Chapter 3 Chapter 1 Gunslinger
The man in black fled into the vast desert, and the gunslinger also entered the desert.
The desert is the perfect example of all deserts, enormous, stretching to the sky and boundless in every direction.The desert is blindingly white, without water, without life, except for the mist of the mountains looming, scattered on the horizon, where the ghost weeds give rise to dreams, nightmares, and death.Occasional tombstone markings point the way, as the covered path through the thick lye was once a road, passenger car and burca Words. Stephen King created a large number of vocabulary in "The Dark Tower" to express things in his fictional world. The specific meaning of some coined words makes readers puzzled, and even becomes a topic of heated discussion among many "Dark Tower" fans . There are still many such cases in the following.) In the past, this road has been taken.Afterwards, the world rolled on.The world was emptied.
The gunslinger suddenly felt dizzy, all perceptions seemed to have changed, and even the whole world suddenly seemed very small, and he could almost see through the end.After the dizziness passed, he felt that the whole world was like an animal slowly crawling forward, while he continued to walk on the animal's fur.He walked the miles patiently, taking his time.A leather waterskin dangled from his waist like a bloated sausage.The water bag is still almost full.He practices Kai Fu Gong (Note: Kai Fu Gong, khef, is the language used in the ancient world in the book, it expresses many layers of meaning, including water, life force, etc. It implies all things that are important to existence. Gun Xia Lian Kai Fu Gong has probably reached the fifth level, and those who have reached the seventh or eighth level can separate the will from the body, and can calmly and detachedly observe the needs of their own body.) It has been many years and has almost reached the fifth level.If he was Manny Saint, he wouldn't feel thirsty at all, so he could watch his body slowly dehydrate with calm detachment, and only fill it up when logic told him he had to. into the fissures and deep cavities of the body.However, he was neither of the Mani clan nor a disciple of the saint Jesus, and he considered himself holy in no way.He was just an ordinary pilgrim, in other words, the only thing he could be sure of was that he was thirsty.Even so, he can still restrain his desire to drink water.It made him vaguely satisfied.This is a dry land, thirst resistance is the necessary ability to survive here, for the gunslinger, his adaptability is the magic weapon for him to continue his life.
Hanging under the waterskin were his two guns; the weights of the guns had been specially adjusted for him; the gunslinger's father, being smaller and heavier than he, had put a special weight on each gun when he passed it on to his son. Added a piece of metal.The two gun straps crossed at his crotch.When he oiled the holsters they were so full that not even this Felix sun could crack the holsters.The handle of the gun is made of sandalwood, yellow, and the wood grain is very delicately carved.He tied the holster loosely to his thigh with a cowhide cord, and the holster dangled every time he took a step; The two arcs are like a pair of smiling faces.Brass-colored bullets glinted in the sun in the holes in the gun belt.There are not many bullets left.He walked forward silently, the holster rubbed against his trousers, making a slight "chacha" sound.
The gunslinger's shirt, the color of which showed no signs of rain or dust, was open at the neckline, and a cowhide cord was tied loosely through the hand-made buttonhole.He lost his hat, and lost the horn that he always carried with him.The horn was left by a dying companion, and he lost both forever.
He turned over a sand dune that was not very steep (there is no sand here, because the whole desert is a hard layer. Even the strong wind that blows in the night can only roll up a cloud of dust, which is as hard as scrubbing and descaling on his face. powder grains), and there are traces of burning campfires in the leeward side (where the sun sets first), and it is obvious that they have been trampled and kicked.The gunslinger was always a little relieved to see evidence like this once again that the man in black might be human.His lips are slightly raised, there are some small pits on his face, and the skin has peeled off in some places.His smile looked pained, somewhat horrifying.He crouched down.
The gunslinger's prey was burning ghost weeds, and of course this was the only thing that could be ignited here.Burning ghost grass is like burning fat. When burning, the flame is low and the burning process is slow.The people who lived on the edge of the desert had told him that the devil lived in the flames of the ghost weed.They burn ghost weed too, but never look into the flames.They say that if you look into the firelight, these demons will hypnotize you, reach out to summon you, and finally suck you whole.And the next fool who looks into the firelight will see you.
The burnt stalks crossed each other, forming the same hieroglyphs as before, and with a poke from the gunslinger, they all crumbled to ashes.All that was left in the ashes was a piece of charred bacon, which the gunslinger picked up, put in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.It's always been like this between them.The gunslinger has been tracking the man in black in the desert for two months. He seems to have no end in this silent, purgatory wasteland, and every once in a while, he will find the campfire left by the man in black Traces: Those clean, sanitized pictograms.He'd never found any cans, bottles, or water bags (the gunslinger himself had thrown away four of them, and now they were lying in the wasteland like dead snakeskin).He also didn't see any feces.He guessed the men in black buried them.
Maybe these campfires are messages, one letter at a time.It might want to tell the gunslinger "Keep your distance, my mate", or "The end is not far away", or maybe even "Come and catch me".But it didn't matter what they meant—even if they were codes, the gunslinger would have no interest in them—what mattered was that the ruins were as cold as ever.However, he still gained something, and kept shortening the distance with the man in black.The gunslinger knew he was getting closer to the man in black, but he didn't understand how he felt it.Maybe, it's a smell.It doesn't matter either.He'll keep going until something changes, and if nothing changes, he'll keep going.The old people said, if God will give you water, there will be water.As long as God willing, there will be water even in the desert.The gunslinger stood up and wiped his hands.
The man in black left no other traces; even if there were some blurred marks on the hard ground, they were smoothed away by the knife-like wind.No feces, no litter, not even a trace of it being buried.Nothing was left.All that remained were the icy remnants of campfires along the ancient road that stretched southeast, and the constant measuring of distances in the gunslinger's mind.Of course, for the gunslinger, it doesn't stop there: southeast is not only a direction, but also a powerful magnetic field.
He sat down and indulged himself with some water.He thought about the moment of vertigo he had experienced earlier in the day, the strange feeling of being out of the world, not sure what it meant.Why did that dizziness remind him of his horn and his last companion?The two disappeared in Jielikou Mountain many years ago.He still kept the guns left by his father intact. Of course they are more important than horns, or even friends.
Is not it?
The question unnerved the gunslinger, but as there seemed to be no other answer than the obvious, he put the question to the back of his mind, perhaps to think about it later.He looked around and looked up at the sun. The "fireball" is slowly sliding towards the distant sky.What worried him was that it wasn't due west.He stood up, took off his fast-wearing gloves from his belt, put them on, and started pulling ghost weeds to make a fire.He piled the hay on top of the ashes left by the man in black.He felt it was a mockery of him, like thirst, both painful and unstoppable.
