PROJECT SUGGESTIONS (Stories 6 — 10)

Work in small groups. Do research on the Internet aimed at finding out more about life and activities of a legendary athlete. Organize your information and prepare a guided tour of an athletic Hall of Fame. The sports and athletes are your own choice.

CHIVALRY

THINKING AHEAD

History is something belonging to the past, isn’t it? But sometimes past and present are intertwined and you have a unique chance to meet history face to face. Would modern people recognize this chance or take it for granted? That’s what the story you are going to read focuses on.

A WORD ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Neil Richard Gaiman is an English author of science fiction and fantasy short stories and novels, graphic novels, comics, audio theatre, and films. His notable works include The Sandman graphic novel series, Stardust, American Gods, Coraline, and The Graveyard Book. Gaiman's writing has won numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker, as well as the 2009 Newbery Medal. The extreme enthusiasm of his fans has led some to call him a “rock star” of the literary world.

PRE-READING ACTIVITIES

1. In small groups make a short list of personalities famous for their contribution to British history. Be ready to say a few words about some of them.

2. Decide whether some historic figures are well-known because of their real deeds or thanks to myths and legends created about them.

3. Discuss the notion of chivalry. What stands behind it? Can you say that only men are supposed to possess it.

READING ACTIVITIES

4. Read the opening sentence. Does anything strike you as unusual or impossible? Discuss it with other students. After that, go on reading.

Mrs Whitaker found the Holy Grail; it was under a fur coat. Every Thursday afternoon Mrs Whitaker walked down to the post office to collect her pension, even though her legs were no longer what they were, and on the way back home she would stop in at the Oxfam Shop and buy herself a little something. The Oxfam Shop sold old clothes, knick-knacks, oddments, bits and bobs, and large quantities of old paperbacks, all of them donations: secondhand flotsam, often the house clearances of the dead. All the profits went to charity.

The shop was staffed by volunteers. The volunteer on duty this afternoon was Marie, seventeen, slightly overweight, and dressed in a baggy mauve jumper that looked like she had bought it from the shop.Marie sat by the till with a copy of Modern Woman magazine, filling out a 'Reveal Your Hidden Personality' questionnaire. Every now and then, she'd flip to the back of the magazine and check the relative points assigned to an A), B) or C) answer before making up her mind how she'd respond to the question.

Mrs Whitaker puttered around the shop. They still hadn't sold the stuffed cobra, she noted. It had been there for six months now, gathering dust, glass eyes gazing balefully at the clothes racks and the cabinet filled with chipped porcelain and chewed toys. Mrs Whitaker patted its head as she went past. She picked out a couple of Mills & Boon novels from a bookshelf - Her Thundering Soul and Her Turbulent Heart, a shilling each - and gave careful consideration to the empty bottle of Mateus Rose with a decorative lampshade on it before deciding she really didn't have anywhere to put it. She moved a rather threadbare fur coat, which smelled badly of mothballs. Underneath it was a walking stick and a water-stained copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry by A. R. Hope Moncrieff, priced at five pence. Next to the book, on its side, was the Holy Grail. It had a little round paper sticker on the base, and written on it, in felt pen, was the price: 30p. Mrs Whitaker picked up the dusty silver goblet and appraised it through her thick spectacles.

“This is nice,” she called to Marie.

Marie shrugged.

“It'd look nice on the mantelpiece.”

Marie shrugged again.

Mrs Whitaker gave fifty pence to Marie, who gave her ten pence change and a brown paper bag to put the books and the Holy Grail in. Then she went next door to the butcher's and bought herself a nice piece of liver. Then she went home.

The inside of the goblet was thickly coated with a brownish-red dust. Mrs Whitaker washed it out with great care, then left it to soak for an hour in warm water with a dash of vinegar added. Then she polished it with metal polish until it gleamed, and she put it on the mantelpiece in her parlour, where it sat between a small soulful china basset hound and a photograph of her late husband, Henry, on the beach at Frinton in 1953. She had been right: It did look nice.

For dinner that evening she had the liver fried in breadcrumbs with onions. It was very nice. The next morning was Friday; on alternate Fridays Mrs Whitaker and Mrs Greenberg would visit each other. Today it was Mrs Greenberg's turn to visit Mrs Whitaker. They sat in the parlour and ate macaroons and drank tea. Mrs Whitaker took one sugar in her tea, but Mrs Greenberg took sweetener, which she always carried in her handbag in a small plastic container.

“That's nice,” said Mrs Greenberg, pointing to the Grail. “What is it?”

“It's the Holy Grail,” said Mrs Whitaker. “It's the cup that Jesus drunk out of at the Last Supper. Later, at the Crucifixion, it caught His precious blood when the centurion's spear pierced His side.”

Mrs Greenberg sniffed. She was small and Jewish and didn't hold with unsanitary things. “I wouldn't know about that,” she said, “but it's very nice. Our Myron got one just like that when he won the swimming tournament, only it's got his name on the side.”

“Is he still with that nice girl? The hairdresser?”

“Bernice? Oh yes. They're thinking of getting engaged,” said Mrs Greenberg.

“That's nice,” said Mrs Whitaker. She took another macaroon.

