McKillip Patricia A / Маккиллип Патриция - Собрание сочинений (65 произведений) [1973-2018, fb2/epub/pdf, ENG]

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McKillip Patricia A / Маккиллип Патриция - Собрание сочинений

Годы выпуска: 1973-2018 г.
Автор: McKillip Patricia A / Маккиллип Патриция
Язык: Английский
Формат: fb2/epub/pdf
Качество: OCR/eBook

Патриция Маккиллип (Patricia A. McKillip) родилась 29 февраля 1948 г. в Салеме, штат Орегон.
В 1973 году вышли два ее первых романа: «The Throme of the Erril of Sherril» и «The House on Parchment Street» (ISFDB считает это произведение повестью - NickolaevSergei), а третья книга, подростковое фэнтези «The Forgotten Beasts of Eld» была награждена World Fantasy Award. Когда писательница, ничего не знавшая об этой награде (которая представляет собой бюст Говарда Лафкрафта и считается одним из самых уродливых призов) получила «голову Лавкрафта» по почте, то первыми ее словами были: «What the #@*!!$ is this?».
С тех пор произведения Маккилип номинировались на многие фантастические награды. Писательница была награждена Balrog Award за рассказ «A Troll and Two Roses» (1984) и Mythopoeic Award за роман «Something Rich and Strange» (1994). Большинство произведений писательницы критики относят к разряду «подросткового фэнтези» рассчитанного на 12-16 летних, также, как, к примеру, и творчество Андре Нортон, однако они имеют успех и у людей старшего поколения. (На мой взгляд, эти критики сильно недооценивают творчество Маккиллип, глубина и психологичность у нее явно выходят за "подростковые" рамки - NickolaevSergei).
Критики считают Патрицию Маккиллип одним из самых поэтичных авторов англоязычной фэнтези. Кроме того, по их мнению, в ее произведениях самые привлекательные черты приключенческого жанра сочетаются с удивительной изобретательностью в создании сюжетов и образов, свойственной лучшим образцам фэнтези. (Вот с этими критиками я согласен! - NickolaevSergei).

На русский язык было переведено до обидного мало: трилогия "The Quest of the Riddle-Master" (Мастер загадок), две повести и два рассказа ...

Мне удалось собрать здесь почти все изданные художественные произведения Патриции Маккиллип, нет только ее стихов и двух рассказов одного рассказа: Moby James
01 The Sorceress and the Cygnet 1991, fb2, ISBN: 0-441-77564-0, Ace; pdf, ISBN: 0-441-77567-5, Ace
02 The Cygnet and the Firebird 1993, fb2
Cygnet 2007, epub, ISBN: 978-0-441-01483-5, Ace Books
  • 01 The Sorceress and the Cygnet
  • 02 The Cygnet and the Firebird
01 Moon-Flash 1985, epub, ISBN: 0-425-08457-4, Berkley Books
02 The Moon and the Face 1986, epub/pdf, ISBN: 0-425-09206-2, Berkley Books
Moon-Flash 2005, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-1-101-65998-4, Firebird
  • 01 Moon-Flash
  • 02 The Moon and the Face
01 The Riddle-Master of Hed / Мастер загадок 1976, fb2
02 Heir of Sea and Fire / Наследница Моря и Огня 1977, fb2
03 Harpist in the Wind / Арфист на ветру 1979, fb2
Riddle-Master 1999, epub, ISBN: 0-441-00596-9, Ace Books
  • 01 The Riddle-Master of Hed / Мастер загадок
  • 02 Heir of Sea and Fire / Наследница Моря и Огня
  • 03 Harpist in the Wind / Арфист на ветру
01 Winter Rose 1996, fb2; 2002, epub, ISBN: 0-441-00934-4, Ace Books
02 Solstice Wood 2006, fb2; epub, ISBN: 0-441-01366-X, Ace Books
The House on Parchment Street 1973, fb2/epub/pdf, Atheneum
The Forgotten Beasts of Eld 1984, fb2/pdf, ISBN: 0-425-06595-2, Berkley Books; 1975, epub, ISBN: 0-380-00480-1, Avon; 2017, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-161696-279-1, Tachyon Publications
The Night Gift 1976, epub, ISBN: 0-689-30508-7, Atheneum
Stepping from the Shadows 1982, epub/pdf, ISBN: 0-689-11211-4, Atheneum