Only a sliver of orange-red light remained in the dark sky, like Zhang Zheng's sneering mouth; the remaining heat on the ground was almost dissipated.Only then did the gunslinger take out the flint and the scythe.He sat down, put the gun belt on his lap, and looked dreamily to the southeast.He looked at the mountains in the distance, and he didn't expect to see a ray of smoke from a campfire in the desert, and he knew he wouldn't see flames dancing with orange sparks, but he still watched intently, because seeing this movement Meaningful in itself, it gives a bitter satisfaction.Boy, if you don't look, you can't see anything.Curt would say so.Open the eyes God gave you, will you?
But he didn't see anything.He knew he was slowly approaching the man in black, but only relatively speaking.He hadn't gotten so close that he could see fireworks at dusk, or the orange flames of a campfire.
With a sharp stroke of flint on his tinder, he set fire to the torn hay, uttering the old but magical ballad: "Spark-ah-dark, where are my ancestors? Can I sleep here? I Can I live here? Give me tent sparks." Strangely, some of the songs and habits of childhood are long since thrown by the wayside and forgotten, while others are firmly rooted in the mind and follow a person's life, and The older they get, the heavier they become.
He built a fire against the wind, sending the smoke billowing in the direction of the wasteland.Except for the occasional whirlwind-like dust storm, the wind direction here is basically constant.
The stars overhead are unblinking and constant, and they look small, but they are millions of suns and earths.These dazzling constellations are like icy flames glowing white.As he looked up at the sky, the sky had gone from lavender to black.Below Venus, a meteor streaks across, carving a brief but blinding arc before disappearing into the night sky.The ghost grass slowly burned into a new shape, and the shadows cast by the flames on the ground were very weird.This shape is not like the pictographic pattern left by the man in black, but an unmistakable cross pattern, which seems to imply a certain certainty, which makes people feel a little startled.The gunslinger doesn't pay much attention to artistry when setting up a fire with hay, as long as it can burn is enough.This is the habit of a man who does things neatly.The gunslinger is such a person, when he stays in the hotel, he will smooth the crumpled paintings in the room.The fire burned slowly, and there seemed to be ghosts dancing in the center of the flame.The gunslinger didn't see it.The two patterns, like works of art, were closely connected when he was asleep.The wind began to moan, like a witch with a belly full of cancer cells wailing.Every now and then a sinister downwind would blow the smoke up to where the gunslinger lay, and he inhaled some of it without knowing it.Like a tiny irritant producing pearls in an oyster, the smoke made the gunslinger dream.From time to time the gunslinger groaned as the wind howled.In the face of all this, the stars are as indifferent as usual, just as they are in the face of war, torture, and resurrection.If the gunslinger knew about it, he would surely appreciate his ruthlessness.
He led the mule down the hill, which appeared to be the last of the hills.The mule could no longer stand the heat, his eyes were swollen and he looked lifeless.He passed through the last town three weeks ago, and since then he hasn't seen a soul, only the driveway that has been abandoned for many years and the occasional mud and grass hut of the desert border dwellers.The shed has been in decay, and there is only a pitiful room and a half left, most of which are lepers or lunatics.He thought it would be easier to get along with a madman.A madman once gave him a stainless steel forest compass and begged him to bring it to the saint Jesus.The gunslinger took it seriously.If he sees the saint Jesus, he will give him the compass.He didn't expect to see him, but anything could happen.Once he saw a taheen with a human body and a crow's head (Note: Taheen, taheen, is a strange hybrid creature, they are part human, part animal or bird.), Hearing him say hello, this The freaky thing ran away in fright, and croaked in its mouth, as if talking.But it's more likely to be cursing the gunslinger.
It had been five days since he last saw the mud and straw huts, and the gunslinger began to suspect that he would never encounter these frontier dwellers again.As he climbed to the top of the last hill, he saw the familiar low roofs of mud and straw huts.
The owner is a startlingly young man with long, unkempt strawberry-colored hair that reaches almost to his waist.He was weeding a sparse cornfield, so absorbed in himself that he was completely unaware that someone was approaching.The mule let out a gasp, which caused the homeowner to lift his head, his blue eyes fixed on the gunslinger.The owner of the house had no weapons, at least the gunslinger did not see the crossbow and crossbow bolts.He raised his hands in a curt salute to the stranger, then stooped and continued weeding.He stooped and walked quickly across the row of corn next to the shed, throwing the ghost grass and shriveled corn behind him.His hair bounced and danced in the wind.The wind blows directly from the desert, unimpeded by anything.
The gunslinger walked slowly down the hill, and the water in the water bag on the mule's back kept sloshing.The gunslinger stopped by the lifeless cornfield and took a drink from his waterskin.There was some saliva in his mouth, and he spit towards the parched land.
"Give some life to your crops."
"Give yourself life," said the homeowner, standing up.There was a crackling sound on his back as he straightened up.He watched the gunslinger fearlessly.Most of his face was covered by hair and beard, and there was no trace of decay on the small piece of skin that could be seen, and although his gaze was a little wild, he looked sane. "Stranger, I wish you a long and happy night." (Note: Ji Li's greeting.)
"May your harvest double."
"Impossible," replied the homeowner, with a half-smile. "I just planted some corn and beans," he said. "The corn is fine, but the beans need manure. There will be a man here to sell manure after a while. But he won't be around for a few days." He laughs smiled. "This man is afraid of ghosts. He's also afraid of bird-man (Note: bird-man, referring to Rex Xin.)."
"I've seen it. I mean Birdman. It ran away when it saw me."
"Yes, it got lost. It said it was looking for a place called Aigu Xiandu, sometimes it also called that place 'Blue Heaven' or 'Heaven', I don't know what it is called. Have you heard of that place? place?"
The gunslinger shook his head.
"Anyway, it doesn't hurt anyone, and it won't stay here forever. Let it go. Are you alive or dead?"
"Living man," said the gunslinger, "you talk like a Manni."
"I was with them for a while, and it wasn't my life; they were too sticky and always looking for holes all over the world."
That's true, thought the gunslinger.The Mani people always live in no fixed place.
The two looked at each other in silence for a while, and then the owner held out his hand: "My name is Brown."
The gunslinger shook his hand and gave his name.As he spoke, a lean crow hooted hoarsely on the low mud-grass roof.Brown pointed to the crow: "This is Zotan."
Hearing his name, the crow called again and flew towards Brown.It landed on the owner's head, claws gripping Brown's straw-like hair.
"Curse you," cried Zotan, "curse you and the horse you ride."
The gunslinger nodded friendly.
"Bean, bean, fruit of music," the crow sang suddenly inspired, "the more you eat, the more you fart."
"Is this what you taught it?"
