"Ian R. MacLeod - The Master Miller's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

who often saw to the lesser workings of the mill, explained. тАЬItтАЩs been doing that for
longer than I and your father can remember. Now itтАЩs getting near the end of its
life...тАЭ The pulley turned, the flour hissed, the windmill rumbled, and this small roller
spun on in a slightly stuttering way. тАЬ...and we canтАЩt stop the mill from working
when weтАЩre this busy just to get it fixed. So we need someone to keep watchтАФwell,
more than simply watchтАФover it. I want you to sing to that roller to help keep this
pulley turning and in place. Do you understand?тАЭ
Nathan nodded, for the windmill was always chanting its spells from
somewhere down in its deep-throated, many-rumbling voice, and now his mother
took up a small part of the song in her own soft voice, her lips shaping the phrases
of a machine vocabulary, and he joined in, and the roller and the pulleyтАЩs entire
mechanism revolved more easily.
Soon, Nathan was performing more and more of these duties. He even learned
how to sing some of the larger spells that kept the mill turning, and then grew strong
enough to lift a full sack of grain. He worked the winches, damped the grist, swept
the chutes, oiled the workings. He loved the elegant way in which the mill always
rebalanced itself through weights, lengths, numbers, quantities. Fifteen men to dig a
pit thus wide down at school in the village meant nothing to him, but he solved
problems that had anything to do with grain, flour, or especially the wind, in his
dreams.
Sometimes there were visits from the rotund men who represented the county
branch of the MillersтАЩ Guild. On these occasions, everything about the mill had to be
just soтАФthe books up to date, the upper floors brushed and the lower ones waxed
and the sails washed and all the ironwork shiny black as new bootsтАФbut Nathan
soon learned that these men liked the mill to be chocked, braked and disengaged,
brought to a total stop. To them, it was a dead thing within a frozen sky, and he
began to feel the same contempt for his so-called guild-masters that any
self-respecting miller felt.
On the millтАЩs third floor, above the account books with their pots of green and
red ink, and set back in a barred recess, leaned a three-volume Thesaurus of spells.
One quiet day at the end of the spring rush when sails ticked and turned themselves
in slow, easy sweeps, his father lifted the heavy boots down, and blew off a coating
of the same pale dust which, no matter how often things were swept and aired, soon
settled on everything within the mill.
 тАЬThis, son....тАЭ He cleared his throat. тАЬWell, you already know what these are.
One day, these books will be yours. In a way, I suppose they already are....тАЭ
The yellowed pages rippled and snickered. Just like the mill itself, they didnтАЩt
seem capable of remaining entirely still, and were inscribed with the same phonetic
code that Nathan saw stamped, carved or engraved on its beams, spars and
mechanisms. There were diagrams. Hand-written annotations. Darker smudges and
creases lay where a particularly useful spell had been thumbed many times. Through
the millтАЩs hazy light, Nathan breathed it all in. Here were those first phrases his
mother had taught him when he tended that pulley, and the longer and more complex
melodies that would keep back those four apocalyptic demons of the milling
industry, which were: weevils, woodworm, fire, and rats. As always with things
pertaining to the mill, Nathan felt that he was rediscovering something he already
knew.
****
There were slack times and there were busy times. Late August, when the
farmers were anxious to get their summer wheat ground and bagged, and when the