"Brian Lumley - Necroscope 4 - Deadspeak" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

But there! Now the voice sprang alive, became merry. Why, we were grown morose, and that must never be! What? But we shall be as one, and live out all our life together. Do you hear
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Gasping his shock
me, Dumiitruuu? . . . Well?

'I ... I hear you,' the youth answered, speaking to no one.

And do you believe me? Say it - say that you believe in me, as your father's fathers believed in me.

Dumitru was not sure he did believe, but the owner of the voice squeezed inside his head until he cried out: 'Yes! . . . yes, I believe, just as my fathers believed.'

Very well, said the voice, apparently placated. Then don't be so shy, Dumiitruuu: look upon my works without averting your eyes, without shrinking back. The pictures painted and graven
in the walls - the many amphorae in their racks - the salts and powders contained in these ancient vessels.

In the daring torchlight Dumitru looked. Racks of black oak standing everywhere, and on their shelves numberless jars, urns: amphorae, as the voice had termed them. Throughout these
rooms in this subterranean hideaway, there must be several thousands of them, all tight-stoppered with plugs of oak in leaden sheaths, all with faded, centuries-stained labels pasted to
them where handles joined necks. One rack had been shattered, thrown aside by a falling ceiling stone; its jars had been spilled, some of them breaking open. Powders had trickled out,
forming small cones which themselves had taken on the dust of decades. And when Dumitru looked at these spilled remains . . .

See how fine they are, these essential salts, whispered the voice in his head, which now contained a curiosity of its own, as if even the owner of that voice were awed by this ghoulish
hoard. Stoop down, feel them in your hands, Dumiitruuu.

The youth could not disobey; he sifted the powders, which were soft as talc and yet free as mercury; they ran through his fingers and left his hands clean, without residue. And while he
handled the salts in this fashion, so the Thing in his mind gave a mental sniff: it seemed to taste of the essence of what it had bade Dumitru examine. And:

Ah . . . he was a Greek, this one! the voice informed. / recognize him - we conversed on several occasions. A priest from Greek-land, aye, who knew the legends of the Vrykoulakas. He'd
crusaded against them, he said, and carried his crusade across the sea to Moldavia, Wallachia, even to these very mountains. He built a grand church in Alba lulia, which possibly
stands there even to this day, and from it would go out among the towns and villages to seek out the monstrous Vrykoulakas.

Individuals of the townspeople would name their enemies, often knowing them for innocents; and depending on the power or stature of the accuser, the 'Venerable' Arakli Aenos тАФ as
this one was called тАФ would 'prove' or 'disprove' the accusation. For example: if a famous Boyar gave evidence that such and such persons were bloodsucking demons, be sure that the
Greek would discover them as such. But only let a poor man bring such a charge, however faithfully, and he might well be ignored or even punished for a liar! A witchfinder and a fake,
old Aenos, who upon a time accused even myself! Aye, and I must needs flee to escape them from Visegrad who came to put me down! Oh, I tell you, it was a very troublesome business,
that time.

But. . . time settles many a score. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When he died they buried the old fraud in a lead-lined box in Alba lulia, beside the church he'd built there. What a boon!
For just exactly as had been intended, so the imperishable lead of his coffin sufficed to keep out the seepage and worms and all manner of rodent malefactor -until a time one hundred
years later when I dug him up/ Oh, yes - we conversed on several occasions. But in the end, what did he know? Nothing! A fraud, a faker!

Still, I evened the score. That pile of dust you sifted there: Arakli Aenos himself- and ah, how he screeaaamed when I gave him back his form and flesh, and burned the dog with hot
ironsss! Ha-haa-haaa!

Dumitru hissed his horror and snatched back his fingers from the strewn 'salts'. He flapped his hands as if they too were burned with hot irons, blew on them, wiped them trembling down
his coarsely woven trousers. He lurched upright and backed away from the broken urns, only to crash into another rack which stood behind him. He fell sprawling in dust and powder and
salts; but his confusion had served to clear his mazed mind a little - which the owner of the voice at once recognized, so that now he tightened his grip.

Steady now, steady, my son! Ah, I see: you think I torment you to no purpose - you believe I derive pleasure from such instruction. But no, no -1 deem it only fair that you should know
the gravity of the service you perform. You make unto me a considerable offering: of succour, sustenance, replenishment. Wherefore I grant you knowledge . . . for however short a time.
Now stand up, stand tall, hear well my words and follow their directions.