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Автор Кэтрин Фишер

CATHERINE FISHER

Darkhenge

Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Cauldron-Born

B. Beithne: Birch

L. Luis: Rowan

N. Nion: Ash

S. Saille: Willow

F. Fearn: Alder

The Crane-skin Bag

U. Uath: Hawthorn

D. Duir: Oak

T. Tinne: Holly

C. Coll: Hazel

Q. Quert: Apple

M. Muin: Vine

G. Gort: Ivy

The Region of the Summer Stars

NG. Ngetal: Broom

STR. Straif: Blackthorn

R. Ruis: Elder

A. Alim: Fir

O. Onn: Gorse

U. Ur: Heather

The Battle of the Trees

E. Eadha: Poplar

I. Idho: Yew

OI. Oindle: Spindle

UI. Uilleand: Honeysuckle

I. Iphin: Pine

AE. Phagos: Beech

Excerpt from Corbenic

About the Author

Other Works

Credits

Back Ad

About the Publisher

The

Cauldron-Born

B. BEITHNE: BIRCH

“Eat,” he keeps saying. “Eat,” but I won’t. If I do I may be trapped here forever, and I’m not even hungry. He leaves me alone if I scream at him; he doesn’t like that.

Outside the door of the room are endless corridors. I’ve explored them for miles. At least I think I have. They all look the same—stone-flagged and cobwebbed. Empty. There are sounds in the building. They echo distantly, but I don’t know what they are. Sometimes I come across a window, and scrub dirt off tiny leaded panes to look out.

It’s hard to be sure, but the sky here seems a sullen, dim twilight. It never gets darker or lighter, but there are faint stars in strange constellations, billions of them.

What scares me most, though, are the trees.

There are trees everywhere. Tangly and green, pushing right up against the walls, tapping and knocking.

As if they wanted to get in.

The oaks shimmer, the stream runs cold.

Happy is he who sees the one that he loves.

THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

The tree branched like a brain.

It was the same as the diagram in his biology textbook, a tangle of neurons and dendrites and synapses. It was what was in him now, working his eyes and fingers. So ingenious. So fragile.

He bent over the page, noticing how his shadow was ultramarine blue on the white cartridge paper; with the side of the pencil he shaded in the edge of the bough, feeling the soft fibers of carbon darken the grain. He marked a few quick cracks, then cross-hatched the hole in the trunk, rubbed splotches of lichen, enjoying the skill in his hands, the way drawing it made him and the tree one creature.

A drop of rain spatted on the page.

Rob looked up. His concentration snapped like a thread.

Clouds were looming in from the north. They were black and heavy; already he could see the leading edge as a gray smudge drifted over the miles of open downland, masking the low hump of Windmill Hill and its barrows. “It’s raining,” he said.

From the high grass a tinselly whisper of music rose and fell.

“Dan! We’re going to get soaked. ”

A hand played air guitar to inaudible riffs.

Rob glanced around. There were a few thorn bushes to shelter under, but not much else. The white chalk track of the Ridgeway ran away on each side along the exposed crest of the downs. Below in the fields, acres of barley waved.

He kicked the sprawling figure; Daniel sat up, annoyed. “What?”

He said it too loud, the earphones deafening him. Rob reached over and tweaked them off. “Come on. I’m hungry. We’re going. ”