Lord Foul's Bane

Seven: Lena

ALONE in the night-alone because he could not share the spontaneous embracing impulse of the Stonedown-Covenant felt suddenly trapped, threatened. A pressure of darkness cramped his lungs; he could not seem to get enough air. A leper's claustrophobia was on him, a leper's fear of crowds, of unpredictable behaviour. Berek! he panted with mordant intensity. These people wanted him to be a hero. With a stiff jerk of repudiation, he swung away from the gathering, went stalking in high dudgeon between the houses as if the Stonedownors had dealt him a mortal insult.

Berek! His chest heaved at the thought. Wild magic! It was ridiculous. Did not these people know he was a leper? Nothing could be less possible for him than the kind of heroism they saw in Berek Halfhand.

But Lord Foul had said, He intends you to be my final foe. He chose you to destroy me.

In stark dismay, he glimpsed the end toward which the path of the dream might be leading him; he saw himself drawn ineluctably into a confrontation with the Despiser.

He was trapped. Of course he could not play the hero in some dream war. He could not forget himself that much; forgetfulness was suicide. Yet he could not escape this dream without passing through it, could not return to reality without awakening. He knew what would happen to him if he stood still and tried to stay sane. Already, only this far from the lights of the gathering, he felt dark night beating toward him, circling on broad wings out of the sky at his head.

He lurched to a halt, stumbled to lean against a wall, caught his forehead in his hands.

I can't-he panted. All his hopes that this Land might conjure away his impotence, heal his sore heart somehow, fell into ashes.

Can't go on.

Can't stop.

What's happening to me?

Abruptly, he heard steps running toward him. He jumped erect, and saw Lena hurrying to join him. The swing of her graveling pot cast mad shadows across her figure as she moved. In a few more strides, she slowed, then stopped, holding her pot so that she could see him clearly. “Thomas Covenant?” she asked tentatively. “Are you not well?”

“No,” he lashed at her, “I'm not well. Nothing's well, and it hasn't been since”- the words caught in his throat for an instant “since I was divorced.” He glared at her, defying her to ask what a divorce was.

The way she held her light left most of her face in darkness; he could not see how she took his outburst. But some inner sensitivity seemed to guide her. When she spoke, she did not aggravate his pain with crude questions or condolences. Softly, she said, “I know a place where you may be alone.”

He nodded sharply. Yes! He felt that his distraught nerves were about to snap. His throat was thick with violence. He did not want anyone to see what happened to him.

Gently, Lena touched his arm, led him away from the Stonedown toward the river. Under the dim starlight they reached the banks of the Mithil, then turned down river. In half a mile, they came to an old stone bridge that gleamed with a damp, black reflection, as if it had just arisen from the water for Covenant's use. The suggestiveness of that thought made him stop. He saw the span as a kind of threshold; crises lurked in the dark hills beyond the far riverbank. Abruptly, he asked, “Where are we going?” He was afraid that if he crossed that bridge he would not be able to recognize himself when he returned.

“To the far side,” Lena said. “There you may be alone. Our people do not often cross the Mithil-it is said that the western mountains are not friendly, that the ill of Doom's Retreat which lies behind them has bent their spirit. But I have walked over all the western valley, stone-questing for suru-pa-maerl images, and have met no harm. There is a place nearby where you will not be disturbed.”

For all its appearance of age, the bridge had an untrustworthy look to Covenant's eye. The unmortared joints seemed tenuous, held together only by dim, treacherous, star-cast shadows. When he stepped onto the bridge, he expected his foot to slip, the stones to tremble. But the arch was steady. At the top of the span, he paused to lean on the low side wall of the bridge and gaze down at the river.

The water flowed blackly under him, grumbling over its long prayer for absolution in the sea. And he looked into it as if he were asking it for courage. Could he not simply ignore the things that threatened him, ignore the opposing impossibilities, madnesses, of his situation-return to the Stonedown and pretend with blithe guile that he was Berek Halfhand reborn?

He could not. He was a leper; there were some lies he could not tell.

With a sharp twist of nausea, he found that he was pounding his fists on the wall. He snatched his hands up, tried to see if he had injured himself, but the dim stars showed him nothing.

Grimacing, he turned and followed Lena down to the western bank of the Mithil.

Soon they reached their destination. Lena led Covenant directly west for a distance, then up a steep hill to the right, and down a splintered ravine toward the river again. Carefully, they picked their way along the ragged bottom of the ravine as if they were balancing on the broken keel of a ship; its shattered hull rose up on either side of them, narrowing their horizons. A few trees stuck out of the sides like spars, and near the river the hulk lay aground on a swath of smooth sand which faded toward a flat rock promontory jutting into the river. The Mithil complained around this rock, as if annoyed by the brief constriction of its banks, and the sound blew up the ravine like a sea breeze moaning through a reefed wreck.

