The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Lightning lit her face for an instant. Her visage was smeared with rain. “What are we going to do?”

  The thought of Foamfollower, the Giant who had been his friend, gave him what he needed. “Try!” Bracing himself on her shoulder, he lurched to his feet. She seemed to support his weight easily. “Maybe I’ll remember!”

  She stood up beside him, leaned close to yell, “I don’t like this storm! It doesn’t feel right!”

  Doesn’t feel—? He blinked at her. For a moment, he did not understand. To him, it was just a storm, natural violence like any other. But then he caught her meaning. To her, the storm felt unnatural. It offended some instinctive sensitivity in her.

  Already she was ahead of him; her senses were growing attuned to the Land, while his remained flat and dull, blind to the spirit of what he perceived. Ten years ago, he had been able to do what she had just done: identify the rightness or wrongness, the health or corruption, of physical things and processes, of wind, rain, stone, wood, flesh. But now he could feel nothing except the storm’s vehemence, as if such force had no meaning, no implications. No soul.

  He muttered tired curses at himself. Were his senses merely slow in making the adjustment? Or had he lost the ability to be in harmony with the Land? Had leprosy and time bereft him entirely of that sensitivity? Hell and blood! he rasped weakly, bitterly. If Linden could see where he was blind—

  Aching at the old grief of his insufficiency, he tried to master himself. He expected Linden to ask him what was wrong. And that thought, too, was bitter; he did not want his frailties and fears, his innate wrongness, to be visible to her. But she did not question him. She was rigid with surprise or apprehension.

  Her face was turned up the ravine.

  He jerked around and tried to penetrate the downpour.

  At once, he saw it—a faint yellow light in the distance.

  It flickered toward them slowly, picked its way with care down the spine of the ravine. As it neared, a long blast of lightning revealed that it was a torch in the hand of a man. Then blackness and thunder crashed over them, and Covenant could see nothing but the strange flame. It burned bravely, impossibly, in spite of the deluge and battery of the storm.

  It approached until it was close enough to light the man who held it. He was a short, stooped figure wearing a sodden robe. Rain gushed through his sparse hair and tangled beard, streamed in runnels down the creases of his old face, giving him a look of lunacy. He squinted at Covenant and Linden as if they had been incarnated out of nightmares to appall him.

  Covenant held himself still, returned the old man’s stare mutely.

  Linden touched his arm as if she wanted to warn him of something.

  Suddenly, the old man jerked up his right hand, raised it with the palm forward, and spread his fingers.

  Covenant copied the gesture. He did not know whether or not Lord Foul had prepared this encounter for him. But he needed shelter, food, information. And he was prepared to acknowledge anyone who could keep a brand alight in this rain. As he lifted his half-hand into the light, his ring gleamed dully on the second finger.

  The sight shocked the old man. He winced, mumbled to himself, retreated a step as if in fear. Then he pointed tremulously at Covenant’s ring. “White gold?” he cried. His voice shook.

  “Yes!” Covenant replied.

  “Halfhand?”

  “Yes!”

  “How are you named?” the man quavered.

  Covenant struggled to drive each word through the storm. “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder!”

  “Illender?” gasped the man as if the rain were suffocating him. “Prover of Life?”

  “Yes!”

  The old man retreated another step. The torchlight gave his visage a dismayed look. Abruptly he turned, started scrambling frailly upward through the water and muck.

  Over his shoulder, he wailed, “Come!”

  “Who is that?” Linden asked almost inaudibly.

  Covenant dismissed the question. “I don’t know.”

  She scrutinized him. “Do you trust him?”

  “Who has a choice?” Before she could respond, he pushed away from the stone, used all his energy to force himself into motion after the old man.

  His mouth was full of rain and the sour taste of weakness. The strain of the past weeks affected him like caducity. But the torch helped him find handholds on the walls and boulders. With Linden’s support, he was able to heave forward against the heavy stream. Slowly, they made progress.

