nibble, his heart-rate had doubled. His muscles awakened, but not
in a pleasant way, as after good sleep; they felt first trembly and
then hard, as if they were gathered into knots. This feeling passed
rapidly, and his heartbeat was back to normal before Norman
stirred awake an hour or so later, but he understood why Jenna's
note had warned him not to take more than a nibble at a time - this
was very powerful stuff.
He slipped the bouquet of reeds back under the pillow, being
careful to brush away the few crumbles of vegetable matter which
had dropped to the sheet. Then he used the ball of his thumb to
blur the painstaking charcoaled words on the bit of silk. When he
was finished, there was nothing on the square but meaningless
smudges. The square he also tucked back under his pillow.
When Norman awoke, he and the gunslinger spoke briefly of the
young scout's home - Delain, it was, sometimes known jestingly as
Dragon's Lair, or Liar's Heaven. All tall tales were said to orginate
in Delain. The boy asked Roland to take his medallion and that of
his brother home to their parents, if Roland was able, and explain
as well as he could what had happened to James and John, sons of
Jesse.
'You'll do all that yourself,' Roland said.
'No.' Norman tried to raise his hand, perhaps to scratch his nose,
and was unable to do even that. The hand rose perhaps six inches,
then fell back to the counterpane with a small thump. 'I think not.
It's a pity for us to have run up against each other this way, you
know - I like you.'
'And I you, John Norman. Would that we were better met.'
'Aye. When not in the company of such fascinating ladies.'
He dropped off to sleep again soon after. Roland never spoke with
him again ... although he certainly heard from him. Yes. Roland
was lying above his bed, shamming sleep, as John Norman
screamed his last.
Sister Michela came with his evening soup just as Roland was
getting past the shivery muscles and galloping heartbeat that
resulted from his second nibble of brown reed. Michela looked at
his flushed face with some concern, but had to accept his
assurances that he did not feel feverish; she couldn't bring herself
to touch him and judge the heat of his skin for herself - the
medallion held her away.
With the soup was a popkin. The bread was leathery and the meat
inside it tough, but Roland demolished it greedily, just the same.
Michela watched with a complacent smile, hands folded in front of
her, nodding from time to time. When he had finished the soup,
she took the bowl back from him carefully, making sure their
fingers did not touch.
'Ye're healing,' she said. 'Soon you'll be on yer way, and we'll have
just yer memory to keep, Jim.'
'Is that true?' he asked quietly.
She only looked at him, touched her tongue against her upper lip,
