The intensity of his speech—and his pain—flooded Damien’s mind; it was hard to focus on mere words in the face of such a deluge. But slowly understanding came, and with it the power to voice it. In a voice that resonated with awe, and not a little fear, he whispered, “You looked upon the face of God.”
For a moment the Hunter just stared at him. The hollowed eyes were haunted, and it seemed that he trembled slightly.
“No,” he whispered. “I saw . . . No.”
He turned away again, and leaned his weight against the weathered bark by his side. His eyes fell shut, and slowly—painfully, it seemed—he drew in a slow breath. “Without doubt we have created something,” he whispered. “The faith of millions has finally reached that critical point where it’s capable of manifesting something greater than itself. Perhaps there was a God here to start with; perhaps the will of man created Him. Does it matter how it happened? Something is now active in our world that wasn’t before. You felt it. You saw it. A power so vast that the human imagination can hardly encompass it. A power capable of remaking this world . . .” He drew in a ragged breath; Damien thought he saw his shoulders tremble.
“Shall I tell you what I learned tonight?” the Hunter whispered. “There is indeed a God of Erna. And because of what I am—because of the bargain that I struck so many years ago—I can’t even look upon His Face. This is the fruit of my labors, Reverend Vryce. That I can never gaze upon the result of all my labor. I sold my soul for knowledge of the future, only to have that very pact render me forever ignorant.”
He leaned heavily against the bark of the tree, as if in pain. Silence gathered about him like a cloak, like armor. For a long while Damien dared not compromise it, but at last he said, very softly, “You know as well as I do that pact doesn’t have to be permanent.”
The Hunter turned to him, slowly. Strands of pale hair were fanned across his forehead like a spider’s web. Incredulously he asked, “Are you trying to sell me on repentance? Now?”
“You know that it’s never too late,” Damien said gently. His heart was pounding like a timpani, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Your own writings proclaimed that.”
For a moment Gerald Tarrant just stared at him. The look in his eyes said clearly that he thought Damien was mad, or worse. Then he blinked, and asked hoarsely, “You really believe that?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you realize what repentance would mean for me? Do you understand the price?”
“I know it means going against the habit of nearly a thousand years. But even so—”
“It means death, Reverend Vryce, plain and simple! My body is nine hundred years older than it has any right to be; what do you think will happen to it when the pact that sustains me is broken? Return magically to the condition of its youth, so that I can pick up where I left off? I doubt it, priest. I doubt it very much.”
“Would death be so terrifying if Hell were out of the picture?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t out of the picture, priest. It never will be.”
“Read your own writings,” Damien reminded him. “The nature of the One God is Mercy, and His Word is forgiveness. The man or woman who truly repents-”
“Do you know what repentance means, for me? Do you really understand it?” There was anger in his voice now, but it had a desperate edge. “Repentance means standing before God and saying, I’m sorry. For everything. All the sins I ever committed, I wish they could be undone. I wish I could to go back to that time and do it all over again, so that Death could take me in my proper hour. I wish I could have died at twenty-nine, without ever seeing the future. I wish I could have died before my dream took hold, before mankind had time to interpret my works. I wish I could have died in ignorance of what this world would become, severed from the world of the living before I could begin to untangle the mysteries that surrounded me. I can’t do it, Vryce. Not honestly. I could say the words, but I could never mean them. And my last dying thought would be of all that I had yet to see, which God’s forgiveness had cost me.” He laughed shortly, bitterly. “Do you really think that would work? Do you really think such an attitude would save me?”
Now it was he who shut his eyes. He could hear the pain in his own voice as he spoke. “You’re trapped by your own intelligence, you know. A simpler man would have found his way back to God long ago.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he whispered. “Don’t you think that knowledge is part and parcel of my damnation?”
He lowered his head, aching to say something that would help, that would heal. But if a man of the Hunter’s intellect could see no way out of this terrible trap, what manner of salvation could Damien offer? At last he muttered, inadequately, “I wish there was something I could do to change things for you.”
“No one can,” he whispered. “But I knew the risk, you see. I knew when I made my bargain that there would be no backing out. I understood it then and I understand it now. It’s just . . . this whole thing took me by surprise. That’s all. After nine hundred years, living beyond the reach of the Church . . . I wasn’t ready. For this.” After a moment he added, “I suppose you were.”
“No one is ever prepared to meet God,” Damien said quietly. “We may think we are, but that’s only because we don’t understand Him.”
Eyes shut, the Hunter nodded. “The girl is safe from me, you realize. I don’t dare Work her again. If even some tiny portion of that Power remained within her, even a faded vision of it—”
“Do you really think you can avoid death forever?” Damien asked softly.
A strange expression flickered across the Hunter’s face. Almost a smile. Almost a tremor.
“I’m sure as hell going to try,” he assured him.
When Damien returned to the campsite Jenseny was asleep, curled up tightly in Hesseth’s arms. For a long time he just watched her, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, feeling the warmth that rose from their close-knit bodies. Hesseth stroked the long black hair gently, separating its knotted strands with her claws. The girl’s face was streaked with tears, but for now it seemed peaceful. At last he whispered, “Is she all right?”
“She will be, I think. What about Tarrant?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I hope so.” And because he offered nothing more, Hesseth didn’t press him for an explanation.
How well we’ve come to know one another, he thought. Aliens to each other in every sense of the word, and yet we’ve discovered a common etiquette.
If only our peoples could have done the same, so much death might have been avoided. He settled himself down on the opposite side of the fire, and felt exhaustion settle over him like a shroud. Too much for one night, he thought. Too much for any night.
God, show me how to help Gerald Tarrant. Teach me how to reclaim his soul without destroying his humanity in the process. Show me the path through his madness . . .
When sleep began to dull his senses, he made no attempt to resist it. Because sleep was forgetfulness and sleep was peace, and that was what he needed more than anything else right now.
In the stillness of the forest clearing, Gerald Tarrant waited. The first of morning’s sunlight had filtered down through the omnipresent mist, turning the air a filmy gray. It warmed his skin, but not so painfully that he had to leave to find shelter. Not yet.