srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第6节

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h　cracks。　He　pushed　the　table　aside；　picked　up　the　picture。　Joan　smiled　at　him　from　behind　the　cracks　as　if　she　had　been　caught　in　a　net　of　mortality　and　did　not　know　it。
　　　　He　began　to　laugh。
　　　　He　started　softly；　but　soon　scaled　upward　into　manic　howling。　Water　ran　from　his　eyes　like　tears；　but　still　he　laughed；　laughed　as　if　he　were　about　to　shatter。　His　bursts　spattered　blood　over　his　hands　and　Joan's　picture　and　the　ruined　room。
　　　　Abruptly；　he　threw　down　the　picture　and　ran　from　it。　He　did　not　want　Joan　to　witness　his　hysteria。　Laughing　madly；　he　rushed　from　the　house　into　the　woods；　determined　even　while　he　lost　control　of　himself　to　take　his　final　breakdown　as　far　away　from　Haven　Farm　as　possible。
　　　　When　he　reached　Righters　Creek；　he　turned　and　followed　it　upstream　into　the　hills；　away　from　the　dangerous　lure　of　people　as　fast　as　his　numb；　awkward　feet　could　carry　him…laughing　desperately　all　the　while。
　　　　Sometime　during　the　night；　he　tripped；　and　when　he　found　himself　on　the　ground；　he　leaned　against　a　tree　to　rest　for　a　moment。　At　once；　he　fell　asleep；　and　did　not　awaken　until　the　morning　sun　was　shining　full　in　his　face。
　　　　For　a　time；　he　did　not　remember　who　or　where　he　was。　The　hot　white　light　of　the　sun　burned　everything　out　of　his　mind；　his　eyes　were　so　dazzled　that　he　could　not　make　out　his　surroundings。　But　when　he　heard　the　thin；　wordless　cry　of　fear；　he　began　to　chuckle。　He　was　too　weak　to　laugh　loudly；　but　he　chuckled　as　if　that　were　the　only　thing　left　in　him。
　　　　The　thin　cry　repeated　itself。　Inspired　by　it；　he　managed　a　fuller　laugh；　and　started　to　struggle　to　his　feet。　But　the　effort　weakened　him。　He　had　to　stop　laughing　to　catch　his　breath。　Then　he　heard　the　cry　again；　a　child's　shriek　of　terror。　Supporting　himself　on　the　tree；　he　looked　around；　peering　through　his　sun　blindness　at　the　dim　shapes　of　the　woods。
　　　　Gradually；　he　became　able　to　see。　He　was　perched　high　on　a　hill　in　the　woods。　Most　of　the　branches　and　bushes　were　bursting　with　green　spring　leaves。　A　few　yards　from　him；　Righters　Creek　tumbled　gaily　down　the　rocky　hillside　and　wandered　like　a　playful　silver　trail　away　among　the　trees。　Most　of　the　hill　below　him　was　free　of　brush　because　of　the　rockiness　of　the　soil；　nothing　obscured　his　downward　view。
　　　　An　odd　splotch　of　color　at　the　bottom　of　the　hill　caught　his　attention。　With　an　effort；　he　focused　his　eyes　on　it。　It　was　cloth；　a　light　blue　dress　worn　by　a　child…a　little　girl　perhaps　four　or　five　years　old。　She　stood　half　turned　toward　him；　with　her　back　pressed　against　the　black；　straight　trunk　of　a　tall　tree。　She　seemed　to　be　trying　to　push　herself　into　the　wood；　but　the　indifferent　trunk　refused　to　admit　her。
　　　　She　was　screaming　continuously　now；　and　her　cries　begged　at　the　anguish　in　his　mind。　As　she　yelled；　she　stared　in　unmasked　terror　at　the　ground　two　or　three　feet　in　front　of　her。　For　a　moment；　Covenant　could　not　see　what　she　was　looking　at。　But　then　his　ears　discerned　the　low　buzzing　noise；　and　he　picked　out　the　ominous　brown　shaking　of　the　rattle。
