Pero yo ya no soy yo - ni mi casa es ya mi casa
=) Ура! =) Мы сделали это! =)
The Songstress laid her head on the Minstrel's shoulder and murmured something, daydreaming. They were sleeping in a small room on the first floor, offered by keepers. But the Minstrel's dreams were neither deep nor long. He heard the sound of hooves in the yard and a horse-laugh, then – the door opening and voices on the ground floor. Familiar voices. Especially one of them. As familiar as pain. The Minstrel opened his eyes. He could get up and go downstairs but he didn't want the Songstress to get up. And therefore…did he need to go downstairs? Did he really want to?
Streets of the small town were already dried by the morning sun. Sky was clear; it wasn't to rain again or to snow, and travelers were glad. When the Songstress went to the ground floor, the Minstrel had already been there.
- You've gone mad. This food will be enough to eat during three months at least! – he was looking at his bag which became thrice bigger then it was yesterday.
- And that's good! – answered the Italian, laying knives and forks in special boxes. – Sainted Madonna, how you like to quarrel, my friend!
The Minstrel wanted to reply but then changed his mind and took the bag. The Englishmen was putting chairs in order and sweeping the floor. When he saw the Songstress approaching, he smiled.
- Oh, here you are, lady! Good morning! How was the night?
- Fine, thank you! – she answered merrily came to the Minstrel. – Oh, somebody will have very-very good meals in next month or two!
They all laughed. Except for the Minstrel.
- By the way, - the Italian opened one of boxes and took a roll of parchment out of it. – take it. Your…err…friend left it for you yesterday.
- What friend? – the Minstrel was surprised. The Italian looked at him plainly and said nothing. The Minstrel opened the roll out.
- A map of northern lands… Even with names of towns written by his hand… So, he was here yester night, wasn't he?
The Italian musician was still doing something on his own, not looking at the Minstrel.
- He said, you need it much more. Returned me my money, left this map, then sat on his white horse and disappeared. Sainted Madonna, it's so pompous – the white horse! – he snorted. – And it's not normal – to have an own ghost on some lake!
The Minstrel was thoughtfully looking at the map for some time, then rolled it up and hid.
- Seems, we have an angel-keeper now, - he smiled. – And very specific one.
He turned to the Songstress.
- It's the time. Let's go! I'll show you mountains and the northern town.
- Really? – with her eyes shining she hugged the Minstrel. – But are you sure that we will reach it?
- Now - sure.
He smiled and shook hands with both keepers. Having thanked them and said goodbye, two travelers went out and left in a way to the north, to the proud and wonderful mountains...
- And do you believe in angels-keepers? – the Englishmen asked, taking the broom again.
- I do. But much more I believe in fairies, - the Italian smiled.
- Really? Really-really? – his friend was happy.
- Really, really. And now take all that rubbish and fairy it out, we'll have to open soon.
The Songstress laid her head on the Minstrel's shoulder and murmured something, daydreaming. They were sleeping in a small room on the first floor, offered by keepers. But the Minstrel's dreams were neither deep nor long. He heard the sound of hooves in the yard and a horse-laugh, then – the door opening and voices on the ground floor. Familiar voices. Especially one of them. As familiar as pain. The Minstrel opened his eyes. He could get up and go downstairs but he didn't want the Songstress to get up. And therefore…did he need to go downstairs? Did he really want to?
Streets of the small town were already dried by the morning sun. Sky was clear; it wasn't to rain again or to snow, and travelers were glad. When the Songstress went to the ground floor, the Minstrel had already been there.
- You've gone mad. This food will be enough to eat during three months at least! – he was looking at his bag which became thrice bigger then it was yesterday.
- And that's good! – answered the Italian, laying knives and forks in special boxes. – Sainted Madonna, how you like to quarrel, my friend!
The Minstrel wanted to reply but then changed his mind and took the bag. The Englishmen was putting chairs in order and sweeping the floor. When he saw the Songstress approaching, he smiled.
- Oh, here you are, lady! Good morning! How was the night?
- Fine, thank you! – she answered merrily came to the Minstrel. – Oh, somebody will have very-very good meals in next month or two!
They all laughed. Except for the Minstrel.
- By the way, - the Italian opened one of boxes and took a roll of parchment out of it. – take it. Your…err…friend left it for you yesterday.
- What friend? – the Minstrel was surprised. The Italian looked at him plainly and said nothing. The Minstrel opened the roll out.
- A map of northern lands… Even with names of towns written by his hand… So, he was here yester night, wasn't he?
The Italian musician was still doing something on his own, not looking at the Minstrel.
- He said, you need it much more. Returned me my money, left this map, then sat on his white horse and disappeared. Sainted Madonna, it's so pompous – the white horse! – he snorted. – And it's not normal – to have an own ghost on some lake!
The Minstrel was thoughtfully looking at the map for some time, then rolled it up and hid.
- Seems, we have an angel-keeper now, - he smiled. – And very specific one.
He turned to the Songstress.
- It's the time. Let's go! I'll show you mountains and the northern town.
- Really? – with her eyes shining she hugged the Minstrel. – But are you sure that we will reach it?
- Now - sure.
He smiled and shook hands with both keepers. Having thanked them and said goodbye, two travelers went out and left in a way to the north, to the proud and wonderful mountains...
- And do you believe in angels-keepers? – the Englishmen asked, taking the broom again.
- I do. But much more I believe in fairies, - the Italian smiled.
- Really? Really-really? – his friend was happy.
- Really, really. And now take all that rubbish and fairy it out, we'll have to open soon.
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05.04.2007 в 22:28-
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05.04.2007 в 22:54Вообще было реально интересно переводить)) И "заковырки" особенно. Я вот только очень долго тянула с этим делом, но...таки закончила. Уфф. Гора с плеч =)
Так и тянет сказать "Аффтар пеши исчо", но у меня там и так гора ваших с Нептуном непереведенных текстов. Возьмусь за что-нибудь еще, скорее всего) Авось к следующему году закончу))
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05.04.2007 в 23:09А "аффтару" пока и не пишется больше... так что можете не беспокоиться, леди.
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21.04.2007 в 05:01Звучит очень странно... да я и не привык к литературной, не стихотворной английской речи...