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tcher； puffed its lips out in a woof that was mostly a whisper； then lowered its head again and appeared to go back to sleep。
Fletcher dropped to his knees； put his hands （one still holding Ramón's gun） on the floor； bent； and kissed the lino。 As he did it he thought of his sister…how she had looked going off to college eight years before her death by the river。 She had been wearing a tartan skirt on the day she'd gone off to college； and the red in it hadn't been the exact same red of the faded lino； but it was close。 Close enough for government work； as they said。
Fletcher got up。 He started down the hall toward the stairs； the first…floor hallway； the street； the city； Highway 4； the patrols； the roadblocks； the border； the checkpoints； the water。 The Chinese said a journey of a thousand miles started with a single step。
I'll see how far I get； Fletcher thought as he reached the foot of the stairs。 I might just surprise myself。 But he was already surprised； just to be alive。 Smiling a little； holding Ramón's gun out before him； Fletcher started up the stairs。
A month later； a man walked up to Carlo Arcuzzi's newsstand kiosk on Forty…third Street。 Carlo had a nasty moment when he was almost sure the man meant to stick a gun in his face and rob him。 It was only eight o'clock and still light； lots of people about； but did any of those things stop a man who was pazzo？ And this man looked plenty pazzo…so thin his white shirt and gray pants seemed to float on him； and his eyes lay at the bottom of great round sockets。 He looked like a man who had just been released from a concentration camp or （by some huge mistake） a loony bin。 When his hand went into his pants pocket； Carlo Arcuzzi thought； Now es the gun。
But instead of a gun came a battered old Lord Buxton； and from the wallet came a ten…dollar bill。 Then； in a perfectly sane tone of voice； the man in the white shirt and gray pants asked for a pack of Marlboros。 Carlo got them； put a package of matches on top of them； and pushed them across the counter of his kiosk。 While the man opened the Marlboros； Carlo made change。
'No；' the man said when he saw the change。 He had put one of the cigarettes in his mouth。
'No？ What you mean no？'
'I mean keep the change；' the man said。 He offered the pack to Carlo。 'Do you smoke？ Have one of these； if you like。'
Carlo looked mistrustfully at the man in the white shirt and gray pants。 'I don't smoke。 It's a bad habit。'
'Very bad；' the man agreed； then lit his cigarette and inhaled with apparent pleasure。 He stood smoking and watching the people on the other side of the street。 There were girls on the other side of the street。 Men would look at girls in their summer clothes； that was human nature。 Carlo didn't think this customer was crazy anymore； although he had left the change of a ten…dollar bill sitting on the narrow counter of the kiosk。
The thin man smoked the cigarette all the way down to the filter。 He turned toward Carlo； staggering a little； as if he was not used to smoking and the cigarette had made him dizzy。
'A nice night；' the man said。
Carlo nodded。 It was。 It was a nice night。 'We're lucky to be alive；' Carlo said。
The man nodded。 'All of us。 All of the time。'
He walked to the curb； where there was a litter basket。 He dropped the pack of cigarettes； full save one； into the litter basket。 'All of us；' he said。 'All of the time。' He walked away。 Carlo watched him go and thought that maybe he was pazzo after all。 Or maybe not。 Crazy was a hard state to define。
This is a slightly Kafka…esque story about an interrogation room in the South American version of Hell。 In such stories； the fellow being interrogated usually ends up spilling everything and then being killed （or losing his mind）。 I wanted to write one with a happier ending； however unreal that might be。 And here it is。
THE LITTLE SISTERS OF ELURIA
If there's a magnum opus in my life； it's probably the yet unfinished seven…volume series about Roland Deschain of Gilead and his search for the Dark Tower which serves as the hub of existence。 In 1996 or 1997； Ralph Vicinanza （my sometime agent and foreign rights man of business） asked me if I'd like to contribute a story about Roland's younger years for a whopper fantasy anthology Robert Silverberg was putting together。 I tentatively agreed。 Nothing came； though； and nothing came。 I was about to give up when I woke one morning thinking about The Talisman； and the great pavilion where Jack Sawyer first glimpses the Queen of the Territories。 In the shower （where I invariably do my best imagining…I think it's a womb thing）； I started to visualize that tent in ruins 。 。 。 but still filled with whispering women。 Ghosts。 Maybe vampires。 Little Sisters。 Nurses of death instead of life。 posing a story from that central image was amazingly difficult。 I had lots of space to move around in…Silverberg wanted short novels； not short stories…but it was still hard。 These days； everything about Roland and his friends wants to be not just long but sort of epic。 One thing this story has going for it is that you don't need to have read the Dark Tower novels to enjoy it。 And by the way； for you Tower junkies； DT 5 is now finished； all nine hundred pages of it。 It's called Wolves of the Calla。
＇Author's Note： The Dark Tower books begin with Roland of Gilead； the last gunslinger in an exhausted world that has 'moved on；' pursuing a magician in a black robe。 Roland has been chasing Walter for a very long time。 In the first book of the cycle； he finally catches up。 This story； however； takes place while Roland is still casting about for Walter's trail。 S。 K。＇
I。 Full Earth。 The Empty Town。 The Bells。
The Dead Boy。 The Overturned Wagon。
The Green Folk。
On a day in Full Earth so hot that it seemed to suck the breath from his chest before his body could use it； Roland of Gilead came to the gates of a village in the Desatoya Mountains。 He was travelling alone by then； and would soon be travelling afoot； as well。 This whole last week he had been hoping for a horse doctor； but guessed such a fellow would do him no good now； even if this town had one。 His mount； a two…year…old roan； was pretty well done for。
