Abarat: The First Book of Hours - Barker Clive (читать книги полностью без сокращений бесплатно .TXT) 📗

Candy’s heart was thumping so hard she could hear her pulse in her head. Ten, fifteen seconds passed. She listened. The grass hissed all around her. Strangely enough, she’d never felt so alive in her life.

Another half minute went by. She was tempted to chance another peep above the surface of the swaying grass, to see whether Mendelson Shape was limping in her direction, but she was afraid to do so in case he was almost upon her.

Then, to her infinite relief, she heard eight voices all yelling at the same time:

“Hey, you! Mendelson Shmendelson! Looking for us? We’re over here!”

Candy waited a heartbeat, then she chanced a look.

Shape, it seemed, had indeed been looking in her direction, and had she raised her head a second earlier would have seen her. But now he was swinging around, following the sound of the brothers’ voices.

At that moment, Mischief leaped up out of the grass and began racing away from the lighthouse, diverting Shape’s attention.

Shape threw open his arms, his huge, iron-taloned claws spread as wide as five-fingered fans.

“There. You. Are!” he roared.

His voice was as ugly as his anatomy: a guttural din that made Candy’s stomach churn.

As he spoke, the configuration of crosses on his back shifted, rising up like featherless, metallic wings. He reached over his shoulders and grabbed two of the blades, pulling them out of the scabbards in his leathery flesh. Then he started through the grass toward his prey.

Candy knew she could not afford to delay. The brothers were chancing their lives so that she could attempt to reach the lighthouse unseen. She had to go now, or their courage would be entirely in vain.

Candy didn’t watch the pursuit a moment longer. Instead, she set her eyes on the lighthouse and she began to run, not even bothering to try and conceal herself by staying below the level of the grass. Simply depending for distraction upon Shape’s terrible appetite to have the John brothers in his grasp.

As she raced through the grass, she became aware that the great rain cloud that had first caught her eye was now directly above the lighthouse, hovering like a golden curtain over the drama below.

Was this part of the makings of Providence too? she wondered as she ran. Did clouds also have their place in the shape of things?

By the time the thought had passed through her head, she had reached the threshold of the lighthouse. She chanced a quick look over her shoulder at Mischief and his pursuer.

Much to her horror she saw that her brief period of protection was over. Shape had given up chasing the brothers—realizing perhaps that the pursuit was just a diversion—and he had now turned his attention back toward the lighthouse.

His eyes fixed upon Candy, and he let out a bloodcurdling cry at the sight of her. He spread his arms wide, and with swords in hand, he began to move toward her.

He didn’t run; he simply strode through the grass with terrible confidence in his uneven step, as if to say: I don’t have to hurry. I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ve got you cornered, and there’s no escape for you. You’re mine.

She turned away from the sight of his approach and pushed on the broken door. The hinges creaked, and there were a few moments of resistance, when she feared that fallen timbers on the other side might have blocked it. Then, with a deep grating sound, the door opened and Candy slipped inside.

Though there were plenty of holes in the walls, and the sun came through in solid shafts, it was still far chillier inside than it was out. The cold air stank of rotting wood. Large fungi had prospered in the damp murk, and the boards beneath her feet were slick with mildew. She slipped twice before she had even reached the bottom of the stairs.

The prospect before her looked dangerous. No doubt once upon a time the spiral wooden stairs had been perfectly safe to climb, but that was decades ago. Now all but a few of the railings had collapsed, and the structure which had supported the staircase had been devoured by woodworm and rot, so that it seemed the stairs themselves had virtually nothing to depend on for their solidity.

She peered through one of the holes in the wall, just to confirm what she already knew: Mendelson Shape was still advancing toward the lighthouse.

Unlikely as a safe ascent seemed, there was no way back now. Shape would be at the front door in just a few seconds. She had no choice but to try the stairs. She put her hand on the shaky bannister and began her cautious ascent.

Outside in the long grass, the John brothers watched the silhouetted form of the lady Quackenbush as she started up the stairs.

“She’s something special, that one,” Drowze murmured.

“What makes you say that?” Moot remarked.

“Look at her!” Drowze said. “Not many creatures of this wretched Hereafter would be so brave.”

“She’s half mad,” said Serpent, “that’s why. I saw it in her eyes, right from the beginning. She’s a little bit crazy.”

“So we send a crazy girl to do our handiwork for us?” Pluckitt said. “That’s not very heroic.”

“Will you just shut your cake-holes, all of you?” Mischief snapped. “Drowze is right. There is something about the lady. When we first laid eyes on her, didn’t anybody think they’d maybe seen her before?” There was silence from above. “Well?”

“You told us to shut our cake-holes,” Sallow reminded him airily. “We’re just obeying instructions.”

“Well, I think she’s got a touch of magic about her,” Mischief said, ignoring Sallow’s riposte. He went to his belt and unsheathed the little knife that hung there. “And we have to protect her.”

“You’re not…” Moot began.

“…intending to attack…” Pluckitt continued.

“…Mendelson Shape?” Slop went on.

“Not with that pitiful excuse for a weapon?” Fillet concluded.

“Well—” said Mischief. “Unless somebody has a better idea?”

“He’s twice our size!” said Sallow.

“Three times!” said Moot.

“He’ll tear out our heart,” said Slop.

“Well, we can’t leave the lady Quackenbush undefended,” Mischief replied.

“I vote we run,” Moot said. “This is a lost cause, Mischief. At least if we get away now, the Key’s safe with us. If we throw ourselves into the fray we’re not just endangering our lives—”

“—which are very valuable—” John Serpent remarked.

“—we’re endangering the Key,” Moot reasoned. “We can’t afford to do that.”

“Moot’s right,” said John Sallow. “We’ve got a chance to run. I vote we take it.”

“Out of the question,” Mischief remarked. “She’s risking her life for us.”

“As I observed,” Sallow replied. “The creature’s half mad.”

“And as I said,” Mischief replied. “You can all shut your cake-holes, because you’re wasting your breath. We’re going to keep Shape away from her as long as we can.”

So saying, Mischief set off running through the grass toward Mendelson, his little knife at the ready.

As he came within six or seven strides of his target, Shape sensed his presence and swung around, the swords whining through the air. His mouth was wide and foamy, as though he was working up an appetite as he approached the tower. The pupils of his eyes had gone to pinpricks, giving him an even more monstrous expression. His aim was poor. The blades missed the brothers by a foot or more, simply lopping off the feathery heads of the prairie grass.

Mischief just ducked down and doubled his speed, running at the enemy.

“Everybody—”he said. “Give the Warriors’ Yell!”

At which point all the Johns loosed a cry so discordant, so insane; so bestial—

“EEEIIIGGGGORRRAAARRGUU—”

—that even Shape hesitated, and for a moment looked as though he might retreat.