sk.everythingseventual-第31部分

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s　room　behind　the　Great　Hall。　A　stablehand　who　had　been　burned　too　badly　by　kerosene　to　be　laid　in　a　bed。　The　man　had　died；　but　not　soon　enough；　for　two　nights；　his　shrieks　had　filled　the　sweet　summer　air　of　the　Gathering　Fields。
　　Am　I　burned；　then；　nothing　but　a　cinder　with　legs；　hanging　in　a　sling？
　　The　fingers　touched　the　center　of　his　brow；　rubbing　away　the　frown　forming　there。　And　it　was　as　if　the　voice　which　went　with　the　hand　had　read　his　thoughts；　picking　them　up　with　the　tips　of　her　clever；　soothing　fingers。
　　'Ye'll　be　fine　if　God　wills；　sai；'　the　voice　which　went　with　the　hand　said。　'But　time　belongs　to　God；　not　to　you。'
　　No；　he　would　have　said；　if　he　had　been　able。　Time　belongs　to　the　Tower。
　　Then　he　slipped　down　again；　descending　as　smoothly　as　he　had　risen；　going　away　from　the　hand　and　the　dreamlike　sounds　of　the　singing　insects　and　chiming　bells。　There　was　an　interval　that　might　have　been　sleep；　or　perhaps　unconsciousness；　but　he　never　went　all　the　way　back　down。
　　At　one　point　he　thought　he　heard　the　girl's　voice；　although　he　couldn't　be　sure；　because　this　time　it　was　raised　in　fury；　or　fear；　or　both。　'No！'　she　cried。　'Ye　can't　have　it　off　him　and　ye　know　it！　Go　your　course　and　stop　talking　of　it；　do！'
　　When　he　rose　back　to　consciousness　the　second　time；　he　was　no　stronger　in　body；　but　a　little　more　himself　in　mind。　What　he　saw　when　he　opened　his　eyes　wasn't　the　inside　of　a　cloud；　but　at　first　that　same　phrase…white　beauty…recurred　to　him。　It　was　in　some　ways　the　most　beautiful　place　Roland　had　ever　been　in　his　life　。　。　。　partially　because　he　still　had　a　life；　of　course；　but　mostly　because　it　was　so　fey　and　peaceful。
　　It　was　a　huge　room；　high　and　long。　When　Roland　at　last　turned　his　head…cautiously；　so　cautiously…to　take　its　measure　as　well　as　he　could；　he　thought　it　must　run　at　least　two　hundred　yards　from　end　to　end。　It　was　built　narrow；　but　its　height　gave　the　place　a　feeling　of　tremendous　airiness。
　　There　were　no　walls　or　ceilings　such　as　those　he　was　familiar　with；　although　it　was　a　little　like　being　in　a　vast　tent。　Above　him；　the　sun　struck　and　diffused　its　light　across　billowy　panels　of　thin　white　silk；　turning　them　into　the　bright　swags　that　he　had　first　mistaken　for　clouds。　Beneath　this　silk　canopy；　the　room　was　as　gray　as　twilight。　The　walls；　also　silk；　rippled　like　sails　in　a　faint　breeze。　Hanging　from　each　wall　panel　was　a　curved　rope　bearing　small　bells。　These　lay　against　the　fabric　and　rang　in　low　and　charming　unison；　like　wind　chimes；　when　the　walls　rippled。
　　An　aisle　ran　down　the　center　of　the　long　room；　on　either　side　of　it　were　scores　of　beds；　each　made　up　with　clean　white　sheets　and　headed　with　crisp　white　pillows。　There　were　perhaps　forty　on　the　far　side　of　the　aisle；　all　empty；　and　another　forty　on　Roland's　side。　There　were　two　other　occupied　beds　here；　one　next　to　Roland　on　his　right。　This　fellow　…
　　It's　the　boy。　The　one　who　was　in　the　trough。
　　The　idea　ran　goose…bumps　up　Roland's　arms　and　gave　him　a　nasty；　superstitious　start。　He　peered　more　closely　at　the　sleeping　boy。
　　Can't　be。　You're　just　dazed；　that's　all；　it　can't　be。
　　Yet　closer　scrutiny　refused　to　dispel　the　idea。　It　certainly　seemed　to　be　the　boy　from　the　trough；　probably　ill　（why　else　would　he　be　in　a　place　like　this？）　but　far　from　dead；　Roland　could　see　the　slow　rise　and　fall　of　his　chest；　and　the　occasional　twitch　of　the　fingers　that　dangled　over　the　side　of　the　bed。
