Pawn of Prophecy (Anglais) Poche – 13 janvier 1986
|Neuf à partir de||Occasion à partir de|
Produits fréquemment achetés ensemble
Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté
Descriptions du produit
The first thing the boy Garion remembered was the kitchen at Faldor’s farm. For all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and, above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that all his memories began in that kitchen.
The kitchen at Faldor’s farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces. There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking movements of long, curved knives. When Garion was very small, he played under those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from un- der the feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and harmony with all the world around him.
The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pol. She seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pol. She knew by smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew precisely where Garion was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.
As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch until she seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to watching for his next chance to run away again.
He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was quite the most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than the other women on Faldor’s farm—very nearly as tall as a man—and her face was always serious—even stern—except with him, of course. Her hair was long and very dark—almost black—all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then he would sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching over him.
Faldor’s farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty kingdom bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Faldor’s farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Faldor himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall where his workers assembled three times a day—sometimes four during harvest time—to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol’s kitchen.
All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways he was more like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his freeholding. He ate with them—which was unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers—and his presence at the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Fal- dor was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt Pol and her helpers had placed before them.
Because of Faldor’s good heart—and the magic of Aunt Pol’s deft fingers—the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Faldor’s dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at descriptions of one of Aunt Pol’s roasted geese, and the fame of Faldor’s farm spread wide throughout the district.
The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the smith. As Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pol’s watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that came from Durnik’s forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Durnik was an ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of Sendaria. At first Durnik’s only words to Garion were warnings to keep his fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time, however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.
“Always finish what you set your hand to,” he would advise. “It’s bad for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is needful.”
“Why is that?” Garion would ask.
Durnik would shrug. “It just is.”
“Always do the very best job you can,” he said on another occasion as he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he was repairing.
“But that piece goes underneath,” Garion said. “No one will ever see it.”
“But I know it’s there,” Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. “If it isn’t done as well as I can do it, I’ll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go by—and I’ll see the wagon every day.”
And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the small boy in those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and practicality which formed the backbone of the society.
At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion’s attraction to the smithy with its obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion’s safety as she was herself, and she became less concerned.
“If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away,” she told the smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy to be patched, “or tell me, and I’ll keep him closer to the kitchen.”
“He’s no bother, Mistress Pol,” Durnik said, smiling. “He’s a sensible boy and knows enough to keep out of the way.”
“You’re too good-natured, friend Durnik,” Aunt Pol said. “The boy is full of questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out.”
“That’s the way of boys,” Durnik said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the small clay ring he’d placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. “I was questionsome myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl, the smith who taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I’d repay them poorly if I didn’t have the same patience with Garion.”
Garion, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from the smithy. As Aunt Pol walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the yard toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Durnik watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.
“Aunt Pol,” he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a rough cloth.
“Yes?” she said, turning her attention to his neck.
“Why don’t you marry Durnik?”
She stopped washing. “What?” she asked.
“I think it would be an awfully good idea.”
“Oh, do you?” Her voice had a slight edge to it, and Garion knew he was on dangerous ground.
“He likes you,” he said defensively.
“And I suppose you’ve already discussed this with him?”
“No,” he said. “I thought I’d talk to you about it first.”
“At least that was a good idea.”
“I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you’d like.”
His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pol, Garion felt, found his ears far too convenient.
“Don’t you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Durnik or anyone else,” she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen there before.
“It was only a thought,” he said quickly.
“A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups.” She was still holding his ear.
“Anything you say,” he agreed hastily.
Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he approached the problem obliquely.
“Since you don’t want to marry Durnik, who do you want to marry?”
“Garion,” she said.
“Close your mouth and go to sleep.”
“I think I’ve got a right to know,” he said in an injured tone.
“All right. I’m going to sleep, but I don’t think you’re being very fair about all this.”
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Revue de presse
Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre adresse e-mail ou numéro de téléphone mobile.
Détails sur le produit
En savoir plus sur l'auteur
Leigh Eddings, son épouse, qui avait commencé une carrière dans l'armée de l'air, collaborait depuis toujours à ses romans. Elle s'occupait plus particulièrement des personnages féminins et de la fin des romans ! Et cela fonctionnait à merveille puisque David Eddings est best-seller depuis 20 ans aux USA et a également déclenché une véritable passion à l'étranger, notamment en France avec ses deux cycles cultes : La Belgariade et La Mallorée.
Le célèbre couple-roi de la fantasy a de nouveau figuré sur les listes des best-sellers avec Le Réveil des anciens dieux, premier volume de la tétralogie Les Rêveurs.
Leigh Eddings s'est éteinte en février 2007 à l'âge de 69 ans, suivi en 2009 par son époux âgé de soixante-dix-sept ans.