"I guess it just wants to learn that," Brown said. "I've tried teaching him Hymn to the Lord." His gaze drifted away, past his shed, to the gritty, uninteresting desert. superior. "I guess this isn't the place to sing Hymn to the Lord. You're a gunslinger. Are you?"
"Yes." The gunslinger knelt down and took out some tobacco leaves and paper.Zortan flew over Brown's head, flew past, and landed on the gunslinger's shoulder.
"I thought your family no longer existed."
"Have you seen gunslingers from other races?"
"Are you from the inner world?"
"That was a long time ago." The gunslinger nodded.
"Is there anything left there?"
The gunslinger didn't answer the question, but judging from his expression, it was a topic that shouldn't be touched upon.
"I guess you're chasing someone."
"Yes." He followed up with the inevitable question: "How long has he been away?"
Brown shrugged. "I don't know. The timing thing is weird here. The distances and directions are weird too. He's been away for at least two weeks, less than two months. The manure man has been here twice since he left. I guess There are six weeks, but maybe it's wrong."
"The more you eat, the more you fart," Zoltan sings.
"Is he resting here?" the gunslinger continued.
Brown nodded. "He stayed for dinner, and I guess you will too. We spent some time together."
The gunslinger stood up, and the crow flew back to the roof, yelling.He felt a strange longing that made him tremble a little. "What did he say?"
Brown frowned sideways, looking at him. "Didn't say anything. He asked if it ever rained here, when did I get here, and if my wife was still alive. He asked me if she was Mani, and I said yes, because it looked like he had I know. Most of the time I was the one talking, which is very abnormal." He paused, only the whistling wind remained around. "He's a wizard, isn't he?"
"He has many other identities."
Brown nodded thoughtfully. "I knew it. He shook a rabbit out of his sleeve, gutted and ready to be cooked at any time. Don't you?"
"Wizard?" The gunslinger smiled. "I'm just an ordinary person."
"You'll never catch up with him."
"I'll run after him."
They looked at each other and felt a sudden deep emotional exchange between them.The gunslinger reached for the flicker.
"Here you are." Brown produced a match with brimstone on the tip.He wiped it sharply with a dusty nail.The gunslinger held the cigarette to the match and took a long drag.
"thanks."
"You want some water, I guess," Brown said, turning away. "There's a fountain under the eaves at the back of the house. I'll make supper."
The gunslinger stepped cautiously over the rows of corn and turned to the back of the shed.There is a spring at the bottom of a hand-dug well, and stones are piled around it to prevent the loose soil from collapsing.The gunslinger went down the loose ladder to the bottom of the well. Seeing so many stones, he wanted to carry them back here and lay them one by one. It was no easy task, and it would take at least two years.The spring water was clear, but the flow was very slow, and it was a time-consuming task to fill all the water-skins.When he finished filling the second waterskin, Zotan flew and stopped on the edge of the well.
"Curse you and the horse you ride," it said.
The gunslinger looked up, fearful in his heart.The well was about fifteen feet deep: if Brown had thrown a rock at him, he would have easily crushed his head and stolen all his belongings.Neither a leper nor a madman would do that; but Brown was neither a leper nor a madman.He liked Brown, though, and he pushed the terrible thought out of his head and went on filling the waterskin with the water God had given him.As for what else God bestowed, that was the arrangement of fate, and there was nothing he could do.
The gunslinger went through the door of the shed and down the stairs (the actual habitable part of the shed is lower than the ground, which keeps the temperature cooler even during the day).Brown was pushing ears of corn into the embers of the fire with a rough hardwood shovel.Two crumbling plates lay at opposite ends of a dun blanket.A pot hung over the fire, boiling water for the beans, and the water was already bubbling.
"I'll pay you for that water, too."
Brown didn't look up. "The water is a gift from God, I thought you knew it. Papa Doc (Note: Papa Doc, Papa Doc, the name is the same as Papa Coc, the alias of Haitian President Duvalier. The Haitian president relies on The dictatorship of the privileged private guard and the witchcraft that deified it.) brought us the beans."
The gunslinger smiled, and sat down against the wall, folded his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.After a while, a smell of roasted corn wafted into his nostrils.As Brown poured a handful of dried beans into the pot, he heard the sound of the water bubbling.He also heard a rattling sound from the roof, and knew it was Zotan pacing restlessly.He was tired; he had walked sixteen to eighteen hours a day since he had left Te'ao, the last village on the edge of the desert, since he had left behind all the horrors that had happened there.For the past twelve days he had walked by himself, for the mule was at the end of its life and lived only because of habit.He once knew a boy named Simi who also had a mule.Simi was dead; they were all gone, and there were only two left: himself and the man in black.He had heard that there were other worlds beyond this world, that many of the green spaces were in a place called Midworld, but this was unbelievable.Here, green spaces seem to exist only in a child's fantasy.
Tap, tap, tap.
Two weeks, Brown said, maybe six weeks.It doesn't matter.In Te'ao, people have calendars; they all remember the man in black because he healed an old man while passing through the village.The old man is endangered because of his addiction to eating ghost weed; he is called an old man, but he is only thirty-five years old.If Brown remembers the time correctly, the distance between him and the man in black has been greatly shortened after leaving Te'ao.But there was a desert ahead, a desert like hell.
Tap, tap, tap...
Lend me your wings, crow.I want to spread my wings and fly over that fiery land.
He fell asleep.
Brown woke him up an hour later.it's getting dark.The only light was the dark red of the embers.
"Your mule is dead," Brown said. "I'm sorry for you. Supper is ready."
"How was it?"
Brown shrugged. "Grilled and boiled, how else to cook? Are you picky?"
"No, I'm asking how the mule died."
"It fell down, that's all. It looks like an old mule." He apologized. "Zotan pecked out both of its eyes."
"Oh." This seemed to be expected. "It doesn't matter."
When they sat down by the rug that served as a table, Brown surprised him again by saying a short prayer: for rain, health and spiritual growth.
"Do you believe in an afterlife?" the gunslinger asked him.
Brown put three ears of corn on his plate and nodded. "I think this is the afterlife."
The beans were hard as bullets, and the corn was hard to swallow.Outside, the whimpering wind continued.The gunslinger ate quickly, gobbling it down, and drank four glasses of water as he ate.Halfway through the meal, there was a knock on the door like a machine gun.Brown got up and opened the door to let Zotan in.The bird flew across the room and stopped in the corner at the other end.
"Fruit of music," it muttered.
"Have you never thought of eating it?" asked the gunslinger.
Brown smiled. "Talking animal flesh is too thick," he said. "Like a bird, a bumbler (note: raccoon, billy-bumblers, also appears in the book as a bumbler. It's a crossbreed of a raccoon, a marmot, and a dachshund. They have black and gray fur, eyes They have golden fur all around. They wag their tails like dogs, but are smarter than canines. Before the world changed, there were bumblers in the castles of every realm, and they were used to herd sheep. When they live with people, they can parrot and speak human language.), and humans. These can’t be eaten.”
