gns.thedruidconnection-第18部分

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e　because　before　long　they'd　put　her　away　and　she'd　suffer　a　lot　longer　than　he　had。　And　the　deal　with　the　bishop　would　still　go　through；　it　just　meant　that　without　Darren　Hurst　the　others　would　get　a　bigger　share。　And　the　loser　would　be　Marion　Hurst。
　　
　　She　felt　slightly　dizzy；　swayed；　and　had　to　hold　on　to　the　cocktail　cabinet　as　she　poured　herself　a　fourth　drink。　It　was　the　folk　in　the　village　who　would　be　the　real　losers。　Her　eyes　misted　up　and　she　pictured　them　going　into　the　church；　devout　honest　people　who　believed　in　God。　And　she　had　betrayed　them！
　　
　　Somehow　she　had　to　cleanse　her　conscience。　Funny　how　things　dropped　into　perspective　when　you　really　thought　about　them；　how　little　things　like　people's　feelings　were　overlooked　where　money　was　concerned。　Not　just　the　villagers　…　God！　She　was　a　female　Judas。　She　had　sold　her　Maker；　mitted　adultery　to　bring　about　her　crime。
　　
　　Marion　Hurst　could　not　hold　back　her　tears；　sobs　which　shook　her；　had　her　lying　on　the　Chesterfield　begging　for　forgiveness；　not　bothering　to　put　on　the　light　when　dusk　turned　to　deep　darkness。
　　
　　Sometime　later　she　heard　a　voice；　more　of　a　whisper　on　the　night　air；　that　might　have　been　inside　or　outside　the　house；　but　she　knew　only　too　well　that　it　was　addressing　her。
　　
　　'You　have　sinned　and　now　you　seek　repentance。　But　to　do　so　you　must　e　and　confess　your　sins　on　the　sacred　ground　which　by　your　own　efforts　will　soon　be　sacred　no　longer。　Your　tears　must　dampen　the　hallowed　soil　if　your　soul　is　to　be　cleansed。'
　　
　　She　raised　her　head　but　it　was　too　dark　to　see　if　anybody　stood　outside　the　window。　She　trembled；　listened；　but　the　voice　did　not　e　again。　Shame　and　fear；　for　her　Maker　knew　she　had　sinned　and　he　had　summoned　her　to　go　on　a　pilgrimage　of　repentance。
　　
　　She　went　through　into　the　hall　and　put　on　her　coat。　Funny；　the　light　was　out　and　she　always　left　it　on　when　Barren　was　out。　But　she　didn't　need　it。　She　opened　the　door；　saw　the　weling　glow　of　streetlamps　beyond　the　rhododendron　shrubbery　which　lined　the　garden；　made　out　the　silhouette　of　her　Cavalier　parked　in　the　drive。
　　
　　From　then　onwards　her　actions　were　jerky；　robot…like。　She　stalled　the　engine；　then　over…revved　it　and　sent　gravel　flying　up　on　to　the　patio。　Braking　too　hard；　shooting　out　on　to　the　deserted　road；　no　co…ordination　with　the　gears；　like　a　learner…driver。　She　had　only　been　to　St　Monica's　once；　with　Darren；　and　she　had　not　made　a　mental　note　of　the　route　but　somehow　now　it　all　seemed　so　familiar。　Two　miles　of　dual…carriageway　before　taking　the　first　junction　off　on　to　a　narrow　B…road。　Driving　flat…out；　tyres　screeching　on　unexpected　bends。　Hardly　any　traffic；　just　an　occasional　pair　of　headlights　ing　in　the　opposite　direction。　Usually　oning　lights　blinded　her；　had　her　slowing　right　down；　but　tonight　she　scarcely　noticed　them；　drove　flat　out　all　the　way　with　no　thought　for　her　own　safety。
　　
　　That　cinder　track　seemed　so　much　wider　than　it　had　earlier　in　the　Jag。　Parking　in　exactly　the　same　place　as　Darren　had　parked。　Getting　out；　closing　the　door　quietly　in　case　she　disturbed　。　。　。　someone。
　　
　　It　was　dark；　the　moon　was　not　due　to　rise　for　another　hour。　Marion　Hurst　stood　there　undecided；　not　knowing　exactly　what　to　do。　Her　guilt　was　a　thousand　times　worse　now　as　though　she　had　brooded　on　it　during　the　five…mile　drive　down　here。　She　experienced　an　urge　to　shout　to　the　elements　'I'm　the　one　who　did　this　to　your　land。　Just　me；　nobody　else。'
