The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  She wanted to heal as well some of the harm which Lord Foul had done in her present world. And she needed someone to love.

  She had heard Pitchwife sing:

  My heart has rooms that sigh with dust

  And ashes in the hearth.

  They must be cleaned and blown away

  By daylight’s breath.

  She could not allow the hollow place within her to remain unfilled.

  Her own damaged childhood had taught her an intense empathy for children forced to pay the price of their parents’ folly; and before long she remembered Jeremiah Jason. She had already done him a little good. Perhaps she could do more.

  When at last she tracked him down and arranged to meet him, she recognized immediately the missing piece of her heart, the part which might make her whole. His little face spoke to her as clearly as a wail. She knew what it was like to be a conscious prisoner inside her own skull, defeated by power and malice. The Clave and Ravers had victimized her in that way. Indirectly the Elohim had done the same. The thought that Jeremiah might be in a comparable state, knowing and alone within his mental cell, wrung her utterly.

  In the Land, she had been called “the Chosen.” Now she did the choosing. Doggedly, with Megan Roman’s help, she pursued Jeremiah through the legal and bureaucratic snarls of the county’s floundering foster care until he was made her son.

  At first, the task she had assigned to herself was arduous and costly, in spite of Sandy Eastwall’s assistance. The closure of Jeremiah’s mind rebuffed any penetration. He was lost, and her love could not find him. If he had so much as wept, she would have celebrated for him, rejoiced in that victory over an intimate ruin. But he did not weep. Nothing breached the hard stone wall of his plight. His only response to every situation was an unresisting absence of cooperation. He did not stand, could not walk. Voiceless and alone, he could not engage in a child’s necessary play; and so she had no lever with which to spring him from his prison.

  And then one day—The memory still brought tears of joy to her eyes. One day in his pediatrician’s office, surrounded by toys enjoyed by other children, he had suddenly reached out uninvited to place one bright wooden block upon another. When he was satisfied with what he had done, he had positioned another block; and then another.

  Within an hour, hardly able to contain her excitement, Linden had bought him a mountain of blocks. And when she had seen him use them to build an impromptu Greek temple, she had rushed back to the store to purchase Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys.

  There his life had changed; and hers with it. In a few short weeks, he had learned—or relearned—to stand so that he could reach higher, build higher. And mere months later he had regained his ability to walk, seeking to move around his constructs and position pieces more readily.

  His newly discovered gift transformed him in Linden’s sight. With every construct, he built hope for the future. A child who could play might someday be set free. And his strange talent seemed to have limitless possibilities. Connecting one Lincoln Log or Tinkertoy to the next, he might at last devise a door to his prison and step out into her arms.

  She would not, she swore to herself now, would not sacrifice that hope, or him, for any purpose. Roger Covenant had to be stopped. But if she were forced to a choice between Jeremiah and Lord Foul’s other victims, she would stand by her son.

  Thomas Covenant had believed that the Land could not be damned by such decisions.

  Linden was still afraid, but her indecision had passed. Deliberately she readied herself to go back downstairs.

  On the way, she heard Sandy call, “Linden? We’re done with the Legos. Is there anything else you need before I leave?”

  In the living room, Linden greeted Sandy with a smile; tousled Jeremiah’s hair where he knelt, rocking, beside a tall stack of Lego boxes. “No, thanks. You’ve done enough already.” To Jeremiah, she added, “Thanks for putting your Legos away. You’ve done a good job. I’m proud of you.”

  If her reaction gave him any pleasure, he did not reveal it.

  When Sandy had gathered up her knitting, Linden walked her to the door. “I can’t thank you enough,” she told the other woman sincerely. “I can’t explain what came over me today, but it shook me up. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  Sandy dismissed the subject with a comfortable shrug. “He’s my sweetie.” Over her shoulder, she asked, “Aren’t you, Jeremiah?” Then she finished to Linden, “I’ll see both of you tomorrow, if you don’t need me tonight.”

  Refraining from more unnecessary thanks, Linden ushered her outside and said good night.

  For a moment after Sandy left, however, Linden did not return to Jeremiah. Instead she leaned against the door and considered the castle which had transformed her entryway. It seemed to contradict her fears, as though it had the power to guard the sanctuary that she had made for her son.

  Relieved for the first time since she had met Roger Covenant, she heated a casserole and fed Jeremiah while she ate. At intervals she paused to talk about anything she could think of—horses, Sam Diadem’s toys, places of wonder in the Land—hoping that the sound of her voice would also feed him, in its own way. When he stopped opening his mouth for the spoon, she took him upstairs to bathe him. Afterward she dressed him for bed in his—actually her—favorite pajamas, the sky-blue flannel shirt and pants with mustangs ramping across the chest.

  In his bedroom, she took a moment, as she often did, to marvel at how he had decorated it.

  One day two or three years ago, she had purchased a set of flywheel-driven model racing cars that featured tracks which could be snapped together into structures as elaborate as roller coasters, complete with loop-the-loops and barrel rolls. She had been drawn to the set because it included materials like plastic Tinkertoys for building towers and pylons to support the tracks. And because Jeremiah appeared to prefer large projects, she had bought every set in the store, four or five of them.

