"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

It was as though some powerful invisible force grabbed his wrists, dragged his
hands away from his eyes, screamed with an icy gush of arctic wind 'Look!' Oh,
merciful God it could not be. This was all a sick nightmare inspired by the
illness which had come upon him with the speed of a ravaging plague.

Philip Owen could see but it was not fully light. There was a kind of greyness
as though the night had given way to dawn and a malodorous mist swirled across
the cemetery turning the tombstone into hideous, unrecognisable shapes - that
moved!
He wanted to run but his feet were firmly fixed to the ground as though he
stood on steel plating wearing magnetic boots. He tried to close his eyes to
shut everything out but his lids refused to lower. A scream was in his mind
but his vocal chords were paralysed like the rest of his body.

They were people, at least they had a vague semblance of human shape, came at
him out of the fog, reached for him with fingers that were deathly cold as
they stroked his flesh in the same way they had done under the cover of
darkness. A dozen of them at least, possibly more beyond his range of vision.
A motley crowd who wore capacious caps made from some kind of loose furry
hide, the reddish brown fur congealed in places as though the unfortunate
animal had been carelessly flayed and the spilled blood had not been wiped
off. Faces that were still hidden in shadow above long belted gowns falling to
filthy sandalled feet, each one of the company carrying a staff cut from a
growing tree, foliage still adhering to the wood. Even in his fear Owen
recognised the oak leaves, green and strong as though they still flourished
out of the severed branches.

'Traitor, you gaze upon the Oke Priests whose faces shall remain hidden.'

Philip Owen wished that he could faint, even death would have been welcome to
spare him from this unholy gathering. They were touching him, fingering him
with a malevolence that had his blood pounding in his ears; the touch of death
upon his trembling flesh!

He tried to pray but familiar, oft-recited lines eluded his crazed brain. The
mist eddied and cleared slightly, enough to give him an even more terrible
view. The lychgate, the cemetery . . . even the church was gone! Just open
heathland with this grove of twisted oaks, their trunks and boughs entwined
with mistletoe. And beyond this, barren heath stretched as far as the eye
could see. No houses, no untidy conurbation that swamped the village!

The curate moaned in terror, a wheeze that died in his throat. The throng were
falling back, making way for a tall, imposing figure that strode through the
oakgrove. Now there was a murmur of fear from the watchers, humbling
themselves and falling to their knees.

'Praise be to Alda whose power is only surpassed by the gods themselves!'

The tall figure halted only a yard or so from Philip Owen. The curate wanted