I will post this analysis in two parts in order to get started within the schedule. The text turned out to be another basketful of onions sitting in the center of a labyrinth; so many layers and approaches to consider. Feel free to begin discussions before completion, though.
Part I
An odd soup of humor, bog bogies, and horror worth gaping at the pages with one’s jaw hanging slack, this chapter encases more action than the previous ones, and at least the latter portion marks the beginning of more compact writing in the Last Chronicles. No more Giantish kicks that require several paragraphs to connect with Esmer’s face. Or, perchance our Timelord Dr. Whovenant restored the proper pace, now that his mind does not float around in fragments any longer. The swelling word list I will annex to the end of the second part proves that, despite a slight respite from the typical sesquipedalianism at the beginning, SRD never abandoned his daily meals consisting of fried dictionaries topped with some delicious thesaurus garnish.
A tiny remark about the two haru-steeds introduced in the previous chapter: I may be fishing for glaring red herrings here, but Rallyn and Hooryl sound somewhat like “rally” and “hurry”, just as one pronounces Mahrtiir akin to “martyr” (the ultimate meaning of which will unfold in an upcoming plotline) or skurj as “scourge”. The word rally bears a few different meanings, one of which stands for “the feat of mustering strength for a renewed effort”. Both fit the urgent atmosphere of the quest to drag the Earth back from the brink of destruction. The names of the pensionate equines Mhornym and Naybahn resemble (at least on some level) ‘mourning’ and...oh no, I have depleted my powers of fruitful guessing! Any thoughts on this?
Withal, on to the tale…
Our anti-hero awakens to the sensation of jouncing to and fro like a sack of potatoes upon a bumpy-riding cart. He sprawls astride the Ex-Ardent’s moth-eaten dobbin--flanked by galloping Ranyhyn and the Humbled--and “aches like groans” emanate from every inch of his body: the pain of healing too quick for a mortal to handle. He opines that he would have preferred the fate of a gender-bender Sleeping Beauty and dozed off for a century. Perhaps Linden could have awoken him with a sweet kiss instants ere the crumbling of the Arch of Time? By increments, he attempts to gather his bearings through the miasma of fatigue and preternatural gloom. What in the seven hells has happened? How had the Haruchai resolved the ak-Haru’s rebuke and towards what mysterious destination were they heading?
Then, chills wriggle down his spine as he recalls his promise to aid the Lurker against the possession of turya Raver. What a foreboding undertaking! A barely healed leper facing the possibility that two of the Land’s most atrocious, ancient evils right after Lord Foul himself might have merged...
Then, something strikes him as unnatural:
Thus, the claws of consternation clutch at Covenant, until Clyme states that Kevin’s dirt ought to be blamed for his declension.Briefly Covenant fought the blur that marred his vision. It seemed worse than it should have been. He could still see stars overhead, but his companion’s features were a twilit smear. [. . .] Hell and blood. Brinn had healed him, and leprosy did not progress so swiftly. Stung by an intuitive apprehension, he pulled his awkward arms under him, [. . .] clutched at the saddle horn to keep his balance. He could not feel the horn at all, except with the nerves of his elbows and shoulders. His hands were numb. [. . .]
Around him, the aegis of the gloaming was complete. It ruled everything. It was leaking into his head; into his mind. Only the stars as they died were vivid to him.
(Something here might merit a peek into Norse legends again... The entire “Kevin’s Dirt” phenomenon reminds me of how Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, poisons the heavens during the Twilight of the Gods. The sense-numbing curse of the Land stems from Kastenessen, who feels like a fusion of Surtr and Jörmungandr, just as Wormy immixes the attributes of the latter and Níðhöggr the dragon manducating on the World Tree’s roots. Jörmungandr as a word consists of two different terms bound together: jörmun = huge, gandr = projected magical power, magic staff/wand. Gand(r), apart from gand-reið and other derivations, was a type of witchcraft practiced by the Saami noidat, dreaded for its ability to send illness and harm across vast distances upon the winds. Whether SRD is aware of such etymologies at all or has inserted here something on purpose is unknown, but it fits nonetheless.
Then, who or what is Surtr? He is an eldjötunn, a Fire Giant (as opposed to the hrímþursar, the Rime/Frost Giants, the counterparts of whom the reader has already accompanied ever since Fatal Revenant...) and one of the major opponents of the gods in Ragnarökkr. Kastenessen has merged with the Landish laval direworms, thus becoming the embodiment of this very element. Perhaps more about him in the dissection of Chapter 9.)
