Part 19 (2/2)

”Now-now,” the man in black said, laughing. ”Oh, now-now- now now. We make great magic together, you and I. You kill me no more than you kill yourself.”

He withdrew, walking backwards, facing the gunslinger, grinning and beckoning. ”Come. Come. Come. Mother, may I? Yes-you-may.”

The gunslinger followed him in broken boots to the place of counseling.

The GUNSLINGER AND.

THE MAN IN BLACK.

CHAPTER FIVE.

The Gunslinger and the Man in Black

I.

The man in black led him to an ancient killing ground to make palaver. The gunslinger knew it immediately: a golgotha, place-of-the-skull. And bleached skulls stared blandly up at them-cattle, coyotes, deer, rabbits, b.u.mbler. Here the alabaster xylophone of a hen pheasant killed as she fed; there the tiny, delicate bones of a mole, perhaps killed for pleasure by a wild dog.

The golgotha was a bowl indented into the descending slope of the mountain, and below, in easier alt.i.tudes, the gunslinger could see Joshua trees and scrub firs. The sky overhead was a softer blue than he had seen for a twelve-month, and there was an indefinable something that spoke of the sea in the not-too-great distance.

I am in the West, Cuthbert, he thought wonderingly. he thought wonderingly. If this is not Mid-World, it's close by. If this is not Mid-World, it's close by.

The man in black sat on an ancient ironwood log. His boots were powdered white with dust and the uneasy bonemeal of this place. He had put his hood up again, but the gunslinger could see the square shape of his chin clearly, and the shading of his jaw.

The shadowed lips twitched in a smile. ”Gather wood, gunslinger. This side of the mountains is gentle, but at this alt.i.tude, the cold still may put a knife in one's belly. And this is a place of death, eh?”

”I'll kill you,” the gunslinger said.

”No you won't. You can't. But you can gather wood to remember your Isaac.”

The gunslinger had no understanding of the reference. He went wordlessly and gathered wood like a common cook's boy. The pickings were slim. There was no devil-gra.s.s on this side and the ironwood would not burn. It had become stone. He returned finally with a large armload of likely sticks, powdered and dusted with disintegrated bone, as if dipped in flour. The sun had sunk beyond the highest Joshua trees and had taken on a reddish glow. It peered at them with baleful indifference.

”Excellent,” the man in black said. ”How exceptional you are! How methodical! How resourceful! I salute you!” He giggled, and the gunslinger dropped the wood at his feet with a crash that ballooned up bone dust.

The man in black did not start or jump; he merely began laying the fire. The gunslinger watched, fascinated, as the ideogram (fresh, this time) took shape. When it was finished, it resembled a small and complex double chimney about two feet high. The man in black lifted his hand skyward, shaking back the voluminous sleeve from a tapered, handsome hand, and brought it down rapidly, index and pinky fingers forked out in the traditional sign of the evil eye. There was a blue flash of flame, and their fire was lighted.

”I have matches,” the man in black said jovially, ”but I thought you might enjoy the magic. For a pretty, gunslinger. Now cook our dinner.”

The folds of his robe s.h.i.+vered, and the plucked and gutted carca.s.s of a plump rabbit fell on the dirt.

The gunslinger spitted the rabbit wordlessly and roasted it. A savory smell drifted up as the sun went down. Purple shadows drifted hungrily over the bowl where the man in black had chosen to finally face him. The gunslinger felt hunger begin to rumble endlessly in his belly as the rabbit browned; but when the meat was cooked and its juices sealed in, he handed the entire skewer wordlessly to the man in black, rummaged in his own nearly flat knapsack, and withdrew the last of his jerky. It was salty, painful to his mouth, and tasted like tears.

”That's a worthless gesture,” the man in black said, managing to sound angry and amused at the same time.

”Nevertheless,” the gunslinger said. There were tiny sores in his mouth, the result of vitamin deprivation, and the salt taste made him grin bitterly.

”Are you afraid of enchanted meat?”

”Yes indeed.”

The man in black slipped his hood back.

The gunslinger looked at him silently. In a way, the face that the hood had hidden was an uneasy disappointment. It was handsome and regular, with none of the marks and twists which indicate a man who has been through awesome times and has been privy to great secrets. His hair was black and of a ragged, matted length. His forehead was high, his eyes dark and brilliant. His nose was nondescript. The lips were full and sensual. His complexion was pallid, as was the gunslinger's own.

The gunslinger said finally, ”I expected an older man.”

”Why? I am nearly immortal, as are you, Roland-for now, at least. I could have taken a face with which you would have been more familiar, but I elected to show you the one I was-ah-born with. See, gunslinger, the sunset.”

The sun had departed already, and the western sky was filled with sullen furnace light.

”You won't see another sunrise for what may seem a very long time,” the man in black said.

The gunslinger remembered the pit under the mountains and then looked at the sky, where the constellations sprawled in clockspring profusion.

”It doesn't matter,” he said softly, ”now.”

II.

The man in black shuffled the cards with flying hands. The deck was huge, the designs on the back convoluted. ”These are Tarot cards, gunslinger-of a sort. A mixture of the standard deck to which have been added a selection of my own development. Now watch carefully.”

”What will I watch?”

”I'm going to tell your future. Seven cards must be turned, one at a time, and placed in conjunction with the others. I've not done this since the days when Gilead stood and the ladies played at Points on the west lawn. And I suspect I've never never read a tale such as yours.” Mockery was creeping into his voice again. ”You are the world's last adventurer. The last crusader. How that must please you, Roland! Yet you have no idea how close you stand to the Tower now, as you resume your quest. Worlds turn about your head.” read a tale such as yours.” Mockery was creeping into his voice again. ”You are the world's last adventurer. The last crusader. How that must please you, Roland! Yet you have no idea how close you stand to the Tower now, as you resume your quest. Worlds turn about your head.”

”What do you mean, resume? I never left off.”

At this the man in black laughed heartily, but would not say what he found so funny. ”Read my fortune then,” Roland said harshly.

The first card was turned.

”The Hanged Man,” the man in black said. The darkness had given him back his hood. ”Yet here, in conjunction with nothing else, it signifies strength, not death. You, gunslinger, are the Hanged Man, plodding ever onward toward your goal over the pits of Na'ar. You've already dropped one co-traveler into that pit, have you not?”

The gunslinger said nothing, and the second card was turned.

”The Sailor! Note the clear brow, the hairless cheeks, the wounded eyes. He drowns, gunslinger, and no one throws out the line. The boy Jake.”

The gunslinger winced, said nothing.

The third card was turned. A baboon stood grinningly astride a young man's shoulder. The young man's face was turned up, a grimace of stylized dread and horror on his features. Looking more closely, the gunslinger saw the baboon held a whip.

”The Prisoner,” the man in black said. The fire cast uneasy, flickering shadows over the face of the ridden man, making it seem to move and writhe in wordless terror. The gunslinger flicked his eyes away.

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