Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  After he had scanned the assembly, Covenant turned his attention to Lena. She stood by his right side, the top of her head just an inch or two higher than his shoulder, and she held the graveling pot at her waist with both hands, so that the light emphasized her breasts. She was clearly unconscious of the effect, but he felt it intensely, and his palms itched again with an eager and fearful desire to touch her.

  As if she felt his thoughts, she looked up at him with a solemn softness in her face that made his heart lurch as if it were too big for his constraining ribs. Awkwardly he took his eyes away, stared around the circle without seeing anything. When he glanced back at her, she seemed to be doing just what he had done—pretending to look elsewhere. He tightened his jaw and forced himself to wait for something to happen.

  Soon the gathering became still. In the center of the open circle, Atiaran stood up on a low stone platform. She bowed her head to the gathering, and the people responded by silently raising their graveling pots. The lights seemed to focus around her like a penumbra.

  When the pots were lowered, and a last ripple of shuffling had passed through the gathering, Atiaran began: “I feel I am an old woman this night—my memory seems clouded, and I do not remember all the song I would like to sing. But what I remember I will sing, and I will tell you the story, as I have told it before, so that you may share what lore I have.” At this, low laughter ran through the gathering—a humorous tribute to Atiaran’s superior knowledge. She remained silent, her head bowed to hide the fear that knowledge had brought her, until the people were quiet again. Then she raised her eyes and said, “I will sing the legend of Berek Halfhand.”

  After a last momentary pause, she placed her song into the welcoming silence like a rough and rare jewel.

  In war men pass like shadows that stain the

  grass,

  Leaving their lives upon the green:

  While Earth bewails the crimson sheen,

  Men’s dreams and stars and whispers all helpless

  pass.

  In one red shadow by woe and wicked cast,

  In one red pool about his feet,

  Berek mows the vile like ripe wheat,

  Though of all of Beauty’s guarders he is last:

  Last to pass into the shadow of defeat,

  And last to feel the full despair,

  And leave his weapons lying there—

  Take his half unhanded hand from battle seat.

  Across the plains of the Land they all swept—

  Treachers lust at faltering stride

  As Berek fled before the tide,

  Till on Mount Thunder’s rock-mantled side he

  wept.

  Berek! Earthfriend!—Help and weal,

  Battle-aid against the foe!

  Earth gives and answers Power’s peal,

  Ringing, Earthfriend! Help and heal!

  Clean the Land from bloody death and woe!

  The song made Covenant quiver, as if it concealed a specter which he should have been able to recognize. But Atiaran’s voice enthralled him. No instruments aided her singing, but before she had finished her first line, he knew that she did not need them. The clean thread of her melody was tapestried with unexpected resonances, implied harmonies, echoes of silent voices, so that on every rising motif she seemed about to expand into three or four singers, throats separate and unanimous in the song.

  It began in a minor mode that made the gold-hued, star-gemmed night throb like a dirge; and through it blew a black wind of loss, in which things cherished and consecrated throughout the Stonedown seemed to flicker and go out. As he listened, Covenant felt that the entire gathering wept with the song, cried out as one in silent woe under the wide power of the singer.

  But grief did not remain long in that voice. After a pause that opened in the night like a revelation, Atiaran broke into her brave refrain—“Berek! Earthfriend!’—and the change carried her high in a major modulation that would have been too wrenching for any voice less rampant with suggestions, less thickly woven, than hers. The emotion of the gathering continued, but it was reborn in an instant from grief to joy and gratitude. And as Atiaran’s long, last high note sprang from her throat like a salute to the mountains and the stars, the people held up their graveling pots and gave a resounding shout:

  “Berek! Earthfriend! Hail!”

  Then, slowly, they lowered their lights and began to press forward, moving closer to Atiaran to hear her story. The common impulse was so simple and strong that Covenant took a few steps as well before he could recollect himself. Abruptly he looked about him—focused his eyes on the faint glimmering stars, smelled the pervasive aroma of the graveling. The unanimous reaction of the Stonedown frightened him; he could not afford to lose himself in it. He wanted to turn away, but he needed to hear Berek’s story, so he stayed where he was.

  As soon as the people had settled themselves, Atiaran began.

  “It came to pass that there was a great war in the eldest days, in the age that marks the beginning of the memory of mankind—before the Old Lords were born, before the Giants came across the Sunbirth Sea to make the alliance of Rockbrothers—a time before the Oath of Peace, before the Desolation and High Lord Kevin’s last battle. It was a time when the Viles who sired the Demondim were a high and lofty race, and the Cavewights smithed and smelted beautiful metals to trade in open friendship with all the people of the Land. In that time, the Land was one great nation, and over it ruled a King and Queen. They were a hale pair, rich with love and honor, and for many years they held their sway in unison and peace.