Gradually, Covenant spots further ill-boding alterations around him:
andClyme sounded angry. No, it was more than that. He sounded like a man who had given up on pretending that he was not angry.
Have we ever seen the impassive Haruchai in such a state? Something beyond ominous has begun to seethe beneath the surface thanks to the ak-Haru’s previous accusations. Covenant remains unsure about their resolutions and if they have decided to act against Brinn’s advice--then, he discovers that the ragtag troupe travels towards the Lurker’s demesne, even if via an aliantha-providing detour. So far, so good. However, his unease surfaces anew as he prompts the company to stop, and the myrmidons obey without a squawk. Alas, tempus fugit, tempus fugit!Branl’s visage wore a frown like a knot between his brows. It looked permanent, as if it had always been there; as if it had merely been masked by a learned and unnatural impassivity.
The leper attempts to kick some life and sensation back into his enfeebled bone-house of aches by stomping around, and fumbles for a gentle approach to the Haruchai’s heartsore by first asking about Brinn’s promised boon. He must find out what ails the Masters; how else could he dream of challenging the horde of puissant beasts and the apocalypse to come? United they might survive at least a few more fleeting moments, divided none. The response yet shoves the atmosphere further into the sepulchral glumness of the last dark.
Ah, poor Brinn, vanished as a wisp of smoke in the air after millennia of service…one more hero lost in the twilight of the gods.“He did not [tell about the boon],” Clyme repeated, rigid as metal. “He refused our mental communion, as only Stave has done heretofore. [. . .] We deem he did not speak again because he had come to the end of himself. He could do no more.”
Then, Covenant drops the full bomb.
What does it signify that they cannot be other than themselves? Stiff, humorless perfectionists to whom failure can only be synonymized with a death sentence? A black-and-white outlook where the concepts of good and evil tower as sharp-edged absolutes allowing no middle ground?“Then tell me what’s changed for you.” He strained his eyes to study the faces of the Humbled. “Was being criticized by your ak-Haru that bad?”
Both men stiffened. Their anger made them vivid in the gloom. Branl’s glower looked fierce enough to split his skull. Clyme knocked the knuckles of his fists together as if he were stifling an impulse to hit someone.
[. . .] “His words were hurtful to no purpose. He did not reproach what we have done [. . .] but that we are who we are. Is the wind to be faulted because it blows? Are the stones to be accused because they are not trees? We are Haruchai. We cannot be other than ourselves.”
Passions begin to flare up akin to wildfires, and the reader may feel steam issuing from their ears as well at the audacity of the Humbled. Clyme accuses the ak-Haru of granting false counsel to Covenant, who downright sputters with indignation. The Haruchai deem that both the Land’s peril and the character of the Masters have been misesteemed, and that the Lurker represents naught but flippant hunger for power, incapable of pursuing pacts and promises. Now, the theme of how good cannot be achieved by evil means rises its Hydra-ish head in a proper fashion:
Since the glorified hentai monster oozed forth from, kindly put, Lord Foul’s rectum, it and other eldritch abominations of such ilk should be left to perish even if they would shew redeeming qualities? A sin once committed can never be forgiven? A creature “born of sin”, per se, can never achieve anything but more vileness? Indeed, the reader has acquired that the Haruchai will and cannot forgive, yet the sheer mental blindness ceases not to astonish. What about their idol Coven-- Ah, but the pitiful ludicrousness of their beliefs shall be revealed in a trice.“The Lurker’s plight is of no consequence. That monstrous wight is an avatar of corruption.”
Afore this, they judge that, together with the aid of Linden’s army, Kastenessen ought to be defeated instead. They do not consider the Raver/Swamp Thing combo salient enough a threat next to the deranged Elohim’s dirt-clouds and so forth. In Covenant’s blurry eyes, both enemies seem quite as undefeatable and unapproachable. Then, he realizes that after attempting to make him sunder his vows to the Ranyhyn, the Haruchai yet again persuade him to veer from the route of righteousness: the alliance with the Lurker ought to be abandoned. A whim of a moment. Not binding in spite of the Feroce mass-sacrificing themselves in order to make stone remember its yoreday strength. This, if anything, shakes him to the core.
