Chapter 4 Chapter 2 Station

He still doesn't know what the plane in the last verse of the song is, but he knows why the song keeps reappearing in his memory.He kept dreaming of his room in the castle, with his little bed by a stained window.He lay there quietly while his mother sang the song to him.She didn't sing to him at bedtime, because little High Tongue boys had to face the darkness alone, but she sang to him at naptime.He remembered the rainbow on the sheets; he could even feel the coolness of the room and the warmth of the quilt.He loved his mother, and her crimson lips; the little tunes she sang and her voice still haunt the gunslinger.

Now those memories were pounding his mind like crazy, like a dog walking around thinking about biting its own tail.All his waterskins were empty, and he knew he was probably going to be a mummified corpse soon.He never thought that there would be such an ending, and he couldn't help but feel a little regretful.Since noon he has been staring at his feet instead of looking up at the road ahead.Here even the ghost grass grows particularly short and yellow.The hard ground was cracked into pieces, appearing like ravines.The mountains in the distance were just as blurry, even though he had been walking in the desert for sixteen days.He had left that half-mad young man who lived on the edge of the desert sixteen days ago, and hadn't seen a soul since.The gunslinger remembered that the man had a bird, but he couldn't remember the bird's name.

He watched his feet move mechanically, like the needles of a loom, and the songs that kept appearing in his mind had begun to turn upside down.He didn't know when he was going to fall, and it would be the first time he fell.He didn't want to fall himself, even though no one would see it.It's about his pride.A gunslinger knows pride, the invisible bone that always keeps your neck straight.This quality of his was not inherited from his father, but was implanted deep in his heart by Kurt.Curt had been the gentleman he'd imagined as a boy—if there had ever been a gentleman.Ah, Curt, with his garlicky red nose and his scarred face.

He stopped and looked up suddenly.It made him dizzy for a moment, and for a moment it seemed his whole body was levitating.The outlines of the mountains on the horizon began to float.But there seemed to be something besides the mountains ahead, and it didn't look too far away, maybe five miles away.He squinted his eyes to see what happened, but after being blown by the wind and sand for many days, coupled with the white light of the scorching sun, he seemed to be unable to see anything.He shook his head and started walking again.Songs echoed and buzzed in his ears.After walking for about an hour, he fell to the ground and scratched the skin on his hands.He looked at the bare flesh on his hand, and the blood dripped out like small beads, and he couldn't believe it.His blood was like any other blood, not particularly viscous or thin; it congealed in the hot air.The drop of blood, like a desert, glared at him mockingly.He hated his own blood inexplicably, and wiped away the drops of blood.ridicule?why not?The blood does not feel thirsty.These bloods can be cared for very carefully.He sacrificed a lot to keep the red fluid in his body.blood sacrifice.All that blood needs to do is flow...flow...flow in the veins.

He watched the blood dripping on the ground, watching them suddenly sucked dry by the thirsty earth, disappearing so quickly that no one could have expected it.My blood, how does this make you feel?This experience was very enjoyable for you, right? Oh Jesus, I can't. He stood up, folded his hands on his chest, and the silhouette he saw earlier was in front of him. He cried out in surprise, but his voice was hoarse like a crow's cry—his throat was completely hoarse, as if given by sand. Choked.The silhouette becomes a building.No, it was two buildings, surrounded by a collapsed fence.The wood looked old, so old that it would melt at the touch; it was the wood that had turned to sand.One of the buildings had once been a stable - its shape was so obvious that the gunslinger was sure of it.The other is a house, or hotel.He was sure it had been a post on the passenger line.The rickety sandcastle (the wood looks like a sandcastle from years of wind-blown gravel speckled on the surface of the wood) casts a slender shadow in which someone sits, leaning against the edge.It was as if the whole house was tilting under his weight.