After dinner, the gunslinger offered cigarettes, which Brown eagerly accepted.
Now, the gunslinger thought, now he's going to start asking questions.
But Brown didn't ask anything.He smoked tobacco from Garlan planted years ago, staring at the dying embers.After nightfall, the shed became noticeably cooler.
"Lead us away from temptation," Zoltan said suddenly, as if a sage gave a revelation.
The gunslinger was taken aback, as if he had been shot.He suddenly felt that all of this was an illusion, that the man in black cast a spell, trying to tell him something in this symbolic way.
He suddenly asked, "Do you know Te'ao?"
Brown nodded. "I passed by there on the way here. I went there once to sell corn and had a glass of whiskey. It rained here that year, for about fifteen minutes. The whole land seemed to be open." Opened his mouth and gulped down the rain, but an hour later it was as dry and white as ever. But these corns - oh god corns. You could clearly see them growing taller. That's It's delightful. But you can hear a sound, as if the rain had given them their mouths. It's not a pleasant sound, as if they were moaning and moaning to break free from the ground." He sucked a few Smoking. "I had extra corn, so I sold it in the village. Papa Doc wanted to sell it for me, but I was afraid he would cheat me, so I went by myself."
"You don't like that village?"
"dislike."
"I nearly died there," said the gunslinger.
"What you said is true?"
"I vouch for my watch. I killed a blessed man there," said the gunslinger. "Of course that's not God, but the man who pulled the rabbit out of his sleeve. The man in black."
"He set a trap for you."
"You're right. I have to thank you."
They looked at each other in the dark, and the moment seemed to signal the end.
Now he's going to ask questions.
But Brown still didn't ask the question.The cigarette in his hand was just a dying butt, but Brown shook his head as the gunslinger tapped the pouch.
Zoltan jumped up and down restlessly, as if about to speak, but held back.
"Shall I tell you what happened?" the gunslinger asked. "I'm usually not used to talking much, but..."
"Sometimes it's better to talk about it. I'll listen."
The gunslinger searched his mind for the prologue, but couldn't get a word out.He said, "I have to go and make it easier."
Brown nodded: "Please go to the cornfield."
"certainly."
He walked down the steps into the darkness.The stars twinkled overhead, and the wind blew in gusts.His piss shot out and the wind swayed it into the cornfield.It was the man in black who had brought him here.The possibility that Brown is the man in black is not out of the question.he may be...
The gunslinger pushed aside these annoying thoughts.The contingency he hadn't learned to face so far was that he might go mad himself.He goes back inside.
"Whether I'm a demon or not, have you figured it out?" Brown asked with an amused expression.
The gunslinger stopped at the last step of the steps, trembling in his heart.He walked over slowly and sat down. "The idea has come up. Are you, after all?"
"Even if I were, I wouldn't know it myself."
This answer was of no help, but the gunslinger decided not to pursue it any further. "We just talked about Te'ao."
"Is there any development there?"
"The village is dead," said the gunslinger. "I ruined it." He suddenly wanted to say: Now I'm going to kill you, I don't want to sleep with one eye open, even if that's not enough reason, I can't keep you.Did he really become such a person?If so, if he had become like the man he was following, what was the point of him going on like this?
"I'm not begging for anything from you, gunslinger, I just hope I'm alive when you leave here," Brown said. "
The gunslinger closed his eyes.His thoughts were in turmoil.
"Tell me who you are," he said gruffly.
"Just a man. A man who has no ill will towards you. And if you will speak, I shall be glad to hear it."
The gunslinger made no reply.
"I guess you're going to feel bad if I don't ask you," Brown said. "So I'll ask you now. Can you tell me what happened in T'ao?"
The gunslinger was amazed at the ease with which he found the right word this time.His words burst forth and slowly faded into a flat narrative.He was inexplicably excited.He talked until late at night.Brown didn't interrupt him once, and the bird was quiet.
He had bought the mule in Purles, and it was still alive and well when they got to Te'ao.It had been an hour since the sun had set, but the gunslinger decided to keep walking, the lights of the distant village pointing him in the right direction.After walking for a while, he heard a piece of "Hey, Jude", the notes were very clear, but the piano played was very low.The road underfoot widens at the junction of several small roads.There are a few stars in the sky that are exceptionally bright, but they were destroyed years ago.
The forests have long since disappeared, replaced by flat, flat plains: vast, uninhabited fields of timothy and low shrubs; Many ghosts shuttle back and forth; the empty huts squint at passers-by, and the residents inside have either moved or passed away; occasionally a low mud hut appears, but only a flickering light appears in the dark night, Or the mud hut is only noticed during the day when a gloomy farmer toils silently in the fields.Corn is the main crop, and of course beans and pokeweed can also be seen (Note: pokeweed, Pokeberry, is estimated to be a crop.).Occasionally a bony old cow would stand between two stripped alder trees and watch him dully.The coach passed him four times, twice on, twice past; almost empty when it came up behind the gunslinger and the mule, and full as it turned back toward the forests north. The number of guests has increased significantly.A peasant sat with his feet on the fenders as a burqa passed, trying not to look at the passers-by with guns.
The weather around here is terrible.It had rained only twice since he left Plates, and only a few miserly drops each time.Even the timothy grass was yellow and looked dying.This is not a place to stay.There was no trace of the man in black.Maybe he took a coach.
The road turned and went down slowly.After passing the bend, the gunslinger stopped the mule and looked down at Te'ao.The village sat on a circular, bowl-shaped depression like cheap jewels set on a shabby pedestal.There were still some lights on in the village, most of them around where the music was coming from.It seems that there are four streets in the village, and all three of them merge to the right on the main road for passenger vehicles. This is probably the main road in the village.Maybe find a coffee shop down there.He wasn't so sure, maybe.He patted the mule lightly.
More and more houses are scattered on both sides of the road, most of them are abandoned.He passed a small cemetery, with crooked moldy wooden headstones and rows of ghost weeds that seemed to suffocate them.After walking about another five hundred feet, he came across a road sign, with the words on it faintly legible: Te Ao.
Most of the paint on the road sign had peeled off, making it difficult to read; there was another road sign a few steps away, but the gunslinger couldn't make out what was written on it.
As he entered the village, he heard a crowd of drunks chanting wildly the closing refrain of "Hi, Jude"—"Na-na-na, na-na-na-na...Hi, Jude... ".Like the wind blowing in the hollow of a rotten tree, the singing is dull and depressing.If it weren't for the thumping sound from the low-level piano, he would really have thought that the men in black had cast a spell to make a group of ghosts live in this gloomy village.He smiled slightly at the thought.
