sk.everythingseventual-第34部分

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tcher；　puffed　its　lips　out　in　a　woof　that　was　mostly　a　whisper；　then　lowered　its　head　again　and　appeared　to　go　back　to　sleep。
　　Fletcher　dropped　to　his　knees；　put　his　hands　（one　still　holding　Ramón's　gun）　on　the　floor；　bent；　and　kissed　the　lino。　As　he　did　it　he　thought　of　his　sister…how　she　had　looked　going　off　to　college　eight　years　before　her　death　by　the　river。　She　had　been　wearing　a　tartan　skirt　on　the　day　she'd　gone　off　to　college；　and　the　red　in　it　hadn't　been　the　exact　same　red　of　the　faded　lino；　but　it　was　close。　Close　enough　for　government　work；　as　they　said。
　　Fletcher　got　up。　He　started　down　the　hall　toward　the　stairs；　the　first…floor　hallway；　the　street；　the　city；　Highway　4；　the　patrols；　the　roadblocks；　the　border；　the　checkpoints；　the　water。　The　Chinese　said　a　journey　of　a　thousand　miles　started　with　a　single　step。
　　I'll　see　how　far　I　get；　Fletcher　thought　as　he　reached　the　foot　of　the　stairs。　I　might　just　surprise　myself。　But　he　was　already　surprised；　just　to　be　alive。　Smiling　a　little；　holding　Ramón's　gun　out　before　him；　Fletcher　started　up　the　stairs。
　　
　　A　month　later；　a　man　walked　up　to　Carlo　Arcuzzi's　newsstand　kiosk　on　Forty…third　Street。　Carlo　had　a　nasty　moment　when　he　was　almost　sure　the　man　meant　to　stick　a　gun　in　his　face　and　rob　him。　It　was　only　eight　o'clock　and　still　light；　lots　of　people　about；　but　did　any　of　those　things　stop　a　man　who　was　pazzo？　And　this　man　looked　plenty　pazzo…so　thin　his　white　shirt　and　gray　pants　seemed　to　float　on　him；　and　his　eyes　lay　at　the　bottom　of　great　round　sockets。　He　looked　like　a　man　who　had　just　been　released　from　a　concentration　camp　or　（by　some　huge　mistake）　a　loony　bin。　When　his　hand　went　into　his　pants　pocket；　Carlo　Arcuzzi　thought；　Now　es　the　gun。
　　But　instead　of　a　gun　came　a　battered　old　Lord　Buxton；　and　from　the　wallet　came　a　ten…dollar　bill。　Then；　in　a　perfectly　sane　tone　of　voice；　the　man　in　the　white　shirt　and　gray　pants　asked　for　a　pack　of　Marlboros。　Carlo　got　them；　put　a　package　of　matches　on　top　of　them；　and　pushed　them　across　the　counter　of　his　kiosk。　While　the　man　opened　the　Marlboros；　Carlo　made　change。
　　'No；'　the　man　said　when　he　saw　the　change。　He　had　put　one　of　the　cigarettes　in　his　mouth。
　　'No？　What　you　mean　no？'
　　'I　mean　keep　the　change；'　the　man　said。　He　offered　the　pack　to　Carlo。　'Do　you　smoke？　Have　one　of　these；　if　you　like。'
　　Carlo　looked　mistrustfully　at　the　man　in　the　white　shirt　and　gray　pants。　'I　don't　smoke。　It's　a　bad　habit。'
　　'Very　bad；'　the　man　agreed；　then　lit　his　cigarette　and　inhaled　with　apparent　pleasure。　He　stood　smoking　and　watching　the　people　on　the　other　side　of　the　street。　There　were　girls　on　the　other　side　of　the　street。　Men　would　look　at　girls　in　their　summer　clothes；　that　was　human　nature。　Carlo　didn't　think　this　customer　was　crazy　anymore；　although　he　had　left　the　change　of　a　ten…dollar　bill　sitting　on　the　narrow　counter　of　the　kiosk。
　　The　thin　man　smoked　the　cigarette　all　the　way　down　to　the　filter。　He　turned　toward　Carlo；　staggering　a　little；　as　if　he　was　not　used　to　smoking　and　the　cigarette　had　made　him　dizzy。
　　'A　nice　night；'　the　man　said。
　　Carlo　nodded。　It　was。　It　was　a　nice　night。　'We're　lucky　to　be　alive；'　Carlo　said。
　　The　man　nodded。　'All　of　us。　All　of　the　time。'
　　He　walked　to　the　curb；　where　there　was　a　litter　basket。　He　dropped　the　pack　of　cigarettes；　full　save　one；　into　the　litter　basket。　'All　of　us；'　he　said。　'All　of　the　time。'　He　walked　away。　Carlo　watched　him　go　and　thought　that　maybe　he　was　pazzo　after　all。　Or　maybe　not。　Crazy　was　a　hard　state　to　define。
　　
　　
　　This　is　a　slightly　Kafka…esque　story　about　an　interrogation　room　in　the　South　American　version　of　Hell。　In　such　stories；　the　fellow　being　interrogated　usually　ends　up　spilling　everything　and　then　being　killed　（or　losing　his　mind）。　I　wanted　to　write　one　with　a　happier　ending；　however　unreal　that　might　be。　And　here　it　is。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　LITTLE　SISTERS　OF　ELURIA
　　
　　
