The Beauty of the Wolf. Wray Delaney
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Beauty of the Wolf |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Wray Delaney |
| Жанр | Сказки |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Сказки |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008217389 |
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER XXXVIII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XXXIX: THE BEAST
CHAPTER XL: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XLI: THE BEAST
CHAPTER XLII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV: THE BEAST
CHAPTER XLVI: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER LIV
CHAPTER LV
CHAPTER LVI
CHAPTER LVII
CHAPTER LVIII: THE SORCERESS
CHAPTER LIX
CHAPTER LX
CHAPTER LXI
CHAPTER LXII
CHAPTER LXIII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXIV
CHAPTER LXV
CHAPTER LXVI: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXVII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXVIII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXIX
CHAPTER LXX
CHAPTER LXXI
CHAPTER LXXII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXXIII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXXIV: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXXV: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXXVI: THE BEAST
THE BEAUTY OF THE WOLF
CHAPTER LXXVII
CHAPTER LXXVIII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXXIX
CHAPTER LXXX: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXXXI
CHAPTER LXXXII
CHAPTER LXXXIII
CHAPTER LXXXIV
CHAPTER LXXXV: THE BEAST
CHAPTER LXXXVI: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER LXXXVII
CHAPTER LXXXVIII: THE SORCERESS
CHAPTER LXXXIX
CHAPTER XC
CHAPTER XCI
CHAPTER XCII
CHAPTER XCIII: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER XCIV
CHAPTER XCV
CHAPTER XCVI
CHAPTER XCVII
CHAPTER XCVIII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER XCIX: THE BEAUTY
CHAPTER C
CHAPTER CI: THE SORCERESS
CHAPTER CII
CHAPTER CIII: THE BEAST
CHAPTER CIV
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Publisher
When I go musing all alone
Thinking of divers things fore-known.
When I build castles in the air . . .
THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY ROBERT BURTON
I woke when the mighty oak screamed.
No mortal heard the sound those roots made when their weighty grip upon the soil was lost to them. No mortal saw the desperate clawing at the earth, the very life snapping from the trunk as the ground crumbled, shivered with the cacophony of destruction. How could I sleep, tell me, for it had awakened the very rage in me.
My oak trees outlive men by hundreds of years, yet it is these mortals with but a few seasons to their names that claim the wisdom of God in their insect hours upon this earth.
I have no time for sweet, enchanting tales that fool the reader with lies and false promises. Too long I have lived and seen, and seen yet never said, been counselled strong to leave off the telling of my tale. What care have I for such timid sentiments? Let the Devil make his judgment.
Do you not know me? I was born from the womb of the earth, nursed with the milk of the moon. Flame gave me three bodies, one soul. In between lies my invisibility. I am the maiden, the mother, the crone, in all I am one. You think that I am unlike you. Look again. I am the dark side of the glass, proud to own my power for good or for ill.
My sorcery, unlike your malcontent prayers, cannot be undone. I relish my powers to shift my shape without boundaries, to move freely between the holy trinity of women. No church would ever make me give up my body in all its lustful glory to a fleshless lord. For what purpose? To be tamed, to live in servitude, to be robbed of my mystery?
Why then should I remain silent just when the mortal world has decided to overthrow magic in favour of religion and rational thought? When our ways are about to be sacrificed to the Lord of Despair, he whose feet never touched this earth of mine?
I could have dreamed my way through such lunacy, deep under my trees, wrapped safe in darkling sleep and all that happened would never have happened. For the loss of one oak tree I put my curse on he who claimed my church, who had the arrogance to fell my cathedral. I might have forgiven him one of my glorious, bejewelled treasures, but Francis Thursby, Earl of Rodermere, would have none of it. Foolish jester. He had no idea at whom he jangled his bells.