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

destroying his powers as well. "Could you try one more time? So I can
watch? Something simple, perhaps." I thought for a moment. "A beer would
be nice. I would like a nice, cold beer."
Merlin hesitated, then nodded. "That will be simple enough." He stood a
moment in silent concentration, then muttered something and made a
gesture.
The freezing wind erupted suddenly, blowing him off his feet and me back
into the wall.
"What are the gods doing to me?" he screamed as his robes whipped about
his frail body. "What have I done to them to anger them so?"
"I know," I yelled also, trying to be heard above the gale blowing around
us. "Stop the storm. I know what is wrong! Stop this storm!"
He struggled to stand, but the wind was too powerful. He huddled near the
ground, his back to the savagery.
"Hurry for god's sake!" The wind was holding me upright against the stone
wall; a most uncomfortable position.
"I'm trying. Now!" His arms flew out with a flourish. The storm vanished
as quickly as it had erupted. I sagged slowly onto the floor, then looked
at him. He struggled to stand, then slowly rearranged his coat. Finally he
looked at me and smiled weakly. "Undoing a magical construct is much
easier than creating one."
I shook my head, trying to catch my breath and my senses. "I think," I
gasped, "I think I know."
"Magic," he said with effort.
"No, no, not magic. Hold out your hands." I ignored his reproachful stare.
"Please, hold out your hands."
He did as I asked. Both trembled slightly and I knew it wasn't from the
recent cold. It had to be Parkinson's. "Why do your hands shake?"
He shrugged. "I am an old man. It is an affliction that we all must face
someday."
"It is an affliction that is causing your magic to go awry." I hurried on
before he could question me. "The power of Three; the Thought, the Word,
the Sign. Each must be done perfectly; that you have told me."
"So I have," he admitted, now curious.
"Your hands. Notice how they shake slightly. Think of what your magic has
summoned. I asked for a towel, you brought forth a trowel. I ask for
pants, you created..."
"Roses."
"...plants. You needed rain but called down grain."
His eyes lighted with sudden understanding. "I summoned love and brought
forth clove. I call for ale and instead created a gale!"
"One letter!" I smiled and patted him on the back. "Your physical
condition is forcing you to create the Signs wrong!"
He formed a wide smile of understanding and relief. "Of course! How could
I not have seen it!" He came forward and grabbed my shoulders. "You have
saved me, kind sir! You have..." Then he stepped back. He looked down at
his traitorous hands. "There is nothing I can do," he finished sadly. "I
can be a magician no longer."
"A potion, perhaps?"
"I am immune to my own magic," he responded darkly.