Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy by Robert Silverberg Read Free Book Online

“Promise me you’ll not scream and wake the pube in yonder bed.”
    “Pube?”
    “The boy. Do ye promise?”
    “Aye,” he said, falling into the half-forgotten patois of the Outer Arc without even being aware of it. Susan’s dialect. “It’s been long since I screamed, pretty.”
    She colored more definitely at that, roses more natural and lively than the one on her breast mounting in her cheeks.
    “Don’t call pretty what ye can’t properly see,” she said.
    “Then push back the wimple you wear.”
    Her face he could see perfectly well, but he badly wanted to see her hair—hungered for it, almost. A full flood of black in all this dreaming white. Of course it might be cropped, those of her order might wear it that way, but he somehow didn’t think so.
    “No, ’tis not allowed.”
    “By who?”
    “Big Sister.”
    “She who calls herself Mary?”
    “Aye, her.” She started away, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. In another girl her age, one as pretty as this, that look back would have been flirtatious. This girl’s was only grave.
    “Remember your promise.”
    “Aye, no screams.”
    She went to the bearded man, skirt swinging. In the dimness, she cast only a blur of shadow on the empty beds she passed. When she reached the man (this one was unconscious, Roland thought, not just sleeping), she looked back at Roland once more. He nodded.
    Sister Jenna stepped close to the suspended man’s side on the far side of his bed, so that Roland saw her through the twists and loops
of woven white silk. She placed her hands lightly on the left side of his chest, bent over him … and shook her head from side to side, like one expressing a brisk negative. The bells she wore on her forehead rang sharply, and Roland once more felt that weird stirring up his back, accompanied by a low ripple of pain. It was as if he had shuddered without actually shuddering, or shuddered in a dream.
    What happened next almost did jerk a scream from him; he had to bite his lips against it. Once more the unconscious man’s legs seemed to move without moving … because it was what was on them that moved. The man’s hairy shins, ankles, and feet were exposed below the hem of his bed-dress. Now a black wave of bugs moved down them. They were singing fiercely, like an army column that sings as it marches.
    Roland remembered the black scar across the man’s cheek and nose—the scar that had disappeared. More such as these, of course. And they were on him, as well. That was how he could shiver without shivering. They were all over his back. Battening on him.
    No, keeping back a scream wasn’t as easy as he had expected it to be.
    The bugs ran down to the tips of the suspended man’s toes, then leaped off them in waves, like creatures leaping off an embankment and into a swimming hole. They organized themselves quickly and easily on the bright white sheet below, and began to march down to the floor in a battalion about a foot wide. Roland couldn’t get a good look at them, the distance was too far and the light too dim, but he thought they were perhaps twice the size of ants, and a little smaller than the fat honeybees which had swarmed the flower beds back home.
    They sang as they went.
    The bearded man didn’t sing. As the swarms of bugs that had coated his twisted legs began to diminish, he shuddered and groaned. The young woman put her hand on his brow and soothed him, making Roland a little jealous even in his revulsion at what he was seeing.
    And was what he was seeing really so awful? In Gilead, leeches had been used for certain ailments—swellings of the brain, the armpits, and the groin, primarily. When it came to the brain, the leeches, ugly as they were, were certainly preferable to the next step, which was trepanning.
    Yet there was something loathsome about them, perhaps only because he couldn’t see them well, and something awful about trying to imagine them all over his back as he hung here, helpless.