  He had shown no interest in the cars. In fact, he had disappointed her by showing no interest in the tracks, either. He had not so much as touched the boxes, or turned his eyes toward them.

  Maybe he needed time, she had told herself. Maybe his occult, hidden decisions required contemplation. Reluctant to surrender her hopes, she had carried one of the boxes up to his bedroom and left it there for him to consider.

  That night he had gone to bed still oblivious to the box. The next morning, however, she discovered that during the night he had opened it and used every available piece to build towers on either side of the head of his bed. Through the towers he had twined tracks twisted into implausible shapes. And—uncharacteristic of him—the construct was plainly unfinished. He had run out of parts before he could connect the towers and tracks to each other above the head of his bed.

  At once, she brought the remaining boxes up to his room. Like the first, they were ignored all day. And like the first, they were opened during the night; put to use. Now supports like drawbridges and catwalks extended along the walls, under the window, over the bureau, and past the closet toward the door. Sections of track linked themselves and their pylons like the ligaments of some self-proliferating rococo robot.

  The racing cars themselves lay in a clutter on the floor, unregarded. And still he obviously had not completed his design.

  After a fervid search, Linden finally found a few more sets. Fortunately they sufficed. When Jeremiah had used every last plastic beam and connector, every section of track, he was done.

  Now towers festooned with curlicues of track reached up on either side of his bedroom door to meet in an arch at the height of the lintel. Raceways in airy spans linked those structures to the ones which he had already finished. Yet the design would have been useless to its cars. The track through all of its loops and turns and dives formed an elaborate Möbius strip, reversing itself as it traveled so that in time a finger drawn along its route would touch every inch of its surface on both sides.

  She had never a
sked him to take it down. Surely it was special to him? Why else had he only worked on it late at night, when he was alone? In some sense, it was more uniquely his than anything else he had built.

  Respecting what he had accomplished, she left it as it was. Cheerfully she ducked under its spans whenever she needed to reach his closet.

  The racing cars remained where she had placed them, arrayed like a display on top of his bureau. She hoped that one day he would take an interest in them; but they were still meaningless to him.

  Shaking her head now in familiar astonishment at his arcane gifts, she settled him into bed and asked him which of his books he would like her to read. As ever, he did not respond; but on the theory that the adventures of a lone boy triumphing over impossible odds might convey something to his snared mind, she took out one of his “Bomba the Jungle Boy” books and read a couple of chapters aloud. Then she kissed him, adjusted his blankets, turned out the light, and left him to sleep.

  In one respect, at least, he was a normal boy, even a normal teenager: he slept deeply, unself-consciously, his limbs sprawling in all directions as though they belonged to some other body. Only on very rare occasions did she find him awake when she checked on him before she went to bed herself. And she never knew what had roused or troubled him.

  If this had been some other night, she might have used her time to catch up on some paperwork, or perhaps read. But tonight she was not alone. A throng of memories accompanied her through the house: they seemed as restless and compelling as ghosts. In particular, she recalled Thomas Covenant’s gaunt face and stricken eyes, as dear in their own way as Jeremiah’s undefended slackness, and as precise as etch-work.

  Others also she could not forget: Sunder and Hollian; the Giants of the Search; all her friends in the Land. Thinking that she would spend an hour alone with them, sharing at least in memory her gratitude and grief, she went downstairs to the kitchen to heat water for tea. Steaming mint might console her while she ached.

  As she boiled water and prepared a teabag, filled a cup, she chose to concentrate on the Giants. She found consolation in remembering their open hearts, their long tales, and their ready laughter. She had not seen the First of the Search and her husband, Pitchwife, for ten years. No doubt in their own world they had passed away centuries or millennia ago. Nevertheless they had a healing power in her thoughts. Like Jeremiah’s faery castle, they seemed to defend her from her fears.

  They alone had willingly accompanied Linden and Covenant to their confrontation with the Despiser. They alone had stood with Linden after Covenant’s death while she had formed her new Staff of Law and unmade the Sunbane; begun the restoration of the Land. And when she had faded away, returned to her old life, they had carried with them the hope that she and Covenant had made for all the Earth.

  Thinking of the First and Pitchwife reminded her that her worries were like the difficulties of caring for Jeremiah, or of working at Berenford Memorial: transient things which could not disturb the choices she had made.

  She would have gone on, drawing solace from her memories; but an unexpected idea stopped her. Perhaps it would be possible to hide Joan from Roger. If the nurse on duty, Amy Clint’s sister Sara, moved Joan to another room—no, to a spare bed in County Hospital—Roger might not be able to find her. Certainly he would not be able to search for her without attracting attention. Bill Coty or one of his men—or even Sheriff Lytton—would have time to intervene.

  Then what would Roger do? What could he—?

  He would have no difficulty discovering Linden’s address.

  The phone’s shrill ring startled her so badly that she dropped her cup. It hit the floor as if in slow motion and bounced once, apparently held together by hot peppermint tea splashing past its rim: then it seemed to burst in midair. Shards and steaming tea spattered around her feet.

