"Могучий посох" (на англ. яз.)
"Я не знаю зачем и кому это нужно..."
:) :)
Но я недавно перечитал один рассказик, который начал писать года полтора тому назад. Тогда был ажиотаж вокруг "Властелина колец", а я с детства (с 1976 г., если точно, с момента издания "Хоббита") любил Толкина, но потом разлюбил, когда пошла вся эта шумиха в конце 80-х, начале 90-х.
Потом, когда я уже посмотрел первый фильм, я прочитал-таки трилогию на английском языке, для галочки. Заинтересовавшись хоббитами-гномами по-новому, я полез в Интернет и, как нетрудно догадаться, через некоторое время нашёл кучу дурацких порнографических историй, большинство которых было гомосексуальной направленности (так как в LOTR дофига мужиков и мало баб, наверное). Почему-то по-английски они назывались "slash-stories". Я спросил про этот термин на одном сайте. Ну и пошёл разговор "раз такие дурацкие, тебе слабо самому написать?" Я решил написать, но не порно, а пародию. Потом я как-то очень утомился писать, тем более на иностранном языке, и пародия пресеклась едва начавшись.
Тем не менее, кому интересно, могут почитать. Вдруг кому-то покажется это забавным.
Вначале там очень много загрузочных и излишне цветистых мест, но ближе к концу есть интересное описание того как Гэндальф орудует своим посохом.
Может быть, я ещё продолжу эту историю и напишу что-нибудь про маленького толстенького и бородатенького гнома и как он смирился с существованием посоха рядом с собой.
===========================
The Mighty Staff
or
The Adventures of Ye Olde Lewd Buffer
(Here, there and back again from the rear yard door)
I
Far, far away, in the distant northern lands, of which the spring barely came into possession, all the nature rejoiced the first pink glimpses of welcoming sun. It was only several days before that the new grass had crept out from the underground and now the sprouts were already boasting their bright green blades before the more sombre shrubs and trees. But the several birches and oaks had their time to produce small and feeble leaves from the buds; their fragrant catkins exhaled the smell that made flies, bugs and beetles fly, crawl and jump madly in all directions. And the pines on the nearby hills had never shed their needles, of course.
A young thrush was sitting on the lower branch of the birch that stood close by a small brook. He had returned home from the first long journey in his life and he could not conceal his excitement. There were troubles and cares yet to be soon in his life, as well as another sort of excitement, but for the time being he could revel in the most plain pleasures of life. An old crow watched him disapprovingly from his usual place on a dark grey mossy stone and then made an awkward jump, flapped his wings heavily and flew away.
Had you had a time (and had you been there) you would have noticed a lot of animals swarming in the woods and meadows. There were grass snakes creeping along on their business, there were silent fishes in the pools and brooks. Squirrels were jumping from tree to tree, moles were digging holes in the ground, and rabbits... well, rabbits also did whatever they were supposed to do.
But the only spectator of this natural abundance was an old man who happened to pass by. He seemed not to notice much of the outer world around him and was rather submerged in the inner world of his thoughts. A tall pointed blue hat and a silver scarf covered his face so only the bushy eyebrows and a long white beard were distinctly visible. Wrapped in a grey cloak he strode along a path with the help of a pale wooden staff, but his confident movements could not hide an inner force of his seemingly weak body.
Nevertheless now and there he cast a glance around him and a slight smile ran through his face. Everything was so fascinating — this breeze, this smell of fresh grass and leaves, the singing of birds and buzzing of flies. The coming spring filled his heart with new expectations. What may be more usual for an aged man than a season changing? Yet each time it is like a beginning of a new life, when nothing is determined, no wrong is done, no mistake is made.
But what was there, a sound of metal clinking? This was the sound that none of the animals could produce. As far as he knew life, it could hardly be a blacksmith who fancied to stroll in the wood and to take his daily job with him. The old man hastened to climb a small hill near the brook and looked down in a little dell from where this sound emerged. What he saw there made all the joy vanish from his heart.
Near the far steep end of the dell a dozen of men were fighting with each other. Or rather with one of them. The old man looked at him more intently and saw that it was not a man but a dwarf in the red leather jacket and rusty mail with whom others were fighting. His scarlet axe swished around him like a scythe in the hands of a hard-working farmer but a dozen to one was too much even for a skilled dwarf. The others were a riff-raff of the rogues in black shabby coats and pirates with black and red scarves around their necks (the coast of Western Sea was not far away from there). But the way they brandished their swords and cutlasses suggested that some of them received more regular military training than a mere vagabond is supposed to get in these parts.