There were still some people on the street, but not many.Three ladies came across the street, wearing black baggy trousers and identical turtleneck jackets. They glared at the gunslinger, but showed no sense of curiosity.Their black-clothed bodies seemed invisible in the night, and their faces floated like pale orbs.A stern old man in a straw hat that looked too tight sat on the steps of a closed shop watching the gunslinger.A lean tailor, taking the last customer, stopped what he was doing to watch the gunslinger; he held up the lamp by the windowsill to see what was going on.The gunslinger nodded at him.Neither the tailor nor the customer responded.He felt their eyes fixed on the holster of his gun that hung from his crotch.At a fork one block away, a boy about thirteen years old walked by, followed by a girl who looked like his sister or his best friend. When they saw the gunslinger, they stopped slightly, their feet rolled up. There was a cloud of dust.Most of the streetlights in the village still work, but none of them run on electricity; the frozen oil makes the isinglass part of the lampshade look like it's filled with fog.Some lights were smashed.There is a dilapidated carriage rental shop on the side of the street. It looks like it is struggling to make a living. Perhaps it is barely surviving on this passenger route.张着大口的牲口棚一侧，有个半陷在土里的大理石环，三个男孩悄无声息地蜷缩在它旁边，抽着玉米皮卷的烟。他们的影子长长地拖在地上。一个男孩在帽檐上插了根蝎子的尾巴；另一个男孩左眼肿胀，无神的眼球凸出在眼眶外。
枪侠牵着骡子经过三个男孩，他朝牲口棚里面望去。一盏昏暗的灯摇晃着。一个阴影跳动着，忽隐忽现，原来是个穿着工装裤的瘦高个老人正呼哧呼哧地用大耙子把成堆的梯牧草叉进草料库里。
“嗨！”枪侠向他喊。
耙子停下来，马夫转过身，泛黄的眼睛扫视着周围。 "Hi."
“我这儿有头骡子。”
“你真走运。”
枪侠将一块沉甸甸，打磨不平的金币向昏暗处抛去。金币落在陈旧，积满细秣的砧板上，闪着光，发出清脆的响声。
马夫弯腰拣起金币，眯眼看着枪侠。他的目光落在枪带上，阴愠地点点头。“你要把骡子留在这儿多久？”
“一晚到两晚。也许再多几天。”
“这金币，我可没那么多零钱找给你。”
“不用找。”
“杀人挣来的钱。”马夫低声自语。
"What did you say?"
“没什么。”马夫接过骡子的缰绳，牵它进去。
“把它彻底洗刷干净！”枪侠跟在后面大声说。“听好了，等我回来，我可要闻到它是干干净净的。”
老人没有转身。枪侠走到外面那三个蜷在大理石环旁的男孩身边。他们始终以一种轻蔑的神态看着交易的全过程。
“祝天长，夜爽。”枪侠问候道，想和他们交谈几句。
no answer.
“你们几个住在村子里吗？”
没有回答，只有蝎子尾巴的动作算是回答了：它看上去像在点头。
一个男孩从嘴里吐出一片嚼得稀烂的玉米皮，他抓起一颗绿色的猫眼石，朝土堆里斜扔过去。石头打中一只青蛙，呱呱叫着跳到远处。他拣起猫眼石准备再次射击。
“村子里有咖啡馆吗？”枪侠问。
他们中最小的一个抬起头。他的嘴角边有粒大得吓人的疱疹，但是他的两只眼睛倒大小一致，充满着孩童的单纯，但在这鬼地方，纯真恐怕不会长久。他看着枪侠，满是好奇，但分明使劲地克制住了，看上去让人怜爱，又令人恐惧。
“在席伯那儿大概能买到汉堡。”
“弹钢琴的地方？”
男孩点点头：“对。”两个同伴的目光变得可憎，充满敌意。也许他会为自己好心答话而付出代价。
枪侠碰了碰自己的帽檐。“我很感激。至少这个村子还有人没笨到不会说话。”
他离开三个男孩，沿着街边朝席伯酒吧走去，听到身后传来小男孩同伴鄙夷的声音，但也不过是孩童的尖叫：“草包！查理，你真混账。草包！”然后传来一阵击打和哭叫声。
席伯酒吧门口挂着三盏煤油灯，房檐两端各一盏，破旧的蝙蝠翅膀式的酒吧门上方也挂了一盏。灯影在风中摇曳。《嗨，裘德》的合唱声渐渐变弱，钢琴漫不经心地弹起另一首民谣。几个稀拉的声音和着音乐哼唱，就像断了的线。枪侠在外面站了一会，朝里张望。地上有些木屑，歪斜的桌腿旁放着痰盂。锯木架上搁着块木板。在它后面放着一面油腻的镜子，镜子里看得到钢琴手，一副无精打采的样子。钢琴正面的盖板已被移为他用，因此可以看到木制琴键随着手的移动而上下弹跳。女招待一头稻草色头发，穿着条肮脏的蓝色长裙。一条肩带用别针固定着。房间角落里坐着大约六个村民，灌着酒，麻木地玩着“看我的”（注：“看我的”，watch me，是中世界的一种纸牌游戏。通常，人们玩这种游戏进行赌博，甚至不少人命丧牌桌。有人赢牌时就叫“看我的”。）赌博游戏。钢琴边上稀稀拉拉地站了半打人，吧台边还有四五个。一个白发丛生的老者趴在门边的桌上。枪侠推门进去。
所有的头都齐刷刷地转向门口，看着枪侠和他的枪。那一刻几乎鸦雀无声，除了忘我的钢琴手还在继续敲击琴键。女招待开始擦拭吧台，气氛又恢复如初。
“看我的。”角落里一个人叫起来，把凑齐的三张红桃和四张黑桃扔在桌上，摊开空空的双手。手上还握着红桃的人骂了句，把赌金推了过去。片刻工夫，另一轮牌已发好。
枪侠走到女招待跟前。“有肉吗？”他问。
“当然。”她直视着他的眼睛。也许她刚出道时还是个美人，但岁月无情。现在她的脸疙疙瘩瘩，前额上赫然一条扭曲的青黑色疤痕。她在疤上厚厚地涂了层粉，但正由于这层粉，她试图掩饰的疤痕反而更扎眼。“有牛肉。可不是变异的种。不过很贵。”
哼，变异动物，枪侠思忖，你冰箱里的肯定是三只眼，六条腿的怪物身上的肉——女士，我可心里有数。
“请给我三个汉堡和一杯啤酒。”
酒吧的气氛再一次改变。听到汉堡二字，每个人都开始流口水，再贪婪地咽下去。三个汉堡！这里从没见过有人一次吃三个汉堡的。
“这要花你五夸。你有夸吗？”
"U.S. dollars?"
