Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (57 page)

Covenant reached out to accept, but the Giant stopped him.

“Ah,
jheherrin
,” Foamfollower said in a formal tone, “your hospitality honors us. If we could, we would return honor to you by accepting. But we are not like you—our lives are unalike. Your food would do us harm rather than help.”

This speech roused Covenant somewhat. He made himself look into the bowls and found that Foamfollower was right. The food had the appearance of liquefied marl, and it reeked of old rot, as if dead flesh had moldered in it for centuries.

But the water was fresh and pure. Foamfollower accepted it with a bow of thanks, drank deeply, then handed it to Covenant.

For the first time, Covenant realized that Foamfollower’s sack had been lost in the thorn wastes.

The rush of cold water into his emptiness helped him shake off more of his somnolence. He drank the bowl dry, savoring the purity of the water as if he believed he would never taste anything clean again. When he returned it to the waiting, trembling
jheherrin
, he did his best to match Foamfollower’s bow.

Then he began to take stock of his situation. The cavern already held several hundred creatures, and more were arriving constantly. Like the
jheherrin
who had rescued him, they all appeared to be made of animated mud. They were grotesquely formed, like monsters ridiculed for their monstrosity; they lacked any sense organs that Covenant could recognize. Yet he was vaguely surprised to see that they came in several different types. In addition to the short erect forms he had first seen, there were two or three distinct beast-shapes, which looked like miserably failed attempts to mold horses, wolves, Cavewights in mud, and one oddly serpentine group of belly crawlers.

“Foamfollower?” he murmured. A painful intuition twisted in him. “What are they?”

“They name themselves in the tongue of the Old Lords,” Foamfollower replied carefully, as if he were skirting something dangerous, “according to their shapes. Those who rescued us are the
aussat Befylam
of the
jheherrin
. Other
Befylam
you see—the
fael Befylam
”—he pointed to the crawlers—“and the
roge
”—he indicated the Cavewight-like creatures. “I have heard portions of their talk as we marched,” he explained. But he did not continue.

Covenant felt nauseated by the thrust of his guess. He insisted, “What are they?”

Under the mud which darkened his face, Foamfollower’s jaw muscles knotted. His voice quivered slightly as he said, “Ask them. Let them speak of it if they will.” He stared around the cavern, did not meet Covenant’s gaze.

“We will speak,” a cold, dusky voice said. One of the
fael jheherrin Befylam
crawled a short distance toward them. It slopped wetly over the rock as it moved, and when it halted, it lay panting and gasping like a landed fish. Resolution and fear opposed each other in every heave of its length. But Covenant was not repelled. He felt wrung with pity for all the
jheherrin
. “We will speak,” the crawler repeated. “You are hard—you threaten us all.”

“They will destroy us,” a host of voices whimpered.

“But we have chosen to aid.”

“The choice was not unopposed!” voices cried.

“We have chosen. You are—the legend says—” It faltered in confusion. “We accept this risk.” Then a wave of misery filled its voice. “We beg you—do not turn against us.”

Evenly, firmly, Foamfollower said, “We will never willingly harm the
jheherrin
.”

A silence like disbelief answered him from every part of the cavern. But then a few voices said in a tone of weary self-abandonment, “Speak, then. We have chosen.”

The crawler steadied itself. “We will speak. We have chosen. White gold human, you ask what we are. We are the
jheherrin
—the soft ones—Maker-work.” As it spoke, the rocklight pulsed in the air like sorrow.

“The Maker labors deep in the fastness of his home, breeding armies. He takes living flesh as you know living flesh, and works his power upon it, shaping power and malice to serve his own. But his work does not always grow to his desires. At times the result is weakness rather than strength. At times his making is blind—or crippled—or stillborn. Such spawn he casts into a vast quagmire of fiery mud to be consumed.”

A vibration of remembered terror filled the cavern.

“But there is another potency in that abysm. We are not slain. In agony we become the
jheherrin
—the soft ones. We are transformed. From the depths of the pit we crawl.”

“We crawl,” voices echoed.

“In lightless combs lost even to the memory of the Maker—”

“Lost.”

“—we supplicate our lives.”

“Lives.”

