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 come 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 complained 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 lowered his
chin to his breastbone and saw 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 further 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 ribcage, 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 combined and 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 comes of remembering those old times. By conjuring
Susan, I've conjured Rhea of the Coos, 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 grey and runnelled as
droughted earth by comparison. 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 sigil of the Dark Tower. Seeing this, Roland thought: I am not
dreaming. These harridans are real.
'He wakes!' one of them cried in a gruesomely coquettish voice.
'Oooo!'
'Ooooh!'
'Ah!'
They fluttered like birds. The one in the centre stepped forward,
and as she did, their faces seemed to shimmer like the silk walls of
the ward. They weren't old after all, he saw - middle-aged, perhaps,
but not old.
Yes. They are old. They changed.
The one who now took charge was taller than the others, and with
a broad, slightly bulging brow. She bent towards Roland, and the
bells which fringed her forehead tinkled. The sound made him feel
sick, somehow, and weaker than he had felt a moment before. Her
hazel eyes were intent. Greedy, mayhap. She touched his cheek for
a moment, and a numbness seemed to spread there. Then she
glanced down, and a look which could have been disquiet cramped
her face. She took her hand back.
'Ye wake, pretty man. So ye do. 'Tis well.'
'Who are you? Where am l?'
'We are the Little Sisters of Eluria,' she said. 'I am Sister Mary.
Here is Sister Louise, and Sister Michela, and Sister Coquina -'
'And Sister Tamra,' said the last. 'A lovely lass of one-and-twenty.'
She giggled. Her face shimmered, and for a moment she was again
as old as the world. Hooked of nose, grey of skin. Roland thought
once more of Rhea.
They moved closer, encircling the complication of harness in
which he lay suspended, and when Roland shrank away, the pain
roared up his back and injured leg again. He groaned. The straps
holding him creaked.
'Ooooo!'
'It hurts!'
'Hurts him!'
'Hurts so fierce!'
They pressed even closer, as if his pain fascinated them. And now
he could smell them, a dry and earthy smell. The one named Sister
Michela reached out
'Go away! Leave him! Have I not told ye before?'
They jumped back from this voice, startled. Sister Mary looked
particularly annoyed. But she stepped back, with one final glare
(Roland would have sworn it) at the medallion lying on his chest.
He had tucked it back under the bed-dress at his last waking, but it
was out again now.
A sixth sister appeared, pushing rudely in between Mary and
Tamra. This one perhaps was only one-and-twenty, with flushed
cheeks, smooth skin, and dark eyes. Her white habit billowed like a
dream. The red rose over her breast stood out like a curse.
'Go! Leave him!'
'Oooo, my dear!' cried Sister Louise in a voice both laughing and
angry. 'Here's Jenna, the baby, and has she fallen in love with
him?'
'She has!' laughed Tamra. 'Baby's heart is his for the purchase,'
'Oh, so it is!' agreed Sister Coquina.
Mary turned to the newcomer, lips pursed into a tight line. 'Ye
have no business here, saucy girl.'
'I do if I say I do,' Sister Jenna replied. She seemed more in charge