Land-a man accusing a Giant of haste. Well, you are right. But did you not know that men consider us a”- he laughed again- “a deliberate people? I was chosen as legate because short human names, which bereave their bearers of so much history and power and meaning, are easier for me than for most of my people. But now it appears that they are too easy.” Once more he threw back his head and let out a stream of deep gaiety.
Covenant glared at the Giant as if all this humour were incomprehensible to him. Then with an effort he pulled himself away, dropped his staff into the bottom of the boat, and sat down on the thwart facing forward, into the west and the afternoon sun. Foamfollower's laughter had a contagious sound, a coloration of uncomplicated joy, but he resisted it. He could not afford to be the victim of any more seductions. Already he had lost more of himself than he could hope to regain.
Nerves don't regenerate. He tolled the words as if they were a private litany, icons of his embattled self. Giants don't exist. I know the difference.
Keep moving, survive.
He chewed his lips as if that pain could help him keep his balance, keep his rage under command.
At his back, Saltheart Foamfollower softly began to chant again. His song rolled through its channel like a long inlet to the sea, rising and falling like a condensation of the tides, and the winds of distance blew through the archaic words. At intervals, they returned to their refrain-
Stone and Sea are deep in life-
then voyaged away again. The sound of long sojourning reminded Covenant of his fatigue, and he slumped in the prow to rest.
Foamfollower's question caught him wandering. “Are you a storyteller, Thomas Covenant?”
Absently, he replied, “I was, once.”
“And you gave it up? Ah, that is as sad a tale in three words as any you might have told me. But a life without a tale is like a sea without salt. How do you live?”
Covenant folded his arms across the gunwales and rested his chin on them. As the boat moved, Andelain opened constantly in front of him like a bud; but he ignored it, concentrated instead on the plaint of water past the prow. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist over his ring. “I live.”
“Another?” Foamfollower returned. “In two words, a story sadder than the first. Say no more-with one word you will make me weep.”
If the Giant intended any umbrage, Covenant could not hear it. Foamfollower sounded half teasing, half sympathetic. Covenant shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent.
In a moment, the Giant went on: 'Well, this is a bad pass for me. Our journeying will not be easy, and I had hoped that you could lighten the leagues with a story. But no matter. I judge that you will tell no happy tales in any case. Ravers. Waynhim and Andelainian Wraiths slain. Well, some of this does not surprise me-our old ones have often guessed that Soulcrusher would not die as easily as poor Kevin hoped. Stone and Sea! All that Desecration- ravage and rapine-for a false hope. But we have a saying, and it comforts our children-few as they are-when they weep for the nation, the homes, and company of our people, which we lost-we say, Joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that speaks. The world has few stories glad in themselves, and we must have gay ears to defy Despite. Praise the Creator! Old Lord Damelon Giantfriend knew the value of a good laugh. When we reached the Land, we were too grieved to fight for the right to live.'
A good laugh, Covenant sighed morosely. Did I do a whole life's laughing in that little time?
“You humans are an impatient lot, Thomas Covenant. Do you think that I ramble? Not a bit-I have come hastening to the point. Since you have given up the telling of stories, and since it appears that neither of us is happy enough to withstand the recital of your adventures-why, I must do the telling myself. There is strength in stories- heart rebirth and thew binding-and even Giants need strength when they face such tasks as mine.” He paused, and Covenant, not wishing him to stop-the Giant's voice seemed to weave the rush of water past the boat into a soothing tapestry-said into the silence, “Tell.'
“Ah,” Foamfollower responded, “that was not so bad. You recover despite yourself, Thomas Covenant. Now, then. Gladden your ears, and listen gaily, for I am no purveyor of sorrows-though in times of action we do not wince from facts. If you asked me to resail your path here, I would require every detail of your journey before I took three steps into the Hills. Resailing is perilous, and too often return is impossible the path is lost, or the traveller changed, beyond hope of recovery.
“But you must understand, Unbeliever, that selecting a tale is usually a matter for deliberation. The old Giantish is a wealth of stories, and some take days in the telling. Once, as a child, I heard three times in succession the tale of Bahgoon the Unbearable and Thelma Twofist, who tamed him-now that was a story worth the laughter- but nine days were gone before I knew it. However, you do not speak Giantish, and translation is a long task, even for Giants, so the problem of selection is simplified. But the lore of our life in Seareach since our ships found the Land contains many times many stories-tales of the reigns of Damelon Giantfriend and Loric Vilesilencer and Kevin, who is now called Landwaster-tales of the building, the carving out of the mountain, of Revelstone, revered rock, “a handmark of allegiance and fealty in the eternal stone of time,” as Kevin once sang it, the mightiest making that the Giants have done in the Land, a temple for our people to look upon and remember what can be achieved-tales of the voyage which saved us from the Desecration, and of the many healings of the new Lords. But again selection is made easy because you are a stranger. I will tell you the first story of the Seareach Giants the Song of the Unhomed.”
Covenant looked about him at the shining blue tranquillity of the Soulsease, and settled himself to hear Foamfollower's story. But the narration did not begin right away. Instead of starting his tale, the Giant went back to his antique plainsong, spinning the melody meditatively so that it unrolled like the sea path of the river. For a long time, he sang, and under the spell of his voice Covenant began to drowse. He had too much exhaustion dripping through his bones to keep his attention ready. While he waited, he rested against the prow like a tired swimmer.
But then a modulation sharpened the Giant's chant. The melody took on keener edges, and turned itself to the angle of a lament. Soon Foamfollower was singing words that Covenant could understand.
We are the Unhomed—
lost voyagers of the world.
In the land beyond the Sunbirth Sea
we lived and had our homes and grew—
and set our sails to the wind,
unheeding of the peril of the lost.
We are the Unhomed.
From home and hearth,
stone sacred dwellings crafted by our reverent hands,
we set our sails to the wind of the stars,
and carried life to lands across the earth,
careless of the peril of our loss.
We are the Unhomed—
lost voyagers of the world.
From desert shore to high cliff crag,
home of men and sylvan sea-edge faery lands—
from dream to dream we set our sails,
and smiled at the rainbow of our loss.
Now we are Unhomed,
bereft of root and kith and kin.
From other mysteries of delight,
we set our sails to resail our track;
