srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第93部分

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　　　　After　a　short　distance；　he　crossed　a　low；　barren　ridge；　fell　into　the　shallow　gully　beyond　it。　At　once；　a　landfall　of　weariness　buried　him；　and　he　abandoned　himself　to　sleep。　For　a　long　time；　he　lay　in　his　own　night；　dreaming　of　impossible　sunlight。
　
　NINETEEN
　Ridjeck　Thome
　
　　　　He　awoke　with　the　acrid　taste　of　brimstone　in　his　mouth；　and　ashes　in　his　heart。　At　first；　he　could　not　remember　where　he　was；　he　could　not　identify　the　ruined　ground　on　which　he　lay；　or　the　rasp　of　sulfur　in　his　throat；　or　the　sunless　sky；　he　could　not　recollect　the　cause　of　his　loneliness。　How　could　anyone　be　so　alone　and　still　go　on　breathing？　But　after　a　time　he　began　to　notice　a　smell　of　sweat　and　disease　under　the　brimstone。　Sweat；　he　murmured。　Leprosy。　He　remembered。
　　　　Frailly；　he　levered　himself　into　a　sitting　position　in　the　gully；　then　leaned　his　back　against　one　crumbling　wall　and　tried　to　grasp　his　situation。
　　　　His　thoughts　hung　in　tatters　from　the　spars　of　his　mind；　shredded　by　a　sale　of　inanition　and　loss。　He　knew　that　he　was　starving。　That's　right；　he　said　to　himself。　That's　the　way　it　was。　His　feet　were　battered；　scored　with　cuts；　and　his　forehead　hurt　as　if　a　spike　had　been　driven　through　his　skull。　He　nodded　in　recognition。　That's　right。　That's　the　way　it　was。　But　his　dirty　skin　was　not　burned；　and　his　mud…stained　robe　showed　no　signs　of　heat　damage。　For　a　while；　he　sat　without　moving；　arid　tried　to　understand　why　he　was　still　alive。
　　　　Foamfollower　must　have　saved　him　from　the　heat　by　exerting　power　through　him；　in　the　same　way　that　the　Giants　propelled　boats　by　exerting　power　through　Gildenlode　rudders。　He　shook　his　head　at　Foamfollower's　valor。　He　did　not　know　how　he　could　go　on　without　the　help　of　a　friend。
　　　　Yet　he　shed　no　tears　over　the　Giant。　He　felt　barren　of　tears。　He　was　a　leper　and　had　no　business　with　joy　or　grief。　None；　he　claimed　flatly。　The　crisis　at　the　Colossus　had　taken　him　beyond　himself；　drawn　responses　from　him　which　he　did　not　properly　possess。　Now　he　felt　that　he　had　returned　to　his　essential　numbness；　regained　the　defining　touchstone　of　his　existence。　He　was　done　pretending　to　be　anything　more　than　what　he　was。
　　　　But　his　work　was　not　done。　He　needed　to　go　on；　to　confront　the　Despiser…to　plete；　if　he　could；　the　purpose　which　had　brought　him　here。　All　the　conditions　of　his　release　from　the　Land　had　not　yet　been　fulfilled。　For　good　or　ill；　he　would　have　to　bring　Lord　Foul's　quest　for　white　gold　to　an　end。
　　　　And　he　would　have　to　do　it　as　Bannor　and　Foamfollower　would　have　done　it…dispassionately　and　passionately；　fighting　and　refusing　to　fight；　both　at　once…because　he　had　learned　one　more　reason　why　he　would　have　to　seek　out　the　Despiser。　Surrounded　in　his　mind　by　all　his　victims；　he　found　that　there　was　only　one　good　answer　still　open　to　him。
　　　　That　answer　was　a　victory　over　Despite。
　　　　Only　by　defeating　Lord　Foul　could　he　give　meaning　to　all　the　lives　which　had　been　spent　in　his　name；　and　at　the　same　time　preserve　himself；　the　irremediable　fact　of　who　he　was。