　　You　didn't　get　a　good　enough　look　at　him　to　be　sure　of　anything；　and　after　a　few　days　in　that　trough；　his　own　mother　couldn't　have　said　for　sure　who　it　was。
　　But　Roland；　who'd　had　a　mother；　knew　better　than　that。　He　also　knew　that　he'd　seen　the　gold　medallion　around　the　boy's　neck。　Just　before　the　attack　of　the　green　folk；　he　had　taken　it　from　this　lad's　corpse　and　put　it　in　his　pocket。　Now　someone…the　proprietors　of　this　place；　most　likely；　those　who　had　sorcerously　restored　the　lad　named　James　to　his　interrupted　life…had　taken　it　back　from　Roland　and　put　it　around　the　boy's　neck　again。
　　Had　the　girl　with　the　wonderfully　cool　hand　done　that？　Did　she　in　consequence　think　Roland　a　ghoul　who　would　steal　from　the　dead？　He　didn't　like　to　think　so。　In　fact；　the　notion　made　him　more　unfortable　than　the　idea　that　the　young　cowboy's　bloated　body　had　been　somehow　returned　to　its　normal　size　and　then　reanimated。
　　Farther　down　the　aisle　on　this　side；　perhaps　a　dozen　empty　beds　away　from　the　boy　and　Roland　Deschain；　the　gunslinger　saw　a　third　inmate　of　this　queer　infirmary。　This　fellow　looked　at　least　four　times　the　age　of　the　lad；　twice　the　age　of　the　gunslinger。　He　had　a　long　beard；　more　gray　than　black；　that　hung　to　his　upper　chest　in　two　straggly　forks。　The　face　above　it　was　sun…darkened；　heavily　lined；　and　pouched　beneath　the　eyes。　Running　from　his　left　cheek　and　across　the　bridge　of　his　nose　was　a　thick　dark　mark　which　Roland　took　to　be　a　scar。　The　bearded　man　was　either　asleep　or　unconscious…Roland　could　hear　him　snoring…and　was　suspended　three　feet　above　his　bed；　held　up　by　a　plex　series　of　white　belts　that　glimmered　in　the　dim　air。　These　crisscrossed　each　other；　making　a　series　of　figure　eights　all　the　way　around　the　man's　body。　He　looked　like　a　bug　in　some　exotic　spider's　web。　He　wore　a　gauzy　white　bed…dress。　One　of　the　belts　ran　beneath　his　buttocks；　elevating　his　crotch　in　a　way　that　seemed　to　offer　the　bulge　of　his　privates　to　the　gray　and　dreaming　air。　Farther　down　his　body；　Roland　could　see　the　dark　shadow…shapes　of　his　legs。　They　appeared　to　be　twisted　like　ancient　dead　trees。　Roland　didn't　like　to　think　in　how　many　places　they　must　have　been　broken　to　look　like　that。　And　yet　they　appeared　to　be　moving。　How　could　they　be；　if　the　bearded　man　was　unconscious？　It　was　a　trick　of　the　light；　perhaps；　or　of　the　shadows　。　。　。　perhaps　the　gauzy　singlet　the　man　was　wearing　was　stirring　in　a　light　breeze；　or　。　。　。
　　Roland　looked　away；　up　at　the　billowy　silk　panels　high　above；　trying　to　control　the　accelerating　beat　of　his　heart。　What　he　saw　hadn't　been　caused　by　the　wind；　or　a　shadow；　or　anything　else。　The　man's　legs　were　somehow　moving　without　moving　。　。　。　as　Roland　had　seemed　to　feel　his　own　back　moving　without　moving。　He　didn't　know　what　could　cause　such　a　phenomenon；　and　didn't　want　to　know；　at　least　not　yet。
　　'I'm　not　ready；'　he　whispered。　His　lips　felt　very　dry。　He　closed　his　eyes　again；　wanting　to　sleep；　wanting　not　to　think　about　what　the　bearded　man's　twisted　legs　might　indicate　about　his　own　condition。　But　…
　　But　you'd　better　get　ready。
　　That　was　the　voice　that　always　seemed　to　e　when　he　tried　to　slack　off；　to　scamp　a　job　or　take　the　easy　way　around　an　obstacle。　It　was　the　voice　of　Cort；　his　old　teacher。　The　man　whose　stick　they　had　all　feared；　as　boys。　They　hadn't　feared　his　stick　as　much　as　his　mouth；　however。　His　jeers　when　they　were　weak；　his　contempt　when　they　plained　or　tried　whining　about　their　lot。
