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

to shrink away but movement was still denied him. His eyes met the other's,
orbs that blazed hate from sunken sockets, yellowed skin stretched tightly
over the skull, translucent so that it might have been a skeletal head,
hairless beneath the oak wreath which was worn instead of a crude fur cap. The
nostrils were flared into twin black cavities, the mouth a slobbering slit
from which protruded blackened stumps of teeth. The robe was white, a soiled
crumpled garment that threatened to become entangled in the bare feet,
catching and snagging on the filthy broken toenails. Around the neck was a
Bronze Age Irish gold gorget which seemed out of place in this primitive
setting, yet so sinister.

'Behold, Alda!'

The Arch Druid stared into the curate's eyes, a length of saliva stringing
from the leering mouth. 'False priest, you are a traitor to the new religion
and to the one whom you call God. But your treachery reaches afar, and the old
ones are angered. I, Alda, high priest among the Oke Priests, have been
summoned to pass judgement. And there can be only one sentence for sacrilege
such as yours - death!'
A cry went up, the throng were on their feet, wild beasts scenting blood,
looking to their leader for the order to kill. Alda turned slowly, his narrow
mouth widening into what was supposedly a smile.

'The penalty for sacrilege and treachery against the gods, as written in the
Book of Edda, is death. Death by fire so that the offender's body may be
destroyed completely and not offend the Holy Ones!'

'Ayee . . . ' A ragged creature leaped towards the petrified prisoner, seized
hold of him. 'To the Wicker Man and may the gods receive our offering
favourably!'

It was a dream, a nightmare. It had to be. The curate feit himself being
dragged along the uneven ground, sharp rocks grazing his feet and shins. Head
downward he saw the heather beneath him, gorse spiking him as though even the
plant life in this weird place was determined to torture his body. Neither
light nor darkness, the mist creeping back so that its cold dampness chilled
his body. He knew now that this was no dream, even if it defied logical
explanation. Somehow he had stepped back in time to a land of primitive death
where he was to be the victim of a barbaric human sacrifice: death by fire.
Cremation in the bowels of a wicker man, a burning living hell that had
originated in old Scandinavia, embers that had not gone cold.

Beyond the grove the mist cleared again, swirled away to allow the trembling
curate his first view of the Wicker Man. It was a crude effigy standing some
eight feet high on a patch of open heath, a towering monstrosity that reminded
Philip Owen of a hastily stuffed rag doll. Cumbersome, it would have keeled
over had it not been supported by two stout stakes from the rear. He gazed in
awe, his bulging eyes travelling slowly upwards from the pile of brushwood
which surrounded its feet. Grotesque, the body constructed of woven straw,
arms held aloft as though it paid homage to some unknown deity. Then the face