"Charles de Lint - The Moon is Drowning While I Sleep" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

have that kind of dream. Christy's had them. I think he told
me that it's called lucid dreaming."
"They're anything but lucid," Sophie said. "If you ask
me, they're downright strange."
"No, no. It just means that you know you're dreaming,
when you're dreaming, and have some kind of control over
what happens in the dream."
Sophie laughed. "I wish."
4
I'M WEARING A LONG PLEATED SKIRT AND
ONE OF THOSE white cotton peasant blouses that's cut
way too low in the bodice. I don't know why. I hate that
kind of bodice. I keep feeling like I'm going to fall out
whenever I bend over. Definitely designed by a man.
Wendy likes to wear that kind of thing from time to time,
but it's not for me.
 Nor is going barefoot. Especially not here. I'm standing
on a path, but it's muddy underfoot, all squishy between
my toes. It's sort of nice in some ways, but I keep getting
the feeling that something's going to sidle up to me, under
the mud, and brush against my foot, so I don't want to
move, but I don't want to just stand here, either.
Everywhere I look it's all marsh. Low flat fens, with just
the odd crack willow or alder trailing raggedy vines the way
you see Spanish moss in pictures of the Everglades, but
this definitely isn't Florida. It feels more Englishy, if that
makes sense.
I know if I step off the path I'll be in muck up to my
knees.
I can see a dim kind of light off in the distance, way off
the path. I'm attracted to it, the way any light in the
darkness seems to call out, welcoming you, but I don't
want to brave the deeper mud or the pools of still water
that glimmer in the starlight.
It's all mud and reeds, cattails, bulrushes and swamp
grass and I just want to be back home in bed, but I can't
wake up. There's a funny smell in the air, a mix of things
rotting and stagnant water. I feel like there's something
horrible in the shadows under those strange, overhung
trees—especially the willows, the tall sharp leaves of sedge
and water plantain growing thick around their trunks. It's
like there are eyes watching me from all sides, dark
misshapen heads floating frog-like in the water, only the
eyes showing, staring. Quicks and bogles and dark things.
I hear something move in the tangle bulrushes and bur
reeds just a few feet away. My heart's in my throat, but I
move a little closer to see that it's only a bird caught in
some kind of net.
Hush, I tell it and move closer.
The bird gets frantic when I put my hand on the netting.