tp.wyrd sisters-第17节

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！


　'But　he　seems　bright　enough；'　said　Mrs　Vitoller；　who　was　travelling　inside　the　latty　and　darning　the　chain　mail。　'He　knows　what　things　are。　He　does　what　he's　told。　I　just　wish　you'd　speak；'　she　said　softly；　patting　the　boy　on　the　cheek。
　Hwel　gave　the　apple　to　Tomjon；　who　accepted　it　gravely。
　'I　reckon　them　witches　did　you　a　bad　turn；　missus；'　said　the　dwarf。　'You　know。　Changelings　and　whatnot。　There　used　to　be　a　lot　of　that　sort　of　thing。　My　great…great…grandmother　said　it　was　done　to　us；　once。　The　fairies　swapped　a　human　and　a　dwarf。　We　never　realised　until　he　started　banging　his　head　on　things；　they　say…'
　
　'They　say　this　fruit　be　like　unto　the　world
So　sweet。　Or　like；　say　I；　the　heart　of　man
So　red　without　and　yet　within；　unclue'd；
We　find　the　worm；　the　rot；　the　flaw。
However　glows　his　bloom　the　bite
Proves　many　a　man　be　rotten　at　the　core。'
　
　The　two　of　them　swivelled　around　to　stare　at　Tomjon；　who　nodded　to　them　and　proceeded　to　eat　the　apple。
　'That　was　the　Worm　speech　from　The　Tyrant；'　whispered　Hwel。　His　normal　grasp　of　the　language　temporarily　deserted　him。　'Bloody　hell；'　he　said。
　'But　he　sounded　just　like…'
　'I'm　going　to　get　Vitoller；'　said　Hwel；　and　dropped　off　the　tailboard　and　ran　through　the　frozen　puddles　to　the　front　of　die　convoy；　where　the　actor…manager　was　whistling　tunelessly　and；　yes；　strolling。
　'What　ho；　b'zugda…hiara＇8＇；'　he　said　cheerfully。
　'You've　got　to　e　at　once！　He's　talking！'
　Talking？'
　Hwel　jumped　up　and　down。　'He's　quoting！'　he　shouted。　'You've　got　to　e！　He　sounds　just　like…'
　'Me？'　said　Vitoller；　a　few　minutes　later；　after　they　had　pulled　the　lattys　into　a　grove　of　leafless　trees　by　the　roadside。　'Do　I　sound　like　that？'
　'Yes；'　chorused　the　pany。
　Young　Willikins；　who　specialised　in　female　roles；　prodded　Tomjon　gently　as　he　stood　on　an　upturned　barrel　in　the　middle　of　the　clearing。
　'Here；　boy；　do　you　know　my　speech　from　Please　Yourself！'　he　said。
　Tomjon　nodded。　'　〃He　is　not　dead；　I　say；　who　lies　beneath　the　stone。　For　if　Death　could　but　hear…〃　'
　They　listened　in　awed　silence　as　the　endless　mists　rolled　across　the　dripping　fields　and　the　red　ball　of　the　sun　floated　down　the　sky。　When　the　boy　had　finished　hot　tears　were　streaming　down　Hwel's　face。
　'By　all　the　gods；'　he　said；　when　Tomjon　had　finished；　'I　must　have　been　on　damn　good　form　when　I　wrote　that。'　He　blew　his　nose　noisily。
　'Do　I　sound　like　that？'　said　Willikins；　his　face　pale。
　Vitoller　patted　him　gently　on　the　shoulder。
　'If　you　sounded　like　that；　my　bonny；'　he　said；　'you　wouldn't　be　standing　arse…deep　in　slush　in　the　middle　of　these　forsaken　fields；　with　nothing　but　liberated　cabbage　for　thy　tea。'
　He　clapped　his　hands。
　'No　more；　no　more；'　he　said；　his　breath　making　puffs　of　steam　in　the　freezing　air。　'Backs　to　it；　everybody。　We　must　be　outside　the　walls　of　Sto　Lat　by　sunset。'
　As　the　grumbling　actors　awoke　from　the　spell　and　wandered　back　to　the　shafts　of　the　lattys　Vitoller　beckoned　to　the　dwarf　and　put　his　arm　around　his　shoulders；　or　rather　around　the　top　of　his　head。
