"L. Lee Lowe - Mortal Ghost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowe L Lee)

could be, how strong the beak -- he reached for the bird, making a good if quiet imitation of a kestrel's cry:
'kee kee kee.' It no longer struggled to get away, watched instead with an alert tilt of its head, its eyes clear
and focused. It was not ready to relinquish its hunter's fierce proud spirit. But before long another animal
would maul it, or a passing kid drown it -- or worse.

'Come, Windhover,' Jesse said. 'You can trust me. Let's see if we can help you fly.'

Head tilted and ears cocked, the dog waited with frank curiosity to see if a meal or a miracle would be
forthcoming.

Jesse grasped the kestrel in both hands, firmly pinioning its wings. He rose, brought the bird to chest level,
and closed his eyes. The bird's heart fluttered beneath his fingers, and Jesse waited until the warmth of his
palms, the timbre of his thoughts calmed the frightened creature. There is no healing through subjugation.
Then Jesse moves like a line of melody through its body, lingering longest over the broken bones in its wing.
Cells resonate as note called out to note. The air is still: the stir of wind has died away, leaving only the scent
of pine in its wake.

The dog raised its head and sniffed. It could identify the peppery richness of new-mown grass, the hot iron
bite of fresh pitch, the oily slick of riverbird, the fruity tang of another dog's urine -- all the manifold but
familiar odours of river and city. And then this new thing: the boy, suddenly different. The dog would have
Chapter 1 6
liked to bark but contented itself with a low rumble in its throat, hardly a growl. Jesse opened his eyes for a
moment and flicked a look of reproach at the dog, who hung its head.

Ten minutes, twenty, an hour; or no time at all. As always, the whentide ebbs till the creature begins to
struggle. Then it was done -- bones healed, and the kestrel released to flight. Jesse smiled as it met the air with
vigorous wingstrokes, skimming the water until it reached the middle of the river. There it hovered into the
rising wind, then banked and flew in a steep climb. The higher it flew, the bigger it seemed to grow -- the
stronger its wings. Jesse followed its path with a hand shading his eyes, for the clouds had parted and he was
staring almost directly into the sun, which tipped the kestrel with redgold. A single wild cry split the air: no
elegy's minor key. Engulfed in flame, the bird passed from sight.

Jesse watched for a while longer. The kingfishers were chasing each other over the river. Their small,
brilliantly-coloured bodies darted and flashed, embroidering the rippling length of greygreen silk. There was a
moment in their flight, just before they dived, when they paused, suspended -- the wave at cresting, the
pendulum at the top of its arc -- and then with a shiver, as if time itself had hesitated, resumed their plunge.

Eventually hunger intruded. Jesse sighed, flipped his hair out of his eyes, and forced himself to turn away. The
river would wait. He shouldered his rucksack and continued in the direction of the city centre. Tired and
dispirited, he trudged along the narrow footpath. The kestrel had drained whatever energy his short, troubled
night and inadequate supper had provided. His usual craving for chocolate nagged at him. After McDonald's,
he decided, he'd spend the morning in the library, then try to find some work, maybe in one of the posh
residential neighbourhoods -- mowing, weeding, painting, window cleaning, anything.

The dog had waited before following the boy. Gradually it crept closer, but not too close. When the boy
stopped to lean on the back of a concrete bench, the dog stopped as well, watching wistfully.

Jesse took a deep breath, lifted his head, and saw the dog.

'You again,' Jesse said.