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 Eastwail was a young woman, perhaps twenty- eight, still living with her par ents 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.

"If 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."

"Sure" Sandy responded with an uncomplicated smile.

"I'll be glad to.

"Come, 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 Legosor 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 to warn her. But she no longer trusted his absence to mean that anyone was safe.

Alone in her bedroom, she asked herself for the first time whether she should flee.

She could do that, in spite of her responsibilities. The necessary arrangements would require nothing more than a few phone calls. She could pack and drive away in an hour or two; take Jeremiah out of harm's reach.

In fact, she could make her calls when she had driven far enough to avoid any conceivable peril.

Lord Foul was threatening her son.

Roger Covenant had no idea that Jeremiah existed.

Nevertheless it could not be an accident that Jeremiah had created images of Mount Thunder and Revelstone on the same day that Roger had demanded his mother's release.

And if Linden was wrong? If Roger proved to be as harmless as Barton Lytton claimed? Why, then she could simply bring Jeremiah home again, with no damage done.

Aching to protect her son, she gave serious consideration to the possibilities of flight.

But the prospect shamed her. And she had learned the necessity of courage from the most stringent teachers.

Love and beauty could not be preserved by panic or flight.

The ruin of Jeremiah's hand was in some sense her fault; and she did not believe that she could bear to see him hurt again. But he was not the only one who had been maimed that night. And Thomas Covenant himself had died for the same reason: because she had failed to intervene. When she had seen what was happening, she had been appalled by horror, stunned motionless. In dread she had simply watched while Covenant had smiled for Joan; while men and women and children had sacrificed their hands to the Despiser's malice; while the barriers between realities had been torn asunder by blood and pain.

Now she knew that that night's evil could have been prevented. When she had finally broken free of her dismay and charged forward, toward the bonfire, Lord Foul's hold on his victims had been disrupted. If she had acted sooner, that whole night's carnage might have been averted. Even the Land might have been spared If she fled now, no one would remain to stand between the Despiser and more victims.

She did not mean to be ruled by her fears again. Not ever. No matter how severely Roger Covenant provoked her.

Here, however, she faced a conundrum which she did not know how to untangle. To flee for Jeremiah's sake? Or to remain for her own, and for Joan's, and for the Land's? Trapped by indecision, she found herself sitting on her bed with her hands over her face and Thomas Covenant's name on her lips, listening as if she were helpless for sounds of danger from downstairs.

There were none. Occasionally the distant murmur of Sandy's voice reached her. At intervals a car drove down the street. Erratic gusts of wind tugging past the eaves of the house suggested a storm brewing. She heard nothing to justify her gathering appre hension.

Sighing, she told herself that in the morning she would make another attempt to enlist Lytton's aid. Or perhaps Megan could sway him. For tonight she would watch over Jeremiah with all her vigilance, and let no harm near him.

By now, he had probably finished with Mount Thunder and begun to separate the pieces of Revelstone. Nothing in his manner had suggested that Gravin Threndor and Lord's Keep held any significance for him. As far as she could tell, his life remained exactly as it had always been, despite the Land's strange intrusion into his lost mind.

This was how he had spent his time for years: he put things together and took them apart. Indeed, he seemed incapable of any relationship except with physical objects which could be connected to each other. No human being impinged on his attention. He did not react to his name. If he was not involved in making one of his constructs, he simply knelt with his feet angled outward beneath him and rocked himself soothingly with his arms across his stomach. He walked only if he were raised to his feet and led by the hand. Even animals found no focus in his muddy gaze.

Presented with Tinkertoys, however, with Legos, Lincoln Logs, or an Erector set, or any other form of nonmechanical object designed to be attached to or inserted into other nonmechanical objects, he became a wizard. The castle in the entryway, and the models of Revelstone and Mount Thunder in the living room, were only today's examples of his talent. By the hundreds, by the thousands, obsessively, he devised structures of such elegance and imagination that they often made Linden hold her breath in wonder-and of such size that they sometimes filled the available space.