Mrs Greenberg baked her own macaroons and brought them over every alternate Friday: small sweet light brown biscuits with almonds on top. They talked about Myron and Bernice, and Mrs Whitaker's nephew Ronald (she had had no children), and about their friend Mrs Perkins who was in hospital with her hip, poor dear. At midday Mrs Greenberg went home, and Mrs Whitaker made herself cheese on toast for lunch, and after lunch Mrs Whitaker took her pills; the white and the red and two little orange ones.

The doorbell rang. Mrs Whitaker answered the door. It was a young man with shoulder-length hair so fair it was almost white, wearing gleaming silver armour, with a white surcoat.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” said Mrs Whitaker.

“I'm on a quest,” he said.

“That's nice,” said Mrs Whitaker, noncommittally.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Mrs Whitaker shook her head. “I'm sorry, I don't think so,” she said.

“I'm on a quest for the Holy Grail,” the young man said. “Is it here?”

“Have you got any identification?” Mrs Whitaker asked. She knew that it was unwise to let unidentified strangers into your home when you were elderly and living on your own. Handbags get emptied, and worse than that. The young man went back down the garden path. His horse, a huge grey charger, big as a shire-horse, its head high and its eyes intelligent, was tethered to Mrs Whitaker's garden gate. The knight fumbled in the saddlebag and returned with a scroll. It was signed by Arthur, King of All Britons, and charged all persons of whatever rank or station to know that here was Galaad, Knight of the Table Round, and that he was on a Right High and Noble Quest. There was a drawing of the young man below that. It wasn't a bad likeness. Mrs Whitaker nodded. She had been expecting a little card with a photograph on it, but this was far more impressive. “I suppose you had better come in,” she said. They went into her kitchen. She made Galaad a cup of tea, then she took him into the parlour.

5. Stop reading and answer one little question. Can you predict how the events will develop?

Galaad saw the Grail on her mantelpiece, and dropped to one knee. He put down the teacup carefully on the russet carpet. A shaft of light came through the net curtains and painted his awed face with golden sunlight and turned his hair into a silver halo.

“It is truly the Sangrail,” he said, very quietly. He blinked his pale blue eyes three times, very fast, as if he were blinking back tears. He lowered his head as if in silent prayer. Galaad stood up again and turned to Mrs Whitaker. “Gracious lady, keeper of the Holy of Holies, let me now depart this place with the Blessed Chalice, that my journeyings may be ended and my geas fulfilled.”

“Sorry?” said Mrs Whitaker.

Galaad walked over to her and took her old hands in his. “My quest is over,” he told her. “The Sangrail is finally within my reach.”

Mrs Whitaker pursed her lips. “Can you pick your teacup and saucer up, please?” she said. Galaad picked up his teacup apologetically.

“No. I don't think so,” said Mrs Whitaker. “I rather like it there. It's just right, between the dog and the photograph of my Henry.”

“Is it gold you need? Is that it? Lady, I can bring you gold . . .”

“No,” said Mrs Whitaker. 'I don't want any gold thank you. I'm simply not interested.” She ushered Galaad to the front door. “Nice to meet you,” she said. His horse was leaning its head over her garden fence, nibbling her gladioli. Several of the neighbourhood children were standing on the pavement, watching it. Galaad took some sugar lumps from the saddlebag and showed the braver of the children how to feed the horse, their hands held flat. The children giggled. One of the older girls stroked the horse's nose. Galaad swung himself up onto the horse in one fluid movement. Then the horse and the knight trotted off down Hawthorne Crescent. Mrs Whitaker watched them until they were out of sight, then sighed and went back inside.

The weekend was quiet. On Saturday Mrs Whitaker took the bus into Maresfield to visit her nephew Ronald, his wife Euphonia, and their daughters, Clarissa and Dillian. She took them a currant cake she had baked herself. On Sunday morning Mrs Whitaker went to church. Her local church was St James the Less, which was a little more “Don't think of this as a church, think of it as a place where like-minded friends hang out and are joyful” than Mrs Whitaker felt entirely comfortable with, but she liked the vicar, the Reverend Bartholomew, when he wasn't actually playing the guitar. After the service, she thought about mentioning to him that she had the Holy Grail in her front parlour, but decided against it.

On Monday morning Mrs Whitaker was working in the back garden. She had a small herb garden she was extremely proud of: dill, mint, rosemary, thyme, and a wild expanse of parsley. She was down on her knees, wearing thick green gardening gloves, weeding, and picking out slugs and putting them in a plastic bag. Mrs Whitaker was very tenderhearted when it came to slugs. She would take them down to the back of her garden, which bordered on the railway line, and throw them over the fence. She cut some parsley for the salad. There was a cough behind her. Galaad stood there, tall and beautiful, his armour glinting in the morning sun. In his arms he held a long package, wrapped in oiled leather. “I'm back,” he said.

“Hello,” said Mrs Whitaker. She stood up, rather slowly, and took off her gardening gloves. “Well,” she said, “now you're here, you might as well make yourself useful.” She gave him the plastic bag full of slugs and told him to tip the slugs out over the back of the fence. He did. Then they went into the kitchen. “Tea? Or lemonade?” she asked.

“Whatever you're having,” Galaad said.

