"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 04 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

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 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 . . . Oh, Jesus, those awful features, eyes that saw and understood . . . and gloated!

The curate wilted beneath its baleful stare, the cavity of a mouth seeming to grin down at him. 'Hurry, for the Wicker Man is hungry and the gods must be appeased before they wreak their vengeance upon those who serve them.'

The Oke Priests dragged him with a new haste, pulling him so close to the effigy that he could no longer meet those terrible eyes. He almost fell but was pulled upright. He tried to scream, an incoherent sound that brought jeers from his captors like nightmarish echoes of his own voice. He wanted to faint, prayed for unconsciousness that would merge painlessly into death so that when he awoke he would find himself in the heaven about which he had preached so emphatically to his congregations. Instead he remained in this living hell which only needed the fires to be lit.

The straw man had no rear, a kind of half silhouette so that the interior could be reached by means of a short, crude ladder made from stout branches tied together. An empty shell, an Adam waiting to be given life. Somehow Owen's feet found the rungs, the druids' hands moving him like a robot, supporting him so that he did not fall. Now he was inside the thing, his paralysed arms being thrust into the Wicker Man's sleeves, a tight fit that held him upright even though his legs sagged and refused to bear his weight.

Oh God, the stench; it was the foul, nauseating odour of uncleaned stables, the acrid smell of excreta and urine. He tried to hold his breath but could not, retched and vomited so that the spew ran down his cassock. Choking, gasping for breath and drawing in putrefaction; the stink of sheer evil!

He had resigned himself to death, praying not for deliverance but that he might be spared pain. 'Oh Lord, I am weak and frail ... let me pass over into Thy . . . '

For the first time he realised that he could see out of this

claustrophobic, suffocating prison, that his head fitted snugly into that of the straw man as though these ancient Oke Priests had decided upon their victim beforehand and made it to measure. Through the nostrils he could breathe the cold damp air of a bygone morning; through the eyeslits he could see the gathering of cloaked figures standing a few yards away, that tall Arch Druid gazing up at him, the death-like features twisted into a mask of sheer hatred.

'Blasphemer, traitor,' the other's words hung in the still atmosphere. 'May your death appease the wrath of the old ones. And may those who join you in this sacrilege and treachery be warned by your own fate.'

One of the priests stepped forward and handed a burning crackling branch to their leader. A hiss of eagerness came from the watchers. 'Burn the false one, O Aida!'

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.'