The Collective

'- and I hope your kindness has no hidden motive. If it does, Sister,

remember that I'm quick. And, as for myself, I have not always

been kind.'

She made no reply, only took the bowl when Roland handed it

back. She did this delicately, perhaps not wanting to touch his

fingers. Her eyes dropped to where the medallion lay, once more

hidden beneath the breast of his bed-dress. He said no more, not

wanting to weaken the implied threat by reminding her that the

man who made it was unarmed, next to naked, and hung in the air

because his back couldn't yet bear the weight of his body.

'Where's Sister Jenna?' he asked.

'Oooo!' Sister Coquina said, raising her eyebrows. 'We like her, do

we? She makes our heart go . . .' She put her hand against the rose

on her breast and fluttered it rapidly.

'Not at all, not at all,' Roland said, 'but she was kind. I doubt she

would have teased me with a spoon, as some would.'

Sister Coquina's smile faded. She looked both angry and worried.

'Say nothing of that to Mary, if she comes by later. Ye might get

me in trouble.'

'Should I care?'

'I might get back at one who caused me trouble by causing little

Jenna trouble,' Sister Coquina said. 'She's in Big Sister's black

books, just now, anyway. Sister Mary doesn't care for the way

Jenna spoke to her about ye ... nor does she like it that Jenna came

back to us wearing the Dark Bells.'

This was no sooner out of her mouth before Sister Coquina put her

hand over that frequently imprudent organ, as if realizing she had

said too much.

Roland, intrigued by what she'd said but not liking to show it just

now, only replied: 'I'll keep my mouth shut about you, if you keep

your mouth shut to Sister Mary about Jenna.'

Coquina looked relieved. 'Aye, that's a bargain.' She leaned

forward confidingly. 'She's in Thoughtful House. That's the little

cave in the hillside where we have to go and meditate when Big

Sister decides we've been bad. She'll have to stay and consider her

impudence until Mary lets her out.' She paused, then said abruptly:

'Who's this beside ye? Do ye know?'

Roland turned his head and saw that the young man was awake,

and had been listening. His eyes were as dark as Jenna's.

'Know him?' Roland asked, with what he hoped was the right touch

of scorn. 'Should I not know my own brother?'

'Is he, now, and him so young and you so old?' Another of the

sisters materialized out of the darkness: Sister Tamra, who had

called herself one-and-twenty. In the moment before she reached

Roland's bed, her face was that of a hag who will never see eighty

again ... or ninety. Then it shimmered and was once more the

plump, healthy countenance of a thirty-year-old matron. Except for

the eyes. They remained yellowish in the corneas, gummy in the

corners, and watchful.

'He's the youngest, I the eldest,' Roland said. 'Betwixt us are seven

others, and twenty years of our parents' lives.'

'How sweet! And if he's yer brother, then ye'll know his name,

won't ye? Know it very well.'

Before the gunslinger could flounder, the young man said: 'They

think you've forgotten such a simple hook as John Norman. What

culleens they be, eh, Jimmy?'

Coquina and Tamra looked at the pale boy in the bed next to

Roland's, clearly angry ... and clearly trumped. For the time being,

at least.

'You've fed him your muck,' the boy (whose medallion

undoubtedly proclaimed him John, Loved of Family, Loved of

God) said `Why don't you go, and let us have a natter?'

'Well!' Sister Coquina huffed. 'I like the gratitude around here, so I

do!'

'I'm grateful for what's given me,' Norman responded, looking at

her steadily, 'but not for what folk would take away.'

Tamra snorted through her nose, turned violently enough for her

swirling dress to push a draught of air into Roland's face, and then

took her leave. Coquina stayed a moment.

'Be discreet, and mayhap someone ye like better than ye like me

will get out of hack in the morning, instead of a week from

tonight.'

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and followed Sister Tamra.

Roland and John Norman waited until they were both gone, and

then Norman turned to Roland and spoke in a low voice. 'My

brother. Dead?'

Roland nodded. 'The medallion I took in case I should meet with

any of his people. It rightly belongs to you. I'm sorry for your loss.'

'Thankee-sai. ' John Norman's lower lip trembled, then firmed. 'I

knew the green men did for him, although these old biddies

wouldn't tell me for sure. They did for plenty, and cotched the rest.'

'Perhaps the Sisters didn't know for sure.'

'They knew. Don't you doubt it. They don't say much, but they

know plenty. The only one any different is Jenna. That's who the

old battle-axe meant when she said "your friend". Aye?'

Roland nodded. 'And she said something about the Dark Bells. I'd

know more of that, if would were could.'

'She's something special, Jenna is. More like a princess - someone

whose place is made by bloodline and can't be refused - than like

the other Sisters. I lie here and look like I'm asleep - it's safer, I

think - but I've heard 'em talking. Jenna's just come back among

'em recently, and those Dark Bells mean something special ... but

Mary's still the one who swings the weight. I think the Dark Bells

are only ceremonial, like the rings the old Barons used to hand

down from father to son. Was it she who put Jimmy's medal

around your neck?'

'Yes.'

'Don't take it off, whatever you do.' His face was strained, grim. 'I

don't know if it's the gold or the God, but they don't like to get too

close. I think that's the only reason I'm still here.' Now his voice

dropped all the way to a whisper. 'They ain't human.'

'Well, perhaps a bit fey and magical, but-`

'No!' With what was clearly an effort, the boy got up on one elbow.

He looked at Roland earnestly. 'You're thinking about hubber-

women, or witches. These ain't hubbers, nor witches, either. They

ain't human!'

'Then what are they?'

'Don't know.'

'How came you here, John?'

Speaking in a low voice, John Norman told Roland what he knew

of what had happened to him. He, his brother, and four other

young men who were quick and owned good horses had been hired

as scouts, riding drogue-and-forward, protecting a long-haul

caravan of seven freightwagons taking goods - seeds, food, tools,

mail, and four ordered brides - to an unincorporated township

called Tejuas some two hundred miles further west of Eluria. The

scouts rode fore and aft of the goods-train in turn and turn about

fashion; one brother rode with each party because, Norman

explained, when they were together they fought like ... well ...

'Like brothers,' Roland suggested.

John Norman managed a brief, pained smile. 'Aye,' he said.

The trio of which John was a part had been riding drogue, about

two miles behind the freight-wagons, when the green mutants had

sprung an ambush in Eluria.

'How many wagons did you see when you got there?' he asked

Roland. 'Only one. Overturned.'

'How many bodies?'

'Only your brother's.'

John Norman nodded grimly. 'They wouldn't take him because of

the medallion, I think.'

'The muties?'

'The Sisters. The muties care nothing for gold or God. These

bitches, though . . .' He looked into the dark, which was now

almost complete. Roland felt lethargy creeping over him again, but

it wasn't until later that he realized the soup had been drugged.