"Andre Norton - Witch World - Lore of the Witch World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

work.

Good use did Dairine make of it, too. Her small, birdclaw fingers drew
out finer thread than any had achieved before, freer from knotting than
any the villagers had seen. Yet never seemed she satisfied, but strove ever
to make her spinning still finer, more smooth.

The Wise Woman continued her fosterling's education in other ways,
teaching her to use her fingers, her nose, in the herb garden. Dairine
learnt easily the spelling which was part of a Wise Woman's knowledge.
She absorbed that very quickly, yet always there was about her an
impatience. When she made mistakes, then her anger against herself was
great The greatest when she tried to explain some tool or need which she
seemed unable to describe but for which she evinced a need.

Ingvarna spoke to Herdrek (who was now village elder), saying that
perhaps the craft of the Wise Woman might aid in regaining a portion of
Dairine's lost memory. When he demanded why she had not voiced such a
matter before, Ingvarna answered gravely: "This child is not blood of our
blood, and she was captive to the sea wolves. Have we the right to recall to
her past horrors? Perhaps Gunnore, who watches over all womankind, has
taken away her memory of the past in pity. If soтАФ"

He bit his thumb, watching Dairine as she paced back and forth before
the loom which he had caused to be set up for her, now and then halting
to slap her hand upon the frame in frustration. It seemed as if she longed
to force the heavy wood into another pattern which would serve her better.

"I think that she grows more and more unhappy," he agreed slowly. "At
first she seemed content. Now there are times when she acts as a snow cat
encaged against her will. I do not like to see her so.

The Wise Woman nodded. "Well enough. In my mind this is a right
choice."
 Ingvarna went to the girl, taking both her hands, drawing her around
so that she might look directly into those blind eyes. At Ingvarna's touch,
Dairine stood still. "Leave us!" the Wise Woman commanded the smith.

Early that evening as Herdrek stood at his forge Dairine walked into the
light of his fire. She came to him unhesitatingly. So acute was her hearing
that she often startled the villagers by her recognition of another presence.
Now she held out her hands to him as she might to a father she loved. And
he knew all was well.

By midsummer, when the loquths had flowered and their blossoms
dropped, Dairine went often into the fields, fingering the swelling bolls.
Sometimes she sang, queer, foreign-tongued words, as if the plants were
children (now knee height, and then shoulder height) who must be
amused and cherished.