Читать книгу The Sand Sifter - Julie Lawson - Страница 4

“I’ve seen the man who makes the sand,” Jessica announced as she and Andrew were playing on the beach.

“No you haven’t.” Andrew kept on shaping the sandy tower of his castle.

“Don’t be silly, Jess. He couldn’t make all this sand. Just look!” Andrew stretched out his arms to take in the curve of the beach. Sand, sand, sand— to either side of the cove and then beyond to the next one, sand to the tide line, and further out beneath the waves, sand under their feet, deep, deep down as far as you can go. “He just couldn’t do it!”

“Well, maybe not all of it. But some. I’ve seen him.”

“No Jess, you haven’t.” And that put an end to that. Andrew took his shovel and started digging the moat.

“And he knows all about you, too.” Jessica added softly. Too softly for Andrew to hear.

In a tumble-down home carved out of the dunes lived the old man who sifted sand. His home was not a castle of sand, nothing fancy with turrets and towers and winding staircases of periwinkle shells. No gardens of cockles or mussels, no flowery sea anenomes teasing the waters of the moat. No, nothing fancy for the sifter of sand. His home shifted as the weather shifted the sands. In the rainy season it was hard and firm, but on dry days it was like a mist, no more solid than air. On a windy day it curved one way, in a slight breeze it curved another. During a storm it fairly tumbled and toppled on top of him. But it never bothered the old man. Even when it seemed like his home was blowing out from under him and over him and likely to disappear altogether— no, that didn’t bother the sifter of sand.