sk.thegunslinger-第11部分

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inger's　fingers。　The　fingers　themselves　moved　like　a　beaded　curtain　in　a　breeze。　The　boy　watched；　his　initial　doubt　replaced　with　plain　delight；　then　by　raptness；　then　by　a　dawning　mute　blankness。　The　eyes　slipped　shut　The　shell　danced　back　and　forth。　Jake's　eyes　opened　again；　caught　the　steady；　limpid　dance　between　the　gunslinger's　fingers　for　a　while　longer；　and　then　his　eyes　closed　once　more。　The　gunslinger　continued；　but　Jake's　eyes　did　not　open　again。　The　boy　breathed　with　steady；　bovine　calmness。　Was　this　part　of　it？　Yes。　There　was　a　certain　beauty；　a　logic；　like　the　lacy　frettings　that　fringe　hard　blue　ice…packs。　He　seemed　to　hear　the　the　sky；　and　in　his　desert…scoured　ears；　the　gunslinger　heard　the　faint　sweet　sound　of　wind…chimes。
〃Where　are　you？〃　he　asked。
Jake　Chambers　is　going　downstairs　with　his　book　bag　There　is　Earth　Science；　there　is　Economic　Geography；　there　is　a　notepad；　a　pencil；　a　lunch　his　mother's　cook；　Mrs。　Greta　Shaw；　has　made　for　him　in　the　chrome…and…formica　kitchen　where　a　fan　whirrs　eternally；　sucking　up　alien　odors。　In　his　lunch　sack　he　has　a　peanut　butter　and　jelly　sandwich；　a　bologna；　lettuce；　and　onion　sandwich；　and　four　Oreo　cookies。　His　parents　do　not　hate　him；　but　they　seem　to　have　overlooked　him。　They　have　abdicated　and　left　him　to　Mrs。　Greta　Shaw；　to　nannies；　to　a　tutor　in　the　summer　and　The　School　（which　is　Private　and　Nice；　and　most　of　all；　White）　the　rest　of　the　time。　None　of　these　people　have　ever　pretended　to　be　more　than　what　they　are　　professional　people；　the　best　in　their　fields。　None　have　folded　him　to　a　particularly　warm　bosom　as　usually　happens　in　the　historical　novels　his　mother　reads　and　which　fake　has　dipped　into；　looking　for　the　〃hot　parts。　〃Hysterical　novels；　his　fat　her　sometimes　calls　them；　and　sometimes；　〃bod
Jake　does　not　know　that　he　hates　all　the　professional　people；　but　he　does。　People　have　always　bewildered　him。　He　likes　stairs　and　will　not　use　the　self…service　elevator　in　his　building　His　mother；　who　is　scrawny　in　a　sexy　way；　often　goes　to　bed　with　sick　friends。
Now　he　is　on　the　street；　Jake　Chambers　is　on　the　street；　he　has　〃Hit　the　bricks。〃　He　is　clean　and　well…mannered；　ely；　sensitive。　He　has　no　friends；　only　acquaintances。　He　has　never　bothered　to　think　about　this；　but　it　hurts　him。　He　does　not　know　or　understand　that　a　long　association　with　professional　people　has　caused　him　to　take　many　of　their　traits。　Mrs。　Greta　Shaw　makes　hands　folded　in　his　lap；　still　breathing　calmly。　He　had　told　his　tale　without　much　emotion；　although　his　voice　had　trembled　near　the　end；　when　he　had　e　to　the　part　about　the　〃priest〃　and　the　〃Act　of　Contrition。〃　He　had　not；　of　course；　told　the　gunslinger　about　his　family　and　his　own　sense　of　bewildered　dichotomy；　but　that　had　seeped　through　anyway　　enough　had　seeped　through　to　make　out　its　shape。　The　fact　that　there　had　never　been　such　a　city　as　the　boy　described　（or；　if　so；　it　had　only　existed　in　the　myth　of　prehistory）　was　not　the　most　upsetting　part　of　the　story；　but　it　was　disturbing。　It　was　all　disturbing。　The　gunslinger　was　afraid　of　the　implications。
〃Jake？〃
〃Uh…huh？〃
〃Do　you　want　to　remember　this　when　you　wake　up；　or　forget　it？〃
〃Forget　it；〃　the　boy　said　promptly。　〃I　bled。〃
〃All　right　You're　going　to　sleep；　understand？　Go　ahead　and　lie　over。〃
