Legends

by Robert Silverberg

  Giggles, soft as wind.

  Chiming bells.

  Roland opened his eyes the tiniest crack and looked up at the ancient faces laughing down at him in the light of their candles—glittering eyes, yellow cheeks, hanging teeth that jutted over lower lips. Sister Michela and Sister Louise appeared to have grown goatees, but of course that wasn’t the darkness of hair but of the bearded man’s blood.

  Mary’s hand was cupped. She passed it from Sister to Sister; each licked from her palm in the candlelight.

  Roland closed his eyes all the way and waited for them to be gone. Eventually they were.

  I’ll never sleep again, he thought, and was five minutes later lost to himself and the world.

  V. Sister Mary. A Message. A Visit from Ralph. Norman’s Fate. Sister Mary Again.

  When Roland awoke, it was full daylight, the silk roof overhead a bright white and billowing in a mild breeze. The doctor-bugs were singing contentedly. Beside him on his left, Norman was heavily asleep with his head turned so far to one side that his stubbly cheek rested on his shoulder.

  Roland and John Norman were the only ones here. Farther down on their side of the infirmary, the bed where the bearded man had been was empty, its top sheet pulled up and neatly tucked in, the pillow neatly nestled in a crisp white case. The complication of slings in which his body had rested was gone.

  Roland remembered the candles—the way their glow had combined and streamed up in a column, illuminating the Sisters as they gathered around the bearded man. Giggling. Their damned bells jingling.

  Now, as if summoned by his thoughts, came Sister Mary, gliding along rapidly with Sister Louise in her wake. Louise bore a tray, and looked nervous. Mary was frowning, obviously not in good temper.

  To be grumpy after you’ve fed so well? Roland thought. Fie, Sister.

  She reached the gunslinger’s bed and looked down at him. “I have little to thank ye for, sai,” she said with no preamble.

  “Have I asked for your thanks?” he responded in a voice that sounded as dusty and little-used as the pages of an old book.

  She took no notice. “Ye’ve made one who was only impudent and restless with her place outright rebellious. Well, her mother was the same way, and died of it not long after returning Jenna to her proper place. Raise your hand, thankless man.”

  “I can’t. I can’t move at all.”

  “Oh, cully! Haven’t you heard it said ‘fool not your mother ’less she’s out of face’? I know pretty well what ye can and can’t do. Now raise your hand.”

  Roland raised his right hand, trying to suggest more effort than it actually took. He thought that this morning he might be strong enough to slip free of the slings … but what then? Any real walking would be beyond him for hours yet, even without another dose of “medicine” … and behind Sister Mary, Sister Louise was taking the cover from a fresh bowl of soup. As Roland looked at it, his stomach rumbled.

  Big Sister heard and smiled a bit. “Even lying in bed builds an appetite in a strong man, if it’s done long enough. Wouldn’t you say so, Jason, brother of John?”

  “My name is James. As you well know, Sister.”

  “Do I?” She laughed angrily. “Oh, la! And if I whipped your little sweetheart hard enough and long enough—until the blood jumped out her back like drops of sweat, let us say—should I not whip a different name out of her? Or didn’t ye trust her with it, during your little talk?”

  “Touch her and I’ll kill you.”

  She laughed again. Her face shimmered; her firm mouth turned into something that looked like a dying jellyfish. “Speak not of killing to us, cully; lest we speak of it to you.”

  “Sister, if you and Jenna don’t see eye to eye, why not release her from her vows and let her go her course?”

  “Such as us can never be released from our vows, nor be let go. Her mother tried and then came back, her dying and the girl sick. Why, it was we nursed Jenna back to health after her mother was nothing but dirt in the breeze the blows out toward End-World, and how little she thanks us! Besides, she bears the Dark Bells, the sigul of our sisterhood. Of our ka-tet. Now eat—yer belly says ye’re hungry!”

  Sister Louise offered the bowl, but her eyes kept drifting to the shape the medallion made under the breast of his bed-dress. Don’t like it, do you? Roland thought, and then remembered Louise by candlelight, the freighter’s blood on her chin, her ancient eyes eager as she leaned forward to lick his spend from Sister Mary’s hand.

  He turned his head aside. “I want nothing.”

  “But ye’re hungry!” Louise protested. “I’fee don’t eat, James, how will’ee get’ee strength back?”

  “Send Jenna. I’ll eat what she brings.”

  Sister Mary’s frown was black. “Ye’ll see her no more. She’s been released from Thoughtful House only on her solemn promise to double her time of meditation … and to stay out of infirmary. Now eat, James, or whoever ye are. Take what’s in the soup, or we’ll cut ye with knives and rub it in with flannel poultices. Either way, makes no difference to us. Does it, Louise?”

  “Nar,” Louise said. She still held out the bowl. Steam rose from it, and the good smell of chicken.

  “But it might make a difference to you.” Sister Mary grinned humorlessly, baring her unnaturally large teeth. “Flowing blood’s risky around here. The doctors don’t like it. It stirs them up.”

  It wasn’t just the bugs that were stirred up at the sight of blood, and Roland knew it. He also knew he had no choice in the matter of the soup. He took the bowl from Louise and ate slowly. He would have given much to wipe out the look of satisfaction he saw on Sister Mary’s face.

  “Good,” she said after he had handed the bowl back and she had peered inside to make sure it was completely empty. His hand thumped back into the sling which had been rigged for it, already too heavy to hold up. He could feel the world drawing away again.

  Sister Mary leaned forward, the billowing top of her habit touching the skin of his left shoulder. He could smell her, an aroma both ripe and dry, and would have gagged if he’d had the strength.