“From the mud of the thorn wastes to the very walls of the Maker-place, we wander in soil and fear, searching—”

“Searching.”

“—listening—”

“Listening.”

“—waiting.”

“Waiting.”

“The surface of the Earth is denied to us. We would perish in dust if the light of the sun were to touch us. And we cannot delve—we cannot make new tunnels to lead us from this place. We are soft.”

“Lost.”

“And we dare not offend the Maker. We live in sufferance—he smiles upon our abjection.”

“Lost.”

“Yet we retain the shapes of what we were. We are”—the voice shuddered as if it feared it would be stricken for its audacity—“not servants of the Maker.”

Hundreds of the
jheherrin
gasped in trepidation.

“Many of our combs border the passages of the Maker. We search the walls and listen. We hear—the Maker has no secret. We heard his enmity against you, his intent against you. In the name of the legend, we debated and chose. Any aid that could be concealed from the Maker, we choose to give.”

As the crawler finished, all the
jheherrin
fell silent, and watched Covenant while he groped for a response. Part of him wanted to weep, to throw his arms around the monstrous creatures and weep. But his purpose was rigid within him. He felt that he could not bend to gentleness without breaking. To destroy Lord Foul, he grated silently. Yes! “But you—” he responded harshly. “They said it’s impossible. Cannot be done.”

“Cannot,” the crawler trembled. “The passages of the Maker under Kurash Qwellinir are guarded. Kurash Qwellinir itself is a maze. The fires of Gorak Krembal ward the Maker-place. His halls swarm with malice and servants. We have heard. The Maker has no secret.”

“Yet you aided us.” The Giant’s tone was thoughtful. “You have dared the Maker’s rage. You did not do this for any small reason.”

“That is true.” The speaker seemed afraid of what Foamfollower might say next.

“Surely there are other aids which you can give.”

“Yes—yes. Of Gorak Krembal we do not speak—there is nothing. But we know the ways of Kurash Qwellinir. And—and in the Maker-place also—there is something. But—” The speaker faltered, fell silent.

“But,” Foamfollower said steadily, “such aid is not the reason for the aid you have already given. I am not deaf or blind,
jheherrin
. Some other cause has led you to this peril.”

“The legend—” gulped the speaker, then slithered away to confer with the creatures behind it. An intensely whispered argument followed, during which Covenant tried to calm his sense of impending crisis. For some obscure reason, he hoped that the creatures would refuse to speak of their legend. But when the crawler returned to them, Foamfollower said deliberately, “Tell us.”

A silence of dread echoed in the cavern, and when the speaker replied fearfully, “We will,” a chorus of shrieks pierced the air. Several score of the
jheherrin
fled, unable to bear the risk. “We must. There is no other way.”

The crawler approached a few feet, then slumped wetly on the floor, gasping as if it could not breathe. But after a moment, it lifted up its quavering voice and began to sing. The song was in an alien tongue that Covenant did not comprehend, and its pitches were made so uncertain by fear that he could not discern the melody. Yet—more in the way the
jheherrin
listened than in the song itself—he sensed something of its potency, its attractiveness for the creatures. Without understanding anything about it, he was moved.

It was a short song, as if long ages of grim or abject use had reduced it to its barest bones. When it was done, the speaker said weakly, “The legend. The one hope of the
jheherrin
—the sole part of our lives that is not Maker-work, the sole purpose. It tells that the distant forebears of the
jheherrin
, the un-Maker-made, were themselves Makers. But they were not seedless as he is—as we are. They were not driven to breed upon the flesh of others. From their bodies came forth young who grew and in turn made young. Thus the world was constantly renewed, in firmness and replenishment. Such things cannot be imagined.

“But the Makers were flawed. Some were weak, some blind, others incautious. Among them the Maker was born, seedless and bitter, and they did not see or fear what they had done. Thus they fell into his power. He captured them and took them to the deep fastnesses of his home, and used them to begin the work of forming armies.

