The Wounded Land

  “You?” Was he paranoiac after all? “Are you trying to tell me that this whole thing happened to her because of you? Why?”

  “I haven’t found that out yet.”

  “No. I mean, why do you think this has anything to do with you? If they wanted you, why didn’t they just take you? You couldn’t have stopped them.”

  “Because it has to be voluntary.” His voice had the flat timbre of over-stressed cable in a high wind. He should have snapped long ago. But he did not sound like a man who snapped. “He can’t just force me. I have to choose to do it. Joan—” A surge of darkness occluded his eyes. “She’s just his way of exerting pressure. He has to take the chance that I might refuse.”

  He. Linden’s breathing came heavily. “You keep saying he. Who is he?”

  His frown made his face seem even more malformed. “Leave it alone.” He was trying to warn her. “You don’t believe in possession. How can I make you believe in possessors?”

  She took his warning, but not in the way he intended. Hints of purpose—half guesswork, half determination—unexpectedly lit her thoughts. A way to learn the truth. He had said, You’re going to have to find some way to do it behind my back. Well, by God, if that was what she had to do, she would do it.

  “All right,” she said, glaring at him to conceal her intentions. “I can’t make you make sense. Just tell me one thing. Who was that old man? You knew him.”

  Covenant returned her stare as if he did not mean to answer. But then he relented stiffly. “A harbinger. Or a warning. When he shows up, you’ve only got two choices. Give up everything you ever understood, and take your chances. Or run for your life. The problem is”—his tone took on a peculiar resonance, as if he were trying to say more than he could put into words—“he doesn’t usually waste his time talking to the kind of people who run away. And you can’t possibly know what you’re getting into.”

  She winced inwardly, fearing that he had guessed her intent. But she held herself firm. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I can’t.” His intensity was gone, transformed back into resignation. “It’s like signing a blank check. That kind of trust, foolhardiness, wealth, whatever, doesn’t mean anything if you know how much the check is going to be for. You either sign or you don’t. How much do you think you can afford?”

  “Well, in any case”—she shrugged—“I don’t plan to sign any blank checks. I’ve done about all I can stand to clean up this place. I’m going home.” She could not meet his scrutiny. “Dr. Berenford wants you to eat. Are you going to do it, or do I have to send him back out here?”

  He did not answer her question. “Goodbye, Dr. Avery.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she protested in a sudden rush of dismay at his loneliness. “I’m probably going to spend the rest of the day worrying about you. At least call me Linden.”

  “Linden.” His voice denied all emotion. “I can handle it.”

  “I know,” she murmured, half to herself. She went out into the thick afternoon. I’m the one who needs help.

  On her way back to her apartment, she noticed that the woman and children who advised repentance were nowhere to be seen.

  Several hours later, as sunset dwindled into twilight, streaking the streets with muggy orange and pink, she was driving again. She had showered and rested; she had dressed herself in a checked flannel shirt, tough jeans, and a pair of sturdy hiking shoes. She drove slowly, giving the evening time to darken. Half a mile before she reached Haven Farm, she turned off her headlights.

  Leaving the highway, she took the first side road to one of the abandoned houses on the Farm. There she parked her car and locked it to protect her medical bag and purse.

  On foot, she approached Covenant’s house. As much as possible, she hid herself among the trees along that side of the Farm. She was gambling that she was not too late, that the people who had taken Joan would not have done anything during the afternoon. From the trees, she hastened stealthily to the wall of the house. There, she found a window which gave her a view of the living room without exposing her to the door.

  The lights were on. With all her caution, she looked in on Thomas Covenant.

  He slouched in the center of the sofa with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets, as if he were waiting for something. His bruises had darkened, giving him the visage of a man who had already been beaten. The muscles along his jaw bunched, relaxed, bunched again. He strove to possess himself in patience; but after a moment the tension impelled him to his feet. He began to walk in circles around the sofa and coffee table. His movements were rigid, denying the mortality of his heart.