She nodded.她的“夸”就是指“块”。反正他是这么猜的。
“包括啤酒吗？”他微微一笑。“还是啤酒另算？”
她对枪侠的微笑没有反应。“我会给你啤酒，不过要在我看到钱以后。”
枪侠在台子上放了块金币，所有的目光刷地一下都落在金子上。
在吧台后面，镜子的左方有只用来熏烤的木炭炉子。女招待消失在炉子后面的小房间里，回来时手里捧着用纸包着的肉。她挤出三块肉饼，放到烤架上，顿时散发出让人垂涎欲滴的香味。枪侠漠然地站在那里，似乎对香味没有反应，但却隐约感到钢琴声开始变得断断续续，纸牌游戏速度慢了下来，吧台旁醉鬼们贪婪地注视着烤架。
一个壮汉快走到枪侠身后时，枪侠从镜子里瞥到了他。这个壮汉几乎完全秃顶了，一把巨大的屠刀插在腰带间，他的手紧紧握着刀柄。
“回去坐下，”枪侠说。“算帮你自己一个忙，呆子。”
壮汉的脚步冻住了。他的上唇不由自主地抽了一下，像狗那样。There was silence.他回到自己的桌子边，气氛又恢复了正常。
啤酒盛在一个开裂的大玻璃杯中。女招待粗暴地说：“我可没钱找你。”
“不要找钱。”
她生气地点点头，似乎枪侠的慷慨是种炫耀——尽管对她有利，却还是激怒了她。然而她还是把金币放进了口袋。片刻之后，她端上来一个油腻的盘子，盛着三个汉堡，肉馅的边缘仍是鲜红的。
“有盐吗？”
她从台子下拿出一个小瓦罐。枪侠不得不用手指把结成了块的盐巴捻碎。“有面包吗？”
“没有。”他知道她在撒谎，不过也知道为什么，所以就不再追问。秃顶壮汉瞪着他，眼睛发青，搁在开裂又凹凸不平桌面上的双拳捏紧又松开。他的鼻孔一张一合，像脉搏那样有规律，贪婪地呼吸着汉堡的香味。至少，这是免费的。
枪侠开始不紧不慢地吃起来，他不像是在品味食物，只是机械地把肉切成小块，再用叉子送进嘴里。他努力克制着不去想那头变成汉堡肉的牛原来到底长什么样子。她说过，这不是变异的牛。Maybe.在夏夜的月光下，连猪都会跳起考玛辣（注：播种节上人们跳的轻快交谊舞。）呢。
三个汉堡就快下肚了，他准备再叫杯啤酒，还想卷根烟抽。这时一只手搭在他的肩上。
他突然意识到不知从何时起房间里已是一片寂静，空气中弥漫着紧张的气氛。他转过身，看到原本瘫睡在门边的老人就站在背后。他的脸奇丑无比，一阵污秽的鬼草瘴气令人作呕。他有双被诅咒过的眼睛，它们瞪着你，但却什么都看不到，似乎这双眼睛曾见到过地狱般的噩梦，从人们无法想像的恶臭沼泽中升腾出来的狂野的梦。
女招待不由自主地发出一声痛苦的呻吟。
破裂的双唇慢慢地张开，露出一口绿色、苔藓似的牙齿。枪侠一惊：他不是抽鬼草卷的烟，而是在嚼。他真的是在嚼鬼草。
枪侠意识到：他是个死人。一年前他就应该已经死了。
枪侠又意识到：是黑衣人干的。
他们瞪着对方，似乎整个房间就只有枪侠和这个疯癫的老人。
让枪侠惊呆的是，老人开始讲话，而且讲的是蓟犁（注：蓟犁，Gilead，是新伽兰的统领城市。这个古老的城市四周都是城墙，被人们颂为“绿色世界”。）的高等语（注：高等语，high speech，是中世界的古老的语言，按照传统，这是枪侠的语言。与之相对的是低等语，low speech，是日常生活中用的语言。高等语的语词中反映了枪侠社会的传统和生活哲学。这是枪侠罗兰与他的族人，他的王国之间的一种无形的联系。）。
“金子换欢心，枪侠先生。能给我一个金币吗？就施舍一点吧。”
高等语。那一刹那，枪侠的脑子甚至都反应不过来。已经有好多年，天啦，几个世纪，几千年，他没有听到过高等语了；高等语已经不存在了；他是最后一个说高等语的人，是最后一个枪侠。其他人都……
他似乎麻木了，把手伸进胸前口袋，摸出一枚金币。一只长满疥癣，皮肤开裂结痂的手伸过来，抚摸着金币，举起来对着油腻的煤油灯看。它反射出令人兴奋的文明的光芒：金色，微红，血一般的。
“啊……”一种无法言表的喜悦。老人摇晃着转过身，朝自己的桌子走去。他把金币举到眼前，转着金币，让它朝各个方向反射着金光。
酒吧很快变得空荡荡的，蝙蝠翅膀式的摇门疯狂地前后摇摆着。钢琴手重重地合上琴盖，迈着滑稽的大步，随其他人离开了酒吧。
“席伯！”女招待在他身后尖叫，叫声中夹杂着恐惧和凶悍。“席伯，你回来！该死的！”枪侠觉得这个名字似曾相识，但现在没有时间细想，没有心思去回忆。
这时，老人已经回到了他的桌边，在凹凸的桌面上转着金币。他那双非死非活的眼睛跟着金币转，似乎完全被吸引了，但眼神却又是空空的。他转了两次，三次，眼皮渐渐合上了。第四次，金币还没停止转动，他的头已经靠在了台子上。
“你，”她细声说，却又很愤怒，“你赶走了我的主顾。现在你满意了？”
“他们还会回来。”枪侠说。
“今晚不会。他们不会来了。”
他指指嚼鬼草的老人：“他是谁？”
“管你自己的事吧。先生。”
“我一定得知道。”枪侠耐着性子，“他——”
“他跟你说的话好奇怪。”她说，“诺特一辈子也没那样讲过话。”
“我在找一个人。你应该认识他。”
她瞪着他，怒火慢慢熄灭了。取而代之的是沉思，继而是眼睛里湿漉漉的微光。松动的房子发出若有所思的开裂声。远处，一只狗粗声狂吠。枪侠等着。她意识到枪侠知道内情，眼里的微光开始显得无助，她似乎有种需要，但又无法表达。
“我猜你应该知道我的价钱。”她说，“我有种渴望，以前是能克制的，但是现在再也控制不住了。”
他镇定地看着她。黑暗中她前额上的疤痕不那么明显。她的腰身还不算臃肿，看样子这沙漠、硬渣和狂风还没有夺去一切。而且，她也许曾经也标致过，说不定还是个美人。但这已经不重要了。即使墓虫已经移居到她干瘪乏味的子宫里，这一切也都不重要了。命已注定。冥冥中，命运之手已在生死簿上写下了这一笔。
她用双手捂住了脸，体内还有足够的液体——让她哭泣。
“别看着我。你不用那样刻薄地看着我。”
“对不起。”枪侠说，“我没一点恶意。”
“你们没有一个是说真话的！”她朝他哭喊。
“把酒吧关上。把灯熄了。”
她抽泣着，手捂着脸。他宁愿看她捂住自己的脸的样子。倒不是因为疤痕给遮住了，而是这姿势让她有种少女的风韵——尽管她不再有少女的面庞。在油腻的灯下，固定着肩带的别针闪着光。
“他会偷东西吗？如果他会，我还是把他弄到门外去。”
“不会。”她轻声说，“诺特从不偷人东西。”
“那，把灯熄了吧。”
直到她走到枪侠身后时才肯把手从脸上挪开，她调低灯芯，吹灭火焰，灯一盏盏灭了。然后，她拉着他的手，感觉非常温暖。她带他上楼。一片漆黑中，他们没有做任何遮掩。
他在黑暗中卷了两根烟，点燃后递给她一支。房间里充满着她的香味，像清新的丁香花，有些哀婉动人。淡淡的香味之外是沙漠的气息。他突然觉得自己对前方的沙漠充满畏惧。
“他叫诺特。”她说。声音还是那样尖锐。“就叫诺特。他死了。”
枪侠等她继续。
“他被上帝触碰过。”
枪侠说：“我从没见到过上帝。”
“打我记事起，他就在这里——我是指诺特，不是上帝。”她突然对着黑暗一阵大笑。“他以前有辆垃圾车。后来开始酗酒，再后来迷上了鬼草，最后用鬼草卷烟抽。小孩子跟在他后面，放狗咬他。他一直穿条绿色的裤子，臭味熏天。你在听吗？”
"exist."
