Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 2

  As Covenant paused, he thought, I should write a poem.

  These are the pale deaths

  which men miscall their lives:

  for all the scents of green things growing,

  each breath is but an exhalation of the grave.

  Bodies jerk like puppet corpses,

  and hell walks laughing—

  Laughing—now there’s a real insight. Hellfire.

  Did I do a whole life’s laughing in that little time?

  He felt that he was asking an important question. He had laughed when his novel had been accepted—laughed at the shadows of deep and silent thoughts that had shifted like sea currents in Roger’s face—laughed over the finished product of his book—laughed at its presence on the best-seller lists. Thousands of things large and small had filled him with glee. When Joan had asked him what he found so funny, he was only able to reply that every breath charged him with ideas for his next book. His lungs bristled with imagination and energy. He chuckled whenever he had more joy than he could contain.

  But Roger had been six months old when the novel had become famous, and six months later Covenant still had somehow not begun writing again. He had too many ideas. He could not seem to choose among them.

  Joan had not approved of this unproductive luxuriance. She had packed up Roger, and had left her husband in their newly purchased house, with his office newly settled in a tiny, two-room but overlooking a stream in the woods that filled the back of Haven Farm—left him with strict orders to start writing while she took Roger to meet his relatives.

  That had been the pivot, the moment in which the rock had begun rolling toward his feet of clay—begun with rumbled warnings the stroke which had cut him off as severely as a surgeon attacking gangrene. He had heard the warnings, and had ignored them. He had not known what they meant.

  No, rather than looking for the cause of that low thunder, he had waved good-bye to Joan with regret and quiet respect. He had seen that she was right, that he would not start to work again unless he were alone for a time; and he had admired her ability to act even while his heart ached under the awkward burden of their separation. So when he had waved her plane away over his horizons, he returned to Haven Farm, locked himself in his office, turned on the power to his electric typewriter, and wrote the dedication of his next novel:

  “For Joan, who has been my keeper of the possible.”

  His fingers slipped uncertainly on the keys, and he needed three tries to produce a perfect copy. But he was not sea-wise enough to see the coming storm.

  The slow ache in his wrists and ankles he also ignored; he only stamped his feet against the ice that seemed to be growing in them. And when he found the numb purple spot on his right hand near the base of his little finger, he put it out of his mind. Within twenty-four hours of Joan’s departure, he was deep into the plotting of his book. Images cascaded through his imagination. His fingers fumbled, tangled themselves around the simplest words, but his imagination was sure. He had no thought to spare for the suppuration of the small wound which grew in the center of that purple stain.

  Joan brought Roger home after three weeks of family visits. She did not notice anything wrong until that evening, when Roger was asleep, and she sat in her husband’s arms. The storm windows were up, and the house was closed against the chill winter wind which prowled the Farm. In the still air of their living room, she caught the faint, sweet, sick smell of Covenant’s infection.

  Months later, when he stared at the antiseptic walls of his room in the leprosarium, he cursed himself for not putting iodine on his hand. It was not the loss of two fingers that galled him. The surgery which amputated part of his hand was only a small symbol of the stroke which cut him out of his life, excised him from his own world as if he were some kind of malignant infestation. And when his right hand ached with the memory of its lost members, that pain was no more than it should be. No, he berated his carelessness because it had cheated him of one last embrace with Joan.

  But with her in his arms on that last winter night, he had been ignorant of such possibilities. Talking softly about his new book, he held her close, satisfied for that moment with the press of her firm flesh against his, with the clean smell of her hair and the glow of her warmth. Her sudden reaction had startled him. Before he was sure what disturbed her, she was standing, pulling him up off the sofa after her. She held his right hand up between them, exposed his infection, and her voice crackled with anger and concern.

  “Oh, Tom! Why don’t you take care of yourself?”

  After that, she did not hesitate. She asked one of the neighbors to sit with Roger, then drove her husband through the light February snow to the emergency room of the hospital. She did not leave him until he had been admitted to a room and scheduled for surgery.

  The preliminary diagnosis was gangrene.

  Joan spent most of the next day with him at the hospital, during the time when he was not being given tests. And the next morning, at six o’clock, Thomas Covenant was taken from his room for surgery on his right hand. He regained consciousness three hours later back in his hospital bed, with two fingers gone. The grogginess of the drugs clouded him for a time, and he did not miss Joan until noon.

  But she did not come to see him at all that day. And when she arrived in his room the following morning, she was changed. Her skin was pale, as if her heart were hoarding blood, and the bones of her forehead seemed to press against the flesh. She had the look of a trapped animal. She ignored his outstretched hand. Her voice was low, constrained; she had to exert force to make even that much of herself reach toward him. Standing as far away as she could in the room, staring emptily out the window at the slushy streets, she told him the news.

  The doctors had discovered that he had leprosy.

  His mind blank with surprise, he said, “You’re kidding.”