Then…a dramatic effect...“That doesn’t sound like you. It doesn’t sound like any Haruchai I’ve ever met.” [Covenant] had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting. “What’s happened to you?”
Dark as incarnations of wrath, Clyme and Branl glared at Covenant. For a long moment, they did not reply…
Covenant kens not whether to laugh or cry, and the reader feels the same. The Haruchai worship Thomas Covenant. The leper deliverer, who in the heyday of the Land nigh-on personified corruption ere his own “humbling”, a man the shadow-soul of whom Lord Foul himself reflects...ah, those poor bastards with their beliefs so twisted a thousand corkscrews stuck together would appear straightforward in comparison. Indeed, that they apotheosize someone so glaringly against their basic principles boggles the mind. If they wished to embody the crotchety outworlder or this ideal of saving the Land from depravity, they would have to embrace their own flaws and become true servants to the Land, not mini-Hitlers that choke every initiative and opinion. Love, encourage, and tolerate. Reading between the lines, one can assimilate many of the Masters’ actions with some of the behavior of the christian church, whose campaigns from crusades to inquisition defecate on the teachings of a certain Nazarene.Suddenly, Branl snatched the bundle of Loric’s krill from inside his tunic. As the gem’s argence blazed out, he stabbed the dagger into the grass. In the krill’s radiance, both Branl and Clyme looked hieratic, chthonic, as if they had already taken their place among the dead. The reflections in their eyes gave them the authority of spirits unconstrained by the boundaries of life and time.
“Ur-Lord,” Clyme announced, “we are the Humbled in all sooth, the Humbled triumphant and maimed. Have you forgotten so much that you do not recognize the men who we have chosen to become?” His ire sounded more and more like lamentation. It sounded like fear. “Do you not recall that it is our task to embody you among our people? You are the purpose and substance of our lives.”
“If you do not return to Linden Avery, you will perish. Without the balm of the Staff, your end is certain.”
Spoiler
Something strikes as interesting in the whole idea of Covenantism. If one follows the footsteps of the fan-school that regards the Land as something fed and maintained by the sub-awarenesses of the outworlders, one might now turn their schnozzles towards Linden. The memory of the bygone Thomas did bestow a new meaning upon her life, and did she not rush to resurrect him on the first possible opportunity? Half the time it appears that he dwelt within her heart as a demiurge of some ilk...an attribute that leaked into this other dimension somehow? Or casting nets for shoals of red herrings here?
Whatever the case, this establishes Covenant’s role as a Landish god, deified millennia after his first role as Berek Halfhand reborn. Which prods awake the question that does such belief grant him powers, just as ruminating on despite increased Foul’s thaumaturgies, allowing him to reach into the “real world”?
In the meanwhile, the beatified bloke himself feels something close to pity towards these priests of Covenantism. He cannot approve of such an honor, and has he not always depended on the magic of friendship besides? How would he ever have accomplished aught sans the Giants or other gallant Land-folk? The Haruchai ought to venerate true heroes such as Foamfollower or Mhoram instead, and find the seeds of transcendence within themselves. He proceeds to explain that the valor of the Haruchai once served as his own standard, and that the treasured Land should not become the supper of skurj and cosmic serpents due to his illness or even his passing. Further, he elaborates that Hansen’s disease will not transform him into a rotting heap of loose body parts during the following two seconds, and yet due to its inherent putridness, a Raver would not diabolize him.
Guh, imagine burrowing into the fetid gravepit of Lord Foul’s thoughts, dripping with mental pus and reeking of necrosis...yuck. However, Covenant has accepted that Foul portrays some essential aspect of him, and no more cringes from voicing this aloud, now endeavoring to convince the worshippers that he does not radiate the elysian excellence of their avatar.“They [the Ravers] are afraid of what it might be like to possess a body and a mind as sick as mine. [. . .] Maybe being me would be too much like being the Despiser, trapped and helpless and full of despair even though he’s too powerful and too damn eternal to be killed. Possessing other people, or other monsters, they can at least feel and hate and destroy. With me, they might not be able to do any of those things.”
At this deluge of reasoning, something passes between the Haruchai. Oh, poor Covenant, if you only knew the truth...
