"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Women of Whale Rock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

previous night's storm had churned up the beach, leaving piles of sea-blackened
driftwood and gifts of garbage from the sea-bottom. The tide was out, hut the
sand was still wet, attesting to the power of the storm. Sea foam dried in a
reflective green pattern across the flat part of the beach.

No one walked here except summer people. Locals avoided this stretch of beach,
making excuses about the rocks, the driftwood, the soft sand. Sometimes Charles
walked down the steps, sitting on the bottom one and staring at the remains of
Whale Rock, the one that gave the town its name. It no longer looked like a
whale as it had at the turn of the century; now it looked like a parking lot in
the middle of the sea. Even the strength of rock succumbed to the power of the
ocean.

The gulls formed a sea of their own near the Sandcastle's deteriorating wall.
The sight was formidable, not frightening something none of the stories about
birds -- not even Du Maurier's classic -- managed to capture. Charles stood on a
flat rock protruding from the sand and clutched the bullhorn. Retsler stood
beside him, popcorn in one hand, rifle in the other.

"Here goes nothing" Charles said. He picked up the bullhorn and flicked it on.
The siren wailed like amplified feedback. He cringed, wishing he had remembered
ear plugs. Retsler hadn't moved. He stared intently at the gulls.

They took a few hesitant steps, then the first flew into the sky, followed by
another, then another, until the entire flock was airborne. They soared, their
screeches hidden by the bullhorn's wail.

This was where Eddie came in. He was supposed to toss bread from the Billows's
deck. Sometimes he caught the birds' attention; sometimes he didn't.

This time he did. They flew in ever widening circles north, crying their protest
at the siren, and communicating the message to other gulls about food ahead.
They left this isolated section of beach torn up and covered with droppings,
feathers, bits of food.

And the body, one leg bent as if the person were just resting on its back,
watching the clouds.

Neither Charles nor Retsler left the rock. They had done that too early once,
and he still had nightmares about it.

Of all the creatures on God's earth, birds seemed to be the only ones without
souls.

Finally the last gull disappeared behind the bluff that hid the Billows. Charles
shut off the bullhorn. The sound stopped, but his ears ached, and would,
probably, until the following day. But if things ran true to form, he wouldn't
notice.

He shuddered, wished, just once, that this would all end.