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

'Because it is past Evensong time, sur. Also, you are not the vicar here.'

'I have been instructed by the bishop personally to carry out a service in this church,' Cleehopes snapped, 'and I am ordering you to douse that fire this minute. Otherwise . . . otherwise I'll have you sacked, my man!'

'You'll 'ave me sacked, sur, will you?' the other laughed, a mirthless sound that sent a chill down Cleehopes' spine. 'Nobody can sack me, sur. Not even the bishop.'

The vicar opened his mouth to reply but some instinct made him check the angry retort, a sensation of awe mingling with fear, the feeling that he always had on those infrequent occasions when he came face to face with Bishop Boyce. Only this time the feeling escalated beyond the barriers of awe into a much more frightening realm. Terror!

'And what is this service you were goin' to conduct in the church, sur?'

Cleehopes swallowed and found himself looking into those eyes again. They were glowing redly with an anger that was fast being fanned into unbelievable wrath, a fire about to blaze into a raging inferno like that bonfire a few yards away. God, the stench was awful!

'I was going to . . . to . . . ' the vicar swallowed, 'conduct a service of... of exorcism.' Guilt and embarrassment flooded over him as he got the words out.

'A service of exorcism, sur!' Those eyes seemed to suffuse with red like glowing coals, move closer together. There was no mistaking the anger, the contempt. And behind the man the bonfire suddenly burst into flames and died down again to a steady smoulder.

'Have you no respect for the dead, sur?'

'Of ... of course I have.' The vicar shivered. It had suddenly become very much colder even though he was standing in close proximity to the fire.

'Then instead of annoyin' the dead, sur, why don't you help me to lay them to rest?'

Cleehopes' stomach seemed to churn. This fellow was a madman, a senile grass-cutter and grave-digger who was convinced that this churchyard was the domain over which he ruled supreme.

'You mean you want me to assist you in the digging of a grave?' The man had to be humoured; he could be dangerous. The vicar prayed that any moment some of those CID officers who were supposed to be carrying out enquiries in this place might show up. Surely they were keeping a nocturnal vigil. Or had the bishop successfully lured them away so that the exorcism could continue unhindered?

'Not burials, sur? We do not commit a corpse to the earth so that the worms and slugs can feed on its decaying flesh.'

'What then?' A sinking feeling had the clergyman's stomach contracting, bringing with it a sensation of dizziness so that everything around him seemed like a dream. Terrible unreality like a fevered nightmare from which there was no escape.

'Why, cremation, sur. What thinks you I have this fire burning for, to incinerate weeds and the like? Come look, sur, and witness the only true way to transport the dead into the kingdom of the old ones.'

Cleehopes didn't want to look but suddenly his actions, every movement of his limbs, seemed no longer to be controlled by his own brain. He shuffled forward, moved alongside this ragged old man, stared fearfully at the pile of burning refuse.

The flames leaped up as though obeying some sudden command and in that instant the Reverend Cleehopes saw the splayed thing at which they licked hungrily, the limp spread eagled form at the top of the pile, blackened yet still recognisable as the charred flesh smouldered, fat running in small yellow rivulets and hissing in the fire. This awful self-styled guardian of the dead was in the process of cremating the tiny body of a dead child!

Cleehopes vomited, at least his stomach seemed to throw up and everything before him swam. He thought he was going to faint but cruelly he was spared oblivion. The infant seemed to move, a shifting of the funeral pyre, doubtless, because no life could possibly remain in that inert form. The vicar opened his mouth, tried to protest, but the words would not come, just an unintelligible babbling. And behind him the man was laughing softly.

'You see what I mean, sur? It is more important that you help the dead pass over into the realms of the old gods than disturb those that are already there.'

The vicar was aware of his head nodding, bobbing up and down so that his black homburg became loosened and was whipped away by the wind. He did not even notice the cold now, staring fixedly at the half-cremated object, wondering how long it would take this fire to consume it, render it to an indistinguishable nothingness. Ashes to ashes. . . .

'I have other duties to see to, sur, and I am grateful to them for sending you to help me. Now, perhaps you would kindly look after this fire, keep it burning until it is all gone, if you understand me. . . . '

Cleehopes understood and suddenly no longer experienced revulsion. The man was quite right; cremation was a true and proper method of disposing of a corpse with dignity. He felt something pushed into his hands, took it and saw that it was a large-pronged garden fork.

'Now you keep this fire goin', sur, and don't let it die down. I'll maybe see you again, who knows?'

And the Reverend Cleehopes was aware that he was alone. No longer was he afraid; he couldn't understand why he had been frightened in the first place. He was sweating now, grunting with the sheer physical effort of prodding that smouldering pyre, ventilating it so that the dead vegetation burst into orange tongues of flame that licked greedily at the now virtually unrecognisable form that lay on top of it. Every so often the small corpse shifted, settled, as though it, too, was readily co-operating on the first stage of its journey into the unknown.