"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'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