Mrs Whitaker took a jug of her homemade lemonade from the fridge and sent Galaad outside to pick a sprig of mint. She selected two tall glasses. She washed the mint carefully and put a few leaves in each glass, then poured the lemonade.

“Is your horse outside?” she asked.

“Oh yes. His name is Grizzel.”

“And you've come a long way, I suppose.”

“A very long way.”

“I see,” said Mrs Whitaker. She took a blue plastic basin from under the sink and half-filled it with water. Galaad took it out to Grizzel. He waited while the horse drank and brought the empty basin back to Mrs Whitaker.

“Now,” she said, “I suppose you're still after the Grail.”

“Aye, still do I seek the Sangrail,” he said. He picked up the leather package from the floor, put it down on her tablecloth and unwrapped it. “For it, I offer you this.” It was a sword, its blade almost four feet long. There were words and symbols traced elegantly along the length of the blade. The hilt was worked in silver and gold, and a large jewel was set in the pommel.

“It's very nice,” said Mrs Whitaker, doubtfully.

“This,” said Galaad, “is the sword Balmung, forged by Wayland Smith in the dawn times. Its twin is Flamberge. Who wears it is unconquerable in war, and invincible in battle. Who wears it is incapable of a cowardly act or an ignoble one. Set in its pommel is the sardonynx Bircone, which protects its possessor from poison slipped into wine or ale, and from the treachery of friends.”

Mrs Whitaker peered at the sword. “It must be very sharp,” she said, after a while.

“It can slice a falling hair in twain. Nay, it could slice a sun­beam,” said Galaad proudly.

“Well, then, maybe you ought to put it away,” said Mrs Whitaker.

“Don't you want it?” Galaad seemed disappointed.

“No, thank you,” said Mrs Whitaker. It occurred to her that her late husband, Henry, would have quite liked it. He would have hung it on the wall in his study next to the stuffed carp he had caught in Scotland, and pointed it out to visitors.

Galaad rewrapped the oiled leather around the sword Balmung and tied it up with white cord. He sat there, disconsolate. Mrs Whitaker made him some cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches for the journey back and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. She gave him an apple for Grizzel. He seemed very pleased with both gifts. She waved them both good-bye.

That afternoon she took the bus down to the hospital to see Mrs Perkins, who was still in with her hip, poor love. Mrs Whitaker took her some homemade fruitcake, although she had left out the walnuts from the recipe, because Mrs Perkins's teeth weren't what they used to be. She watched a little television that evening, and had an early night. On Tuesday the postman called. Mrs Whitaker was up in the boxroom at the top of the house, doing a spot of tidying, and, taking each step slowly and carefully, she didn't make it downstairs in time. The postman had left her a message which said that he'd tried to deliver a packet, but no one was home. Mrs Whitaker sighed. She put the message into her handbag and went down to the post office. The package was from her niece Shirelle in Sydney, Australia. It contained photographs of her husband, Wallace, and her two daughters, Dixie and Violet, and a conch shell packed in cotton wool. Mrs Whitaker had a number of ornamental shells in her bed­room. Her favourite had a view of the Bahamas done on it in enamel. It had been a gift from her sister, Ethel, who had died in 1983.She put the shell and the photographs in her shopping bag. Then, seeing that she was in the area, she stopped in at the Oxfam Shop on her way home.

“Hullo, Mrs W.,” said Marie.

Mrs Whitaker stared at her. Marie was wearing lipstick (possibly not the best shade for her, nor particularly expertly applied, but, thought Mrs Whitaker, that would come with time) and a rather smart skirt. It was a great improvement.

“Oh. Hello, dear,” said Mrs Whitaker.

“There was a man in here last week, asking about that thing you bought. The little metal cup thing. I told him where to find you. You don't mind, do you?”

“No, dear,” said Mrs Whitaker. “He found me.”

“He was really dreamy. Really, really dreamy,” sighed Marie wistfully. “I could have gone for him.”

“And he had a big white horse and all,” Marie concluded. She was standing up straighter as well, Mrs Whitaker noted approvingly. On the bookshelf Mrs Whitaker found a new Mills & Boon novel - Her Majestic Passion - although she hadn't yet finished the two she had bought on her last visit. She picked up the copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry and opened it. It smelled musty. EX LIBRIS FISHER was neatly handwritten at the top of the first page in red ink. She put it down where she had found it.

6. Now finish reading the story. Do you find the ending slightly disappointing?

When she got home, Galaad was waiting for her. He was giving the neighbourhood children rides on Grizzel's back, up and down the street.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said. “I've got some cases that need moving.” She showed him up to the boxroom in the top of the house. He moved all the old suitcases for her, so she could get to the cupboard at the back. It was very dusty up there. She kept him up there most of the afternoon, moving things around while she dusted. Galaad had a cut on his cheek, and he-held one arm a little stiffly. They talked a little while she dusted and tidied. Mrs Whitaker told him about her late husband, Henry; and how the life insurance had paid the house off; and how she had all these things, but no one really to leave them to, no one but Ronald really and his wife only liked modern things. She told him how she had met Henry during the war, when he was in the ARP and she hadn't closed the kitchen blackout curtains all the way; and about the sixpenny dances they went to in the town; and how they'd gone to London when the war had ended, and she'd had her first drink of wine.