　　　　The　timber　rattler　was　coiled　less　than　a　yard　from　the　girl's　bare　legs。　Its　head　bobbed　as　if　it　were　searching　for　the　perfect　place　to　strike。
　　　　He　recognized　her　terror　now。　Before　the　shout　had　a　chance　to　burst　past　his　blood…caked　lips；　he　pushed　himself　away　from　the　tree　and　started　running　down　the　hill。
　　　　The　slope　seemed　interminably　long；　and　his　legs　were　hardly　strong　enough　to　sustain　him。　At　each　downward　plunge；　his　muscles　gave；　and　he　almost　fell　to　his　knees。　But　the　child's　irrefusable　fear　held　him　up。　He　did　not　look　at　the　snake。　He　fixed　his　eyes　on　her　bare　shins；　concentrated　himself　on　the　importance　of　reaching　her　before　the　rattler's　fangs　jabbed　into　her　flesh。　The　rest　of　her　was　blurred　in　his　sight；　as　if　she　did　not　exist　apart　from　her　peril。
　　　　With　each　shrill　cry；　she　begged　him　to　hurry。
　　　　But　he　was　not　watching　his　footing。　Before　he　had　covered　half　the　distance；　he　tripped…pitched　headlong　down　the　hill；　tumbled　and　bounced　over　the　rough　rocks。　For　an　instant；　he　protected　himself　with　his　arms。　But　then　his　head　smacked　against　a　broad　facet　of　stone　in　the　hillside。
　　　　He　seemed　to　fall　into　the　stone；　as　if　he　were　burying　his　face　in　darkness。　The　hard　surface　of　it　broke　over　him　like　a　wave；　he　could　feel　himself　plunging　deep　into　the　rock's　granite　essence。
　　　　No！　he　cried。　No！　Not　now！
　　　　He　fought　it　with　every　jot　of　his　strength。　But　it　surpassed　him。　He　sank　into　it　as　if　he　were　drowning　in　stone。
　
　
　
　Two
　　Variol…son
　
　　　　High　Lord　Mhoram　sat　in　his　private　chambers　deep　in　Revelstone。　The　unadorned　gut…rock　walls　around　him　were　warmly　lit　by　small　urns　of　graveling　in　each　corner　of　the　room；　and　the　faint　aroma　of　newly　broken　earth　from　the　lore…glowing　stones　wrapped　fortably　around　him。　But　still　he　could　feel　the　preternatural　winter　which　was　upon　the　land。　Despite　the　brave　hearth　fires　set　everywhere　by　the　Hirebrands　and　Gravelingases　of　Lord's　Keep；　a　bitter　chill　seeped　noticeably　through　the　mountain　granite　of　the　city。　High　Lord　Mhoram　felt　it。　He　could　sense　its　effect　on　the　physical　mood　of　the　great　Giant…wrought　Keep。　On　an　almost　subliminal　level；　Revelstone　was　huddling　against　the　cold。
　　　　Already；　the　first　natural　turnings　of　winter　toward　spring　were　a　full　cycle　of　the　moon　late。　The　middle　night　of　spring　was　only　fourteen　days　away；　and　still　ice　clung　to　the　Land。
　　　　Outside　the　wedge…shaped　mountain　plateau　of　the　Keep；　there　was　not　much　snow；　the　air　was　too　cold　for　snow。　It　blew　at　Revelstone　on　a　jagged；　uncharacteristic　wind　out　of　the　east；　kicking　a　thin　skiff　of　snow　across　the　foothills　of　the　plateau；　blinding　all　the　windows　of　the　Keep　under　deep　inches　of　frost　and　immobilizing　with　ice　the　lake　at　the　foot　of　Furl　Falls。　Mhoram　did　not　need　to　smell　the　Despite　which　hurled　that　wind　across　the　Land　to　know　its　source。
　　　　It　came　from　Ridjeck　Thome；　Foul's　Creche。
