"Patrick Welch - Westchester Station extract" - читать интересную книгу автора (Welch Patrick)

wooing of a lady. A simple potion to be surreptitiously added to her meal;
a task I'd performed countless times. This time when the cook sprinkled it
over her food, the stench of clove was so strong it gave the young lady
vapors, ruining the assignation and the knight's disposition.
"There have been others, countless others. You have seen so yourself. A
magician cannot make such mistakes!"
"There must be something in common," I offered hopefully.
"I am becursed," he snarled. "There is simply no other explanation."
"Then perhaps your magic can remove this curse."
He shook his head. "A magician is immune to his own magic, just as the
snake cannot be killed by its own poison. Yet I can think of no mage
strong enough to place such a powerful spell upon me. And me not sense
it!"
I considered his arguments. "Maybe it's something else," I said finally.
"Impossible! There is no other explanation!" He swirled his coat around
himself and made to stalk away.
"Perhaps if you tell me a little about how magic works," I responded
quickly. "I might learn something that can help you."
He studied me and frowned. "There is an insolence about you I like not.
But very well." He suddenly adopted a professorial stance. "The working of
magic is simple. It is the practice of magic that is difficult.
"Magic works through the Power of Three. First is the Thought. What is it
you are trying to create? The picture must be formed within your mind,
complete in every detail. This requires uncommon and total concentration,
a talent that takes years to master.
"Then there is the Word. The sound that signals the onset of the
transformation from your mind's conception into the World's perception. A
Word spoken correctly and succinctly, with care taken to ensure proper
intonation and emphasis upon every required syllable. A talent that again
takes years to master.
"And finally there is the Sign. The physical translation of Thought and
Word that both initiates and ultimately completes the final physical
transformation. Every object has its unique signature, its unique
spelling. Each movement must be practiced until mastery of the Sign is
without conscious thought. A talent that takes years to master.
"The power of the Three; the Thought, the Word, the Sign. The three must
work as one, combine into One. When done perfectly, when performed
properly in conjunction with each other, that One that is created is the
actual physical reality of the original Thought." He smiled. "Simple, yes?
For me it was," he finished bitterly, "once."
I thought of the towel and the pants, and the objects that had preceded
each. And I thought of something else. Rather, someone else; my own
father. A magician in his own right, a magician with the wrench. A
mechanic who could make the most stubborn engine purr like the proverbial
kitten. Until, barely into his fifties, he was struck down with
Parkinson's Disease. And was soon unable to work his mechanical magic.
I recognized the symptoms now in Merlin. The rigid facial muscles, the
monotone voice, the uncontrolled tremor in the extremities. The disease
had destroyed my father; I suspected it was doing the same to Merlin. And
from what he had revealed about magic, I now had an idea how it was