srdonaldson.theillearthwar-第3部分

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　For　a　week　or　so；　he　made　progress。　He　paced　through　the　charted　neatness　of　his　house　like　a　robot　curiously　aware　of　the　machinery　inside　him；　searching　despite　the　limited　functions　of　his　programming…for　one　good　answer　to　death。　And　when　he　left　the　house；　walked　out　the　driveway　to　pick　up　his　groceries；　or　hiked　for　hours　through　the　woods　along　Righters　Creek　in　back　of　Haven　Farm；　he　moved　with　an　extreme　caution；　testing　every　rock　and　branch　and　breeze　as　if　he　suspected　it　of　concealing　malice。
　But　gradually　he　began　to　look　about　him；　and　as　he　did　so　some　of　his　determination　faltered。　April　was　on　the　woods…the　first　signs　of　a　spring　which　should　have　appeared　beautiful　to　him。　But　at　unexpected　moments　his　sight　seemed　to　go　suddenly　dim　with　sorrow　as　he　remembered　the　spring　of　the　Land。　pared　to　that；　where　the　very　health　of　the　sap　and　buds　was　visible；　palpable；　discernible　by　touch　and　scent　and　sound；　the　woods　he　now　walked　looked　sadly　superficial。　The　trees　and　grass　and　hills　had　no　savor；　no　depth　of　beauty。　They　could　only　remind　him　of　Andelain　and　the　taste　of　aliantha。
　Then　other　memories　began　to　disturb　him。　For　several　days；　he　could　not　get　the　woman　who　had　died　for　him　at　the　battle　of　Soaring　Woodhelven　out　of　his　thoughts。　He　had　never　even　known　her　name；　never　even　asked　her　why　she　had　devoted　herself　to　him。　She　was　like　Atiaran　and　Foamfollower　and　Lena；　she　assumed　that　he　had　a　right　to　such　sacrifices。
　Like　Lena；　about　whom　he　could　rarely　bear　to　think；　she　made　him　ashamed；　and　with　shame　came　anger…the　old　familiar　leper's　rage　on　which　so　much　of　his　endurance　depended。　By　hell！　he　fumed。　They　had　no　right。　They　had　no　right！　But　then　the　uselessness　of　his　passion　rebounded　against　him；　and　he　was　forced　to　recite　to　himself　as　if　he　were　reading　the　catechism　of　his　illness；　Futility　is　the　defining　characteristic　of　life。　Pain　is　the　proof　of　existence。　In　the　extremity　of　his　moral　solitude；　he　had　no　other　answers。
　At　times　like　that；　he　found　bitter　consolation　in　psychological　studies　where　a　subject　was　sealed　off　from　all　sensory　input；　made　blind；　deaf；　silent；　and　immobile；　and　as　a　result　began　to　experience　the　most　horrendous　hallucinations。　If　conscious　normal　men　and　women　could　be　placed　so　much　at　the　mercy　of　their　own　inner　chaos；　surely　one　abject　leper　in　a　a　could　have　a　dream　that　was　worse　than　chaos　…a　dream　specifically　self…designed　to　drive　him　mad。　At　least　what　had　happened　to　him　did　not　altogether　surpass　prehension。
　Thus　in　one　way　or　another　he　survived　the　days　for　nearly　three　weeks　after　the　fire。　At　times　he　was　almost　aware　that　the　unresolved　stress　within　him　was　building　toward　a　crisis；　but　repeatedly　he　repressed　the　knowledge；　drove　the　idea　down　with　anger。　He　did　not　believe　he　could　endure　another　ordeal；　he　had　handled　the　first　one　so　badly。
　But　even　the　concentrated　vitriol　of　his　anger　was　not　potent　enough　to　protect　him　indefinitely。　One　Thursday　morning；　when　he　faced　himself　in　the　mirror　to　shave；　the　crisis　abruptly　surged　up　in　him；　and　his　hand　began　to　shake　so　severely　that　he　had　to　drop　the　razor　in　the　sink　in　order　to　avoid　cutting　his　jugular。
　Events　in　the　Land　were　not　plete。　By　regaining　the　Staff　of　Law；　the　Lords　had　done　exactly　what　Lord　Foul　wanted　them　to　do。　That　was　just　the　first　step　in　Foul's　plotting…machinations　which　had　begun　when　he　had　summoned　Covenant's　white　gold　ring　to　the　Land。　He　would　not　be　done　until　he　had　gained　the　power　of　life　and　death　over　that　entire　Earth。　And　to　do　that；　Foul　needed　the　wild　magic　of　the　white　gold。
　Covenant　stared　desperately　at　himself　in　the　mirror；　trying　to　retain　a　grip　on　his　own　actuality。　But　he　saw　nothing　in　his　own　eyes　capable　of　defending　him。
　He　had　been　deluded　once。
　It　could　happen　again。
　Again？　he　cried；　in　a　voice　so　forlorn　that　it　sounded　like　the　wail　of　an　abandoned　child。　Again？　He　could　not　master　what　had　happened　to　him　in　his　first　delusion；　how　could　he　so　much　as　live　through　a　second？