Jake　laid　over；　looking　small　and　peaceful　and　harmless。　The　gunslinger　did　not　believe　he　was　harmless。　There　was　a　deadly　feeling　about　him；　and　the　stink　of　predestination。　He　didn't　like　the　feeling；　but　he　liked　the　boy。　He　liked　him　a　great　deal。
〃Jake？〃
〃Shhh。　I　want　to　sleep。〃
〃Yes。　And　when　you　wake　up　you　won't　remember　any　of　this。〃
〃Kay。〃
The　gunslinger　watched　him　for　a　brief　time；　thinking　of　own　boyhood；　which　usually　seemed　to　have　happened　to　another　person　　to　a　person　who　had　jumped　through　some　osmotic　lens　and　bee　someone　else　but　which　now　seemed　poignantly　close。　It　was　very　hot　in　the　stable　of　the　way　station；　and　he　carefully　drank　some　more　water。　He　got　up　and　walked　to　the　back　of　the　building；　pausing　to　look　into　one　of　the　horse　stalls。　There　was　a　small　pile　of　white　hay　in　the　corner；　and　a　neatly　folded　blanket；　but　there　was　no　smell　of　horse。　There　was　no　smell　of　anything　in　the　stable。　The　sun　had　bled　away　every　smell　and　left　nothing。　The　air　was　perfectly　neutral。
At　the　back　of　the　stable　was　a　small；　dark　room　with　a　stainless　steel　machine　in　the　center。　It　was　untouched　by　rust　or　rot。　It　looked　like　a　butter　churn。　At　the　left；　a　chrome　pipe　jutted　from　it；　terminating　over　a　drain　in　the　floor。　The　gunslinger　had　seen　pumps　like　it　in　other　dry　places；　but　never　one　so　big。　He　could　not　contemplate　how　deep　they　must　have　drilled　before　they　struck　water；　secret　and　forever　black　under　the　desert
Why　hadn't　they　removed　the　pump　when　the　way　station　had　been　abandoned？
Demons；　perhaps。
He　shuddered　abruptly；　an　abrupt　twisting　of　his　back。　Heatflesh　poked　out　on　his　skin；　then　receded。　He　went　to　the　control　switch　and　pushed　the　ON　button。　The　machine　began　to　hum。　After　perhaps　half　a　minute；　a　stream　of　cool；　clear　water　belched　from　the　pipe　and　went　down　the　drain　to　be　recirculated。　Perhaps　three　gallons　flowed　out　of　the　pipe　before　the　pump　shut　itself　down　with　a　final　click。　It　was　a　thing　as　alien　to　this　place　and　time　as　true　love；　and　yet　as　concrete　as　a　Judgment；　a　silent　reminder　of　the　time　when　the　world　had　not　yet　moved　on。　It　probably　ran　on　an　atomic　slug；　as　there　was　no　electricity　within　a　thousand　miles　of　here　and　even　dry　batteries　would　have　lost　their　charge　long　ago。　The　gunslinger　didn't　like　it
He　went　back　and　sat　down　beside　the　boy；　who　had　put　one　hand　under　his　cheek。　Nice…looking　boy。　The　gunslinger　drank　some　more　water　and　crossed　his　legs　so　he　was　sitting　Indian　fashion。　The　boy；　like　the　squatter　on　the　edge　of　the　desert　who　kept　the　bird　（Zoltan；　the　gunslinger　remembered　abruptly；　the　bird's　name　was　Zoltan）；　had　lost　his　sense　of　time；　but　the　fact　that　the　man　in　black　was　closer　seemed　beyond　doubt　Not　for　the　first　time；　the　gunslinger　wondered　if　the　man　in　black　was　letting　him　catch　up　for　some　reason　of　his　own。　Perhaps　the　gunslinger　was　playing　into　his　hands。　He　tried　to　imagine　what　the　confrontation　might　be　like；　and　could　not
He　was　very　hot；　but　he　no　longer　felt　sick。　The　nursery　rhyme　occurred　to　him　again；　but　this　time　instead　of　his　mother；　he　thought　of　Cort　　Cort；　with　his　face　hem…stitched　with　the　scars　of　bricks　and　bullets　and　blunt　instruments。　The　scars　of　war。　He　wondered　if　Cort　had　ever　had　a　love　to　match　those　monumental　scars。　He　doubted　it　He　thought　of　Aileen；　and　of　Marten；　that　inplete　enchanter。
