sk.thegunslinger-第27章

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w　a　man　hung　once。　That　was　part　of　it；　though　I　didn't　know　it　then。　I　left　a　girl　in　a　place　called　King's　Town　twelve　years　ago。　That　was　another　part。　I　never　knew　any　of　the　parts　when　they　happened。　Only　later　I　knew　that。〃
He　realized　with　some　unease　that　he　was　avoiding。
〃I　suppose　the　ing　of　age　was　part；　too；〃　he　said；　almost　grudgingly。　〃It　was　formal。　Almost　stylized；　like　a　dance。〃　He　laughed　unpleasantly。　〃Like　love。
〃Love　and　dying　have　been　my　life。〃
The　boy　said　nothing。
〃It　was　necessary　to　prove　one's　self　in　battle；〃　the　gunslinger　began。
Summer　and　hot。
August　had　e　to　the　land　like　a　vampire　lover；　killing　the　land　and　the　crops　of　the　tenant　farmers；　turning　the　fields　of　the　castle…city　white　and　sterile。　In　the　west；　some　miles　distant　and　near　the　borders　that　were　the　end　of　the　civilized　world；　fighting　had　already　begun。　All　reports　were　bad；　and　all　of　them　palled　before　the　heat　that　rested　over　this　place　of　the　center。　Cattle　lolled　empty…eyed　in　the　pens　of　the　stockyards。　Pigs　grunted　listlessly；　unmindful　of　knives　whetted　for　the　ing　fall。　People　whined　about　taxes　and　conscription；　as　they　always　have；　but　there　was　an　emptiness　beneath　the　apathetic　passion　play　of　politics。　The　center　had　frayed　like　a　rag　rug　that　had　been　washed　and　walked　on　and　shaken　and　hung　and　dried。　The　lines　and　nets　of　mesh　which　held　the　last　jewel　at　the　breast　of　the　world　were　unraveling。　Things　were　not　holding　together。　The　earth　drew　in　its　breath　in　the　summer　of　the　ing　eclipse。
The　boy　idled　along　the　upper　corridor　of　this　stone　place　which　was　home；　sensing　these　things；　not　understanding。　He　was　also　empty　and　dangerous。
It　had　been　three　years　since　the　hanging　of　the　cook　who　had　always　been　able　to　find　snacks　for　hungry　boys；　and　he　had　filled　out。　Now；　dressed　only　in　faded　denim　pants；　fourteen　years　old；　he　had　already　e　to　the　widened　chest…span　and　lengthening　legs　that　would　characterize　his　manhood。　He　was　still　unbedded；　but　two　of　the　younger　slatterns　of　a　West…Town　merchant　had　cast　eyes　on　him。　He　had　felt　a　response　and　felt　it　more　strongly　now。　Even　in　the　coolness　of　the　passage；　he　felt　sweat　on　his　body。
Ahead　were　his　mother's　apartments　and　he　approached　them　incuriously；　meaning　only　to　pass　them　and　go　upward　to　the　roof；　where　a　thin　breeze　and　the　pleasure　of　his　hand　awaited。
He　had　passed　the　door　when　a　voice　called　him：
〃You。　Boy。〃
It　was　Marten；　the　enchanter。　He　was　dressed　with　a　suspicious；　upsetting　casualness　　black　whipcord　trousers　almost　as　tight　as　leotards；　and　a　white　shirt　open　halfway　down　his　chest　His　hair　was　tousled。
The　boy　looked　at　him　silently。
〃e　in；　e　in！　Don't　stand　in　the　hall！　Your　mother　wants　to　speak　to　you。〃　He　was　smiling　with　his　mouth；　but　the　lines　of　his　face　held　a　deeper；　more　sardonic　humor。　Beneath　that　there　was　only　coldness。
But　his　mother　did　not　seem　to　want　to　see　him。　She　sat　in　the　low…backed　chair　by　the　large　window　in　the　central　parlor　of　her　apartments；　the　one　which　overlooked　the　hot　blank　stone　of　the　central　courtyard。　She　was　dressed　in　a　loose；　informal　gown　and　looked　at　the　boy　only　once　　a　quick；　glinting　rueful　smile；　like　autumn　sun　on　stream　water。　During　the　rest　of　the　interview　she　studied　her　hands。
He　saw　her　seldom　now；　and　the　phantom　of　cradle　songs　had　almost　faded　from　his　brain。　But　she　was　a　beloved　stranger。　He　felt　an　amorphous　fear；　and　an　uncoalesced　hatred　for　Marten；　his　father's　right…hand　man　（or　was　it　the　other　way　around？）；　was　born。
And；　of　course；　there　had　already　been　some　backstreet　talk　　talk　which　he　honestly　thought　he　hadn't　heard。
〃Are　you　well？〃　She　asked　him　softly；　studying　her　hands。　Marten　stood　beside　her；　a　heavy；　disturbing　hand　near　the　juncture　of　her　white　shoulder　and　white　neck；　smiling　on　them　both。　His　brown　eyes　were　dark　to　the　point　of　blackness　with　smiling。
〃Yes；〃　he　said。
〃Your　studies　go　well？〃
〃I'm　trying；〃　he　said。　They　both　knew　he　was　not　flashingly　intelligent　like　Cuthbert；　or　even　quick；　like　Jamie。　He　was　a　plodder　and　a　bludgeoner。