“他后来开始嚼鬼草。最后他就坐在那里，不吃不喝。也许在他的幻觉中，他是个国王。小孩们都是他的弄臣，而狗是他的王子。”
"yes."
“他就死在这前头。”她说，“他从街边走过来，脚步很重——他的靴子永远穿不烂，是他在废旧火车站找到的一双军靴——后面跟着一群孩子和他们的狗。他看上去就像是由许多铜丝做的衣架拧绞在一块儿。你从他的眼睛里可以看到垂死的目光，但是他还在咧嘴笑。就像在收割节前，孩子们刻在南瓜上的笑脸一样。你老远就能闻到他身上的鬼草和腐烂味。口水从他嘴角流出，就像绿色的血。我猜他是想进来听席伯弹钢琴。不过就在进门前，他停住了，头歪到一边。我能看到他，还以为他是在听客车过来的声音，但那个时候不会有客车经过。然后他开始呕吐，黑色的，都是血，从他咧开的嘴里流出来，就像水从阴沟里涌出来那样。臭气能熏得你发疯。他的两条胳膊扬起来，然后就倒下去了。就是这样。他倒在自己的污秽中，死的时候脸上还挂着笑。”
“真是个精彩的故事。”
“哦，谢谢你，先生。这是个好地方。”
她坐在他身旁，还在颤抖。窗外，风仍在呼啸，远处有扇门被砰地关上，声音犹如来自梦中。墙壁中间有老鼠跑过。枪侠猜这里也许是全村惟一一个养得起老鼠的地方。他把手放到她的肚皮上，她开始剧烈地抖动，然后慢慢放松下来。
“黑衣人。”他说。
“你一定要知道，是不是？你就不能和我做爱，然后睡觉吗？”
“我一定要知道。”
“好吧。那我就告诉你。”她握住他的手，开始叙说。
诺特死去当天的黄昏，黑衣人到了特岙。那时狂风大作，土地表层的松土被吹走，砂土就像暴雨一样刮来，玉米被连根卷起，像直升机飞过时那样。朱伯·莰讷利锁上了他的马房，其他几个商贩也关上了窗板，还在窗板外用木板加固。天空变成了黄色，就像变质奶酪的颜色，云朵快速地飞过，就好像它们刚才经过沙漠时看到了恐怖的一幕。
枪侠的猎物坐着辆破马车进村，马车上铺了块防雨油布。他脸上挂着十分友好的笑容。大家看着他走近，老莰讷利正躺在窗边，一手攥着个酒瓶，另一只手里握着他二女儿松软发烫的左乳。他暗自发誓，倘若黑衣人敲门他就假装不在家。
但是黑衣人经过马房时，并没放慢速度，马车卷起的尘土很快被狂风拥抱了。他可能是个牧师或和尚；他穿了件黑色的长袍，上面沾满了尘土；袍子的兜帽宽松地罩在头上，让人看不清他的脸，但是却没遮住那友好得有些令人反感的微笑。他的袍子被风吹得哗啦作响。从袍子边缘可以隐约看到他穿着一双扣得很紧的方头靴子。
他在席伯酒吧门口停下来，拴住马匹。栗色马低下头，对着地面喷气。他走到马车后面，解开绳子，找到个陈旧的马褡裢，往背上一甩，穿过摇门走进酒吧。
爱丽丝（注：即爱丽。）好奇地看着他，但其他人都没注意到陌生人进来。酒吧的常客都已酩酊大醉。席伯正在用拉格泰姆调子（注：拉格泰姆调子，是美国黑人的一种早期爵士乐，多用切分音法，风靡于1890—1915年间，七十年代初又开始流行。）演奏卫理公会（注：卫理公会，是一个新教的教会。主要集中在英伦小岛和北美洲。在美国成员数目最多。）的赞美诗，散在钢琴旁的许多人早些时候就进来躲风暴，顺便也为诺特守灵，他们已唱得喉咙嘶哑。席伯喝得差不多失去知觉了，他完全陶醉于自己还能活着这个事实中，弹琴的双手飞快地移动，几个手指来回如梭就像在打板羽球游戏。
人们尖声歌唱着，叫喊着，声音怎么也盖不过风声，但不时也跟风声较量一番。角落里，翟彻利把艾美·费尔顿的裙子掀过头顶，在她的膝盖上画收割节的符咒。几个女人围在他们周围。他们显得都特别兴奋。然而门外暴风留下的凄惨的白光似乎是对他们的嘲讽。
诺特的尸体被放在房间中央拼起来的两张桌子上。他的军靴摆成了一个神秘的V字形。他的嘴还张着，留下一个呆滞的微笑。有人合上了他的双眼，在上面各放了块金属片。他的双手被人合在胸口，握着一枝鬼草。浑身散发出毒药一样的气味。
黑衣人推掉他的兜帽，走到吧台边。爱丽丝看着他，一种深藏在体内熟悉的渴望让她全身颤抖。他身上没有任何象征宗教的标记，当然这说明不了任何问题。
“威士忌。”他说。他的声音柔和且愉悦。“宝贝，我要上好的酒。”
她伸向柜台下面，拿出一瓶星牌威士忌。她本可以拿当地的酒当做最好的来打发他，但是她没有那样做。她倒了一杯，黑衣人看着她。他的眼睛又大又亮。但是目光深邃，以至于爱丽丝难以判断他眼睛的颜色。她的渴望让她觉得浑身发热。房间里的叫喊歌唱并未减弱。而席伯，爱丽眼里这无用的阉马，正在弹基督精兵的赞美歌；一些人怂恿米尔大妈和着唱。她的歌声简直不成调，就像一把钝斧切过牛犊的脑子。
“嗨，爱丽！”
