gns.thedruidconnection-第2部分

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e　can　be　only　one　sentence　for　sacrilege　such　as　yours　…　death！'
　　
　　A　cry　went　up；　the　throng　were　on　their　feet；　wild　beasts　scenting　blood；　looking　to　their　leader　for　the　order　to　kill。　Alda　turned　slowly；　his　narrow　mouth　widening　into　what　was　supposedly　a　smile。
　　
　　'The　penalty　for　sacrilege　and　treachery　against　the　gods；　as　written　in　the　Book　of　Edda；　is　death。　Death　by　fire　so　that　the　offender's　body　may　be　destroyed　pletely　and　not　offend　the　Holy　Ones！'
　　
　　'Ayee　。　。　。　'　A　ragged　creature　leaped　towards　the　petrified　prisoner；　seized　hold　of　him。　'To　the　Wicker　Man　and　may　the　gods　receive　our　offering　favourably！'
　　
　　It　was　a　dream；　a　nightmare。　It　had　to　be。　The　curate　feit　himself　being　dragged　along　the　uneven　ground；　sharp　rocks　grazing　his　feet　and　shins。　Head　downward　he　saw　the　heather　beneath　him；　gorse　spiking　him　as　though　even　the　plant　life　in　this　weird　place　was　determined　to　torture　his　body。　Neither　light　nor　darkness；　the　mist　creeping　back　so　that　its　cold　dampness　chilled　his　body。　He　knew　now　that　this　was　no　dream；　even　if　it　defied　logical　explanation。　Somehow　he　had　stepped　back　in　time　to　a　land　of　primitive　death　where　he　was　to　be　the　victim　of　a　barbaric　human　sacrifice：　death　by　fire。　Cremation　in　the　bowels　of　a　wicker　man；　a　burning　living　hell　that　had　originated　in　old　Scandinavia；　embers　that　had　not　gone　cold。
　　
　　Beyond　the　grove　the　mist　cleared　again；　swirled　away　to　allow　the　trembling　curate　his　first　view　of　the　Wicker　Man。　It　was　a　crude　effigy　standing　some　eight　feet　high　on　a　patch　of　open　heath；　a　towering　monstrosity　that　reminded　Philip　Owen　of　a　hastily　stuffed　rag　doll。　Cumbersome；　it　would　have　keeled　over　had　it　not　been　supported　by　two　stout　stakes　from　the　rear。　He　gazed　in　awe；　his　bulging　eyes　travelling　slowly　upwards　from　the　pile　of　brushwood　which　surrounded　its　feet。　Grotesque；　the　body　constructed　of　woven　straw；　arms　held　aloft　as　though　it　paid　homage　to　some　unknown　deity。　Then　the　face　。　。　。　Oh；　Jesus；　those　awful　features；　eyes　that　saw　and　understood　。　。　。　and　gloated！
　　
　　The　curate　wilted　beneath　its　baleful　stare；　the　cavity　of　a　mouth　seeming　to　grin　down　at　him。　'Hurry；　for　the　Wicker　Man　is　hungry　and　the　gods　must　be　appeased　before　they　wreak　their　vengeance　upon　those　who　serve　them。'
　　
　　The　Oke　Priests　dragged　him　with　a　new　haste；　pulling　him　so　close　to　the　effigy　that　he　could　no　longer　meet　those　terrible　eyes。　He　almost　fell　but　was　pulled　upright。　He　tried　to　scream；　an　incoherent　sound　that　brought　jeers　from　his　captors　like　nightmarish　echoes　of　his　own　voice。　He　wanted　to　faint；　prayed　for　unconsciousness　that　would　merge　painlessly　into　death　so　that　when　he　awoke　he　would　find　himself　in　the　heaven　about　which　he　had　preached　so　emphatically　to　his　congregations。　Instead　he　remained　in　this　living　hell　which　only　needed　the　fires　to　be　lit。
　　
　　The　straw　man　had　no　rear；　a　kind　of　half　silhouette　so　that　the　interior　could　be　reached　by　means　of　a　short；　crude　ladder　made　from　stout　branches　tied　together。　An　empty　shell；　an　Adam　waiting　to　be　given　life。　Somehow　Owen's　feet　found　the　rungs；　the　druids'　hands　moving　him　like　a　robot；　supporting　him　so　that　he　did　not　fall。　Now　he　was　inside　the　thing；　his　paralysed　arms　being　thrust　into　the　Wicker　Man's　sleeves；　a　tight　fit　that　held　him　upright　even　though　his　legs　sagged　and　refused　to　bear　his　weight。