　　
　　And　then　she　heard　voices；　a　kind　of　low；　rhythmical　chant　ing　across　from　where　the　yew　trees　and　that　big　oak　were　just　faintly　visible　against　the　night　sky。　Her　feet　began　to　move；　unsteady　steps　across　the　uneven　grassy　surface。　On　more　than　one　occasion　she　caught　her　foot　against　a　tuft；　stumbled；　but　did　not　fall。
　　
　　It　was　lighter　now；　a　kind　of　ethereal　glow；　not　bright　enough　for　the　moon　but　maybe　the　stars　…　she　did　not　really　give　it　much　thought。　She　could　make　out　moving　shapes　that　materialised　into　human　forms　as　she　got　closer。
　　
　　They　were　certainly　dressed　strangely；　long　knee…length　gowns　with　capacious　sleeves　and　frilly　necks；　girded　with　sashes。　Sandalled　feet；　and　they　each　carried　a　small　branch　of　some　kind；　twigs　recently　snapped　off　a　living　tree　because　the　leaves　were　still　fresh　and　had　not　wilted。　Hats　of　some　kind；　like　caps　made　from　animal　skins；　the　tails　left　on　when　the　beasts　were　flayed。　Foxes；　probably；　there　were　no　wolves　left　in　England。　Or　were　there？　She　tried　to　make　out　the　faces　of　those　around　her　but　it　was　impossible　because　their　features　were　bathed　in　shadow。　They　were　obviously　expecting　her；　hands　reaching　out　for　her；　gripping　her　wrists　with　icy　fingers；　leading　her　forward。　She　tried　to　put　into　words　the　questions　her　confused　brain　was　asking。　Why　am　I　here？　Who　are　you　and　what　do　you　want　of　me？　But　somehow　her　brain　and　vocal　chords　refused　to　co…ordinate。
　　
　　These　people　were　talking　in　whispers　just　like　the　voice　she　had　heard　in　her　own　home。　She　managed　to　make　out　some　of　the　words。　'This　is　she。　。　。　the　one　we　summoned　。　。　。　she　has　e　to　be　judged　by　Alda　。　；　。　'
　　
　　Marion　found　herself　being　helped　up　on　to　some　kind　of　raised　platform；　a　soft　spongy　surface　as　though　it　was　constructed　of　turf　like　that　pile　the　landscape　gardeners　had　delivered　when　she　and　Darren　first　bought　their　house；　peaty　blocks　which　they　had　stacked　in　the　drive　until　they　were　ready　to　lay　them。　Marion's　feet　sank　in　and　only　then　was　she　aware　that　she　was　barefoot。
　　
　　The　light　was　getting　stronger。　She　couid　make　out　various　features　of　the　landscape；　and　her　fear　began　to　mount。　Trees　and　thorn　bushes；　but　where　were　the　distant　lights　of　the　town；　the　orange　glow　that　lit　the　night　sky　for　miles　around？　The　church　should　have　been　visible；　too；　its　steeple　reaching　skywards。　And　everywhere　so　silent；　not　even　the　hum　of　a　distant　car　on　the　main　road　which　could　not　be　more　than　a　mile　away。
　　
　　Now　the　moon　was　up；　its　silvery　light　bathing　the　whole　scene　around　Marion　Hurst；　bringing　a　scream　to　her　lips　but　no　further。　This　was　madness；　she　was　dreaming；　having　a　nightmare！　Just　barren　heathland　stretched　before　her；　a　still　silent　world　where　the　only　inhabitants　were　these　robed　figures　whose　faces　she　now　saw　clearly；　beings　so　old　that　the　stretched　skin　rotted　on　their　near…skeletal　bodies。　The　air　was　filled　with　the　stench　of　that　same　putrefying　flesh。　Sheer　malevolence　marked　their　decaying　expressions　as　they　stood　in　a　circle　and　pointed　accusingly　up　at　her；　whispering　feverishly　to　the　tall　man　who　appeared　to　be　their　leader。
　　