〃And　David？〃　She　knew　his　affection　for　the　hawk。
The　boy　looked　up　at　Marten；　still　smiling　paternally　down　on　all　this。　〃Past　his　prime。〃
His　mother　seemed　to　wince；　for　a　moment　Marten's　face　seemed　to　darken；　his　grip　on　her　shoulder　tighten。
Then　she　looked　out　into　the　hot　whiteness　of　the　day；　and　all　was　as　it　had　been。
It's　a　charade；　he　thought。　A　game。　Who　is　playing　with　whom？
〃You　have　a　scar　on　your　forehead；〃　Marten　said；　still　smiling。　〃Are　you　going　to　be　a　fighter　like　your　father　or　are　you　just　slow？〃
This　time　she　did　wince。
〃Both；〃　the　boy　said。　He　looked　steadily　at　Marten　and　smiled　painfully。　Even　in　here；　it　was　very　hot。
Marten　stopped　smiling　abruptly。　〃You　can　go　to　the　roof　now；　boy。　I　believe　you　have　business　there。〃
But　Marten　had　misunderstood；　underestimated。　They　had　been　speaking　in　the　low　tongue；　a　parody　of　informality。　But　now　the　boy　flashed　into　High　Speech：
〃My　mother　has　not　yet　dismissed　me；　bondsman！〃
Marten's　face　twisted　as　if　quirt…lashed。　The　boy　heard　his　mother's　dreadful；　woeful　gasp。　She　spoke　his　name。
But　the　painful　smile　remained　intact　on　the　boy's　face　and　he　stepped　forward。　〃Will　you　give　me　a　sign　of　fealty；　bondsman？　In　the　name　of　my　father　whom　you　serve？〃　
Marten　stared　at　him；　rankly　unbelieving。
〃Go；〃　Marten　said　gently。　〃Go　and　find　your　hand。〃
Smiling；　the　boy　went。
As　he　closed　the　door　and　went　back　the　way　he　came；　he　heard　his　mother　wail。　It　was　a　banshee　sound。
Then　he　heard　Marten's　laugh。
The　boy　continued　to　smile　as　he　went　to　his　test。
Jamie　had　e　from　the　shop…wives；　and　when　he　saw　the　boy　crossing　the　exercise　yard；　he　ran　to　tell　Roland　the　latest　gossips　of　bloodshed　and　revolt　to　the　west。　But　he　fell　aside；　the　words　all　unspoken。　They　had　known　each　other　since　the　time　of　infancy；　and　as　boys　they　had　dared　each　other；　cuffed　each　other；　and　made　a　thousand　explorations　of　the　walls　within　which　they　had　both　been　birthed。
The　boy　strode　past　him；　staring　without　seeing；　grinning　his　painful　grin。　He　was　walking　toward　Cort's　cottage；　where　the　shades　were　drawn　to　ward　off　the　savage　afternoon　heat。　Cort　napped　in　the　afternoon　so　that　he　could　enjoy　his　evening　tomcat　forays　into　the　mazed　and　filthy　brothels　of　the　lower　town　to　the　fullest　extent
Jamie　knew　in　a　flash　of　intuition；　knew　what　was　to　e；　and　in　his　fear　and　ecstasy　he　was　torn　between　following　Roland　and　going　after　the　others。
Then　his　hypnotism　was　broken　and　he　ran　toward　the　main　buildings；　screaming。　〃Cuthbert！　Allen！　Thomas！〃　His　screams　sounded　puny　and　thin　in　the　heat。　They　had　known；　all　of　them；　in　that　invisible　way　boys　have；　that　the　boy　would　be　the　first　of　them　to　try　the　line。　But　this　was　too　soon。
The　hideous　grin　on　Roland's　face　galvanized　him　as　no　news　of　wars；　revolts；　and　witchcrafts　could　have　done。　This　was　more　than　words　from　a　toothless　mouth　given　over　fly…specked　heads　of　lettuce。
Roland　walked　to　the　cottage　of　his　teacher　and　kicked　the　door　open。　It　slammed　backward；　hit　the　plain　rough　plaster　of　the　wall　and　rebounded。
He　had　never　been　here　before。　The　entrance　opened　on　an　austere　kitchen　that　was　cool　and　brown。　A　table。　Two　straight　chairs。　Two　cabinets。　A　faded　linoleum　floor；　tracked　in　black　paths　from　the　cooler　set　in　the　floor　to　the　counter　where　knives　hung；　to　the　table。
A　public　man's　privacy　here。　The　last　faded　sobriety　of　a　violent　midnight　carouser　who　had　loved　the　boys　of　three　generations　roughly；　and　made　some　of　them　into　gunslingers。
〃Cort！〃
He　kicked　the　table；　sending　it　across　the　room　and　into　the　counter。　Knives　from　the　wall　rack　fell　in　twinkling　jackstraws。
There　was　thick　stirring　in　the　other　room；　a　half…sleep　clearing　of　the　throat。　The　boy　did　not　enter；　knowing　it　was　sham；　knowing　that　Cort　had　awakened　immediately　in　the　cottage's　other　room　and　stood　with　one　glittering　eye　beside　the　door；　waiting　to　break　the　intruder's　unwary　neck。
〃Cort；　I　want　you；　bondsman！〃
Now　he　spoke　the　High　Speech；　and　Cort　swung　the　door　open。　He　was　dressed　only　in　thin　underwear　shorts；　a　squat　man　with　bow　legs；　runneled　with　scars　from　top　to　toe