srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第111部分

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urash　Qwellinir；　permitted　himself　to　be　taken　captive；　so　that　he　could　surprise　the　Despiser；　catch　Lord　Foul　from　a　weak　or　blind　side。
　　　　Foul　had　reason　for　this　fear。　The　Staff　of　Law　had　been　destroyed。
　　　　For　an　instant；　Covenant　thought　he　might　use　this　apprehension　to　help　himself　in　some　way。　But　then　he　saw　that　he　could　not。　For　his　own　sake；　so　that　his　defense　would　not　be　flawed　by　his　old　duplicity；　he　told　the　truth。
　　　　〃I　don't　know　how　to　use　it。〃　His　voice　stumbled　thickly　past　his　swollen　lip。　〃I　don't　know　how　to　call　it　up。　But　I　know　it　is　real　in　the　Land。　I　know　how　to　trigger　it。　I　know　how　to　bring　this　bloody　icebox　down　around　your　ears。〃
　　　　The　Despiser　did　not　hesitate；　doubt。　He　seemed　to　expand　in　Covenant's　sight　as　he　roared　savagely；　〃You　will　trigger　nothing！　I　have　endured　enough　of　your　insolence。　Do　you　say　that　you　are　a　leper？　I　will　show　you　leprosy！〃
　　　　Power　swarmed　around　Covenant　like　a　thousand　thousand　mad　wasps。　Before　him；　the　Despiser's　blank　shadow　grew　horribly；　swept　upward　larger　and　larger　until　it　dwarfed　Covenant；　dwarfed　Foamfollower；　dwarfed　the　thronehall　itself；　it　filled　the　air；　the　hall；　the　entire　Creche。　He　felt　himself　plunging　into　the　abyss　of　it。　He　cried　out　for　help；　but　no　help　came。　Like　a　stricken　bird；　he　plummeted　downward。　The　speed　of　his　fall　roared　in　his　ears　as　if　it　were　trying　to　suck　him　out　of　himself。　He　could　sense　the　rock　on　which　he　would　be　shattered；　unutterably　far　below　him。
　　　　In　the　void；　an　attar…laden　voice　breathed；　〃Worship　me　and　I　will　save　you。〃
　　　　Giddy　terror…lust　rushed　up　in　him。　A　black　whirlwind　hurled　him　at　the　rock　as　if　all　the　puissance　of　the　heavens　had　e　to　smash　him　against　the　unbreakable　granite　of　his　fate。　Despite　screamed　in　his　mind；　demanding　admittance；　demanding　like　the　suicidal　paradox　of　vertigo　to　overwhelm　him。　But　he　clung　to　himself；　refused。　He　was　a　leper；　the　Land　was　not　real；　this　was　not　the　way　he　was　going　to　die。
　　　　He　clenched　his　fist　on　the　ring　with　all　the　frail　strength　of　his　arm。
　　　　At　the　crash　of　impact；　pain　detonated　in　his　skull。　Incandescent　agony　yowled　and　yammered　through　his　head；　shredded　him　like　claws　ferociously　tearing　the　tissue　of　his　brain。　Foul　rode　the　pain　as　if　it　were　a　tidal　wave；　striving　to　break　down　or　climb　over　the　seawall　of　his　will。　But　he　was　too　numb　to　break。　His　hands　and　feet　were　blind；　frozen；　his　forehead　was　already　inured　to　harm；　and　the　black　swelling　in　his　lip　was　familiar　to　him。　The　green；　ghastly　cold　could　not　bend　the　rigor　of　his　bones。　Like　a　dead　man；　he　was　stiff　with　resistance。
　　　　Lord　Foul　tried　to　enter　him；　tried　to　merge　with　him。　The　offer　was　seductively　sweet…a　surcease　from　pain；　a　release　from　the　long　unrest　which　he　had　miscalled　his　life。　But　he　was　harnessed　to　himself　in　a　way　that　allowed　no　turning　aside；　no　surrender。　He　was　Thomas　Covenant；　Unbeliever　and　leper。　He　refused。
　　　　Abruptly；　his　pain　fell　into　darkness。　Harm；　injury；　crushing；　assault…all　turned　to　ashes　and　blew　away　on　windless　air。　In　their　place　came　his　own　numbness；　his　irreparable　lack　of　sensation。　In　the　great；　unlimited　abyss；　he　found　that　he　could　see　himself。
　　　　He　was　standing　nowhere；　surrounded　by　nothing；　he　was　staring　as　if　in　dumb　inprehension　at　his　hands。
　　　　At　first　they　seemed　normal。　They　were　as　gaunt　as　sticks；　and　the　two　missing　digits　of　his　right　hand　gave　him　a　sense　of　loss；　unwholeness；　that　made　him　groan。　But　his　ring　was　intact；　it　hung　inertly　on　his　index　finger；　an　argent　circle　as　perfect　and　inescapable　as　if　it　had　some　meaning。
　　　　But　as　he　watched；　dim　purple　spots　began　to　appear　on　his　hands…on　his　fingers；　the　backs　of　his　knuckles；　the　heels　of　his　palms。　Slowly；　they　spread　and　started　to　suppurate；　they　bulged　slightly　like　blisters；　then　opened　to　show　abscesses　under　his　skin。　Fluid　oozed　from　the　sores　as　they　grew　and　spread。　Soon　both　his　hands　were　covered　with　infection。
