"Pat Murphy - Iris versus the Black Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Pat)

"That's not true," Iris said. She held the crayon and remembered red --the color of fire and of roses. She lifted
her crayon like a sword, brandishing it between her and the knight. As she held it, the crayon grew,
stretching until it was as long as the knight's sword. Not just a crayon now, but a crayon sword, gleaming in
the gray light.

Inexpertly, she flailed at the knight with the sword that had once been a crayon. Surprisingly he gave ground,
using his sword only to block her blows. "You're a stupid little girl. You'll be hurt if you're not careful." His
voice sounded less confident than before. "You'll be hurt."

"Give me back the colors," Iris shouted, striking at him with the crayon. She was still scared, but she was
angry too.

"There are no colors," the knight insisted. "The world is gray."

He was backing away from her, blocking her clumsy blows. He could have struck her -- she left enough
openings -- but he just kept blocking until she had backed him into a corner.

She was furious now, her face hot, her heart pounding. Her mother would have said she was in a state and
sent her to her room. But her mother was far away and Iris's anger knew no bounds. Red anger, she thought.
Hot as fire, passionate as roses.

"You can't do this," the knight said, his voice weaker now. "You're just a little girl."

Iris screamed, an inarticulate cry of rage and passion, and lifted her sword. The knight lifted his sword to
block the blow just as Iris sprang forward. His sword caught her on the arm, and she felt a sudden sharp
pain.

She stumbled back, clutching at the wound. The sword dropped from her hand. Blood flowed from her arm,
red blood seeping through her fingers as she pressed her hand to the wound.

Red blood.

The knight still had his back to the wall, and he had lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant red. A
drop of blood fell onto the sword that lay at her feet, and the weapon was no longer black; it gleamed red as a
ruby. She lifted her eyes. Two of the banners that flew from the castle's turrets were still black, but the third
had a streak of red and the fourth was a brilliant crimson, glowing like a flame against the dull gray sky.

"No," moaned the knight.

"Yes," whispered Iris. Her arm hurt with a sharp fierce pain. Blood dripped from the wound, making glorious
bright splashes on the grayness at her feet. She felt weak and sick to her stomach. But the knight leaned
against the wall, as far from her as he could get, his head turned away as if he could not look at her.

Swaying, she took a step toward him. "Red," she murmured, and then her legs gave way beneath her and
she sat down suddenly.

Her eyes were filled with tears. She wept because her arm ached and she wept because it was so wonderful
to see the red banner against the gray sky.