"Books - David Eddings - Belgarath the Sorcerer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

My mother died when I was quite young. I remember that I cried about
it for a long time, though I must honestly admit that I can no longer
even remember her face. I remember the gentleness of her hands and the
warm smell of fresh-baked bread that came from her garments, but I
can't remember her face. Isn't that odd?

The people of Gara took over my upbringing at that point. I never knew
my father, and I have no recollection of having any living relatives in
that place. The villagers saw to it that I was fed, gave me castoff
clothing, and let me sleep in their cow sheds. They called me Garath,
which meant "of the town of Gara" in our particular dialect. It may or
may not have been my real name. I can no longer remember what name my
mother had given me, not that it really matters, I suppose. Garath was
a serviceable enough name for an orphan, and I didn't loom very large
in the social structure of the village.

Our village lay somewhere near where the ancestral homelands of the
Tolnedrans, the Nyissans, and the Marags joined. I think we were all
of the same race, but I can't really be sure. I can only remember one
temple--if you can call it that--which would seem to indicate that we
all worshiped the same God and were thus of the same race. I was
indifferent to religion at that time, so I can't recall if the temple
had been raised to Nedra or Mara or Issa. The lands of the Arends lay
somewhat to the north, so it's even possible that our rickety little
church had been built to honor Chaldan. I'm certain that we didn't
worship Torak or Belar. I think I'd have remembered had it been either
of those two.

Even as a child I was expected to earn my keep; the villagers weren't
very keen about maintaining me in idle luxury. They put me to work as
a cow herd but I wasn't very good at it, if you must know the truth.
Our cows were scrubby and quite docile, so not too many of them strayed
off while they were in my care, and those that did usually returned for
milking in the evening. All in all, though, being a cow herd was a
good vocation for a boy who wasn't all that enthusiastic about honest
work.

My only possessions in those days were the clothes on my back, but I
soon learned how to fill in the gaps. Locks had not yet been invented,
so it wasn't too difficult for me to explore the huts of my neighbors
when they were out working in the fields. Mostly I stole food,
although a few small objects did find their way into my pockets from
time to time. Unfortunately, I was the natural suspect when things
turned up missing. Orphans were not held in very high regard at that
particular time. At any rate, my reputation deteriorated as the years
went by, and the other children were instructed to avoid me. My
neighbors viewed me as lazy and generally unreliable, and they also
called me a liar and a thief--often right to my face! I won't bother
to deny the charges, but it's not really very nice to come right out
and say it like that, is it? They watched me closely, and they