"Swordbird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yi Fan Nancy)

7 THE FLYING WILLOWLEAF THEATER

We are the flying Willowleaf Theater.

We come every September and May.

We’re the best on land, water, and air;

We dance and sing every day.

We can make you wither with sorrow

And bring a tear to your eye,

Or make you laugh and smile.

It’s really as easy as pie…

The carefree song rang in the marshes of the Peridot River, along with laughter and the silky notes of the harmonica. The Willowleaf Theater birds perched in the basket of their hot-air balloon, singing and playing with all their might.

“Well, here we are, on to Stone-Run again,” said Kastin, a titmouse, as the last notes faded away into the marshes and forests below.

Parrale, the wood duck, nodded slowly as she unpacked a map. “I wonder what the blue jays and the cardinals are up to this year. They always have surprises.”

“Where shall we perform this year? I like the Appleby Hills. There’s nothing like them!” Mayflower, the junco, exclaimed. She peered over the basket and looked longingly in the direction of Stone-Run. The snakelike Peridot River led to the flying theater’s destination.

“Don’t forget the food-chestnut and watercress stews, mushroom and onion patties fried with cinnamon, beetle salads, raspberry pies, strawberry shortcakes, fresh honey atop soft nut bread…oh…and there are drinks of all kinds, all delicious!” the gannet Lorpil added cheerfully, his button eyes glittering at the thought. Parrale shot him a look. Dilby, the loon, tittered and shook his head.

“Food is all you think about,” the loon teased. He added more coal to the burner. The hot-air balloon rose higher into the sky. “I personally like how eager they are to hear the stories of Swordbird. They love our plays about when he appeared and helped the desperate, about his courageous battles for peace, and about his sword, with its Leasorn gem. You know, on the earth there are only seven other Leasorn gems.”

Lorpil tried to stifle a yawn as he steadied himself against the edge of the basket. “Mm-hmm…History, history, history…very interesting.”

Mayflower took a small picture of Swordbird from her pocket. “Lorpil! How dare you! Swordbird’s stories are my favorite too.”

“Well, I know my role well enough in our Swordbird play,” Lorpil said. “So I’m flying ahead a bit.” He took off from the edge of the basket, which tipped and swayed dangerously. Parrale looked cross.

“In the name of Swordbird, Lorpil! For the twentieth time, be careful with the takeoff!”

“What a wacko, that gannet,” said Kastin. Alexandra, the hummingbird, agreed.

“He drives me bananas,” complained Dilby.

Lorpil’s voice was heard in the distance. “Bananas? Did somebird say bananas? Save one for me. I love them, especially sliced ones fried in olive oil, but plain ones are yummy too…”

Parrale let out a sigh. “Oh well. Let’s practice one more song.”

Lorpil scanned the sky, trying to find a suitable place for a rest, a bath, and a meal. Because of his passion for acting, he had left his beloved seaside to join the Willowleaf Theater. Almost any chance he got, he would fly down to a nice, calm stream or pool to rest, swim, and eat some water greens and find some river snails.

Gliding over with the updraft, he followed the course of the Peridot River. After the second curve he discovered it: a nice, sandy shore shaded by weeping willows. Lorpil greeted the sight with a pleased gannet cry. He flew in smaller circles now and dived down with a small splash. After snacking on different types of water plants and prying a few mussels off their rocks, the gannet came ashore and rested in the sunlight. There was a whisper of wings brushing against leaves.

“Shadow…keep it down…the woodbirds are still unaware…what…”

“Stop it, pumpkin brain…can’t you see…blue jays…cardinals…slavebirds…good idea, eh?”

Lorpil spun around, his eyes darting this way and that, feathers bristling, wings ready for takeoff. There was nothing except a few dark shadows disappearing almost without noise. Lorpil blinked in surprise. What’s wrong? Why were those birds so secretive and talking about things like “slavebirds” and “unaware”?

Lorpil tried to make sense of everything, but soon he gave up and resumed slurping on the mussels. There were so many things that the gannet didn’t understand; he didn’t bother to ponder them all. Still, he was glad that his feathers blended into the white sand so he hadn’t been seen. He took off as quietly as possible, heading toward the green and white hot-air balloon.