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

That was when Philip Owen discovered that his vocal chords were working again.
A sharp intake of breath and he realised that his speech had returned. He did
not scream. Indeed, he was beyond the terror barrier. Instead he spoke with a
voice that had no more than a slight quaver in it as though he was addressing
the congregation at Matins. Slightly condescending, avoiding the temptation to
blaspheme and ask God to forgive them for they knew not what they did. They
knew all right and nothing on earth was going to stop them from burning him
alive!

Tell me, O priests of an old religion, why you do this to me. Kill me if you
will but at least explain to me why I am to die. Surely you would not spill
innocent blood.'

'Innocence?' The one called Aldastared up with shocked disbelief, holding the
flaming brand at arms1 length so that the billowing, pungent smoke did not
envelop him. 'You are not innocent, blasphemer. You have been tried and found
guilty by the Oke Priests and there can be no reversal of their findings.'

'But what have I done? In the name of God, tell me!'

'In the name of the old ones, at the risk of trying their patience, I will
tell you.' Alda moved nearer, an expression of annoyance at this unnecessary
delay on his stretched countenance. 'Your new religion replaced our ancient
one, which we accepted because the new race demanded it. But we, the Oke
Priests, were not dead. We lived on in this place, tolerated your Church
because your God was merely a symbol of our gods. But now . . . now greed has
prevailed and this sacred land is to be used for worship no more, desecrated
and made into a place for those who walk with sin to live upon! Deny that if
though wilt, O false priest.'

The Reverend Philip Owen swallowed, experienced a sudden rush of guilt. The
old man, whoever he was, spoke the truth. To deny it would be to lie in the
eyes of his own God as well as their gods.

The Bishop . . . the vicar,' the curate found himself blustering like a guilty
schoolboy discovered in an empty common room with a cigarette smouldering in
an ashtray. Protests only confirmed his guilt in the eyes of his captors.
'You plead for mercy but your pleas are in vain,' Alda snarled and in one
movement tossed the blazing branch amongst the brushwood around the Wicker
Man's feet. 'The guilt of your fellows is also your guilt. Now you die and so
will they if they do not heed this warning!'

Philip Owen closed his eyes, heard the crackling and spitting of dry kindling,
smelled the woody smoke drifting up from beneath him. He coughed, retched,
tasted bile; looked out again through those eyeholes and saw the gathering
half hidden by the swirling smoke. A noise reached his ears, a monotonous
chanting sound like some kind of tuneless psalm.

One last determined effort at self-survival, but his muscles refused to
respond. It was as though his whole body had been drugged, leaving only his