Beside him, John Norman still slept, his breath whistling out in
faint, nasal snores.
Roland tried to raise his hand and slide it under his pillow. The
hand wouldn't move. He could wiggle the tips of his fingers, but
that was all. He waited, calming his mind as well as he could,
gathering his patience.' Patience wasn't easy to come by. He kept
thinking about what Norman had said - that there had been twenty
survivors of the ambush ... at least to start with. One by one they
went, until only me and that one down yonder was left. And now
you.
The girl wasn't here. His mind spoke in the soft, regretful tone of
Alain, one of his old friends, dead these many years now. She
wouldn't dare, not with the others watching. That was only a
dream you had.
But Roland thought perhaps it had been more than a dream.
Some length of time later - the slowly shifting brightness overhead
made him believe it had been about an hour - Roland tried his hand
again. This time he was able to get it beneath his pillow. This was
puffy and soft, tucked snugly into the wide sling which supported
the gunslinger's neck. At first he found nothing, but as his fingers
worked their slow way deeper, they touched what felt like a stiffish
bundle of thin rods.
He paused, gathering a little more strength (every movement was
like swimming in glue), and then burrowed deeper. It felt like a
dead bouquet. Wrapped around it was what felt like a ribbon.
Roland looked around to make sure the ward was still empty and
Norman still asleep, then drew out what was under the pillow. It
was six brittle stems of fading green with brownish reed-heads at
the tops. They gave off a strange, yeasty aroma that made Roland
think of early-morning begging expeditions to the Great House
kitchens as a child - forays he had usually made with Cuthbert. The
reeds were tied with a wide white silk ribbon, and smelled like
burned toast. Beneath the ribbon was a fold of cloth. Like
everything else in this cursed place, it seemed, the cloth was of
silk.
Roland was breathing hard and could feel drops of sweat on his
brow. Still alone, though - good. He took the scrap of cloth and
unfolded it. Printed painstakingly in blurred charcoal letters, was
this message:
NIBBLE HEDS. Once each hour. Too
much, CRAMPS or DETH.
TOMORROW NITE. Can't be sooner.
BE CAREFUL!
No explanation, but Roland supposed none was needed. Nor did he
have any option; if he remained here, he would die. All they had to
do was have the medallion off him, and he felt sure Sister Mary
was smart enough to figure a way to do that.
He nibbled at one of the dry reed-heads. The taste was nothing like
the toast they had begged from the kitchen as boys; it was bitter in
his throat and hot in his stomach. Less than a minute after his
