"Wentworth-AsYouSow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

hatchling fell backward with a shriek and thrashed in the water. With almost a
single cry, the rest of the flock leaped into the sky, their flapping wings a
brilliant blaze of white in the morning sun. Lingern swam harder and two strokes
later felt his boots graze the muddy bottom again.

He stood up, waist-deep in the green water and struggled toward the wounded
bird. The boy fought his way back through the thicket. Gasping for breath like a
beached fish, Ungern gathered the terrified bird to his chest and pinned the
flailing wings so he could examine the wound. A spot of bright blood marked one
wing where the rock had struck. He began to stroke the poor bird's weaving head,
willing calmness into it. "It's all right, "he crooned into its hidden ears. "No
one else is going to hurt you, no one!"

Across on the shore, the villagers watched him, their mouths open, their eyes
staring.

"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at them. "Don't you know anything to do
with something rare and beautiful besides kill it or eat it? You've done enough
damage for one day! Go home!"

As though a spell had been broken, they glanced at each other and seemed to
shake themselves. In mumbling ones and twos, they drifted away, headed for the
village or neighboring farms.

Feeling sick inside, he clutched the bird's trembling body closer. It lay
against him, exhausted, its eyes half-closed.

"Well, that was certainly a fine show!" Sonya's voice snapped like a whip.

His arms full of limp bird, he began to wade around the edge of the pond,
looking for a spot where he could come ashore without having to fight his way
through feather-tearing bushes.

"Why didn't you sell old Andreesen some birds, you idiot?" Her hands on her
hips, she contemplated him with narrowed eyes. "We could have used the money and
everyone can plainly see those stupid birds of yours are worthless."

He slipped on a submerged rock, then caught himself. "Well, they're gone now, so
you don't have to worry."

"And who's to say they won't come back?"

As for that, he thought, struggling up onto the shore, he didn't know whether to
hope they would or wouldn't.

He settled the injured bird in a comer of the kitchen, close to the fire, and
wrapped it in an old blanket. Fortunately, the injured wing seemed to be more
bruised than broken.

It lay there quietly, its eyes dull and pain-hazed, the long legs folded beneath