it's him!So, finally, the man in black showed up. The gunslinger still folded his hands on his chest, not realizing that this was a posture that seemed to give a speech, and stared blankly.He didn't feel the intense excitement that made his whole body tremble as expected (maybe there was also fear or awe), on the contrary, he felt a faint guilt for the anger against his own blood that had just erupted.Childhood rhymes have not ceased: ... raindrops in Spain ... He stepped forward and drew a gun. ... fell on the plain. In the last few hundred meters, he shuffled and wobbled towards the building, not intending to take cover; besides, there was no cover for him to hide.His stubby shadow was racing him.He didn't know that his face looked deathly gray with exhaustion; all he could think of was the man in the shadows.It wasn't until later that he thought about it that it was entirely possible that the man was just a dead body.

He kicked away a section of the fence that had mostly fallen to the ground, (the fence snapped in two silently, as if sorry for being in the way.) and rushed across the silent yard in front of the stables, raising his gun. "You're being targeted! You're being targeted! Hands up, you bastard, you—" The man made a disturbed movement, and stood up slowly.The gunslinger gasped: God, he's so skinny, what's the matter with him?Because the man in black has shortened by two feet, and the man in front of him has white hair. The gunslinger stood there, his head buzzing dizzily.His heart was beating wildly and he thought, I'm going to die here.

He sucked hot air into his lungs and hung his head.When he raised his head again, he saw that standing in front of him was not the man in black, but a little boy, his hair was bleached by the sun.The boy looked at him without the slightest interest in his eyes.The gunslinger stared blankly at the boy, shaking his head in disbelief. It was just an illusion.But, despite his reluctance, the boy stood before him: blue jeans with a patch on the knee, and a brown shirt of coarse knit. The gunslinger shook his head again, and walked to the stables.He hung his head, the gun still in his hand.He can't think yet.His head seemed to be full of splinters, knocking against each other, causing him excruciating pain.

Walking into the stables, there was a burst of heat, which made people feel as if the dark and silent space was about to explode.He stared around.Suddenly he turned drunkenly and saw the boy standing outside the door, staring at him.At this moment, a pain was like a sharp blade, smoothly slicing from one temple to the other, cutting through the brain like an orange.He picked up the gun again, staggered a few steps, he stretched out his hand and waved it as if trying to push away the ghost, and then fell straight down. When he awoke, he found a pile of soft, odorless hay under his head.The little boy couldn't move him, but he tried to make him lie comfortably.He felt a chill, looked down at himself, and found that his clothes were wet and dark.He licked the corner of his mouth, feeling the moisture of the water.He blinked.His tongue seemed very swollen.

The boy crouched beside him.He saw the gunslinger open his eyes and reach out behind him to bring out a jagged tin can full of water.The gunslinger took the can with trembling hands and drank a little water—just a little.When the little water flowed down into his stomach, he drank some more.Then he splashed the rest of the water on his face, choked the water up his nose, and gasped loudly.The boy's pretty lips curled up in a smile. "Would you like something to eat, sir?" "Not yet," said the gunslinger.He was still tormented by the headache caused by the heat stroke, and the few sips of water he had just drank rumbled in his stomach, as if he was stuck inside and didn't know where to go. "Who are you?"