  Some distance up the ravine, the old man entered a cut branching off to the right. A rough stair in the side of the cut led to its bottom. Freed of the torrents, Covenant found the strength to ask himself, Do you trust him? But the torch reassured him. He knew of nobody who could keep a brand burning in rain except the masters of wood-lore. Or the Lords. He was ready to trust anybody who served wood or stone with such potent diligence.

  Carefully he followed the old man along the bottom of the cut until it narrowed, became a high sheer cleft in the mountain rock. Then, abruptly, the cleft changed directions and opened into a small dell.

  Towering peaks sheltered the vale from the wind. But there was no escape from the rain. It thrashed Covenant’s head and shoulders like a club. He could barely see the torch as the old man crossed the valley.

  With Linden, Covenant waded a swollen stream; and moments later they arrived at a squat stone dwelling which sat against the mountainside. The entry had no door; firelight scattered out at them as they approached. Hurrying now, they burst bedraggled and dripping into the single room of the house.

  The old man stood in the center of the room, still clutching his torch though a bright fire blazed in the hearth beyond him. He peered at Covenant with trepidation, ready to cringe, like a child expecting punishment.

  Covenant stopped. His bruises ached to be near the fire; but he remained still to look around the room.

  At once, a pang of anxiety smote him. Already he could see that something had changed in the Land. Something fundamental.

  The dwelling was furnished with an unexpected mixture of wood and stone. Stoneware bowls and urns sat on wooden shelves affixed to the sidewalls; wooden stools stood around a wooden table in one stone corner. And iron—there were iron utensils on the shelves, iron nails in the stools. Formerly the people of stone and wood, Stonedownor and Woodhelvennin, had each kept to his own lore—not because they wished to be exclusive, but rather because their special skills and knowledge required all their devotion.

  For a moment, he faced the man, bore the old, half-wild gaze. Linden, too, studied the old man, measuring him uncertainly. But Covenant knew she was asking herself questions unlike the ones which mobbed into his mind. Had the Stonedownors and Woodhelvennin grown together, blended their lore? Or had—?

  The world is not what it was.

  A raw sickness twisted his heart. Without warning, he became conscious of smoke in the room.

  Smoke!

  He thrust past the old man, hastened to the hearth.

  The wood lay on a pile of ash, burning warmly. Coals cracked and fell off the logs, red worms gnawing the flesh of trees. At intervals, wisps of smoke curled up into the room. The rain in the chimney made a low hissing noise.

  Hellfire!

  The people he had known here would never have voluntarily consumed wood for any purpose. They had always striven to use the life of wood, the Earthpower in it, without destroying the thing they used. Wood, soil, stone, water—the people of the Land had cherished every manifestation of life.

  “Ur-Lord,” the old man groaned.

  Covenant whirled. Grief burned like rage in him. He wanted to howl at the Despiser, What have you done? But both Linden and the old man were staring at him. Linden’s eyes showed concern, as if she feared he had slipped over the edge into confusion. And the old man was in the grip of a private anguish. Fiercely Covenant contained the yelling of his passion. But the strain of suppression bristled in
his tone. “What keeps that torch burning?”

  “I am ashamed!” The man’s voice broke as if he were on the verge of weeping. He did not hear Covenant’s question; his personal distress devoured him. “This temple,” he panted, “built by the most ancient fathers of my father’s father—in preparation. We have done nothing! Other rooms fallen to ruin, sanctuaries—” He waved his brand fervidly. “We did nothing. In a score of generations, nothing. It is a hovel—unworthy of you. We did not believe the promise given into our trust—generation after generation of Unfettered too craven to put faith in the proudest prophecies. It would be right for you to strike me.”

  “Strike you?” Covenant was taken aback. “No.” There were too many things here he did not understand. “What’s the matter? Why are you afraid of me?”

  “Covenant,” Linden breathed suddenly. “His hand. Look.”

  Water dripped from the old man; water ran from them all. But the drops falling from the butt of the torch were red.

  “Ur-Lord!” The man plunged to his knees. “I am unworthy.” He quivered with dismay. “I have trafficked in the knowledge of the wicked, gaining power against the Sunbane from those who scorn the promises I have sworn to preserve. Ah, spare me! I am shamed.” He dropped his brand, opened his left hand to Covenant.