Fool's Run 1987, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-446-51278-8, Warner Books
The Changeling Sea 1988, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-689-31436-1, Atheneum / Macmillan
Something Rich and Strange 1994, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-553-09674-5, Bantam Spectra
The Book of Atrix Wolfe 1995, fb2; 2008, epub, ISBN: 978-0-441-01565-8, Ace Books
Song for the Basilisk 1998, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-441-00447-4, Ace Books
The Tower at Stony Wood 2000, fb2; 2001, epub, ISBN: 0-441-00829-1, Ace Books
Ombria in Shadow 2002, fb2, ISBN: 0-441-00895-X, Ace Books; 2003, epub, ISBN: 0-441-01016-4, Ace Books
In the Forests of Serre 2003, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-441-01011-3, Ace Books
Alphabet of Thorn 2004, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-441-01130-6, Ace Books
Od Magic 2006, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-441-01334-1, Ace Books
The Bell at Sealey Head 2008, fb2, ISBN: 0-441-01630-8, Ace Books; 2008, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-1-101-38972-0, Ace Books
The Bards of Bone Plain 2010, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-441-01957-1, Ace Books; 2010, epub, eISBN: 978-1-101-44581-5, Ace Books
Kingfisher 2016, epub, ISBN: 978-0-698-14052-3, Ace Books
The Throme of the Erril of Sherill 1984, pdf, ISBN: 0-441-80839-5, Tempo Books (ill.)
The Throme of the Erril of Sherill
The Harrowing of the Dragon of Hoarsbreath / Изгнание дракона Хорсбрета
Harrowing the Dragon 2005, fb2; epub, ISBN: 0-441-01360-0, Ace Books
The Harrowing of the Dragon of Hoarsbreath / Изгнание дракона Хорсбрета
A Matter of Music
A Troll and Two Roses
Baba Yaga and the Sorcerer's Son
The Fellowship of the Dragon / Братство дракона
Lady of the Skulls
The Snow Queen
Ash, Wood, Fire
The Stranger
The Lion and the Lark
The Witches of Junket
Voyage into the Heart
Wonders of the Invisible World 2012, epub/pdf, ISBN: 978-1-61696-087-2, Tachyon Publications
Wonders of the Invisible World
Out of the Woods
The Kelpie
Hunter's Moon
Oak Hill / Оук-Хилл
The Fortune-Teller
Jack O'Lantern
Knight of the Well
Naming Day / День именования
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
Xmas Cruise
A Gift to Be Simple
The Old Woman and the Storm
The Doorkeeper of Khaat
What Inspires Me: Guest of Honor Speech at WisCon 28, 2004
Dreams of Distant Shores 2016, epub, ISBN: 978-1-61696-219-7, Tachyon Publications
The Gorgon in the Cupboard
Which Witch
Edith and Henry Go Motoring
Something Rich and Strange
Writing High Fantasy essay by Patricia A. McKillip
Dear Pat: Afterword essay by Peter S. Beagle
The Karkadann Triangle 2018, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-1-61696-313-2, Tachyon Publications
Unicorn Triangle by Patricia A. McKillip
My Son Heydari and the Karkadann by Peter S. Beagle
The Throme of the Erril of Sherill 1973, fb2; 1973, epub, ISBN: 0-689-30115-4, Atheneum (ill.)
The Gorgon in the Cupboard 2004, fb2
Which Witch 2012, fb2

They said later that he rode into the village on a horse the color of buttermilk, but I saw him walk out of the wood.
I was kneeling at the well; I had just lifted water to my lips. The well was one of the wood's secrets: a deep spring as clear as light, hidden under an overhang of dark stones down which the brier roses fall, white as snow, red as blood, all summer long. The vines hide the water unless you know to look. I found it one hot afternoon when I stopped to smell the roses. Beneath their sweet scent lay something shadowy, mysterious: the smell of earth, water, wet stone. I moved the cascading briers and looked down at my own reflection.