　　
　　Oh　God；　the　stench；　it　was　the　foul；　nauseating　odour　of　uncleaned　stables；　the　acrid　smell　of　excreta　and　urine。　He　tried　to　hold　his　breath　but　could　not；　retched　and　vomited　so　that　the　spew　ran　down　his　cassock。　Choking；　gasping　for　breath　and　drawing　in　putrefaction；　the　stink　of　sheer　evil！
　　
　　He　had　resigned　himself　to　death；　praying　not　for　deliverance　but　that　he　might　be　spared　pain。　'Oh　Lord；　I　am　weak　and　frail　。。。　let　me　pass　over　into　Thy　。　。　。　'
　　
　　For　the　first　time　he　realised　that　he　could　see　out　of　this　claustrophobic；　suffocating　prison；　that　his　head　fitted　snugly　into　that　of　the　straw　man　as　though　these　ancient　Oke　Priests　had　decided　upon　their　victim　beforehand　and　made　it　to　measure。　Through　the　nostrils　he　could　breathe　the　cold　damp　air　of　a　bygone　morning；　through　the　eyeslits　he　could　see　the　gathering　of　cloaked　figures　standing　a　few　yards　away；　that　tall　Arch　Druid　gazing　up　at　him；　the　death…like　features　twisted　into　a　mask　of　sheer　hatred。
　　
　　'Blasphemer；　traitor；'　the　other's　words　hung　in　the　still　atmosphere。　'May　your　death　appease　the　wrath　of　the　old　ones。　And　may　those　who　join　you　in　this　sacrilege　and　treachery　be　warned　by　your　own　fate。'
　　
　　One　of　the　priests　stepped　forward　and　handed　a　burning　crackling　branch　to　their　leader。　A　hiss　of　eagerness　came　from　the　watchers。　'Burn　the　false　one；　O　Aida！'
　　
　　That　was　when　Philip　Owen　discovered　that　his　vocal　chords　were　working　again。　A　sharp　intake　of　breath　and　he　realised　that　his　speech　had　returned。　He　did　not　scream。　Indeed；　he　was　beyond　the　terror　barrier。　Instead　he　spoke　with　a　voice　that　had　no　more　than　a　slight　quaver　in　it　as　though　he　was　addressing　the　congregation　at　Matins。　Slightly　condescending；　avoiding　the　temptation　to　blaspheme　and　ask　God　to　forgive　them　for　they　knew　not　what　they　did。　They　knew　all　right　and　nothing　on　earth　was　going　to　stop　them　from　burning　him　alive！
　　
　　Tell　me；　O　priests　of　an　old　religion；　why　you　do　this　to　me。　Kill　me　if　you　will　but　at　least　explain　to　me　why　I　am　to　die。　Surely　you　would　not　spill　innocent　blood。'
　　
　　'Innocence？'　The　one　called　Aldastared　up　with　shocked　disbelief；　holding　the　flaming　brand　at　arms1　length　so　that　the　billowing；　pungent　smoke　did　not　envelop　him。　'You　are　not　innocent；　blasphemer。　You　have　been　tried　and　found　guilty　by　the　Oke　Priests　and　there　can　be　no　reversal　of　their　findings。'
　　
　　'But　what　have　I　done？　In　the　name　of　God；　tell　me！'
　　
　　'In　the　name　of　the　old　ones；　at　the　risk　of　trying　their　patience；　I　will　tell　you。'　Alda　moved　nearer；　an　expression　of　annoyance　at　this　unnecessary　delay　on　his　stretched　countenance。　'Your　new　religion　replaced　our　ancient　one；　which　we　accepted　because　the　new　race　demanded　it。　But　we；　the　Oke　Priests；　were　not　dead。　We　lived　on　in　this　place；　tolerated　your　Church　because　your　God　was　merely　a　symbol　of　our　gods。　But　now　。　。　。　now　greed　has　prevailed　and　this　sacred　land　is　to　be　used　for　worship　no　more；　desecrated　and　made　into　a　place　for　those　who　walk　with　sin　to　live　upon！　Deny　that　if　though　wilt；　O　false　priest。'
　　
　　The　Reverend　Philip　Owen　swallowed；　experienced　a　sudden　rush　of　guilt。　The　old　man；　whoever　he　was；　spoke　the　truth。　To　deny　it　would　be　to　lie　in　the　eyes　of　his　own　God　as　well　as　their　gods。
