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