"Michael Moorcock - The Eternal Champion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

existence, no doubt. Then, between wakefulness and sleeping. I began every night to hear voices .
..

At first I dismissed them, expecting to fall immediately asleep, but they continued, and I began
trying to listen to them, thinking, perhaps, to receive some message from my unconscious. But the
most commonly repeated word was gibberish to me:

Erekos├л . . . Erekos├л . . . Erekos├л . . .

I could not recognise the language, though it had a peculiar familiarity. The closest language I
could place it with was the language of Sioux Indians, but I knew only a few words of Sioux.

Erekos├л . . . Erekos├л . . . Erekos├л

Each night I redoubled my efforts to concentrate on the voices and gradually I began to experience
much stronger hypnagogic hallucinations, until one night it seemed that I broke free from my body
altogether.


***


Had I hung for an eternity in limbo? Was I alive-dead? Was there a memory of a world that lay in
the far past or the distant future? Of another world which seemed closer? And the names? Was I
John Daker or Erekos├л? Was I either of these? Many other names-Corom Bannan Flurrun, Aubec, Elric,
Rackhir, Simon, Cornelius, Asquinol, Hawkmoon-fled away down the ghostly rivers of my memory. I
hung in darkness, bodiless. A man spoke. Where was he? I tried to look but had no eyes with which
to see . . .


***


'Erekos├л the Champion, where are you?'

Another voice: 'Father . . . it is only a legend . . .'

'No, lolinda. I feel he is listening. Erekos├л . . .'


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I tried to answer, but I had no tongue with which to speak.

Then there were swirling half-dreams of a house in a great city of miracles-a swollen, grimy city
of miracles, crammed with dull-coloured machines, many of which bore human passengers. There were