Corbet, he called himself to the villagers. But I saw him before he had any name at all.
My name is Rois, and I look nothing like a rose. The water told me that. Water never lies. I look more like a blackbird, with my flighty black hair and eyes more amber than the blackbird's sunny yellow. My skin is not fit for fairy tales, since I liked to stand in light, with my eyes closed, my face turned upward toward the sun. That's how I saw him at first: as a fall of light, and then something shaping out of the light. So it seemed. I did not move; I let the water stream silently down my wrist. There was a blur of gold: his hair. And then I blinked, and saw his face more clearly.
I must have made some noise then. Perhaps I shifted among the wild fern. Perhaps I sighed. He looked toward me, but there was too much light; I must have been a blur of shadow in his eyes.
Then he walked out of the light.
Of course I thought about him, at first the way you think about weather or time, something always at the edge of your mind. He didn't seem real to me, just something I dreamed on a hot summer day, as I swallowed water scented with roses and stone. I remembered his eyes, odd, heavy-lidded, the color, I thought then, of his hair. When I saw them a day or two later, I was surprised.
I gathered wild lilies and honeysuckle and bleeding heart, which my sister, Laurel, loved. I stayed in the wood for a long time, watching, but he had gone. The sky turned the color of a mourning dove's breast before I walked out of the trees. I remembered time, then. I was tired and ravenous, and I wished I had ridden to the wood. I wished I had worn shoes. But I had learned where to find wild ginger, and what tree bled a crust of honey out of a split in the wood, and where the 1 berries would ripen. My father despaired of me; my wondered at me. But my despair was greater if I my wonder, like a wild bird. Some days I let it fly and followed it. On those days I found the honey the secret well, and the mandrake root.
My sister, Laurel, is quite beautiful. She has chesnut hair, and skin like ripened peaches, and great grey eyes that seem to see things that are not quite discernible others. She doesn't really see that well; her world is pie and fully human. Her brows lift and pucker worriedly when she encounters ambiguities, or sometimes on Everyone in the village loves her; she is gentle and: spoken. She was to marry the next spring.
That twilight, when I came home barefoot, my skirt, full of flowers, her lover, Perrin, was there. Perrin looked at me askance, as always, and shook his head.
"Barefoot. And with rose petals in your hair. You look like something conceived under a mushroom. "
I stuck a stem of honeysuckle in his hair, and bleeding heart into my father's. It slid forward to in front of his nose, a chain of little hearts. We laughed. He pointed a stubby finger at me.
"It's time you stopped dancing among the ferns put your shoes on, and learned a thing or two from your sister's practical ways." He drank his beer, the hearts trembling over his nose. I nodded gravely.
"I know."
"You say that," he grumbled. "But you don't listen." He pushed the flower stem behind his ear, and drank more beer.
"Because you don't really mean what you say." I dropped all my flowers in Laurel's lap, and went behind him to put my arms around his neck. "You love me as I am. Besides, when Laurel marries, who will care for you?"
He snorted, even as he patted my hands. "You can't even remember to close a door at night. What I think is that you should find someone to care for you, before you tumble in a pond and drown, or fall out of a tree."
"I haven't," I lied with some dignity, "climbed a tree for years."
Perrin made an outraged noise. "I saw you up a pear tree near the old Lynn ruins only last autumn."
"I was hungry. That hardly counts." I loosed my father, and reached for bread, being still hungry. He sighed.
"At least sit down. Never mind about getting the bracken out of your hair, or washing your hands, or anything else remotely civilized. How will you ever find a husband?"
I sat. A face turned toward me out of light, and for just a moment I forgot to breathe. Then I swallowed bread, while Laurel, gathering flowers on her lap, said amiably,
"Perhaps she doesn't want one. Not everyone does." But her brows had twitched into that little, anxious pucker. I was silent, making resolutions, then discarding them all as useless.