她转过去招待客人。对陌生人的沉默不语有些怨恨，还怨他那看不清颜色的眼睛，怨自己内心的蠢蠢欲动。她的渴望让她害怕。它们变化莫测，狂野得让她无法控制。它们也许标志着一些变化，表明她开始变老——在特岙，这就像冬天的日落，既短暂又凄凉。
她放着啤酒，直到小桶空了为止，然后她又凿开了另一桶。她宁愿自己做，也不想叫席伯；他当然会乐意过来帮忙，像只贪婪的狗，不过他肯定会凿掉自己的手指，要么就把啤酒喷洒得到处都是。她干活时，陌生人的目光一直在她身上；她感觉得到。
当她回来后，他说：“这里很忙。”他还没碰他的酒，只是用手掌捂着杯子，让酒变暖些。
“人们在守灵。”她说。
“我注意到了逝者。”
“他们都是酒鬼。”她说，心里突然涌起一股憎恨，“全都是酒鬼。”
“这让他们兴奋。他已经死了，但是他们还活着。”
“他活着的时候就是他们嘲弄的对象。但现在他们不应该再嘲笑他了。这太……”她的声音变小了，无法确切表达这是什么，或者这是多么可憎。
“他吃鬼草？”
“是！他还能有什么？”
她的语气过于强烈了，这让她自己都有些不好意思，但是他没有移开目光，她觉得一股热血冲到脸上。“对不起。你是牧师吗？这肯定让你反感吧。”
“我不是，这也没让我反感。”他一口喝完了杯中的威士忌，连眉头都没有皱一下。“请再来一杯。再来次感动——就像另一个世界里的人常说的。”
她不知道这到底是什么意思，但又不敢问。“我得先看到你的钱。对不起。”
“不用抱歉。”
他把一块粗糙的银币放在柜台上，一边厚一边薄。她说了跟后来一样的话：“我可没钱找你。”
他摇摇头，表示不要找零，若有所思地看着她倒酒。
“你只是途经此地？”她问。
他半晌没有作答。她正准备重复刚才的问题，他却不耐烦地摇摇头：“不要谈无聊的事。你在这里面对着死亡。”
她有些畏缩，觉得受了伤害，但又很惊讶。她的第一反应是他佯装正经，只是为了考验她。
“你很在乎他。”他语气平淡地问：“对不对？”
“谁？诺特？”她笑了，假装恼怒来掩饰她的窘迫。“我认为你最好——”
“你心肠很好，就是有点胆小。”他打断她：“他躺在草上，从地狱的后门往外看。他就在那里，他们已经把门关上了，你认为只有当你要走过那道门时，他们才会再次把门打开，是不是？”
“你怎么了，喝醉了？”
“密司脱诺顿，他死了。”黑衣人像是在吟咏，他带着挖苦的语气故意改变了说话的调子。“他就像任何一个人那样死了。像你或任何人一样，死了。”
“你给我出去！”她突然感到一阵强烈的反感，全身开始颤抖，但是小腹里的那股暖流却固执地流遍全身。
“别怕。”他柔声说，“别怕。慢慢等。等着就行。”
他的眼睛是蓝色的。她突然放松下来，仿佛服了镇静剂。
“像任何人那样，死了。”他说，“你明白吗？”
她木然地点点头，他大笑起来，响亮的笑声似未受过污染，非常明亮。这让所有人的目光都集中在黑衣人身上。他猛一转身，面对着众人，俨然成了整个房间的中心。米尔大妈声音发颤，歌声戛然而止，空气中留了半个破碎的高音，好像在流血。席伯弹错了音，琴声也突然停下。他们不安地看着陌生人。风沙吹在门窗上，发出沙沙的响声。
沉默继续着，似乎那一刻就永远定格了。她沉重的呼吸堵在了喉咙口，低头看到吧台下自己的双手紧紧按着肚皮。他们都看着他，他也注视着大家。突然一阵笑声又爆发出来，浑厚洪亮，让人无法抗拒。但没人跟他一起笑。
“我要让你们看一个奇迹！”他朝人们叫喊。但人们只是看着他，就像些顺服的大孩子被带去看他们再也不相信的魔术表演。
黑衣人猛地站起来，米尔大妈踉跄着退后了几步。他冷然一笑，拍了一下她肥厚的肚皮。她不由自主地咯咯笑起来。黑衣人把头朝后一仰。
“觉得好点了，是不是？”
米尔大妈又是一阵咯咯笑，突然间变成一阵啜泣，然后夺门而逃。其他人默默地看着她离开。风暴开始了；乌云不断涌来，阴影在半圆的白色苍穹上积聚。站在钢琴旁的一个男人，显然已忘了拿在手上的啤酒瓶，发出一声痛苦的呻吟。
黑衣人站在诺特身旁，低头看着他笑。狂风怒吼尖叫着，一个大物件被刮起来，撞到房子一侧，又弹了回去，让房子一震。吧台旁一个男人挣脱人群，慌乱地躲到安静的角落。雷鸣似乎要扯破天穹，响声就像天神的一阵剧烈咳嗽。
“好吧。”黑衣人咧嘴一笑，“好吧。我们开始吧！”
他开始朝诺特脸上吐口水，仔细地对准目标。唾沫在死者的前额闪着光，慢慢流下来，流过他的鼻梁。
在吧台下面，她的手更快地挪动起来。
席伯笑起来，像个傻子似的，也弯腰俯向诺特。他开始咳嗽，从喉咙底咳出许多粘厚的浓痰，让它们飞到诺特尸体上。黑衣人吼了一声表示肯定，拍了拍席伯的后背。席伯咧嘴笑了，一颗金牙闪闪发光。
几个人逃出门外。其他一些人松散地围在诺特周围。他的脸上，他皱得像公鸡颈部下垂的皮肉一样的头颈，和他