But all was not ended. That would have been too simple and absolute. They still had the reserves, though tapping into them so soon went against all his instincts, and roused the already powerful voices of fear inside him. And though to one who has never had to survive, literally, day to day, these emotions may seem mere words, to Kalus they were as powerful and menacing as the physical threat of a lion. How much more of this could his spirit endure? To rise, again and again, from the decimations of this world, to go on without hope for so long, never seeing the end of the tunnel.
Because a man who finds the tight-rope of his existence drawn so fine, the abyss below him so deep and terrifying, can never see the natural and benevolent forces that may (or may not) come to his aid. But the dangers and possible means of his downfall, wrapped with fear and based on past experience, are as clear to him as the struggling flesh he inhabits. For truth and fear exist only inches apart, and fear, by its very nature, will always seem the stronger voice. Men have faced this same darkness for thousands of years, and many fallen before it. And the darkness never ends.
Kalus felt, as he always had in times of deep struggle, the eternal desire for life that calls a man to action in the face of danger, and courage in the face of despair. But he also felt something altogether new, or at least, never before felt at this level of intensity. He felt a flat and empty indifference that told him all such effort was futile, even laughable, in the eyes of the gods who tormented him. Just as a laboratory animal that can endure no more torture will simply stop eating and slowly die of shock, he too felt that he had been punished long enough, that any reasonable bounds of endurance had been long since passed, and that the hopeless games of this world no longer held any meaning for him. He saw only death: his father mauled by a bear, Shama torn open by Shar-hai and his guard, who had themselves been dragged back to earth. Skither, who had died alone in a stinking hole at the hands of mindless brutes, protecting others who were heedless. And at the last, when his spirit had nothing left, Kamela, who had perished to save his own, meaningless life.
The truth now seemed so clear to him that he was amazed he had not seen it before. All the useless struggles ended in death, either quickly, or in humiliating sickness and old age. All earthly bonds were passing, torn asunder by the whims of Nature and uncaring Time. And therefore all life was futile. Still worse, it was absurd. A man who possessed real courage only wasted it in endlessly trying to continue. Let him take that courage instead and say, 'Enough! This torture must not be allowed to continue. If I cannot choose the manner of my life, I will at least choose the manner, and time of my death.' Kalus knew nothing of existentialism, or the other fashionable philosophies of men. He knew nothing of the religious fears of mankind, or of his angry, despairing pride in himself. He knew only that his heart was broken, and he wanted to die. The dull and hopeless look that had fixed itself in the eyes of Kamela, became his as well.
He no longer cared, and had lost all fear of death.
Chapter 20
The wind howled outside them and the chamber held no warmth. His body shivered and coughed, and excreted the pain that knew no bounds. Sylviana moved the fire closer to the bed, then tried to seal out the wind that stole through the cracks in the barrier.
It was hard and frustrating work. But rather than crumble to see Kalus laid so low, and become cold and distant, she sensed that responsibility for their survival had been shifted onto her, and she responded. Through all the trials, all the highs and lows that she had endured the last year of her life, she would have thought she'd have nothing left, and that such a crisis would be her final undoing. But she was wrong. A quiet strength and maturity had been growing inside her, and now she put it to the test.
Forming the mortar to fill the cracks required effort and endless perseverance. The hard earth below them, packed solid for so long, was reluctant to be uprooted and mixed with melting snow beside the fire. And the straw that was called for was simply unavailable. So she took dry pine needles, ground them up, and mixed them in by hand. The only large bowl' they possessed—-a curving palette of stone—-held only a small amount compared to the number and size of the cracks she must fill, and it was heavy and awkward. Then the mortar itself seemed not to want to stay where it was put. It took constant adjustments in the mix and in her technique just to find a half workable formula. Her hands were cold and ragged and pricked by countless needles, and there was no one to encourage her or appreciate the effort. Kalus was oblivious, in sleep or in waking, and Akar was off somewhere alone. The pup followed her with its eyes and occasionally whimpered for food. That was all.
But that was not what mattered. The man she cared for, and who had done the same for her many times, was sick and helpless. She stayed with the task all through the night, until the work was done. Then at last, wearily, she made her way to the bed and knelt beside him. His fever still burned, and the cold drafts that pulsed down through the shaft still troubled him.