"I want," I said shortly, "to do what I want to do." We lived comfortably in the rambling, thatched farmhouse that had grown askew with age. Centuries of footsteps had worn shallow valleys into the flagstones; the floors had settled haphazardly into the earth; door frames tilted; ceilings sagged. Other things happen to old houses, that only I seemed to notice. Smells had woven into the wood, so that lavender or baking bread scented the air at unexpected moments. The windows at night sometimes reflected other fires, the shadows of other faces. Spiders wove webs in high, shadowed corners that grew more elaborate through the years, as if each generation inherited and added to an airy palace. I wondered sometimes if they would die out when we did, or leave their intricate houses if we left ours. But I doubted that I would ever know: My father, with his wheat, and apple orchards, and his barns and stables, only grew more prosperous, and my sister's marriage at least would provide him with heirs for his house and his spiders.
. . .
For Kate, my other sister

And every turn led us here.
Back into these small rooms.
- Winter Rose


Gram called at five in the morning. She never remembered the time difference. I was already up, sitting at the table in my bathrobe, about to take my first sip of coffee. The phone rang; my hands jerked. Coffee shot into the air, rained down on my hair and the cat, who yowled indignantly and fled. I stared at the phone as it rang again, not wanting to pick up, not wanting to know whatever it was Gram wanted me to know.
At the second ring, I heard Madison stir on my couch-bed.
“I’m not answering that.”
He unburied his face, squinted at me. “Why not? You having a clandestine affair?”
“It’s Gram.”
His head hit the pillow again on the third ring. “Is not,” he mumbled. “Tell him to leave a message and come back to bed.”
“I can’t,” I said firmly, though his naked body was exerting some serious magnetic pull. “I have to go to the store and unpack a dozen boxes of books.”
“Come back for five minutes. Please? She’ll leave a message.”
“She won’t.” It rang again. “Only the weak-minded babble their business to inanimate objects.”
“She says.”
It rang for the fifth time; I glowered at it, still not moving. I could have shown her any number of fairy tales in which important secrets imparted to a stone, to the moon, to a hole in the ground, had rescued the runaway princess, or the youngest brother, or the children lost in the wood. But Gram believed in fairies, not fairy tales, and in her world magic and machines were equally suspect.
I picked up at the sixth ring. She would have hung up at the seventh, before the machine started talking. So, in those strange moments, thousands of miles apart, we had been locked in silent argument, counting rings together.
“Sylvia,” she said, before I could say hello. “I need you to come home.”
She had needed me to come home for seven years. But I heard an odd hollowness, a fragility in her foghorn voice that kept me from offering her whatever was the most likely on my list of excuses: can’t leave my bookstore now, everyone on vacation, am apartment-sitting, dog-sitting, fish-sitting, too busy this week, am leaving the country this month, just signed a lease for another year, I’m sorry, Gram, I’m not coming back.
“What is it? Gram?”
“It’s your grandfather,” she said, with that unfamiliar wobble in her deep, husky, imperious voice. “He’s dead, Sylvia.”
My throat closed. I had to push to get a word out. “How?”
“He wandered out in the middle of the night and fell asleep under the pear tree. I always knew he had a streak of Melior in him-roaming through hill and dale and whatnot at any hour of day or night. He didn’t wake up. Hurley found him this morning lying on the grass in his nightshirt.”
“I’m sorry, Gram,” I whispered. I heard Madison shift again, pull himself upright to listen.
“So you’ll come home.”
Even then, I knew to bargain. “Of course I’ll come for the funeral, but-”
“Good,” she interrupted with a more familiar briskness, having heard as much as she wanted to hear.
“I won’t be able to stay much longer.”
“Just come.” She’d figure out the rest of my life later. “As soon as you can. Today. I’ll expect you for supper.”
“I’ll make my arrangements, Gram, and let you know when-”
But she had already hung up.
I sat there, staring numbly at the phone again, feeling that slow, painful prickling begin behind my eyes, the swell of tears that never fell. Memories swept like leaves through my head: Lynn Hall, the low, ancient mountains I’d grown up in, the fields and small villages, the endless woods. Grandpa Liam was all I knew, all I ever had, of a father. He had taught me how to tie my shoes, how to bait a hook; he knew the names of every tree and wildflower and weed in the woods. He alone knew how to change Gram’s expression from determined to uncertain. His gentle voice, his calm strength, had grown around me like a vine, bindweed, still with me after all the years away.
