sk.everythingseventual-第38部分

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　all。
　　
　　
　　II。　Rising。　Hanging　Suspended。　White　Beauty。
　　Two　Others。　The　Medallion。
　　
　　The　gunslinger's　return　to　the　world　wasn't　like　ing　back　to　consciousness　after　a　blow；　which　he'd　done　several　times　before；　and　it　wasn't　like　waking　from　sleep；　either。　It　was　like　rising。
　　I'm　dead；　he　thought　at　some　point　during　this　process　。　。　。　when　the　power　to　think　had　been　at　least　partially　restored　to　him。　Dead　and　rising　into　whatever　afterlife　there　is。　That's　what　it　must　be。　The　singing　I　hear　is　the　singing　of　dead　souls。
　　Total　blackness　gave　way　to　the　dark　gray　of　rainclouds；　then　to　the　lighter　gray　of　fog。　This　brightened　to　the　uniform　clarity　of　a　heavy　mist　moments　before　the　sun　breaks　through。　And　through　it　all　was　that　sense　of　rising；　as　if　he　had　been　caught　in　some　mild　but　powerful　updraft。
　　As　the　sense　of　rising　began　to　diminish　and　the　brightness　behind　his　eyelids　grew；　Roland　at　last　began　to　believe　he　was　still　alive。　It　was　the　singing　that　convinced　him。　Not　dead　souls；　not　the　heavenly　host　of　angels　sometimes　described　by　the　Jesus…Man　preachers；　but　only　those　bugs。　A　little　like　crickets；　but　sweeter…voiced。　The　ones　he　had　heard　in　Eluria。
　　On　this　thought；　he　opened　his　eyes。
　　His　belief　that　he　was　still　alive　was　severely　tried；　for　Roland　found　himself　hanging　suspended　in　a　world　of　white　beauty…his　first　bewildered　thought　was　that　he　was　in　the　sky；　floating　within　a　fair…weather　cloud。　All　around　him　was　the　reedy　singing　of　the　bugs。　Now　he　could　hear　the　tinkling　of　bells；　too。
　　He　tried　to　turn　his　head　and　swayed　in　some　sort　of　harness。　He　could　hear　it　creaking。　The　soft　singing　of　the　bugs；　like　crickets　in　the　grass　at　the　end　of　day　back　home　in　Gilead；　hesitated　and　broke　rhythm。　When　it　did；　what　felt　like　a　tree　of　pain　grew　up　Roland's　back。　He　had　no　idea　what　its　burning　branches　might　be；　but　the　trunk　was　surely　his　spine。　A　far　deadlier　pain　sank　into　one　of　his　lower　legs…in　his　confusion；　the　gunslinger　could　not　tell　which　one。　That's　where　the　club　with　the　nails　in　it　got　me；　he　thought。　And　more　pain　in　his　head。　His　skull　felt　like　a　badly　cracked　egg。　He　cried　out；　and　could　hardly　believe　that　the　harsh　crow's　caw　he　heard　came　from　his　own　throat。　He　thought　he　could　also　hear；　very　faintly；　the　barking　of　the　cross…dog；　but　surely　that　was　his　imagination。
　　Am　I　dying？　Have　I　awakened　once　more　at　the　very　end？
　　A　hand　stroked　his　brow。　He　could　feel　it　but　not　see　it…fingers　trailing　across　his　skin；　pausing　here　and　there　to　massage　a　knot　or　a　line。　Delicious；　like　a　drink　of　cool　water　on　a　hot　day。　He　began　to　close　his　eyes；　and　then　a　horrible　idea　came　to　him：　suppose　that　hand　were　green；　its　owner　wearing　a　tattered　red　vest　over　her　hanging　dugs？
　　What　if　it　is？　What　could　you　do？
　　'Hush；　man；'　a　young　woman's　voice　said　。　。　。　or　perhaps　it　was　the　voice　of　a　girl。　Certainly　the　first　person　Roland　thought　of　was　Susan；　the　girl　from　Mejis；　she　who　had　spoken　to　him　as　thee。
　　'Where　。　。　。　where　。　。　。'
　　'Hush；　stir　not。　'Tis　far　too　soon。'
　　The　pain　in　his　back　was　subsiding　now；　but　the　image　of　the　pain　as　a　tree　remained；　for　his　very　skin　seemed　to　be　moving　like　leaves　in　a　light　breeze。　How　could　that　be？
　　He　let　the　question　go…let　all　questions　go…and　concentrated　on　the　small；　cool　hand　stroking　his　brow。
　　'Hush；　pretty　man；　God's　love　be　upon　ye。　Yet　it's　sore　hurt　ye　are。　Be　still。　Heal。'
　　The　dog　had　hushed　its　barking　（if　it　had　ever　been　there　in　the　first　place）；　and　Roland　became　aware　of　that　low　creaking　sound　again。　It　reminded　him　of　horse　tethers；　or　something
　　（hangropes）
　　he　didn't　like　to　think　of。　Now　he　believed　he　could　feel　pressure　beneath　his　thighs；　his　buttocks；　and　perhaps　。　。　。　yes　。　。　。　his　shoulders。
　　I'm　not　in　a　bed　at　all。　I　think　I'm　above　a　bed。　Can　that　be？