  “Have that foul gold thing off ye when yer strength comes back a little—put it in the pissoir under the bed. Where it belongs. For to be even this close to where it lies hurts my head and makes my throat close.”

  Speaking with enormous effort, Roland said, “If you want it, take it. How can I stop you, you bitch?”

  Once more her frown turned her face into something like a thunderhead. He thought she would have slapped him, if she had dared touch him so close to where the medallion lay. Her ability to touch seemed to end above his waist, however.

  “I think you had better consider the matter a little more fully,” she said. “I can still have Jenna whipped, if I like. She bears the Dark Bells, but I am the Big Sister. Consider that very well.”

  She left. Sister Louise followed, casting one look—a strange combination of fright and lust—back over her shoulder.

  Roland thought, I must get out of here—I must.

  Instead, he drifted back to that dark place which wasn’t quite sleep. Or perhaps he did sleep, at least for a while; perhaps he dreamed. Fingers once more caressed his fingers, and lips first kissed his ear and then whispered into it: “Look beneath your pillow, Roland … but let no one know I was here.”

  At some point after this, Roland opened his eyes again, half-expecting to see Sister Jenna’s pretty young face hovering above him. And that comma of dark hair once more poking out from beneath her wimple. There was no one. The swags of silk overhead were at their brightest, and although it was impossible to tell the hours in here with any real accuracy, Roland guessed it to be around noon. Perhaps three hours since his second bowl of the Sisters’ soup.

  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 wai
ted, 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 that 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 earlymorning 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 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 originate 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, giggled, and departed. Roland closed his eyes and lay back against his pillow, feeling lethargy steal over him again. Her speculative eyes … her peeping tongue. He had seen women look at roast chickens and joints of mutton that same way, calculating when they might be done.

  His body badly wanted to sleep, but Roland held on to wakefulness for what he judged was an hour, then worked one of the reeds out from under the pillow. With a fresh infusion of their “can’t-move medicine” in his system, this took an enormous effort, and he wasn’t sure he could have done it at all, had he not separated this one reed from the ribbon holding the others. Tomorrow night, Jenna’s note had said. If that meant escape, the idea seemed preposterous. The way he felt now, he might be lying in this bed until the end of the age.

  He nibbled. Energy washed into his system, clenching his muscles and racing his heart, but the burst of vitality was gone almost as soon as it came, buried beneath the Sisters’ stronger drug. He could only hope … and sleep.

  When he woke it was full dark, and he found he could move his arms and legs in their network of slings almost naturally. He slipped one of the reeds out from beneath his pillow and nibbled cautiously. She had left half a dozen, and the first two were now almost entirely consumed.

  The gunslinger put the stem back under the pillow, then began to shiver like a wet dog in a downpour. I took too much, he thought. I’ll be lucky not to convulse—

  His heart, racing like a runaway engine. And then, to make matters worse, he saw candlelight at the far end of the aisle. A moment later he heard the rustle of their gowns and the whisk of their slippers.

  Gods, why now? They’ll see me shaking, they’ll know—

  Calling on every bit of his willpower and control, Roland closed his eyes and concentrated on stilling his jerking limbs. If only he had been in bed instead of in these cursed slings, which seemed to tremble as if with their own ague at every movement!

  The Little Sisters drew closer. The light of their candles bloomed red within his closed eyelids. Tonight they were not giggling, nor whispering among themselves. It was not until they were almost on top of him that Roland became aware of the stranger in their midst—a creature that breathed through its nose in great, slobbery gasps of mixed air and snot.

  The gunslinger lay with his eyes closed, the gross twitches and jumps of his arms and legs under control, but with his muscles still knotted and crampy, thrumming beneath the skin. Anyone who looked at him closely would see at once that something was wrong with him. His heart was larruping away like a horse under the whip, surely they must see—

  But it wasn’t him they were looking at—not yet, at least.

  “Have it off him,” Mary said. She spoke in a bastardized version of the low speech Roland could barely understand. “Then t’other ’un. Go on, Ralph.�
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  “U’se has whik-sky?” the slobberer asked, his dialect even heavier than Mary’s. “U’se has ’backky?”

  “Yes, yes, plenty whiskey and plenty smoke, but not until you have these wretched things off!” Impatient. Perhaps afraid, as well.

  Roland cautiously rolled his head to the left and cracked his eyelids open.

  Five of the six Little Sisters of Eluria were clustered around the far side of the sleeping John Norman’s bed, their candles raised to cast their light upon him. It also cast light upon their own faces, faces which would have given the strongest man nightmares. Now, in the ditch of the night, their glamours were set aside, and they were but ancient corpses in voluminous habits.

  Sister Mary had one of Roland’s guns in her hand. Looking at her holding it, Roland felt a bright flash of hate for her, and promised himself she would pay for her temerity.

  The thing standing at the foot of the bed, strange as it was, looked almost normal in comparison with the Sisters. It was one of the green folk. Roland recognized Ralph at once. He would be a long time forgetting that bowler hat.

  Now Ralph walked slowly around to the side of Norman’s bed closest to Roland, momentarily blocking the gunslinger’s view of the Sisters. The mutie went all the way to Norman’s head, however, clearing the hags to Roland’s slitted view once more.

  Norman’s medallion lay exposed—the boy had perhaps wakened enough to take it out of his bed-dress, hoping it would protect him better so. Ralph picked it up in his melted-tallow hand. The Sisters watched eagerly in the glow of their candles as the green man stretched it to the end of its chain … and then put it down again. Their faces drooped in disappointment.

  “Don’t care for such as that,” Ralph said in his clotted voice. “Want whik-sky! Want ’backky!”