“Syl?” Madison said behind me. I felt his long fingers on my shoulders; he bent to peer at my flushed face. “What’s wrong?”
“Dry fire,” I whispered.
“Grandpa Liam died. This is as close as I could ever get to crying.”
He drew me to him; I sat still another moment as he rocked me, feeling his bones against my face under the sweet, taut skin. Then I pulled away, stood up restively.
“I have to pack. Find a flight. Will you feed my cat while I’m gone?”
“Syl, I can come with you,” he said steadily, reminding me, despite his long black hair, the violet stone in his ear matching his eyes, of Grandpa Liam.
“I’d like to meet your mysterious grandmother.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would. I’d like to see where you grew up.”
I felt like throwing something, then; I wished I could burst into tears. I went to the closet instead, picked my black suit off the hanger, and pulled a wheeled bag off the shelf to pack it in. He followed me to the closet, and then to the antique steamer trunk I used as a dresser.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I told him, pulling clothes out of the fabric-covered drawers, piling them efficiently into the bag: jeans, two sweaters, underwear. Socks. “I have to call the bookstore. Jo will cover for me; she went on vacation just down the coast, with an armload of mysteries. I’ll give her an extra week off for this.” I thought a moment, then took off my bathrobe, wrinkle-free polyester, folded that and a pajama top into the bag.
“Can I at least take you to the airport?”
Madison taught music fundamentals at the community college; his summer course hadn’t started yet. It was like Grandpa Liam to die sleeping out under the stars, I thought; he’d probably been waiting for the summer solstice.
“Okay. What else do I need?”
“Toothbrush. All that.”
“Got it.” I showed him the little airline bag of bathroom supplies I’d acquired once when my luggage spent the night somewhere. “Oh.” I went to the refrigerator, examined my collection of nail polish I kept in the egg bin to prevent streaking. Black? White? Plum? My mind went blank. Then I saw Grandpa Liam again, his rangy body hunkered down over a patch of tiny wildflowers growing along a stream bank. They were as lightly blue as his eyes. Sun fell on his hair, turning it into smooth ivory. He smiled at me, and said, “Forget-me-not.” I felt the blotchy swelling under my eyes again. I grabbed a bottle without seeing it, zipped it into a side-pocket along with my travel alarm.
“What else? Oh. I need to book a flight.”
“Syl.” Madison put his arms around me again. Over his shoulder, I saw the sky lightening, revealing, out of my high, uncurtained window, block upon block, mile upon mile of stone and cement and winding tarmac, flowing everywhere around me, hills covered with buildings instead of trees, everything blocked, gridded, measured, planned, the earth so buried that nothing could bloom in secret, unseen in the light of day.
“What have I forgotten?” I asked him, soothed by the sight. I would come back to those predictable streets as soon as possible; not even Gram could stop me.
“You could get dressed,” Madison suggested gently. I pulled away from him, looking bewilderedly down at my naked self. He kissed my ear. “I’ll find you a flight while you shower.”
- «?»-
So I made my arrangements with almost annoying ease, until there I was, just where Gram wanted me, driving a Popsicle-red rental car from the airport at twilight through the village where I was born, and hungry on top of it.
The ancient village I’d left for good seven years earlier hadn’t changed much. A pizza parlor had opened up where Andie Blair had had her diner for fifty-two years. The new owners had kept the thick, bottle-blue windows and the stone shed in the back for storing bodies in winter when, a couple of centuries before, the place had been the village apothecary shop. The creaky inn with its meandering halls and narrow stairways had a new ramp for the handicapped zigzagging from the slate steps. It was a bed-and-breakfast in this century, owned by the Starr sisters and their dead brother’s widow. I saw the twins’ heads in the lounge window as I drove past, both covered with the same tight gray snail-shell curls, their pleated faces tinted purple in the reflected light from the vacancy sign.
