One Tree (61 page)

He stiffened slightly, raised his eyebrows at the unexpected direction of her thoughts. But he did not object. “We’ve talked about this before,” he said slowly. “It’s hard to explain. I guess the question is, are you a person—with volition and maybe some stubbornness and at least the capacity if not the actual determination to do something surprising—or are you a tool? A tool just serves its user. It’s only as good as the skill of its user, and it’s not good for anything else. So if you want to accomplish something special—something more than you can do for yourself—you can’t use a tool. You have to use a person and hope the surprises will work in your favor. You have to use something that’s free to not be what you had in mind.

“That’s what it comes down to on both sides. The Creator wants to stop Foul. Foul wants to break the Arch of Time. But neither of them can use a tool, because a tool is just an extension of who they are, and if they could get what they wanted that way they wouldn’t need anything else. So they’re both trying to use us. The only difference I can see is that the Creator doesn’t manipulate. He just chooses and then takes his chances. But Foul is something else. How free are we?”

“No.” Linden did her best to face him without flinching. “Not we.” She did not want to hurt him; but she knew it would be false love if she tried to spare him. “You’re the one with the ring. How free are you? When you took Joan’s place—” Then she stopped. She did not have the heart to finish that sentence.

He understood. Her unspoken words echoed the pang of his own fear. “I’m not sure.” Once again, his gaze left her, not to avoid her, but to follow the catenulations of his memories.

But she was not done, and what remained to be said was too difficult to wait. “After the
Elohimfest
. When I tried to get inside you.” She spoke in pieces, feeling unable to pick up all the fragments at once. With a shudder of recollection, she strove for clarity. “It was the same day Findail showed up. I was waiting—hoping you would recover spontaneously. But then I couldn’t wait any longer. If nothing else, I thought you would be able to get answers out of him.”

She closed her eyes, shutting out the way he looked at her. “But I only got so far.” Dark and hungry for power, she had tried to take mastery of him. And now the virulence of the result came back to her. She began rocking unconsciously against the faint sway of the hammock, seeking to comfort herself, persuade her memories into language. “Then I was thrown out. Or I threw myself out. To escape what I saw.” Aching, she described her vision of him as a Sunbane-victim, as monstrous and abominable as Marid.

At once, she sought his face as if it were an image to dispel dismay. He was watching her sharply, ire and dread conflicted in his gaze. With a harshness she did not intend and could not suppress, she rasped, “Can you really tell me you aren’t already sold? You aren’t already a tool of the Despiser?”

“Maybe I’m not.” The lines of his face became implacable, as if she had driven him beyond reach, compelled him to retreat to the granite foundation of his pain and isolation. His voice sounded as cold as leprosy. “Maybe the
Elohim
just think I am. Maybe what you saw is just their image of me.” Then his features clenched. He shook his head in self-coercion. “No. That’s just one more cheap answer.” Slowly his grimace softened like a chosen vulnerability, exposing himself to her. “Maybe Findail’s right. I ought to give him my ring. Or give it to you.
Before it’s too late. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to surrender like that. Not while I still have hopes left.”

Hopes? she mouthed silently. But he was already replying.

“You’re one. That old man on Haven Farm chose you. He told you to
Be true
. You’re still here, and you’re willing, and that’s one. What you just told me is another. If what you saw is the truth—if I really am Foul’s tool or victim—then I can’t stop him. But he won’t be able to use me to get what he wants.”

Roughly he jerked himself to a stop, paused to give her a chance to consider the implications of what he was saying. That Lord Foul’s purposes did in fact revolve around her. That the onus of the Earth’s survival rested on her in ways which she could not begin to envision. That she was being manipulated
To achieve the ruin of the Earth
.

For a moment, the conception froze her, brought back fear to the sunlit cabin. But then Covenant was speaking again, answering her apprehension.

“And there’s one more. One more hope.” His tone was softer now, almost tender—suffused with sorrow and recognition. “I told you I’ve been to the Land three times before. In a way, it was four, not three. The first three times, I didn’t have any choice. I was summoned whether I wanted to go or not. After the first time, I didn’t want to.

