What to read: "As long as the river flows" - a new book by the author of "The Thirteenth Tale"

Revelers gathered in the "Swan" that night were regulars: mostly laborers from gravel pits or lettuce plantation so sailors from river barges, and and boat master Owen Besant and old Albright, who half a century ago sailed down the river to the sea, and twenty years later returned to their homes rich. Now he was worried by arthritis, and only the strong ale, along with a good history of helping to forget about the pain in the bones. All the company was sitting here still with the evening twilight, emptying and re-filling their beer glasses, clearing and re-filling their pipes yadrena tobacco - and telling stories.

Albright returned to the Battle of Redkotskogo bridge. Of course, any story, if it is to repeat over five hundred years, can be somewhat boring, but storytellers found ways each time to revive it with new variations. Certain things have been clearly documented in the chronicles and oral tradition: the movement of armies and of their meeting, death knight and his squire eight hundred warriors drowned in a swamp - but to the boy's death is not concerned. On it all there was no evidence, moreover, that he lived a boy who is not in good hour was at Redkotskogo bridge and died there. A lack of

reliable information already gave the imagination.

Each time, going back to the story, the storytellers tavern enlivened unknown boy just to kill him again. During all these years he was dying countless number of times, more and more extravagant and intricate ways.

When the story belongs to you, you can afford to voluntary statement. But it is allowed only to local - mount any stranger when he said in "The Swan" have taken place since its release.

It is unknown how the boy would have reacted to his periodic resurrections, but in this case it is important to remember that the fact that the narrators and visitors "Swan" like resurrection were not something very much unnatural.

This time Albright invented the young acrobat, who accompanied the army and entertained the troops during halt. Juggling several knives, he slipped in the mud and fell on his back, and knives stuck into the wet ground beside him - all except the last, which hit the boy in the eye and killed him instantly. This happened even before the battle. New notion provoked approving roar, which, however, quickly died down, allowing the narrator to bring the story to the end for a long time already rut.

Further, there was a pause. It was considered bad form to immediately start a new story, without giving people time to reflect on the previous one.

Jonathan was one of the most attentive audience.

- I would also like to tell the story, - he said.

Despite his smile - a smile he always - these words were spoken and taken seriously. He was not stupid, although his studies at the school had no luck: the other children mocked his unusual face and bizarre behavior, and a few months later he stopped attending classes. Reading and writing he has not mastered. But winter regulars "Swan" have long been accustomed to the younger Okuellu with all its eccentricities.

- Well, try it - suggested Albright. - Tell us something.

Jonathan thought. He opened his mouth and froze, waiting to see what is about out of itself will come out any story. But nothing came of it. His face twisted comical, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter at himself.

- I can not! - he said, otsmeyavshis. - Nothing is impossible!

- Next time then. Practice a littleAnd as soon as you're ready, we'll listen.

- Then you tell the story, Dad - asked Jonathan. - Tell me!

It was the first night of Joe in the winter hall after another bout of weakness. He was still very pale and had hitherto sat silent. In this state, no one expected him to the story, but he responded to his son's request and with a gentle smile gazed into the far top corner of the room, zachernonny perennial layers of soot and nicotine. It was from there, as I thought Jonathan, his father fished their stories. And when Joe looked back at the crowd, he was ready for the story - and began:

- Once upon a time ...

At that moment the door opened.

The hour was too late for the visitors. Whoever it was, he was in no hurry to enter. A jet of cold air bent flickering flame candles and smoky room filled sharp smells winter river. Together revelers turned their heads toward the door.

All eyes saw it, but for a long time no one did not respond. They tried to make sense of what appears as their eyes.

The man - if he was a man entered - was tall and athletically built, but his face was so ugly that the audience involuntarily recoiled. Who could it be - some monster of the old scary tales? Or all of them dreamed the same nightmare? Curve flattened nose, and beneath it a mouth - a gaping hole in the back of the dark blood.

This alone would scare anyone, but in addition to that terrible creature bore the hands of a big doll with a waxen face, the same wax limbs and smooth hair.

From their torpor brought alien. First he roared - the sound was as pointless ugly, like the mouth, from which he escaped - and then lurched and began to overwhelm his back. Two laborer had jumped up and caught him just in time, otherwise he would have smashed his head on the stone slabs threshold. At the same time of the fire he darted Jonathan and arms outstretched, to catch a falling doll solid weighing by surprise his joints and muscles.

Somehow I knew it, they laid the unconscious man on the table. Another table was pushed up under his feet. Squaring the body, they are lined up around, lifting him over the candles and lamps. His eyelids fluttered not lying.

- Is he dead? - Albright puzzled. The reaction to these words became furrowed foreheads and muttering present.

- It should be a pat on the cheek - suggested someone. - Maybe it's his will revive.

- A sip whiskey better help, - he said someone else.