Galaad told Mrs Whitaker about his mother Elaine, who was flighty and no better than she should have been and something of a witch to boot; and his grandfather, King Pelles, who was well-meaning although at best a little vague; and of his youth in the Castle of Bliant on the Joyous Isle; and his father, whom he knew as “Le Chevalier Mai Fet”, who was more or less completely mad, and was in reality Lancelot du Lac, greatest of knights, in disguise and bereft of his wits; and of Galaad's days as a young squire in Camelot.

At five o'clock Mrs Whitaker surveyed the boxroom and decided that it met with her approval; then she opened the window so the room could air, and they went downstairs to the kitchen, where she put on the kettle. Galaad sat down at the kitchen table. He opened the leather purse at his waist and took out a round white stone. It was about the size of a cricket ball.

“My lady,” he said, “this is for you, and you give me the Sangrail.”

Mrs Whitaker picked up the stone, which was heavier than it looked, and held it up to the light. It was milkily translucent, and deep inside it flecks of silver glittered and glinted in the late-afternoon sunlight. It was warm to the touch. Then, as she held it, a strange feeling crept over her: Deep inside she felt stillness and a sort of peace. Serenity, that was the word for it; she felt serene. Reluctantly she put the stone back on the table. “It's very nice,” she said.

“That is the Philosopher's Stone, which our forefather Noah hung in the Ark to give light when there was no light; it can trans­form base metals into gold; and it has certain other properties,” Galaad told her proudly. “And that isn't all. There's more. Here.” From the leather bag he took an egg and handed it to her. It was the size of a goose egg and was a shiny black colour, mottled with scarlet and white. When Mrs Whitaker touched it, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her immediate impression was one of incredible heat and freedom. She heard the crackling of distant fires, and for a fraction of a second she seemed to feel herself far above the world, swooping and diving on wings of flame. She put the egg down on the table, next to the Philosopher's Stone.

“That is the Egg of the Phoenix,” said Galaad. “From far Araby it comes. One day it will hatch out into the Phoenix Bird itself; and when its time comes, the bird will build a nest of flame, lay its egg, and die, to be reborn in flame in a later age of the world.” “I thought that was what it was,” said Mrs Whitaker. “And, last of all, lady,” said Galaad, “I have brought you this.' He drew it from his pouch, and gave it to her. It was an apple, apparently carved from a single ruby, on an amber stem. A little nervously, she picked it up. It was soft to the touch – deceptively so: Her fingers bruised it, and ruby-coloured juice from the apple ran down Mrs Whitaker's hand. The kitchen filled - almost imperceptibly, magically – with the smell of summer fruit, of raspberries and peaches and strawberries and red currants. As if from a great way away she heard distant voices raised in song and far music on the air.

“It is one of the apples of the Hesperides,” said Galaad, quietly. “One bite from it will heal any illness or wound, no matter how deep; a second bite restores youth and beauty; and a third bite is said to grant eternal life.”

Mrs Whitaker licked the sticky juice from her hand. It tasted like fine wine. There was a moment, then, when it all came back to her – how it was to be young: to have a firm, slim body that would do whatever she wanted it to do; to run down a country lane for the simple unladylike joy of running; to have men smile at her just because she was herself and happy about it. Mrs Whitaker looked at Sir Galaad, most comely of all knights, sitting fair and noble in her small kitchen. She caught her breath.

“And that's all I have brought for you,' said Galaad. 'They weren't easy to get, either.”

Mrs Whitaker put the ruby fruit down on her kitchen table. She looked at the Philosopher's Stone, and the Egg of the Phoenix, and the Apple of Life. Then she walked into her parlour and looked at the mantelpiece: at the little china basset hound, and the Holy Grail, and the photograph of her late husband Henry, shirtless, smiling and eating an ice cream in black and white, almost forty years away. She went back into the kitchen. The kettle had begun to whistle. She poured a little steaming water into the teapot, swirled it around, and poured it out. Then she added two spoonfuls of tea and one for the pot and poured in the rest of the water. All this she did in silence. She turned to Galaad then, and she looked at him. “Put that apple away,” she told Galaad, firmly. “You shouldn't offer things like that to old ladies. It isn't proper.”

She paused, then. “But I'll take the other two,” she continued, after a moment's thought. “They'll look nice on the mantelpiece. And two for one's fair, or I don't know what is.” Galaad beamed. He put the ruby apple into his leather pouch. Then he went down on one knee, and kissed Mrs Whitaker's hand.

“Stop that,” said Mrs Whitaker. She poured them both cups of tea, after getting out the very best china, which was only for special occasions. They sat in silence, drinking their tea. When they had finished their tea they went into the parlour. Galaad crossed himself, and picked up the Grail. Mrs Whitaker arranged the Egg and the Stone where the Grail had been. The Egg kept tipping on one side, and she propped it up against the little china dog.

“They do look very nice,” said Mrs Whitaker. “Yes,” agreed Galaad. “They look very nice.”

“Can I give you anything to eat before you go back?” she asked. He shook his head.