　　Marion　tried　to　tell　herself　that　it　was　a　nightmare　because　it　could　not　be　anything　else；　that　at　any　second　she　would　wake　up　and　find　herself　back　in　her　own　bed。　These　repulsive　creatures　could　not　exist！
　　
　　'Your　name　is　Marion　Hurst　and　you　are　charged　with　treachery；　a　betrayal；　not　only　of　the　Oke　Priests；　but　of　the　gods　whom　we　serve！'
　　
　　The　tall　man's　words　impinged　on　Marion　Hurst's　brain。　She　tried　to　reply　but　speech　failed　her。　Instead　she　nodded　meekly；　bowed　her　head。
　　
　　The　trial　of　Marion　Hurst　by　the　Oke　Priests　had　begun。
　　
　　'You　are　an　adulteress；　a　whore。'
　　
　　Again　she　mutely　agreed。　She　stood　there　dazed；　hearing　and　understanding；　the　terror　within　her　seething　like　a　sealed　cauldron　unable　to　burst　out。　Guilty；　wanting　them　to　know　she　was　guilty　…　demanding　to　be　punished　to　cleanse　her　soul！
　　
　　The　verdict；　an　angry　hiss；　gnarled　bony　fingers　pointing　at　her；　accusing。　The　tall　druid　nodding　his　agreement；　pronouncing　her　sentence　in　deep　tones　like　echoes　ing　up　from　a　labyrinth　of　underground　caverns。
　　
　　'　。　。　；　guilty　of　sacrilege　and　treachery。　The　penalty　is　death；　your　unworthy　body　consumed　by　fire　in　an　offering　to　the　gods　that　they　may　not　vent　their　wrath　on　us；　the　Oke　Priests。　。　。　but　others　will　die；　too。　You　are　the　first。　Let　us　beseech　the　old　ones　to　bring　he　who　is　known　as　Sabat　before　us　that　he；　too；　may　die　for　his　treachery　and　that　I　may　be　revenged　upon　him　for　the　killing　of　Alena！'
　　
　　Cold　hands　grabbed　Marion；　dragged　her　down　from　the　turf　altar；　pulled　her　across　the　rough　ground。　She　did　not　resist。　It　would　have　been　impossible　anyway；　a　dead　weight　that　scraped　and　bumped　over　stones；　her　flesh　spiked　and　torn　by　gorse　and　trailing　briars。
　　
　　She　tried　to　close　her　eyes　to　shut　out　the　scene　which　greeted　her；　the　huge　misshapen　straw　creature　crudely　fashioned　into　human　shape。　A　face　that　grinned　its　sadistic　inanimate　delight；　eyes　that　seemed　to　glow　in　anticipation　of　the　fire　which　would　be　lighted　at　its　feet。　Strapped　into　its　stinking　belly；　damp　straw　from　some　foul　stable　sticking　to　her　lips　so　that　she　tasted　dung；　able　to　scream　at　last　but　the　sound　muffled　by　the　stifling　smoke　and　the　crackling　of　flames。
　　
　　A　name　lodged　in　her　crazed　brain；　kept　repeating　itself　like　a　record　with　a　scratched　groove　…'Sabat。　。　。Sabat。　。　。　Sabat。　。　。　he；　too；　must　die　for　his　treachery。'
　　
　　Marion　Hurst　found　that　she　had　a　partial　view　from　the　eyes　of　this　effigy；　that　it　was　also　possible　to　breathe　in　some　air　through　the　nostrils；　otherwise　by　now　the　smoke　would　surely　have　overe　her。　Trying　desperately　to　work　it　all　out　although　it　didn't　really　matter　because　soon　she　would　be　dead；　cremated　by　these　awful　creatures　in　human　form　who　had　tried　her　and　found　her　guilty。　This；　then；　was　the　hell　that　had　been　used　to　scare　her　when　she　was　a　child。　It　existed！
　　
　　So　hot　now　that　the　soles　of　her　bare　feet　were　burning。　Pain　at　first　but　then　she　felt　no　more；　still　living　but　her　nerves　were　mercifully　snapped。　Out　there　the　one　who　called　himself　Alda　was　standing　on　a　hump　of　raised　ground；　arms　aloft；　offering　this　latest　sacrifice　to　his　gods；　beseeching　them　to　have　mercy。　For　there　were　others　who　had　yet　to　die　for　this　sacrilege：　Bishop　Boyce；　Walter　Stone　and　Darren；　of　course；　may　the　gods　burn　his　body　and　soul；　roast　him　for　his　corruption。
　　
　　And　Sabat；　too。　That　name　again；　unable　to　get　it　off　her　mind　in　her　final　hour；　like　a　cha