sk.thegunslinger-第30部分

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〃Walter；〃　the　gunslinger　whispered。　〃You。　。。　you're　not　Marten　at　all。　You're　Walter！〃
The　man　in　black　tittered。　〃At　your　service。　〃
〃I　ought　to　kill　you　now。〃
〃That　would　hardly　be　fair。　After　all；　it　was　I　who　delivered　Marten　into　your　hands　three　years　later；　when　　〃
〃Then　you've　controlled　me。〃
〃In　some　ways；　yes。　But　no　more；　gunslinger。　Now　es　the　time　of　sharing。　Then；　in　the　morning；　I　will　cast　the　runes。　Dreams　will　e　to　you。　And　then　your　real　quest　must　begin。〃
〃Walter；〃　the　gunslinger　repeated；　stunned。
〃Sit；〃　the　man　in　black　invited。　〃I　tell　you　my　story。　Yours；　I　think；　will　be　much　longer。　〃
〃I　don't　talk　of　myself；〃　the　gunslinger　muttered。
〃Yet　tonight　you　must　So　that　we　may　understand。〃
〃Understand　what？　My　purpose？　You　know　that　To　find　the　Tower　is　my　purpose。　I'm　sworn。〃
〃Not　your　purpose；　gunslinger。　Your　mind。　Your　slow；　plodding；　tenacious　mind。　There　has　never　been　one　quite　like　it；　in　all　the　history　of　the　world。　Perhaps　in　the　history　of　creation。
〃This　is　the　time　of　speaking。　This　is　the　time　of　histories。
〃Then　speak。〃
The　man　in　black　shook　the　voluminous　arm　of　his　robe。　A　foil…wrapped　package　fell　out　and　caught　the　dying　embers　in　many　reflective　folds。
〃Tobacco；　gunslinger。　Would　you　smoke？〃
He　had　been　able　to　resist　the　rabbit；　but　he　could　not　resist　this。　He　opened　the　foil　with　eager　fingers。　There　was　fine　crumbled　tobacco　inside；　and　green　leaves　to　wrap　it　in；　amazingly　moist。　He　had　not　seen　such　tobacco　for　ten　years。
He　rolled　two　cigarettes　and　bit　the　ends　of　each　to　release　flavor。　He　offered　one　to　the　man　in　black；　who　took　it。　Each　of　them　took　a　burning　twig　from　the　fire。
The　gunslinger　lit　his　cigarette　and　drew　the　aromatic　smoke　deep　into　his　lungs；　closing　his　eyes　to　concentrate　the　senses。　He　blew　out　with　long；　slow　satisfaction。
〃Is　it　good？〃　the　man　in　black　enquired。
〃Yes。　Very　good。〃
〃Enjoy　it。　It　may　be　the　last　smoke　for　you　in　a　very　long　time。〃
The　gunslinger　took　this　impassively。
〃Very　well；〃　the　man　in　black　said。　〃To　begin　then：
〃You　must　understand　that　the　Tower　has　always　been；　and　there　have　always　been　boys　who　know　of　it　and　lust　for　it；　more　than　power　or　riches　or　women。。　〃
There　was　talk　then；　a　night's　worth　of　talk　and　God　alone　knew　how　much　more；　but　the　Gunslinger　remembered　little　of　it　later。　。　。　and　to　his　oddly　practical　mind；　little　of　it　seemed　to　matter。　The　man　in　black　told　him　that　he　must　go　to　the　sea；　which　lay　no　more　than　twenty　easy　miles　to　the　west；　and　there　he　would　be　invested　with　the　power　of　drawing。
〃But　that's　not　exactly　right；　either；〃　the　man　in　black　said；　pitching　his　cigarette　into　the　remains　of　the　campfire。　〃No　one　wants　to　invest　you　with　a　power　of　any　kind；　gunslinger；　it　is　simply　in　you；　and　I　am　pelled　to　tell　you；　partly　because　of　the　sacrifice　of　the　boy；　and　partly　because　it　is　the　law；　the　natural　law　of　things。　Water　must　run　downhill；　and　you　must　be　told。　You　will　draw　three；　I　understand。。。　but　I　don't　really　care；　and　I　don't　really　want　to　know。〃
〃The　three；〃　the　gunslinger　murmured；　thinking　of　the　Oracle。
〃And　then　the　fun　begins。　But；　by　then；　I'll　be　long　gone。　Good…bye；　gunslinger。　My　part　is　done　now。　The　chain　is　still　in　your　hands。　Beware　it　doesn't　wrap　itself　around　your　neck。〃
pelled　by　something　outside　him；　Roland　said；　〃You　have　one　more　thing　to　say；　don't　you？〃
