"Stephen Lawhead - Song Of Albion 2 - The Silver Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

people took their places, forming two long lines on either side of the path
11
leading up the hill to the entrance of the cairn, the flame was passed from torch to torch. This
is the Aryant 0!, the radiant way along which a king is carried to the tomb. When the people had
assembled, I began the funeral rite, saying:
"The sword I bear on my thigh was a wall, high and strong-the bane of marauding enemies! Now it is
broken.
"The torc I bear in my hand was a light of keen judgment-the beacon of rightwise favor shining
from the far-off hill. Now it is extinguished.
"The shield I bear on my shoulder was a platter of plenty in the hail of honor-the sustenance of
heroes. Now it is riven, and the hand that upheld it is cold.
"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under earth and blue stones: Woe my heart, the king
is dead.


file:///G|/rah/Stephen%20%20Lawhead%20-%20...20Albion%202%20-%20The%20Silver%20Hand.txt (1 of 166) [2/17/2004 11:27:44 AM]
 file:///G|/rah/Stephen%20%20Lawhead%20-%20Song%20Of%20Albion%202%20-%20The%20Silver%20Hand.txt

"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, amidst earth and oak: Woe my heart, the Ruler of
Clans is slain.
"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under the greensward in the tumulus: Woe my heart,
Prydain's chieftain will join his fathers in the Hero Mound.
"Men of Prydain! Fall on your faces, grief has overtaken you. The Day of Strife has dawned! Great
the grief, sharp the sorrow. No glad songs will be sung in the land, only songs of mourning. Let
all men make bitter lament. The Pillar of Prydain is shattered. The Hall of Tribes has no roof.
The Eagle of Findargad is gone. The Boar of Sycharth is no more. The Great King, the Golden King,
Meldryn Mawr is murdered. The Day of Strife has dawned!
"Bitter the day of birth, for death is its companion. Yet, though life be cold and cruel, we are
not without a last consolation. For to die in one world is to be born into another. Let all men
hear and remember!"
So saying, I turned to the warriors at the bier and commanded them. The horses were unhitched, the
wagon was raised and its wheels removed. The warriors then lifted the bier shoulder high and began
to walk slowly towards the cairn, passing between the double
12
line of torches, moving slowly up the radiant way to the gravemound.
As the bier passed, I took my place behind it and began the Lament for a Fallen Champion, singing
softly, slowly, allowing the words to fall like tears into the silence of the glen. Unlike other
laments, this one is sung without the harp. It is sung by the chief bard and, although I had never
sung ~t, I knew it well.
It is a strong song, full of bitterness and wrath at the way in which the champion's life has been
cut short and his people deprived of his valor and the shelter of his shield. I sang the lament,
my voice rising full and free, filling the night with harsh and barren sorrow. There is no comfort
in this song: it sings the coldness of the tomb, the obscenity of corruption, and the emptiness,
waste, and futility of death. I sang the bitterness of loss and the aching loneliness of grief. I
sang it all, driving my words hard and biting them between my teeth.
The people wept. And I wept too, as up and up the Aryant 01, and slowly, slowly we approached the
burial cairn. The song moved to its end: a single rising note becoming a sharp, savage scream.
This represents the rage of the life cruelly cut short.
My voice rose to the final note, growing, expanding, filling the night with its accusation. My
lungs burned, my throat ached; I thought my heart would burst with the effort. The ragged scream