The Wounded Land Read Free Page A

never forget he’s a leper.” He was talking about something for which he had not been able to forgive himself. “Part of that’s his fault,” he said defensively. “He never forgets,either. He doesn’t think of himself as Thomas Covenant the writer—the man—the human being. He thinks of himself as Thomas Covenant the leper.”
    When she continued to stare at him flatly, he dropped his gaze. “But that’s not the point. The point is, would it bother you to go see him?”
    “No,” she said severely; but her severity was for herself rather than for him. I’m a doctor. Sick people are my business. “But I still don’t understand why you want me to go out there.”
    The pouches under his eyes shook as if he were pleading with her. “I can’t tell you.”
    “You can’t tell me.” The quietness of her tone belied the blackness of her mood. “What good do you think I can possibly do if I don’t even know why I’m talking to him?”
    “You could get
him
to tell you.” Dr. Berenford’s voice sounded like the misery of an ineffectual old man. “That’s what I want. I want him to accept you—tell you what’s going on himself. So I won’t have to break any promises.”
    “Let me get this straight,” She made no more effort to conceal her anger. “You want me to go out there, and ask him outright to tell me his secrets. A total stranger arrives at his door, and wants to know what’s bothering him—for no other reason than because Dr. Berenford would like a second opinion. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have me arrested for trespassing.”
    For a moment, the doctor faced her sarcasm and indignation. Then he sighed. “I know. He’s like that—he’d never tell you. He’s been locked into himself so long—” The next instant, his voice became sharp with pain. “But I think he’s
wrong
.”
    “Then tell me what it is,” insisted Linden.
    His mouth opened and shut; his hands made supplicating gestures. But then he recovered himself. “No. That’s backward. First
    I need to know which one of us is wrong. I owe him that. Mrs. Roman is no help. This is a medical decision. But I can’t make it. I’ve tried, and I can’t.”
    The simplicity with which he admitted his inadequacy snared her. She was tired, dirty, and bitter, and her mind searched for an escape. But his need for assistance struck too close to the driving compulsions of her life. Her hands were knotted together like certainty. After a moment, she looked up at him. His features had sagged as if the muscles were exhausted by the weight of his mortality. In her flat professional voice, she said, “Give me some excuse I can use to go out there.”
    She could hardly bear the sight of his relief. “That I can do,” he said with a show of briskness. Reaching into a jacket pocket, he pulled out a paperback and handed it to her. The lettering across the drab cover said:
    Or I Will Sell My Soul for Guilt
a novel by

THOMAS COVENANT
    “Ask for his autograph.” The older man had regained his sense of irony. “Try to get him talking. If you can get inside his defenses, something will happen.”
    Silently she cursed herself. She knew nothing about novels, had never learned how to talk to strangers about anything except their symptoms. Anticipations of embarrassment filled her like shame. But she had been mortifying herself for so long that she had no respect leftfor the parts of her which could still feel shame. “After I see him,” she said dully, “I’ll want to talk to you. I don’t have a phone yet. Where do you live?”
    Her acceptance restored his earlier manner; he became wry and solicitous again. He gave her directions to his house, repeated his offer of help, thanked her for her willingness to involve herself in Thomas Covenant’s affairs. When he left, she felt dimly astonished that he did not appear to resent the need which had forced him to display his futility in front of her.
    And yet the sound of his feet descending the