Pity Him Afterwards

Danger emanated from the house. It was so broad, so squat. A wide garage stood near it, and then a boathouse built out over the lake. All the structures emanated waves of danger. The madman roamed back and forth, back and forth, all around the house. If he’d met anyone at all on the grounds, he would have killed again, but instinctively he kept outside the house.

The feeling of danger, the meaninglessness of the prowling, the inaction now after the violent action of before, all combined to weaken the creature that was now in control of the madman, to weaken him and make him uneasy. Slowly, reluctantly, he relinquished control, but not as completely as before. He wouldn’t be tucked so far away any more, now that he too had had a taste of freedom.

Self-awareness returned to the madman slowly, and vaguely. He was befuddled, unable to think clearly. His memory of the last half-hour was almost nonexistent, but he did know that he was covered with blood. Only this one fact was really clear in his mind.

He felt lost, and small, and alone. He stood on the shore, the lake stretching black and flat out ahead of him, the lawns sloping gently upward behind him, the sprawling house and its outbuildings dark humps to his left. He was tiny, he was too small to measure. Naked and exposed here, with the black unbroken flatness of lake and lawn all around him, he felt like an insect, so infinitesimal and fragile that he could break his own bones apart by a careless quick intake of breath. He could turn now and run, running wildly, stretching his stubby legs out ahead, flailing his little arms, and run in a dead straight line across the rolling surface of the earth until he died, and the little distance he would cover would be too small to be recorded by the finest and most delicate measuring instruments.

He looked up. Above him, there was nothing. And nothing, and nothing, receding away like a hopeless shout, and dying out in upper emptiness. And far beyond that, so many millions of times his own scrubby height that the number could not be written, were the cold stars, little white lights of pain at the very top of the sky.

He sank to the ground. He was at the very edge, between lawn and lake, where the ground was wet and cold. His fingers scratched meaninglessly at the ground. Tears dribbled down his face, streaking the ribbons of blood on his cheeks. The bleakest of despair washed over him, like fog. His thoughts were vague and troubled, uneasy with black and red movements, half-caught images, uneasy sensations, unclear suggestions. His head rolled back and forth, and tears stained with blood trickled down onto the ground. Regrets and longings filled his troubled brain.

He could no longer believe in his own cleverness and strength and power. He could no longer believe in the inevitability of his success, the permanence of his freedom.

Out of the confusion and the despair there gradually grew a new kind of strength. He would continue, he would live on, but not because he was any longer sure of his eventual triumph. He would live on because that was his role, because this was the part he had to play. Even if defeat seemed certain, he would keep on until the end. Because there was nothing else for him to do.

He would fight no less strongly now. His commitment was as complete as ever. The only change would be that something had been lost within him. Never again would he feel the exultation that had lifted him earlier tonight. Never again would he caper on a night-black road.

He came up again to his feet, tottering, having trouble ordering his body and maintaining his balance. His mind was clearing somewhat, and he was becoming capable of thinking about the immediate future.

There were still things to be done. Sondgard/Chax still loomed ahead of him, but that was far away, tomorrow or later. The immediate problem was to get through the night.

He had to cleanse himself. And he had to return to the house. And he had to cover any tracks he might unwittingly have left behind him, which could lead Sondgard/Chax to his door.

He stepped forward. Fully clothed, he stepped into the lake, wading out till the water was chest-high. Then he bent forward, and dipped his head down into the cold water. He scrubbed his face and hands, and rubbed his hands over his clothing, trying to wash all the blood away. At last, dripping, he came out of the lake again.

His clothes hung heavy to him. His shoes were soggy weights. But his face was cool, his mind clear. He started home.

It was harder to climb the gate this time, in the wet and heavy clothes, but he made it, falling heavily on the other side, hurting his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and walked away along the road, rubbing his shoulder. He walked somberly now, heavily, with none of his earlier enthusiasm.