sk.thewastelands-第3节

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　　〃Damn　it；　I'm　not　a　gunslinger！〃
　　He　ignored　that；　he　could　afford　to。　If　she　was　no　gunslinger；　then　he　was　a　billy…bumbler。　〃If　we　were　playing　a　game；　I　might　have　behaved　differently。　But　this　is　no　game。　It　。。。〃
　　His　good　hand　went　to　his　forehead　for　a　moment　and　paused　there；　fingers　tented　just　above　the　left　temple。　The　tips　of　the　fingers；　she　saw；　were　trembling　minutely。
　　〃Roland；　what's　ailing　you？〃　she　asked　quietly。
　　The　hand　lowered　slowly。　He　rolled　the　cylinder　back　into　place　and　replaced　die　revolver　in　the　holster　she　wore。　〃Nothing。〃
　　〃Yes　there　is。　I've　seen　it。　Eddie　has；　too。　It　started　almost　as　soon　as　we　left　the　beach。　It's　something　wrong；　and　it's　getting　worse。〃
　　〃There　is　nothing　wrong；〃　he　repeated。
　　She　put　her　hands　out　and　took　his。　Her　anger　was　gone；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　She　looked　earnestly　up　into　his　eyes。　〃Eddie　and　I　。　。　。　this　isn't　our　world；　Roland。　Without　you；　we'd　die　here。　We'd　have　your　guns；　and　we　can　shoot　them；　you've　taught　us　to　do　that　well　enough；　but　we'd　die　just　the　same。　We　。。。　we　depend　on　you。　So　tell　me　what's　wrong。　Let　me　try　to　help。　Let　us　try　to　help。〃
　　He　had　never　been　a　man　who　understood　himself　deeply　or　cared　to；　the　concept　of　self…consciousness　（let　alone　self…analysis）　was　alien　to　him。　His　way　was　to　act…to　quickly　consult　his　own　interior；　utterly　mysterious　workings；　and　then　act。　Of　them　all；　he　had　been　the　most　perfectly　made；　a　man　whose　deeply　romantic　core　was　encased　in　a　brutally　simple　box　which　consisted　of　instinct　and　pragmatism。　He　took　one　of　those　quick　looks　inside　now　and　decided　to　tell　her　everything。　There　was　something　wrong　with　him；　oh　yes。　Yes　indeed。　Something　wrong　with　his　mind；　something　as　simple　as　his　nature　and　as　strange　as　the　weird；　wandering　life　into　which　that　nature　had　impelled　him。
　　He　opened　his　mouth　to　say　I'll　tell　you　what's　wrong；　Susannah；　and　I'll　do　it　in　just　three　words。　I'm　going　insane。　But　before　he　could　begin；　another　tree　fell　in　the　forest…it　went　with　a　huge；　grinding　crash。　This　treefall　was　closer；　and　this　time　they　were　not　deeply　engaged　in　a　test　of　wills　masquerading　as　a　lesson。　Both　heard　it；　both　heard　the　agitated　cawing　of　the　crows　which　followed　it；　and　both　registered　the　fact　that　the　tree　had　fallen　close　to　their　camp。
　　Susannah　had　looked　in　the　direction　of　the　sound　but　now　her　eyes；　wide　and　dismayed；　returned　to　the　gunslinger's　face。　〃Eddie！〃　she　said。
　　A　cry　rose　from　the　deep　green　fastness　of　the　woods　in　back　of　them…a　vast　cry　of　rage。　Another　tree　went；　and　then　another。　They　fell　in　what　sounded　like　a　hail　of　mortar…fin…；　Dry　wood；　the　gunslinger　thought。　Dead　trees。
　　〃Eddie！〃　This　time　she　screamed　it。　〃Whatever　it　is；　it's　near　Eddie！〃　Her　hands　flew　to　the　wheels　of　her　chair　and　began　the　laborious　job　of　turning　it　around。
