Roland was by now lying with his head turned in the other direction.
He didn’t want them to know what he’d seen, but that wasn’t all; he had no urge to see more on any account. He had seen and heard enough.
But the giggles and whispers now came his way. Roland closed his eyes, concentrating on the medallion that lay against his chest. I don’t know if it’s the gold or the God, but they don’t like to get too close, John Norman had said. It was good to have such a thing to remember as the Little Sisters drew nigh, gossiping and whispering in their strange other tongue, but the medallion seemed a thin protection in the dark.
181
STEPHEN KING
Faintly, at a great distance, Roland heard the cross-dog barking.
As the Sisters circled him, the gunslinger realized he could smell them. It was a low, unpleasant odor, like spoiled meat. And what else would they smell of, such as these?
“Such a pretty man it is.” Sister Mary. She spoke in a low, meditative tone.
“But such an ugly sigul it wears.” Sister Tamra.
“We’ll have it off him!” Sister Louise.
“And then we shall have kisses!” Sister Coquina.
“Kisses for all!” exclaimed Sister Michela, with such fervent enthu-siasm that they all laughed.
Roland discovered that not all of him was paralyzed, after all. Part of him had, in fact, arisen from its sleep at the sound of their voices and now stood tall. A hand reached beneath the bed-dress he wore, touched that stiffened member, encircled it, caressed it. He lay in silent horror, feigning sleep, as wet warmth almost immediately spilled from him. The hand remained where it was for a moment, the thumb rubbing up and down the wilting shaft. Then it let him go and rose a little higher. Found the wetness pooled on his lower belly.
Giggles, soft as wind.
Chiming bells.
Roland opened his eyes the tiniest crack and looked up at the ancient faces laughing down at him in the light of their candles—glittering eyes, yellow cheeks, hanging teeth that jutted over lower lips. Sister Michela and Sister Louise appeared to have grown goatees, but of course that wasn’t the darkness of hair but of the bearded man’s blood.
Mary’s hand was cupped. She passed it from Sister to Sister; each licked from her palm in the candlelight.
Roland closed his eyes all the way and waited for them to be gone. Eventually they were.
I’ll never sleep again, he thought, and was five minutes later lost to himself and the world.
182
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
V. SISTER MARY. A MESSAGE. A VISIT FROM RALPH.
NORMAN’S FATE. SISTER MARY AGAIN.
When Roland awoke, it was full daylight, the silk roof overhead a bright white and billowing in a mild breeze. The doctor-bugs were singing contentedly. Beside him on his left, Norman was heavily asleep with his head turned so far to one side that his stubbly cheek rested on his shoulder.
Roland and John Norman were the only ones here. Farther down on their side of the infirmary, the bed where the bearded man had been was empty, its top sheet pulled up and neatly tucked in, the pillow neatly nestled in a crisp white case. The complication of slings in which his body had rested was gone.
Roland remembered the candles—the way their glow had combined and streamed up in a column, illuminating the Sisters as they gathered around the bearded man. Giggling. Their damned bells jingling.
Now, as if summoned by his thoughts, came Sister Mary, gliding along rapidly with Sister Louise in her wake. Louise bore a tray, and looked nervous. Mary was frowning, obviously not in good temper.
To be grumpy after you’ve fed so well? Roland thought. Fie, Sister.
She reached the gunslinger’s bed and looked down at him. “I have little to thank ye for, sai,” she said with no preamble.
“Have I asked for your thanks?” he responded in a voice that sounded as dusty and little-used as the pages of an old book.
She took no notice. “Ye’ve made one who was only impudent and restless with her place outright rebellious. Well, her mother was the same way, and died of it not long after returning Jenna to her proper place. Raise your hand, thankless man.”
“I can’t. I can’t move at all.”
“Oh, cully! Haven’t you heard it said ‘fool not your mother ’less she’s out of face’? I know pretty well what ye can and can’t do. Now raise your hand.”
183
STEPHEN KING
Roland raised his right hand, trying to suggest more effort than it actually took. He thought that this morning he might be strong enough to slip free of the slings . . . but what then? Any real walking would be beyond him for hours yet, even without another dose of
“medicine” . . . and behind Sister Mary, Sister Louise was taking the cover from a fresh bowl of soup. As Roland looked at it, his stomach rumbled.
Big Sister heard and smiled a bit. “Even lying in bed builds an appetite in a strong man, if it’s done long enough. Wouldn’t you say so, Jason, brother of John?”
“My name is James. As you well know, Sister.”
“Do I?” She laughed angrily. “Oh, la! And if I whipped your little sweetheart hard enough and long enough—until the blood jumped out her back like drops of sweat, let us say—should I not whip a different name out of her? Or didn’t ye trust her with it, during your little talk?”
“Touch her and I’ll kill you.”
She laughed again. Her face shimmered; her firm mouth turned into something that looked like a dying jellyfish. “Speak not of killing to us, cully; lest we speak of it to you.”
“Sister, if you and Jenna don’t see eye to eye, why not release her from her vows and let her go her course?”
“Such as us can never be released from our vows, nor be let go. Her mother tried and then came back, her dying and the girl sick. Why, it was we nursed Jenna back to health after her mother was nothing but dirt in the breeze that blows out toward End-World, and how little she thanks us! Besides, she bears the Dark Bells, the sigul of our sis-terhood. Of our ka-tet. Now eat—yer belly says ye’re hungry!”
Sister Louise offered the bowl, but her eyes kept drifting to the shape the medallion made under the breast of his bed-dress. Don’t like it, do you? Roland thought, and then remembered Louise by candlelight, the freighter’s blood on her chin, her ancient eyes eager as she leaned forward to lick his spend from Sister Mary’s hand.
He turned his head aside. “I want nothing.”
184
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
“But ye’re hungry!” Louise protested. “If’ee don’t eat, James, how will’ee get’ee strength back?”
“Send Jenna. I’ll eat what she brings.”
Sister Mary’s frown was black. “Ye’ll see her no more. She’s been released from Thoughtful House only on her solemn promise to double her time of meditation . . . and to stay out of infirmary. Now eat, James, or whoever ye are. Take what’s in the soup, or we’ll cut ye with knives and rub it in with flannel poultices. Either way, makes no difference to us. Does it, Louise?”
“Nar,” Louise said. She still held out the bowl. Steam rose from it, and the good smell of chicken.
“But it might make a difference to you.” Sister Mary grinned humorlessly, baring her unnaturally large teeth. “Flowing blood’s risky around here. The doctors don’t like it. It stirs them up.”
It wasn’t just the bugs that were stirred up at the sight of blood, and Roland knew it. He also knew he had no choice in the matter of the soup. He took the bowl from Louise and ate slowly. He would have given much to wipe out the look of satisfaction he saw on Sister Mary’s face.
“Good,” she said after he had handed the bowl back and she had peered inside to make sure it was completely empty. His hand thumped back into the sling which had been rigged for it, already too heavy to hold up. He could feel the world drawing away again.
Sister Mary leaned forward, the billowing top of her habit touching the skin of his left shoulder. He could smell her, an aroma both ripe and dry, and would have gagged if he’d had the strength.
“Have that foul gold thing off ye when yer strength comes back a little—put it in the pissoir under the bed. Where it belongs. For to be even this close to where it lies hurts my head and makes my throat close.”
Speaking with enormous effort, Roland said, “If you want it, take it. How can I stop you, you bitch?”
Once more her frown turned her face into something like a thun-derhead. He thought she would have slapped him, if she had dared 185