"Brian Lumley - Born Of The Winds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

BORN OF THE WINDS



by




Brian Lumley


Consider: I am, or was, a meteorologist of some note тАУ a man whose interests and leanings have always
been away from fantasy and the so-called тАШsupernaturalтАЩ тАУ and yet now I believe in a wind that blows
between the worlds, and in a Being which inhabits that wind, striding in feathery cirrus and shrieking
lightning-storm alike across icy Arctic heavens.

Just how such an uttercontradiction of beliefs could come about I will now attempt to explain, for I
alone possess all of the facts. If I am wrong in what I more than suspect тАУ if what has gone before has
been nothing but a monstrous chain of coincidence confused by horrific hallucination тАУ then with luck I
might yet return out of this white wilderness to the sanity of the world I knew. But if I am right, and I fear
that I am horribly right, then I am done for, and this manuscript will stand as my testimonial of a hitherto
all-but-unrecognised plane of existence тАж and of itsinhabitant , whose like may only be found in
legends whose sources date back geological eons into earthтАЩs dim and terrible infancy.

My involvement with this thing has come about all in the space of a few months, for it was just over two
months ago, fairly early in August, that I first came toNavissa,Manitoba , on what was to have been a
holiday of convalescence following a debilitating chest complaint.

Since meteorology serves me both as hobby and means of support, naturally I brought some of my
тАШworkтАЩ with me; not physically, for my books and instruments are many, but locked in my head were a
score of little problems beloved of the meteorologist. I brought certain of my notebooks too, in which to
make jottings or scribble observations on the almost Arctic conditions of the region as the mood might
take me. Canadaoffers a wealth of interest to one whose life revolves about the weather: the wind and
rain, the clouds and the storms that seem to spring from them.

In Manitoba on a clear night, not only is the air sweet, fresh, sharp and conducive to the strengthening of
weakened lungs, but the stars stare down in such crystal clarity that at times a man might try to pluck
them out of the firmament. It is just such a night now тАУ though the glass is far down, and I fear that soon it
may snow тАУ but warm as I am in myself before my stove, still my fingers feel the awesome cold of the
night outside, for I have removed my gloves to write.
 Navissa, until fairly recently, was nothing more than a trail camp, one of many to expand out of humble
beginnings as a trading post into a full-blown town. Lying not far off the old Olassie Trail, Navissa is quite
close to deserted, ill-fated Stillwater, but more of Stillwater later тАж

I stayed at the judgeтАЩs house, a handsome brick affair with a raised log porch and chalet-style roof, one
of NavissaтАЩs few truly modern buildings, standing on that side of the town towards the neighbouring hills.
Judge Andrews is a retired New Yorker of independent means, an old friend of my father, a widower
whose habits in the later years of his life have inclined towards the reclusive; being self-sufficient, he
bothers no one, and in turn he is left to his own devices. Something of a professional anthropologist all his