
then. Still had our roots buried in dark thoughts. Machines have changed all that. Those sort of pagan,
mystical ideas canтАЩt share a world with machines. Unnatural beings can only exist close to the natural
world and natureтАЩs been displaced.

Yes, a different worldтАФdifferent things to fear. I was afraid as a young manтАФthe reasons may seem
trivial to you, now, in your time. I was afraid of, well, getting into something I couldnтАЩt get out of. Woman
trouble, for instanceтАФespecially one not of my class. You understand?

I got involved once. Must have been about your age, or maybe a bit younger since IтАЩd only just finished
my apprenticeship and was a journeyman at the time. Silversmith. You knew that? No, of course you
didnтАЩt. A silversmith, and a good one too. My master trusted me with one of his three shops, which
puffed my pride a bit, I donтАЩt mind telling you. Anyway, it happened that I was working late one evening,
when I heard the basement doorbell jangle.
 I had just finished lighting the gas lamps in the workshop at the back, so I hurried to the counter where a
customer was waiting. She had left the door open and the sounds from the street were distracting, the
basement of course being on a level with the cobbled road. Coaches were rumbling by and the noise of
street urchins and flower sellers was fighting for attention with the foghorns from the river. As politely as I