gns.thedruidconnection-第3部分

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sion　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　CID　chaps　to　scour　this　churchyard。'　The　police　officer　stroked　a　neat　pencil　moustache　and　was　only　too　willing　to　retire　to　the　local　station　and　mence　his　written　report。　Anything　to　get　away　from　that！
　　
　　'I　suppose　。　。　。　*　Boyce　drew　a　deep　breath　and　was　well　aware　how　his　heart　was　pounding　inside　his　fleshy　chest；　'I　suppose　you've　no　idea　。　。　。　I　mean；　how　could　a　body　just　bee　incinerated　like　that？'
　　
　　'I've　no　idea；'　Detective　Inspector　Groome　spoke　abruptly。　'There　does　not　appear　to　have　been　any　fire　except　that　which　consumed　the　body。　Although　the　undergrowth　and　that　adjoining　tomb　are　scorched；　they　aren't　burned。^
　　
　　'Perhaps　he　was　struck　by　lightning；'　Boyce　offered；　habitually　extending　his　tongue　and　licking　a　small　wart　which　grew　on　his　thick　lower　lip。
　　
　　'There　was　no　storm　last　night。'
　　
　　'A　thunderbolt　then。'
　　
　　'Or　the　Hammer　of　Thor；'　the　policeman　said　sarcastically　as　he　turned　away。　'These　boys　will　e　up　with　the　answer　in　due　course；　Bishop。　In　the　meantime　I've　got　work　to　do。　I'll　be　in　touch　with　you。'
　　
　　Bishop　Boyce　stood　there　in　the　lychgate　and　waited　for　his　posure　to　return。　He　was　badly　shaken　but　he　hoped　the　others　had　not　noticed　it。　Certainly　Mannering　hadn't。　If　there　had　been　foul　play　then　it　was　beyond　his　own　ken。　And　that　was　what　really　worried　him。
　　
　　Bishop　Boyce　stood　six　feet；　four…and…a…half　inches　in　his　stockinged　feet。　He'd　gained　a　Blue　at　Oxford　for　rugby　and　had　boxed　well　in　those　far　off　days　when　his　huge　body　had　been　rippling　muscle。　Now；　at　fifty；　that　muscle　had　turned　to　fat；　and　the　small　eyes　which　were　almost　buried　in　the　fleshy　sockets　demanded　that　glasses　be　worn；　rimless　ones　that　gave　him　a　sort　of　owlish　appearance。　His　dark　hair　had　silvered　and　was　thinning　outwards　from　the　crown。　During　his　appearances　at　cathedral　services　his　capacious　robes　hid　the　full　extent　of　his　expanding　stomach；　and　rarely　was　he　to　be　seen　publicly　except　on　diocesan　business。　He　liked　to　think　that　people　described　him　as　'a　big　man'。　Size　was　imposing；　authoritative；　it　dominated　lesser　men。
　　
　　Once　back　in　his　limousine；　his　chauffeur　having　been　instructed　to　return　to　the　palace；　Boyce　pulled　a　cigar　out　of　his　leather　case；　expertly　bit　off　the　end　and　spat　it　through　the　partly　open　window　with　no　small　degree　of　accuracy。　He　drew　the　rich　havana　smoke　down　into　his　lungs　and　expelled　it　slowly。　He　wouldn't　throw　up　now。　Owen　was　dispensable；　as　was　any　mediocre　curate。　Young　men　were　queuing　up　to　join　the　Church；　professing　to　having　received　a　'calling'　because　jobs　were　scarce。　So　they　kidded　the　Church　to　let　them　kid　the　people。　Bloody　fools；　it　was　a　career　just　like　industry　or　banking。　If　you　were　clever　enough　you　got　to　the　top　and　then　other　opportunities　opened　up　to　you　。　。　。　like　that　tract　of　Sand　adjoining　St　Monica's　churchyard。　That　fool　Owen　might　have　had　the　courtesy　to　get　himself　burned　up　somewhere　else。　The　last　thing　the　bishop　wanted　was　for　the　police　to　start　nosing　around　too　much　just　there。
　　
　　Back　at　the　palace　he　moved　swiftly　in　spite　of　his　bulk；　strode　down　the　long　carpeted　corridor　to　his　study　with　an　ease　reminiscent　of　his　athletic　days　at　university。　By　the　time　he　reached　his　desk；　lifted　the　telephone　receiver　off　its　cradle　and　began　to　dial；　his　body　was　damp　with　sweat　but　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　his　recent　exertions。
　　
　　The　call　was　answered　almost　immediately　at　the　other　end；　a　girl's　voice　informing　him　that　he　was　connected　to　the　offices　of　the　county　council。
　　
　　'Get　me　the　Planning　Officer'　he　barked；　and　waited　again；　drumming　his　fingers　nervously　on　the　desktop。
　　
　　'Stone　speaking。'　Clipped　tones　that　reminded　him　of　that　inspector　in　the　cemetery。　Damn　it；　the　police　were　getting　on　his　nerves。
　　
　　'Boyce　here。'　Impatient；　chewing　on　the　soggy　butt　of　that　cigar　which　had　gone　out　on　the　journey　back　here。
　　
　　'Bishop；　why　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Look；　I'll　have　to　be…brie