"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano 03 - Raphael" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

however, but swarthy, and his hair was a mass of lazy curls. He continued to lean against the willow tree
while his hands played over the strings of a perfectly plain, perfectly perfect lute. He happened to be
seated (in seeming content) on a dead branch, which he took care should not be visible to the girl.
The music he made was like the light which bathed and enfolded this garden without a wall:
impossibly rich and simple, too fine-textured for the world of days. And he didn't play alone, for his
melody was answered by a descant from the winged sky, while below the grass murmured a sweet
continuo.
It was a piece without beginning or end, and a glance at the rapt face of the musician communicated
that he was well satisfied with the work. But at some time during that long morning, the musician raised
his head and left the music to continue without him. His eyes, like those of the girl, were drowned drunk
as though they witnessed something beyond sky, river, leafy tree, and rippling grasses.
As though they witnessed glory.
His eyes were so because he, she, the corkindrill, and all of those who strolled, slouched, soared, or
sang their perfection in that crystal air, were the dead—the blessed dead—and this was their realm.
And in truth there was neither stream nor willow, nor leaves of the willow nor dew to hang from its
leaves, nor tower nor palace nor pretty gravel paths winding between them.
There was only peace here: great peace, bought with pain, perhaps. Redeemed by love, most
certainly. Peace, at any rate, and it had shattered the bonds of time.
But this particular blessed soul (the one with the lute) raised his head and the beautiful drowned eyes
squinted, like those of a nearsighted man trying to focus at a distance.
"What is it, Darni?' asked the white girl, and she plumped herself down in front of him.
For some moments he did not respond, but stared past her, and past the stream and the copse of fruit
trees and the white palace beyond, into unimaginable or unremembered distance. Then he met her gaze,
while his fingers evoked a trickle of emotion from the lute strings.
"I felt, little dear," he said slowly, "as though someone had floated here on the wind from far away,
offering me all of heaven and earth to follow him."
She scooted closer, until her soft and innocent (though not particularly clever) face rested mere inches
from his. "What did that feel like?"
He sighed. "It felt like a stomachache."
Macchiata snorted and sat back heavily on the grass. "But, Master—Master! You don't HAVE a
stomach!"
She peered at him sidelong, grinning, and sought again in the grass around the willow. At last she
found the branch Damiano had concealed, and she pulled it out from under his legs.
"Hah! There it is.
"Come on, Darni," she wheedled winsomely. "Throw the stick for me again."
He looked into her eyes. "Are you pining for your natural form, little dear? Would you like to be a
dog once again?"
Macchiata slipped his gaze and looked hungrily at the branch in her masters hand. "Not pining. I like
my girl shape. Especially the hands, which make it easy to pick up sticks.
"Please, Darni. PLEASE throw it again."
 The greatest of the archangels, Lucifer by name, had a palace as grand as that behind the orchard in
Tir Na nOg— the Isle of the Ever Young—though Lucifer's watchful fortress was neither white nor
charmingly situated. Atop the square box of it was a small, high chamber possessing four windows.
These reached from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, and they stood always open.
One of these windows" looked grudgingly toward the clean north, just as one beheld the generous
south with due suspicion. The third window kept a wary eye against the wisdom of the east while the last
window denied all hope of the west. Despite this eclectic airiness, the atmosphere in the chamber was a
bit stuffy and it smelled like a dead fire. A single grayish, dirty fly droned in frustrated circles though the
air of the chamber, as though despite all the windows it could not find a way out.
Within the arches of this high room stood only a table and a chair. On the table was placed a small