  So that she would not have to watch him, Linden lowered herself to the ground and sat against the wall. Hidden by the darkness, she waited with him.

  She did not like what she was doing. It was a violation of his privacy, completely unprofessional. But her ignorance and his stubbornness were intolerable. She had an absolute need to understand what had made her quail when she had faced Joan.

  She did not have to wait long. Scant minutes after she had settled herself, abrupt feet approached the house.

  The lurching of her heart almost daunted her. But she resisted it. Carefully she raised her head to the window just as a fist hammered at the door.

  Covenant flinched at the sound. Dread knurled his face.

  The sight of his reaction stung Linden. He was such a potent individual, seemed to have so many strengths which she lacked. How had he been brought to this?

  But an instant later he crushed his fear as if he were stamping on the neck of a viper. Defying his own weakness, he strode toward the door.

  It opened before he reached it. A lone man stepped uninvited out of the dark. Linden could see him clearly. He wore burlap wound around him like cerements. Ash had been rubbed unevenly into his hair, smeared thickly over his cheeks. It emphasized the deadness of his eyes, so that he looked like a ghoul in masque.

  “Covenant?” Like his mien, his voice was ashen, dead.

  Covenant faced the man. He seemed suddenly taller, as if he were elevated by his own hard grasp on life. “Yes.”

  “Thomas Covenant?”

  The writer nodded impatiently. “What do you want?”

  “The hour of judgment is at hand.” The man stared into the room as if he were blind. “The Master calls for your soul. Will you come?”

  Covenant’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Your master knows what I can do to him.”

  The man did not react. He went on as if his speech had already been arrayed for burial. “The woman will be sacrificed at the rising of the full moon. Expiation must be made for sin. She will pay if you do not. This is the commandment of the Master of life and death. Will you come?”

  Sacrificed? Linden gaped. Expiation? A flush of indignation burned her skin. What the hell—?

  Covenant’s shoulders knotted. His eyes flamed with extreme promises, threats. “I’ll come.”

  No flicker of consciousness animated the man’s gray features. He turned like a marionette and retreated into the night.

  For a moment, Covenant stood still. His arms hugged his chest as if to stifle an outcry; his head stretched back in anguish. The bruises marked his face like a bereavement.

  But then he moved. With a violence that startled Linden, appalled her, he struck himself across the cheek with his half-hand. Abruptly, he threw himself into the darkness after his summoner.

  Linden almost lost her chance to follow. She felt stunned by dismay. The Master—? Sacrificed? Dreads and doubts crawled her skin like vermin. The man in burlap had looked so insentient—soulless more than any animal. Drugs? Or—?

  However he may assail—

  Was Covenant right? About the old man, about possession? About the purpose—? She’s just a way for them to get at me.

  Sacrificed?

  Oh, dear God! The man in burlap appeared insane enough, lost enough, to be dangerous. And Covenant—? Covenant was capable of anything.

  Her
guess at what he was doing galvanized her. Fear for him broke through her personal apprehension, sent her hurrying around the corner of the house in pursuit.

  His summoner had led him away from the highway, away from the house into the woods. Linden could hear them in the brush; without light, they were unable to move quietly. As her eyes adjusted, she glimpsed them ahead of her, flickering like shadows in and out of the variegated dark. She followed them.

  They traveled blindly through the woods, over hills and along valleys. They used no path; Linden had the impression that they were cutting as straight as a plumb line toward their destination. And as they moved, the night seemed to mount around her, growing steadily more hostile as her trepidation increased. The trees and brush became malevolent, as if she were passing into another wood altogether, a place of hazard and cruel intent.

  Then a hill lay across their way. Covenant and his summoner ascended, disappeared over the crest in a strange flare of orange light. It picked them out of the dark, then quenched them like an instant of translation. Warned by that brief gleam, Linden climbed slowly. The keening of her nerves seemed loud in the blackness. The last few yards she crossed on her hands and knees, keeping herself within the cover of the underbrush.