"My name's John Chambers, but you can call me Jack. I have a friend--a friend, she's a helper in our house--she calls me Bama sometimes, but you can call me Jack. " The gunslinger sat up, feeling the sharp headache at once.He leaned forward, feeling a little better in his stomach. "There's still water," Jack said.He picked up the can and went to the back of the stable.He stopped, turned and smiled at the gunslinger, but hesitated.The gunslinger nodded at him, then bowed his head, resting his forehead on his hands.The boy was good-looking, about ten or eleven years old.There was a hint of fear on his face, but that was normal; if he hadn't shown a little fear, the gunslinger wouldn't have trusted him so much. From the back of the stable came a strange thumping sound.The gunslinger raised his head vigilantly, his hands had already touched the handle of the gun.The sound lasted about fifteen seconds and then died away.The boy came in with a can full of water. The gunslinger still refrained from drinking some water, but this time he felt better.The headache started to lessen. "I didn't know what to do when you fell," Jack said. "For a few seconds, I thought you were going to shoot me." "Maybe I thought so. I took you for someone else." "The priest?" The gunslinger raised his head alertly. The boy stared at him for a moment, frowning. "He camped in the yard. I was in the house over there. It might have been a warehouse. I didn't like him so I didn't come out. He spent the night here and left the next day. I would have Going to get away from you, but I was sleeping when you came." His eyes flicked past the gunslinger to the distance, suddenly dark. "I don't like people. They kill me." "What does he look like?" The boy shrugged. "Like a priest. His clothes are all black." "Hood and armor?" "What is Kaiser?" "A priest's robe. Like a dress." The boy nodded. "That's right." The gunslinger leaned forward and something on his face made the boy flinch back a little. "How long ago was that? Tell me, for your father's sake." "me……" "I won't hurt you," said the gunslinger patiently. "I don't know. I don't remember how much time has passed. Every day is the same." For the first time, the gunslinger suddenly wondered how the boy had gotten to this place, surrounded by dry, deadly desert.But he didn't want to think about it just yet, at least not yet. "Try to speculate. Long ago?" "No, not that long ago. I haven't been here long." The fire inside him was rekindled.He grabbed the pitcher, his hands trembling slightly.A lullaby began to repeat again, but this time instead of his mother's face he thought of Alice's scarred face.Alice, his lover in Te'ao, also disappeared with the whole village. "A week? Two? Three?" The boy looked at him blankly: "Yes." "how long?" "One week. Maybe two weeks." He looked down to the side, blushing a little. "I've shit three times since he left. Now that's all I can tell the time. He didn't even take a drink. I thought he was a priest's ghost, like I've seen in movies. Only Zorro could see that he wasn't a priest at all, and he wasn't a ghost. He was just a banker trying to get the land where the gold was hidden. That movie Mrs. Shaw took me to. It was in Times Square. " The gunslinger didn't understand anything the boy was saying, so he didn't react to it. "I was terrified," said the boy, "I was terribly terrified from the beginning to the end." His face was trembling, like a crystal that had reached its limit and was about to shatter at any moment. "He didn't even make a fire. He just sat there. I don't know if he fell asleep." near!Closer than he'd ever been before, God's will!Despite his severe dehydration, his palms felt slightly wet and greasy. "Here's some dried meat," said the boy. "Yes." The gunslinger nodded. "it is good." The boy got up to get his food, his knees protruding a bit.However, his back was still straight, and the desert hadn't hurt his vitality yet.His arms were slender, and his skin, although tanned, hadn't cracked and molted.He still has plenty of energy, the gunslinger thought to himself.Maybe, he had some guts, otherwise he would have taken my gun and killed me while I was unconscious. Perhaps, the boy just didn't think of it. The gunslinger drank some more water from the can.Whether he is bold or timid, he is not from this place. Jack came back with a sun-baked bread board piled high with dried meat.The flesh was tight and stringy, and so salty that it burned the corners of the gunslinger's festering mouth.He ate and drank water, and didn't lie down until the swelling was a little sluggish.The boy ate only a small amount, carefully picking out the blackened strands of the jerky. The gunslinger looked at him, and the boy looked back at the gunslinger, honestly. "Where