Fingers once more caressed his fingers, and lips first kissed his ear
and then whispered into it: 'Look beneath your pillow, Roland ...
but let no one know I was here.'
At some point after this, Roland opened his eyes again, half-
expecting to see Sister Jenna's pretty young face hovering above
him, and that comma of dark hair once more poking out from
beneath her wimple. There was no one. The swags of silk overhead
were at their brightest, and although it was impossible to tell the
hours in here with any real accuracy, Roland guessed it to be
around noon. Perhaps three hours since his second bowl of the
Sisters' soup.
Beside him, John Norman still slept, his breath whistling out in
faint, nasal snores.
Roland tried to raise his hand and slide it under his pillow. The
hand wouldn't move. He could wiggle the tips of his fingers, but
that was all. He waited, calming his mind as well as he could,
gathering his patience.' Patience wasn't easy to come by. He kept
thinking about what Norman had said - that there had been twenty
survivors of the ambush ... at least to start with. One by one they
went, until only me and that one down yonder was left. And now
you.
The girl wasn't here. His mind spoke in the soft, regretful tone of
Alain, one of his old friends, dead these many years now. She
wouldn't dare, not with the others watching. That was only a
dream you had.
But Roland thought perhaps it had been more than a dream.
Some length of time later - the slowly shifting brightness overhead
made him believe it had been about an hour - Roland tried his hand
again. This time he was able to get it beneath his pillow. This was
puffy and soft, tucked snugly into the wide sling which supported
the gunslinger's neck. At first he found nothing, but as his fingers
worked their slow way deeper, they touched what felt like a stiffish
bundle of thin rods.
He paused, gathering a little more strength (every movement was
like swimming in glue), and then burrowed deeper. It felt like a
dead bouquet. Wrapped around it was what felt like a ribbon.
Roland looked around to make sure the ward was still empty and
Norman still asleep, then drew out what was under the pillow. It
was six brittle stems of fading green with brownish reed-heads at
the tops. They gave off a strange, yeasty aroma that made Roland
think of early-morning begging expeditions to the Great House
kitchens as a child - forays he had usually made with Cuthbert. The
reeds were tied with a wide white silk ribbon, and smelled like
burned toast. Beneath the ribbon was a fold of cloth. Like
everything else in this cursed place, it seemed, the cloth was of
silk.
Roland was breathing hard and could feel drops of sweat on his
brow. Still alone, though - good. He took the scrap of cloth and
unfolded it. Printed painstakingly in blurred charcoal letters, was
this message:
NIBBLE HEDS. Once each hour. Too
much, CRAMPS or DETH.
TOMORROW NITE. Can't be sooner.
BE CAREFUL!
No explanation, but Roland supposed none was needed. Nor did he
have any option; if he remained here, he would die. All they had to
do was have the medallion off him, and he felt sure Sister Mary
was smart enough to figure a way to do that.
He nibbled at one of the dry reed-heads. The taste was nothing like
the toast they had begged from the kitchen as boys; it was bitter in
his throat and hot in his stomach. Less than a minute after his
nibble, his heart-rate had doubled. His muscles awakened, but not
in a pleasant way, as after good sleep; they felt first trembly and
then hard, as if they were gathered into knots. This feeling passed
rapidly, and his heartbeat was back to normal before Norman
stirred awake an hour or so later, but he understood why Jenna's
note had warned him not to take more than a nibble at a time - this
was very powerful stuff.
He slipped the bouquet of reeds back under the pillow, being
careful to brush away the few crumbles of vegetable matter which
had dropped to the sheet. Then he used the ball of his thumb to
blur the painstaking charcoaled words on the bit of silk. When he
was finished, there was nothing on the square but meaningless
smudges. The square he also tucked back under his pillow.
When Norman awoke, he and the gunslinger spoke briefly of the
young scout's home - Delain, it was, sometimes known jestingly as
Dragon's Lair, or Liar's Heaven. All tall tales were said to orginate
in Delain. The boy asked Roland to take his medallion and that of
his brother home to their parents, if Roland was able, and explain
as well as he could what had happened to James and John, sons of
Jesse.
'You'll do all that yourself,' Roland said.
'No.' Norman tried to raise his hand, perhaps to scratch his nose,
and was unable to do even that. The hand rose perhaps six inches,
then fell back to the counterpane with a small thump. 'I think not.
It's a pity for us to have run up against each other this way, you
know - I like you.'
'And I you, John Norman. Would that we were better met.'
'Aye. When not in the company of such fascinating ladies.'
He dropped off to sleep again soon after. Roland never spoke with
him again ... although he certainly heard from him. Yes. Roland
was lying above his bed, shamming sleep, as John Norman
screamed his last.
Sister Michela came with his evening soup just as Roland was
getting past the shivery muscles and galloping heartbeat that
resulted from his second nibble of brown reed. Michela looked at
his flushed face with some concern, but had to accept his
assurances that he did not feel feverish; she couldn't bring herself
to touch him and judge the heat of his skin for herself - the
medallion held her away.
With the soup was a popkin. The bread was leathery and the meat
inside it tough, but Roland demolished it greedily, just the same.
Michela watched with a complacent smile, hands folded in front of
her, nodding from time to time. When he had finished the soup,
she took the bowl back from him carefully, making sure their
fingers did not touch.
'Ye're healing,' she said. 'Soon you'll be on yer way, and we'll have
just yer memory to keep, Jim.'
'Is that true?' he asked quietly.
She only looked at him, touched her tongue against her upper lip,
giggled, and departed. Roland closed his eyes and lay back against
hi pillow, feeling lethargy steal over him again. Her speculative
eyes ... he peeping tongue. He had seen women look at roast
chickens and joints of mutton that same way, calculating when
they might be done.
His body badly wanted to sleep, but Roland held on to wakefulness
for what he judged was an hour, then worked one of the reeds out
from under the pillow. With a fresh infusion of their 'can't-move-
medicine' in his system, this took an enormous effort, and he
wasn't sure he could have done it at all, had he not separated this
one reed from the ribbon holding the others. Tomorrow night,
Jenna's note had said. If that meant escape, the idea seemed
preposterous. The way he felt now, he might be lying in this bed
until the end of the age.
He nibbled. Energy washed into his system, clenching his muscles
and racing his heart, but the burst of vitality was gone almost as
soon as it came, buried beneath the Sisters' stronger drug. He could
only hope ... and sleep.
When he woke it was full dark, and he found he could move his
arms and legs in their network of slings almost naturally. He