Margot pushed the headboard and carefully inspected the man:

- No slap. Not only on the person in such a state. And do not pour anything down his throat. Wait a minute.

She picked up a pillow, lying on a bench near the hearth, and returned to the table. When the light bulb could see the white end of the rod sticking out of the pillow. He picked up his nails and pulled out the pillow feather duvet. All bewilderment followed her actions.

- Do you Hardly able to awaken the dead man tickling - graviyschik said. - Yes, and the living, too, if he is unconscious.

- I'm not going to tickle him, - she said. And put a feather on the lips of men.

Revelers looked into my eyes. For a moment nothing happened, and then fluff gently stirred.

- He's breathing!

But the sense of relief was quickly replaced by a new concern.

- And who is he did this? - I asked the barge crewman. - Does anyone know it?

Behind this question was followed by several minutes of polyphonic sound. One veteran claimed that he knew all men, without exception, on the banks of Castle Eaton to Duxford - and it is a good ten miles - but this type saw for the first time. Another, often visiting his sister in Lechlade, do not remember that someone like him was caught in those places. The third seems to be somewhere met him, but the more he stared at the man on the table, the less was willing to risk in specie to the dispute, reinforcing his words.

The fourth suggested that it may be of river gypsies, who just at this time of year usually floated down the Thames. Local treat them with understandable suspicion and do not forget the evenings firmly lock the doors, pre-poised from the yard into the house all more or less valuable utensils. But this version is no longer at the mere sight of good-quality woolen coat and expensive leather shoes stranger. Nothing to do with the gypsy rabble. Fifth, after a long thoughtful contemplation triumphantly announced that the height and build it exactly to a tee Liddyard old farm Whitey - and hair color does not the same? However, the six pointed to Liddyarda old days, who at that very moment was standing on the other side of the table; thoughtful and contemplative failed to deny it.

After this exchange all of them - the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and others - have come to the conclusion that the stranger really not know any of them. At least no one recognized. Although, what is there to be surprised at such a raskvashennoy mug?

Then there will come a puzzled silence was interrupted by the voice of the seventh:

- What is wrong with him?

the stranger's clothes soaked with water, and he smelled of the river - a sort of cloudy greenish-brownish smell. Accident took place on the water, in which there was no doubt. They talked about the different dangers of people on the Thames, which is always ready to play havoc with even the most experienced boatman.

- overturned boat? Maybe I should go look for her? - boat master volunteered Besant.

Meanwhile Margo washed the blood from the victim's face, making it fast, but it is possible carefully. She shivered, unscrewing the edge of a deep wound that slashed his upper lip, so that the two spaced flap of skin bared teeth fragments and bloody palate.

- Forget about the boat, - she said. - First you have to do man. There is a serious matter, I myself can not do it. Who will run for Rita?

She looked around and chose one of the young laborers, which was other sober because of the banal lack of money.

- Neath, the guy you like frisky. You can quickly get to lekarshi home and call her here? Only without the trips and falls - the second cripple one night will be a bust.

Slap the guy left without delay.

And Jonathan all this time kept away from the rest. Drenched delayed the doll hands with him, and he sat down on a chair, perched her on his lap.

Thought of a dragon made of papier-mache, which is used in the formulation of its troupe of wandering actors last Christmas. Dragon has been hard and easy, and if you tap it with your fingers, spoke dry resounding "tat-tat-tat." But this doll was made of a different material.

She remembered the rag dolls, stuffed with rice, - they were soft and weighty. But it has not happened to see a doll of this size. Jonathan sniffed her head. It smelled of the river, but not rice. Doll hair consisted of natural hair, and he could not understand how the hair is attached to the head. Ear was truly perfect - no other way as was done for casts of real human ear. He marveled at the eyelashes, perfectly flat and fitted one to one. He touched a finger of their elastic, moist, tickling the tip, and eyelids a little open. Carefully, with the utmost care, he touched the surface of the century and felt something under her smooth, round, firm and supple at the same time.

For a dark, vague feeling suddenly took possession of his mind. granted to myself - his parents and patrons gathered at the restaurant table - he gently shook the doll. Her hand slipped from his knee and Jonathan swung freely over the floor, as they should not swing the hands of ordinary doll. He felt within himself something like a powerful, fast-growing tidal wave.

- This is the real girl.

Over half dead stranger continued the dispute, and no one had heard of Jonathan. He repeated, this time louder:

- This is the real girl!

Debaters turned to the voice of Jonathan.

- But she does not wake up, - he added.

Jonathan lifted the small body in wet clothes, others to be better seen.

They came and surrounded Jonathan. A dozen pairs of eyes stared at the girl.

Diane Setterfield - British writer, who continues the tradition of the Gothic novel in the spirit of the Bronte sisters and Daphne du Maurier. Her new book - a fusion of magic realism, mysticism and folklore. The history is tied to the night of the winter solstice in the small English town and does not let the reader until the last page.

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