"T. H. White - The Once and Future King" - читать интересную книгу автора (White T.H)

St. Toirdealbhach's cell was like an old-fashioned straw beehive, except that it was bigger and made of
stone. It had no windows and only one door, through which you had to crawl.
"Your Holiness," they shouted when they got there, kicking the heavy unmortared stones. "Your
Holiness, we have come to hear a story."
He was a source of mental nourishment to themтАФa sort of guru, as Merlyn had been to Arthur, who
gave them what little culture they were ever to get. They resorted to him like hungry puppies anxious for
any kind of eatable, when their mother had cast them out. He had taught them to read and write.
"Ah, now," said the saint, sticking his head out of the door. "The prosperity of God on you this
morning."
"The selfsame prosperity on you."
"Is there any news at you?"
"There is not," said Gawaine, suppressing the unicorn.
St. Toirdealbhach heaved a deep sigh.
"There is none at me either," he said.
"Could you tell us a story?"
"Thim stories, now. There doesn't be any good in them. What would I be wanting to tell you a story for,
and me in my heresies? 'Tis forty years since I fought a natural battle, and not a one of me looking upon
a white colleen all that timeтАФso how would I be telling stories?"
"You could tell us a story without any colleens or battles in it."
"And what would be the good of that, now?" he exclaimed indignantly, coming out into the sunlight.
"If you were to fight a battle," said Gawaine, but he left out about the colleens, "you might feel better."
"My sorrow!" cried Toirdealbhach. "What do I want to be a saint for at all, is my puzzle! If I could fetch

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one crack at somebody with me ould shillelagh"тАФhere he produced a frightful-looking weapon from
under his gownтАФ"wouldn't it be better than all the saints in Ireland?"
"Tell us about the shillelagh."
They examined the club carefully, while his holiness told them how a good one should be made. He told
them that only a root growth was any good, as common branches were apt to break, especially if they
were of crab-tree, and how to smear the club with lard, and wrap it up, and bury it in a dunghill while it
was being straightened, and polish it with black-lead and grease. He showed the hole where the lead was
poured in, and the nails through the end, and the notches near the handle which stood for ancient scalps.
Then he kissed it reverently and replaced it under his gown with a heartfelt sigh. He was play-acting,
and putting on the accent.
'Tell us the story about the black arm which came down the chimney."
"Ah, the heart isn't in me," said the saint. "I haven't the heart of a hare. It's bewitched I am entirely."
"I think we are bewitched too," said Gareth. "Everything seems to go wrong."
"There was this one in it," began Toirdealbhach, "and she was a woman. There was a husband living in
Malainn Vig with this woman. There was only one little girl that they had between them. One day the
man went out to cut in the bog, and when it was the time for his dinner, this woman sent the little girl out
with his bit of dinner. When the father was sitting to his dinner, the little girl suddenly made a cry, 'Look
now, father, do you see the large ship out yonder under the horizon? I could make it come in to the shore
beneath the coast.' "You could not do that,' said the father. 'I am bigger than you are, and I could not do
it myself.' Well, look at me now,' said the little girl. And she went to the well that was near there, and
made a stirring in the water. The ship came in at the coast."
"She was a witch," explained Gaheris.
"It was the mother was the witch," said the saint, and continued with his story.