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Scatha`s daughters

Отрывок из The Paradise War by Stephen Lawhead. Рассказ ведется от лица современного юноши, попавшего в прошлое. Scatha`s daughters, wise as they were beautiful, lavished affection on us all, It was the sweetest of pleasures merely to be included in the shining circle of their company. The long days in the hall were filled with enjoyable activities. I learned something of harp playing from Gwenllian, and spent many happy days drawing on tablets of wax with Govan; but my preference was playing gwyddbwyll with Goewyn. What can I say of Scatha`s daughters? That they were more beautiful to me than the fairest summer day, more graceful than the lithe deer frisking in the high mountain meadows, more enchanting than the green-shadowed valleys of Sci, that each was fetching, fascinating, winsome, entrancing. There was Goewyn: her long hair, softly flaxen, plaited like her mother`s in dozens of tiny braids, an exquisitely-crafted golden bell at the end of each braid. When she moved, it was to a fme music. Her smooth, regal brow and fine straight nose proclaimed nobility; her generous mouth with lips perpetually curved in a secret smile intimated a veiled sensuality; her brown eyes seemed always to hold a hint of laughter, as if all that passed before them existed solely for her private amusement. I very soon came to view our times together, head to head over the square wooden game board balanced on our knees, as a gift from a wildly benevolent Creator. And Govan: with her ready laugh and subtle wit, and blue eyes, like her mother`s, quick beneath dark lashes. Her hair was tawny and her skin dark, like a sun-browned berry; her body was well-knit, strong, and expressive, the body of a dancer. On those few days when the sun lit the sky with its short-lived splendor - a radiance made all the more brilliant for its brevity - Govan and I would ride along the beach below the caer. The fresh wind stung our cheeks and spattered our cloaks with the ocean`s spume; the horses splashed through the surf, rolling white on the black shingle. And we raced: she on a gray mare swift as a diving gull, I on a fleet red roan flying over the tumbled rocks and storm wrack until we were breathless. We would ride to the far end of the bay where the great rocks of the cliff had collapsed into the sea. Then we would turn and thunder to the opposite headland, there to dismount and rest our horses. Their lathered flanks steamed in the chill air, and we trod the sea-slick stones, our lungs burning from the raw salt air. I felt the blood hot in my veins, the wind cold on my skin, Govan`s ready hand in mine, and I knew myself to be alive under the Dagda`s quickening touch. The Dagda, the Good God, they also called the Swift Sure Hand, for the infmite breadth of his creative feats and his ever-ardent power to sustain all that he touched. I learned of this enigmatic Celtic deity - and many another in the pantheon - from Gwenllian, who was a Banfilidh - a female Filidh, or harper. Gwenllian: beguiling with her dusky red hair and sparkling emerald eyes; bewitching, her skin like milk, and her cheeks and lips blushing red as if tinted with foxglove; graceful in every line from the bend of her neck to the curve of her foot. Each night Gwenllian wove the shimmering magic of the harp with her skilled fingers, and sang the ageless songs of Albion: of Llyr and his sorry children, of inconstant Blodeuedd and her vile treachery, of Pwyll and his beloved Rhiannon, of fair Arianrhod, and mysterious Mathonwy, and Bran the Blessed, and Manawyddan, and Gwydion, and Pryderi, and Dylan, Epona, Don. . . and all the rest.


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