　　If　there's　a　magnum　opus　in　my　life；　it's　probably　the　yet　unfinished　seven…volume　series　about　Roland　Deschain　of　Gilead　and　his　search　for　the　Dark　Tower　which　serves　as　the　hub　of　existence。　In　1996　or　1997；　Ralph　Vicinanza　（my　sometime　agent　and　foreign　rights　man　of　business）　asked　me　if　I'd　like　to　contribute　a　story　about　Roland's　younger　years　for　a　whopper　fantasy　anthology　Robert　Silverberg　was　putting　together。　I　tentatively　agreed。　Nothing　came；　though；　and　nothing　came。　I　was　about　to　give　up　when　I　woke　one　morning　thinking　about　The　Talisman；　and　the　great　pavilion　where　Jack　Sawyer　first　glimpses　the　Queen　of　the　Territories。　In　the　shower　（where　I　invariably　do　my　best　imagining…I　think　it's　a　womb　thing）；　I　started　to　visualize　that　tent　in　ruins　。　。　。　but　still　filled　with　whispering　women。　Ghosts。　Maybe　vampires。　Little　Sisters。　Nurses　of　death　instead　of　life。　posing　a　story　from　that　central　image　was　amazingly　difficult。　I　had　lots　of　space　to　move　around　in…Silverberg　wanted　short　novels；　not　short　stories…but　it　was　still　hard。　These　days；　everything　about　Roland　and　his　friends　wants　to　be　not　just　long　but　sort　of　epic。　One　thing　this　story　has　going　for　it　is　that　you　don't　need　to　have　read　the　Dark　Tower　novels　to　enjoy　it。　And　by　the　way；　for　you　Tower　junkies；　DT　5　is　now　finished；　all　nine　hundred　pages　of　it。　It's　called　Wolves　of　the　Calla。
　　
　　
　　
　　＇Author's　Note：　The　Dark　Tower　books　begin　with　Roland　of　Gilead；　the　last　gunslinger　in　an　exhausted　world　that　has　'moved　on；'　pursuing　a　magician　in　a　black　robe。　Roland　has　been　chasing　Walter　for　a　very　long　time。　In　the　first　book　of　the　cycle；　he　finally　catches　up。　This　story；　however；　takes　place　while　Roland　is　still　casting　about　for　Walter's　trail。　S。　K。＇
　　
　　
　　
　　I。　Full　Earth。　The　Empty　Town。　The　Bells。
　　The　Dead　Boy。　The　Overturned　Wagon。
　　The　Green　Folk。
　　
　　On　a　day　in　Full　Earth　so　hot　that　it　seemed　to　suck　the　breath　from　his　chest　before　his　body　could　use　it；　Roland　of　Gilead　came　to　the　gates　of　a　village　in　the　Desatoya　Mountains。　He　was　travelling　alone　by　then；　and　would　soon　be　travelling　afoot；　as　well。　This　whole　last　week　he　had　been　hoping　for　a　horse　doctor；　but　guessed　such　a　fellow　would　do　him　no　good　now；　even　if　this　town　had　one。　His　mount；　a　two…year…old　roan；　was　pretty　well　done　for。
　　The　town　gates；　still　decorated　with　flowers　from　some　festival　or　other；　stood　open　and　weling；　but　the　silence　beyond　them　was　all　wrong。　The　gunslinger　heard　no　clip…clop　of　horses；　no　rumble　of　wagon　wheels；　no　merchants'　huckstering　cries　from　the　marketplace。　The　only　sounds　were　the　low　hum　of　crickets　（some　sort　of　bug；　at　any　rate；　they　were　a　bit　more　tuneful　than　crickets；　at　that）；　a　queer　wooden　knocking　sound；　and　the　faint；　dreamy　tinkle　of　small　bells。
　　Also；　the　flowers　twined　through　the　wrought…iron　staves　of　the　ornamental　gate　were　long　dead。
　　Between　his　knees；　Topsy　gave　two　great；　hollow　sneezes…K'chow！　K'chow！…and　staggered　sideways。　Roland　dismounted；　partly　out　of　respect　for　the　horse；　partly　out　of　respect　for　himself…he　didn't　want　to　break　a　leg　under　Topsy　if　Topsy　chose　this　moment　to　give　up　and　canter　into　the　clearing　at　the　end　of　his　path。
　　The　gunslinger　stood　in　his　dusty　boots　and　faded　jeans　under　the　beating　sun；　stroking　the　roan's　matted　neck；　pausing　every　now　and　then　to　yank　his　fingers　through　the　tangles　of　Topsy's　mane；　and　stopping　once　to　shoo　off　the　tiny　flies　clustering　at　the　corners　of　Topsy's　eyes。　Let　them　lay　their　eggs　and　hatch　their　maggots　there　after　Topsy　was　dead；　but　not　before。
　　Roland　thus　honored　his　horse　as　best　he　could；　listening　to　those　distant；　dreamy　bells　and　the　strange　wooden　tocking　sound　as　he　did。　After　awhile　he　ceased　his　absent　grooming　and　looked　thoughtfully　at　the　open　gate。
　　The　cross　above　its　center　was　a　bit　unusual；　but　otherwise　the　gate　was　a　typical　example　of　its　type；　a　western　monplace　which　was　not　useful　but　traditional…all　the　little　towns　he　had　e　to　in　the　last　tenmonth　seemed　to　have　one　such　where　you　came　in　（grand）　and　one　more　such　where　you　went　out　（not　so　grand）。　None　had　been　built　to　exclude　visitors；　certainly　not　this　o