sk.everythingseventual-第50部分

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　　'Would　ye　kiss　me　as　a　man　does　a　woman；　Roland？　On　my　mouth？'
　　'Aye。'
　　And；　as　he　had　thought　of　doing　as　he　lay　caught　in　the　silken　infir…mary　tent；　he　kissed　her　lips。　She　kissed　back　with　the　clumsy　sweetness　of　one　who　has　never　kissed　before；　except　perhaps　in　dreams。　Roland　thought　to　make　love　to　her　then…it　had　been　long　and　long；　and　she　was　beautiful…but　he　fell　asleep　instead；　still　kissing　her。
　　He　dreamed　of　the　cross…dog；　barking　its　way　across　a　great　open　landscape。　He　followed；　wanting　to　see　the　source　of　its　agitation；　and　soon　he　did。　At　the　far　edge　of　that　plain　stood　the　Dark　Tower；　its　smoky　stone　outlined　by　the　dull　orange　ball　of　a　setting　sun；　its　fearful　windows　rising　in　a　spiral。　The　dog　stopped　at　the　sight　of　it　and　began　to　howl。
　　Bells…peculiarly　shrill　and　as　terrible　as　doom…began　to　ring。　Dark　Bells；　he　knew；　but　their　tone　was　as　bright　as　silver。　At　their　sound；　the　dark　windows　of　the　Tower　glowed　with　a　deadly　red　light…the　red　of　poisoned　roses。　A　scream　of　unbearable　pain　rose　in　the　night。
　　The　dream　blew　away　in　an　instant；　but　the　scream　remained；　now　unraveling　to　a　moan。　That　part　was　real…as　real　as　the　Tower；　brooding　in　its　place　at　the　very　end　of　End…World。　Roland　came　back　to　the　brightness　of　dawn　and　the　soft　purple　smell　of　desert　sage。　He　had　drawn　both　his　guns；　and　was　on　his　feet　before　he　had　fully　realized　he　was　awake。
　　Jenna　was　gone。　Her　boots　lay　empty　beside　his　purse。　A　little　distance　from　them；　her　jeans　lay　as　flat　as　discarded　snakeskins。　Above　them　was　her　shirt。　It　was；　Roland　observed　with　wonder；　still　tucked　into　the　pants。　Beyond　them　was　her　empty　wimple；　with　its　fringe　of　bells　lying　on　the　powdery　ground。　He　thought　for　a　moment　that　they　were　ringing；　mistaking　the　sound　he　heard　at　first。
　　Not　bells　but　bugs。　The　doctor…bugs。　They　sang　in　the　sage；　sounding　a　bit　like　crickets；　but　far　sweeter。
　　'Jenna？'
　　No　answer　。　。　。　unless　the　bugs　answered。　For　their　singing　suddenly　stopped。
　　'Jenna？'
　　Nothing。　Only　the　wind　and　the　smell　of　the　sage。
　　Without　thinking　about　what　he　was　doing　（like　playacting；　reasoned　thought　was　not　his　strong　suit）；　he　bent；　picked　up　the　wimple；　and　shook　it。　The　Dark　Bells　rang。
　　For　a　moment　there　was　nothing。　Then　a　thousand　small　dark　creatures　came　scurrying　out　of　the　sage；　gathering　on　the　broken　earth。　Roland　thought　of　the　battalion　marching　down　the　side　of　the　freighter's　bed　and　took　a　step　back。　Then　he　held　his　position。　As；　he　saw；　the　bugs　were　holding　theirs。
　　He　believed　he　understood。　Some　of　this　understanding　came　from　his　memory　of　how　Sister　Mary's　flesh　had　felt　under　his　hands　。　。　。　how　it　had　felt　various；　not　one　thing　but　many。　Part　of　it　was　what　she　had　said：　I　have　supped　with　them。　Such　as　them　might　never　die　。　。　。　but　they　might　change。
　　The　insects　trembled；　a　dark　cloud　of　them　blotting　out　the　white；　powdery　earth。
　　Roland　shook　the　bells　again。
　　A　shiver　ran　through　them　in　a　subtle　wave；　and　then　they　began　to　form　a　shape。　They　hesitated　as　if　unsure　of　how　to　go　on；　regrouped；　began　again。　What　they　eventually　made　on　the　whiteness　of　the　sand　there　between　the　blowing　fluffs　of　lilac…colored　sage　was　one　of　the　Great　Letters：　the　letter　C。
　　Except　it　wasn't　really　a　letter；　the　gunslinger　saw；　it　was　a　curl。　They　began　to　sing；　and　to　Roland　it　sounded　as　if　they　were　singing　his　name。
　　The　bells　fell　from　his　unnerved　hand；　and　when　they　struck　the　ground　and　chimed　there；　the　mass　of　bugs　broke　apart；　running　in　every　direction。　He　thought　of　calling　them　back…ringing　the　bells　again　might　do　that…but　to　what　purpose？　To　what　end？
　　Ask　me　not；　Roland。　'Tis　done；　the　bridge　burned。
　　Yet　she　had　e　to　him　one　last　time；　imposing　her　will　over　a　thousand　various　parts　that　should　have　lost　the　ability　to　think　when　the　whole　lost　its　cohesion　。　。　。　and　yet　she　had　thought；　somehow…enough　to　make　that　shape。　How　much　effort　might　that　have　taken？
