Doctor Who The Tomb of Valdemar Simon Messingham

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.Such abstract concepts as beauty are entirely unknown to Ponch and his cronies.However, some ancient, long-buried race memory remains sufficiently embedded for him to realise that this hag must once have been beautiful.He clutches the idol of Janua, weighted on a string around his throat.„So it comes to this,‟ the old woman says in a rich, rounded voice.It must be the camr‟ale but something in that voice speaks to Ponch of faraway places, of lives distant and denser than his scratching existence.A subtone so delicate he lacks the vocabulary to interpret it.„Watch your tongue, hag,‟ snaps bearded Ofrin, a giant trapper known for his extreme viciousness in a place where viciousness is always extreme.„If you want to keep it.‟The old woman turns upon Ofrin a gaze of such withering intensity that even he pales, and sinks down to his drink.„I have come a long way to talk to you,‟ she says.„Further than you can imagine.‟„What does that mean?‟ asks Ponch, feeling his guts churn.How could an old woman make him feel so uneasy, so small?„You will learn.‟Ofrin points a shaky finger.„Perhaps you mean to steal our furs.‟There is a general slamming of tankards on benches at this.Ofrin has crossed the line.One does not speak of the furs in this way.Not out in the open.„Where did you say you were from?‟ asks Ponch again, captivated by this woman.„I didn‟t.‟ Once more, the gaze turns to him.„I like you,‟ she says.„You still have something.Ponch.‟Cause for general hilarity.Ponch is hot.He cools himself in the camr‟ale.„Where have you come from? The tribe beyond the mountains?‟More general hilarity.All remember the settlement beyond the mountains.How two seasons ago they marched over and burned it to the ground.„Not exactly.You could say I come from the sky.‟„That‟s stupid.‟„Really? Any more stupid than believing the sky is a liquid wherein the clouds hang suspended?‟„It is! Woman, you are mad.Begone!‟ Someone hurls a tankard.Its foaming trajectory arcs towards her head.Quickly, quicker than light, the woman raises an arm and her browned fingers grip the cup as if it has found its natural resting place.The liquid within does not move.The Janua Foris is silent.Carved icons of their god stare impassively.It is as if the woman is looking into Ponch, into all of them.He knows she can see his soul, that she knows all that he is.„Who are you?‟ he whispers, feeling for the first time that he is in the presence of something, someone, greater than himself.Greater than the world.„Gentlemen,‟ she whispers, still with that enigmatic smile touching her lips.„I‟m someone who‟s come to tell you a story.The most important story you‟ll ever hear.That‟s who I am.And you are my audience.I am going to tell you the story of Valdemar.‟Ponch freezes, he knows not why.It is as if a black breath has blown over the tavern.He notes how the others are crossing themselves.He can‟t think why but he does it himself.„Why does that trouble you?‟ she asks.„What could you possibly know of Valdemar?‟„Don‟t say that name!‟ shrieks Ponch.„Just.don‟t say it.‟„Aye, keep it shut,‟ growls Ofrin.The old woman shrugs, and smiles again.„I can‟t very well tell you the story unless I do mention the name.It‟s a major component.‟„It‟s a made-your-component,‟ comes a mocking voice from the back.„We don‟t want to hear your stupid story anyway.‟„Aye, whoever made money out of telling stories?‟The woman pauses, taking in the crowd.Ponch knows that despite himself he‟ll do whatever she wants.She makes him feel sad, makes him feel he has missed out on so much.That his life up to now has meant so little.„I‟m going to tell you and you‟re going to listen.Partly because.well, to be honest, I‟m dying and I want to do this thing before the end, but mainly because it‟s in your interest.It‟s time for the blinkers to come off.Because you will learn.‟„I‟ll tell you who Valdemar is.Or was.Are you sitting comfortably?‟There is a rush for the bar.„Is it true then, this story?‟ Ponch is interested, at least for tonight.It‟s better than killing each other.A chorus of tankards slams on to the bench.He‟s not the only one.„Pretty much.Although I have taken it upon myself to improvise when the occasion demands.‟„You‟ve told it before then?‟„More than you can imagine.Look.‟ From the folds of her fur coat, the woman produces a small, soft rectangle of leaves.Ponch sees her face wince in aged effort.„This is a book.‟„Book?‟„Of stories [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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