“Some fruitcake,” she said. “You may not think you want any now, but you'll be glad of it in a few hours' time. And you should probably use the facilities. Now, give me that, and I'll wrap it up for you.” She directed him to the small toilet at the end of the hall, and went into the kitchen, holding the Grail. She had some old Christmas wrapping paper in the pantry, and she wrapped the Grail in it, and tied the package with twine. Then she cut a large slice of fruitcake and put it in a brown paper bag, along with a banana and a slice of processed cheese in silver foil. Galaad came back from the toilet. She gave him the paper bag, and the Holy Grail. Then she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“You're a nice boy,” she said. “You take care of yourself.” He hugged her, and she shooed him out of the kitchen, and out of the back door, and she shut the door behind him. She poured herself another cup of tea, and cried quietly into a Kleenex, while the sound of hoofbeats echoed down Hawthorne Crescent.

On Wednesday Mrs Whitaker stayed in all day. On Thursday she went down to the post office to collect her pension. Then she stopped in at the Oxfam Shop. The woman on the till was new to her. “Where's Marie?” asked Mrs Whitaker. The woman on the till, who had blue-rinsed gray hair and blue spectacles that went up into diamante points, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “She went off with a young man,” she said. “On a horse. Teh. I ask you. I'm meant to be down in the Heathfield shop this afternoon. I had to get my Johnny to run me up here, while we find someone else.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Whitaker. “Well, it's nice that she's found herself a young man.”

“Nice for her, maybe,” said the lady on the till, “But some of us were meant to be in Heathfield this afternoon.”

On a shelf near the back of the shop Mrs Whitaker found a tarnished old silver container with a long spout. It had been priced at sixty pence, according to the little paper label stuck to the side. It looked a little like a flattened, elongated teapot. She picked out a Mills & Boon novel she hadn't read before. It was called Her Singular Love. She took the book and the silver container up to the woman on the till.

“Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it. “Funny old thing, isn't it? Came in this morning.” It had writing carved along the side in blocky old Chinese characters and an elegant arching handle. “Some kind of oil can, I suppose.”

“No, it's not an oil can,” said Mrs Whitaker, who knew exactly what it was. “It's a lamp.”

There was a small metal finger ring, unornamented, tied to the handle of the lamp with brown twine.

“Actually” said Mrs Whitaker, “on second thoughts, I think I'll just have the book.” She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop. After all, Mrs Whitaker reflected, as she walked home, it wasn't as if she had anywhere to put it.

AFTER-READING ACTIVITIES

7. Answer the following questions.

· What kind of life did Mrs Whitaker lead?

· Can we call her observant and attentive? Why?

· What was the Grail for Mrs Whitaker — a beautiful house ornament or a precious artifact?

· What was the old lady`s first reaction to the knight`s appearance?

· Why didn`t Mrs Whitaker share her unusual experience with anybody?

· How did the relations between the old lady and her strange guest develop?

· What was the reason for Mrs Whitaker`s turning down the gift that could have changed her life?

· Why did she cry after Sir Galaad left?

· Why did Mrs Whitaker finally decide against buying the old silver lamp?

8.Find all the words with the help of which the author describes all the pastimes and hobbies that make up traditional English lifestyle. Which episode seems the most convincing to you? Explain your choice.

9.Let us describe the characters of the story with the help of their remarks. Find out whom this remark belongs to and make a brief description of their character.

· “It'd look nice on the mantelpiece.”

· “Well, now you're here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

· “Aye, still do I seek the Sangrail.”

· “He was really dreamy. Really, really dreamy, I could have gone for him.”

· “My lady, this is for you, and you give me the Sangrail.”

· “And two for one's fair, or I don't know what is.”

· “You shouldn't offer things like that to old ladies. It isn't proper.”

10.Study the way the author describes the extraordinary visitor Mrs Whitaker had. In what way was he different from her contemporary acquaintances? Notice the actions and the moods and comment on the ways they are depicted.

11.Let us focus on style. Read a piece from the conversation between the old lady and Sir Galaad again. Point out some specific details that differ his speech from the rest of the story. Pay attention to the grammar and word choice.

“Aye, still do I seek the Sangrail,” he said. He picked up the leather package from the floor, put it down on her tablecloth and unwrapped it. “For it, I offer you this.” It was a sword, its blade almost four feet long. There were words and symbols traced elegantly along the length of the blade. The hilt was worked in silver and gold, and a large jewel was set in the pommel.

“It's very nice,” said Mrs Whitaker, doubtfully.

“This,” said Galaad, “is the sword Balmung, forged by Wayland Smith in the dawn times. Its twin is Flamberge. Who wears it is unconquerable in war, and invincible in battle. Who wears it is incapable of a cowardly act or an ignoble one. Set in its pommel is the sardonynx Bircone, which protects its possessor from poison slipped into wine or ale, and from the treachery of friends.”

Mrs Whitaker peered at the sword. “It must be very sharp,” she said, after a while.

“It can slice a falling hair in twain. Nay, it could slice a sun­beam,” said Galaad proudly.

12.Imagine that Mrs Whitaker did buy that lamp. Think who her next visitor might have been and write down his description.

WRITING AND EVALUATING

13.Free writing. You have five minutes to write down any images, ideas or details that come to you concerning the topic “London”. Don’t pay any attention to possible grammar or spelling mistakes, focus on the content.

14. Everything is a coincidence in this world. Write a story (120 words) about the most unbelievable coincidence you have ever happened to you. Be ready to present it for your peers` evaluation.

