The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

resemblance between them.
    She had witnessed his growth since he was five, and had cared for him in every possible way since he was nearly seven, studying each increment of change over the years. She had brushed his teeth and washed his body, wiped his nose, bought him clothes, dressed and undressed him. She had seen him take on size and bulk until he was nearly as tall as she was, and weighed slightly more. She had watched his features shift from the starved and haunted shapelessness of the unregarded five-year-old who had placed his right hand in the bonfire at Lord Foul’s command to the lean definition of a teenager. His eyes had the muddy color of erosion runoff. His first few whiskers marked his passive cheeks. Saliva moistened his open mouth. In spite of his blankness, he had the face of a boy on the verge of manhood, waiting for sentience to give it meaning.
    When Linden had satisfied herself that the eerie impulse that had inspired him to construct images of Mount Thunder and Revelstone had not caused him any discernible distress, she rose to her feet and turned to Sandy.
    Sandy Eastwall was a young woman, perhaps twenty-eight, still living with herparents and apparently content to do so. After high school she had trained as a practical nurse; but she had taken care of Jeremiah for seven years now, and exhibited no ambition to do anything else. Responsibility for one charge instead of many, and always the same charge, seemed to suit her emotional instincts and warm heart, as well as her natural complacence. Although she dated Sam Diadem’s son, she showed no particular impulse to get married. As far as Linden could tell, Sandy was comfortably prepared to tend Jeremiah for the rest of her life.
    That unlikely attitude was high on Linden’s list of reasons for gratitude.
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” she asked, answering Sandy’s offer to help, “can you stay long enough to get his Legos put away? I have something I need to do.” Then she added, “You can leave the Tinkertoys. I like that castle. And it’s not in the way.”
    â€œSure.” Sandy responded with an uncomplicated smile. “I’ll be glad to.
    â€œCome, Jeremiah,” she said to the kneeling boy. “It’s time to put your Legos away. Let’s get started.”
    Crouching to the floor, she took one of the many cartons clustered at the side of the room and set it near Mount Thunder’s ankles. Then she detached a piece from the construct and placed it in the carton.
    That was all she had to do to trigger Jeremiah’s hidden awareness. At once, he left his knees and moved to squat beside the carton. With the same unhesitating meticulousness with which he built his constructs, he began to disassemble Mount Thunder, arranging the Legos in compact rows in their carton as he removed them.
    Linden had spent many hours watching him do such things. He never moved quickly, never appeared to feel any hurry or tension—and never paused for thought or doubt. She herself might have needed two or three hours to put away so many Legos—or to put them away with such precision—but he moved so efficiently, using his maimed hand as deftly as the whole one, that his Mount Thunder appeared to melt away before her eyes. He would probably be done in forty-five minutes.
    Because she needed to speak to him, hear his name in her mouth, she said, “Thank you, Jeremiah. You’re very good with Legos. I like everything you make with them. And I like the way you put them away when it’s time.”
    Then abruptly she turned and left the room so that Sandy would not see the sudden tears in her eyes, or notice the lump of love and fear in her throat.
    While Jeremiah took Mount Thunder apart, and Sandy resumed her knitting, Linden went upstairs to master her alarm.
    He’s threatening my son.
    She had tried to believe that there would be no danger unless the old man in the ochre robe appeared