　　He　supposed　he　could　be　in　a　sling。　He　seemed　to　remember　once；　as　a　boy；　that　some　fellow　had　been　suspended　that　way　in　the　horse　doctor's　room　behind　the　Great　Hall。　A　stablehand　who　had　been　burned　too　badly　by　kerosene　to　be　laid　in　a　bed。　The　man　had　died；　but　not　soon　enough；　for　two　nights；　his　shrieks　had　filled　the　sweet　summer　air　of　the　Gathering　Fields。
　　Am　I　burned；　then；　nothing　but　a　cinder　with　legs；　hanging　in　a　sling？
　　The　fingers　touched　the　center　of　his　brow；　rubbing　away　the　frown　forming　there。　And　it　was　as　if　the　voice　which　went　with　the　hand　had　read　his　thoughts；　picking　them　up　with　the　tips　of　her　clever；　soothing　fingers。
　　'Ye'll　be　fine　if　God　wills；　sai；'　the　voice　which　went　with　the　hand　said。　'But　time　belongs　to　God；　not　to　you。'
　　No；　he　would　have　said；　if　he　had　been　able。　Time　belongs　to　the　Tower。
　　Then　he　slipped　down　again；　descending　as　smoothly　as　he　had　risen；　going　away　from　the　hand　and　the　dreamlike　sounds　of　the　singing　insects　and　chiming　bells。　There　was　an　interval　that　might　have　been　sleep；　or　perhaps　unconsciousness；　but　he　never　went　all　the　way　back　down。
　　At　one　point　he　thought　he　heard　the　girl's　voice；　although　he　couldn't　be　sure；　because　this　time　it　was　raised　in　fury；　or　fear；　or　both。　'No！'　she　cried。　'Ye　can't　have　it　off　him　and　ye　know　it！　Go　your　course　and　stop　talking　of　it；　do！'
　　When　he　rose　back　to　consciousness　the　second　time；　he　was　no　stronger　in　body；　but　a　little　more　himself　in　mind。　What　he　saw　when　he　opened　his　eyes　wasn't　the　inside　of　a　cloud；　but　at　first　that　same　phrase…white　beauty…recurred　to　him。　It　was　in　some　ways　the　most　beautiful　place　Roland　had　ever　been　in　his　life　。　。　。　partially　because　he　still　had　a　life；　of　course；　but　mostly　because　it　was　so　fey　and　peaceful。
　　It　was　a　huge　room；　high　and　long。　When　Roland　at　last　turned　his　head…cautiously；　so　cautiously…to　take　its　measure　as　well　as　he　could；　he　thought　it　must　run　at　least　two　hundred　yards　from　end　to　end。　It　was　built　narrow；　but　its　height　gave　the　place　a　feeling　of　tremendous　airiness。
　　There　were　no　walls　or　ceilings　such　as　those　he　was　familiar　with；　although　it　was　a　little　like　being　in　a　vast　tent。　Above　him；　the　sun　struck　and　diffused　its　light　across　billowy　panels　of　thin　white　silk；　turning　them　into　the　bright　swags　that　he　had　first　mistaken　for　clouds。　Beneath　this　silk　canopy；　the　room　was　as　gray　as　twilight。　The　walls；　also　silk；　rippled　like　sails　in　a　faint　breeze。　Hanging　from　each　wall　panel　was　a　curved　rope　bearing　small　bells。　These　lay　against　the　fabric　and　rang　in　low　and　charming　unison；　like　wind　chimes；　when　the　walls　rippled。
　　An　aisle　ran　down　the　center　of　the　long　room；　on　either　side　of　it　were　scores　of　beds；　each　made　up　with　clean　white　sheets　and　headed　with　crisp　white　pillows。　There　were　perhaps　forty　on　the　far　side　of　the　aisle；　all　empty；　and　another　forty　on　Roland's　side。　There　were　two　other　occupied　beds　here；　one　next　to　Roland　on　his　right。　This　fellow　…
　　It's　the　boy。　The　one　who　was　in　the　trough。
　　The　idea　ran　goose…bumps　up　Roland's　arms　and　gave　him　a　nasty；　superstitious　start。　He　peered　more　closely　at　the　sleeping　boy。
　　Can't　be。　You're　just　dazed；　that's　all；　it　can't　be。
　　Yet　closer　scrutiny　refused　to　dispel　the　idea。　It　certainly　seemed　to　be　the　boy　from　the　trough；　probably　ill　（why　else　would　he　be　in　a　place　like　this？）　but　far　from　dead；　Roland　could　see　the　slow　rise　and　fall　of　his　chest；　and　the　occasional　twitch　of　the　fingers　that　dangled　over　the　side　of　the　bed。
　　You　didn't　get　a　good　enough　look　at　him　to　be　sure　of　anything；　and　after　a　few　days　in　that　trough；　his　own　mother　couldn't　have　said　for　sure　who　it　was。
　　But　Roland；　who'd　had　a　mother；　knew　better　than　that。　He　also　knew　that　he'd　seen　the　gold　medallion　around　the　boy's　neck。　Just　before　the　attack　of　the　green　folk；　he　had　taken　it　from　this　lad's　corpse　and　put　it　in　his　pocket。　Now　someone…the　proprietors　of　this　place；　most　likely；　those　who　had　sorcerously　restored　the　lad　named　James　to　his　interrupted　life…had　taken　it　back　from　Roland　and　put　it　around　the　boy's　neck　again。
　　Had　the　girl　with　the　wonderfully　cool　hand　done　that？　Did　she　in　consequence　think　Roland　a　ghoul　who