"Chad Oliver - The Winds of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oliver Chad)

blinding in the sunlight.
It was as silent as though the world had just been created, fresh and clean and new.
Wes sat down on a rock, shivering a little. He wished the clouds would disperse for good, even
though the fishing would be better if the sun weren't too bright. He wasn't tiredтАФthat would come
laterтАФbut he was hungry. He wolfed down two chocolate bars, getting an almond fragment stuck in his
teeth as usual, and drank some cold water from the stream where it ran out of the pond.
He slipped his brown fly rod out of its case and stuck it together firmly. He took the black reel from
his trout basket and clipped it into place. He squinted at the leader, decided it was okay, and tied on two
coachman flies. Probably the salmon eggs would do better in the deep water, but there was plenty of
time.
He stood up, lit a cigarette, and maneuvered himself into position: shielded on one side by rocks, but
with a clear space behind him for casting.
The world held its breath.
He flicked the flies with an easy wrist motion and they patted the water to his right, only five feet from
shore. He left them a moment, two specks of brown and red resting on the green surface of the water.
There was a slight wind ripple on the pond; otherwise, all was still.
He tried again, letting out more line and casting straight out in front of him. Nothing. He drew the line
back, wiggling the flies in the waterтАФ
Strike!
A flash of flame-colored fins, a heavy shadow beneath the surface, and the flies disappeared. The line
tautened, the fly rod bent double and jerked with a life of its own.
Wes excitedly muttered a crackling string of choice swear words, directed at nothing in particular,
and backed away from the lake. A bad spot to use the net, just toss him out on the rocksтАФ
There! The trout broke water and tried to snag the line on a boulder. Wes kept the line tight, waited
until the trout relaxed just a trifle, and heaved.
He had him. The trout flopped on the rocks, the fly worked out of his mouthтАФ
Wes snatched off his hat with his left hand and dived for the fish, clapping the hat over him like a
basket. Carefully he reached under the hat, grabbed the trout, and broke its neck with one quick jerk.
He sat on the rocks, grinning idiotically, admiring his catch. It was a nice oneтАФa good fourteen
inches, and heavy with firm flesh. Wes popped him in the basket, fastened the buckle, and shook out his
line.
"Won't get skunked today," he said, exhilarated out of all proportion to what had happened. What
was it about a fish, anyhow, that made him feel like a kid again? The thought died in birth; he didn't care
why it made him happy. It did, and that was enough.
He advanced on the pond again with a sure instinct that today was his day to shine. He forgot
everything: food, rest, promises to Jo. Every atom of his being was concentrated on the trout in the pool.
Every fish he caught stimulated him to want more.

For Wes Chase time ceased to exist.
The trout basket grew heavy against his hip.
His wet feet ached, but he didn't feel them.
He noticed the gray clouds that filled up the sky around the mountain peak only because the fishing
was even better now that the water was shadowed and restless.
At four o'clock in the afternoon the storm hit with a paralyzing suddenness. He was taken utterly by
surprise as the pond before him was instantly transformed into a pitted black mass of excited water. He
felt a numbness in his wrist where something icy rested. He looked around, trying to adjust himself to a
change that had caught him thoroughly flat-footed.
Hail.
It wasn't rain, but hailтАФround pelting chunks of ice that seemed to materialize on all sides, blanketing
the rocks and plunking into the water. It was very still; there was no wind.