Perhaps they would have expanded indefinitely if he had not run out of materials. And yet they always appeared complete when he did run out, as if somehow he had calculated exactly what could be done with the Legos or Tinkertoys at hand.

Often Linden sat with him while he built his edifices.

She had conceived a method of playing with him; of producing a personal reaction from his inattention toward her. She would take a piece-a block or connector-and place it somewhere in his construct. He would not look at her when she did so-but he would pause. If by his inarticulate standards she had placed the piece incorrectly, he would frown. Then he would rectify her mistake. But if by chance she had set the piece where it belonged, he would nod slightly before he continued.

Such indications assured her that he was aware of her.

TWO years ago, guided by a flash of intuition, Linden had spoken to Sam Diadem about Jeremiah. Sam ran a small assembly-line business that produced wooden playthings for children, primarily rocking horses, marionettes, and various wooden puz-I zles in strange shapes which interlocked to form balls, pyramids, and the like. At her urging, Sam had discovered that if he left Jeremiah alone with a supply of ready parts, Jeremiah would quietly and steadily produce finished toys. He would not paint or package them, and never played with them. But they were always perfectly assembled.

Now Jeremiah "worked" in Sam's shop two mornings a week. His "pay" Linden spent faithfully on K'NEX, or 3-D jigsaw puzzles of palaces, or more Legos and Tinkertoys.

Some of the psychologists whom Linden had consulted called Jeremiah's condition a "dissociative disorder."

Others spoke of "hysterical conversion reactions" and "somatoform disorders." His symptoms resembled autism-specifically, he appeared to be an autistic savant-yet he could not be autistic. Autism was congenital, and beyond question Jeremiah's condition had been induced by trauma. His natural mother had described him as "a normal boy" before the bonfire-whatever those words might mean in her deranged lexicon. Certainly none of the known therapies for autism had produced any change in him.

Memories of that trauma still woke Linden at night, sweating, with cries which she had failed to utter locked in her throat.

His natural mother was a woman named Marsha Jason. She had had three children, all adopted now by other parents-Hosea, Rebecca, and her youngest, Jeremiah, prophet of woe. She had chosen that name, apparently, because her husband had abandoned her during her last pregnancy.

For the first few years of Jeremiah's life, Marsha Jason had subsisted at the mercy of various welfare agencies. In one form or another, she had kept herself and her children alive through the charity of strangers. And then, when her self-pity and ineffectiveness had reached unendurable proportions, she had discovered the Community of Retribution.

From that point onward, as she proclaimed afterward, she had had no control over anything that happened.

She must have been brainwashed or drugged. She was a good mother: without brainwashing or drugs, she would never have sacrificed her dear children to the Community's mad crusade against Thomas Covenant.

Had she not been victimized of her own right hand at the same time? Surely she did not deserve to have her sons and daughter taken from her; placed in foster care?

Yet she had not been able to deny that in the last weeks before Covenant's murdersoon after Joan Covenant's departure-she and her children, along with perhaps thirty other members of the Community of Retribution, had left the commune and made their way toward Haven Farm, supporting themselves by beggary when they could not gain donations by preaching. Entranced, perhaps, by some form of mass hysteria, they had snatched Joan from her ex-husband; had slaughtered a cow so that they could splash his home with blood. Then they had taken her into the woods be hind Haven Farm and built a bonfire. When Covenant had at last appeared to redeem Joan, Mrs. Jason and her children had been the first to hold their right hands in the blaze, Hosea after his mother, then Rebecca, and then five-year-old Jeremiah.

With years to study the question, Linden still could not explain how ordinary adults, much less their uncomprehending children, had been impelled to endure the pain long enough to burn the flesh from their bones. But the fact remained that Marsha Jason, Hosea, and Rebecca had done so. Jeremiah had been damaged almost as badly. And after them, more worshippers had followed.

And in the bonfire, Lord Foul had emerged to claim Covenant's life.

Linden still too easily remembered the Despiser's eyes as they had appeared in the bonfire, carious as fangs.

