"Vonda N. McIntyre-Elfleda" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntyre Vonda N)

human skin-- is tanned as dark as my red-gold coat. My mane and tail and lower legs are black.
The stream ripples by, loud with snow-water. It splashes down a rock slide into a mountain lake that
reflects in its depths another, freer world. There the purple-blue mountains are valleys which could be
reached if one could find them. The mountains themselves cannot be crossed. One of the large pegasoi,
seeking the sky, climbed only halfway to a summit before his hooves slipped on the sheer rock and he
fell. He broke his leg. Equine legs are a great trouble to heal, so he was put to death, humanely. As
humanely as he had been given this life.
The pond's surface moves and breaks, and one of the mer-people glides onto stones dampened by
mist. It is the water-folks' favorite place to sun themselves when the icy water chills their memories of
being warm-blooded. I think the being is a mermaid, but I cannot be sure from this distance. They are all
slender and lithe, with narrow shoulders and long bright hair. The women have hardly any breasts at all,
and the men have no proper genitals. They all have only slits, like fishes, half-concealed among the
multicolored scales on their abdomens. I have never seen them copulate with each other, so perhaps the
opening is only for excretion and for our owners to use when pleasuring themselves. The mer-people are
as deformed one way as I am the other. They have no genitals at all, while I have two sets. I am sure
some biological engineer received a prize for clever design. My human penis hangs in its accustomed
human place, but above the front legs of a bay horse. My stallion parts are much more discreet, tucked
away between my hind legs.
The mermaid flicks her tail, the filmy fin sending out rainbow drops of spray. Another of the merfolk
casts himself up beside her. But they do not touch; no intimacy exists between them. Perhaps the feeling
has been taken from them, or the cold water slows their passion as much as their bodies.
But, oh, they are lovely. When I wade out to drink, I can sometimes see them beneath the water,
swimming together in their own inexplicable patterns, hair streaming gold, silver, scarlet, scales rippling
blue, orange, black, all with a metallic sheen. Their tailfins are like gauze, like lace, transparent silk,
translucently veined. Their gill slits make vermilion lines across their chests and backs and throats.
They never speak.
If I moved from my hiding place of shadows, the mermaid and merman would disappear beneath the
silver surface of the ice-blue water, marring it with ripples. Two sets of concentric circles would touch,
and interact, and fade away, and I would be alone again. I do not move. I watch the beautiful creatures
sunning themselves, occasionally flicking water over their scales with their fins or their long narrow
hands.
I envy their contentment with solitude, their independence, as I envy Elfleda. She and they are never
touched by the games our masters play with us. Elfleda watches from a high pinnacle where only she can
climb. The merfolk participate when they are called and commanded, but their eyes are blank. I think by
the next day they have already forgotten.
I never forget. I remember every incident that has occurred since I was brought here. Soon it will all
happen again.
One of the merfolk swims away, then the other. The forest has chilled me, and I am hungry. The sun
bursts warm on my back as I leave deep shade and cross the meadow to the orchard.
Light through the mottled ceiling of leaves dapples my flanks. The lazy buzz of a black fly does not
disturb me. Having a long tail, I must confess, can be convenient.
A nymph and a satyr copulate beneath a plum tree, oblivious to my presence. They are as brazen as
the merfolk are shy. The satyr's short furry tail jerks up and down as she mounts the nymph and clasps
him with her hairy legs. His green hands grasp her hips and move up to caress her pink human flesh. On
either side of her spine's erect crest of brown bristles her back is slightly sunburned. The nymph arches
himself into her and she grunts, twining her fingers in his curly green-black hair. His heels press the
ground, his toes curl; her cloven goat-hooves dig up bits of sod. The nymph moans and clasps the satyr
to him. Our creators have no respect for the traditional gender of their creatures. They please only
themselves, never myth or legend.
I wheel and gallop away to escape the frantic plunging and gasps and groans in the orchards. I have