Stephen Donaldson - The Wounded Land

“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.

“Which is another reason for you to stay,” the older man muttered as he rose to his feet. “I've got to go. But somebody has to prevent him from doing anything crazy. Some days-” His voice trailed away, then came back in sudden vexation. “My God, some days I think that man needs a keeper, not a doctor.” For the first time since her arrival, he faced her squarely. “Will you keep him?”

She could see he wanted reassurance that she shared his sense of responsibility for Covenant and Joan. She could not make such a promise. But she could offer him something similar. “Well, at any rate,” she said severely, “I won't let go of him.”

He nodded vaguely. He was no longer looking at her. As he moved toward the door, he murmured, “Be patient with him. It's been so long since he met somebody who isn't afraid of him, he doesn't know what to do about it. When he wakes up, make him eat something.” Then he left the house, went out to his car.

Linden watched until he disappeared in dust toward the highway. Then she turned back to the living room.

What to do about it? Like Covenant, she did not know. But she meant to find out. The smell of blood made her feel unclean; but she suppressed the sensation long enough to fix a breakfast for herself. Then she tackled the living room.

With a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she attacked the stains as if they were an affront to her. Deep within her, where her guilt and coercion had their roots, she felt that blood was life-a thing of value, too precious to be squandered and denied, as her parents had squandered and denied it. Grimly, she scrubbed at the madness or malice which had violated this room, trying to eradicate it.

Whenever she needed a break, she went quietly to look at Covenant. His bruises gave his face a misshapen look. His sleep seemed agitated, but he showed no sign of drifting into coma. Occasionally, the movements of his eyes betrayed that he was dreaming. He slept with his mouth open like a silent cry; and once his cheeks were wet with tears. Her heart went out to him as he lay stretched there, disconsolate and vulnerable. He had so little respect for his own mortality.

Shortly after noon, while she was still at work, he came out of his bedroom. He moved groggily, his gait blurred with sleep. He peered at her across the room as if he were summoning anger; but his voice held nothing except resignation. “You can't help her now. You might as well go home.”

She stood up to face him. “I want to help you.”

“I can handle it.”

Linden swallowed bile, tried not to sound acerbic. “Somehow, you don't look that tough. You couldn't stop them from taking her. How are you going to make them give her back?”

His eyes widened; her guess had struck home. But he did not waver. He seemed almost inhumanly calm-or doomed. “They don't want her. She's just a way for them to get at me.”

“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 fiat 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, Y ou'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, fool-hardiness, 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.