　　　　They　became　gangrenous；　putrescent；　the　cloying　stench　of　live；　rotten　flesh　poured　from　them　like　the　effluvium　of　some　gnawing　fungus；　noisome　and　cruel。　And　under　the　infection；　the　bones　of　his　fingers　began　to　gnarl。　Unmarrowed；　flawed　by　rot；　stressed　by　tendons　whose　nerves　had　died；　leaving　them　perpetually　taut；　perpetually　clenched　against　each　other；　the　bones　twisted；　broke；　and　froze　at　crooked　angles。　In　the　rot　and　the　disease；　his　hands　maimed　themselves。　And　the　black；　sick　swelling　of　gangrene　began　to　eat　its　way　up　his　wrists。
　　　　The　same　pressures；　the　same　fetid　and　uncontrollable　tension　of　muscles　and　thews…bereft　of　volition　by　the　rot　in　his　nerves…bowed　his　forearms　so　that　they　hung　grotesquely　from　his　elbows。　Then　pus　began　to　blossom　like　sweat　from　the　abscessed　pores　of　his　upper　arms。　When　he　twitched　his　robe　aside；　he　found　that　his　legs　were　already　contorted　to　the　knees。
　　　　The　assault　horrified　him；　buried　him　in　misery　and　self…loathing。　He　was　wearing　his　own　future；　the　oute　of　his　illness…the　destination　of　the　road　down　which　every　leper　fared　who　did　not　either　kill　himself　or　fight　hard　enough　to　stay　alive。　He　was　seeing　the　very　thing　which　had　first　determined　him　to　survive；　all　those　long　months　ago　in　the　leprosarium；　but　now　it　was　upon　him；　virulent　and　immedicable。　His　leprosy　was　in　full　rank　flower；　and　he　had　nothing　left　for　which　to　fight。
　　　　Nevertheless　he　was　on　his　home　ground。　He　knew　leprosy　with　the　intimacy　of　a　lover；　he　knew　that　it　could　not　happen　so　swiftly；　so　pletely。　It　was　not　real。　And　it　was　not　all　of　him。　This　heinous　and　putrescent　gnawing　was　not　the　sum　total　of　his　being。　Despite　what　the　doctors　said…despite　what　he　saw　in　himself…he　was　more　than　that；　more　than　just　a　leper。
　　　　No；　Foul！　he　panted　bitterly。　It's　not　that　easy。
　　　　〃Tom。　Tom！〃　a　stricken　voice　cried。　It　was　familiar　to　him…a　voice　as　known　and　beloved　as　health。　〃Give　it　up。　Don't　you　see　what　you're　doing　to　us？〃
　　　　He　looked　up；　and　saw　Joan　standing　before　him。　She　held　their　infant　son；　Roger；　in　her　hands；　so　that　the　child　was　half　extended　like　an　offering　toward　him。　Both　of　them　appeared　just　as　they　had　been　when　he　had　last　seen　them；　so　long　ago；　Joan　had　the　same　look　of　torn　grief　in　her　face；　the　expression　that　begged　him　to　understand　why　she　had　already　decided　to　divorce　him。　But　she　was　inexplicably　naked。　His　heart　wept　in　him　when　he　saw　the　lost　love　of　her　loins；　the　unwillingness　of　her　breasts；　the　denied　treasure　of　her　face。
　　　　As　he　gazed　at　her；　purple　stains　began　to　show　through　the　warmth　of　her　skin。　Abscesses　suppurated　on　her　breasts；　sickness　oozed　from　her　nipples　like　milk。
　　　　Roger　was　puling　pathetically　in　her　hands。　When　he　turned　his　helpless　infant　head　toward　his　father；　Covenant　saw　that　his　eyes　were　already　glazed　and　cataractal；　half　blinded　by　leprosy。　Two　dim　magenta　spots　tainted　his　cheeks。
　　　　Foul！　Covenant　shrieked。　Damn　you！
　　　　Then　he　saw　other　figures　pressing　forward　behind　Joan。　Mhoram　was　there；　Lena　and　Atiaran　were　there；　Bannor　and　Hile　Troy　were　there。　Mhoram's　whole　face　had　fallen　into　yellow　rot　and　running　chancrous　sores；　his　eyes　cried　out　through　the　infection　as　if　they　were　drowning　in　a　quagmire　of　atrocious　wrong。　All　Lena's　hair　had　fallen　out；　and　her　bald　scalp　bristled　with　tubercular　nodules。　Atiaran's　eyes　were　drowning　in　milky　blindness。　The　grotesque　gnarling　of　Banner's　limbs　entirely　crippled　him。　Troy's　eyeless　face　was　one　puckered　mass　of　gangrene；　as　if　the　very　brain　within　his　skull　were　festering。
　　　　And　behind　these　figures　stood　more　of　the　people　Covenant　had　known　in　the　Land。　All　were　mortally　ill；　rife　and　hideous　with　leprosy。　And　behind　them　crowded　multitudes　more；　numberless　victims…all　the　people　of　the　Land　stricken　and　destitute；　abominable　to　themselves；　as　ruined　as　if　Covenant　had　brought　a　plague　of　absolute　virulence　among　them。
　　　　At　the　sight　of　them；　he　erupted。　Fury　at　their　travail　spouted　up　in　him　like　lava。　Volcanic　anger；　so　long　buried　under　the　weight　of　his　plex　ordeal；　sent　livid；　fiery　passion　geysering　into　the　void。
　　　　Foul！　he　screamed。　Foul！　You　can't　do