按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
gly 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 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 c