Русский дух на мировых рынках
Как же занятно стилизованы русские сказки в разных англоговорящих странах!
Книжку эту - "In the Forests of Serre" by Patricia Mckillip - я давно читала... Смотрите, какая славная картинка на обложке...
А кто угадает, кто эта девушка на обложке? Ниже - начало книги - про нее же.
In the forests of Serre, Prince Ronan crossed paths with the Mother of All Witches when he rode down her white hen in a desolate stretch of land near his father’s summer palace. He did not recognize her immediately. He only saw a barefoot woman of indeterminate age with an apron full of grain, feeding her chickens in the middle of a blasted waste full of dead trees and ground as hard as the face of the moon. It was the last place Ronan expected chickens. He did not notice the cottage at all until after the hen pecked its way under his horse’s nose. It flapped its futile wings and emitted a screech as a hoof flattened it. Startled, Ronan reined in his mount, blinking at something unrecognizable even as suitable for a stew pot. The prince’s following pulled up raggedly behind him. A few feathers flurried gently through the air. The woman, one hand still outflung, golden husks clinging to her fingers, stared a moment at her hen. Then she looked up at the prince.
His following, a scarred, weary company of warriors, guards, servants, standard-bearers, a trumpeter or two, seemed suddenly far away and very quiet. The young prince felt the same stillness gather in his own heart, for with her in front of him, he had nothing else to fear. As in all the tales he had heard of her, there was the ox-bone pipe in her apron pocket, the green circular lenses over her eyes, the knobby, calloused feet that broadened to an inhuman size when she picked up her cottage and carried it. There, behind her, stood the cottage made of bones, some recent and still bleeding marrow, others of a disturbing size and indeterminate origin. A single circular window, its pane as green as her lenses, seemed to stare at Ronan like a third eye among the bones. The door stood open. Never, all the tales warned, never go into the witch’s house, whatever you do… Who, he wondered incredulously, would choose to enter that filthy pile of bones?
She smiled at him, showing teeth as pointed as an animal’s. Her face, which could be sometimes so lovely it broke the heart, and sometimes so hideous that warriors fainted at the sight of it, looked, at that moment, ancient and clever and only humanly ugly.
“Prince Ronan.” Her voice was the hollow sough of windblown reeds.
“Brume, ” he whispered, feeling a twinge of fear at last.
“You killed my white hen.”
“I am very sorry.”
“My favorite hen.”
“I wasn’t watching for chickens in this part of the forest. What can I do to repay you?”
“Bring the white hen into my house, ” she answered, “and pluck it for me. I will boil it in a pot for supper, and you and all your company will drink a cup of broth with me around my fire.”
He swallowed. Never, never… Those strong pointed teeth had sucked the boiled bones of warriors, so the tales said. “I will do anything for you,” he said carefully, “but I will not do that.”
Her eyes seemed to grow larger than the lenses, and disturbingly dark. “You will not pluck my hen?”
“I will do anything for you, but I will not do that.”
“You will not bring your company into my house to drink a cup of broth with me?”
“I will do anything for you, but I will not do that,” he repeated, for the third time was the charm.
She raised her lenses then, propped them on her wild hair, and looked at him with naked eyes. In that moment, her face nearly broke his heart. He would have melted off his horse, followed that face on his knees, but now it was too late.
“Then,” she said softly, “you will have a very bad day. And when you leave your father’s palace at the end of it, you will not find your way back to it until you find me.”
She dropped the lenses back on her nose, scooped the bloody mess of feather and bone into her arms, and walked into her house. The chickens, clucking in agitated disapproval, followed her. The door slammed shut behind them.
The house levitated suddenly. Ronan saw the powerful calves and huge, splayed feet below it as the witch, carrying her cottage from within, began to run. Motionless, mesmerized, he watched the little house of bone zig-zag like a hen chasing an ant through the stark bones of trees until the silvery shadows drew it in.
А дальше будут просто картинки Вани Журавлева.
Что-то явно от Бакста...
Интересно, а это советская девушка?
Попса, конечно... у него чарующий Дракула, как, впрочем, и японочки, кошечки, дамы времен Де Сада...