　He　was　on　the　verge　of　calling　the　doctors　at　the　leprosarium…calling　them　to　beg！…when　he　recovered　some　of　his　leper's　intransigence。　He　would　not　have　survived　this　long　if　he　had　not　possessed　some　kind　of　fundamental　capacity　to　refuse　defeat　if　not　despair；　and　that　capacity　stopped　him　now。　What　could　I　tell　them　that　they　would　believe？　he　rasped。　I　don't　believe　it　myself。
　The　people　of　the　Land　had　called　him　the　Unbeliever。　Now　he　found　that　he　would　have　to　earn　that　title　whether　the　Land　actually　existed　or　not。
　And　for　the　next　two　days　he　strove　to　earn　it　with　a　grimness　which　was　as　close　as　he　could　e　to　courage。　He　only　made　one　promise：　since　his　hands　shook　so　badly；　he　shaved　with　an　electric　razor；　pushing　it　roughly　at　his　face　as　if　he　were　trying　to　remold　his　features。　Beyond　that；　he　acknowledged　nothing。　At　night；　his　heart　quivered　so　tangibly　in　his　chest　that　he　could　not　sleep；　but　he　clenched　his　teeth　and　did　without　sleep。　Between　himself　and　delusion　he　placed　a　wall　of　DDS　and　VSEs；　and　whenever　delusion　threatened　to　breach　his　defense；　he　drove　it　back　with　curses。
　But　Saturday　morning　came；　and　still　he　could　not　silence　the　dread　which　made　his　hands　shake。
　Then　at　last　he　decided　to　risk　going　among　his　fellow　human　beings　once　more。　He　needed　their　actuality；　their　affirmation　of　the　reality　he　understood；　even　their　revulsion　toward　his　illness。　He　knew　of　no　other　antidote　to　delusion；　he　could　no　longer　face　his　dilemma　alone。
　
　
　TWO：　Halfhand
　
　BUT　that　decision　itself　was　full　of　fear；　and　he　did　not　act　on　it　until　evening。　He　spent　most　of　the　day　cleaning　his　house　as　if　he　did　not　expect　to　return　to　it。　Then；　late　in　the　afternoon；　he　shaved　with　the　electric　razor　and　showered　meticulously。　For　the　sake　of　prudence；　he　put　on　a　tough　pair　of　jeans；　and　laced　his　feet　into　heavy　boots；　but　over　his　T…shirt　he　wore　a　dress　shirt；　tie；　and　sports　coat；　so　that　the　informality　of　his　jeans　and　boots　would　not　be　held　against　him。　His　wallet…generally　so　useless　to　him　that　he　did　not　carry　it…he　placed　in　his　coat　pocket。　And　into　a　pocket　of　his　trousers　he　stuffed　a　small；　sharp　penknife…a　knife　which　he　habitually　took　with　him　in　case　he　lost　control　of　his　defensive　concentration；　and　needed　something　dangerous　to　help　him　refocus　himself。　Finally；　as　the　sun　was　setting；　he　walked　down　his　long　driveway　to　the　road；　where　he　extended　his　thumb　to　hitch　a　ride　away　from　town。
　The　next　place　down　the　road　was　ten　miles　from　Haven　Farm；　and　it　was　bigger　than　the　town　where　he　had　had　his　accident。　He　headed　for　it　because　he　was　less　likely　to　be　recognized　there。　But　his　first　problem　was　to　find　a　safe　ride。　If　any　of　the　local　motorists　spotted　him；　he　was　in　trouble　from　the　beginning。
　In　the　first　few　minutes；　three　cars　went　by　without　stopping。　The　occupants　stared　at　him　in　passing　as　if　he　were　some　kind　of　minor　freak；　but　none　of　the　drivers　slowed　down。　Then；　as　the　last　sunlight　faded　into　dusk；　a　large　truck　came　toward　him。　He　waved　his　thumb；　and　the　truck　rode　to　a　halt　just　past　him　on　the　loud　hissing　of　air　brakes。　He　climbed　up　to　the　door；　and　was　gestured　into　the　cab　by　the　driver。
　The　man　was　chewing　over　a　black　stubby　cigar；　and　the　air　in　the　cab　was　thick　with　smoke。　But　through　the　dull　haze；　Covenant　could　see　that　he　was　big　and　burly；　with　a　distended　paunch；　and　one　heavy　arm　that　moved　over　the　steering　wheel　like　a　piston；　turning　the　truck　easily。　He　had　only　that　one　arm；　his　right　sleeve　was　empty；　and　pinned　to　his　shoulder。　Covenant　understood　dismemberment；　and　he　felt　a　pang　of　sympathy　for　the　driver。
　〃Where　to；　buddy？〃　the　big　man　asked　fortably。
　Covenant　told　him。
　〃No　problem；〃　he　responded　to　a　tentative　inflection　in　Covenant's　tone。　〃I'm　going　right　through　there。〃　As　the　automatic　transmission　whined　upward　through。　its　gears；　he　spat　his　cigar　out　the　window；　then　let　go　of　the　wheel　to　unwrap　and　light　a　new　smoke。　While　his　hand　was　busy；　he　braced　the　wheel　with　his　belly。　The　green　light　of　the　instrument　panel　did　not　reach　his　face；　but　the　glow　of　the　cigar