the despair itself. You were a man already acquainted with habit and despair-with the Law which both saves and damns. Your knowledge of your illness made you wise.”
Wise, Covenant murmured to himself. Wisdom. He could not understand why his witless heart went on beating.
“Further, you were in your own way a creator. You had already tasted the way in which a creator may be impotent to heal his creation. It is oft-times this impotence which teaches a creation to despair,”
“What about the creator? Why doesn’t he despair?”
“Why should he despair? If he cannot bear the world he has made, he can make another. No, Thomas Covenant.” The voice laughed softly, sadly. “Gods and creators are too powerful and powerless for despair.”
Yes, Covenant said with his own sadness. But then he added almost out of habit, It’s not that easy. He wanted the voice to go away, leave him alone with his oblivion. But though it was silent, he knew it had not left him. He drifted along beside it for a time, then gathered himself to ask, “What do you want?”
“Thomas Covenant”-the voice was gentle-“my unwilling son, I wish to give you a gift-a guerdon to speak my wordless gratitude. Your world runs by Law, as does mine. And by any Law I am in your debt. You have retrieved my Earth from the brink of dissolution. I could give you precious gifts a dozen times over, and still not call the matter paid.”
A gift? Covenant sighed to himself. No. He could not demean himself or the Creator by asking for a cure to leprosy. He was about to refuse the offer when a sudden excitement flashed across him. “Save the Giant,” he said. “Save Foamfollower.”
In a tone of ineffable rue, the voice answered, “No, Thomas Covenant-I cannot. Have I not told you that I would break the arch of Time if I were to put my hand through it to touch the Earth? No matter how great my gratitude, I can do nothing for you in the Land or upon that Earth. If I could, I would never have permitted my enemy to do so much harm.”
Covenant nodded; he recognized the validity of the answer. After a moment of emptiness, he said, “Then there’s nothing you can do for me. I told Foul I don’t believe in him. I don’t believe in you either. I’ve had the chance to make an important choice. That’s enough. I don’t need any gifts. Gifts are too easy-I can’t afford them.”
“Ah! but you have earned- “
“I didn’t earn anything.” Faint anger stirred in him. “You didn’t give me a chance to earn anything. You put me in the Land without my approval or consent-even without my knowledge. All I did was see the difference between health and-disease. Well, it’s enough for me. But there’s no particular virtue in it.”
Slowly, the voice breathed. “Do not be too quick to judge the makers of worlds. Will you ever write a story for which no character will have cause to reproach you?”
“I’ll try,” said Covenant. “I’ll try.”
“Yes,” the voice whispered. “Perhaps for you it is enough. Yet for my own sake I wish to give you a gift. Please permit me.”
“No.” Covenant’s refusal was weary rather than belligerent. He could not think of anything he would be able to accept.
“I can return you to the Land. You could live out the rest of your life in health and honour, as befits a great hero.”
“No.” Have mercy on me. I couldn’t bear it. “That’s not my world. I don’ t belong there.”
“I can teach you to believe that your experiences in the Land have been real.”
“No.” It’s not that easy. “You’ll drive me insane.”
Again the voice was silent for a while before it said in a tone made sharp by grief, “Very well. Then hear me, Thomas Covenant, before you refuse me once more. This I must tell you.
“When the parents of the child whom you saved comprehended what you had done, they sought to aid you. You were injured and weak from hunger. Your exertions to save the child had hastened the poison in your lip. Your condition was grave. They bore you to the hospital for treatment. This treatment employs a thing which the Healers of your world name ‘antivenin.’ Thomas Covenant, this antivenin is made from the blood of horses. Your body loathes-you are allergic to the horse serum. It is a violent reaction. In your weak state, you cannot survive it. At this moment, you stand on the threshold of your own death.
“Thomas Covenant-hear me.” The voice breathed compassion at him. “I can give you life. In this time of need, I can provide to your stricken flesh the strength it requires to endure.”
Covenant did not answer for some time. Somewhere in his half-forgotten past, he had heard that some people were allergic to rattlesnake antivenin. Perhaps the doctors at the hospital should have tested for the allergy before administering the full dosage; probably he had been so far gone in shock that they had not had time for medical niceties. For a moment, he considered the thought of dying under their care as a form of retribution.
But he rejected the idea, rejected the self-pity behind it. “I’d rather survive,” he murmured dimly. “I don’t want to die like that.”
The voice smiled. “It is done. You will live.”
By force of habit, Covenant said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You will see it. But there is first one other thing that you will see. You have not asked for this gift, but I give it to you whether or not you wish it. I did not ask your approval when I elected you for the Land, and do not ask now.”
Before Covenant could protest, he sensed that the voice had left him. Once again, he was alone in the darkness. Oblivion swaddled him so comfortably that he almost regretted his decision to live. But then something around him or in him began to change, modulate. Without sight or hearing or touch, he became aware of sunlight, low voices, a soft warm breeze. He found himself looking down as if from a high hill at Glimmermere.
The pure waters of the lake reflected the heavens in deep burnished azure, and the breeze smelled gently of spring. The hills around Glimmermere showed the scars of Lord Foul’s preternatural winter. But already grass had begun to sprout through the cold-seared ground, and a few tough spring flowers waved bravely in the air. The stretches of bare earth had lost their grey, frozen deadness. The healing of the Land had begun.
Hundreds of people were gathered around the lake. Almost immediately, Covenant made out High Lord Mhoram. He stood facing east across Glimmermere. He bore no staff. His hands were heavily bandaged. On his left were the Lords Trevor and Loerya, holding their daughters, and on his right was Lord Amatin. All of them seemed solemnly glad, but Mhoram’s serene gaze outshone them, testified more eloquently than they could to the Land’s victory.
Behind the Lords stood Warmark Quaan and Hearthrall Tohrm-Quaan with the Hafts of his Warward, and Tohrm with all the Hirebrands and Gravelingases of Lord’s Keep. Covenant saw that Trell Atiaran-mate was not among them. He understood intuitively; Trell had carried his personal dilemma to its conclusion, and was either dead or gone. Again, the Unbeliever found that he could not argue away his guilt.
All around the lake beyond the Lords were Lorewardens and warriors. And behind them were the survivors of Revelstone-farmers, Cattleherds, horse-tenders, cooks, artisans, Craftmasters-children and parents, young and old-all the people who had endured. They did not seem many, but Covenant knew that they were enough; they would be able to commence the work of restoration.
As he watched, they drew close to Glimmermere and fell silent. High Lord Mhoram waited until they were all attentive, ready. Then he lifted up his voice.
“People of the Land,” he said firmly, “we are gathered here in celebration of life. I have no long song to sing. I am weak yet, and none of us is strong. But we live. The Land has been preserved. The mad riot and rout of Lord Foul’s army shows us that he has fallen. The fierce echo of battle within the krill of Loric shows us that the white gold has done combat with the Illearth Stone, and has emerged triumphant. That is cause enough for celebration. Enough? My friends, it will suffice for us and for our children, while the present age of the Land endures.
”In token of this, I have brought the krill to Glimmermere.” Reaching painfully into his robe, he drew out the dagger. Its gem showed no light or life. “In it, we see that ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, has returned to his world, where a great hero was fashioned for our deliverance.
“Well, that is as it must be, though my heart regrets his passing. Yet let none fear that he is lost to us. Did not the old legends say that Berek Halfhand would come again? And was not that promise kept in the person of the Unbeliever? Such promises are not made in vain.
“My friends-people of the Land-Thomas Covenant once inquired of me why we so devote ourselves to the Lore of High Lord Kevin Landwaster. And now, in this war, we have learned the hazard of that Lore. Like the krill, it