15.We evaluate things all the time — movies, CD`s, the latest fashion. When we evaluate anything, we measure it against a set of established criteria. Here are some criteria for evaluating effective writing.

· The writing gets and holds your attention, it is interesting.

· The meaning is clear.

· There is a main idea.

· There are enough supporting details for the main idea.

· The ideas are connected smoothly.

· The ideas are arranged well, their order makes sense.

· The writing has no clichés, unnecessary repetition and details.

Make use of the offered criteria and write an evaluation of your group mate’s story (10 sentences).

MIDNIGHT SNACK

THINKING AHEAD

Everyone has heard tales about alligators living in the sewers beneath the streets of New York City. Simi­lar strange tales are also told about that city's subway tunnels. Unlike those stories of horrifying experi­ences, this next story reveals a beautiful, though sad, secret about other residents of the subway tun­nels…What do you think they might be?

A WORD ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRE-READING ACTIVITIES

1. In small groups discuss magic beasts that play an important role in various cultures.

2. Decide whether life in a megapolis presupposes any miracles?

3. Discuss the problem of kids in inner city districts. Does their lifestyle make them tough or insensitive?

READING ACTIVITIES

4. Read the opening sentence of the story. Is there anything that puzzles you?

Dad came down with the flu that week, so I had to go down to the subway and feed the unicorns. That was okay, but Jerry saw me going down the street Thursday night and started following me. Now normally that would be okay too—even if he does call me “Frogface” all the time. But that night the timing was lousy.

“Where ya goin', Froggy?” he shouted, even though it was perfectly obvious—I was taking the usual shortcut across the pizza place's parking lot, to the Shop-Rite. What he wasn't going to understand was why I wasn't going into the supermarket, but around back. They throw pretty fair stuff out there, the beat-up vegetables and bread and such that not even the charity groups want. You can pick up quite a bit if you get there before the bag-ladies do.

I didn't answer Jerry back, so when I went around to the dumpsters, naturally he came after me. He sounded a little worried. “Froggo? Whatcha doin?”

“Go play in traffic, Friedman,” I said. I was annoyed. This wasn't something he should be seeing, but I didn't have the time to waste on chasing him away—the uni­corns don't wait around long. I got a paper bag from inside my jacket and started going through the first dumpster. Jerry looked at me as if I was from Mars. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” I found half a squashed head of lettuce and some prune Danish that were just a little moldy around the edges.

“Your dad get fired or something?” He really sounded worried about me now. This was real cute coming from the kid who once took the locking washers off the wheels of my skateboard as a surprise.

“I'm fine, bug off!” I felt stupid then, for shouting so loud the whole city could have heard. The only thing I could think of to do was turn around and shove the squashed lettuce into his hands.

He stared at it. “But what—?”

“I'm going to feed the unicorns,” I said, hoping he'd think I was nuts and go away. Sure enough, he looked up from the lettuce with an expression that would make you hide your skateboard.

“You've finally flipped out. . . .”

“Right,” I said. “Come on, you can call the men in the white coats after I'm done.” I threw the butt end of a bunch of celery into the brown bag, got down from the dumpster, and headed off fast.

He didn't even begin catching up with me till halfway down the stairs to the Lexington Avenue Local station. It looked the way it usually looks that time of night—dingy concrete, dull light bulbs, peeling theater posters and cig­arette ads. I was through the turnstile and a good way down the platform when he hollered after me again. He sounded upset this time. “Frog?”

I turned. He was on the other side of the turnstile with the lettuce in his hands, and the black lady in the change booth was staring at him. “I don't have a token,” he said.

“Wha'd you say? 'Frog'?” I stuck a finger in one ear and started cleaning it. “Oh, all right. Beth—”

I pitched him a token and headed down the platform again. In a few seconds he caught up with me. “What're we doing, really?” he said, whispering loudly.

“I told you.”

“Oh, give me a break!”

“Shut up, smogbrain, you'll scare them!” There was no one else on the platform—I looked up and down it, check­ing to see that no one was hiding in the tunnel either. The rails ticked a little as an express train squealed in on the lower level.

“Scare who?”

5.Now go on reading. The magic really begins…

I leaned back against the wall at the very end of the platform, because it was a long story, or it had been when Dad told it to me. And I told Jerry the whole thing—what we thought was true, anyway. How the city had grown around the unicorns, hemming them in. Some of them couldn't adapt, Dad said, and so they stayed in the deep places in Central Park and never came out. But some of them were bolder—or not as smart. They'd learned to hide in the subway tunnels, always moving, hiding from the trains and the people. The bravest of the downstairs unicorns sneak up onto the street sometimes, on moonless nights or cloudy ones, or during power failures. They're the reason the grass around trees on city streets never grows long. But most of them aren't so brave. The shy ones stay in the tunnels all the time. And because of the litter laws, people don't throw so much food on the tracks for them to pick up anymore. The shy ones starve, some­times. And the shy ones are the prettiest. . . .

Jerry listened to all this with the hide-your-skateboard look on his face. But he didn't say anything till I ran out of words and started to blush—there's something special about those shy ones, something about their eyes; I felt dumb talking to a boy about it. Maybe Jerry saw me get­ting red. At least when he spoke up, he didn't sound like he was teasing. “How do you know so much about this? Why hasn't someone else seen them before?”

