When she was ready to go, he gave himself a deliberate VSE, then forced his shoulders into the straps of his pack and followed her down the file as if her stiff back were a demand he could not refuse.
Before the day was done, he was an expert on that back. It never compromised; it never admitted a doubt about its authority, never offered the merest commiseration. Though his muscles tightened until they became as inarticulate as bone—though the aching rictus of his shoulders made him hunch in his pack like a cripple—though the leagues aggravated his sore feet until he hobbled along like a man harried by vultures—her back compelled him like an ultimatum: keep moving or go mad; I permit no other alternatives. And he could not deny her. She stalked ahead of him like a nightmare figure, and he followed as if she held the key to his existence.
Late in the morning, they left the end of the file, and found themselves on a heathered hillside almost directly north of the high, grim finger of Kevin’s Watch. They could see the South Plains off to the west; and as soon as the file ended, the stream turned that way, flowing to some distant union with the Mithil. But Atiaran led Covenant still northward, weaving her way along fragmentary tracks and across un-pathed leas which bordered the hills on her right.
To the west, the grasslands of the plains were stiff with bracken, purplish in the sunlight. And to the east, the hills rose calmly, cresting a few hundred feet higher than the path which Atiaran chose along their sides. In this middle ground, the heather alternated with broad swaths of bluegrass. The hillsides wore flowers and butterflies around thick copses of wattle and clusters of taller trees—oaks and sycamores, a few elms, and some gold-leaved trees—Atiaran called them “Gilden”—which looked like maples. All the colors—the trees, the heather, and bracken, the aliantha, the flowers, and the infinite azure sky—were vibrant with the eagerness of spring, lush and exuberant rebirth of the world.
But Covenant had no strength to take in such things. He was blind and deaf with exhaustion, pain, incomprehension. Like a penitent, he plodded on through the afternoon at Atiaran’s behest.
At last the day came to an end. Covenant covered the final league staggering numbly, though he did not pass out on his feet as he had the previous day; and when Atiaran halted and dropped her pack, he toppled to the grass like a felled tree. But his overstrained muscles twitched as if they were appalled; he could not hold them still without clenching. In involuntary restlessness, he helped Atiaran by unpacking the blankets while she cooked supper. During their meal, the sun set across the plains, streaking the grasslands with shadows and lavender; and when the stars came out he lay and watched them, trying with the help of springwine to make himself relax.
At last he faded into sleep. But his slumbers were troubled. He dreamed that he was trudging through a desert hour after hour, while a sardonic voice urged him to enjoy the freshness of the grass. The pattern ran obsessively in his mind until he felt that he was sweating anger. When the dawn came to wake him, he met it as if it were an affront to his sanity.
He found that his feet were already growing tougher, and his cut hand had healed almost completely. His overt pain was fading. But his nerves were no less alive. He could feel the ends of his socks with his toes, could feel the breeze on his fingers. Now the immediacy of these inexplicable sensations began to infuriate him. They were evidence of health, vitality—a wholeness he had spent long, miserable months of his life learning to live without—and they seemed to inundate him with terrifying implications. They seemed to deny the reality of his disease.
But that was impossible. It’s one or the other, he panted fiercely. Not both. Either I’m a leper or I’m not. Either Joan divorced me or she never existed. There’s no middle ground.
With an effort that made him grind his teeth, he averred, I’m a leper. I’m dreaming. That’s a fact.
He could not bear the alternative. If he were dreaming, he might still be able to save his sanity, survive, endure. But if the Land were real, actual—ah, then the long anguish of his leprosy was a dream, and he was mad already, beyond hope.
Any belief was better than that. Better to struggle for a sanity he could at least recognize than to submit to a “health” which surpassed all explanation.
He chewed the gristle of such thoughts for leagues as he trudged along behind Atiaran, but each argument brought him back to the same position. The mystery of his leprosy was all the mystery he could tolerate, accept as fact. It determined his response to every other question of credibility.
It made him stalk along at Atiaran’s back as if he were ready to attack her at any provocation.
Nevertheless, he did receive one benefit from his dilemma. Its immediate presence and tangibility built a kind of wall between him and the particular fears and actions which had threatened him earlier. Certain memories of violence and blood did not recur. And without shame to goad it, his anger remained manageable, discrete. It did not impel him to rebel against Atiaran’s uncompromising lead.
Throughout that third day, her erect, relentless form did not relax its compulsion. Up slopes and down hillsides, across glens, around thickets—along the western margin of the hills—she drew him onward against his fuming mind and recalcitrant flesh. But early in the afternoon she stopped suddenly, looked about her as if she had heard a distant cry of fear. Her unexpected anxiety startled Covenant, but before he could ask her what was the matter, she started grimly forward again.
Some time later she repeated her performance. This time, Covenant saw that she was smelling the air as if the breeze carried an erratic scent of evil. He sniffed, but smelled nothing. “What is it?” he asked. “Are we being followed again?”
She did not look at him. “Would that Trell were here,” she breathed distractedly. “Perhaps he would know why the Land is so unquiet.” Without explanation she swung hastening away northward once more.