Lena halted on the sandy bottom. Kneeling, she scooped a shallow basin in the sand and emptied her pot of graveling into it. The fire-stones gave more light from the open basin, so that the ravine bottom was lit with yellow, and shortly Covenant felt a quiet warmth from the graveling. The touch of the stones' glow made him aware that the night was cool, a pleasant night for sitting around a fire. He squatted beside the graveling with a shiver like the last keen quivering of imminent hysteria.

After she had settled the graveling in the sand, Lena moved away toward the river. Where she stood on the promontory, the light barely reached her, and her form was dark; but Covenant could see that her face was raised to the heavens.

He followed her gaze up the black face of the mountains, and saw that the moon was rising. A silver sheen paled the stars along the rim of rock, darkening the valley with its shadow; but the shadow soon passed down the ravine, and moonlight fell on the river, giving it the appearance of old argent. And as the full moon arose from the mountains, it caught Lena, cast a white haze like a caress across her head and shoulders. Standing still by the river, she held her head up to the moon, and Covenant watched her with an odd grim jealousy, as if she were poised on a precipice that belonged to him.

Finally, when the moonlight had crossed the river into the eastern valley, Lena lowered her head and returned to the circle of the graveling. Without meeting Covenant's gaze, she asked softly, “Shall I go?”

Covenant's palms itched as if he wanted to strike her for even suggesting that she might stay. But at the same time he was afraid of the night; he did not want to face it alone. Awkwardly he got to his feet, paced a short distance away from her. Scowling up the hulk of the ravine, he fought to sound neutral as he said, “What do you want?”

Her reply, when it came, was quiet and sure. “I want to know more of you.”

He winced, ducked his head as if claws had struck at him out of the air. Then he snatched himself erect again.

“Ask.”

“Are you married?”

At that, he whirled to face her as if she had stabbed him in the back. Under the hot distress of his eyes and his bared teeth, she faltered, lowered her eyes and turned her head away. Seeing her uncertainty, he felt that his face had betrayed him again. He had not willed the snarling contortion of his features. He wanted to contain himself, not give way like this-not in front of her. Yet she aggravated his distress more than anything else he had encountered. Striving for self-control, he snapped, “Yes. No. It doesn't matter. Why ask?”

Under his glare, Lena dropped to the sand, sat on her feet by the graveling, and watched him obliquely from beneath her eyebrows. When she said nothing immediately, he began to pace up and down the swath of sand. As he moved, he turned and pulled fiercely at his wedding ring.

After a moment, Lena answered with an air of irrelevance, "There is a man who desires to marry me. He is Triock son of Thuler. Though I am not of age he woos me, so that when the time comes I will make no other choice. But if I were of age now I would not marry him. Oh, he is a good man in his way-a good Cattleherd, courageous in defence of his kine. And he is taller than most. But there are too many wonders in the world, too much power to know and beauty to share and to create-and I have not seen the Ranyhyn. I could not marry a Cattleherd who desires no more than a suru-pa-maerl for wife. Rather, I would go to the Loresraat as Atiaran my mother did, and I would stay and not falter no matter what trials the Lore put upon me, until I became a Lord. It is said that such things may happen. Do you think so?"

Covenant scarcely heard her. He was pacing out his agitation on the sand, enraged and undercut by an unwanted memory of Joan. Beside his lost love, Lena and the silver night of the Land failed of significance. The hollowness of his dream became suddenly obvious to his inner view, like an unveiled wilderland, a new permutation of the desolation of leprosy. This was not real-it was a torment that he inflicted upon himself in subconscious, involuntary revolt against his disease and loss. To himself, he groaned, Is it being outcast that does this? Is being cut off such a shock? By hell! I don't need any more. He felt that he was on the edge of screaming. In an effort to control himself, he dropped to the sand with his back to Lena and hugged his knees as hard as he could. Careless of the unsteadiness of his voice, he asked, “How do your people marry?”

In an uncomplicated tone, she said, "It is a simple thing, when a man and a woman choose each other. After the two have become friends, if they wish to marry they tell the Circle of elders. And the elders take a season to assure themselves that the friendship of the two is secure, with no hidden jealousy or failed promise behind them to disturb their course in later years. Then the Stonedown gathers in the centre, and the elders take the two in their arms and ask, “Do you wish to share life, in joy and sorrow, work and rest, peace and struggle, to make the Land new?”

“The two answer, “Life with life, we choose to share the blessings and the service of the Earth.”

For a moment, her star-lit voice paused reverently. Then she went on, "The Stonedown shouts together, `It is good! Let there be life and joy and power while the years last!' Then the day is spent in joy, and the new mates teach new games and dances and songs to the people, so that the happiness of the Stonedown is renewed, and communion and pleasure do not fail in the Land.”