　'Well？'　he　said。　'You　people　know　all　about　magic；　or　so　it　is　said。　What　do　you　make　of　it？'
　'He　spends　all　his　time　around　the　stage；　master。　It's　only　natural　that　he　should　pick　things　up；'　said　Hwel　vaguely。
　Vitoller　leaned　down。
　'Do　you　believe　that？'
　'I　believe　I　heard　a　voice　that　took　my　doggerel　and　shaped　it　and　fired　it　back　through　my　ears　and　straight　into　my　heart；'　said　Hwel　simply。　'I　believe　I　heard　a　voice　that　got　behind　the　crude　shape　of　the　words　and　said　the　things　I　had　meant　them　to　say；　but　had　not　the　skill　to　achieve。　Who　knows　where　such　things　e　from？'
　He　stared　impassively　into　Vitoller's　red　face。　'He　may　have　inherited　it　from　his　father；'　he　said。
　'But…'
　'And　who　knows　what　witches　may　achieve？'　said　the　dwarf。
　Vitoller　felt　his　wife's　hand　pushed　into　his。　As　he　stood　up；　bewildered　and　angry；　she　kissed　him　on　the　back　of　the　neck。
　'Don't　torture　yourself；'　she　said。　'Isn't　it　all　for　the　best？　Your　son　has　declaimed　his　first　word。'
　
　Spring　came；　and　ex…King　Verence　still　wasn't　taking　being　dead　lying　down。　He　prowled　the　castle　relentlessly；　seeking　for　a　way　in　which　its　ancient　stones　would　release　their　grip　on　him。
　He　was　also　trying　to　keep　out　of　the　way　of　the　other　ghosts。
　Champot　was　all　right；　if　a　bit　tiresome。　But　Verence　had　backed　away　at　the　first　sight　of　the　Twins；　toddling　hand　in　hand　along　the　midnight　corridors；　their　tiny　ghosts　a　memorial　to　a　deed　darker　even　than　the　usual　run　of　regicidal　unpleasantness。
　And　then　there　was　the　Troglodyte　Wanderer；　a　rather　faded　monkeyman　in　a　furry　loincloth　who　apparently　happened　to　haunt　the　castle　merely　because　it　had　been　built　on　his　burial　mound。　For　no　obvious　reason　a　chariot　with　a　screaming　woman　in　it　occasionally　rumbled　through　the　laundry　room。　As　for　the　kitchen　。　。　。
　One　day　he'd　given　in；　despite　everything　old　Champot　had　said；　and　had　followed　the　smells　of　cooking　into　the　big；　hot；　high　domed　cavern　that　served　the　castle　as　kitchen　and　abattoir。　Funny　thing；　that。　He'd　never　been　down　there　since　his　childhood。　Somehow　kings　and　kitchens　didn't　go　well　together。
　It　was　full　of　ghosts。
　But　they　weren't　human。　They　weren't　even　proto…human。
　They　were　stags。　They　were　bullocks。　They　were　rabbits；　and　pheasants；　and　partridges；　and　sheep；　and　pigs。　There　were　even　some　round　blobby　things　that　looked　unpleasantly　like　the　ghosts　of　oysters。　They　were　packed　so　tightly　that　in　fact　they　merged　and　mingled；　turning　the　kitchen　into　a　silent；　jostling　nightmare　of　teeth　and　fur　and　horns；　half…seen　and　misty。　Several　noticed　him；　and　there　was　a　weird　blarting　of　noises　that　sounded　far…off；　tinny　and　unpleasantly　out　of　register。　Through　them　all　the　cook　and　his　assistants　wandered　quite　unconcernedly；　making　vegetarian　sausages。
　Verence　had　stared　for　half　a　minute　and　then　fled；　wishing　that　he　still　had　a　real　stomach　so　that　he　could　stick　his　fingers　down　his　throat　for　forty　years　and　bring　up　everything　he'd　eaten。