Then, more puzzling behavior. Without ever having renounced their denial of Brinn’s guidance, they inquire about the feasibility of this chivalric save-a-tursas-in-distress effort. The Unbeliever, for his part, cannot reply yet. More oh-so-precious seconds dissolve into nothingness as he must devise a means to reach Sarangrave and regain some strength…“He was vaguely surprised to see Clyme and Branl blink in unison as if they were closing the shutters of their minds against illumination. But the moment was brief; no more than a flicker.”
* * *
During the next break, Covenant tramps around some more and mulls over how Linden managed to emerge unscratched from the crumbling of Kevin’s Watch. Something there nibbles at the corners of his inspiration, something about the quality of time itself...
How? Dr. Avery utilized her 1337 Timelady skillz and soared through the eternities with a TARDIS--no, wait, wrong fantasyverse again. So confusing!“I saw what happened. She slipped outside time. And she took Anele with her. Somehow she bypassed cause and effect and even ordinary gravity so that she and Anele came down on top of the rubble instead of under it. [. . .] But how?”
White gold, wild magic, the keystone to the Arch of Time...hunches knit together into larger conceptions in the leper’s thoughts. Instead of shattering seconds, Linden slunk into some unsung domain beyond event and effect. Then again, the Insequent could worm their ways between realities sans ringy theurgies, as well as the Roger/croyel cabal. How in Taara’s name does time function in this world? The author does not elaborate on it much, but the reader may soon sniff the odor of some clues.
Then, some pleasures to sate the hungry arrive.
It is not very polite from the author to call Clyme’s pride “berries”, but at least this answers the ancient conundrum about Haruchai endowedness. A feast, indeed? The ringwielder satisfies his needs, spills some seed, and...that is, he consumes aliantha and performs the typical post-snack seed scattering ceremony. Then, he uncovers his mini-sword anew, and…come on now, SRD, enough with the innuendo. Anyhow, however would he be able to slice time with white gold and his trusty catalyst? He does not bubble with health-sense akin to Linden, and must therefore rely on his brainpower.Clyme slid down from Hooryl’s back. Lifting the hem of his tunic, he showed Covenant that he carried a feast of treasure-berries.
In an impulse of abrupt inspiration, he herds the Haruchai and the horses together, and unleashes wild magic. He dithers and doubts, aye, weak and yet boiling with eldritch powers; with one flick of his finger, he might save or damn the Earth...but options have become scarce, and he must act undepending on the costs. For an instant, Covenant blazes with argence akin to a bonfire, yet channels the sorcery into the krill. A peculiar idea fills his mind…“I don’t understand how the Harrow and the Ardent did what they did. But Roger and the croyel are another matter. They raised their arms to make an arch over her head. A portal. But I can’t stand in two places at once. [. . .] How about an enclosure?”
He plunges his dagger into Mother Earth and ecstasy spreads across the grass? Right. However, Covenant aims for something else than a recreation of an archaic fertility ritual with beauteous light effects:He stooped to touch the grass with the point of Loric’s weapon. He let the blade’s weight sink in as deeply as it wished, but he made no effort to drive the krill deeper. Then he watched as the rough turf became lambent as if it had been touched with ecstasy.
Now what? Sketching wonky Olympic rings to goad them on on the upcoming marathon against a Raver? Nope, something far fancier. A careful reader may have observed that in this demesne, just as staves and certain swords, circles and rings are associated with enigmatic forces. Kasreyn of the Gyre based his mumbo jumbo on such geometries, the Arch of Time is a curve with the two white gold rings sitting as its symbolic keystones on either end... This selection of power tools utilizes some very primordial masculinity and femininity symbols (oblong/round), met in almost all civilizations across the world. Hence one must wonder if the origins of the Land’s existence lie somewhere in Covenant and Joan’s first consummation of love?He feared to see that the krill’s touch had killed the grass, left it scorched and withered. But somehow he had invoked a form of power which was not destructive. Instead of dying, the turf continued to shine where he had cut through it. Crouched and stumbling, he began to drag the dagger in a line through the grass. [. . .] Then he went on, pulling Loric’s dagger through the grass; inscribing his crude and hopeful mockery of a circle.
As to the worst of these analogies…
Spoiler
The thrill condenses! What befalls now? Will the company survive the leap into these benighted beyond-spheres?Just for an instant, the Unbeliever became a conflagration again, a being of fire and theurgy. Then the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima surged forward--and the world vanished as though it had been erased from existence.
Part II here