To the grave is where you’ve taken him, Roland thought. Mayhap that is a Thoughtful House, but little would you know it, sai, one way or another.
“I know ye’re no brother to that boy,” Mary said, watching him eat.
Already Roland could feel the stuff hidden in the porridge draining his strength once more. “Sigul or no sigul, I know ye’re no brother to him.
Why do you lie? ’Tis a sin against God.”
“What gives you such an idea, sai?” Roland asked, curious to see if she would mention the guns.
“Big Sister knows what she knows. Why not ’fess up, Jimmy? Con-fession’s good for the soul, they say.”
“Send me Jenna to pass the time, and perhaps I’d tell you much,”
Roland said.
The narrow bone of smile on Sister Mary’s face disappeared like chalk-writing in a rainstorm. “Why would ye talk to such as her?”
“She’s passing fair,” Roland said. “Unlike some.”
Her lips pulled back from her overlarge teeth. “Ye’ll see her no more, cully. Ye’ve stirred her up, so you have, and I won’t have that.”
She turned to go. Still trying to appear weak and hoping he would not overdo it (acting was never his forte), Roland held out the empty porridge bowl. “Do you not want to take this?”
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stick it in your ass. You’ll talk before I’m done with ye, cully—talk till I bid you shut up and then beg to talk some more!”
On this note she swept regally away, hands lifting the front of her skirt off the floor. Roland had heard that such as she couldn’t go about in daylight, and that part of the old tales was surely a lie. Yet another part was almost true, it seemed: a fuzzy, amorphous shape kept pace with her, running along the row of empty beds to her right, but she cast no real shadow at all.
VI. JENNA. SISTER COQUINA. TAMRA, MICHELA, LOUISE.
THE CROSS-DOG. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE SAGE.
That was one of the longest days of Roland’s life. He dozed, but never deeply; the reeds were doing their work, and he had begun to believe that he might, with Jenna’s help, actually get out of here. And there was the matter of his guns, as well—perhaps she might be able to help there, too.
He passed the slow hours thinking of old times—of Gilead and his friends, of the riddling he had almost won at one Wide Earth Fair. In the end another had taken the goose, but he’d had his chance, aye. He thought of his mother and father; he thought of Abel Vannay, who had limped his way through a life of gentle goodness, and Eldred Jonas, who had limped his way through a life of evil . . . until Roland had blown him loose of his saddle, one fine desert day.
He thought, as always, of Susan.
If you love me, then love me, she’d said . . . and so he had.
So he had.
In this way the time passed. At rough hourly intervals, he took one of the reeds from beneath his pillow and nibbled it. Now his muscles didn’t tremble so badly as the stuff passed into his system, nor his heart pound so fiercely. The medicine in the reeds no longer had to battle the Sisters’ medicine so fiercely, Roland thought; the reeds were winning.
The diffused brightness of the sun moved across the white silk ceil-195
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ing of the ward, and at last the dimness which always seemed to hover at bed-level began to rise. The long room’s western wall bloomed with the rose-melting-to-orange shades of sunset.
It was Sister Tamra who brought him his dinner that night—soup and another popkin. She also laid a desert lily beside his hand. She smiled as she did it. Her cheeks were bright with color. All of them were bright with color today, like leeches that had gorged until they were full almost to bursting.
“From your admirer, Jimmy,” she said. “She’s so sweet on ye! The lily means ‘Do not forget my promise.’ What has she promised ye, Jimmy, brother of Johnny?”
“That she’d see me again, and we’d talk.”
Tamra laughed so hard that the bells lining her forehead jingled.
She clasped her hands together in a perfect ecstasy of glee. “Sweet as honey! Oh, yes!” She bent her smiling gaze on Roland. “It’s sad such a promise can never be kept. Ye’ll never see her again, pretty man.”
She took the bowl. “Big Sister has decided.” She stood up, still smiling. “Why not take that ugly gold sigul off?”
“I think not.”
“Yer brother took his off—look!” She pointed, and Roland spied the gold medallion lying far down the aisle, where it had landed when Ralph threw it.
Sister Tamra looked at him, still smiling.
“He decided it was part of what was making him sick, and cast it away. Ye’d do the same, were ye wise.”
Roland repeated, “I think not.”
“So,” she said dismissively, and left him alone with the empty beds glimmering in the thickening shadows.
Roland hung on, in spite of growing sleepiness, until the hot colors bleeding across the infirmary’s western wall had cooled to ashes.
Then he nibbled one of the reeds and felt strength—real strength, not a jittery, heart-thudding substitute—bloom in his body. He looked toward where the castaway medallion gleamed in the last light and made a silent promise to John Norman: he would take it with the 196
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other one to Norman’s kin, if ka chanced that he should encounter them in his travels.
Feeling completely easy in his mind for the first time that day, the gunslinger dozed. When he awoke it was full dark. The doctor-bugs were singing with extraordinary shrillness. He had taken one of the reeds out from under the pillow and had begun to nibble on it when a cold voice said, “So—Big Sister was right. Ye’ve been keeping secrets.”
Roland’s heart seemed to stop dead in his chest. He looked around and saw Sister Coquina getting to her feet. She had crept in while he was dozing and hidden under the bed on his right side to watch him.
“Where did ye get that?” she asked. “Was it—”
“He got it from me.”
Coquina whirled about. Jenna was walking down the aisle toward them. Her habit was gone. She still wore her wimple with its forehead-fringe of bells, but its hem rested on the shoulders of a simple check-ered shirt. Below this she wore jeans and scuffed desert boots. She had something in her hands. It was too dark for Roland to be sure, but he thought—
“You,” Sister Coquina whispered with infinite hate. “When I tell Big Sister—”
“You’ll tell no one anything,” Roland said.
If he had planned his escape from the slings that entangled him, he no doubt would have made a bad business of it, but, as always, the gunslinger did best when he thought least. His arms were free in a moment; so was his left leg. His right caught at the ankle, however, twisting, hanging him up with his shoulders on the bed and his leg in the air.
Coquina turned on him, hissing like a cat. Her lips pulled back from teeth that were needle-sharp. She rushed at him, her fingers splayed. The nails at the ends of them looked sharp and ragged.
Roland clasped the medallion and shoved it out toward her. She recoiled from it, still hissing, and whirled back to Sister Jenna in a flare of white skirt. “I’ll do for ye, ye interfering trull!” she cried in a low, harsh voice.
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Roland struggled to free his leg and couldn’t. It was firmly caught, the shitting sling actually wrapped around the ankle somehow, like a noose.
Jenna raised her hands, and he saw he had been right: it was his revolvers she had brought, holstered and hanging from the two old gunbelts he had worn out of Gilead after the last burning.
“Shoot her, Jenna! Shoot her!”
Instead, still holding the holstered guns up, Jenna shook her head as she had on the day when Roland had persuaded her to push back her wimple so he could see her hair. The bells rang with a sharpness that seemed to go into the gunslinger’s head like a spike.
The Dark Bells. The sigul of their ka-tet. What—
The sound of the doctor-bugs rose to a shrill, reedy scream that was eerily like the sound of the bells Jenna wore. Nothing sweet about them now. Sister Coquina’s hands faltered on their way to Jenna’s throat; Jenna herself had not so much as flinched or blinked her eyes.
“No,” Coquina whispered. “You can’t! ”
“I have, ” Jenna said, and Roland saw the bugs. Descending from the legs of the bearded man, he’d observed a battalion. What he saw coming from the shadows now was an army to end all armies; had they been men instead of insects, there might have been more than all the men who had ever carried arms in the long and bloody history of Mid-World.