　He'd　sought　solace　in　the　stables；　where　his　beloved　hunting　dogs　had　whined　and　scratched　at　the　door　and　had　generally　been　very　ill…at…ease　at　his　sensed　but　unseen　presence。
　Now　he　haunted　…　and　how　he　hated　the　word　…　the　Long　Gallery；　where　paintings　of　long…dead　kings　looked　down　at　him　from　the　dusty　shadows。　He　would　have　felt　a　lot　more　kindly　towards　them　if　he　hadn't　met　a　number　of　them　gibbering　in　various　parts　of　the　premises。
　Verence　had　decided　that　he　had　two　aims　in　death。　One　was　to　get　out　of　the　castle　and　find　his　son；　and　the　other　was　to　get　his　revenge　on　the　duke。　But　not　by　killing　him；　he'd　decided；　even　if　he　could　find　a　way；　because　an　eternity　in　that　giggling　idiot's　pany　would　lend　a　new　terror　to　death。
　He　sat　under　a　painting　of　Queen　Bemery　（670…722）；　whose　rather　stern　good　looks　he　would　have　felt　a　whole　lot　happier　about　if　he　hadn't　seen　her　earlier　that　morning　walking　through　the　wall。
　Verence　tried　to　avoid　walking　through　walls。　A　man　had　his　dignity。
　He　became　aware　that　he　was　being　watched。
　He　turned　his　head。
　There　was　a　cat　sitting　in　the　doorway；　subjecting　him　to　a　slow　blink。　It　was　a　mottled　grey　and　extremely　fat　。　。　。
　No。　It　was　extremely　big。　It　was　covered　with　so　much　scar　tissue　that　it　looked　like　a　fist　with　fur　on　it。　Its　ears　were　a　couple　of　perforated　stubs；　its　eyes　two　yellow　slits　of　easygoing　malevolence；　its　tail　a　twitching　series　of　question　marks　as　it　stared　at　him。
　Greebo　had　heard　that　Lady　Felmet　had　a　small　white　female　cat　and　had　strolled　up　to　pay　his　respects。
　Verence　had　never　seen　an　animal　with　so　much　built…in　villainy。　He　didn't　resist　as　it　waddled　across　the　floor　and　tried　to　rub　itself　against　his　legs；　purring　like　a　waterfall。
　'Well；　well；'　said　the　king；　vaguely。　He　reached　down　and　made　an　effort　to　scratch　it　behind　the　two　ragged　bits　on　top　of　its　head。　It　was　a　relief　to　find　someone　else　besides　another　ghost　who　could　see　him；　and　Greebo；　he　couldn't　help　feeling；　was　a　distinctly　unusual　cat。　Most　of　the　castle　cats　were　either　pampered　pets　or　flat…eared　kitchen　and　stable　habitue's　who　generally　resembled　the　very　rodents　they　lived　on。　This　cat；　on　the　other　hand；　was　its　own　animal。　All　cats　give　that　impression；　of　course；　but　instead　of　the　mindless　animal　self…absorption　that　passes　for　secret　wisdom　in　the　creatures。　Greebo　radiated　genuine　intelligence。　He　also　radiated　a　smell　that　would　have　knocked　over　a　wall　and　caused　sinus　trouble　in　a　dead　fox。
　Only　one　type　of　person　kept　a　cat　like　this。
　The　king　tried　to　hunker　down；　and　found　he　was　sinking　slightly　into　the　floor。　He　pulled　himself　together　and　drifted　upwards。　Once　a　man　allowed　himself　to　go　native　in　the　ethereal　world　there　would　be　no　hope　for　him；　he　felt。
　Only　close　relatives　and　the　psychically　inclined；　Death　had　said。　There　weren't　many　of　either　in　the　castle。　The　duke　qualified　under　the　first　heading；　but　his　relentless　self…interest　made　him　about　as　psychically　useful　as　a　carrot。　As　for　the　rest；　only　the　cook　and　the　Fool　seemed　to　qualify；　but　the　cook　spent　a　lot　of　his　time　w