　　They　fanned　wider　and　wider；　some　disappearing　into　the　sage；　some　trundling　up　the　sides　of　a　rock　overhang；　pouring　into　the　cracks　where　they　would；　mayhap；　wait　out　the　heat　of　the　day。
　　They　were　gone。　She　was　gone。
　　Roland　sat　down　on　the　ground　and　put　his　hands　over　his　face。　He　thought　he　might　weep；　but　in　time　the　urge　passed；　when　he　raised　his　head　again；　his　eyes　were　as　dry　as　the　desert　he　would　eventually　e　to；　still　following　the　trail　of　Walter；　the　man　in　black。
　　If　there's　to　be　damnation；　she　had　said；　let　it　be　of　my　choosing；　not　theirs。
　　He　knew　a　little　about　damnation　himself　。　。　。　and　he　had　an　idea　that　the　lessons；　far　from　being　done；　were　just　beginning。
　　She　had　brought　him　the　purse　with　his　tobacco　in　it。　He　rolled　a　cigarette　and　smoked　it　hunkered　over　his　knees。　He　smoked　it　down　to　a　glowing　roach；　looking　at　her　empty　clothes　the　while；　remembering　the　steady　gaze　of　her　dark　eyes。　Remembering　the　scorch…marks　on　her　fingers　from　the　chain　of　the　medallion。　Yet　she　had　picked　it　up；　because　she　had　known　he　would　want　it；　had　dared　that　pain；　and　Roland　now　wore　both　around　his　neck。
　　When　the　sun　was　fully　up；　the　gunslinger　moved　on　west。　He　would　find　another　horse　eventually；　or　a　mule；　but　for　now　he　was　content　to　walk。　All　that　day　he　was　haunted　by　a　ringing；　singing　sound　in　his　ears；　a　sound　like　bells。　Several　times　he　stopped　and　looked　around；　sure　he　would　see　a　dark　following　shape　flowing　over　the　ground；　chasing　after　as　the　shadows　of　our　best　and　worst　memories　chase　after；　but　no　shape　was　ever　there。　He　was　alone　in　the　low　hill　country　west　of　Eluria。
　　Quite　alone。
　　
　　　
　　　
　　　EVERYTHING'S　EVENTUAL
　　
　　
　　One　day；　out　of　nowhere；　I　had　a　clear　image　of　a　young　man　pouring　change　into　a　sewer　grating　outside　of　the　small　suburban　house　in　which　he　lived。　I　had　nothing　else；　but　the　image　was　so　clear…and　so　disturbingly　odd…that　I　had　to　write　a　story　about　it。　It　came　out　smoothly　and　without　a　single　hesitation；　supporting　my　idea　that　stories　are　artifacts：　not　really　made　things　which　we　create　（and　can　take　credit　for）；　but　pre…existing　objects　which　we　dig　up。
　　
　　
　　I
　　
　　I've　got　a　good　job　now；　and　no　reason　to　feel　glum。　No　more　hanging　out　with　the　gumbyheads　at　the　Supr　Savr；　policing　up　the　Kart　Korral　and　getting　bothered　by　assholes　like　Skipper。　Skipper's　munching　the　old　dirt　sandwich　these　days；　but　one　thing　I　have　learned　in　my　nineteen　years　on　this　Planet　Earth　is　don't　relax；　there　are　Skippers　everywhere。
　　Ditto　no　more　pulling　pizza　patrol　on　rainy　nights；　driving　my　old　Ford　with　the　bad　muffler；　freezing　my　ass　off　with　the　driver's…side　window　down　and　a　little　Italian　flag　sticking　out　on　a　wire。　Like　somebody　in　Harkerville　was　going　to　salute。　Pizza　Roma。　Quarter　tips　from　people　who　don't　even　see　you；　because　most　of　their　mind's　still　on　the　TV　football　game。　Driving　for　Pizza　Roma　was　the　lowest　point；　I　think。　Since　then　I've　even　had　a　ride　in　a　private　jet；　so　how　could　things　be　bad？
　　'This　is　what　es　of　leaving　school　without　a　diploma；'　Ma　would　say　during　my　Delivery　Dan　stint。　And；　'You've　got　this　to　look　forward　to　for　the　rest　of　your　life。'　Good　old　Ma。　On　and　on；　until　I　actually　thought　about　writing　her　one　of　those　special　letters。　As　I　say；　that　was　the　low　point。　You　know　what　Mr。　Sharpton　told　me　that　night　in　his　car？　'It's　not　just　a　job；　Dink；　it's　a　goddam　adventure。'　And　he　was　right。　Whatever　he　might　have　been　wrong　about；　he　was　right　about　that。
　　I　suppose　you're　wondering　about　the　salary　of　this　famous　job。　Well；　I　got　to　tell　you；　there's　not　much　money　in　it。　Might　as　well　get　that　right　up　front。　But　a　job　isn't　just　about　money；　or　getting　ahead。　That's　what　Mr。　Sharpton　told　me。　Mr。　Sharpton　said　that　a　real　job　is　about　the　fringe　benefits。　He　said　that's　where　the　power　is。
　　Mr。　Sharpton。　I　only　saw　him　that　once；　sitting　behind　the　wheel　of　his　big　old　Mercedes…Benz；　but　sometimes　once　is　enough。
　　Take　that　any　way　you　want。　Any　old　way　at　all。
　　
　　II
　　
　　I've　got　a　house；　okay？　My　very　own　house。　That's　fringe　benefit　num