  None of her friends called her at home. Neither did her colleagues and staff. They all knew better. When they wanted or needed to get in touch with her, they dialed her pager—

  The phone rang again like an echo of the shattered cup.

  Roger, she thought dumbly, it was Roger, someone must have given him her number, it was unpublished, unlisted, he could not have found it out unaided. He meant to impose his insistence on the private places of her heart.

  And then: no, it was not Roger. It was about him. He had done something.

  Something terrible—

  The phone rested on an end table in the living room. She pounced for it as it rang a third time. Snatched up the handset; pressed it to her ear.

  She could not make a sound. Fright filled her throat.

  “Dr. Avery?” a voice panted in her ear. “Linden? Dr. Avery?”

  Maxine Dubroff, who volunteered at the hospital.

  “I’m here.” Linden’s efforts to speak cost her a spasm of coughing. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dr. Avery, it’s Bill—” Maxine’s distress seemed to block the phone line. What she needed to say could not get through. “He’s—Oh, dear God.”

  Linden’s brain refused to work. Instead it clung to the sound of Maxine’s voice as if it needed words in order to function. Still coughing, she managed to croak out, “Slow down, Maxine. Tell me what happened.”

  Maxine sucked in a harsh breath. “Bill Coty,” she said in pieces. “He’s dead.”

  The room around Linden seemed to veer sideways. Of course Maxine knew Bill: she knew everyone. But if the old man had collapsed at home—

  Linden had asked him to protect Joan.

  “Shot.” Maxine’s voice came through the handset, jagged as chunks of glass. “In the head. By that—that—” She paused to swallow convulsively, as if her throat were bleeding.

  “Maxine.” Linden fought down more coughing. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor.” Now Linden heard tears in Maxine’s voice. “I’m just so upset—I should have called you sooner. I came as soon as I heard the sirens”—she and Ernie lived only a block and a half from Berenford Memorial—“but it didn’t occur to me that somebody hadn’t already called you. I wanted to help. Ernie told me you were worried about trouble. Bill called him about it. But I never expected—

  “That young man. The one who was here this morning. He shot Bill Coty.”

  Ice poured along Linden’s veins. Her hands started to shake. “What about Joan?”

  Again she heard wind thrashing under the eaves of the house. One of the kitchen windows rattled plaintively in its frame.

  “Oh, Linden.” Maxine’s weeping mounted. “She’s gone. He took her.”

  Automatically Linden answered, “I’ll be right there,” and put down the handset.

  She could not think: she was too full of rage. The old prophet had betrayed her. He had given her no warning at all.

  Apparently he no longer cared what happened to the Land.

  4.

  Malice

  The sirens were police cars, then: Sheriff Lytton responding too late to Berenford Memorial’s call for help.

  Bill Coty must have failed to rally enough of his volunteers to Joan’s protection. Or he had simply cared too much to forget about her when he went off-duty—

  Hands shaking wildly, Linden picked up the handset again and dialed Sandy Eastwall’s number.

  For the first time in years, she wished that she had bought a cordless phone. She wanted to rush upstairs and check on Jeremiah while she waited, shivering, for Sandy’s voice.

  Buffeted by wind, the front door thudded dully against its latch. Surely nothing had happened to Jeremiah since she had left his room? But Bill Coty had been shot—by Roger. Who obviously had a gun.

  Linden had told Bill that Roger was not dangerous enough for guns. Now she knew better.

  Providentially Sandy answered the phone almost at once. “Hello?”

  “Sandy, it’s Linden. I’m sorry, I’m needed at the hospital. It’s an emergency.”

  Bill Coty was dead because Linden had underestimated Roger’s
madness.

  Sandy did not hesitate. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Thanks.” Linden hung up and headed for the stairs.

  Joan’s son would be in a hurry now. He meant to precipitate the crisis for which his heart hungered immediately.

  With her hand on the knob of Jeremiah’s door, Linden paused to gather herself. How could anything have happened to him? Scarcely twenty minutes had passed since she had put him to bed. Yet she feared for him. Her whole body trembled at the possibility that Roger wished him harm.

  Easing open the door, she peered into his room.

  Light from the hall behind her reached across his floor to the raceway towers guarding the head of his bed. Between them he lay outstretched, his blankets already rumpled and twisted around him, one arm extended like an appeal. He made faint snoring sounds as he slept.

  Roger had shot Bill Coty in the head.

  Linden’s trembling grew more acute. She shut the door and hurried downstairs to wait for Sandy.

  At the bottom of the stairs, standing amid Tinkertoy spires and buttresses, she heard the front door rattle again as if someone outside struggled to open it. Sandy could not have arrived yet—and in any case, she always rang the doorbell. Nevertheless Linden ducked under a rampart to unlock the door, pull it aside.

  Wind slapped into her face, snatched tears from her eyes. The gust felt unnaturally cold; and abrasive, full of grit. A storm was on its way, a serious storm—

  In the porch light, Linden saw Sandy lean toward the house as if she were tacking through the wind. Gusts plucked at her coat so that it fluttered like a loose sail.

  Swept forward, Sandy mounted the steps to the porch. Linden let her into the house and pushed the door shut, then said, “That was fast.”