  Then she spun and faced him, crying, “Don’t play stupid with me now! The doctor said he would tell you, but I told him no, I would do it. I was thinking of you. But I can’t—I can’t stand it. You’ve got leprosy! Don’t you know what that means? Your hands and feet are going to rot away, and your legs and arms will twist, and your face will turn ugly like a fungus. Your eyes will get ulcers and go bad after a while, and I can’t stand it—it won’t make any difference to you because you won’t be able to feel anything, damn you! And—oh, Tom, Tom! It’s catching.”

  “Catching?” He could not seem to grasp what she meant.

  “Yes!” she hissed. “Most people get it because” for a moment she choked on the fear which impelled her outburst “because they were exposed when they were kids. Children are more susceptible than adults. Roger—I can’t risk—I’ve got to protect Roger from that!”

  As she ran, escaped from the room, he answered, “Yes, of course.” Because he had nothing else to say. He still did not understand. His mind was empty. He did not begin to perceive until weeks later how much of him had been blown out by the wind of Joan’s passion. Then he was simply appalled.

  Forty-eight hours after his surgery, Covenant’s surgeon pronounced him ready to travel, and sent him to the leprosarium in Louisiana. On their drive to the leprosarium, the doctor who met his plane talked flatly about various superficial aspects of leprosy. Mycobacterium leprae was first identified by Armauer Hansen in 1874, but study of the bacillus has been consistently foiled by the failure of the researchers to meet two of Koch’s four steps of analysis: no one had been able to grow the microorganism artificially, and no one had discovered how it is transmitted. However, certain modern research by Dr. O. A. Skinsnes of Hawaii seemed promising. Covenant listened only vaguely. He could hear abstract vibrations of horror in the word leprosy, but they did not carry conviction. They affected him like a threat in a foreign language. Behind the intonation of menace, the words themselves communicated nothing. He watched the doctor’s earnest face as if he were staring at Joan’s incomprehensible passion, and made no response.

  But when Covenant was s
ettled in his room at the leprosarium—a square cell with a white blank bed and antiseptic walls—the doctor took another tack. Abruptly he said, “Mr. Covenant, you don’t seem to understand what’s at stake here. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  Covenant followed him out into the corridor. As they walked, the doctor said, “You have what we call a primary case of Hansen’s disease—a native case, one that doesn’t seem to have a—a genealogy. Eighty percent of the cases we get in this country involve people—immigrants and so on—who were exposed to the disease as children in foreign countries—tropical climates. At least we know where they contracted it, if not why or how.

  “Of course, primary or secondary, they can take the same general path. But as a rule people with secondary cases grew up in places where Hansen’s disease is less arcane than here. They recognize what they’ve got when they get it. That means they have a better chance of seeking help in time.

  “I want you to meet another of our patients. He’s the only other primary case we have here at present. He used to be a sort of hermit—lived alone away from everyone in the West Virginia mountains. He didn’t know what was happening to him until the army tried to get in touch with him—tell him his son was killed in the war. When the officer saw this man, he called in the Public Health Service. They sent the man to us.”

  The doctor stopped in front of a door like the one to Covenant’s cell. He knocked, but did not wait for an answer. He pushed open the door, caught Covenant by the elbow, and steered him into the room.

  As he stepped across the threshold, Covenant’s nostrils were assaulted by a pungent reek, a smell like that of rotten flesh lying in a latrine. It defied mere carbolic acid and ointments to mask it. It came from a shrunken figure sitting grotesquely on the white bed.

  “Good afternoon,” the doctor said. “This is Thomas Covenant. He has a primary case of Hansen’s disease, and doesn’t seem to understand the danger he’s in.”

  Slowly the patient raised his arms as if to embrace Covenant.

  His hands were swollen stumps, fingerless lumps of pink, sick meat marked by cracks and ulcerations from which a yellow exudation oozed through the medication. They hung on thin, hooped arms like awkward sticks. And even though his legs were covered by his hospital pajamas, they looked like gnarled wood. Half of one foot was gone, gnawed away, and in the place of the other was nothing but an unhealable wound.

  Then the patient moved his lips to speak, and Covenant looked up at his face. His dull, cataractal eyes sat in his face as if they were the center of an eruption. The skin of his cheeks was as white-pink as an albino’s; it bulged and poured away from his eyes in waves, runnulets, as if it had been heated to the melting point; and these waves were edged with thick tubercular nodules.

  “Kill yourself,” he rasped terribly. “Better than this.”

  Covenant broke away from the doctor. He rushed out into the hall and the contents of his stomach spattered over the clean walls and floor like a stain of outrage.

  In that way, he decided to survive.

  Thomas Covenant lived in the leprosarium for more than six months. He spent his time roaming the corridors like an amazed phantasm, practicing his VSE and other survival drills, glaring his way through hours of conferences with the doctors, listening to lectures on leprosy and therapy and rehabilitation. He soon learned that the doctors believed patient psychology to be the key to treating leprosy. They wanted to counsel him. But he refused to talk about himself. Deep within him, a hard core of intransigent fury was growing. He had learned that by some bitter trick of his nerves the two fingers he had lost felt more alive to the rest of his body than did his remaining digits. His right thumb was always reaching for those excised fingers, and finding their scar with an awkward, surprised motion. The help of the doctors seemed to resemble this same trick. Their few sterile images of hope struck him as the gropings of an unfingered imagination. And so the conferences, like the lectures, ended as long speeches by experts on the problems that he, Thomas Covenant, faced.