　　〃No　time　for　that。〃　Roland　seized　her　under　her　arms　and　pulled　her　free。　He　had　carried　her　before　when　the　going　was　too　rough　for　her　wheelchair…both　men　had…but　she　was　still　amazed　by　his　uncanny；　ruthless　speed。　At　one　moment　she　was　in　her　wheelchair；　an　item　which　had　been　purchased　in　New　York　City's　finest　medical　supply　house　in　the　fall　of　1962。　At　the　next　she　was　balanced　precariously　on　Roland's　shoulders　like　a　cheerleader；　her　muscular　thighs　gripping　the　sides　of　his　neck；　his　palms　over　his　head　and　pressing　into　the　small　of　her　back。　He　began　to　run　with　her；　his　sprung　boots　slapping　the　needle…strewn　earth　between　the　ruts　left　by　her　wheelchair。
　　〃Odetta！〃　he　cried；　reverting　in　this　moment　of　stress　to　the　name　by　which　he　had　first　known　her。　〃Don't　lose　the　gun！　For　your　father's　sake！〃
　　He　was　sprinting　between　the　trees　now。　Shadow…lace　and　bright　chains　of　sun…dapple　ran　across　them　in　moving　mosaics　as　Roland　length…ened　his　stride。　They　were　going　downhill　now。　Susannah　raised　her　left　hand　to　ward　off　a　branch　that　wanted　to　slap　her　from　the　gunslinger's　shoulders。　At　the　same　moment　she　dropped　her　right　hand　to　the　butt　of　his　ancient　revolver；　cradling　it。
　　A　mile；　she　thought。　How　long　to　run　a　mile？　How　long　with　him　going　flat…out　like　this？　Not　long；　if　he　can　keep　his　feet　on　these　slippery　needles　。　。　。　but　maybe　too　long。　Let　him　be　all　right；　Lord…let　my　Eddie　be　all　right。
　　As　if　in　answer；　she　heard　the　unseen　beast　loose　its　cry　again。　That　vast　voice　was　like　thunder。　Like　doom。
　　
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　　HE　WAS　THE　LARGEST　creature　in　the　forest　which　had　once　been　known　as　the　Great　West　Woods；　and　he　was　the　oldest。　Many　of　the　huge　old　elms　which　Roland　had　noticed　in　the　valley　below　had　been　little　more　than　twigs　sprouting　from　the　ground　when　the　bear　came　out　of　the　dim　unknown　reaches　of　Out…World　like　a　brutal；　wandering　king。
　　Once；　the　Old　People　had　lived　in　the　West　Woods　（it　was　their　leavings　which　Roland　had　found　from　time　to　time　during　the　last　weeks）；　and　they　had　gone　in　fear　of　the　colossal；　undying　bear。　They　had　tried　to　kill　him　when　they　first　discovered　they　were　not　alone　in　the　new　territory　to　which　they　had　e；　but　although　their　arrows　enraged　him；　they　did　no　serious　damage。　And　he　was　not　confused　about　the　source　of　his　torment；　as　were　the　other　beasts　of　the　forest…even　the　predatory　bushcats　which　denned　and　littered　in　the　sandhills　to　the　west。　No；　he　knew　where　the　arrows　came　from；　this　bear。　Knew。　And　for　every　arrow　which　found　its　mark　in　the　flesh　below　his　shaggy　pelt；　he　took　three；　four；　perhaps　as　many　as　half　a　dozen　of　the　Old　People。　Children　if　he　could　get　them；　women　if　he　could　not。　Their　warriors　he　disdained；　and　this　was　the　final　humiliation。
　　Eventually；　as　his　real　nature　became　clear　to　them；　their　efforts　to　kill　him　ceased。　He　was；　of　course；　a　demon　incarnate…or　the　shadow　of　a　god。　They　called　him　Mir；　which　to　these　people　meant　〃the　world　beneath　the　world。〃　He　stood　seventy　feet　high；　and　after　eighteen　or　more　centuries　of　undisputed　rule　in　the　West　Woods；　he　was　dying。　Perhaps　the　instrument　of　his　death　had　at　first　been　a　microscopic　organism　in　something　he　had　eaten　or　drunk；　perhaps　it　was　old　age；　more　likely　a　bination　of　both。　The　cause　didn't　matter；　the　ultimate　result…a　rapidly　multiplying　colony　of　parasites　foraging　within　his　fabu…lous　brain…did。　After　years　of　calculating；　brutal　sanity；　Mir　had　run　mad。