are you from, Jack?" he finally asked. "I don't know." The boy frowned. "I knew it before. I remember it when I first got here, but I can't remember anything now, it's like waking up from a nightmare and can't remember anything. I had a lot of nightmares. Mrs. Shaw often said it was because I've watched too many Channel Eleven horror movies." "What is a channel?" He suddenly had a bold idea: "Is it like a beam of light?" "No—it's the TV." "What is a touchstone?" "I—" the boy patted his forehead, "image." "Did someone bring you here? That Mrs. Xiao?" "No," said the boy, "that's where I am." "Who is Mrs. Xiao?" "I have no idea." "Why did she call you 'Bama'?" "I do not remember." The gunslinger said coldly, "You're making me more and more confused." Suddenly, the boy was about to cry. "I can't help it. I found myself here suddenly, and I don't know why. If you asked me yesterday what is TV and what is a channel, maybe I will remember. Tomorrow I will probably even remember that my name is Jack." Terrible - unless you remind me, but you won't be here, will you? You'll leave and I'll starve because you eat all my food. I didn't want to come here. I don't like it here .It's so weird and scary here." "Don't pity yourself like this. Get over it." "I didn't want to come here." The boy retorted with some disappointment. The gunslinger ate another piece of meat, chewing out the salt and spitting it out before swallowing.The boy has become a part of this place.The gunslinger believed he was telling the truth—he hadn't come here.But, he, he himself... came here by himself.But he didn't mean to make things that bad.He didn't want to point the gun at the villagers in Te'ao; he didn't want to shoot Ai Li, he still remembered her beautiful and sad face was painted with the secret she finally opened with the key "Nineteen"; he didn't want to There is a choice between responsibility and indiscriminate killing of innocents.He felt it was unfair to have to force innocent bystanders to speak or force them to say lines they couldn't even remember.He thought of Ellie, who at least was part of the world, at least in her own fantasies.But this boy... this damn boy... "Tell me what do you remember?" he said to Jack. "Just a little. And no clue." "Tell me. Maybe I can piece it together." The boy thought for a while, not knowing where to start.He thought very painfully. "There's a place... the place before here. This place is high, with many rooms, and a platform where you can stand and look at the other tall buildings and the water. In the water, there's a very tall statue. " "The statue is in the water?" "Yes. A lady with a crown and a torch, and... I think... a book in her other hand." "Aren't you making up a story?" "I guess I'm making this up," the boy said desperately. "On the street, there are things you can sit in. They're called cars. Some are big and some are small. The big ones are blue and white, and the The small ones are all yellow. There are many yellow cars. I walk to school. There are cement paved roads on both sides of the street. Many windows you can look in. There are more statues in clothes. Those statues sell clothes ...I know it sounds crazy, but those statues do sell clothes." The gunslinger shook his head, trying to detect a trace of lying in the boy's face.But he didn't see it. "I'm going to school on foot." The boy repeated stubbornly. "And I have one"—his eyes narrowed, lips moved slightly, as if trying to remember something—"a brown...book...bag. I had my lunch. Still wearing it"—lips Moving again, pained—"A tie." "tie?" "I don't know." The boy's fingers slowly tightened the tie around his throat, and the gunslinger thought it was a hanging motion. "I don't know. I don't remember anything." He looked away again. "Shall I help you sleep?" the gunslinger asked. "I am not sleepy." "I can make you sleepy, and I can make you remember something." Jack asked suspiciously, "How do you do it?" "use this." The gunslinger drew a round from the sling and twirled it between his fingers.His movements are deft, smooth as oil.The bullet turned easily on the fingers, from between the thumb and index finger, to between the index finger and the middle finger, to between the middle finger and the ring finger, and then to between the ring finger and the little finger.It disappeared for a moment and then reappeared, as if floating to and fro.The bullets traveled on the gunslinger's fingers.When he was in the last few miles of the station, his feet moved completely mechanically, and his fingers moved like that.The boy looked at his fingers, and the first doubts were replaced by joy, and then he became enthralled, completely immersed in the movement of the fingers, his eyes slowly became confused, and finally slowly closed.The