“But the third was the worst. I was in the woods behind the Farm, and there was this little girl who was about to get bitten by a timber-rattler. I went to try to save her. But I fell. The next thing I knew, I was halfway into Revelstone, and Mhoram was doing his damnedest to finish summoning me.

“I refused. That girl was in the real world, and the snake was going to kill her. That was more important to me than anything else, no matter what happened to the Land.

“When I told Mhoram about her”—his voice was a clench of loss—“he let me go.” The tension of his arms and shoulders seemed to echo,
Mhoram
.

Yet he forced himself to continue. “I got back too late to stop the snake. But the girl was still there. I managed to suck out some of the venom, and then somehow I got her back to her parents. By that time, the fourth summoning had already started. And I accepted it. I went by choice. There wasn’t anything else I wanted except one last chance to fight Foul.”

He was gazing up at Linden squarely now, letting her see his unresolved contradictions, his difficult and ambiguous answers. “Did I sell myself to Foul by refusing Mhoram? Or to the Creator by accepting that last summons? I don’t know. But I think that no human being can be made into a tool involuntarily. Manipulated into destruction, maybe. Misled or broken. But if I do what Foul wants, it’ll be because I failed somehow—misunderstood something, surrendered to my own inner Despiser, lost courage, fell in love with power or destruction,
some
thing.” He articulated each word like an affirmation. “Not because I’m anybody’s tool.”

“Covenant.” She yearned toward him past the gentle ship-roll swaying of the hammock. She saw him now as the man she had first met, the figure of strength and purpose who had persuaded her against her will to accept his incomprehensible vision of Joan and possession, and then had drawn her like a lover in his wake when he had gone to meet the crisis of Joan’s redemption—as the upright image of power and grief who had broken open the hold of the Clave to rescue her, and later had raised a mere bonfire in The Grieve to the stature of a caamora for the long-dead Unhomed. She said his name as if to ascertain its taste in
her mouth. Then she gave him her last secret, the last piece of information she had consciously withheld from him.

“I haven’t told you everything that old man said to me. On Haven Farm. He told me to
Be true
. But that wasn’t all.” After the passage of so much time, she still knew the words as if they had been incused on her brain. “He said, ‘Ah, my daughter, do not fear. You will not fail, however he may assail you.’ ” Meeting Covenant’s gaze, she tried to give her eyes the clarity her voice lacked. “ ‘There is also love in the world.’ ”

For a moment, he remained motionless, absorbing the revelation. Then he lifted his half-hand toward her. His flesh gleamed in the sunshine which angled into the cabin from the open port. The wry lift at the corners of his mouth counterpoised the dark heat of his orbs as he said, “Can you believe it? I used to be impotent. Back when I thought leprosy was the whole story.”

In reply, she rolled over the edge of the hammock, dropped her feet to the stepladder. Then she took his hand, and he drew her down into the light.

Later, they went out on deck together. They did not wear their own clothes, but rather donned short robes of gray, flocked wool which one of the Giants had sewn for them—left behind their old apparel as if they had sloughed off at least one layer of their former selves. The bulk of the robes was modest and comfortable; but still his awareness of her was plain in his gaze. Barefoot on the stone as if they had made their peace with the Giantship, they left her cabin, ascended to the afterdeck.

Then for a time Linden felt that she was blushing like a girl. She strove to remain detached; but she could not stifle the blood which betrayed her face. Every Giant they met seemed to look at her and Covenant with knowledge, laughter, and open approval. Pitchwife grinned so hugely that his pleasure dominated the disformation of his features. Honninscrave’s eyes shone from under his fortified brows, and his beard bristled with appreciation. Sevinhand Anchormaster’s habitual melancholy lifted into a smile which was both rue-trammeled and genuine—the smile of a man who had lost his own love so long ago that envy no longer hindered his empathy. Even Galewrath’s stolid face crinkled at what she saw. And a rare softness entered the First’s demeanor, giving a glimpse of her Giantish capacity for glee.

Finally their attentions became so explicit that Linden wanted to turn away. Embarrassment might have made her sound angry if she had spoken. But Covenant faced them all with his arms cocked mock-seriously on his hips and growled, “Does everybody on this bloody rock know what we do with our privacy?”

At that, Pitchwife burst into laughter; and in a moment all the Giants within earshot were chortling. Covenant tried to scowl, but could not. His features kept twitching into involuntary humor. Linden found herself laughing as if she had never done such a thing before.

