srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第64节

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　she　returned　to　him；　replaced　her　palms　on　his　forehead。
　　　　The　terror　of　it　rushed　into　her；　filled　her　until　it　burst　between　her　lips　like　a　shriek。　Yet　she　could　not　withdraw。　His　madness　pounded　through　her　as　she　sank　into　it；　trying　not　to　see　what　lay　at　its　root。　And　when　at　last　it　made　her　see；　forced　her　to　behold　itself；　the　leering　disease　of　its　source；　she　knew　that　she　was　ruined。　She　wrenched　her　seared　hands　from　his　head　and　went　hunting；　scrabbling　frantically　among　her　possessions。
　　　　Still　shrieking；　she　pounced　upon　a　long　stone　cooking　knife；　snatched　it　up；　aimed　it　at　his　vulnerable　heart。
　　　　He　lay　under　the　knife　like　a　sacrifice　defiled　with　leprosy。
　　　　But　before　she　could　stab　out　his　life；　consummate　his　unclean　pain　in　death；　a　host　of　glaucous；　alien　gleams　leaped　like　music　into　the　air　around　her。　They　fell　on　her　like　dew；　clung　to　her　like　moist　melody；　stayed　her　hand；　they　confined　her　power　and　her　anguish；　held　all　things　within　her　until　her　taut；　soundless　cry　imploded。　They　contained　her　until　she　broke　under　the　strain　of　things　that　could　not　be　contained。　Then　they　let　her　fall。
　　　　Gleaming　like　the　grief　of　trees；　they　sang　themselves　away。
　
　FOURTEEN　
　Only　Those　Who　Hate
　
　　　　Covenant　first　awoke　after　a　night　and　a　day。　But　the　stupor　of　essential　sleep　was　still　on　him；　and　he　only　roused　himself　at　the　behest　of　a　nagging　thirst。　When　he　sat　up　in　the　bed　of　leaves；　he　found　a　water　jug　on　a　shelf　by　his　head。　He　drank　deeply；　then　saw　that　a　bowl　of　fruit　and　bread　also　occupied　the　shelf。　He　ate；　drank　again；　and　went　back　to　sleep　as　soon　as　he　had　stretched　himself　out　among　the　warm　dry　leaves　once　more。
　　　　The　next　time；　he　came　languorously　out　of　slumber　amid　the　old　gentle　fragrance　of　the　bed。　When　he　opened　his　eyes；　he　discovered　that　he　was　looking　up　through　a　dim　gloom　of　daylight　at　the　root…woven　roof　of　a　cave。　He　turned　his　head；　looked　around　the　earthen　walls　until　he　located　the　moss…hung　entrance　which　admitted　so　little　light。　He　did　not　know　where　he　was；　or　how　he　had　e　here；　or　how　long　he　had　slept。　But　his　ignorance　caused　him　no　distress。　He　had　recovered　from　fear。　On　the　strength　of　unknown　things　which　lay　hidden　behind　the　veil　of　his　repose；　he　felt　sure　that　he　had　no　need　to　fear。
　　　　That　feeling　was　the　only　emotion　in　him。　He　was　calm；　steady；　and　hollow…empty　and　therefore　undisturbed…as　if　the　same　cleansing　or　apotheosis　which　had　quenched　his　terror　had　also　drained　every　other　passion　from　him。　For　a　time；　he　could　not　even　remember　what　those　passions　had　been；　between　him　and　his　past　lay　nothing　but　sleep　and　an　annealed　gulf　of　extravagant　fear。
　　　　Then　he　caught　the　first　faint　scent　of　death　in　the　air。　It　was　not　urgent；　and　he　did　not　react　to　it　immediately。　While　he　took　its　measure；　made　sure　of　it；　he　stretched　his　sleep…stiff　muscles；　feeling　the　flex　of　their　revitalization。　Whatever　had　brought　him　to　this　place　had　happened　so　long　ago　that　even　his　body　appeared　to　have　forgotten　it。　Yet　his　recovery　gave　him　little　satisfaction。　He　accepted　it　with　plete　and　empty　confidence；　for　reasons　that　were　hidden　from　him。