‘Stay away, ye impudent rascals!’ roared an old man with unusually forceful voice.
All involved in the fighting, including the dwarf, stopped for a little and cast a glance on this strange old man. But after a moment the battle was resumed. Only the smallest of the rogues spat on the ground and said with crooked smile on his crooked face:
‘Mind yer own business, gaffer, and we may spare yer life after we've done in this stupid midget!’
‘Then don’t say I haven’t warned you!’ said the old man, but nobody heeded his words anymore.
--------вот оно, описание боевых действий посохом -----------
All of a sudden the old man drew himself up to his full height and stretched his arms. The folds of his grey cloak threw open and snow-white robes became visible under them. Then he brought his straightened hands together before him, gripping the staff with both of them. The staff seemed to have changed in colour as well in size; it looked as if a kind of inner energy filled the whole of its structure. The pale pinkish glow spread all along its length culminating at the bulbous head. The impression was that the hands of its owner hardly held this stick, so vivid, so vibrant and so ready to spring out.
The face of the old man was now stern and strict, but nonetheless beautiful in its severity. The blast of a wind scattered about his strands of gray hair and the beads of sweat came out on his forhead. The strange and vibrant sounds of unknown language issued from his lips and the slopes of the dell echoed with dull thumps. All the rogues and the dwarf stopped fighting and stood still motionless in awe, listening to this ominous incantation.
‘Dalath than atgaggandin imma af fairgunja…’
Each syllable was louder and more distinct than the previous one, until the voice was roused to a deafening pitch, but the end of the phrase was pronounced as if the old man fell short in breath and hardly could endure the tension himself. At this point the body of the old man strained, his staff jerked in his hands, and white jets of smoke sputtered out from its head. They whirled in the air a little and swooped down on the rogues with hissing noise. The rogues and pirates threw their weapons and took to flight, scattering in different directions, their heads hiding in the puffs of gauze. The small rogue fell on the ground and was waving his arms and legs desperately. His face had grown unnaturally red and he was coughing as if he was going to vomit his intestines inside out. The hot jets got into his clothes and made his body twitching.
The dwarf lay on his back and clutched his axe; the only movement was the movement of his eyes when he saw the jets of smoke wavering around him in the air. They were flying close but they didn’t touch him.
The old wizard — everyone had to admit now that he was a wizard — stood for a while panting and leaning on his staff, which now seemed dwindled. He didn’t paid attention to the havoc he made. Then he wrapped himself up in his grey cloak and went down the slope. The small rogue jumped on his feet, let out a shriek of utmost horror and dashed away. The dwarf didn’t utter a word, he only cowered back and frowned when the wizard came closer.
“I hope those bastards won’t get back here for a while”, said the wizard, “So you may safely continue your journey or whatever it was. Since the only way is for the town of Leatherton in the North, this is your destination, I reckon. We could travel there together, if you don’t mind.”
The dwarf stood up and shook off the dust from his jacket. His blue eyes kept piercing the old man with suspecting and distrustful look.
“I humbly thank you for what you have done, good stranger, but we dwarves are a bit of mistrustful folk and don’t make an easy company. ‘Never take up with strangers, unless you or they are going to be sorry for that’ my father used to say; the wise dwarf he was.”
“Then let us be introduced to each other and we’ll be no strangers anymore”, said the wizard. “I am known under many names, but the most common one is Gandalf in these parts.”
“Balin, son of Fundin”, said the dwarf and made a low bow. After a while he added “at your service” as it was in the custom of dwarves.
“I’ll graciously ask for that if I’ll need one, the son of the most cautious father” answered Gandalf.
This unsuspected answer confused Balin and he stood a little, not knowing whether he should say something pleasant or feel offended; but after a thought he came to a conclusion that is the way of wizards who always like to muddle simple folk and that he should better pay no attention to his tricks.
With the help of his staff Gandalf had already climbed up the slope and turned to see Balin who was going up with some difficulty, not having recovered from the physical exertion of the fight. The old man extended his staff, as if proposing the dwarf to get hold of it, but Balin twitched as if in horror; he raised and waved both hands and nearly fell down on his back. Gandalf said nothing, but a hint of laughter sparkled in his eyes and the barely noticeable smile flashed on his face.
=================================
Пока что конец.
:sad:
