The Raven’s Knot. Robin Jarvis
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Название: The Raven’s Knot
Автор: Robin Jarvis
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская проза
isbn: 9780007455386
isbn:
Miss Celandine turned and pointed to a small painting half hidden in the shadow of a bookshelf.
Edie peered at it. Within the dusty frame there was a woodland scene enshrouded by dense curling mist and, from the swirling vapours, reared the dim outlines of four great stags.
‘At the dead of night,’ Miss Celandine said, ‘Ursula looked out of her window and saw those milk white creatures come boldly into the court and carry the loom away upon their silver antlers. Of course, she raised the alarm at once, but it was as if they had vanished, no one could find any trace of them.’
‘But you did, didn’t you?’
Miss Celandine however was growing restive and she looked across the room to Miss Veronica who was peeping over the back of the armchair with a curious, intense look graven upon her face.
‘I won’t say any more!’ Miss Celandine announced, putting one of her plaits into her mouth and chewing it stubbornly. ‘I’ve said too, too much!’
‘Please!’ Edie cried. ‘What happened next?’
Miss Celandine clenched her teeth and refused to utter another word, then she folded her arms upon her chest and dug her heels into the frayed carpet.
‘It was Ursula’s fault,’ Miss Veronica’s voice piped up. ‘It was she who walked under the leaves, she who learned too much, more than was good for her – or any of us.’
Miss Celandine spat the hair from her mouth and tutted disagreeably. ‘Veronica, stop it! Oh, Edith, you are a wicked child – look you’ve made our sister go and remember. It’s better if she doesn’t, Ursula always say so. How could you be so hateful?’
But Edie wasn’t listening to her any longer. Drawing near to the armchair, she brought her face close to the heavily painted eyes which peered over the back and smiled persuasively.
‘It was years later,’ Miss Veronica continued, ‘on a night of calm. Ursula was roaming under that part of the tree which was still untouched by poison when, in the rustling of the leaves, she heard a whispering voice.’
‘Stop her someone!’ Miss Celandine squeaked, hopping from her place by the hearth and clapping her hands over her ears. ‘I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I didn’t make her remember, I didn’t, I didn’t. It was that disobedient girl. Why, I wasn’t even here – I was downstairs. I’m not here now – I’m down there, that’s what. I’ll tell her that too if she asks.’
Miss Veronica watched her spring about the cramped room, and gazed dumbly at the folds of faded velvet which thrashed madly about her sister’s wizened form, making a sound like great flapping wings. With a start, the old woman gripped her walking cane.
‘The ravens!’ she cried abruptly. ‘Thought – Thought and Memory! That’s what they were called!’
Miss Celandine stumbled to a standstill and shuddered, before letting out a shrill squeal as she pointed at Edie in fear.
‘You’ve done it now!’ she scolded. ‘Oh, you’ve done it now!’
Along the curiously named Coursing Batch, that stretch of main road which cuts across the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor, a plump figure with a mass of curling, carrot-coloured hair, strained at the pedals of her bicycle.
Lauren Humphries scrunched up her face as yet another heavy lorry thundered by, and wobbled unsteadily in the buffeting draught of its passing.
‘Thank you!’ she growled through gritted teeth, her cheeks spattered with dirty water thrown up from the wet road. The lorry roared away and the girl gently squeezed her brakes, stopping beside the narrow pavement to wipe herself clean.
Although she was now seventeen, she had lost none of the chubbiness that had made her childhood so miserable. There were just so many unkind names for idiots to choose from when shouting abuse, it was like a sport that anybody could play. Lauren had grown used to it, from an early age she had taught herself to ignore the cruel taunting, but that did not make it hurt any less. No matter how hard she tried, sometimes the insults hit their mark and stung her.
Mopping a handkerchief about her freckle-covered features, she glowered at the receding, rumbling lorry, her hazel eyes lost amid the fleshy expanse of her round, pink face.
It was a treacherous road – so much for escaping the traffic and pollution of the city, this was almost as bad.
Pulling away from the kerb, she set off once more. Past the gates of the large boarding houses whose rooftops screened off the view of the Tor, to where Coursing Batch seamlessly became the Edgerly Road.
Here, only the hedgerow separated her from the great green bulk of the strangely shaped hill which rose high upon her left.
Glastonbury Tor, with the solitary tower dedicated to Saint Michael spiking up from its summit, was a singular, stately sight.
A holy place, venerated down the ages by countless pilgrims seeking for truth and enlightenment, it rose from the Somerset levels like an enchanted, enduring symbol of faith. Deep were the foundations of Glastonbury’s magical appeal and like a magnet it attracted things esoteric and occult from all over the globe. Obscure sects of enigmatic religions founded temples there, people sought healing from its ever-flowing springs and legends both Christian and pagan abounded.
Nowhere else was quite like this small town, it was a special, haunting place and the powerful vision of the Tor presided over all.
Lauren hated it.
She had only lived there for four months but already she loathed the district and, as she cycled homeward, did not take her eyes from the road to even glance at the Tor’s majestic, imposing outline.
Hoping that her father would be back before she arrived home, she sailed by the high banks of the reservoir and saw in the distance ahead a group of five boys larking about at the roadside.
Still dressed in their uniforms, they had obviously just left school and Lauren pitied them. There was little for young people to do in small towns such as this. It was fine for the tourists who came to see the ruined abbey, investigate the legends, climb the Tor and explore the beautiful countryside, but to grow up in such a place had to be difficult. Holiday makers and seekers of wisdom could leave when they wanted to, but for a child born into a bleak rural landscape that was impossible.
Yet as Lauren cycled closer to the group, a furrow creased her brow and any sympathy she had felt vanished as her small eyes stared at them suspiciously.
Their voices were jeering with laughter and that was a sound the girl knew only too well.
‘Barmy Tommy!’ they cried. ‘Barmy Tommy!’
Only then did Lauren see that in the centre of the gang was a pitiful looking old man and, with anger bubbling up inside her, she began to pedal furiously.
Surrounded by the group of twelve-year-olds, the man known locally as Tommy, laughed good naturedly, nodding like a donkey at everything the boys shouted in his ears.
‘Do us yer teapot, Tommy! What do dogs СКАЧАТЬ