She would never forget his figure forming in the deep heat of the blaze. Alive with fire and offered pain, he had stopped her life in her veins. And she had remained paralyzed while the leader of his worshippers had set a knife to Joan's throat, intending to sacrifice her if Covenant did not surrender himself.

Then Covenant had retrieved Joan from her doom; and Linden had at last broken free of her immobility.

She had rushed toward the bonfire, striving frantically to block the knife from his chest. But the worshipper with the knife had struck her senseless; and as she lost consciousness she had seen the blade pound into Covenant's heart.

A few hours or a lifetime later, in the dawn of a new day, Dr. Berenford found her where she lay beside Covenant's corpse. Mrs. Jason had rousted him from his home, seeking treatment for herself and her children. He and Sheriff Lytton had discovered Joan asleep in her bed in Covenant's house, all memory of the night's events apparently gone. While Lytton had taken Joan to County Hospital, Julius had searched the woods behind Haven Farm until he located Linden and Covenant.

Thus he had spared her any accusation that she had played some role in Covenant's death. Legally, of course, she had not. Morally, she knew better.

She had suffered acutely during the long months of that one night. Nevertheless she had gone into surgery as soon as Julius had driven her back into town.

Together, they had spent interminable hours fighting to save as many flame-savaged hands as they could.

For Hosea and Rebecca, Linden had been able to do little except amputate. With Jeremiah, however, she had met somewhat more success. Through simple stubbornness as much as by skill, she had found a way to save half of his thumb and two of his fingers: the last two.

They remained shorter than they should have been.

Yet they were strong now: he could use them. To that extent, at least, she could forgive herself for what had happened to him.

At the time, she had given no thought to other forms of restitution. The particular sense of responsibility which she had learned from Covenant and the Land had asserted itself slowly. After the initial crisis, she had occupied herself for months adjusting to her new life: to the county itself; and to her work at County Hospital. And then Julius had involved her in the complex efforts that had eventually led to the construction of Berenford Memorial Psychiatric Hospital, and to her appointment as its chief medical officer.

Nearly two years passed before she recognized the residual ache in her heart for what it was: not grief over Covenant's death, although that pang never lost its poignancy, but rather a hollow place left by the Land. Her parents had dedicated her to death, but she had transcended their legacy. Now she realized that her new convictions and passions required more of her. Her work with her patients suited her abilities; but it did not satisfy the woman who had sojourned with Giants, contended with Ravers, and opposed the Sunbane at Thomas Covenant's side.

She wanted to heal as well some of the harm which Lord Foul had done in her present world. And she needed someone to love.

She had heard Pitchwife sing: My heart has rooms that sigh with dust And ashes in the hearth.

They must be cleaned and blown away By daylight's breath.

She could not allow the hollow place within her to remain unfilled.

Her own damaged childhood had taught her an intense empathy for children forced to pay the price of their parents' folly; and before long she remembered Jeremiah Jason. She had already done him a little good. Perhaps she could do more.

When at last she tracked him down and arranged to meet him, she recognized immediately the missing piece of her heart, the part which might make her whole. His little face spoke to her as clearly as a wail.

She knew what it was like to be a conscious prisoner inside her own skull, defeated by power and malice.

The Clave and Ravers had victimized her in that way.

Indirectly the Elohim had done the same. The thought that Jeremiah might be in a comparable state, knowing and alone within his mental cell, wrung her utterly.

In the Land, she had been called "the Chosen." Now she did the choosingDoggedly, with Megan Roman's help, she pursued Jeremiah through the legal and bureaucratic snarls of the county's floundering foster care until he was made her son.

At first, the task she had assigned to herself was arduous and costly, in spite of Sandy Eastwall's assistance. The closure of Jeremiah's mind rebuffed any penetrationHe was lost, and her love could not find him. If he had so much as wept, she would have celebrated for him, rejoiced in that victory over an intimate ruin. But he did not weep. Nothing breached the hard stone wall of his plight. His only response to every situation was an unresisting absence of cooperation. He did not stand, could not walk. Voiceless and alone, he could not engage in a child's necessary play; and so she had no lever with which to spring him from his prison.