Overhead the sails were taut and brave with wind, bellying firmly under the flawless sky. She felt the vitality of the stone and the crew like a tingling in the soles of her feet. Starfare’s Gem strode the bright sea as though it had been restored to wholeness. Or perhaps it was Linden herself who had been restored.

She and Covenant spent the afternoon moving indolently about the
dromond
, talking with the Giants, resting in shared silence on the sun-warmed deck. She noted obliquely that Vain had not left his position at the railing: he stood like a piece of obsidian statuary, immaculate and
beautiful, the blackness of his form contrasted or defined only by his tattered tunic and the dull iron bands on his right wrist and left ankle. He might have been created to be the exact opposite of Findail, who remained in the vessel’s prow with his creamy raiment ruffling in the wind as if the fabric were as fluid as he, capable of dissolving into any form or nature he desired. It seemed impossible that the Appointed and the Demondim-spawn had anything to do with each other. For a while, Linden and Covenant discussed that mystery; but they had no new insights to give each other.

Brinn and Cail held themselves constantly available, but at a distance, as if they did not wish to intrude—or were uncomfortable in Linden’s proximity. Their thoughts lay hidden behind a magisterial impassivity; but she had learned that their expressionlessness was like a shadow cast by the extremity of their passions. She seemed to feel something unresolved in them. Covenant had demanded and won their forbearance. Apparently their trust or mistrust was not so readily swayed.

Their impenetrable regard discomfited her. But she was soothed by Covenant’s nearness and accessibility. At intervals, she brushed his scarred forearm with her fingertips as if to verify him. Beyond that, she let herself relax.

As they sprawled in a wide coil of hawser, Pitchwife came to join them. After some desultory conversation, she commented that she had not seen Seadreamer. She felt bound to the mute Giant by a particular kinship and was concerned about him.

“Ah, Seadreamer,” Pitchwife sighed. “Honninscrave comprehends him better than I—and yet comprehends him not at all. We are now replenished and restored. While this wind holds, we are arrow-swift toward our aim. Thus cause for hope need not be widely sought or dearly purchased. Yet a darkness he cannot name gathers in him. He confronts the site of the One Tree as a spawning-ground of dread.” For a moment, Pitchwife’s voice rose. “Would that he could speak! The heart of a Giant is not formed to bear such tales in silence and solitude.” Then he grew quiet again. “He remains in his cabin. I conceive that he seeks to spare us the visions he cannot utter.”

Or maybe, Linden mused, he simply can’t stand having people watch him suffer. He deserves at least that much dignity. Of all the people on Starfare’s Gem, she alone was able to experience something comparable to what he felt. Yet her percipience was not Earth-Sight, and she could not bridge the gap between them. For the present, she set the question of Seadreamer aside and let her mood drift back into the jocund ambience of the Giants.

So the day passed; and in the evening Honninscrave shortened sail, freeing as much of the crew as possible for a communal gathering. Soon after supper, nearly two score Giants came together around the foremast, leaving only Sevinhand at Shipsheartthew and three or four crewmembers in the shrouds. Linden and Covenant joined them as if drawn there by laughter and badinage and the promise of stories. The foredeck was dark except for an occasional lantern; but the dark was warm with camaraderie and anticipation, comfortable with the clear-eyed comfort of Giants. High above the slow dance of the masts, stars elucidated the heavens. When the singing began, Linden settled herself gladly against the foremast and let the oaken health of the crew carry her away.

The song had a pulse like the unalterable dirge of the sea; but the melody rose above it in arcs of eagerness and laughter, relish for all joy or sorrow, abundance or travail. The words were not always
glad, but the spirit behind them was glad and vital, combining melancholy and mirth until the two became articulations of the same soul-irrepressibly alive, committed to life.

And when the song was done, Honninscrave stepped forward to address the gathering. In a general way, the story he told was the tale of
Bhrathairealm
; but he concentrated specifically on the
Haruchai
so that all the Giants would know how Hergrom had lived and died. This he did as an homage to the dead and a condolence for the living. Ceer’s valor he did not neglect; and his people remained silent around him in a stillness which Brinn and Call could not have failed to recognize as respect.