  The torch went out the instant he released it. As it struck the floor, it fell into ash.

  Across his palm lay two long cuts. Blood ran from them as if it could not stop.

  Covenant flinched. Thunder muttered angrily to itself in the distance. Nothing was left of the torch except ash. It had been held together, kept whole and burning, only by the power the old man had put into it. The power of his blood?

  Covenant’s brain reeled. A sudden memory of Joan stung him—Joan clawing the back of his hand, licking his fingers. Vertigo reft him of balance. He sat down heavily, slumped against the nearest wall. The rain echoed in his ears. Blood? Blood?

  Linden was examining the old man’s hand. She turned it to the firelight, spread the fingers; her grip on his wrist slowed the flow of blood. “It’s clean.” Her voice was flat, impersonal. “Needs a bandage to stop the bleeding. But there’s no infection.”

  No infection, Covenant breathed. His thoughts limped like cripples. “How can you tell?”

  She was concentrating on the wound. “What?”

  He labored to say what he meant. “How can you tell there’s no infection?”

  “I don’t know.” His question seemed to trigger surprise in her. “I can see it. I can see”—her astonishment mounted—“the pain. But it’s clean. How—? Can’t you?”

  He shook his head. She confirmed his earlier impression; her senses were already becoming attuned to the Land.

  His were not. He was blind to everything not written on the surface. Why? He closed his eyes. Old rue throbbed in him. He had forgotten that numbness could hurt so much.

  After a moment, she moved; he could hear her searching around the room. When she returned to the old man’s side, she was tearing a piece of cloth to form bandages.

  You will not fail— Covenant felt that he had already been given up for lost. The thought was salt to his sore heart.

  Smoke? Blood? There’s only one way to hurt a man. Give him back something broken. Damnation.

  But the old man demanded his attention. The man had bowed his wet gray head to the stone. His hands groped to touch Covenant’s boots. “Ur-Lord,” he moaned, “Ur-Lord. At last you have come. The Land is saved.”

  That obeisance pulled Covenant out of his inner gyre. He could not afford to be overwhelmed by ignorance or loss. And he could not bear to be treated as if he were some kind of savior; he could not live with such an image of himself. He climbed erect, then took hold of the old man’s arms and drew him to his feet.

  The man’s eyes rolled fearfully, gleaming in the firelight. To reassure him, Covenant spoke evenly, quietly.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “I am Nassic son of Jous son of Prassan,” the old man replied in a fumbling voice. “Descended in direct lineage son by son from the Unfettered One.”

  Covenant winced. The Unfettered Ones he had known were hermits freed from all normal responsibilities so that they could pursue their private visions. An Unfettered One had once saved his life—and died. Another had read his dreams—and told him that he dreamed the truth. He took a stringent grip on himself. “What was his calling?”

  “Ur-Lord, he saw your return. Therefore he came to this place—to the vale below Kevin’s Watch, which was given its name in an age so long past that none remember its meaning.”

  Briefly Nassic’s tone stabilized, as if he were reciting something he had memorized long ago. “He built the temple as a place of welcome for you, and a place of healing, for it was not forgotten among the people of those years that your own world is one of great hazard and strife, inflicting harm even upon its heroes. In his vision, he beheld the severe doom of the Sunbane, though to him it was nameless as nightmare, and he foresaw that the Unbeliever, ur-Lord Illender, Prover of Life, would return to combat it. From son to son he handed down his vision, faith un—”

  Then he faltered. “Ah, shame,” he muttered. “Temple—faith—healing—Land. All ruins.” But indignation stiffened him. “Fools will cry for mercy. They deserve only retribution. For lo! The Unbeliever has come. Let the Clave and all its works wail to be spared. Let the very sun tremble in its course! It will avail them nothing! Woe unto you, wicked and abominable! The—”

  “Nassic.” Covenant forced the old man to stop. Linden was watching them keenly. Questions crowded her face; but Covenant ignored them. “Nassic,” he asked of the man’s white stare, “what is this Sunbane?”

  “Sunbane?” Nassic lost his fear in amazement. “Do you ask—? How can you not—?” His hands tugged at his beard. “Why else have you come?”