And then one day-The memory still brought tears of joy to her eyes. One day in his pediatrician's office, surrounded by toys enjoyed by other children, he had suddenly reached out uninvited to place one bright wooden block upon another. When he was satisfied with what he had done, he had positioned another block; and then another.

Within an hour, hardly able to contain her excitement, Linden had bought him a mountain of blocks. And when she had seen him use them to build an impromptu Greek temple, she had rushed back to the store to purchase Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys.

There his life had changed; and hers with it. In a few short weeks, he had learnedor relearned-to stand so that he could reach higher, build higher. And mere months later he had regained his ability to walk, seeking to move around his constructs and position pieces more readily.

His newly discovered gift transformed him in Linden's sight. With every construct, he built hope for the future. A child who could play might someday be set free. And his strange talent seemed to have limitless possibilities. Connecting one Lincoln Log or Tinkertoy to the next, he might at last devise a door to his prison and step out into her arms.

She would not, she swore to herself now, would not sacrifice that hope, or him, for any purpose. Roger Covenant had to be stopped. But if she were forced to a choice between Jeremiah and Lord Foul's other victims, she would stand by her son.

Thomas Covenant had believed that the Land could not be damned by such decisions.

Linden was still afraid, but her indecision had passed.

Deliberately she readied herself to go back downstairs.

On the way, she heard Sandy call, "Linden? We're done with the Legos. Is there anything else you need before I leave?"

In the living room, Linden greeted Sandy with a smile; tousled Jeremiah's hair where he knelt, rocking, beside a tall stack of Lego boxes. "No, thanks. You've done done enough already." To Jeremiah, she added, "Thanks for putting your Legos away. You've a good job. I'm proud of you"

If her reaction gave him any pleasure, he did not reveal it.

When Sandy had gathered up her knitting, Linden walked her to the door. "I can't thank you enough," she told the other woman sincerely. "I can't explain what came over me today, but it shook me up. I really appreciate everything you've done."

Sandy dismissed the subject with a comfortable shrug.

"He's my sweetie.' Over her shoulder, she asked, "Aren't you, Jeremiah?" Then she finished to Linden, "I'll see both of you tomorrow, if you don't need me tonight."

Refraining from more unnecessary thanks, Linden ushered her outside and said good night.

For a moment after Sandy left, however, Linden did not return to Jeremiah. Instead she leaned against the door and considered the castle which had transformed her entryway. It seemed to contradict her fears, as though it had the power to guard the sanctuary that she had made for her son.

elieved for the first time since she had met Roger Covenant, she heated a casserole and fed Jeremiah while she ate. At intervals she paused to talk about anything she could think of- horses, Sam Diadem's toys, places of wonder in the Land-hoping that the sound of her voice would also feed him, in its own way. When he stopped opening his mouth for the spoon, she took him upstairs to bathe him. Afterward she dressed him for bed in his-actually her-favorite pajamas, the sky-blue flannel shirt and pants with mustangs ramping across the chest.

In his bedroom, she took a moment, as she often did, to marvel at how he had decorated it.

One day two or three years ago, she had purchased a set of flywheel-driven model racing cars that featured tracks which could be snapped together into structures as elaborate as roller coasters, complete with loop-the- loops and barrel rolls. She had been drawn to the set because it included materials like plastic Tinkertoys for building towers and pylons to support the tracks.

And because Jeremiah appeared to prefer large projects, she had bought every set in the store, four or five of them.

He had shown no interest in the cars. In fact, he had disappointed her by showing no interest in the tracks, either. He had not so much as touched the boxes, or turned his eyes toward them.

Maybe he needed time, she had told herself. Maybe his occult, hidden decisions required contemplation.

Reluctant to surrender her hopes, she had carried one of the boxes up to his bedroom and left it there for him to consider.

That night he had gone to bed still oblivious to the box.