　　Are　you　a　gunslinger；　Roland？　If　you　are；　you　better　get　ready。
　　Roland　opened　his　eyes　again　and　turned　his　head　to　the　left　again。　As　he　did；　he　felt　something　shift　against　his　chest。
　　Moving　very　slowly；　he　raised　his　right　hand　out　of　the　sling　that　held　it。　The　pain　in　his　back　stirred　and　muttered。　He　stopped　moving　until　he　decided　the　pain　was　going　to　get　no　worse　（if　he　was　careful；　at　least）；　then　lifted　the　hand　the　rest　of　the　way　to　his　chest。　It　encountered　finely　woven　cloth。　Cotton。　He　moved　his　chin　to　his　breastbone　and　saw　that　he　was　wearing　a　bed…dress　like　the　one　draped　on　the　body　of　the　bearded　man。
　　Roland　reached　beneath　the　neck　of　the　gown　and　felt　a　fine　chain。　A　little　farther　down；　his　fingers　encountered　a　rectangular　metal　shape。　He　thought　he　knew　what　it　was；　but　had　to　be　sure。　He　pulled　it　out；　still　moving　with　great　care；　trying　not　to　engage　any　of　the　muscles　in　his　back。　A　gold　medallion。　He　dared　the　pain；　lifting　it　until　he　could　read　what　was　engraved　upon　it：
　　
　　James
　　
　　Loved　of　family。　Loved　of　GOD
　　
　　He　tucked　it　into　the　top　of　the　bed…dress　again　and　looked　back　at　the　sleeping　boy　in　the　next　bed…in　it；　not　suspended　over　it。　The　sheet　was　only　pulled　up　to　the　boy's　rib　cage；　and　the　medallion　lay　on　the　pristine　white　breast　of　his　bed…dress。　The　same　medallion　Roland　now　wore。　Except　。　。　。
　　Roland　thought　he　understood；　and　understanding　was　a　relief。　He　looked　back　at　the　bearded　man；　and　saw　an　exceedingly　strange　thing：　the　thick　black　line　of　scar　across　the　bearded　man's　cheek　and　nose　was　gone。　Where　it　had　been　was　the　pinkish…red　mark　of　a　healing　wound　。　。　。　a　cut；　or　perhaps　a　slash。
　　I　imagined　it。
　　No　gunslinger；　Cort's　voice　returned。　Such　as　you　was　not　made　to　imagine。　As　you　well　know。
　　The　little　bit　of　movement　had　tired　him　out　again　。　。　。　or　perhaps　it　was　the　thinking　which　had　really　tired　him　out。　The　singing　bugs　and　chiming　bells　bined　had　made　something　too　much　like　a　lullaby　to　resist。　This　time　when　Roland　closed　his　eyes；　he　slept。
　　
　　
　　III。　Five　Sisters。　Jenna。　The　Doctors　of　Eluria。
　　The　Medallion。　A　Promise　of　Silence。
　　
　　When　Roland　awoke　again；　he　was　at　first　sure　that　he　was　still　sleeping。　Dreaming。　Having　a　nightmare。
　　Once；　at　the　time　he　had　met　and　fallen　in　love　with　Susan　Delgado；　he　had　known　a　witch　named　Rhea…the　first　real　witch　of　Mid…World　he　had　ever　met。　It　was　she　who　had　caused　Susan's　death；　although　Roland　had　played　his　own　part。　Now；　opening　his　eyes　and　seeing　Rhea　not　just　once　but　five　times　over；　he　thought：　This　is　what　es　of　remembering　those　old　times。　By　conjuring　Susan；　I've　conjured　Rhea　of　the　C？os；　as　well。　Rhea　and　her　sisters。
　　The　five　were　dressed　in　billowing　habits　as　white　as　the　walls　and　the　panels　of　the　ceiling。　Their　antique　crones'　faces　were　framed　in　wimples　just　as　white；　their　skin　as　gray　and　runneled　as　droughted　earth　by　parison。　Hanging　like　phylacteries　from　the　bands　of　silk　imprisoning　their　hair　（if　they　indeed　had　hair）　were　lines　of　tiny　bells　which　chimed　as　they　moved　or　spoke。　Upon　the　snowy　breasts　of　their　habits　was　embroidered　a　blood…red　rose　。　。　。　the　sigul　of　the　Dark　Tower。　Seeing　this；　Roland　thought：　I　am　not　dreaming。　These　harridans　a