"David Eddings. Pawn of prophecy queen of sorcery magician's gambit (The Belgariad, Part one)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Chapter Two
NOT LONG AFTER in the endless noon of Garion's boyhood, the storyteller
appeared once again at the gate of Faldor's farm. The storyteller, who
seemed not to have a proper name as other men do, was a thoroughly
disreputable oid man. The knees of his hose were patched and his
mismatched shoes were out at the toes. His long-sleeved woolen tunic was
belted about the waist with a piece of rope, and his hood, a curious
garment not normally worn in that part of Sendaria and one which Garion
thought quite fine with its loosely fitting yoke covering shoulders, back
and chest, was spotted and soiled with spilled food and drink. Only his
full cloak seemed relatively new. The old storyteller's white hair was
cropped quite close, as was his beard. His face was strong, with a kind of
angularity to it, and his features provided no clue to his background. He
did not resemble Arend nor Cherek, Algar nor Drasnian, Rivan nor
Tolnedran, but seemed rather to derive from some racial stock long since
forgotten. His eyes were a deep and merry blue, forever young and forever
full of mischief The storyteller appeared from time to time at Faldor's
farm and was always welcome. He was in truth a rootless vagabond who made
his way in the world by telling stories. His stories were not always new,
but there was in his telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice
could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could
imitate the voices of a dozen men at once; whistle so like a bird that the
birds themselves would come to him to hear what he had to say; and when he
imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise the hair on the backs
of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their hearts like the
depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and of wind
and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling.
His stories were filled with sounds that made them come alive, and
through the sounds and the words with which he wove the tales, sight and
smell and the very feel of strange times and places seemed also to come to
life for his spellbound listeners.
All of this wonder he gave freely in exchange for a few meals, a few
tankards of ale, and a warm spot in the hay barn in which to sleep. He
roamed about the world seemingly as free of possessions as the birds.
Between the storyteller and Aunt Pol there seemed to be a sort of
hidden recognition. She had always viewed his coming with a kind of wry
acceptance, knowing, it seemed, that the ultimate treasures of her kitchen
were not safe so long as he lurked in the vicinity. Loaves and cakes had a
way of disappearing when he was around, and his quick knife, always ready,
could neatly divest the most carefully prepared goose of a pair of
drumsticks and a generous slab of breast meat with three swift slices when
her back was turned. She called him "Old Wolf," and his appearance at the
gate of Faldor's farm marked the resumption of a contest which had
obviously been going on for years. He flattered her outrageously even as
he stole from her. Offered cookies or dark brown bread, he would politely
refuse and then steal half a plateful before the platter had moved out of
his reach. Her beer pantry and wine cellar might as well have been
delivered into his hands immediately upon his appearance at the gate.
He seemed to delight in pilferage, and if she watched him with steely