"Yolen-TheLadysGarden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yolen Jane)

strange siren call. Tartary did not answer, for she was waiting for the Lady's
answer. And Infanta was too busy weeping over the demise of the apple tree.

Still, they didn't stop the boy, because he was already halfway through building
the boat. And besides, they didn't know how.

It took him three days to make the boat and rig a sail, just as he had seen in
one of the books in the Lady's library. And that very night, without so much as
a goodbye, he was gone with the boat over the wall. They had no idea how he had
managed; they had no idea he was so resourceful.

The Lady mourned his leaving in her own way, digging up plants and moving them
about, the autumn crocuses three times until they died from all the changes.

Tartary and Infanta wandered disconsolately about, their heads so low they
plowed furrows in the soil with their horns. But for the longest time, it looked
as if Wishart hadn't even noticed the boy was gone. He just listened, ever more
intently, at the Northeastern gate to the sounds of the sea.

And then one morning, a gale blowing out upon the Ocean, Wishart roused in a
sudden and inexplicable fury and beat upon the gate with his feet and plunged
his horn again and again into the wood. At last the gate broke open from the
savage attack, swung wide, and in rushed the angry sea.

The waters covered the garden and the house. The Lady and the unicorns were
swept away in a great swirl of foam as pearly white as horn. And after the
waters settled again, all that could be seen was the topmost part of the
Southwestern gate, the one closest to the World. And there, at low tide ever
after, a black-backed gull sat, turning its head curiously at each passing
breeze.

Of course that is not entirely the end of the story. I could not bear if that
were so. Wishart and Tartary and Infanta became the very first narwhales, of
course, those wonderful sleek whales with the long, twisting single horns.

The Lady built a new garden, this one under the Ocean, with bright anemones
clinging to coral beds, like rockeries.

And Waverly, in the shape of a porpoise, comes to visit them every day and twice
on Tuesdays, as regular as clockwork. Or so I like to think. And since this is
my story, that is the way of it. If you think there is a different ending, you
will have to tell it yourself.