... ой и даже индейцы! Попса-попса-попса!!!
Книжку эту - "In the Forests of Serre" by Patricia Mckillip - я давно читала... Смотрите, какая славная картинка на обложке...
А кто угадает, кто эта девушка на обложке? Ниже - начало книги - про нее же.
In the forests of Serre, Prince Ronan crossed paths with the Mother of All Witches when he rode down her white hen in a desolate stretch of land near his father’s summer palace. He did not recognize her immediately. He only saw a barefoot woman of indeterminate age with an apron full of grain, feeding her chickens in the middle of a blasted waste full of dead trees and ground as hard as the face of the moon. It was the last place Ronan expected chickens. He did not notice the cottage at all until after the hen pecked its way under his horse’s nose. It flapped its futile wings and emitted a screech as a hoof flattened it. Startled, Ronan reined in his mount, blinking at something unrecognizable even as suitable for a stew pot. The prince’s following pulled up raggedly behind him. A few feathers flurried gently through the air. The woman, one hand still outflung, golden husks clinging to her fingers, stared a moment at her hen. Then she looked up at the prince.
His following, a scarred, weary company of warriors, guards, servants, standard-bearers, a trumpeter or two, seemed suddenly far away and very quiet. The young prince felt the same stillness gather in his own heart, for with her in front of him, he had nothing else to fear. As in all the tales he had heard of her, there was the ox-bone pipe in her apron pocket, the green circular lenses over her eyes, the knobby, calloused feet that broadened to an inhuman size when she picked up her cottage and carried it. There, behind her, stood the cottage made of bones, some recent and still bleeding marrow, others of a disturbing size and indeterminate origin. A single circular window, its pane as green as her lenses, seemed to stare at Ronan like a third eye among the bones. The door stood open. Never, all the tales warned, never go into the witch’s house, whatever you do… Who, he wondered incredulously, would choose to enter that filthy pile of bones?
She smiled at him, showing teeth as pointed as an animal’s. Her face, which could be sometimes so lovely it broke the heart, and sometimes so hideous that warriors fainted at the sight of it, looked, at that moment, ancient and clever and only humanly ugly.
“Prince Ronan.” Her voice was the hollow sough of windblown reeds.
“Brume, ” he whispered, feeling a twinge of fear at last.
“You killed my white hen.”
“I am very sorry.”
“My favorite hen.”
“I wasn’t watching for chickens in this part of the forest. What can I do to repay you?”
“Bring the white hen into my house, ” she answered, “and pluck it for me. I will boil it in a pot for supper, and you and all your company will drink a cup of broth with me around my fire.”
He swallowed. Never, never… Those strong pointed teeth had sucked the boiled bones of warriors, so the tales said. “I will do anything for you,” he said carefully, “but I will not do that.”
Her eyes seemed to grow larger than the lenses, and disturbingly dark. “You will not pluck my hen?”
“I will do anything for you, but I will not do that.”
“You will not bring your company into my house to drink a cup of broth with me?”
“I will do anything for you, but I will not do that,” he repeated, for the third time was the charm.
She raised her lenses then, propped them on her wild hair, and looked at him with naked eyes. In that moment, her face nearly broke his heart. He would have melted off his horse, followed that face on his knees, but now it was too late.
“Then,” she said softly, “you will have a very bad day. And when you leave your father’s palace at the end of it, you will not find your way back to it until you find me.”
She dropped the lenses back on her nose, scooped the bloody mess of feather and bone into her arms, and walked into her house. The chickens, clucking in agitated disapproval, followed her. The door slammed shut behind them.
The house levitated suddenly. Ronan saw the powerful calves and huge, splayed feet below it as the witch, carrying her cottage from within, began to run. Motionless, mesmerized, he watched the little house of bone zig-zag like a hen chasing an ant through the stark bones of trees until the silvery shadows drew it in.
А дальше будут просто картинки Вани Журавлева.
Что-то явно от Бакста...
Интересно, а это советская девушка?
Попса, конечно... у него чарующий Дракула, как, впрочем, и японочки, кошечки, дамы времен Де Сада...
... ой и даже индейцы! Попса-попса-попса!!!