　　　　When　he　was　ready；　he　swung　his　feet　off　the　bed　and　sat　up。　At　once；　he　saw　the　old　brown　woman　lying　crumpled　on　the　floor。　She　was　dead　with　an　outcry　still　rigid　on　her　lips　and　a　blasted　look　in　the　staring　loam　of　her　eyes。　In　the　dim　light；　she　seemed　like　a　wracked　mound　of　earth。　He　did　not　know　who　she　was…he　gazed　at　her　with　an　effort　of　recollection　and　could　not　remember　ever　having　seen　her　before…but　she　gave　him　the　vague　impression　that　she；　too；　had　died　for　him。
　　　　That's　enough；　he　said　dimly　to　himself。　Other　memories　began　to　float　to　the　surface　like　the　dead　seaweed　and　wreckage　of　his　life。　This　must　not　happen　again。
　　　　He　looked　down　at　the　unfamiliar　white　robe　for　a　moment；　then　pushed　the　cloth　aside　so　that　he　could　see　his　ankle。
　　　　It　was　broken；　he　thought　in　hollow　surprise。　He　could　remember　breaking　it；　he　could　remember　wrestling　with　Pietten；　falling…he　could　remember　using　Pietten's　spear　to　help　him　walk　until　the　fracture　froze。　Yet　now　it　showed　no　sign　of　any　break。　He　tested　it　against　the　floor；　half　expecting　its　wholeness　to　vanish　like　an　illusion。　He　stood　up；　hopped　from　foot　to　foot；　sat　down　again。　Muttering　dully　to　himself；　By　hell；　by　hell；　he　gave　himself　his　first　VSE　in　many　days。
　　　　He　found　that　he　was　more　healed　than　he　would　have　believed　possible。　The　damage　which　he　had　done　to　his　feet　was　almost　pletely　gone。　His　gaunt　hands　flexed　easily…though　they　had　lost　flesh；　and　his　ring　hung　loosely　on　his　wedding　finger。　Except　for　a　faint　numbness　at　their　tips；　his　ears　and　nose　had　recovered　from　frostbite。　His　very　bones　were　full　of　deep；　sustaining　warmth。
　　　　But　other　things　had　not　changed。　His　cheeks　felt　as　stiff　as　ever。　Along　his　forehead　was　the　lump　of　a　badly　healed　scar；　it　was　tender　to　the　touch；　as　if　beneath　the　surface　it　festered　against　his　skull。　And　his　disease　still　gnawed　its　way　remorselessly　up　the　nerves　of　his　hands　and　feet。　His　fingers　were　numb　to　the　palms；　and　only　the　tops　of　his　feet　and　the　backs　of　his　heels　remained　sensitive。　So　the　fundamental　condition　of　his　existence　remained　intact。　The　law　of　his　leprosy　was　graven　within　him；　carved　with　the　cold　chisel　of　death　as　if　he　were　made　of　dolomite　or　marble　rather　than　bone　and　blood　and　humanity。
　　　　For　that　reason　he　remained　unmoved　in　the　hollow　center　of　his　healing。　He　was　a　leper　and　had　no　business　exposing　himself　to　the　risks　of　passion。
　　　　Now　when　he　looked　back　at　the　dead　woman；　he　remembered　what　he　had　been　doing　before　the　winter　had　reft　him　of　himself；　he　had　been　carrying　a　purpose　of　destruction　and　hate　eastward；　toward　Foul's　Creche。　That　purpose　now　wore　the　aspect　of　madness。　He　had　been　mad　to　throw　himself　against　the　winter　alone；　just　as　he　had　been　mad　to　believe　that　he　could　ever　challenge　the　Despiser。　The　path　of　his　past　appeared　strewn　with　corpses；　the　victims　of　the　process　which　had　brought　him　to　that　purpose…the　process　of　manipulation　by　which　Lord　Foul　sought　to　produce　the　last　fatal　mistake　of　a　direct　challenge。　And　the　result　of　that　mistake　would　be　a　total　victory　for　the　Despiser。
