Gale: переводы

→We walked back towards the Spook. ‘Bony Lizzie’s escaped from her pit,’ I told him. ‘Alice thinks it happened the day after they burned the house.’

→Alice sniffed again. ‘Two days ago at least – but don’t worry, she’s long gone by now. Back home to Pendle, no doubt. Good riddance is what I say.’

→Leading the way, Alice moved cautiously into the trees of the eastern garden. We passed the graves where the dead witches were buried. Everything seemed all right there, but when we came to the witch pit that confined Lizzie, I got a shock. The bars were bent and it was empty. Bony Lizzie had escaped.

→Bony Lizzie had trained Alice for two years. She was a powerful, malevolent bone witch who was buried alive in a pit, imprisoned there indefinitely by my master. And she certainly deserved it. She’d murdered children and used their bones in her dark magic rituals.

→‘Something’s wrong, Tom. Always been able to sniff Lizzie out when I crossed this part of the lawn before . . .’

→We left the trees and started to cross the lawn again, approaching the Spook from a different direction. He was sitting on the grass looking down at the Bestiary, head in hands and oblivious to our approach. Alice suddenly came to a halt and glanced towards the eastern garden, where the witches were buried. Once again she sniffed loudly three times.

→‘Perhaps you’re right, Alice. There’s no point in waiting around here. Let’s go and suggest exactly that to Mr Gregory. Arkwright’s library is much smaller than the Spook’s was, but it’s a start – something to build on.’

→‘You’ll be the next spook in these parts, Tom. You’ll be able to manage without those books. Start writing some of your own – that’s what you need to do. Besides, everything ain’t lost. We both know where there’s another library, and we’ll be needing a roof over our heads. Ain’t no use going south to Old Gregory’s damp, cold Anglezarke house. It’ll be behind enemy lines and it’s no place to spend the winter anyway – no books there either. Poor Bill Arkwright can’t live in the mill any more so we should head north for the canal right away. Those soldier boys won’t have got that far.’

→‘I hope so, Alice. I do hope so. That library meant a lot to him. Preserving it and adding to it was a major part of his life’s work. It was a legacy, to be passed on to future generations of spooks.’

→I followed her across the grass and in amongst the trees of the western garden. She shook her head wearily. ‘Just gets worse and worse,’ she said. ‘Still, he’ll get over it.’

→‘Let’s give him some time alone,’ Alice whispered, taking my arm gently and leading me away.

→‘But your Bestiary is one of the most important books,’ I said. ‘It’s better than nothing!’

→He took it and stared at the cover for a long time, his face devoid of expression. ‘Just one book out of all those – the rest burned and gone,’ he said at last.

→‘One book has survived,’ I said, holding it out to him. ‘Alice found it.’

→Hardly daring to hope, I reached down and picked it up. Would it be like the other book we’d found – just the cover remaining? But to my delight I saw that the pages had survived. I flicked through them. They were charred at the edges but intact and readable. With a smile and a nod of thanks to Alice, I carried the Bestiary back to my master.

→She picked her way over a couple of charred beams and entered the house through the jagged hole that had once been the back door. She found her way into the ruin of the library, now little more than charred wood and ashes. Here she halted and pointed down at the floor. Just visible was the spine of another book. I recognized it immediately. It was the Spook’s Bestiary.

→Alice sniffed quickly three times, then gripped my left arm. ‘Follow me, Tom,’ she whispered.

→I heard him give a sob. I turned away, embarrassed. Was he crying?

→My master’s library was gone; words written by generations of spooks – the heritage of countless years battling the dark, a great store of knowledge – now consumed by flames.

→The Spook fell to his knees and began to root around in the cold ashes. Almost everything fell to pieces in his hands. Then he picked up a singed leather cover; the spine of a book that had somehow escaped being totally burned. He held it up and cleaned it with his fingers. Over his shoulder I could just make out the title: The Damned, the Dizzy and the Desperate. It was a book that he’d written long ago as a young man – the definitive work on possession. He’d once lent it to me when I was in terrible danger from Mother Malkin. Now all that remained was that cover.