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Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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“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,
You’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, foolhardiness, 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.
Leaving the highway, she took the first side road to one of the abandoned houses on the Farm. There she parked her car and locked it to protect her medical bag and purse.
On foot, she approached Covenant’s house. As much as possible, she hid herself among the trees along that side of the Farm. She was gambling that she was not too late, that the people who had taken Joan would not have done anything during the afternoon. From the trees, she hastened stealthily to the wall of the house. There, she found a window which gave her a view of the living room without exposing her to the door.
The lights were on. With all her caution, she looked in on Thomas Covenant.
He slouched in the center of the sofa with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets, as if he were waiting for something. His bruises had darkened, giving him the visage of a man who had already been beaten. The muscles along his jaw bunched, relaxed, bunched again. He strove to possess himself in patience; but after a moment the tension impelled him to his feet. He began to walk in circles around the sofa and coffee table. His
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,
You’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, foolhardiness, 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.
Leaving the highway, she took the first side road to one of the abandoned houses on the Farm. There she parked her car and locked it to protect her medical bag and purse.
On foot, she approached Covenant’s house. As much as possible, she hid herself among the trees along that side of the Farm. She was gambling that she was not too late, that the people who had taken Joan would not have done anything during the afternoon. From the trees, she hastened stealthily to the wall of the house. There, she found a window which gave her a view of the living room without exposing her to the door.
The lights were on. With all her caution, she looked in on Thomas Covenant.
He slouched in the center of the sofa with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets, as if he were waiting for something. His bruises had darkened, giving him the visage of a man who had already been beaten. The muscles along his jaw bunched, relaxed, bunched again. He strove to possess himself in patience; but after a moment the tension impelled him to his feet. He began to walk in circles around the sofa and coffee table. His
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