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

The walls, go to the walls, Dumiitruuu. Good! Now trace the frescoes - with your eyes, my son, and with your hands. Now look and learn:


file:///G|/rah/Brian%20Lumley/Brian%20Lumley%20-%20Necroscope%204%20-%20Deadspeak%20V1.0%20(html).htm (16 of 239) [2/13/2004 10:16:36 PM]
Gasping his shock
Here is a man. He is born, lives his life, dies. Prince or peasant, sinner or saint, all go the same way. You see them there in the pictures: holy men and blackguards alike, moving swiftly
from cradle to grave, rushing headlong from the sweet, warm moment of conception to the cold, empty abyss of dissolution. It is the lot of all men, it would seem: to become one with the
earth, and all the lessons learned in their lives wasted, and their secrets remaining secret unto them alone forever . . .

Oh?

But some there are whose remains, by circumstance of their interment - like the Greek priest, perhaps - remain intact; and others, perhaps cremated and buried in jugs, whose powdered
ashes are kept apart from the earth and pure. There they lie, a crumbled bone or two, a handful of dust, and in them all the knowledge of their waking seasons, all the secrets of life and
sometimes of death - and maybe even conditions between the two - which they took with them to the grave. All lost.

And again I say . . . oh?

And you will say: but what of knowledge in books, or knowledge passed down by word of mouth, or carved in stone? Surely a learned man, if he so desire, may leave his knowledge
behind him for the benefit of others to come after?

What? Stone tablets? Bah! Even the mountains are worn down and the epochs they have known blown away as dust. Word of mouth? Tell a man a story and by the time he retells it the
theme is altered. After twenty tellings it may not even be recognized! Books? Given a century and they wither, two and they become so brittle as to snap, three -they crumble into nothing!
No, don't speak of books. They are the most fragile of things. Why, there was once in Alexandria the world's most wondrous library . . . and where pray are all of those books now? Gone,
Dumiitruuu. Gone like all the men of yesteryear. But unlike the books, the men are not forgotten. Not necessarily.

And again, what if a man does not desire to leave his secrets behind him?

But enough of that for now; for see, the frescoes are changed. And here is another man . . . well, at least we shall call him a man. But strange, for he is not only conceived of man and
woman. See for yourself: for parent he has . . . but what is this? A snake? A slug? And the creature issues an egg, which the man takes in unto him. And now this most fortunate person is
no longer merely human but . . . something else. Ah! - and see - this one does not die but goes on and on! Always! Perhaps forever.

Do you follow me, Dumiitruuu? Do you follow the pictures on the wall? Aye, and unless this very special One is slain by some brutal man who has the knowledge - or dies accidentally,
which may occur upon a time - why, then he will go on forever! Except. . . he has needs, this One. He may not sustain himself like ordinary men. Rather, he knows better sources of
sustenance! The blood is the life . . .

Do you know the name of such a One, my son?

'I ... I know what such men are called,' Dumitru answered, though to an outside observer it would have seemed that he was speaking to a vault empty of life other than his own. 'The
Greeks call them "Vrykoulakas", as you have made mention; the Russians "Viesczy"; and we travellers, the Szgany, we call them "Moroi" - vampires!'

There is another name, said the voice, from a land far, far away in space and time. The name by which they know themselves: Wamphyri! And for a moment, perhaps in a certain
reverence, the voice paused. Then:

Now tell me, Dumiitruuu: do you know who I am? Oh, I know, I'm a voice in your head, but unless you're a madman the voice must have a source. Have you guessed my identity,
Dumiitruuu? Perhaps you've even known it all along, eh?

'You are the Old One,' Dumitru gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing, throat dry as a stick. 'The undead, undying patron of the Szgany Zirra. You are Janos, the Baron Ferenczy!'

Aye, and you may be a peasant but you're in no wise ignorant, answered the voice. Indeed, I am that One! And you are mine to command as I will. But first a question: is there one
among your father Vasile Zirra's band whose hands are three-fingered? A child, perhaps, male, born recently, since last you Szgany were here? Or perhaps a stranger you've seen on