srdonaldson.theillearthwar-第109节

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nt　could　not　hear　them　clearly。　His　ears　were　deluged　by　tumult；　a　yammering；　multitudinous　yell　of　glee。　And　the　sound　came　closer。　It　became　louder　and　more　immediate　until　it　overwhelmed　his　eardrums；　passed　beyond　the　range　of　physical　perception　and　shrieked　directly　into　his　brain。
　After　that；　voices　reached　him　obscurely；　registered　somehow　through　his　overdriven　hearing。
　Bannor　said；　〃Rivenrock　bursts。　There　will　be　a　great　flood。〃
　Lord　Callindrill　said；　〃Some　good　will　e　of　it。　It　will　do　much　to　cleanse　the　Wightwarrens　under　Mount　Thunder。〃
　　Lord　Mhoram　said；　〃Behold　the　Unbeliever　de
　parts。　The　High　Lord　has　fallen。〃
　But　these　things　surpassed　him；　he　could　not　hold　onto　them。　The　black　dirt　of　Gallows　Howe　loomed　in　his　face　like　an　incarnation　of　midnight。　And　around　it；　enpassing　it；　consuming　both　it　and　him；　the　fiendish　scream　scaled　upward；　filling　his　skull　and　chest　and　limbs　as　if　it　were　grinding　his　very　bones　to　powder。　The　howl　overcame　him；　and　he　answered　with　a　cry　that　made　no　sound。
　
　
　TWENTY…SEVEN：　Leper
　
　THE　shriek　climbed；　became　。louder　as　it　grew　more　urgent　and　damaging。　He　could　feel　it　breaking　down　the　barriers　of　his　prehension；　altering　the　terrain　of　his　existence。　Finally　he　seemed　to　shatter　against　it；　he　fell　against　it　from　a　great　height；　so　that　he　broke　on　its　remorseless　surface。　He　jerked　at　the　force　of　the　impact。　When　he　lay　still　again；　he　could　feel　the　hardness　pressing　coldly　against　his　face　and　chest。
　Gradually　he　realized　that　the　surface　was　damp；　sticky。　It　smelled　like　clotting　blood。
　That　perception　carried　him　across　a　frontier。　He　found　that　he　could　distinguish　between　the　flat；　bitter；　insulting　shriek　outside　and　the　ragged　hurt　inside　his　head。　With　an　agonizing　effort；　he　moved　one　hand　to　rub　the　caked　blood　out　of　his　eyes。　Then；　tortuously；　he　opened　them。
　His　vision　swam　into　focus　like　a　badly　smeared　lens；　but　after　a　while　he　began　to　make　out　pieces　of　where　he　was。　There　was　plenty　of　soulless　yellow　light。　The　legs　of　the　sofa　stood　a　few　feet　away　across　the　thick　defensive　carpet。　He　was　lying　prostrate　on　the　floor　beside　the　coffee　table　as　if　he　had　fallen　off　a　catafalque。　With　his　left　hand；　he　clutched　something　hard　to　his　ear；　something　that　shrieked　brutally。
　When　he　shifted　his　hand；　he　discovered　that　he　was　holding　the　receiver　of　the　telephone。　From　it　came　the　shriek　the　piercing　wail　of　a　phone　left　off　its　hook。　The　phone　itself　lay　on　the　floor　just　out　of　reach。
　A　long；　dumb　moment　passed　before　he　regained
　enough　of　himself　to　wonder　how　long　ago　Joan　had　hung　up　on　him。
　Groaning；　he　rolled　to　one　side　and　looked　up　at　a　wall　clock。　He　could　not　read　it；　his　eyes　were　still　too　blurted。　But　through　one　window　he　could　see　the　first　light　of　an　unfortable　dawn。　He　had　been　unconscious　for　half　the　night。
　He　started　to　his　feet；　then　slumped　down　again　while　pain　rang　in　his　head。　He　feared　that　he　would　lose　consciousness　once　more。　But　after　a　while；　the　noise　cleared；　faded　into　the　general　scream　of　the　phone。　He　was　able　to　get　to　his　knees。
　He　rested　there；　looking　about　him　at　the　controlled　orderliness　of　his　living　room。　Joan's　picture　and　his　cup　of　coffee　stood　just　where　he　had　left　them　on　the　table。　The　jolt　of　his　head　on　the　table　edge　had　not　even　spilled　the　coffee。
　The　sanctuary　of　the　familiar　place　gave　him　no　consolation。　When　he　tried　to　concentrate　on　the　room's　premeditated　neatness；　his　gaze　kept　sliding　back　to　the　blood…dry；　almost　black…which　crusted　the　carpet。　That　stain　violated　his　safety　like　a　chancre。　To　get　away　from　it；　he　gripped　himself　and　climbed　to　his　feet。
　The　room　reeled　as　if　he　had　fallen　into　vertigo；　but　he　steadied　himself　on　the　padded　arm　of　the　sofa；　and　after　a　moment　he　regained　most　of　his　balance。　Carefully；　as　if　he　were　afraid　of　disturbing　a　demon；　he　placed　the　receiver　back　on　its　hook；　then　sighed　deeply　as　the　shriek　was　chopped　out　of　the　air。　Its　echo　continued　to　ring　in　his　left　ear。　It　disturbed　his　equilibrium；　but　he　ignored　it　as　best　he　could。　He　began　to　move　through　the　house　like　a　blind　man；　working　his　way　from　support　to　support…sofa　to　doorframe　to　kitchen　counter。　Then　he　had　to　take　several　unbraced　steps　to　reach　the　bathroom；　but　he　managed　to　cross　the　distance　without　falling。
　He　propped　himself　on　the　sink；　and　rested　again。
　When　he　had　caught　his　breath；　he　automatically　ran　water　and　lathered　his　hands…the　first　step　in　his　rite　of　cleansing；　a　vital　part　of　his　defense　against　a　relapse。　For　a　time；　he　scrubbed　his　hands　without
　raising　his　head。　But　at　last　he　looked　into　the　mirror。　The　sight　of　his　own　visage　stopped　him。　He　gazed　at　himself　out　of　raw；　self…inflicted　eyes；　and　recognized　the　face　that　Elena　had　sculpted。　She　had　not　placed　a　wound　on　the　forehead　of　her　carving；　but　his　cut　only　pleted　the　image　she　had　formed　of　him。　He　could　see　a　gleam　of　bone　through　the　caked　black　blood　which　darkened　his　forehead　and　cheeks；　spread　down　around　his　eyes；　emphasizing　them；　shadowing　them　with　terrible　purposes。　The　wound　and　the　blood　on　his　gray；　gaunt　face　made　him　look　like　a　false　prophet；　a　traitor　to　his　own　best　dreams。
　Elena！　he　cried　thickly。　What　have　I　done？
　Unable　to　bear　the　sight　of　himself；　he　turned　away　and　glanced　numbly　around　the　bathroom。　In　the　fluorescent　lighting；　the　porcelain　of　the　tub　and　the　chromed　metal　of　its　dangerous　fixtures　glinted　as　if　they　had　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　weeping。　Their　blank　superficiality　seemed　to　insist　that　grief　and　loss　were　unreal；　irrelevant。
　He　stared　at　them　for　a　long　time；　measuring　their　blankness。　Then　he　limped　out　of　the　bathroom。　Grimly；　deliberately；　he　left　his　forehead　uncleaned；　untouched。　He　did　not　choose　to　repudiate　the　accusation　written　there。
　
　
　
　
　
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