"Eternal Champion - 05 - The Skrayling Tree" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

still saw no evidence of occupation. Something about the place reminded me of
Bek when I had first seen it, neatly maintained but organic.
This place had no whiff of preservation about it. This was a warm, living
building whose moss and ivy threatened the walls themselves. The windows were
not glass but woven willow lattice. It could have been there for centuries. The
only strange thing was that the wild wood went almost up to its walls. There was
no sign of surrounding cultivation-no hedges, fences, lawns, herb gardens, no
topiary or flower beds. The tangled old bracken stopped less than an inch from
the walls and windows and made it hard going as our tweeds caught on brambles
and dense shrubbery. For all its substance, the house gave the impression of not
quite belonging here. That, coupled with the age of the architecture, began to
alert me that we might be dealing with some supernatural agency. I put this to
my husband, whose aquiline features were unusually troubled.
As if realizing the impression he gave, Ulric's handsome mouth curved in a
broad, dismissive smile. Just as I took the mag-
ical as my norm, he took the natural as his. He could not imagine what I meant.
In spite of all his experience he retained his skepticism of the supernatural.
Admittedly, I was inclined to come up with explanations considered bizarre by
most of our friends, so I dropped the subject.
As we advanced through the sweet, rooty mold and leafy undergrowth I had no
sense that the place was sinister. Nonetheless, I tended to go a little more
cautiously than Ulric. He pushed on until he had brought us to the green-painted
back door under a slate porch. As he raised his fist to knock I noticed a
movement in the open upper window. I was sure I glimpsed a human figure.
When I pointed to the window, we saw nothing.
"Probably a bird flying over," said Ulric. Getting no response from the house,
we made our way around the walls until we reached the big double doors at the
front. They were oak and heavy with iron. Ulric grinned at me. "Since we are,
after all, neighbors"-he took a piece of ivory pasteboard from his waistcoat-
"the least we can do is leave our card." He pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord.
A perfectly normal bell sounded within. We waited, but there was no answer.
Ulric scribbled a note, stuck the card into the bell-pull, and we stepped back.
Then, behind the looser weaving of the downstairs window, a face appeared,
staring into mine. The shock staggered me. For a moment I thought I looked into
my own reflection! Was there glass behind the lattice?
But it was not me. It was a youth. A youth who mouthed urgently through the gaps
in the weaving and gestured as if for help, flapping his arms against the
window. I could only think of a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.
I am no dreamthief. I can't equate the craft with my own conscience, though I
judge none who fairly practice it. Consequently I have never had the doubtful
pleasure of encountering myself in another's dream. This had some of that
reported frisson. The youth glared not at me but at my husband, who gasped as
one bright ruby eye met another. At that moment, I could tell, blood spoke to
blood.
Then it was as if a hand had gripped my hair and pulled it.
Another hand slapped against my face. From nowhere the wind had begun to blow,
cold and hard. Beginning as a deep soughing, its note now rose to an aggressive
howl.
I thought the young albino said something in German. He was gesticulating to
emphasize his words. But the wind kept taking them away. I could make out only