The　gunslinger　was　not　a　man　to　dwell　on　the　past；　only　a　shadowy　conception　of　the　future　and　of　his　own　emotional　make…up　saved　him　from　being　a　creature　without　imagination；　a　dullard。　His　present　run　of　thought　therefore　rather　amazed　him。　Each　name　called　up　others　　Cuthbert；　Paul；　the　old　man　Jonas；　and　Susan；　the　lovely　girl　at　the　window。
The　piano　player　in　Tull　（also　dead；　all　dead　in　Tull；　and　by　his　hand）　had　been　fond　of　the　old　songs；　and　the　gunslinger　hummed　one　tunelessly　under　his　breath：
Love　o　love　o　careless　love
See　what　careless　love　has　done。
The　gunslinger　laughed；　bemused。　Jam　the　last　of　that　green　and　warm…hued　world。　And　for　all　his　nostalgia；　he　felt　no　self…pity。　The　world　had　moved　on　mercilessly；　but　his　legs　were　still　strong；　and　the　man　in　black　was　closer。　The　gunslinger　nodded　out　
When　he　woke　up　it　was　almost　dark　and　the　boy　was　gone。　The　gunslinger　got　up；　hearing　his　joints　pop；　and　went　to　the　stable　door。　There　was　a　small　flame　dancing　in　darkness　on　the　porch　of　the　inn。　He　walked　toward　it；　his　shadow　long　and　black　and　trailing　in　the　ochre　light　of　the　sunset。
Jake　was　sitting　by　a　kerosene　lamp。　〃The　oil　was　in　a　drum；〃　he　said；　〃but　I　was　scared　to　burn　it　in　the　house。　Everything's　so　dry　〃
〃You　did　just　right。〃　The　gunslinger　sat　down；　seeing　but　not　thinking　about　the　dust　of　years　that　puffed　up　around　his　rump。　The　flame　from　the　lamp　shadowed　the　boy's　face　with　delicate　tones。　The　gunslinger　produced　his　poke　and　rolled　a　cigarette。
〃We　have　to　talk；〃　he　said。
Jake　nodded。
〃I　guess　you　know　I'm　on　the　prod　for　that　man　you　saw。〃
〃Are　you　going　to　kill　him？〃
〃I　don't　know。　I　have　to　make　him　tell　me　something。　I　may　have　to　make　him　take　me　someplace。〃
〃Where？〃
〃To　find　a　tower；〃　the　gunslinger　said。　He　held　his　cigarette　over　the　chimney　of　the　lamp　and　drew　on　it；　the　smoke　drifted　away　on　the　rising　night　breeze。　Jake　watched　it。　His　face　showed　neither　fear　nor　curiosity；　certainly　not　enthusiasm。
〃So　I'm　going　on　tomorrow；〃　the　gunslinger　said。　〃You'll　have　to　e　with　me。　How　much　of　that　meat　is　left？〃
〃Only　a　handful。〃
〃Corn？〃
〃A　little。〃
The　gunslinger　nodded。　〃Is　there　a　cellar？〃
〃Yes。〃　Jake　looked　at　him。　The　pupils　of　his　eyes　had　grown　to　a　huge；　fragile　size。　〃You　pull　up　on　a　ring　in　the　floor；　but　I　didn't　go　down。　I　was　afraid　the　ladder　would　break　and　I　wouldn't　be　able　to　get　up　again。　And　it　smells　bad。　It's　the　only　thing　around　here　that　smells　at　all。〃
〃We'll　get　up　early　and　see　if　there's　anything　down　there　worth　taking。　Then　we'll　bug　out〃
〃All　right〃　The　boy　paused　and　then　said；　〃I'm　glad　I　didn't　kill　you　when　you　were　sleeping。　I　had　a　pitchfork　and　I　thought　about　doing　it。　But　I　didn't；　and　now　I　won't　have　to　be　afraid　to　go　to　sleep。〃
〃What　would　you　be　afraid　of？〃
The　book　looked　at　him　ominously。　〃Spooks。　Of　him　ing　back。〃
〃The　man　in　black；〃　the　gunslinger　said。　Not　a　question。
〃Yes。　Is　he　a　bad　man？〃
〃That　depends　on　where　you're　standing；〃　the　gunslinger　said　absently。　He　got　up　and　pitched　his　cigarette　out　onto　the　hardpan。　〃I'm　going　to　sleep。〃
The　boy　looked　at　him　timidly。　〃Can　I　sleep　in　the　stable　with　you？〃
〃Of　course。〃
The　gunslinger　stood　on　the　steps；　looking　up；　and　the　boy　joined　him。　Polaris　was　up　there；　and　Mars。　It　seemed　to　the　gunslinger　that；　if　he　closed　his　eyes　he　would　be　able　to　hear　the　croaking　of　the　first　spring　peepers；　smell　the　green　and　almost…summer　smell　of　the　court　lawns　after　their　first　cutting　（and　hear；　perhaps；　the　indolent　click　of　croquet　balls　as　the　ladies　of　the　East　Wing；　attired　only　in　the