"Raymond E. Feist - Faerie Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

ticed as the town celebrated Paddy O'Shea and Mary
McMannah's wedding. The sultry memories caused Bar-
ney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his
groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought, There's
some life yet in this old boyo.
Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten pas-
sions for long minutes, then discovered he was still run-
ning the sharpener over a blade on Andersen's mower
and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the
sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He
hadn't thought of Meggie McCorly since he'd immi-
grated to America, back in '38. Last he'd heard, she'd
married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy.
He couldn't remember which one, and that made him
feel sad.

Barney caught a flicker of movement through the
small window of his work shed. He put down the sharp-
ener and went to peer out into the evening's fading light.
Not making out what it was that had caught his atten-
tion, Barney moved back toward his workbench. Just as
his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed
something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the
door to his work shed and took a single step outside.
Then he stopped.

Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his
boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly
stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror
so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through
Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The imple-
ments of society left for his ministrations, broken toast-
ers, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor,
his little television for the baseball games, all were van-
quished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated
man's society appeared just outside Barney's shed. Not

taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he
retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was
against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney
pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years be-
fore, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed
the bottle of Jameson's whiskey atop the shelf as a re-
minder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had
come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to
shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another
feature of the little shed where he worked.

Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of
the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head,