“They have.” I still remembered that night Dad came home late from work, looking pale. He hardly said anything at dinner, and after everybody went to bed, I could hear him and Mom talking through the walls—not the words, but their voices. Dad sounded unhappy at first, then upset; and Mom got loud and finally told him to go to sleep, he'd been drinking too much again. That I heard clearly. For a couple of days he looked awful and kept muttering all the time—he does that when things are bugging him. Finally he waited till Mom was out food shopping, and sat me down in the living room. I was scared to death; I thought he was going to tell me about the facts of life. Instead he told me about the unicorn he'd seen run out of the tunnel at Fulton Street. It had come out just long enough to grab up a stale half-bagel smeared with cracked cream cheese, someone's garbage thrown out on the tracks, and run back again. He cried when he told me. I nearly died. I'd never seen him cry about any­thing; it looked impossible. His face got all bent. “The poor creature,” he kept mumbling while he cried: “Poor little thing!” The next day we got some day-old bread and let my mother think we were going to Central Park to feed the ducks. But the ducks went without. They're fat enough.

I didn't tell Jerry about my Dad, though. “Some of the subway people who work down here—they've seen them. They leave them food in places where the rats won't get it. And they don't tell. If they told, there'd be all sorts of stuff happening. TV news people, with cameras and bright lights. Scientists. The Board of Health, for all I know. And the unicorns would go in deep, under the streets, and never come out again, and they'd all starve.” I looked at Jerry. His face was so blank it made me scared. “So keep your mouth shut!”

“I better,” he said, real quietly, looking past me. “They're here.”

I turned around. The eyes had caught him as they'd caught me that first time. You might think they were cats' eyes, except cats always have that kind of strangeness about them, when their eyes flash at you in the headlights.

If humans' eyes flashed in the dark, they would look like this. Only the shape is wrong—the eyes are spaced wide like a horse's. The pair of glimmers looked at us from the dark. Looked mostly at Jerry, rather; they knew my voice by now. One pair of eyes, then two, a dull pink reflection in the tired subway lighting—just hanging out there where the track vanished into shadow.

They had no names. Dad and I always thought of names on the way to the subway, or on the way back; but seeing the unicorns, the names seemed cheap—they fell off. I felt around in the bag for the celery. Green stuff was always good to start with—they got so little of it, the shy ones. One of them heard the crunch of the celery snapping and took a step forward, barely into the light.

I heard Jerry's breath go in as if someone had punched him. It was the same for him as it'd been for me the first time. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that grace­ful. Cats run, rats and mice scurry. But the unicorns just flow out of the darkness, and not even the cinders crunch when they put their feet down. Sometimes, if they're playful, they walk on the rails like somebody on a tight­rope, and don't slip or make a sounds. This one just took one step and stretched his neck out like a swan on the lake when it doesn't want to come too close. The unicorn's horn glinted, pearly, the only bright thing about him: everywhere else he was the iron-rust color of the gravel between the tracks. His eyes were so brown they were black. But the end of his horn caught the light like the edge of a knife as he stepped out. “Hey, they sharpen them back there,” Dad had said one night, when a touch of a horn drew blood from his hand. Maybe they fought among themselves; or maybe there were things down there that tried to eat them. I didn't want to think about it.

“Give him some,” I whispered at Jerry, annoyed again; he was making them wait. “Throw it. They won't eat out of your hand.” Jerry tore off some lettuce and threw it down on the tracks. The brown one looked at him for a moment, then put its head down to eat. You could see it was starving; every rib showed. But it lowered its head slow as a king sipping wine.

More came while the first was eating. Maybe he was the herd leader and had been checking the place out. What­ever, the tracks were full in a few moments—nothing but tails switching and necks stretching and eyes, those eyes. All the unicorns were dark this time, though I'd seen ones with white socks or blazes, and once a tan one with a light mane like a palomino's. These weren't any fatter than any others I'd seen, though, and while they ate gracefully, they did it fast. Two of them, a rusty one and a black, got rowdy and waved their horns at each other over a piece of the Danish. Jerry threw them more, and they stopped and each gobbled a piece.

They were close, right up by the platform. I'd never seen them so close. Jerry was so amazed by the whole thing, and the rusty one standing right in front of him with its lower jaw going around and around—even uni­corns look a little funny when they chew—that he nearly lost his balance and fell down when the black unicorn snuck up beside him and grabbed at the rest of the Danish in his hand. Even though he was surprised, though, Jerry didn't let go for a second. He just stood there looking at the black, while it tugged at the Danish and gazed back at him with those deep, sad eyes. I know that look. My eyes started burning, and my nose filled up. Nothing that lives in a subway should be that proud, and that hungry, and feel that helpless. Nothing that lives anywhere should. The black unicorn got the last piece of Danish away from Jerry and ate it, delicately, but fast. Jerry looked a mo­ment at the hand the unicorn had touched, and then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

All their heads went up then, all at once, as if they were a herd of gazelles in a nature movie when the lion's com­ing. They stared down the tracks toward the downtown end—and there was just a flicker of motion, and they were gone, headed uptown and into the dark too fast to really see. Jerry looked over at me and opened his mouth—then shut it again as he started to hear what they'd heard: the ticking and the rumbling and the squeal of metal a long way down at the next station. I crumpled up the bag and stuck it inside my jacket. We waited for the train to come in—it would've looked weird to just go down to the plat­form and then come up again before a train came. The subway seemed much louder than usual, especially com­pared to the quiet ones who'd been on the tracks a few moments before.