　　　　He　knew　better　now。　The　fallen　woman　taught　him　a　kind　of　wisdom。　He　could　not　challenge　the　Despiser　for　the　same　reason　that　he　could　not　make　his　way　through　the　Despiser's　winter　alone：　the　task　was　impossible；　and　mortal　human　beings　acplished　nothing　but　their　own　destruction　when　they　attempted　the　impossible。　A　leper's　end…　prescribed　and　circumscribed　for　him　by　the　law　of　his　illness…awaited　him　not　far　down　the　road　of　his　life。　He　would　only　hasten　his　journey　toward　that　end　if　he　lashed　himself　with　impossible　demands。　And　the　Land　would　be　utterly　lost。
　　　　Then　he　realized　that　his　inability　to　remember　what　had　brought　him　to　this　place；　what　had　happened　to　him　in　this　place；　was　a　great　blessing；　a　giving　of　mercy　so　clear　that　it　amazed　him。　Suddenly　he　understood　at　least　in　part　why　Triock　had　spoken　to　him　of　the　mercy　of　new　opportunities…and　why　Triock　had　refused　to　share　his　purpose。　He　put　that　purpose　aside　and　looked　around　the　cave　for　his　clothes。
　　　　He　located　them　in　a　heap　against　one　wall；　but　a　moment　later　he　had　decided　against　them。　They　seemed　to　represent　participation　in　something　that　he　now　wished　to　eschew。　And　this　white　robe　was　a　gift　which　the　dead　woman　had　given　him　as　part　and　symbol　of　her　larger　sacrifice。　He　accepted　it　with　calm；　sad；　hollow　gratitude。
　　　　But　he　had　already　started　to　don　his　sandals　before　he　realized　how　badly　they　reeked　of　illness。　In　days　of　walking；　his　infection　had　soaked　into　the　leather；　and　he　was　loath　to　wear　the　unclean　stench。　He　tossed　the　sandals　back　among　his　discarded　apparel。　He　had　e　barefoot　into　this　dream；　and　knew　that　he　would　go　barefoot　and　sole…battered　out　of　it　again；　no　matter　how　he　tried　to　protect　himself。　In　spite　of　his　reawakening　caution；　he　chose　not　to　worry　about　his　feet。
　　　　The　faint　attar　of　death　in　the　air　reminded　him　that　he　could　not　remain　in　the　cave。　He　drew　the　robe　tight　around　him　and　stooped　through　the　entrance　to　see　if　he　could　discover　where　he　was。
　　　　Outside；　under　the　gray　clouds　of　day；　the　sight　of　the　Forest　gave　him　another　surge　of　empty　surprise。　He　recognized　Morinmoss；　he　had　crossed　this　wood　once　before。　His　vague　knowledge　of　the　Land's　geography　told　him　in　general　terms　where　he　was；　but　he　had　no　conception　of　how　he　had　e　here。　The　last　thing　in　his　memory　was　the　slow　death　of　Lord　Foul's　winter。
　　　　There　was　little　winter　to　be　seen　here。　The　black　trees　leaned　against　each　other　as　if　they　were　rooted　interminably　in　the　first　gray　verges　of　spring；　but　the　air　was　brisk　rather　than　bitter；　and　tough　grass　grew　sufficiently　over　the　clear　ground　between　the　trunks。　He　breathed　the　Forest　smells　while　he　examined　his　unreasoning　confidence；　and　after　a　moment　he　felt　sure　that　Morinmoss　also　was　something　he　should　not　fear。
　　　　When　he　turned　to　reenter　the　cave；　he　had　chosen　at　least　the　fir