That evening she halted earlier than usual. Late in the afternoon, he noticed that she was looking for something, a sign of some kind in the grass and trees; but she said nothing to explain herself, and so he could do nothing but watch and follow. Then without warning she turned sharply to the right, moved into a shallow valley between two hills. They had to skirt the edge of the valley to avoid a large patch of brambles which covered most of its bottom; and in a few hundred yards they came to a wide, thick copse in the northern hill. Atiaran walked around the copse, then unexpectedly vanished into it.
Dimly wondering, Covenant went to the spot where she had disappeared. There he was able to pick out a thin sliver of a path leading into the copse. He had to turn sideways to follow this path around some of the trees, but in twenty feet he came to an open space like a chamber grown into the center of the woods.
The space was lit by light filtering through the walls, which were formed of saplings standing closely side by side in a rude rectangle; and a faint rustling breeze blew through them. But interwoven branches and leaves made a tight roof for the chamber. It was comfortably large enough for three or four people, and along each of its walls were grassy mounds like beds. In one corner stood a larger tree with a hollow center, into which shelves had been built, and these were laden with pots and flasks made of both wood and stone. The whole place seemed deliberately welcoming and cozy.
As Covenant looked around, Atiaran set her pack on one of the beds, and said abruptly, “This is a Waymeet.” When he turned a face full of questions toward her, she sighed and went on, “A resting place for travelers. Here is food and drink and sleep for any who pass this way.”
She moved away to inspect the contents of the shelves, and her busyness forced Covenant to hold onto his questions until a time when she might be more accessible. But while she replenished the supplies in her pack and prepared a meal, he sat and reflected that she was not ever likely to be accessible to him; and he was in no mood to be kept in ignorance. So after they had eaten, and Atiaran had settled herself for the night, he said with as much gentleness as he could manage, “Tell me more about this place.
Maybe I’ll need to know sometime.”
She kept her face away from him, and lay silent in the gathering darkness for a while. She seemed to be waiting for courage, and when at last she spoke, she sighed only, “Ask.”
Her delay made him abrupt. “Are there many places like this?”
“There are many throughout the Land.”
“Why? Who sets them up?”
“The Lords caused them to be made. Revelstone is only one place, and the people live in many—therefore the Lords sought a way to help travelers, so that people might come to Revelstone and to each other more easily.”
“Well, who takes care of them? There’s fresh food here.”
Atiaran sighed again, as if she found talking to him arduous. The night had deepened; he could see nothing of her but a shadow as she explained tiredly, “Among the Demondim-spawn that survived the Desolation, there were some who recalled Loric Vilesilencer with gratitude. They turned against the ur-viles, and asked the Lords to give them a service to perform, as expiation for the sins of their kindred. These creatures, the Waynhim, care for the Waymeets—helping the trees to grow, providing food and drink. But the bond between men and Waynhim is fragile, and you will not see one. They serve for their own reasons, not for love of us—performing simple tasks to redeem the evil of their mighty lore.”
The darkness in the chamber was now complete. In spite of his irritation, Covenant felt ready to sleep. He asked only one more question. “How did you find this place? Is there a map?”
“There is no map. A Waymeet is a blessing which one who travels accepts wherever it is found—a token of the health and hospitality of the Land. They may be found when they are needed. The Waynhim leave signs in the surrounding land.”
Covenant thought he could hear a note of appreciation in her voice which clashed with her reluctance. The sound reminded him of her constant burden of conflicts—her sense of personal weakness in the face of the Land’s strong need, her desires to both punish and preserve him. But he soon forgot such things as the image of Waymeets filled his reverie. Enfolded by the smell of the fresh grass on which he lay, he swung easily into sleep.
During the night, the weather changed. The morning came glowering under heavy clouds on a ragged wind out of the north, and Covenant met it with a massive frown that seemed to weigh down his forehead. He awoke before Atiaran called him. Though he had slept soundly in the security of the Waymeet, he felt as tired as if he had spent the whole night shouting at himself.
While Atiaran was preparing breakfast, he took out Triock’s knife, then scanned the shelves and found a basin for water and a small mirror. He could not locate any soap—apparently the Waynhim relied on the same fine sand which he had used in Atiaran’s home. So he braced himself to shave without lather. Triock’s knife felt clumsy in his right hand, and he could not shake lurid visions of slitting his throat.
To marshal his courage, he studied himself in the mirror. His hair was tousled wildly; with his stubbled beard he looked like a rude prophet. His lips were thin and tight, like the chiseled mouth of an oracle, and there was grit in his gaunt eyes. All he needed to complete the picture was a touch of frenzy. Muttering silently, All in good time, he brought the knife to his cheek.
To his surprise, the blade felt slick on his skin, and it cut his whiskers without having to be scraped over them repeatedly. In a short time, he had given himself a shave which appeared adequate, at least by contrast, and he had not damaged himself. With a sardonic nod toward his reflection, he put the blade away in his pack and began eating his breakfast.
Soon he and Atiaran were ready to leave the Waymeet. She motioned for him to precede her; he went ahead a few steps along the path, then stopped to see what she was doing. As she left the chamber, she raised her head to the leafy ceiling, and said softly, “We give thanks for the Waymeet. The giving of this gift honors us, and in accepting it we return honor to the giver. We leave in Peace.” Then she followed Covenant out of the copse.