bullets are still dancing back and forth.Jack's eyes opened again to watch the bullet slide smoothly and quickly between the gunslinger's fingers, and after a moment they closed again.The gunslinger continued with his little trick, but Jack's eyes did not open again.The boy's breathing was slow and steady, and he fell asleep.Does this have to be part of the gunslinger's itinerary?yes.Unavoidable.There was an icy beauty to it, like the lace trim around the hard blue ice pack.He seemed to hear his mother humming again, not raindrops in Spain this time, but sweet lullabies, the kind that seemed to come from far away when he was rocked to sleep : Candle bag, kiss baby, baby comes here with your basket. This isn't the first time the gunslinger has felt that pain in his soul.The bullets that the fingers manipulated gracefully suddenly became hideous, like monster tracks.He stopped, the bullet fell on the palm of his hand, and he clenched his fist, squeezing the bullet hard.If it exploded, the gunslinger would be glad for a moment that he had ruined that nimble hand, whose only gift was killing.The world was full of killing, but that fact brought him no consolation.Murder, adultery, and other unspeakable acts, all for a noble purpose, damned lofty, damned myth, for the Grail, for the Tower.Ah, the Tower at the center of all things (so they say), with its black and gray mass rising to the sky.In his ear, which has been blown by the wind and sand for a long time, there is his mother's sweet singing faintly: 阒ci, qici, 葜ci, (Note: The original text here is: Chussit, chissit, chassit, high-level language, meaning seventeen, Eighteen, nineteen.) Bring more to fill your little basket. He collected himself and squeezed the sweetness of the nursery rhymes out of his head. "Where are you?" he asked. Jack Chambers—sometimes called Bama—comes downstairs with his schoolbag.The bag contained earth science books, geography books, a notebook, a pen, and lunch.Lunches were cooked by his mother's cook, Mrs. Greta Shaw, in a richly decorated kitchen with a fan running forever to suck out unwanted smells.His lunch bag contained a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a sausage, lettuce, and onion sandwich, and four Oreo cookies.His parents didn't hate him, but they never seemed to have him in their hearts.They left him entirely with Mrs. Greta Shaw, the babysitter, the summer tutor, and the Piper School he attended (private and overwhelmingly white).These guys are some of the best professionals in the business and they never acted above their status with Jack.None of them hugged him open-chested and affectionately, but the historical romance novels his mother read often included such hug scenes, and he had read some of the novels his mother read often, looking for some "hot scenes" in them.His father sometimes called them "hysterical novels," or "stories about ripping a woman's corset."Sometimes Jack stood outside the closed door and could hear his mother sarcastically speaking back to her husband.His dad worked for a "dot-com" company, and Jack could spot him in a line of lean, crew-shaven men.Maybe. Jack didn't realize that he hated all so-called professionals, except Mrs. Shaw.These people always overwhelmed him.His mom is scrawny, but people call it sexy, and she's always sleeping with some sick friends of hers.His dad would sometimes say that someone in the company made "too much Coca-Cola."He always had a dry smile after saying this and a quick sniff of his thumbnail. Now, Jack is walking down the street.He is on his way to school.Jack is always clean, he appears well-bred, and he has a sensitive heart.He goes bowling once a week at the Midtown Pavilion.He has no friends, only casual acquaintances.He'd never bothered to think about it, but the fact still hurt him.He didn't know or he didn't understand that he was subtly influenced by the professionals around him, and he had more or less the habits of those people.Mrs. Greta Shaw (better than the others, but goodness, that's a consolation prize at best) can make very professional sandwiches.She quartered the bread and cut off the hard edges around it, which made him eat between classes as if he should be at a cocktail party with a small sandwich in one hand and a drink in the other instead of a A sports book or a Cray Blaisdell western from the school library.His dad made a lot of money because he was a master at the "killing game," always one move ahead of his competitors and knocking them out.He smokes four packs of cigarettes a day.His dad doesn't cough, but he has a stiff smile, and he never tires of his Coca-Cola jokes. He walks down the street.His mother gave him money for a taxi, but he walked as long as it wasn't raining.He dangles his school bag (sometimes his bowling bag, though most of the time it's left in his locker) as he walks.To others, he was a typical American boy, with blond hair and blue eyes.The girls had been paying attention to him early on (with their mother's approval, of course), and he didn't shy away from them with the arrogance of a shy boy.He always scared them away by speaking to them with a professionalism that he didn't even realize he had.He enjoys geography and enjoys bowling in the afternoon.His dad owned stock in a company that made automatic pinning machines for bowling alleys, but Midtown bowling alleys didn't use that brand.He thought he didn't pay attention to this, but in fact he knew it in his heart. Walking down the street he would pass the Blumi department store, with models in the windows wearing fur coats and Edwardian six-button suits; some naked, some "almost nude."The models—models who wore fashion for exhibitions—were professional, too, and he hated all professionalism.He was too young to know that he hated himself, but the seed had been planted; give him time and it would sprout and bear bitter fruit. He was standing on the corner of the street, carrying his schoolbag.Traffic roared past—grunting buses, all blue and white, yellow cabs, Volkswagens, a big truck.He was just a kid, but unlike any other kid, he saw his killer out of the corner of his eye.It was the man in black, but the boy didn't see his face, only his flowing robes, outstretched hands, and that stiff professional smile.He fell in the street with his arms outstretched and still clutching his schoolbag, which contained Mrs. Greta Shaw's extremely professional sandwiches intact.He caught a glimpse, through the windshield, of a completely petrified face; it was a businessman in a dark blue hat with a small but conspicuous feather in its ribbon.Somewhere there is a radio blaring rock music.An old woman on the far sidewalk screamed—she was wearing a black hat and veil.The black veil was nothing special, it looked more like a mourning veil.Jack felt nothing, just a little surprise, and a little bit of his usual bewilderment—is this the end of it?Before he bowls two hundred and seventy?He fell hard into the street and saw a seam of asphalt two inches from his eye.The schoolbag shook out of his hand.He was wondering if he had scratched his knee when the car of the businessman in the dark blue cap and the eye-catching feathers drove past him.It was a huge 1976 Cadillac with Firestone tires with white rings on the sidewalls.The car was almost the same color as the hat the businessman wore.It crushed Jack's back, squeezed his guts to juice, and his blood spurted from his mouth like water from a high-pressure faucet.He turned his head and saw the Cadillac's shining taillights, and a lot of black smoke was sprayed from under the locked rear wheels.The car also ran over his schoolbag, leaving a wide black tire track.He turned his head again to see a gray Ford screeching to a halt, inches away from him.A black man with a push cart selling pretzels and soda ran up to him.Blood was pouring from Jack's nostrils, ears, eyes and rectum.His reproductive organs were crushed.He wondered impatiently what the skin on his knee had been rubbed into.He wondered if he was going to be late for school.Now the driver of the Cadillac was running towards him, talking gibberish.Not far away came a terrible, peaceful voice, a voice that symbolized death: "I am a priest. Let me pass. The Confessions..." He saw the black robe and suddenly felt a kind of fear.That's him, the man in black.Jack turned away with the last of his strength.A song by the rock band Kiss is playing on the radio now.He saw his hand dragging on the pavement, small and white and beautiful.He never bit his fingernails. Looking at his hands, Jack left that world. The gunslinger knelt down, his brows were furrowed, and he was lost in thought.He was tired and aching all over, and his train of thought was getting slower and slower.The boy across from him was incredible; he was in a deep sleep, his hands clasped in his lap, his breathing calm.He recalls it with little emotion, except for a tremor in his voice towards the end when he speaks of "The Priest" and "The Penitent."He certainly didn't tell the gunslinger about his family, or his own feeling of being overwhelmed, but there were bits and pieces—enough for the gunslinger to piece together a whole picture.But the city the boy described never existed (unless it was the mythical Lutheran City), which disturbed the gunslinger.All his narratives disturbed the gunslinger.The gunslinger is most afraid of those insinuations. "Jack?" "what?" "Do you want to remember these things when you wake up, or forget them all?" "Forget." The boy replied quickly. "I could smell