She paused again shortly before continuing: "The marriage of Atiaran my mother with Trell my father was a bold day. The elders who teach us have spoken of it many times. Every day in the season of assurance, Trell climbed the mountains, searching forgotten paths and lost caves, hidden falls and new-broken crevices, for a stone of orcrest- a precious and many-powered rock. For there was a drought upon the South Plains at that time, and the life of the Stonedown faltered in famine.

“Then, on the eve of the marriage, he found his treasure-a piece of orcrest smaller than a fist. And in the time of joy, after the speaking of the rituals, he and Atiaran my mother saved the Stonedown. While she sang a deep prayer to the Earth-a song known in the Loresraat but long forgotten among our people he held the orcrest in his hand and broke it with the strength of his fingers. As the stone fell into dust, thunder rolled between the mountains, though there were no clouds, and one bolt of lightning sprang from the dust in his hand. Instantly, the blue sky turned black with thunderheads, and the rain began to fall. So the famine was broken, and the Stonedownors smiled on the coming days like a people reborn.”

Though he clenched his legs with all his strength, Covenant could not master his dizzy rage. Joan! Lena's tale struck him like a mockery of his pains and failures.

I can't.

For a moment, his lower jaw shuddered under the effort he made to speak. Then he leaped up and dashed toward the river. As he covered the short distance, he bent and snatched a stone out of the sand. Springing onto the promontory, he hurled the stone with all the might of his body at the water.

Can't-!

A faint splash answered him, but at once the sound died under the heedless plaint of the river, and the ripples were swept away.

Softly at first, Covenant said to the river, “I gave Joan a pair of riding boots for a wedding present.” Then, shaking his fists wildly, he shouted, “Riding boots! Does my impotence surprise you?!”

Unseen and incomprehending, Lena arose and moved toward Covenant, one hand stretched out as if to soothe the violence knotted in his back. But she paused a few steps away from him, searching for the right thing to say. After a moment, she whispered, “What happened to your wife?”

Covenant's shoulders jerked. Thickly, he said, “She's gone.”

“How did she die?”

“Not her-me. She left me. Divorced. Terminated. When I needed her.”

Indignantly, Lena wondered, “Why would such a thing happen while there is life?”

“I'm not alive.” She heard fury climbing to the top of his voice. “I'm a leper. Outcast unclean. Lepers are ugly and filthy. And abominable.”

His words filled her with horror and protest. “How can it be?” she moaned. “You are not-abominable. What world is it that dares treat you so?”

His muscles jumped still higher in his shoulders, as if his hands were locked on the throat of some tormenting demon. “It's real. That is reality. Fact. The kind of thing that kills you if you don't believe it.” With a gesture of rejection toward the river, he gasped, “This is a nightmare.”

Lena flared with sudden courage. “I do not believe it. It may be that your world-but the Land-ah, the Land is real.”

Covenant's back clenched abruptly still, and he said with preternatural quietness, “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

His ominous tone startled her, chilled her. For an instant, her courage stumbled; she felt the river and the ravine closing around her like the jaws of a trap. Then Covenant whirled and struck her a stinging slap across the face.

The force of the blow sent her staggering back into the light of the graveling. He followed quickly, his face contorted in a wild grin. As she caught her balance, got one last, clear, terrified look at him, she felt sure that he meant to kill her. The thought paralyzed her. She stood dumb and helpless while he approached.

Reaching her, he knotted his hands in the front of her shift and rent the fabric like a veil. She could not move. For an instant, he stared at her, at her high, perfect breasts and her short slip, with grim triumph in his eyes, as though he had just exposed some foul plot. Then he gripped her shoulder with his left hand and tore away her slip with his right, forcing her down to the sand as he uncovered her.

Now she wanted to resist, but her limbs would not move; she was helpless with anguish.

A moment later, he dropped the burden of his weight on her chest, and her loins were stabbed with a wild, white fire that broke her silence, made her scream. But even as she cried out she knew that it was too late for her. Something that her people thought of as a gift had been torn from her.

But Covenant did not feel like a taker. His climax flooded him as if he had fallen into a Mithil of molten fury. Suffocating in passion, he almost swooned. Then time seemed to pass him by, and he lay still for moments that might have been hours for all he knew-hours during which his world could have crumbled, unheeded.

At last he remembered the softness of Lena's body under him, felt the low shake of her sobbing. With an effort, he heaved himself up and to his feet. When he looked down at her in the graveling light, he saw the blood on her loins. Abruptly, his head became giddy, unbalanced, as though he were peering over a precipice. He turned and hurried with a shambling, unsteady gait toward the river, pitched himself fiat on the rock, and vomited the weight of his guts into the water. And the Mithil erased his vomit as cleanly as if nothing had happened.

He lay still on the rock while the exhaustion of his exacerbated nerves overcame him. He did not hear Lena arise, gather the shreds of her clothing, speak, or climb away out of the shattered ravine. He heard nothing but the long lament of the river-saw nothing but the ashes of his burnt-out passion-felt nothing but the dampness of the rock on his cheeks like tears.