　　　　As　the　High　Lord　sat　in　his　chambers；　with　his　elbows　braced　on　the　stone　table　and　his　chin　propped　on　one　palm；　he　was　aware　of　that　wind　hissing　through　the　background　of　his　thoughts。　Ten　years　ago；　he　would　have　said　that　it　was　impossible；　the　natural　weather　patterns　of　the　Land　could　not　be　so　wrenched　apart。　Even　five　years　ago；　after　he　had　had　time　to　assess　and　reassess　the　loss　of　the　Staff　of　Law；　he　would　have　doubted　that　the　Illearth　Stone　could　make　Lord　Foul　so　powerful。　But　now　he　knew　better；　understood　more。
　　　　High　Lord　Elena's　battle　with　dead　Kevin　Landwaster　had　taken　place　seven　years　ago。　The　Staff　of　Law　must　have　been　destroyed　in　that　struggle。　Without　the　Staff's　innate　support　for　the　natural　order　of　the　Earth；　one　great　obstacle　was　gone　from　the　path　of　the　Despiser's　corrupting　power。　And　the　Law　of　Death　had　been　broken；　Elena　had　summoned　Old　Lord　Kevin　from　beyond　the　grave。　Mhoram　could　not　begin　to　measure　all　the　terrible　implications　of　that　rupture。
　　　　He　blinked；　and　his　gold…flecked　eyes　shifted　into　focus　on　the　carving　which　stood　on　the　table　two　feet　from　the　flat　blade　of　his　nose。　The　bone　of　the　carving　gleamed　whitely　in　the　light　of　the　fire…stones。　It　was　a　marrowmeld　sculpture；　the　last　of　Elena's　anundivianyajna　work。　Bannor　of　the　Bloodguard　had　preserved　it；　and　had　given　it　to　Mhoram　when　they　had　e　together　on　Gallows　Howe　in　Garroting　Deep。　It　was　a　finely　detailed　bust；　a　sculpting；　of　a　lean；　gaunt；　impenetrable　face；　and　its　lines　were　tense　with　prophetic　purpose。　After　Mhoram　and　the　survivors　of　the　Warward　had　returned　to　Revelstone　from　Garroting　Deep；　Bannor　had　explained　the　history　of　the　bone　sculpture。
　　　　In　fact；　he　had　explained　it　in　unaccustomed　detail。　His　habitual　Bloodguard　reticence　had　given　way　almost　to　prolixity；　and　the　fullness　of　his　description　had　provided　Mhoram　with　a　first　hint　of　the　fundamental　alteration　which　had　taken　place　in　the　Bloodguard。　And　in　turn　that　description　had　led　circuitously　to　the　great　change　in　Mhoram's　own　life。　By　a　curious　logic　of　its　own；　it　had　put　an　end　to　the　High　Lord's　power　of　prevision。
　　　　He　was　no　longer　seer　and　oracle　to　the　Council　of　Lords。　Because　of　what　he　had　learned；　he　caught　no　more　glimpses　of　the　future　in　dreams；　read　no　more　hints　of　distant　happenings　in　the　dance　of　the　fire。　The　secret　knowledge　which　he　had　gained　so　intuitively　from　the　marrowmeld　sculpture　had　blinded　the　eyes　of　his　prescience。
　　　　It　had　done　other　things　to　him　as　well。　It　had　afflicted　him　with　more　hope　and　fear　than　he　had　ever　felt　before。　And　it　had　partly　estranged　him　from　his　fellow　Lords；　in　a　sense；　it　had　estranged　him　from　all　the　people　of　Revelstone。　When　he　walked　the　halls　of　the　Keep；　he　could　see　in　the　sympathy　and　pain　and　doubt　and　wonder　of　their　glances　that　they　perceived　his　separateness；　his　voluntary　isolation。　But　he　suffered　more　from　the　breach　which　now　obtained　between　him　and　the　other　Lords…　Callindrill　Faer…mate；　Amatin　daughter　of　Matin；　Trevor　son　of　Groyle；　and　Loerya　Trevor…mate。　In　all　their　work　together；　in　all　the　intercourse　of　their　daily　lives；　even　in　all　the　mind　melding　which　was　the　great　strength