“We are the last vestige of these flawed un-Maker-made. Their last life is preserved in us. In punishment for their flaws, we are doomed to crawl the combs in misery and watchfulness and eternal fear. Mud is our sun and blood and being, our flesh and home. Fear is our heritage, for the Maker could bring us to an end with one word, living as we do in the very shadow of his home. But we are watchful in the name of our one hope. For it is said that some un-Maker-made are still free of the Maker—that they still bring forth young from their bodies. It is said that when the time is ready, a young will be birthed without flaw—a pure offspring impervious to the Maker and his making—unafraid. It is said that this pure one will come bearing tokens of power to the Maker’s home. It is said that he will redeem the
jheherrin
if they prove—if he finds them worthy—that he will win from the Maker their release from fear and mud—if—if—” The crawler could not go on. Its voice stumbled into silence, left the cavern aching for a reply to fill the void of its misery.

But Covenant could not bend without breaking. He felt all the attention of the
jheherrin
focused on him. He could feel them voicelessly asking him, imploring, Are you the pure one? If we help you, will you free us? But he could not give them the answer they wanted. Their living death deserved the truth from him, not a false hope.

Deliberately he sacrificed their help. His voice was harsh; he sounded angry as he said, “Look at me. You know the answer. Under all this mud, I’m sick—diseased. And I’ve done things— I’m not pure. I’m corrupt.”

One last pulse of silence met his denial—one still moment while the intent, tremulous hope around him shattered. Then a shrill wail of despair tore through the multitude of the
jheherrin
. All the light vanished at once. Shrieking in darkness like desolated ghouls, the creatures ran.

Foamfollower caught hold of Covenant to protect him against an attack. But the
jheherrin
did not attack; they fled. The sound of their movement rushed through the cavern like a loud wind of loss, and died away. Soon the silence returned, fell limp at the feet of Covenant and Foamfollower like empty cerements, the remains of a violated grave.

Covenant’s chest shook with dry spasms like sobs, but he clenched himself into union with the silence. He could not bend; he would break if the rictus of his determination were forced to bend. Foul! he jerked. Foul! You’re too cruel.

He felt the attempted consolation of the Giant’s hand on his shoulder. He wanted to respond, wanted to utter in some way the violence of his resolve. But before he could speak, the silence seemed to flow and concentrate itself into the sound of soft weeping.

The sound grew on him as he listened. Forlorn and miserable, it rose up into the darkness like irremediable grief, made the hollow air throb. He yearned to go to the weeper, yearned to comfort it in some way. But when he moved, it found words to halt him, desolate accusation. “Despair is Maker-work.”

“Forgive me,” Covenant groaned. “How could I lie to you?” He searched for the right reply, then said on intuition, “But the legend hasn’t changed. I haven’t touched the legend. I don’t deny your worth. You are worthy. I’m just—not the pure one. He hasn’t come yet. I don’t have anything to do with your hope.”

The weeper did not answer. Its sobs ached on in the air; having started, its old unanodyned misery could not stop. But after a moment it brought up a glimmer of rocklight. Covenant saw that it was the crawler who had spoken for the
jheherrin
.

“Come,” it wept. “Come.” Shaking with sorrow, it turned and crept out of the cavern.

Covenant and the Giant followed without hesitation. In the presence of the creature’s grief, they silently accepted whatever it intended for them.

It led them back into the combs—away from their earlier route, upward through a complex chain of tunnels. Soon the rock walls had become cold again, and the air began to smell faintly of brimstone. A short time later—little more than half a league from the cavern—their guide halted.

They kept themselves a respectful distance from the creature and waited while it tried to control its sobs. Its dim, rocklit struggle was painful to watch, but they contained their own emotions, waited. Covenant was prepared to allow the creature any amount of time. Patience seemed to be the only thing he could offer the
jheherrin
.

It did not keep them waiting long. Forcing down its grief, it said thickly, “This tunnel—it ends in Kurash Qwellinir. At every turn choose—the way toward the fire. You must pass a passage of the Maker. It will be guarded. Beyond it take each turn away from the fire. You will find Gorak Krembal. You cannot cross—you must cross it. Beyond it is the rock of the Maker-place.

“Its mouth is guarded, but has no gate. Within it swarms— But there are secret ways—the Maker has secret ways, which his servants do not use. Within the mouth is a door. You cannot see it. You must find it. Press once upon the center of the lintel. You will find many ways and hiding places.”