"Diana Wynne Jones - The Game" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Diana Wynne)

it flowed and stopped and flowed again, in some of the loveliest
sounds she had ever heard. “It’s his brother,” she said to Martya.
Martya just nodded and smiled and looked at shoes. Hayley said,
“I’ll be back in a minute,” and walked sideways away along the
fronts of the shops, tracking the music. “Like the Pied Piper or
something,” she said aloud, as the sounds led her on, and on, and
then round a corner into a small side street.
The musician was there, standing in blazing sunlight and, to
Hayley’s delight, he was actually playing a pipe, the kind you held
sideways to play. Hayley dimly thought it might be a flute. She had
never heard such lovely sounds as those that came pouring out of it,
although she did wish that he would keep to one tune, instead of
playing in snatches. One moment he would be playing something
wild and jolly. Then he would break off and start another tune, this
one melting and sad. Then it would be music you could march to.
She stood and surveyed him and rejoiced.
He had hair like Martya’s, quite long but not as long as Martya’s,
that blew around his head in fine white strands, and he was as tall
and thin as the violin player, though nothing like so neat. His
clothes were green and baggy and a green, green scarf fluttered
from his neck. A baggy green hat lay on the ground by his bare
feet, waiting for money.
He was watching Hayley watching him while he played. His eyes
were the same green as his scarf. Hayley had never seen eyes that
colour before, nor had she ever looked into eyes that were so direct
and interested and kind. It was as if he and Hayley knew one
another already.
“I’m sorry I haven’t any money,” she said.
You couldn’t play a flute and talk. He took the flute away from
his mouth to smile and say, “That doesn’t matter.”
“Are you the violin man’s brother?” she asked.
“That’s right,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Hayley Foss,” Hayley said. “What are you called?”
He grinned, the same sort of youthful grin as his brother’s, and
asked, “What do you want to call me?”
All sorts of names flooded through Hayley’s mind, so many that
she was surprised into taking a deep, gasping breath. “Flute,” she
said, in the end.
He laughed. “That’ll do. And I suppose that makes my brother’s
name Fiddle. One of us had better warn him. What can I do for
you?”
“Are you a magician?” Hayley asked.
“In many ways, yes,” he said. “I don’t live by the usual rules.”
“I have to live by rules all the time,” Hayley said wistfully. “Can
you show me some magic?”
Flute looked at her consideringly—and quite sympathetically, she
thought. He seemed to be going to agree, but then he looked up
over Hayley’s head and said, “Some other time, perhaps.”
Martya was rushing up the small street, waving a pair of large
pink shoes with cowboy fringes, and a lady from the shoe shop was