Sword Quest. Nancy Fan Yi
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Название: Sword Quest
Автор: Nancy Fan Yi
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Природа и животные
isbn: 9780007372157
isbn:
Wind-voice closed his eyes tightly and could hear only the beat of the raven’s wings, which soon turned into the crackling of wood.
To his horror, he could smell salt and pepper on his body. Had it all been a dream? Coughing, he opened his eyes. His smothered skin was flushed to a reddish pink, and his lungs felt as if they had collapsed. He was still over the fire. Tears burst into his eyes as sparks leaped up and scorched him. But the tears quickly evaporated in the heat.
Wind-voice realised that there wasn’t much smoke around him. But the smoke had to go out somewhere. Craning his neck, he squinted at the ceiling above. Cold air blew through a jagged hole. He looked around. No archaeopteryxes cared to be near the heat of the fire. The fire tenders were all away on errands for the cook at the moment. He peered down into the flames. There was only one way, and that was the fool’s way. He opened his beak, sucked in a deep breath, and blew with all his might at the fire. Shutting his eyes tightly, he waited for the flames to flare back at him. He felt his ropes starting to char. But his feathers were burning as well.
One rope fell. He fluttered the freed wing awkwardly and leaned forward to peck at the ropes around his other wing. The ropes dropped into the flames and withered to ashes.
Summoning his ebbing strength, Wind-voice beat his wings and flitted towards the hole in the ceiling.
It was a tight fit, but he struggled madly. There was a rip. He was in the air, in the night air! The bitter wind welcomed him.
“It escaped!” cried an archaeopteryx below.
Wind-voice’s body was blazing as he flew. The long sweeps of the flailing wings were sweeps of flame. He looked like a firebird.
The archaeopteryxes shot a volley of arrows at him, but they fell short.
He knew he could not last long in the air. His past was burning away. He could be what he wanted to be.
013-Unidentified is truly dead, he thought as his scorched body faltered and plummeted down. Windvoice is reborn.
In everybird’s innermost heart there lies a moral compass.
FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE
“Fly in low to the west, Wind-voice! Hide!” Irene, his mother, shouted. Frightened, he obeyed. His mother started flying in the other direction, jumping now and then, pausing a few times to let the archaeopteryxes catch up. She let one of her wings trail behind, feigning injury in a desperate attempt to draw away the enemy.
He stumbled in terror and looked back. Irene disappeared from sight around a sand dune. The archaeopteryxes followed. It was the last time Wind-voice saw his mother.
Memory scorched Wind-voice along with the flames. He closed his eyes, trying not to scream, as the ground rushed up at him. His wings were useless. He twisted to land on his feet, and his right foot jammed full-force on to a rock. The rest of him crashed down on to it.
Though most of the flames had been beaten out by his crash, a few feathers were still smouldering. Then, to his surprise, a thin, high voice whispered in his ear. “Wind-voice! Thank the Great Spirit, you’re alive!”
It was Winger. The woodpecker scooped up some cool, wet mud and put out the flames quickly, then smeared some more to blot out all of Wind-voice’s white feathers so he would not be easily spotted. “Try to get up,” Winger urged. “Quick, quick.”
“Where can we go?” Wind-voice asked, staggering to his feet.
“I know where. Just come with me.”
Wind-voice knew he could not fly. But he limped as fast as he could, trying not to put much weight on his injured claws, the woodpecker supporting him.
Wind-voice’s vision began to blur and waver. Suddenly he saw the rich purplish black of another bird, a myna, who appeared beside Winger and helped Wind-voice walk. Supported by the two birds, he stepped into the fringe of golden light from a campfire and saw a grey-and-blue bird practising the graceful movements of swordplay, all alone. Wind-voice flinched at the sight of the red and orange flames.
Bright flashes of green-blue filled the air as little kingfishers darted towards them. The stout myna congratulated Wind-voice on his daring escape. Ewingerale said something to him excitedly in his shrill little voice, but he couldn’t catch the words. So many smiling faces loomed up at him. Some started bandaging his burns and washing his injured foot with cool water.
Then Wind-voice turned and saw two dull yellow sticks in front of his eyes. Numbly he realised they weren’t sticks at all but spindly legs. There was an ugly scar on the right foot. He looked up to see folded wings and a body and, higher still, a long neck curving over and a pair of yellow eyes looking at him. It was the bird who had been practising with the sword. The heron’s white face was almost comically wedgelike, but the two bold, black brushstrokes sweeping up above the eyes, however, were just menacing enough to stop any laughter. He said in a deep, vibrant tone, “Welcome, son. You are safe here. I am the heron Fisher. Welcome.”
With those words, the haze in Wind-voice’s mind cleared. “We’re free now, we’re free!” the woodpecker shouted joyously.
Wind-voice noticed the myna, standing still but with one claw running up and down a long wooden staff. He flew over to the myna and thanked him. The myna made a slight inclination with his head. “Don’t mention it. You’re a tough one. My name is Stormac.” Wind-voice was surprised to see that, despite his warriorlike appearance, Stormac sported a funny necklace with a red wooden pendant.
Wind-voice felt warmth that he had not thought existed in this forlorn, marshy land. “What tribe is this?” he croaked.
“These times are hard on tribes,” answered the old heron, gesturing far and wide with both wide wings. “Several tribes, survivors of attacks by the archaeopteryxes, live together here as a community. We have egrets, mynas, and herons as well as the Ekka tribe of kingfishers.”
Then another heron drifted over to them and handed them each a small, flat rock with steaming food on top. Everybody grew quiet at the sight of the heron. She seemed to be focused elsewhere. “Here,” she said. They stammered their thanks.
The heron seemed to hear something nobird else did and wandered into the shadows, murmuring, “Candles…he made the best candles, even ones shaped like heron chicks. It’s a pity, but those chick candles have all burned out…”
“That’s my wife, Aredrem,” Fisher said sadly, and went over to comfort her. “I was a candlemaker before the turmoil started. We lost all our children to archaeopteryxes or to hunger. I lost a toe in battle, so I cannot make candles as I used to. Poor Aredrem was shaken. She’s in a СКАЧАТЬ