  Covenant tightened his grip. “Just tell me what it is.”

  “It is—why, it is—yes, it—” Nassic stumbled to a halt, then cried in a sudden appeal, “Ur-Lord, what is it not? It is sun and rain and blood and desert and fear and the screaming of trees.” He squirmed with renewed abasement. “It was—it was the fire of my torch. Ur-Lord!” Misery clenched his face like a fist. He tried to drop to his knees again.

  “Nassic.” Covenant held him erect, hunted for some way to reassure him. “We’re not going to harm you. Can’t you see that?” Then another thought occurred to him. Remembering Linden’s injury, his own bruises, he said, “Your hand’s still bleeding. We’ve both been hurt. And I—” He almost said, I can’t see what she sees. But the words stuck in his throat. “I’ve been away for a long time. Do you have any hurtloam?”

  Hurtloam? Linden’s expression asked.

  “Hurtloam?” queried Nassic. “What is hurtloam?”

  What is—? Distress lurched across Covenant’s features. What—? Shouts flared in him like screams, Hurtloam! Earthpower! Life! “Hurtloam,” he rasped savagely. “The mud that heals.” His grasp shook Nassic’s frail bones.

  “Forgive me, Ur-Lord. Be not angry. I—”

  “It was here! In this valley!” Lena had healed him with it.

  Nassic found a moment of dignity. “I know nothing of hurtloam. I am an old man, and have never heard the name spoken.”

  “Damnation!” Covenant spat. “Next you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of Earthpower!”

  The old man sagged. “Earthpower?” he breathed. “Earthpower?”

  Covenant’s hands ground his giddy dismay into Nassic’s thin arms. But Linden was at his side, trying to loosen his grip. “Covenant! He’s telling the truth!”

  Covenant jerked his gaze like a whip to her face.

  Her lips were tight with strain, but she did not let herself flinch. “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She silenced him. He believed her; she could hear the truth in Nassic’s voice, just as she could see the lack of infection in his cuts. No hurtloam? He bled inwardly.
Forgotten? Lost? Images of desecration poured through him. Have mercy. The Land without hurtloam. Without Earthpower? The weight of Nassic’s revelation was too much for him. He sank to the floor like an invalid.

  Linden stood over him. She was groping for decision, insight; but he could not help her. After a moment, she said, “Nassic.” Her tone was severe. “Do you have any food?”

  “Food?” he replied as if she had reminded him of his inadequacy. “Yes. No. It is unworthy.”

  “We need food.”

  Her statement brooked no argument. Nassic bowed, went at once to the opposite wall, where he began lifting down crude bowls and pots from the shelves.

  Linden came to Covenant, knelt in front of him. “What is it?” she asked tightly. He could not keep the despair out of his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He did not want to answer. He had spent too many years in the isolation of his leprosy; her desire to understand him only aggravated his pain. He could not bear to be so exposed. Yet he could not refuse the demand of her hard mouth, her soft eyes. Her life was at issue as much as his. He made an effort of will. “Later.” His voice ached through his teeth. “I need time to think about it.”

  Her jaws locked; darkness wounded her eyes. He looked away, so that he would not be led to speak before he had regained his self-mastery.

  Shortly Nassic brought bowls of dried meat, fruit, and unleavened bread, which he offered tentatively, as if he knew they deserved to be rejected. Linden accepted hers with a difficult smile; but Nassic did not move until Covenant had mustered the strength to nod his approval. Then the old man took pots and collected rainwater for them to drink.

  Covenant stared blindly at his food without tasting it. He seemed to have no reason to bother feeding himself. Yet he knew that was not true; in fact, he was foundering in reasons. But the impossibility of doing justice to them all made his resolution falter. Had he really sold his soul to the Despiser—?

  But he was a leper; he had spent long years learning the answer to his helplessness. Leprosy was incurable. Therefore lepers disciplined themselves to pay meticulous attention to their immediate needs. They ignored the abstract immensity of their burdens, concentrated instead on the present, moment by moment. He clung to that pragmatic wisdom. He had no other answer.