〃Yes；〃　the　man　in　black　said；　and　he　smiled　at　the　gunslinger　with　his　depthless　eyes　and　stretched　one　of　his　hands　out　toward　him。　〃Let　there　be　light。〃
And　there　was　light。
Roland　awoke　by　the　ruins　of　the　campfire　to　find　himself　ten　years　older。　His　black　hair　had　thinned　at　the　temples　and　gone　the　gray　of　cobwebs　at　the　end　of　autumn。　The　lines　in　his　face　were　deeper；　his　skin　rougher。
The　remains　of　the　wood　he　had　carried　had　turned　to　ironwood；　and　the　man　in　black　was　a　laughing　skeleton　in　a　rotting　black　robe；　more　bones　in　this　place　of　bones；　one　more　skull　in　Golgotha。
The　gunslinger　stood　up　and　looked　around。　He　looked　at　the　light　and　saw　that　the　light　was　good。
With　a　sudden　quick　gesture　he　reached　toward　the　remains　of　his　panion　of　the　night　before。。；　a　night　that　had　somehow　lasted　ten　years。　He　broke　off　Walter's　jawbone　and　jammed　it　carelessly　into　the　left　hip　pocket　of　his　jeans　　a　fitting　enough　replacement　for　the　one　lost　under　the　mountains。
The　Tower。　Somewhere　ahead；　it　waited　for　him　　the　nexus　of　Time；　the　nexus　of　Size。
He　began　west　again；　his　back　set　against　the　sunrise；　heading　toward　the　ocean；　realizing　that　a　great　passage　of　his　life　had　e　and　gone。　〃I　loved　you；　Jake；〃　he　said　aloud。
The　stiffness　wore　out　of　his　body　and　he　began　to　walk　more　rapidly。　By　that　evening　he　had　e　to　the　end　of　the　land。　He　sat　on　a　beach　which　stretched　left　and　right　forever；　deserted。　The　waves　beat　endlessly　against　the　shore；　pounding　and　pounding。　The　setting　sun　painted　the　water　in　a　wide　strip　of　fool's　gold。
There　the　gunslinger　sat；　his　face　turned　up　into　the　fading　light。　He　dreamed　his　dreams　and　watched　as　the　stars　came　out；　his　purpose　did　not　flag；　nor　did　his　heart　falter；　his　hair；　finer　now　and　gray；　blew　around　his　head；　and　the　sandalwood…inlaid　guns　of　his　father　lay　smooth　and　deadly　against　his　hips；　and　he　was　lonely　but　did　not　find　loneliness　in　any　way　a　bad　or　ignoble　thing。　The　dark　came　down　on　the　world　and　the　world　moved　on。　The　gunslinger　waited　for　the　time　of　the　drawing　and　dreamed　his　long　dreams　of　the　Dark　Tower；　to　which　he　would　some　day　e　at　dusk　and　approach；　winding　his　horn；　to　do　some　unimaginable　final　battle。
　
AFTERWORD
　
　
The　foregoing　tale；　which　is　almost　（but　not　quite！）　plete　in　itself；　is　the　first　stanza　in　a　much　longer　work　called　The　Dark　Tower。　Some　of　the　work　beyond　this　segment　has　been　pleted；　but　there　is　much　more　to　be　done　　my　brief　synopsis　of　the　action　to　follow　suggests　a　length　approaching　3000　pages；　perhaps　more。　That　probably　sounds　as　if　my　plans　for　the　story　have　passed　beyond　mere　ambition　and　into　the　land　of　lunacy。。。　but　ask　your　favorite　English　teacher　sometime　to　tell　you　about　the　plans　Chaucer　had　for　The　Canterbury　Tales　　now　Chaucer　might　have　been　crazy。
At　the　speed　which　the　work　entire　has　progressed　so　far；　I　would　have　to　live　approximately　300　years　to　plete　the　tale　of　the　Tower；　this　segment；　〃The　Gunslinger　and　the　Dark　Tower；〃　was　written　over　a　period　of　twelve　years。　It　is　by　far　the　longest　I've　taken　with　any　work。。。　and　it　might　be　more　honest　to　put　it　another　way：　it　is　the　longest　that　any　of　my　unfinished　works　has　remained　alive　and　viable　in　my　own　mind；　and　if　a　book　is　not　alive　in　the　writer's　mind；　it　is　as　dead　as　year…old　horse　shit　even　if　words　continue　to　march　across　the　page。
