"Charles de Lint - Forests Of The Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

were all owned by stockbrokers and investors, bankers and the CEOs of multinational corporations,
celebrities and the nouveau riche—a far cry from the bohemian types Bettina shared her lodgings with.
For Kellygnow was a writers’ and artists’ colony, founded in the early 1990s by Sarah Hanson, a descendant
of the original owner. She had been a respected artist and essayist in her time, a rarity at the turn of the
century, but was now better remembered for the haven she had created for her fellow artists and writers.
The colony was the oldest property in the area, standing alone at the top of Handfast Road with a view that
would do the Newford Tourist Board’s pamphlets proud. There was a tower, four stories high in the northwest
corner of the house. From the upper windows of one side you could look down on the city: Ferryside, the
river, Foxville, Crowsea, downtown, the canal, the East Side. At night, the various neighborhoods blended into
an Indio traders’ market, the lights spread out like the sparkling trinkets on a hundred blankets. From another
window you could see, first the estates that made up the Beaches; below them, rows of tasteful condos
blending into the hillside; beyond them, the lakefront properties; and then finally the lake itself, shimmering in
the starlight, ice rimming the shore in thick, playful displays of abstract whimsy. Far in the distance the ice
thinned out, ending in open water.
The view behind the house was blocked by trees. Hazels and chestnuts. Tamaracks and cedar, birch and
pine. Most impressive were the huge towering oaks that, she learned later, were thought to be part of the
original growth forest that had once laid claim to all the land in an unbroken sweep from the Kickaha
Mountains down to the shores of the lake. These few giants had been spared the axes of homesteaders and
lumbermen alike by the property’s original owner, Virgil Hanson, whose home had been one of the cottages
that still stood out back. It was, Bettina had been told, the oldest building in Newford, a small stone croft
topping the wooded hill long before the first Dutch settlers had begun to build along the shores of the river
below.
Adelita had never lived in Kellygnow, but before moving back home to Tubac and opening her gallery, she had
studied fine art at Butler University and some of her crowd had been residents. It would be the prefect place
for Bettina, she said. Let her handle it. She would make a few calls. Everything would be arranged.
“I’m not an artist or a writer,” Bettina had said.
“No, but you’re an excellent model and in that house, one good model would be more welcome than a dozen
of the world’s best artists. Créeme. Trust me. Only don’t tell Mama or she’ll have both our heads.”
No, Bettina had thought. Mama would definitely not approve. Mama was already upset enough that Bettina
was moving. If she were to know that her youngest daughter expected to make her living by being paid to sit
for artists, often in the nude, she would be horrified.
Bettina had thought to only stay in the house for as long as it took her to find an apartment in the city. She
was given one of the nooks to make her own—a small space under a staircase that opened up into a hidden
room twice the size of her bedroom at home. There was a recessed window looking out on the backyard,
overhung with ivy on the outside and with just room enough for her to sit on its sill if she pulled her knees up
to her chin. There was also a single brass bed with shiny, knobbed posts and a cedar chest at its foot that
lent the room a resonant scent. A small pine armoire. A worn, black leather reading chair with a tall
glass-shaded lamp beside it, both “borrowed” from the library at some point, she was sure, since they
matched its furnishings. And wonder of wonders, a piece of John Early’s work: a gray, fired-clay sculpture of
the Virgin wearing a quizzical smile, blue-robed and decorated with a halo of porcupine quills cunningly
worked into the clay and painted gold. In front of the statue, that first day, she found a half-burned
candle—someone had been using the statue as the centerpiece for their own small chapel of the Immaculata,
she’d thought at first. Or perhaps they had simply enjoyed candlelight as much as she did.
Either way, she felt welcomed and blessed.
The one week turned into a month. Adelita had been right. The artists were delighted to have her in residence,
constantly vying for her time in their studios. They were good company, as were the writers who only
emerged from their quarters at odd times for meals or a sudden need to hear a human voice. And if their
intentions were sometimes less than honorable—women as well as men—they were quick to respect her
wishes and put the incident behind them.
The one month stretched into three, four. She needed no money for either rent or board, and had barely