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A Caress Of Twilight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 217 из 236Kitto stayed near my side, where he'd insisted on being, one hand in mine like a child seeking comfort.
I forced myself to keep looking, to try to figure out what it was about this small man that made me want to cringe. He was a little over two feet tall, his tiny feet making small bumps in the sheet. Something about his body seemed foreshortened, "even though everything was there. His head was a little big for the thin torso. His eyes were large and liquid, far too large for the face. It was as if the eyes were left over from some other face. His nose matched the eyes, but because the rest of the face had receded, the nose looked too large, as well. That was what it looked like, as if his eyes and nose had been left stranded while the rest of his face had grown smaller, meaner, pinched, and wasted.
Nicca moved through the rest of us and held his hand out. "Oh, Bucca, what has become of thee?"
The tiny figure on the bed remained immobile at first. Then, slowly, he raised one small hand on an arm so thin it was like thick string. He laid that tiny pale brown hand against Nicca's strong brown one.
Kitto turned a face shining with tears up to the lights. "Bucca-Dhu, Bucca-Dhu, what are you here?"
I thought at first Kitto had left out a word or two; then I realized he hadn't. He'd asked exactly what he wished to know.
"The two of you know him," Doyle said, making it more statement than question.
Nicca nodded, patting the tiny hand ever so gently. He spoke rapidly in the strangely musical tones of one of the old Celtic tongues. It was too rapid for me to follow, but it wasn't Welsh and it wasn't Scots, Gaelic, or Irish, which still left several dialects, not to mention countries to go.
Kitto joined in, speaking something close to what Nicca spoke, but not exactly — a different dialect or maybe from a different century, like the difference between Middle English and modern English.
I watched Kitto's face, the eagerness, the sorrow. I knew he was very sad to find this man here in this condition, but that was all I could follow.
Doyle spoke in modern English at last. Maybe everyone else had been following just fine, but I had not. "Nicca knew him in a form not so different from this one, but Kitto remembers him as we are now, a sidhe. Bucca was once worshipped as a god."
I looked down at the wizened shape and knew what had made my skin crawl. Those huge brown eyes, that strong, straight nose — they were very like Nicca's.
I forced myself to keep looking, to try to figure out what it was about this small man that made me want to cringe. He was a little over two feet tall, his tiny feet making small bumps in the sheet. Something about his body seemed foreshortened, "even though everything was there. His head was a little big for the thin torso. His eyes were large and liquid, far too large for the face. It was as if the eyes were left over from some other face. His nose matched the eyes, but because the rest of the face had receded, the nose looked too large, as well. That was what it looked like, as if his eyes and nose had been left stranded while the rest of his face had grown smaller, meaner, pinched, and wasted.
Nicca moved through the rest of us and held his hand out. "Oh, Bucca, what has become of thee?"
The tiny figure on the bed remained immobile at first. Then, slowly, he raised one small hand on an arm so thin it was like thick string. He laid that tiny pale brown hand against Nicca's strong brown one.
Kitto turned a face shining with tears up to the lights. "Bucca-Dhu, Bucca-Dhu, what are you here?"
I thought at first Kitto had left out a word or two; then I realized he hadn't. He'd asked exactly what he wished to know.
"The two of you know him," Doyle said, making it more statement than question.
Nicca nodded, patting the tiny hand ever so gently. He spoke rapidly in the strangely musical tones of one of the old Celtic tongues. It was too rapid for me to follow, but it wasn't Welsh and it wasn't Scots, Gaelic, or Irish, which still left several dialects, not to mention countries to go.
Kitto joined in, speaking something close to what Nicca spoke, but not exactly — a different dialect or maybe from a different century, like the difference between Middle English and modern English.
I watched Kitto's face, the eagerness, the sorrow. I knew he was very sad to find this man here in this condition, but that was all I could follow.
Doyle spoke in modern English at last. Maybe everyone else had been following just fine, but I had not. "Nicca knew him in a form not so different from this one, but Kitto remembers him as we are now, a sidhe. Bucca was once worshipped as a god."
I looked down at the wizened shape and knew what had made my skin crawl. Those huge brown eyes, that strong, straight nose — they were very like Nicca's.