"MacLeod, Ian R - Sealight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

The keel creaked and the ominous coastline grew nearer as Ran daydreamed of
heroes and quests. Green scum veined the water. Islands of slick black sand
slumped to the horizon, tufted biliously green in patches. The catches were
abundant here -- the water was like soup and the fish thrived -- but so were the
risks, not least of which was grounding the keel on some hidden mudflat. The
sail sagged in the still air. Ran unstowed the oar and swept it slowly to each
side, canoe-fashion. The wooden blade made a sucking sound. Otherwise there was
silence.

Ran glanced down over the side of the boat, praying for the continuance of open
water, wishing, too, that he did not have to fish here. He jumped as water
erupted close to his elbow, but it was no more than a bubble of marshgas,
foul-smelling but harmless. The disturbance caused a shoal of skidling to
scatter through the silt like spilled coins. He nodded to himself and leaned
forward to stow the oar. This was as good a place as any. He unfurled the nets.

The dark air was hot. He sweated as he worked, drawing the nets through the
sleek water. Gutting the skidling, feeling the bright shudder as each life
spilled in a gathering slick, he pictured Jolenta, alone in her tower. He saw
the fall of her hair against pale shoulders, tha gleam and shift of silk across
her limbs, a sea-diamond glinting in the soft valley between her breasts. . . .
He shook his head and squeezed a skidling eyeball between finger and thumb until
it popped.

Noon came. Time for Ran to eat the skidling sandwiches his mother had made for
him. Off to the west, he had noticed astony gray island that seemed more
substantial than the rest. Welcoming the prospect of resting on solid ground for
half an hour, Ran eased his boat through the maze of channels. He threw a
grappling iron across the last few feet. It struck the gray surface of the
island with an oddly liquid smack. He hauled himself in.

Ran had half his mind on the grim horizon, watching the glint of distant
marshlight. If he hadn't been doing so, he might have noticed the gray-green
coils that began to seethe beneath the boat a vital moment earlier. As it was,
when he jumped from the prow his feet struck the island with a fleshy slap. His
right boot split the surface and black blood puddled up over his ankle, but by
then it was too late. The water was starting to boil with angry, seeking flesh.

Tentacles writhed dripping from the water. A rough grayish lump that Ran had
assumed to be a rock set in the middle of the island split open to reveal a
malevolent yellow eye. A tentacle swung around his arm like a wet rope. Others
smacked across his waist, his neck. The muscular flesh bulged, then relaxed,
holding without crashing. It lifted Ran lightly toward its steaming maw. Ran
screamed and straggled, but the creature's strength was enormous. And he was no
hero -- he could think of nothing he could do that would make any difference to
his fate. He thought instead of his mother, he thought of Piir, the way she
furrowed her brow when she was unhappy, the way she crinkled her eyes when she
smiled. The beak and lips dilated to accept his kicking feet, his legs, his
thighs.