　　　　Thomas　Covenant：　Unbeliever。　Leper。
　　　　Deliberately；　he　looked　at　his　ring。　It　hung　loosely　on　his　emaciated　finger…dull；　argent；　and　intractable。　He　groaned；　and　started　to　wrestle　himself　to　his　feet。
　　　　He　did　not　know　why　he　was　still　in　the　Land　after　Foamfollower's　death…and　did　not　care。　Probably　the　explanation　lay　somewhere　in　the　breaking　of　the　Law　of　Death。　The　Despiser　could　do　anything。　Covenant　was　prepared　to　believe　that　in　Lord　Foul's　demesne　all　the　former　Law　of　the　Earth　had　been　abrogated。
　　　　He　began　to　make　his　way　up　the　far　side　of　the　gully。　He　had　no　preparations　to　make；　no　supplies　or　plans　or　resources　to　get　ready…no　reason　why　he　should　not　simply　begin　his　task。　And　the　longer　he　delayed；　the　weaker　he　would　bee。
　　　　As　he　neared　the　crest　of　the　hill；　he　raised　his　head　to　look　around。
　　　　There　he　got　his　first　sight　of　Foul's　Creche。
　　　　It　stood　perhaps　half　a　league　away　across　a　cracked；　bare　lowland　of　dead　soil　and　rock；　a　place　which　had　lain　wrecked　and　riven　for　so　long　that　it　had　forgotten　even　the　possibility　of　life。　From　the　vantage　of　the　hill…the　last　elevation　between　him　and　Foul's　Creche…he　could　see　that　he　was　at　the　base　of　Ridjeck　Thome's　promontory。　Several　hundred　yards　away　from　him　on　either　side；　the　ground　fell　off　in　sheer　cliffs　which　drew　closer　to　each　other　as　they　jutted　outward　until　they　met　at　the　tip　of　the　promontory。　In　the　distance；　he　heard　waves　thundering　against　the　cliffs；　and　far　beyond　the　lips　of　the　wedge　he　could　see　the　dark；　gray…green　waters　of　the　Sea。
　　　　But　he　gave　little　attention　to　the　landscape。　His　eyes　were　drawn　by　the　magnet　of　the　Creche　itself。　He　had　guessed　from　what　he　had　heard　that　most　of　Lord　Foul's　home　lay　underground；　and　now　he　saw　that　this　must　be　true。　The　promontory　rose　to　a　high　pile　of　rock　at　its　tip；　and　there　the　Creche　stood。　Two　matched　towers；　as　tall　and　slender　as　minarets；　rose　several　hundred　feet　into　the　air；　and　between　them　at　ground　level　was　the　dark　open　hole　of　the　single　entrance。　Nothing　else　of　the　Despiser's　abode　was　visible。　From　windows　atop　the　towers；　Lord　Foul　or　his　guards　could　look　outward　beyond　the　promontory；　beyond　Hotash　Slay；　beyond　even　the　Shattered　Hills；　but　the　rest　of　his　demesne…his　breeding　dens；　storehouses；　power　works；　barracks；　thronehall…had　to　be　underground；　delved　into　the　rock；　accessible　only　through　that　one　mouth　and　the　tunnels　hidden　among　Kurash　Qwellinir。
　　　　Covenant　stared　across　the　promontory；　and　the　dark　windows　of　the　towers　gaped　blindly　back　at　him　like　soulless　eyes；　hollow　and　abhorred。　At　first；　he　was　simply　transfixed　by　the　sight；　stunned　to　find　himself　so　close　to　such　a　destination。　But　when　that　emotion　faded；　he　began　to　wonder　how　he　could　reach　the　Creche　without　being　spotted　by　sentries。　He　did　not　believe　that　the　towers　would　be　as　empty　as　they　appeared。　Surely　the　Despiser　would　not　leave　any　approach　unwatched。　And　if　he　waited　for　dark　to　conceal　him；　he　might　fall　off　a　cliff　or　into　one　of　the　cracks。