Dans ce livre(En savoir plus)
Quels sont les autres articles que les clients achètent après avoir regardé cet article?
Commentaires en ligne
Meilleurs commentaires des clients
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
The sorcerers in question are Belgarath and his daughter Polgara. Both are fiercely determined and wield sarcasm even better than they do spells. Danger threatens and a priceless artifact is stolen. They take Garion on the road with them and the boy of 14 going on fifteen gets a whirlwind tour of his world as Belgarath and Polgara first chase the artifact and then confront the council of the Alorn kings. While this is hardly children's fiction it spends the time to visit Garion's all too human confusion and fears. His guardians are slow to explain things to him and like any adolescent of that age; Garion deeply resents being treated like a child and craves more attention than anyone has time to give him. But he copes, and we gradually will come to understand that he is more than just a frustrated whiner.
Eddings' strength is his talent for character building and sharp dialog. The basic plot isn't all that original, but the characters make everything come to life. You won't find extended paroxysms of ornate prose here. Eddings' people are irascible with the whole slew of human foibles and good points. The writer dotes on them, and despite the complex plot. There are long periods of small gestures and political nuance.
This particular series, the Belgariad, is probably the best of Eddings' work. As time goes on he does recycle bits and character types. But any writer who counts 20 large volumes as output will do this, and I've seen far worse work done with much more fanfare. If you like pointed dialog and narrative in a book that frequently forgets to take itself seriously you will find this series will quickly steal both your interest and your heart. David Eddings may not be the next Tolkien, but is the next David Eddings, and that's quite good enough.
I bought it, thinking that when I just want some
cheap, easy reading book, I'd have something to read.
As I began it, I was very scepticle about the whole
thing. The writing, I must say, wasn't the best I'd
seen in my life, and the setting remained constantly
in the backround, never a key element of the book, and
not well described. So, in the beginning, I was
getting exactly what I expected. Then, about 50 pages
in, it suddenly became interesting. I got caught up in
the plot so fully that, when I didn't really feel like
reading, I found the book in my hands and I was
rushing through the pages.
The plot comes close to making up for the quality of the
writing. The plot is the perfect example of why I
started reading fantasy books in the first place. It
starts out with focussing on a young boy called
Garion, who lives on a very successful farm owned by a
man called Farmer Faldor. Garion was orphaned as a
child, so he remains in the care of his only known
relative Aunt Pol, the chief cook of the farm. One
day, an old, wandering storyteller shows up at
Faldor's Farm. It turns out that Aunt Pol and the old
man knew each other from long ago, and the old man
takes her and Garion along with him on some mysterious
quest which Garion is left in the dark about for most
of the book. They left, joining up with several
companions, then went off in search of an unknown
person who has stolen an unknown object of importance
which must be recovered at all costs....
Really, this wouldn't be held together by itself; the plot was helped out greatly by the characters. I think that the characters were simply amazing. They were all so realistic, though sometimes maybe a bit too perfect, and all of them developed naturally as the story progressed. The characters combined with the plot just about make up for the writing and setting.
I would recommend this book to anybody who likes fantasy books. It's an easy book, so even younger people could read it and enjoy it.
*please give me feedback: helpful, or not?*
I have seen several previous reviewers complain about the predictable storyline and lack of intricacy in the plot. And hey, I agree. These books are NOT written to be complex; they are written to be FUN. I have read the Belgariad and Mallorean more times than I can count, and they are both extremely enjoyable, and at times, touching. Eddings has a flair for writing dialogue that brings his characters to life. On the downside, those characters are mostly static, and rarely change - their personality types are set in stone, and their interactions are almost always the same. Occasionally, however, Eddings will surprise us and reveal a facet of a character's personality that we have not previously seen.
This particular book is actually a bit slow, and not really all that much Cool Stuff (TM) happens. In the second book and onwards, Eddings describes the magic and lands of his world, and I must say that they are both extremely interesting.
If you are looking for a deep, intricately woven plot that has turns within turns, I would suggest picking up Tad Williams' Memory, Sorrow and Thorn trilogy or George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire series. If, however, you are looking for a rollicking, fun adventure then I can wholeheartedly suggest the Belgariad, starting with Pawn of Prophecy.
I first read the series about eight years ago (I was 15) and I still remember the sheer joy in reading that I discovered with these books. I remember more than one night that I picked up one of these books and just couldn't put them down. Not just one either. Those nights I failed to notice the clock tick past midnight, one, and two. I couldn't help picking up the next book "just to read the first few pages." At the same time though, I desperately wanted to slow down, to drag out the feeling, but I couldn't help but read a little more. Reaching the end was a truly painful experience.
Since then I've read the series several more times, and every time I rediscover that joy. I hope others are as gifted by these books as I have been.