my own shit when the blood came out of my mouth." "Okay. You're going to fall asleep now, understand? It's actually falling asleep. Go, lie down, if you feel comfortable." Jack lay down, motionless, looking very small.But the gunslinger did not believe that he would be harmless.The gunslinger felt deadly to him, again like a trap.He didn't like his intuition, but he liked the boy.He likes him very much. "Jack?" "Shhh. I'm asleep. I'm sleepy." "Yes. You won't remember anything when you wake up." "Okay. Okay." The gunslinger looked at Jack and couldn't help but think of his own childhood.He usually always felt as if his childhood had happened to another person - this person through the wonderful lens of time to become another person - but now it seemed to him that his childhood suddenly felt so close, so close unbearable.It was very hot in the stables of the post station, and he took a few sips of water carefully.He got up and walked around the back of the house, poking his head into one of the stalls where the horses were kept.There was a small pile of white hay in the corner, and an angular blanket, but there was no smell of horses.There was no smell of any kind in the stables.The scorching sun evaporated all the smells, leaving nothing behind. Behind the stables, there is a small dark room with a stainless steel machine in the middle.There was not a speck of rust or rot on the machine, and it looked like a butter churn.To the left of the machine, a chrome-plated pipe extends out into a drain in the floor.The gunslinger had seen similar pumps in other arid regions, but nothing of this size.He couldn't imagine how deep people (those long gone) had dug to reach the water, the ever-black secret beneath the desert. After the station was abandoned, why did no one move the water pump away? Maybe, the devil. He shivered suddenly, his back twitched involuntarily, and goosebumps appeared all over his body, and then slowly dissipated.He walked to the control gate and pressed the start button.The machine started humming.After about half a minute, a stream of crisp water gushes from the pipe and flows into the gutter, ready to recirculate.After pumping about three gallons of water, the pump stopped abruptly.This machine seems so abrupt here and now, just like the concept of "true love", which makes people feel unbelievable, but the machine is really standing in front of you, as real as God's judgment, it is silent, but it can Reminiscent of the days before the world started to change.Perhaps the water pump runs on atomic energy, because there are no power stations for thousands of miles around; if it used dry batteries, the power would have been exhausted long ago.The name of the manufacturer is impressively engraved on the machine: North Central Electronics.The gunslinger didn't like it much. He walked back and sat down beside the boy.He was fast asleep, with one hand under his face.He is a very handsome boy.The gunslinger drank some more water and sat cross-legged like an Indian.Like the young man who lived on the edge of the desert and kept a bird (Zotan, the gunslinger suddenly remembered, the bird's name was Zotan), the boy lost the concept of time, but the gunslinger was sure that he was farther away from the man in black. It's getting closer.More than once, the gunslinger felt that the man in black was deliberately letting him catch up.Perhaps, he is playing gunslinger in the palm of his hand.It was hard for the gunslinger to imagine what it would be like when the two faced each other head-on. He still felt very hot, but the headache was much better than before.The lullaby began to sing in his ears again, but this time he was not thinking of his mother but of Curt—Curt, like a machine that never rusts.His face is scarred by bricks, bullets and blunt objects; these scars are a testament to the war and the tactics he taught.He wondered if Curt had a love worthy of these monumental scars.He was very suspicious.He thought of Susan, his mother, and Marten, the treacherous wizard. The gunslinger is not a nostalgic man; his vague notions of the future and his own emotional personality keep him from being an unimaginative douchebag.He was therefore taken aback by the flood of memories at this moment.Each familiar name called up others—Cusbert, Alan, old man Jonas with a trembling voice; and again the name of Susan, the lovely girl who sat by the window.The gunslinger's thoughts always go back to Susan, to the grassland called Shapo, and to the scene of fishermen casting nets by the Qinghai Sea. The pianist in T'ao (who died, like all the others in T'ao, and at the hands of the gunslinger) knew those places, though he and the gunslinger had only talked about them that night.席伯很喜欢老歌，曾在一个叫“游客之家”的沙龙里弹奏老歌，枪侠无声地哼唱起一首不成调的老歌：