Time had slowed in the fields along the road between the village and Lynn Hall. So little had changed, I might have been driving back into my own past. A barn roof that had been sagging for years had finally dropped a beam. The crusty old harrow still decorated the Thorntons’ cornfield like a piece of sculpture. Lynn Hall, a solid rectangle of pale stone looming unexpectedly over the fields, looked oddly bigger than I remembered. It should have been smaller, I thought uneasily. Things grow in memory, in the dark; they shrink, lose their power, in reality. As I pulled into the drive, I saw the wood behind the hall, which had dwindled, as I had grown, from a boundless, tangled mystery into a tranquil patch of trees. Now it seemed to dwarf Lynn Hall, an immense, dark, frozen wave about to break over it. I nearly hit the brakes, backed out in a flurry of gravel to head for the airport again. Some of the dark, I realized slowly, was just that: the night I wasn’t used to any longer, flowing over hill and field, no city lights to push it back, only stars, and the rising moon, and the occasional porch light in the crook of a mountain road to tell me where I was.
. . .

LIESL, THAT GRINCH, stole my G string. “Borrowed,” she said. Ha! So I had to limp along on a Spinreel G so old it was liable to snap at any moment with a twang in pure country, while she wailed along like she was summoning the devil to dance, with her long black hair tangling in her bow until it seemed she was pulling the song out of her hair instead of her fiddle.
Maybe she did. Summon up the devil, I mean, since that night was when Trouble joined the band.
I know Cawley warned me. I know that. But it had to have been while I was on the floor slithering like the snake in the Garden into my tightest black jeans, or trying to bend over after that to buckle the Mary Jane strap on a seven-inch lollipop-red heel and then zip a black ankle boot on the other foot, or surrounding myself with puddles of sequins, satin, leather, and lace, trying to find just the right top for my mood. Pirate Queen, or Good Fairy/Bad Fairy, or maybe I’d just wear my glasses and my crazy-quilt jacket and Cawley on my shoulder and be Scholar Gypsy.
Cawley hates being used as an accessory, unless I’m in dire need. Which I wasn’t then. Or at least I didn’t know it. Though I would have if I’d listened to him. But I was on the floor, et cetera, while he was fluttering on his wooden perch trying to take my attention off my clothes. Translating crow requires concentration. I thought he was asking me to open the window so that he could fly out, and I finally did give it a shove up, in the middle of putting on a shirt covered with roses and skulls.
“There,” I said. “Bye. You know where I’ll be.”
But he didn’t leave, just kept squawking. Since he had hopped from his perch to the sill, I thought he was talking to his clan, which had covered the tree outside like very dead leaves. They were all chattering, too. Where to go to dinner, or the sun about to go down, or somebody spilled a ginormous order of french fries in the middle of B Street. Something like that.
So you can’t say I wasn’t warned. I pulled off the shirt, which wasn’t right, then limped in one-shoe-on, one-boot-on mode to the window and pushed it shut behind Cawley. I nearly caught his tail feathers. He whirled in a black blur and could have cracked glass with the word that ripped out of his open beak.
I yelled back, “Sorry!”
But what I thought he squawked wasn’t what he said at all.
I hadn’t really had him that long. Some witches find their familiars; some familiars find their witches. Liesl’s smoke-colored cat with golden eyes had been put in an animal shelter along with her seven siblings. Liesl had a dream about her and went searching. They recognized each other instantly. Liesl smiled; the cat started a coffee grinder purr that rattled her tiny body. Of course Liesl named her Graymalkin. Why not? Who’d guess that names among familiars are remembered through vast webs of families and histories, way back into antiquity? Naming a cat Graymalkin is like adding yet another Josh or Elizabeth to the human list.
As for Cawley, yes, that too is pretty much obvious. At the time, I thought it was clever of me. To name a crow Cawley. Duh.
Cawley found me.