　　　　He　considered　the　problem　for　some　time　without　finding　any　answer。　But　at　last　he　decided　that　he　would　have　to　take　his　chances。　They　were　no　more　impossible　than　they　had　ever　been。　And　the　ground　he　had　to　cross　was　blasted　and　rough；　scarred　with　slag　pits；　ash　heaps；　crevices；　he　would　be　able　to　find　cover　for　much　of　the　distance。
　　　　He　began　by　returning　to　the　gully　and　following　it　south　until　it　began　to　veer　down　toward　the　cliff。　He　could　hear　and　see　the　ocean　clearly　now；　though　the　lava's　brimstone　still　overwhelmed　any　smell　of　salt　in　the　air；　but　he　took　notice　of　it　only　to　avoid　the　danger　of　the　cliff。　From　there　he　climbed　the　hill　again；　and　peered　over　it　to　study　the　nearby　terrain。
　　　　To　his　relief；　he　saw　more　gullies。　From　the　base　of　the　hill；　they　ran　like　a　web　of　erosion　scars　over　that　part　of　the　lowland。　If　he　could　get　into　them　without　being　seen；　he　would　be　safe　for　some　distance。
　　　　He　congratulated　himself　grimly　on　the　filthiness　of　his　robe；　which　blended　well　into　the　ruined　colors　of　the　ground。　For　a　moment；　he　gathered　his　courage；　steadied　himself。　Then　he　sprinted；　tumbled　down　the　last　slope；　rolled　into　the　nearest　gully。
　　　　It　was　too　shallow　to　allow　him　to　move　erect；　but　by　alternately　crawling　and　crouching；　he　was　able　to　work　his　way　into　the　web。　After　that；　he　made　better　progress。
　　　　But　beyond　the　heat　of　Hotash　Slay；　the　air　turned　cold　and　wet　like　an　exhalation　from　a　dank　crypt；　it　soaked　into　him　despite　his　robe；　made　his　sweat　hurt　like　ice　on　his　skin；　drained　his　scant　energies。　The　ground　was　hard；　and　when　he　crawled；　his　knees　felt　muffled　ill　beating　up　through　the　rock。　Hunger　ached　precipitously　within　him。　But　he　drove　himself　onward。
　　　　Beyond　the　gullies；　he　moved　more　swiftly　for　a　time　by　limping　between　slag　pits　and　ash　heaps。　But　after　that　he　came　to　a　flat；　shelterless　stretch　riddled　with　cracks　and　crevices。　Through　some　he　could　hear　the　crashing　of　the　Sea；　from　others　came　rank　blasts　of　air；　ventilation　for　the　Creche。　He　had　to　scuttle　unprotected　across　the　flat；　now　running　between　wide　gaps　in　the　ground；　now　throwing　himself　in　dizzy　fear　over　cracks　across　his　path。　When　at　last　he　reached　the　foot　of　the　rugged；　upraised　rock　which　led　to　the　towers；　he　dropped　into　the　shelter　of　a　boulder　and　lay　there；　gasping；　shivering　in　the　damp　cold；　dreading　the　sound　of　guards。
　　　　But　he　heard　no　alarms；　no　shout　or　rush　of　pursuit…nothing　but　his　own　hoarse　respiration；　the　febrile　pulse　of　his　blood；　the　pounding　of　the　waves。　Either　he　had　not　been　seen　or　the　guards　were　preparing　to　ambush　him。　He　mustered　the　vestiges　of　his　strength　and　began　to　clamber　up　through　the　rocks。
　　　　As　he　climbed；　he　grew　faint。　Weakness　like　vertigo　filled　his　head　made　his　numb　hands　powerless　to　grasp；　his　legs　powerless　to　thrust。　Yet　he　went　on。　Time　and　again；　he　stopped　with　his　heart　lurching　because　he　had　heard…or　thought　he　had　heard…some　clink　of　rock　or　rustle　of　apparel　which　said　that　he　was　being　stalked。　Still　he　forced　himself　to　continue。　Dizzy；　weak；　alone；　trem