When they reached the open valley, they found dark clouds piling over them out of the north. Tensely Atiaran looked at the sky, smelled the air; she seemed distraught by the coming rain. Her reaction made the boiling thunderheads appear ominous to Covenant, and when she turned sharply down the valley to resume her northward path, he hurried after her, calling out, “What’s the matter?”
“Ill upon evil,” she replied. “Do you not smell it? The Land is unquiet.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I do not know,” she murmured so quietly that he could barely hear her. “There is a shadow in the air. And this rain—! Ah, the Land!”
“What’s wrong with rain? Don’t you get rain in the spring?”
“Not from the north,” she answered over her shoulder. “The spring of the Land arises from the southwest. No, this rain comes straight from Gravin Threndor. The Cavewight Staff wrong-wielder tests his power—I feel it. We are too late.”
She stiffened her pace into the claws of the wind, and Covenant pressed on behind her. As the first raindrops struck his forehead, he asked, “Does this Staff really run the weather?”
“The Old Lords did not use it so—they had no wish to violate the Land. But who can say what such power may accomplish?”
Then the full clouts of the storm hit them. The wind scourged the rain southward as if the sky were lashing out at them, at every defenseless living thing. Soon the hillsides were drenched with ferocity. The wind rent at the trees, tore, battered the grass; it struck daylight from the hills, buried the earth in preternatural night. In moments, Atiaran and Covenant were soaked, gasping through the torrent. They kept their direction by facing the dark fury, but they could see nothing of the terrain; they staggered down rough slopes, wandered helplessly into hip-deep streams, lurched headlong through thickets; they forced against the wind as if it were the current of some stinging limbo, some abyss running from nowhere mercilessly into nowhere. Yet Atiaran lunged onward erect, with careless determination, and the fear of losing her kept Covenant lumbering at her heels.
But he was wearying rapidly. With an extra effort that made his chest ache, he caught up to Atiaran, grabbed her shoulder, shouted in her ear, “Stop! We’ve got to stop!”
“No!” she screamed back. “We are too late! I do not dare!”
Her voice barely reached him through the howl of the wind. She started to pull away, and he tightened his grip on her robe, yelling, “No choice! We’ll kill ourselves!” The rain thrashed brutally; for an instant he almost lost his hold. He got his other arm around her, tugged her streaming face close to his. “Shelter!” he cried. “We’ve got to stop!”
Through the water, her face had a drowning look as she answered, “Never! No time!” With a quick thrust of her weight and a swing of her arms, she broke his grip, tripped him to the ground. Before he could recover, she snatched up his right hand and began dragging him on through the grass and mud, hauling him like an unsupportable burden against the opposition of the storm. Her pull was so desperate that she had taken him several yards before he could heave upward and get his feet under him.
As he braced himself, her hold slipped off his hand, and she fell away from him. Shouting, “By hell, we’re going to stop!” he leaped after her. But she eluded his grasp, ran unevenly away from him into the spite of the storm.
He stumbled along behind her. For several long moments, he slipped and scrambled through the flailing rain after her untouchable back, furious to get his hands on her. But some inner resource galvanized her strength beyond anything he could match; soon he failed at the pace. The rain hampered him as if he were trying to run on the bottom of a breaking wave.
Then a vicious skid sent him sledding down the hill with his face full of mud. When he looked up again through the rain and dirt, Atiaran had vanished into the dark storm as if she were in terror of him, dreaded his touch.
Fighting his way to his feet, Covenant roared at the rampant clouds, “Hellfire! You can’t do this to me!”
The blast threw him up the hill to his right. For uncounted moments, he lay dazed, conscious only of the power of the detonation and the flaming pain in his hand. His wedding ring seemed to be on fire. But when he recovered enough to look, he could see no mark on his fingers, and the pain faded away while he was still hunting for its source.
He shook his head, thrust himself into a sitting position. There were no signs of the blast anywhere around him. He was numbly aware that something had changed, but in his confusion he could not identify what it was. He climbed painfully to his feet. After only a moment, he spotted Atiaran lying on the hillside twenty yards ahead of him. His head felt unbalanced with bewilderment, but he moved cautiously toward her, concentrating on his equilibrium. She lay on her back, apparently unhurt, and stared at him as he approached. When he reached her, she said in wonderment, “What have you done?”
The sound of her voice helped focus his attention.
He was able to say without slurring, “Me? I didn’t—nothing.”
Atiaran came slowly to her feet. Standing in front of him, she studied him gravely, uncertainly, as she said, “Something has aided us. See, the storm is less. And the wind is changed—it blows now as it should.
Gravin Threndor no longer threatens. Praise the Earth, Unbeliever, if this is not your doing.”
“Of course it’s not my doing,” murmured Covenant. “I don’t run the weather.” There was no asperity in his tone. He was taken aback by his failure to recognize the change in the storm for himself. Atiaran had told the simple truth. The wind had shifted and dropped considerably. The rain fell steadily, but without fury; now it was just a good, solid, spring rain.
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 13