Liesl had it easy in the sense that she didn’t have to learn to understand cat. They just read each other’s minds. If Graymalkin presents herself with her back arched and every hair standing up on end, that pretty much says it all. But Cawley doesn’t have a stance for Be afraid, very afraid. When I first saw him, he was pacing on a rain gutter next door and imitating the endless barking of an obnoxious dog in a neighboring yard. The noise had crept into the background of a dream I was having, and finally woke me up way too soon after a long night. I stumbled to the window and pushed it open to find out what exactly was the dog’s problem. Then I saw the crow waddling to and fro on the gutter and barking back at it. I laughed, and the crow flew over to me like he’d just been waiting for me to get up.
I didn’t understand a word he said. But I felt as though somebody—something—had slipped a fine gold chain onto my wrist and said, Mine. I didn’t argue. I liked that feeling of having been chosen, of belonging to a dark, mythical bird that had my best interests at heart. Also, Cawley gave me status. I was True Witch now, not Apprentice or Journeyperson Witch. Familiars don’t stay with witches who are not yet True.
I had gotten into the habit of watching crows. I never guessed they were watching me back. Who does? City crows mingle so easily with people that people hardly notice them. Crows know the habits of cars. They don’t even bother to stop pecking at roadkill or bugs or a spilled bag of chips in the middle of a street until a car is almost on top of them. They move aside grudgingly for the monster outweighing them by several tons, but with no real sense of urgency. They have the same hysterics teaching their fledglings to fly that human parents have teaching their kids how to drive. They imitate noises that catch their interest; that’s what Cawley was doing when we met. They get bored; they play tricks. And, at sundown, they all fly the same direction to some mysterious place, a coven of crows gathering at dusk for reasons Cawley can’t yet explain in ways I can understand.
A murder of crows. That’s what they were called in medieval times. Maybe for their habit of chowing down on the dead. Maybe for something more sinister. But the city crows I see seem basically civilized. True, when they’re nesting they might peck at people, or they might chase a pet across the yard for fun. But mostly they act like they’re beneath our notice.
I notice. Maybe that’s why Cawley came to me.
The others in Which Witch, except for Rune, have their familiars, of course. Madrona, the skinny, white-haired whippet on percussion, has a parakeet named Hibiscus. Pyx, our lead singer, has a white rat named Archibald. Makes sense: Pyx is bald. They have squeak-fests together. Sometimes Pyx wears Archibald on her clothes along with a lot of ugly old brooches her mother left her, made of gold and diamonds and sapphires.
So that’s us, Which Witch: Liesl, Madrona, Pyx, Pyx’s boyfriend Rune on bass, and me, Hazel. I know. Just like the witch hazel bush. Like Graymalkin and Cawley: with a name like that, what else could I be?
Where was I?
. . .
Сборник "Wonders of the Invisible World" - eBook в формате pdf, остальные pdf - графические, с наложенным текстовым слоем.
UPD Релиз обновлен 13.07.2019
McKillip Patricia A - Dreams of Distant Shores - 2016.epub
McKillip Patricia A - The Bell at Sealey Head - 2008.epub (к имеющемуся fb2)
01-02 McKillip Patricia A - Moon-Flash (Kyreol) - 2005.epub (retail к имеющимся отдельными книгами OCR)
McKillip Patricia A - The Forgotten Beasts of Eld - 2017.epub (retail; имеющийся OCR epub удалять не стал - он высокого качества, жалко Smile )
McKillip Patricia A - The Karkadann Triangle - 2018.epub (сборник, содержащий "Unicorn Triangle" by Patricia A. McKillip и "My Son Heydari and the Karkadann" by Peter S. Beagle)
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UPD Релиз обновлен 28.09.2018
McKillip Patricia A - The Bell at Sealey Head - 2008.epub (к имеющемуся fb2)
01-02 McKillip Patricia A - Moon-Flash (Kyreol) - 2005.epub (retail к имеющимся отдельными книгами OCR)


UPD Релиз обновлен 13.07.2019
McKillip Patricia A - The Forgotten Beasts of Eld - 2017.epub (retail; имеющийся OCR epub удалять не стал - он высокого качества, жалко Smile )
McKillip Patricia A - The Karkadann Triangle - 2018.epub (сборник, содержащий "Unicorn Triangle" by Patricia A. McKillip и "My Son Heydari and the Karkadann" by Peter S. Beagle)
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