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Dec. 22nd, 2004 01:07 amThe stick stood in the corner of Roland's room. It appeared to be waiting.
The wood hadn't dried out as much as Roland would have liked, but it would have to do. Do for what, gunslinger? a voice whispered -- not Cort's, but his father's. Roland didn't know why it should have been Cort's voice, why it was his father's voice instead. There was no use speculating, either. It was all ka.
Roland stood -- he'd been sitting at the writing desk, staring at the stick -- and picked up the length of ash. It wasn't as hard as the ironwood stick that Cort had had, but it was hard enough. For what? whispered the voice again. Roland ignored it. That wasn't his business.
He gazed at the stick, appraising it. It felt good in his hands. Foreign, but good. Simple. Plain. Powerful.
Cort hadn't been a gunslinger, and yet he had been entrusted with teaching the gunslingers of Gilead the art of war. This had been Cort's weapon, when each boy in each ka-tel had come to face him in trial by battle. And Cort had bested many of them, sent them west, denied them Gilead and civilization and true manhood. With a stick. A simple stick.
Roland slid his hands out along the stick; it was equivalent, as best he could tell, to about two and a half lengths of his forearm. He could reach all the way around it with one hand, but barely. Roland nodded to himself, pleased. He'd found out when he was teaching Eddie and Susannah how to shoot that he liked to teach. This, in its way, was another aspect of teaching. And it was good to have something to concentrate on while he did not have his guns.
That thought made him think of the sword that Joe had given him to give to Jake. The fair-day of the Man Jesus approached, he knew; he might as well put it under that large tree in the bar...
Roland put the stick back in its corner, picked up the sword in its scabbard, rummaged briefly in the writing desk, and went downstairs.
The wood hadn't dried out as much as Roland would have liked, but it would have to do. Do for what, gunslinger? a voice whispered -- not Cort's, but his father's. Roland didn't know why it should have been Cort's voice, why it was his father's voice instead. There was no use speculating, either. It was all ka.
Roland stood -- he'd been sitting at the writing desk, staring at the stick -- and picked up the length of ash. It wasn't as hard as the ironwood stick that Cort had had, but it was hard enough. For what? whispered the voice again. Roland ignored it. That wasn't his business.
He gazed at the stick, appraising it. It felt good in his hands. Foreign, but good. Simple. Plain. Powerful.
Cort hadn't been a gunslinger, and yet he had been entrusted with teaching the gunslingers of Gilead the art of war. This had been Cort's weapon, when each boy in each ka-tel had come to face him in trial by battle. And Cort had bested many of them, sent them west, denied them Gilead and civilization and true manhood. With a stick. A simple stick.
Roland slid his hands out along the stick; it was equivalent, as best he could tell, to about two and a half lengths of his forearm. He could reach all the way around it with one hand, but barely. Roland nodded to himself, pleased. He'd found out when he was teaching Eddie and Susannah how to shoot that he liked to teach. This, in its way, was another aspect of teaching. And it was good to have something to concentrate on while he did not have his guns.
That thought made him think of the sword that Joe had given him to give to Jake. The fair-day of the Man Jesus approached, he knew; he might as well put it under that large tree in the bar...
Roland put the stick back in its corner, picked up the sword in its scabbard, rummaged briefly in the writing desk, and went downstairs.