　　The　bear　had　known　men　were　in　his　woods　again；　he　ruled　the　forest　and　although　it　was　vast；　nothing　of　importance　which　happened　there　escaped　his　attention　for　long。　He　had　drawn　away　from　the　new…ers；　not　because　he　was　afraid　but　because　he　had　no　business　with　them；　nor　they　with　him。　Then　the　parasites　had　begun　their　work；　and　as　his　madness　increased　he　became　sure　that　it　was　the　Old　People　again；　that　the　trap…setters　and　forest…burners　had　returned　and　would　soon　set　about　their　old；　stupid　mischief　once　more。　Only　as　he　lay　in　his　final　den　some　thirty　miles　from　the　place　of　the　newers；　sicker　with　each　day's　dawning　than　he　had　been　at　sunset　the　night　before；　had　he　e　to　believe　that　the　Old　People　had　finally　found　some　mischief　which　worked：　poison。
　　He　came　this　time　not　to　take　revenge　for　some　petty　wound　but　to　stamp　them　out　entirely　before　their　poison　could　finish　having　its　way　with　him　。　。　。　and　as　he　travelled；　all　thought　ceased。　What　was　left　was　red　rage；　the　rusty　buzz　of　the　thing　on　top　of　his　head…the　turning　thing　between　his　ears　which　had　once　done　its　work　in　smooth　silence…and　an　eerily　enhanced　sense　of　smell　which　led　him　unerringly　toward　the　camp　of　the　three　pilgrims。
　　The　bear；　whose　real　name　was　not　Mir　but　something　else　entirely；　made　his　way　through　the　forest　like　a　moving　building；　a　shaggy　tower　with　reddish…brown　eyes。　Those　eyes　glowed　with　fever　and　madness。
　　His　huge　head；　now　wearing　a　garland　of　broken　brunches　and　fir…needles；　swung　ceaselessly　from　side　to　side。　Every　now　and　then　he　would　sneeze　in　a　muffled　explosion　of　sound…Ali…CHOW！…and　clouds　of　squirming　white　parasites　would　be　discharged　from　his　dripping　nos…trils。　His　paws；　armed　with　curved　talons　three　feet　in　length；　tore　at　the　trees。　He　walked　upright；　sinking　deep　tracks　in　the　soft　black　soil　under　the　trees。　He　reeked　of　fresh　balsam　and　old；　sour　shit。
　　The　thing　on　top　of　his　head　whirred　and　squealed；　squealed　and　whirred。
　　The　course　of　the　bear　remained　almost　constant：　a　straight　line　which　would　lead　him　to　the　camp　of　those　who　had　dared　return　to　his　forest；　who　had　dared　fill　his　head　with　dark　green　agony。　Old　People　or　New　People；　they　would　die。　When　he　came　to　a　dead　tree；　he　some…times　left　the　straight　path　long　enough　to　push　it　down。　The　dry；　explo…sive　roar　of　its　fall　pleased　him；　when　the　tree　had　finally　collapsed　its　rotten　length　on　the　forest　floor　or　e　to　rest　against　one　of　its　mates；　the　bear　would　push　on　through　slanting　bars　of　sunlight　turned　misty　with　floating　motes　of　sawdust。
　　
　　　3
　　Two　DAYS　BEFORE；　EDDIE　Dean　had　begun　carving　again…the　first　time　he'd　tried　to　carve　anything　since　the　age　of　twelve。　He　remembered　that　he　had　enjoyed　doing　it；　and　he　believed　he　must　have　been　good　at　it；　as　well。　He　couldn't　remember　that　part；