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

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.

The fumes were no longer acrid and putrefying to the sweating bald-headed
stoker. Indeed, he inhaled them as he might have done the aroma from a
roasting joint of Sunday sirloin. A state of timelessness prevailed yet he
worked with a zest, for this innocent babe's passage into the beyond must not
be delayed.

Finally the dawn came, a grey cold light that crept almost apologetically
across the churchyard of St Monica's and revealed a weary old man dressed in
torn and smoke-grimed clerical attire scraping the remaining embers of his
bonfire into a small heap, inhaling the last wisps of smoke with relish.

And when the fire was finally burned out the Reverend Cleehopes stuck his fork
into the soft ground and laughed aloud his satisfaction at a job well done.
There was no sign of the man in the bowler hat but doubtless he would be back
to inspect, to see that his orders had been carried out- He would be well
pleased.

The vicar wandered away - that slow shuffle again - on an aimless circular
tour of the tombstones, seeing a briefcase standing in the middle of the path
leading to the church steps but not recognising it. It was none of his
business.