  As her head crested the hill, she was struck by a blaze of light. Fire invisible a foot away burst in her face as if she had just penetrated the boundary of dreams. For an instant, she was blinded by the light, paralyzed by the silence. The night swallowed all sound, leaving the air empty of life.

  Blinking furiously, she peered past the hillcrest.

  Beyond her lay a deep barren hollow. Its slopes were devoid of grass, brush, trees, as if the soil had been scoured by acid.

  A bonfire burned at the bottom of the hollow. Its flames sprang upward like lust, writhed like madness; but it made no noise. Seeing it, Linden felt that she had been stricken deaf. Impossible that such a fire could blaze in silence.

  Near the fire stretched a rough plane of native rock, perhaps ten feet across. A large triangle had been painted on it in red—color as crimson as fresh blood.

  Joan lay on her back within the triangle. She did not move, appeared to be unconscious; only the slow lifting of her chest against her nightgown showed that she was alive.

  People clustered around her, twenty or thirty of them. Men, women, children—all dressed in habiliments of burlap; all masked with gray as if they had been wallowing in ashes. They were as gaunt as icons of hunger. They gazed out of eyes as dead as if the minds behind their orbs had been extirpated—eyes which had been dispossessed of every vestige of will or spirit. Even the children stood like puppets and made no sound.

  Their faces were turned toward a place on Linden’s left.

  Toward Thomas Covenant.

  He stood halfway down the hillside, confronting the fire across the barrenness of the hollow. His shoulders hunched; his hands were fists at his sides, and his head was thrust combatively forward. His chest heaved as if he were full of denunciations.

  Nobody moved, spoke, blinked. The air was intense with silence like concentrated coercion.

  Abruptly, Covenant grated through his teeth, “I’m here.” The clench of his throat made each word sound like a self-inflicted wound. “Let her go.”

  A movement snatched Linden’s attention back to the bottom of the hollow. A man brawnier than the rest changed positions, took a stance on the rock at the point of the triangle, above Joan’s head. He raised his arms, revealing a long, curved dagger gripped in his right fist. In a shrill voice like a man on the verge of ecstasy, he shouted, “It is time! We are the will of the Master of life and death! This is the hour of retribution and cleansing and blood! Let us open the way for the Master’s presence!”

  The night sucked his voice out of the air, left in its place a stillness as sharp as a cut. For a moment, nothing happened.

  Covenant took a step downward, then jerked to a halt.

  A woman near the fire shambled forward. Linden nearly gasped aloud as she recognized the woman who had stood on the steps of the courthouse, warning people to repent. With her three children behind her, she approached the blaze.

  She bowed to it like a dead woman.

  Blankly she put her right hand into the flames.

  A shriek of pain rent the night. She recoiled from the fire, fell in agony to the bare ground.

  A red quivering ran through the flames like a spasm of desire. The fire seemed to mount as if it fed on the woman’s pain.

  Linden’s muscles bunched, ached to hurl her to her feet. She wanted to shout her horror, stop this atrocity. But her limbs were locked. Images of desperation or evil froze her where she crouched. All these people were like Joan.

  Then the woman regained her feet and stood as dumbly as if the nerves to her burned hand had been severed. Her gaze returned to Covenant like a compulsion, exerting its demand against him.

  The oldest of her children took her place at the bonfire.

  No! Linden cried, striving uselessly to break the silence.

  The young boy bowed, thrust his emaciated arm into the blaze.

  His wail broke Linden’s will, left her panting in helpless abomination. She could not move, could not look away. Loathings for which she had no name mastered her.

  The boy’s younger sister did what he had done, as if his agony meant nothing to her. And the third waif followed in turn, surrendering her flesh to harm like lifeless tissue animated solely for immolation.

  Then Linden would have moved. The rigid abhorrence of Covenant’s stance showed that he would have moved. But the fire stopped them, held them. At every taste of flesh, lust flared through it; flames raged higher.

