The Wounded Land

warn her. He who possessed Joan for purposes too cruel to be answered. He who intended to harm them all. But at last she sank into a deeper slumber, and the evil went back into hiding.

She was awakened by a knocking at her door.

Her head felt swollen with nightmares, and the knocking had a tentative sound, as if the knocker believed the apartment to be dangerous. But it was imperative. She was a doctor.

When she unclosed her eyes, the light of mid-morning pierced her brain.

Groaning, she climbed out of bed, shrugged her arms into a bathrobe, then went to open the door.

A short timid woman with hands that fluttered and eyes that shied stood on the landing. Timorously, she asked, “Dr. Avery? Dr. Linden Avery?”

With an effort, Linden cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Dr. Berenford called.” The woman seemed to have no idea what she was saying. “I'm his secretary. You don't have a phone. I don't work on Saturdays, but he called me at home. He wants you to meet him. He's supposed to be on rounds.”

“Meet him?” A pang of apprehension went through her. “Where?”

“He said you'd know where.” Insistently, the woman went on, “I'm his secretary. I don't work on Saturdays, but I'm always glad to help him. He's a fine man-a fine doctor. His wife had polio. He really should be on rounds.”

Linden shut her eyes. If she could have summoned any strength, she would have cried out, Why are you doing this to me? But she felt drained by bad dreams and doubt. Muttering, “Thank you,” she closed the door.

For a moment, she did not move; she leaned against the door as if to hold it shut, wanting to scream. But Dr. Berenford would not have gone to such trouble to send for her if the situation were not urgent. She had to go.

As she dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous day and ran a comb through her hair, she realized that she made a choice. Sometime during the night, she had given her allegiance to Covenant. She did not understand what was wrong with Joan, or what he thought he could do about it; but she was attracted to him. The same intransigence which had so infuriated her had also touched her deeply; she was vulnerable to the strange appeal of his anger, his extremity, his paradoxically savage and compassionate determination to stand loyal to his ex-wife.

She drank a quick glass of orange juice to clear her head, then went down to her car.

The day was already unnaturally hot; the sunlight hurt her eyes. She felt oddly giddy and detached, as if she were experiencing a hallucination, as she entered the dirt roadway and approached Covenant's house. At first, she was not sure of her vision when she descried the dark stain on the wall.

She parked beside Dr. Berenford's car, jumped out to look.

Near the doorway, a tall, crude triangle violated the white wall. It was reddish-black, the colour of dried blood. The vehemence of its intent convinced her that it was blood.

She began to run.

Springing into the living room, she saw that it, too, had been desecrated. All the furnishings were intact; but everything was splotched and soaked with blood. Buckets of blood had been thrown into the room. A sickly-sweet smell clogged the air.

On the floor near the coffee table lay a shotgun.

Her stomach writhed. She slapped her hands to her mouth to keep herself from crying out. All this blood could not have come from one ordinary human body. Some atrocity.

Then she saw Dr. Berenford. He sat in the kitchen at the table, with a cup between his hands. He was looking at her.

She strode toward him, started to demand, “What the hell-?”

He stopped her with a warning gesture. “Keep it down,” he said softly. “He's sleeping.”

For a moment, she gaped at the Chief of Staff. But she was accustomed to emergencies; her self-command quickly reasserted itself. Moving as if to prove to him that she could be calm, she found a cup, poured herself some coffee from the pot on the stove, sat down in the other chair at the old enamel-topped table. In a flat tone, she asked, “What happened?”

He sipped his own coffee. All the humour was gone out of him, and his hands shook. “I guess he was right all along.” He did not meet her stare. “She's gone.”

“Gone?” For an instant, her control slipped. Gone? She could hardly breathe past the thudding of her heart. “Is anybody looking for her?”

“The police,” he replied. “Mrs. Roman-did I tell you about her? She's his lawyer. She went back to town after I got here-a couple hours ago. To light a fire under the Sheriff. Right now, every able-bodied cop in the county is probably out looking. The, only reason you don't see cars is because our Sheriff-bless his warm little heart-won't let his men park this close to a leper.”

“All right.” Linden mustered her training, gripped it in both hands. “Tell me what happened.”

He made a gesture of helplessness. “I don't really know. I only know what he told Mrs. Roman-what he told me. It doesn't make any sense.” He sighed. 'Well, this is what he says. Sometime after midnight, he heard people at his door. He'd spent most of the evening trying to bathe her, but after that he fell asleep. He didn't j wake up until these people began acting like they wanted to tear the door down.

“He didn't have to ask them what they wanted. I guess he's been expecting something like this ever since Joan showed up. He went and got his shotgun-did you know he had a shotgun? Had Mrs. Roman buy it for him last week. For self-defence — as if being a leper wasn't more defence than he ever had any use for.” Seeing Linden's impatience, he went back to his story. 'Anyway, he got his gun, and turned on all the lights. Then he opened the door.

“They came in-maybe half a dozen of them. He says they wore sackcloth and ashes.” Dr. Berenford grimaced. 'If he recognized any of them, he won't admit it. He waved the shotgun at them and told them they couldn't have her.

“But they acted as if they wanted to be shot. And when it came right down to it, he couldn't. Not even to save his ex-wife.” He shook his head. 'He tried to fight them off by main strength, but one against six, he didn't have much chance.

“Sometime early this morning, he came to long enough to call Mrs. Roman. He was incoherent-kept telling her to start a search, only he couldn't explain why-but at least he had sense enough to know he needed help. Then he passed out again. When she got here, she found him unconscious on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Whoever they were, they must have bled an entire cow.” He gulped coffee as if it were an antidote for the reek in the air. “Well, she got him on his feet, and he took her to check on Joan. She was gone. Restraints had been cut.”

“They didn't kill her?” interjected Linden.

He glanced at her. “He says no. How he knows-your guess is as good as mine.” After a moment, he resumed, “Anyway, Mrs. Roman called me. When I got here, she left to see what she could do about finding Joan. I've examined him, and he seems to be all right. Suffering from exhaustion as much as anything else.”

Linden shrugged aside her doubts about Covenant's condition. “I'll watch him.”

He nodded. “That was why I called for you.”

She drank some of her coffee to steady herself, then inquired carefully, “Do you know who they were?”

“I asked him that,” Dr. Berenford replied with a frown. “He said, 'How the hell should I know?'”

“Well, then, what do they want with her?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “You know, the worst part about the whole thing is-I think he knows.”

Frustration made her querulous. “So why won't he tell us?”

“Hard to say,” said the doctor slowly. “I think he thinks if we knew what was going on we'd try to stop him.”

Linden did not respond. She was no longer prepared to try to prevent Thomas Covenant from doing anything. But she was equally determined to learn the truth about Joan, about him-and, yes, about the old man in the ochre robe. For her own sake. And for Covenant's. In spite of his fierce independence, she could not shake the conviction that he was desperately in need of help.