raged, a shadow, a grey cloud from the east, fell over the hosts. The Queen's defenders were stricken at heart, and their strength left them. But her enemies found a power of madness in the shadow. They forgot their humanity-they chopped and trampled and clawed and bit and maimed and defiled until their grey onslaught whelmed the heroes, and Berek's comrades broke one by one into despair and death. So the battle went until Berek was the last hater of the shadow left alive.
“But he fought on, heedless of his fate and the number of his foes, and souls fell dead under his sword like autumn leaves in a gale. At last, the King himself, filled with the fear and madness of the shadow, challenged Berek, and they fought. Berek stroked mightily, but the shadow turned his blade. So the contest was balanced until one blow of the King's axe cleft Berek's hand. Then Berek's sword fell to the ground, and he looked about him- looked and saw the shadow, and all his brave comrades dead. He cried a great cry of despair, and, turning, fled the battleground.
“Thus he ran, hunted by death, and the memory of the shadow was upon him. For three days he ran, never stopping, never resting-and for three days the King's host came behind him like a murderous beast, panting for blood. At the last of his strength and the extremity of his despair, he came to Mount Thunder. Climbing the rock- strewn slope, he threw himself down atop a great boulder and wept, saying, “Alas for the Earth. We are overthrown, and have no friend to redeem us. Beauty shall pass utterly from the Land.”
“But the rock on which he lay replied, “There is a Friend for a heart with the wisdom to see it.”
“The stones are not my friends, cried Berek. See, my enemies ride the Land, and no convulsion tears the earth from under their befouling feet.”
“That may be,” said the rock. `They are alive as much as you, and need the ground to stand upon. Yet there is a Friend for you in the Earth, if you will pledge your soul to its healing.'
'Then Berek stood upon the rock, and beheld his enemies close upon him. He took the pledge, sealing it with the blood of his riven hand. The Earth replied with thunder; from the heights of the mountain came great stone Fire-Lions, devouring everything in their path. The King and all his host were laid waste, and Berek alone stood above the rampage on his boulder like a tall ship in the sea.
“When the rampage had passed, Berek did homage to the Lions of Mount Thunder, promising respect and communion and service for the Earth from himself and all the generations which followed him upon the Land. Wielding the first Earthpower, he made the Staff of Law from the wood of the One Tree, and with it began the healing of the Land. In the fullness of time, Berek Halfhand was given the name Heartthew, and he became the Lord-Fatherer, the first of the Old Lords. Those who followed his path flourished in the Land for two thousand years.”
For a long moment, there was silence over the gathering when Atiaran finished. Then together, as if their pulses moved to a single beat, the Stonedownors began to surge forward, stretching out their hands to touch her in appreciation. She spread her arms to hug as many of her friends as she could, and those who could not reach her embraced each other, sharing the oneness of their communal response.
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,
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
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.
