Темная башня: Стрелок

           Hedidnotusetheflintandsteeluntiltheremainsofthedaywereonlythefugitiveheatinthegroundbeneathhimandasardonicorangelineonthemonochromewesternhorizon.Hewatchedthesouthpatiently,towardthemountains,nothopingorexpectingtoseethethinstraightlineofsmokefromanewcampfire,butmerelywatchingbecausethatwasapartofit.Therewasnothing.Hewasclose,butonlyrelativelyso.Notcloseenoughtoseesmokeatdusk.

           Hestruckhissparktothedry,shreddedgrassandlaydownupwind,lettingthedreamsmokeblowouttowardthewaste.Thewind,exceptforoccasionalgyratingdustdevils,wasconstant.

           Above,thestarswereunwinking,alsoconstant.Sunsandworldsbythemillion.Dizzyingconstellations,coldfireineveryprimaryhue.Ashewatched,theskywashedfromviolettoebony.Ameteoretchedabrief,spectaculararcandwinkedout.Thefirethrewstrangeshadowsasthedevil-grassburneditsslowwaydownintonewpatterns-notideogramsbutastraightforwardcrisscrossvaguelyfrighteninginitsownno-nonsensesurety.Hehadlaidhisfuelinapatternthatwasnotartfulbutonlyworkable.Itspokeofblacksandwhites.Itspokeofamanwhomightstraightenbadpicturesinstrangehotelrooms.Thefireburneditssteady,slowflame,andphantomsdancedinitsincandescentcore.Thegunslingerdidnotsee.Heslept.Thetwopatterns,artandcraft,wereweldedtogether.Thewindmoaned