  For weeks the speeches were pounded into him until he began to dream them at night. Admonitions took over the ravaged playground of his mind. Instead of stories and passions, he dreamed perorations.

  “Leprosy,” he heard night after night, “is perhaps the most inexplicable of all human afflictions. It is a mystery, just as the strange, thin difference between living and inert matter is a mystery. Oh, we know some things about it: it is not fatal; it is not contagious in any conventional way; it operates by destroying the nerves, typically in the extremities and in the cornea of the eye; it produces deformity, largely because it negates the body’s ability to protect itself by feeling and reacting against pain; it may result in complete disability, extreme deformation of the face and limbs, and blindness; and it is irreversible, since the nerves that die cannot be restored. We also know that, in almost all cases, proper treatment using DDS—diamino-diphenyl-sulfone—and some of the new synthetic antibiotics can arrest the spread of the disease, and that, once the neural deterioration has been halted, the proper medication and therapy can keep the affliction under control for the rest of the patient’s life. What we do not know is why or how any specific person contracts the illness. As far as we can prove, it comes out of nowhere for no reason. And once you get it, you cannot hope for a cure.”

  The words he dreamed were not exaggerated—they could have come verbatim from any one of a score of lectures or conferences—but their tolling sounded like the tread of something so unbearable that it should never have been uttered. The impersonal voice of the doctor went on: “What we have learned from our years of study is that Hansen’s disease creates two unique problems for the patient-interrelated difficulties that do not occur with any other illness, and that make the mental aspect of being a leprosy victim more crucial than the physical.

  “The first involves your relationships with your fellow human beings. Unlike leukemia today, or tuberculosis in the last century, leprosy is not, and has never been, a ‘poetic’ disease, a disease which can be romanticized. Just the reverse. Even in societies that hate their sick less than we Americans do, the leper has always been despised and feared—outcast even by his most-loved ones because of a rare bacillus no one can predict or control. Leprosy is not fatal, and the average patient can look forward to as much as thirty or fifty years of life as a leper. That fact, combined with the progressive disability which the disease inflicts, makes leprosy patients, of all sick people, the ones most desperately in need of human support. But virtually all societies condemn their lepers to isolation and despair—denounced as criminals and degenerates, as traitors and villains—cast out of the human race because science has failed to unlock the mystery of this affection. In country after country, culture after culture around the world, the leper has been considered the personification of everything people, privately and communally, fear and abhor.

  “People react this way for several reasons. First, the disease produces an ugliness and a bad smell that are undeniably unpleasant. And second, generations of medical research notwithstanding, people fail to believe that something so obvious and ugly and so mysterious is not contagious. The fact that we cannot answer questions about the bacillus reinforces their fear—we cannot be sure that touch or air or food or water or even compassion do not spread the disease. In the absence of any natural, provable explanation of the illness, people account for it in other ways, all bad—as proof of crime or filth or perversion, evidence of God’s judgment, as the horrible sign of some psychological or spiritual or moral corruption or guilt. And they insist it’s catching, despite evidence that it is minimally contagious, even to children. So many of you are going to have to live without one single human support to bear the burden with you.

  “That is one reason why we place such an emphasis on counseling here; we want to help you learn to cope with loneliness. Many of the patients who leave this institution do not live out their full years. Under the shock of their severance, the
y lose their motivation; they let their self-treatments slide, and become either actively or passively suicidal; few of them come back here in time. The patients who survive find someone somewhere who is willing to help them want to live. Or they find somewhere inside themselves the strength to endure.

  “Whichever way you go, however, one fact will remain constant: from now until you die, leprosy is the biggest single fact of your existence. It will control how you live in every particular. From the moment you awaken until the moment you sleep, you will have to give your undivided attention to all the hard corners and sharp edges of life. You can’t take vacations from it. You can’t try to rest yourself by daydreaming, lapsing. Anything that bruises, bumps, burns, breaks, scrapes, snags, pokes, or weakens you can maim, cripple, or even kill you. And thinking about all the kinds of life you can’t have can drive you to despair and suicide. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Covenant’s pulse was racing, and his sweat made the sheets cling to his limbs. The voice of his nightmare had not changed—it made no effort to terrify him, took no pleasure in his fear—but now the words were as black as hate, and behind them stretched a great raw wound of emptiness.

  “That brings us to the other problem. It sounds simple, but you will find it can be devastating. Most people depend heavily on their sense of touch. In fact, their whole structure of responses to reality is organized around their touch. They may doubt their eyes and ears, but when they touch something they know it’s real. And it is not an accident that we describe the deepest parts of ourselves—our emotions—in terms of the sense of touch. Sad tales touch our feelings. Bad situations irritate us or hurt us. This is an inevitable result of the fact that we are biological organisms.