  “But after a time a shadow came over the heart of the King. He tasted the power of life and death over those who served him, and learned to desire it. Soon mastery became a lust with him, as necessary as food. His nights were spent in dark quests for more power, and by day he exercised that power, becoming hungrier and more cruel as the lust overcame him.

  “But the Queen looked on her husband and was dismayed. She desired only that the health and fealty of the past years should return. But no appeal, no suasion or power of hers, could break the grip of cruelty that degraded the King. And at last, when she saw that the good of the Land would surely die if her husband were not halted, she broke with him, opposed his might with hers.

  “Then there was war in the Land. Many who had felt the cut of the King’s lash stood with the Queen. And many who hated murder and loved life joined her also. The chiefest of these was Berek—strongest and wisest of the Queen’s champions. But the fear of the King was upon the Land, and whole cities rose up to fight for him, killing to protect their own slavery.

  “Battle was joined across the Land, and for a time it seemed that the Queen would prevail. Her heroes were mighty of hand, and none were mightier than Berek, who was said to be a match for any King. But as the battle raged, a shadow, a gray 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 gray 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 ax 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, pa
nting 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 FireLions, 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 behavior. 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, He intends you to be my final foe. He chose you to destroy me.

  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 suru-pa-maerl images, and have met no harm. There is a place nearby where you will not be disturbed.”

  For all its appearance of age, the bridge had an untrustworthy look to Covenant’s eye. The unmortared joins 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.

  Soon they reached their destination. Lena led Covenant directly west for a distance, then up a steep hill to the right, and down a splintered ravine toward the river again. Carefully they picked their way along the ragged bottom of the ravine as if they were balancing on the broken keel of a ship; its shattered hull rose up on either side of them, narrowing their horizons. A few trees stuck out of the sides like spars, and near the river the hulk lay aground on a swath of smooth sand which faded toward a flat rock promontory jutting into the river. The Mithil complained around this rock, as if annoyed by the brief constriction of its banks, and the sound blew up the ravine like a sea breeze moaning through a reefed wreck.

  Lena halted on the sandy bottom. Kneeling, she scooped a shallow basin in the sand and emptied her pot of graveling into it. The fire-stones gave more light from the open basin, so that the ravine bottom was lit with yellow, and shortly Covenant felt a quiet warmth from the graveling. The touch of the stones’ glow made him aware that the night was cool, a pleasant night for sitting around a fire. He squatted beside the graveling with a shiver like the last keen quivering of imminent hysteria.

  After she had settled the graveling in the sand, Lena moved away toward the river. Where
she stood on the promontory, the light barely reached her, and her form was dark; but Covenant could see that her face was raised to the heavens.

  He followed her gaze up the black face of the mountains, and saw that the moon was rising. A silver sheen paled the stars along the rim of rock, darkening the valley with its shadow; but the shadow soon passed down the ravine, and moonlight fell on the river, giving it the appearance of old argent. And as the full moon arose from the mountains, it caught Lena, cast a white haze like a caress across her head and shoulders. Standing still by the river, she held her head up to the moon, and Covenant watched her with an odd grim jealousy, as if she were poised on a precipice that belonged to him.

  Finally when the moonlight had crossed the river into the eastern valley, Lena lowered her head and returned to the circle of the graveling. Without meeting Covenant’s gaze, she asked softly, “Shall I go?”

  Covenant’s palms itched as if he wanted to strike her for even suggesting that she might stay. But at the same time he was afraid of the night; he did not want to face it alone. Awkwardly he got to his feet, paced a short distance away from her. Scowling up the hulk of the ravine, he fought to sound neutral as he said, “What do you want?”

  Her reply, when it came, was quiet and sure. “I want to know more of you.”

  He winced, ducked his head as if claws had struck at him out of the air. Then he snatched himself erect again.

  “Ask.”

  “Are you married?”

  At that, he whirled to face her as if she had stabbed him in the back. Under the hot distress of his eyes and his bared teeth, she faltered, lowered her eyes and turned her head away. Seeing her uncertainty, he felt that his face had betrayed him again. He had not willed the snarling contortion of his features. He wanted to contain himself, not give way like this—not in front of her. Yet she aggravated his distress more than anything else he had encountered. Striving for self-control, he snapped, “Yes. No. It doesn’t matter. Why ask?”