"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano's Lute" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

train by pulling wagons.
This wagon, like the knotted-together harness, did not fit the quality of the
animal that pulled it. Hie harness was made up from bits and pieces: some of
leather, some twine, some of velvet ribbon. The wagon (theoretically green)
had a number of side-slats which had never been painted and were different in
length and cut from one another, as well as from the green boards. Along with
these went places on the vehicle's high sides and back which offered excellent
visibility into the interior. Hie wagon was nearly empty and made a great deal
of noise as its wooden wheels roiled over the earth.
The driver of this rolling drum was as black of hair and eye as his horse, and
his skin was burned dark, as though the man had been in the elements all
winter. This impression was furthered by his woolen tunic, which was
Damiano's Lute 9
colored too delicate a rose to be a product of the dyer's art. In fact, this
color had been produced in the same manner as the wearer's tan. This young man
was as thin as his horse, and he, too, possessed some degree of elegance and
movement (though not of the sort to cause men to wager money). Like his horse,
he was tall but not wide, and like his horse he nodded. But where the animal
nodded to his own hooves' rhythm, the driver appeared to nod asleep.
"You know he shouldn't oughta do that." The still younger fellow beside the
driver spoke in coarse North Italian. This one's hair was red, knife-trimmed
and carefully finger-curled. He wore a dagged jerkin of too many colors to
list. He was, if such a thing is possible, thinner than either the horse or
the driver beside him. He infused his few words with a degree of rancor
impossible for the casual listener to understand, unless the listener first
knows that these two travelers were really close friends, who had spent too
much time in close company with one another.
Hie driver of the wagon sat blinking for a moment, as though he were
translating his companion's words from a foreign language. His eyes were fixed
glassily on the gelding's swishing croup. He was thinking in a passive and
random fashion about goats.
At last he answered. "It doesn't matter, Gaspare. Hie worst he will do is
unravel the ribbons, and then I can tie them up again." The black horse chose
this moment to give a particularly doglike shake, which freed the singletree
end of a length of rope and sent it snapping over his back. At this sudden
attack he bolted forward, and his passengers skidded into the hard back of the
hard wagon seat. Hard.
"Poor Festilligambe," muttered Damiano. "He was never meant to pull a load.
And he has little enough to please him these days, lean as he is." The dark
young man was suddenly stricken with a desire to gather leaves and twigs for
the gelding, although he knew quite well that horses don't eat leaves and
twigs.
When one's companion smarts under a weight of self-pity, it is not a good idea
to send one's condolence in other directions. It does not promote the peace.
10
Damiano's Lute
"Poor Festilligambe!" hiccoughed Gaspare. "FestiHi-gambe? He alone among
us..." Emotion choked the boy, and his face grew as red as his hair. "If I
could live on the grass by the road, I'd have no more complaints."
Caspare's face was singular in its parts. His nose had an aquiline height of