  A figure began to take shape in the heart of the blaze.

  More people moved to sacrifice their hands. As they did so, the figure solidified. It was indistinct in the flames; but the glaring red outlined a man in a flowing robe. He stood blood-limned with his arms folded across his powerful chest—created by pain out of fire and self-abandonment.

  The worshipper with the knife sank to his knees, cried out in exaltation, “Master!”

  The figure’s eyes were like fangs, carious and yellow; and they raged venomously out of the flames. Their malignance cowed Linden like a personal assault on her sanity, her conception of life. They were rabid and deliberate, like voluntary disease, fetid corruption. Nothing in all her life had readied her to witness such palpable hate.

  Across the stillness, she heard Covenant gasp in fury, “Foul! Even children?” But his wrath could not penetrate the dread which paralyzed her. For her, the fiery silence was punctuated only by the screaming of the burned.

  Then the moon began to rise opposite her. A rim as white as bone crested the hill, looked down into the hollow like a leer.

  The man with the knife came to his feet. Again he raised his arms, brandished his dagger. His personal transport was approaching its climax. In a shout like a moan, he cried, “Now is the hour of apocalypse! The Master has come! Doom is at hand for those who seek to thwart His will. Now we will witness vengeance against sin and life, we who have watched and waited and suffered in His name. Here we fulfill the vision that was given to us. We have touched the fire, and we have been redeemed!” His voice rose until he was shrieking like the burned. “Now we will bring all wickedness to blood and eternal torment!”

  He’s mad. Linden clung to that thought, fought to think of these people as fanatics, driven wild by destitution and fear. They’re all crazy. This is impossible. But she could not move.

  And Covenant did not move. She yearned for him to do something, break the trance somehow, rescue Joan, save Linden herself from her extremity. But he remained motionless, watching the fire as if he were trapped between savagery and helplessness.

  The figure in the blaze stirred. His eyes focused the flames like twin scars of malice, searing everything with his contempt. His right arm made a gesture as final as a sentence of execution.

  At once, the brawny man dropped t
o his knees. Bending over Joan, he bared her throat. She lay limp under him, frail and lost. The skin of her neck seemed to gleam in the firelight like a plea for help.

  Trembling as if he were rapturous or terrified, the man set his blade against Joan’s white throat.

  Now the people in the hollow stared emptily at his hands. They appeared to have lost all interest in Covenant. Their silence was appalling. The man’s hands shook.

  “Stop!”

  Covenant’s shout scourged the air.

  “You’ve done enough! Let her go!”

  The baleful eyes in the fire swung at him, nailed him with denigration. The worshipper at Joan’s throat stared whitely upward. “Release her?” he croaked. “Why?”

  “Because you don’t have to do this!” Anger and supplication thickened Covenant’s tone. “I don’t know how you were driven to this. I don’t know what went wrong with your life. But you don’t have to do it.”

  The man did not blink; the eyes in the fire clenched him. Deliberately he knotted his free hand in Joan’s hair.

  “All right!” Covenant barked immediately. “All right. I accept. I’ll trade you. Me for her.”

  “No.” Linden strove to shout aloud, but her cry was barely a whisper. “No.”

  The worshippers were as silent as gravestones.

  Slowly the man with the knife rose to his feet. He alone seemed to have the capacity to feel triumph; he was grinning ferally as he said, “It is as the Master promised.”

  He stepped back. At the same time, a quiver ran through Joan. She raised her head, gaped around her. Her face was free of possession. Moving awkwardly, she climbed to her feet. Bewildered and afraid, she searched for an escape, for anything she could understand.

  She saw Covenant.

  “Tom!” Springing from the rock, she fled toward him and threw herself into his arms.

  He hugged her, strained his arms around her as if he could not bear to lose her. But then, roughly, he pushed her away. “Go home,” he ordered. “It’s over. You’ll be safe now.” He faced her in the right direction, urged her into motion.