"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - A Baroque Fable" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

"Under Z>," Esmeralda says, grateful now that she has the protection of the pentacle. She is very much
afraid of things like dragons and wyverns and gryphons. She is also afraid of witches and Trolls, but that
is another matter.
"What a helpful little wretch it is," Alfreida grumbles as she fingers the pages. "Ah, yes, here it is. Under
D," She peers at the page. "Whilst hopping on the rytefoote thou dost repeat: Latchetail ryscr... Aha!
That's got it. Here we go." She puts the book on the one clear space on the table, canting it out
precariously, then reaches for various bits of powders and dried oddments, strewing them about. All the
while she chants, turning first this direction then that, describing strange shapes in the air with her skinny
fingers. Her voice, never soothing, becomes increasingly strident. There is a light in her eyes that more
hardened souls than Esmeralda would find disturbing.
"Prigin kardapest dinguremer apenlau!" The words of the spell are strange to both Esmeralda and
Alfreida, and neither of them knows if they are pronounced correctly. They sound sinister because they
are so very unfamiliar, which causes more apprehension to fill Esmeralda. Alfreida is inspired by what she
is saying, and goes into the second pan of the spell with considerable verve.
The air in the hovel, never very clear, becomes first dingy and then sunk into gloom. Strange flickers of
acidic green and orange move along the beams like St. Elmo's Fire. There are sounds that cannot be
identified coming from the walls, and rustlings move along the floor as if the place were being invaded by
hoards of invisible mice.
"Cebalpontigerdig yepwig. Lesegho hapdoff kopasil yepwig. Shybid esterkring tillctet pantu!"
18
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The chant goes on, growing so loud that it almost competes with the carousing Trolls (to give the Trolls
their due, they fell silent when the spell began. They may be Trolls, but they are not total boors).
And what is happening to Esmeralda? She is so terrified that she can hardly bring herself to breathe. Her
arms feel stiff as old ice, her forehead is so hot that she would not touch it if she could, for fear of raising
blisters on her fingers. There are sounds in her ears that have nothing to do with what Alfreida is yodeling
outside the pentacle. Her feet ache and itch in ways she has never felt before. Enormous tears roll from
her perfect eyes and she bids farewell in her mind to home, family, heard), and Slurpy.
Alfreida is prancing and leaping now, throwing herself into the ritual so frantically mat she realizes that
tomorrow she will be one mass of sore joints and sour disposition. Yet for the moment she is caught up in
the spell as much as the object of her corybantic frenzy. She bounds into the air, tossing the last of the
herbs in the general direction of the pentacle. Then she spins giddily around the entire pentacle
(widdershins, of course) and ends up before her fire, panting and triumphant.
The air in the hut crackles and fizzes. Four new, distinct and incompatible stenches are released from the
pentacle. Strange, obscuring clouds roil up, turning various noxious colors as they go. Jars and boxes
skitter on the table and a strange stretching groan fills the room.
Pop! Whirrr! and fingers lengthen, turning into talons, growing long, glistening claws. Toes thrust through
the ends of shiny shoes, more claws appear. Golden hair lifts and twines, stiffening as it goes, turning into
two twisted, arching horns forming a perfect valentine over me long, green, scaled snout. Hummmm! Zip!
Ping! Joints shorten, reach, change, shift. Esmeralda gasps and a tiny puff of smoke clouds out of her
mouth. Skin hardens and shines, segmenting into scales.
Alfreida howls with delight as the last of the colored mists fades away and the hovel is once again quiet.
"I did it! / did it!" she crows.
Liripoop blinks slowly, keeping his thoughts to himself.
"I'll have to make sure that those idiots in Alabaster-on-Gelasta find out about this. They'll want to know
mere's a dragon about. And Humgudgeon will want to know that
A BAROQUE FABLE
19
Alabaster-on-Gelasta knows." She actually rubs her hands together in malefic anticipation.
In the pentacle, the huge brown eyes of the dragon continue to shed perfect tears.