The town gates； still decorated with flowers from some festival or other； stood open and weling； but the silence beyond them was all wrong。 The gunslinger heard no clip…clop of horses； no rumble of wagon wheels； no merchants' huckstering cries from the marketplace。 The only sounds were the low hum of crickets （some sort of bug； at any rate； they were a bit more tuneful than crickets； at that）； a queer wooden knocking sound； and the faint； dreamy tinkle of small bells。
Also； the flowers twined through the wrought…iron staves of the ornamental gate were long dead。
Between his knees； Topsy gave two great； hollow sneezes…K'chow！ K'chow！…and staggered sideways。 Roland dismounted； partly out of respect for the horse； partly out of respect for himself…he didn't want to break a leg under Topsy if Topsy chose this moment to give up and canter into the clearing at the end of his path。
The gunslinger stood in his dusty boots and faded jeans under the beating sun； stroking the roan's matted neck； pausing every now and then to yank his fingers through the tangles of Topsy's mane； and stopping once to shoo off the tiny flies clustering at the corners of Topsy's eyes。 Let them lay their eggs and hatch their maggots there after Topsy was dead； but not before。
Roland thus honored his horse as best he could； listening to those distant； dreamy bells and the strange wooden tocking sound as he did。 After awhile he ceased his absent grooming and looked thoughtfully at the open gate。
The cross above its center was a bit unusual； but otherwise the gate was a typical example of its type； a western monplace which was not useful but traditional…all the little towns he had e to in the last tenmonth seemed to have one such where you came in （grand） and one more such where you went out （not so grand）。 None had been built to exclude visitors； certainly not this one。 It stood between two walls of pink adobe that ran into the scree for a distance of about twenty feet on either side of the road and then simply stopped。 Close the gate； lock it with many locks； and all that meant was a short walk around one bit of adobe wall or the other。
Beyond the gate； Roland could see what looked in most respects like a perfectly ordinary High Street…an inn； two saloons （one of which was called The Bustling Pig； the sign over the other was too faded to read）； a mercantile； a smithy； a Gathering Hall。 There was also a small but rather lovely wooden building with a modest bell tower on top； a sturdy fieldstone foundation on the bottom； and a gold…painted cross on its double doors。 The cross； like the one over the gate； marked this as a worshipping place for those who held to the Jesus Man。 This wasn't a mon religion in Mid…World； but far from unknown； that same thing could have been said about most forms of worship in those days； including the worship of Baal； Asmodeus； and a hundred others。 Faith； like everything else in the world these days； had moved on。 As far as Roland was concerned； God o' the Cross was just another religion which taught that love and murder were inextricably bound together…that in the end； God always drank blood。
Meanwhile； there was the singing hum of insects that sounded almost like crickets。 The dreamlike tinkle of the bells。 And that queer wooden thumping； like a fist on a door。 Or on a coffintop。
Something here's a long way from right； the gunslinger thought。 'Ware； Roland； this place has a reddish odor。
He led Topsy through the gate with its adornments of dead flowers and down the High Street。 On the porch of the mercantile； where the old men should have congregated to discuss crops； politics； and the follies of the younger generation； there stood only a line of empty rockers。 Lying beneath one； as if dropped from a careless （and long…departed） hand； was a charred corncob pipe。 The hitching rack in front of The Bustling Pig stood empty； the windows of the saloon itself were dark。 One of the batwing doors had been yanked off and stood propped against the side of the building； the other hung ajar； its faded green slats spattered with maroon stuff that might have been paint but probably wasn't。
The shopfront of the livery stable stood intact； like the face of a ruined woman who has access to good cosmetics； but the double barn behind it was a charred skeleton。 That fire must have happened on a rainy day； the gunslinger thought； or the whole damned town would have gone up in flames； a jolly spin and raree…show for anyone around to see it。
To his right now； halfway up to where the street opened into the town square； was the church。 There were grassy borders on both sides； one separating the church from the town's Gathering Hall； the other from the little house set aside for the preacher and his family （if this was one of the Jesus…sects which allowed its shamans to have wives and families； that was； some of them； clearly administered by lunatics； demanded at least the appearance of celibacy）。 There were flowers in these grassy strips； and while they looked parched； most were still alive。 So whatever had happened here to empty the place out had not happened long ago。 A week； perhaps。 Two at the outside； given the heat。
Topsy sneezed again…K'chow！…and lowered his head wearily。
The gunslinger saw the source of the tinkling。 Above the cross on the church doors； a cord had been strung in a long； shallow arc。 Hung from it were perhaps two dozen tiny silver bells。 There was hardly any breeze today； but enough so these smalls were never quite still 。 。 。 and if a real wind should rise； Roland thought； the sound made by the tintinnabulation of the bells would probably be a good deal less pleasant； more like the strident parlay of gossips' tongues。
'Hello！' Roland called； looking across the street at what a large false…fronted sign proclaimed to be the Good Beds Hotel。 'Hello； the town！'
No answer but the bells； the tunesome insects；