From her hand to her arm, from her shoulder to her ribs and thighs, one by one her bruises evaporated as though they had been blessed away. Her abrasions faded. Palpably caressed, her torn muscles and strained ligaments regained their elasticity and vigour; their eagerness. The harsh effort of flight slipped from her as though she had forgotten it. In a wave of transformation, she felt herself exalted to health.
That was hurtloam, there in her palm. That tincture of pure health had been stirred and Wealth by the washing of the river into the plainer substance of the sand: a subtle and transcendent instance of the Land’s essential mystery. It was not common, oh, no, not common at all: most of the sand and soil on either side of the Mithil gave no hint of it, But now she could discern it without difficulty here and there, in small whorls and traces between the stones, as though it called out gladly to her nerves.
The River itself called out to her as it curled and chuckled in its course. Its waters sang to her of nourished growth and protracted journeys; of life renewed after sleep. In its bright running, she heard the music of winter storms among the peaks, the yearning chords of the current’s long hunger for the sea.
Wherever it found her, the grass on which she lay pressed its green and burgeoning richness to her skin. It spoke of health won by fine, cunning roots from the thin fertility of the sand and loam which cloaked the underlying stone: soil too recently worn from granite, obsidian, and schist to provide the abundant sustenance that enriched the Centre Plains and the Andelainian Hills.
And beneath the grass and the soil and the first rocks, she felt the living skeleton of the slopes and crests: obdurate stone that hugged to its heart secrets at once enduring and elusive, tangible enough to be tasted, yet too vast and slow to hear.
Gradually the hurtloam in her hand lost its gleaming as it expended its potency. Nevertheless it had lifted her to her feet: it had lifted up her heart. Tears of gladness blurred her sight as she faced the crisp morning, the burnished sunshine. All around her, the savour of the new season filled the air with possibilities. From its place near the height of noon, the sun warmed away the last of her bruises and fatigue.
In that way, one small handful of sand and hurtloam and Earthpower restored to her the glory of the Land. She felt positively reborn. For reasons which she could not begin to comprehend, Lord Foul had guided her here so that she might set aside her blindness and futility.
At last, she turned her renewed percipience toward her companion.
He still lay on his back with his hands covering his face. Now, however, she did not need to see his features or hear his voice in order to discern his insanity. His posture and his skin, his breathing and the angle of his bones, proclaimed it to her. She knew beyond question that his mind had been broken by more loss than it could endure.
And she knew as well, though the knowledge surprised her, that the Despiser had played no part in Anele’s derangement. The incoherence of Anele’s mind allowed Lord Foul entrance; permitted the Despiser to speak. Yet the Land’s foe had not caused that madness.
Anele’s straits brought an ache to her heart. He required healing; absolutely required it. He had already suffered far too long.
Now, suddenly, she had the means to help him.
“Anele,” she asked softly, “can you hear me?” him;
He did not respond. His hands covered his eyes urgently. Lord Foul still held she could see that. However, the Despiser had withdrawn from the surface, from mastery, leaving the old man at the mercy of his fears.
Linden did not hesitate. Her health-sense seemed to set her free. Two quick along the riverbank carried her toward another swirl of fine gleams in the sand. Crouching, she reached down to wash the expended hurtloam from her hand and scoop up more.
Glad fire sang in her fingers as she moved to Anele’s side, knelt near his head. “Anele,” she said again, “if you can hear me,” if Lord Foul permitted him hearing, “I have more hurtloam. I’m going to put it on your forehead. It should heal you.”
She was not sure that even this power could knit his mind together. But she had no doubt that it would do him good. If nothing else, it would reduce the damage which years of flight and dread had done to his old flesh.
Immediately Anele jerked down his hands. Terror shone in his sightless eyes. His mouth fumbled to form a cry which might have been,
Still Linden did not hesitate. She expected the prospect of healing to dismay him. He had created his madness for reasons which had seemed compulsory to him. Until he recovered his mind, how could he know whether his need for insanity had passed?
Ignoring his distress, she overturned her hand and wiped hurtloam across his forehead.
Instantly the Despiser’s presence vanished from him, fled as if from the touch of dissolution-and Anele went into convulsions.
Before Linden could react, his whole frame snapped rigid. Blood spurted from his bitten tongue. His eyes rolled up into his head, protruding as if they were about to burst. From his skin sprang an acrid sweat that smelled like gall.
Anele! Too late, she saw what she had done. The hurtloam was too potent for him. He was already rife with Earthpower: his body could not contain more. It would scorch the marrow of his bones.
Desperately she slapped at his forehead, trying to remove the sand; but his preterite anguish had already carried him beyond her reach. One fatal scream ripped his throat: he seemed to explode to his feet. In a flurry of thrashing limbs, he flung himself from the riverbank out into the depths of the Mithil.
And the current bore him away.
He made no attempt to swim. Instead he pounded water at his forehead while he sank.
Christ!
Linden surged upright; dashed after him along the bank. Ahead of her, he broke to the surface, still floundering; foundering. Three more strides, four. Then she would gather herself to dive after him.
But she had no chance to save him. As she prepared to spring, a length of rope uncoiled through the air from somewhere above her on the slope.
It splashed the water within Anele’s grasp. Instinctively he threw his arms over it; closed his hands on it; clung to it fervidly as it dragged him across the current toward.
Linden staggered to a halt.
Now she saw Liand. Her concentration on Anele had left her blind and deaf to his approach. Unnoticed, he had ridden down the hillside toward her on a hardy mustang, responding to Anele’s peril more swiftly than she could.
For a moment, he anchored his rope from horseback while Anele struggled toward the riverbank. Then, when the old man began to gain footing, Liand dismounted. Keeping the line taut, he hurried down the slope to help Anele scramble out of the Mithil.
Soon Anele stood on the grass, streaming and unhealed. Blood spilled from his mouth: the hurtloam was gone from his forehead. While Linden stared at him, Lord Foul let out a snarling laugh.
Then the old man crumpled to the ground, coughing as if he had filled his lungs with water.
Chapter Seven: Companions in Flight
Linden stood on the riverbank, so shocked for the moment that she had ceased to move. Anele grovelled in the grass in front of her. She saw him as distinctly as if he had been etched in sunfire. Water poured like tears off the broken landscape of his face: he coughed as though he had swallowed too much blood.
Hurtloam had given back to her the beauty of the Land.
Beyond question he was full of Earthpower: she could not be mistaken now. Its vitality shimmered in every line of his emaciated limbs, every twist of his abused features. And hurtloam was Earthpower as well, an indisputable instance of healing and glory. It should have lifted him into light like an annunciation. The hurt he had taken from it contradicted its essential nature.
Now she saw that the loam had not been too potent for him. It had exerted its natural effect. But his inherent energies had become part of his madness, and had opposed his restoration.
