Читать книгу In the Night Wood - Dale Bailey - Страница 9

By the time the Moon arose and let down her golden skirts, Laura was sore afraid. In the pale light she stumbled through a ring of sinister yews into a glade where stood a single bearded oak, hoary and not unkind.

“I met you once in a dream,” she said.

“And I you in my long, arboreal sleep,” replied Grandfather Oak (for that was his name).

“Isn’t that odd?” Laura said to the tree.

“Not at all,” said Grandfather Oak, nodding sagely. “The Story is rich in coincidence.”

“What kind of Story is it?” asked Laura.

And just then the North Wind swept through the trees, and Grandfather Oak shivered all his branches and dropped down a curtain of golden leaves. “It is not a happy Story,” he said. “But so few Stories are.”

— CAEDMON HOLLOW, IN THE NIGHT WOOD