　　
　　The　Bishop　。　。　。　the　vicar；'　the　curate　found　himself　blustering　like　a　guilty　schoolboy　discovered　in　an　empty　mon　room　with　a　cigarette　smouldering　in　an　ashtray。　Protests　only　confirmed　his　guilt　in　the　eyes　of　his　captors。
　　
　　'You　plead　for　mercy　but　your　pleas　are　in　vain；'　Alda　snarled　and　in　one　movement　tossed　the　blazing　branch　amongst　the　brushwood　around　the　Wicker　Man's　feet。　'The　guilt　of　your　fellows　is　also　your　guilt。　Now　you　die　and　so　will　they　if　they　do　not　heed　this　warning！'
　　
　　Philip　Owen　closed　his　eyes；　heard　the　crackling　and　spitting　of　dry　kindling；　smelled　the　woody　smoke　drifting　up　from　beneath　him。　He　coughed；　retched；　tasted　bile；　looked　out　again　through　those　eyeholes　and　saw　the　gathering　half　hidden　by　the　swirling　smoke。　A　noise　reached　his　ears；　a　monotonous　chanting　sound　like　some　kind　of　tuneless　psalm。
　　
　　One　last　determined　effort　at　self…survival；　but　his　muscles　refused　to　respond。　It　was　as　though　his　whole　body　had　been　drugged；　leaving　only　his　mind　free　to　suffer　the　tortures　of　fire。　A　brief　moment　of　sheer　panic　and　after　that　he　did　not　fight　against　the　inevitable　again。　It　was　being　unbearably　hot　in　here　and　no　longer　could　he　see　outside。　His　eyes　streamed　and　smarted　but　he　was　unable　to　close　them。
　　
　　'Yea；　though　I　walk　through　the　valley　of　the　shadow　of　death；　I　will　fear　no　evil　。。。　*　He　wondered　if　he　spoke　aloud　but　it　was　impossible　to　tell　because　that　chanting　outside　had　risen　to　a　deafening　crescendo。　A　shout；　a　word　or　a　name　that　was　recognisable：　'Edda　。　。　。　Edda　。　。　。　Edda
　　
　　Now　he　was　clinging　to　a　frail　thread　of　life；　fighting　to　stay　conscious　even　though　he　yearned　for　the　peace　of　death。　Screaming　because　his　feet　were　beginning　to　smoulder；　smelling　his　own　roasting　flesh　and　being　unable　to　vomit。
　　
　　Then　leaping　flames　and　indescribable　agony；　the　smoky　orange　blackness　enveloping　him　as　his　cassock　caught　fire　and　inferno　roared　its　wrath　like　an　enraged　dragon。
　　
　　And　somewhere；　far　away；　the　Oke　Priests　were　still　chanting。
　　
　　'Edda　。　。　。　Edda　。　。　。　Edda　；　。　；　'
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TWO
　　　
　　BISHOP　BOYCE　wanted　to　vomit　at　the　first　opportunity。　Vicar　Mannering　had　done　so　openly　in　St　Monica's　churchyard　and　the　gathering　of　police　officers　had　not　even　seemed　to　notice。　Yet；　Boyce　told　himself；　it　might　be　all　right　for　a　mere　vicar　to　spew　in　public；　his　plexion　a　greenish　hue；　but　it　was　not　being　for　a　bishop；　the　head　of　the　diocese。　He　gulped；　tasted　the　sharp　acrid　tang　of　bile　in　his　throat；　and　determined　not　to　look　again　at　that　charred；　virtually　unrecognisable　thing　that　lay　in　an　area　of　scorched　grass　between　two　tombstones。　The　one　on　the　right；　that　once…impressive　monument　to　Sir　Henry　Grayne；　looked　as　though　somebody　had　attempted　to　remove　the　lush　growth　of　moss　from　the　marble　with　a　blowtorch。　They　had　only　succeeded　in　rendering　it　to　a　blackened　stump　like　a　giant　decayed　tooth。
　　
　　'You're　sure　this　is　。　。　。　'　the　Detective　Inspector　almost　said；　'〃was〃　。。。　the　Reverend　Owen？'
　　
　　'It's　the　curate；　all　right/　Boyce　turned　away；　took　a　deep　breath　and　hoped　that　he　wouldn't　throw　up。　'I　recognise　the　skull　formation　。　。　。　also　that　ring　he's　wearing。'　The　former　was　a　lie；　no；　more　of　a　guess。　The　latter　was　true。　At　least；　Owen　always　wore　a　signet　ring。
　　
　　'Well；　we'll　have　to　leave　the　C