The　Dark　Tower　began；　I　think；　because　I　inherited　a　ream　of　paper　in　the　spring　semester　of　my　senior　year　in　college。　It　wasn't　a　ream　of　your　ordinary　garden…variety　bond　paper；　not　even　a　ream　of　those　colorful　〃second　sheets〃　that　many　struggling　writers　use　because　those　reams　of　colored　sheets　（often　with　large　chunks　of　undissolved　wood　floating　in　them）　are　three　or　four　dollars　cheaper。
The　ream　of　paper　I　inherited　was　bright　green；　nearly　as　thick　as　cardboard；　and　of　an　extremely　eccentric　size　about　seven　inches　wide　by　about　ten　inches　long；　as　I　recall。　I　was　working　at　the　University　of　Maine　library　at　the　time；　and　several　reams　of　this　stuff；　in　various　hues；　turned　up　one　day；　totally　unexplained　and　unaccounted　for。　My　wife…to…be；　the　then　Tabitha　Spruce；　took　one　of　these　reams　of　paper　（robin's　egg　blue）　home　with　her；　the　fellow　she　was　then　going　with　took　home　another　（Roadrunner　yellow）。　I　got　the　green　stuff。
As　it　happened；　all　three　of　us　turned　out　to　be　real　writersa　coincidence　almost　too　large　to　be　termed　mere　coincidence　in　a　society　where　literally　tens　of　thousands　（maybe　hundreds　of　thousands）　of　college　students　aspire　to　the　writer's　trade　and　where　bare　hundreds　actually　break　through。　I've　gone　on　to　publish　half　a　dozen　novels　or　so；　my　wife　has　published　one　（Small　World）　and　is　hard　at　work　on　an　even　better　one；　and　the　fellow　she　was　going　with　back　then；　David　Lyons；　has　developed　into　a　fine　poet　and　the　founder　of　Lynx　Press　in　Massachusetts。
Maybe　it　was　the　paper；　folks。　Maybe　it　was　magic　paper。　You　know；　like　in　a　Stephen　King　novel。
Anyway；　all　of　you　out　there　reading　this　may　not　understand　how　fraught　with　possibility　those　five　hundred　sheets　of　blank　paper　seemed　to　be；　although　I'd　guess　there　are　plenty　of　you　who　are　nodding　in　perfect　understanding　right　now。　Publishing　writers　can；　of　course；　have　all　the　blank　paper　they　want；　it　is　their　stock…in…trade。　It's　even　tax　deductible。　They　can　have　so　much；　in　fact；　that　all　of　those　blank　sheets　can　actually　begin　to　cast　a　malign　spell　better　writers　than　I　have　talked　about　the　mute　challenge　of　all　that　white　space；　and　God　knows　some　of　them　have　been　intimidated　into　silence　by　it。
The　other　side　of　the　coin；　particularly　to　a　young　writer；　is　almost　unholy　exhilaration　all　that　blank　paper　can　bring　on；　you　feel　like　an　alcoholic　contemplating　a　fifth　of　whiskey　with　the　seal　unbroken。
I　was　at　that　time　living　in　a　scuzzy　riverside　cabin　not　far　from　the　University；　and　I　was　living　all　by　myself　the　first　third　of　the　foregoing　tale　was　written　in　a　ghastly；　unbroken　silence　which　I　now；　with　a　houseful　of　rioting　children；　two　secretaries；　and　a　housekeeper　who　always　thinks　I　look　ill；　find　hard　to　remember。　The　three　roommates　with　whom　I　had　begun　the　year　had　all　flunked　out　By　March；　when　the　ice　went　out　of　the　river；　I　felt　like　the　last　of　Agatha　Christie's　ten　little　Indians。
Those　two　factors；　the　challenge　of　that　blank　green　paper；　and　the　utter　silence　（except　for　the　trickle　of　the　melting　snow　as　it　ran　downhill　and　into　the　Stillwater）；　were　more　responsible　than　anything　else　for　the　opening　lay　of　The　Dark　Tower。　There　was　a　third　factor；　but　without　the　first　two；　I　don't　believe　the　story　ever　would　have　been　written。
That　third　element　was　a　poem　I'd　been　assigned　two　years　earlier；　in　a　sophomore　course　covering　the　earlier　romantic　poets　（and　what　better　time　to　study　romantic　poetry　than　in　one's　sopho