6.Now read the story to the end. Would you have preferred a more lyrical ending?

Fifteen or twenty people got off, and we went up the stairs with them. Jerry wiped his nose again, and sniffed. "Subway people feed them?"

“And my Dad.”

“I thought they only came to virgins.”

So had my Dad. “I dunno,” I said. “Maybe they can't afford to be so picky anymore.” That was one thing Dad had said. I didn't tell Jerry the other, what Dad had said the first time one let him touch it—him, a man who emp­ties garbage cans for a living, and comes home smelling like what the city throws away. He'd looked at his hands like Jerry had, and finally he said, “It must be love.” And he'd sat down and watched baseball that whole night and said not another word.

“You feed them every night?” Jerry said.

“When we can. Sometimes it's every other night. My mom gets suspicious and thinks Dad's out messing around, or I'm sneaking off doing drugs or something.”

We got up to the street. Jerry snorted at the thought. “You do drugs? You wouldn't know which side of your nose to put the marijuana up.”

That was true, so I punched him a good one in the arm and he yelped. When we were about halfway to my build­ing, Jerry said all of a sudden, “What about survival of the fittest, though? Maybe only the strong ones should live, to make more strong ones. ...”

I thought about that for a moment. “Well, yeah. Nor­mally. But this isn't normal. They were here first. Then we built all this around them.” I waved my arms at the city in general. “Maybe there's nothing wrong with helping them handle it. They're an endangered species.” Jerry nodded and wiped his nose again. “Survival with the fittest,” he said.He was smart. That was one of the reasons I didn't mind him following me sometimes. Maybe even this time had been a good idea. “Yeah,” I said.

“You gonna feed them tomorrow?”

“I think so. Dad's still sick.”

“Can I come with you?”

I looked at him. “If you go to the A&P first. I'll go to the Shop-Rite, and meet you. We'll have twice as much.” “Great.” He looked down the street at my building. , “Race you?” “Okay.” “Go!”

After about half a minute he tripped me. I'm used to always having my elbows and knees skinned, but I don't think Jerry's real used to having black eyes. He was going to have some explaining to do at school the next day.

As long as it didn't make him late for feeding time, though, neither of us cared.

7. Answer the following questions.

· What is the relationship between Beth and Jerry at the beginning of the story and how has it changed at the end? What exactly has caused that change?

· Why does Jerry sniff and wipe his nose after the unicorn touches his hand?

· What does Beth see in Jerry that the boy doesn`t know she sees?

· How have the unicorns been affected by having to live in the subways?

· What is so special about the shy ones? What is likely to happen to them in the future?

· What was Beth`s father`s reaction when he saw the unicorns for the first time?

· Why doesn`t Beth tell Jerry about her father`s feelings about the unicorns?

· What lies behind Jerry`s decision to repeat the unusual experience?

· Can you prove that Beth and Jerry are still very much ordinary kids?

8.Find all the words with the help of which the author describes the relationship between the two main characters. Is there any change or progress in it? What makes you think so?

9.Let us describe the characters of the story with the help of their remarks. Find out whom this remark belongs to and make a brief description of their character.

· “Your dad get fired or something?”

· “Come on, you can call the men in the white coats after I'm done.”

· “The poor creature, poor little thing!”

· “And the unicorns would go in deep, under the streets, and never come out again, and they'd all starve.”

· “I thought they only came to virgins.”

· “What about survival of the fittest, though? Maybe only the strong ones should live, to make more strong ones. ...”

· “Maybe there's nothing wrong with helping them handle it. They're an endangered species.”

10.Study the text for the descriptions of the unicorns. Can we feel the author’s attitude towards these creatures? Why?

11.Let us focus on style. Read the definition of slang and do the following exercise.

Slang — very informal words and expressions that are more common in spoken language, especially used by a particular group of people, for example, children, criminals, soldiers, students etc.

The slang words in the sentences below are printed in bold type. Replace each slang word with a word or phrase from the following list: made, friend, television, policeman, discarded, nuisance, pound (s), cigarettes, alcohol, prison, without money.

· He smokes thirty fagsa day. Too many!

· He drinks a lot. He must spend twenty quid on booze.

· He thought his meal was overcooked. When the waiter brought his bill, he kicked up a fuss and wouldn’t pay.

· I lost 500 dollars at a casino last night. I’m absolutelyskint.

· My childhood mate stole a car. Now he is in the nick.

· She got bored with her boyfriend and ditched him.

· There’s a good film on the telly tonight, but I’ve got to go out. What a drag!

· I wouldn’t like to be a copper directing traffic in the street in such bad weather.

Now find examples of slang words and phrases in the story.Why do you think the author resorts to ample usage of slangisms?

12.The kids in the story kept their rescue mission secret. Have you ever had a really important secret in your life? How does having a secret made you feel? Express your thoughts in writing and be ready to share it with your group mates.

Не нашли, что искали? Воспользуйтесь поиском по сайту: