03.06.2003, 22:01
Habe mir mal die Mühe gemacht, eine Mitschrift von dem DT5-Auszug zu machen, den man sich - vom Meister persönlich vorgetragen - auf der Website darktower.com anhören kann. Hier folgt zunächst das Original, so weit ich es mitbekommen habe:
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SPOILERS AHEAD!
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DT 5 EXCERPT
The day is suffocatingly hot. The sun reaches its roof peak and then seems to stay there, as if the hours had been suspended. Below them is a long sloping field filled with great, great black stone faces – eroded statues, left by the people who are long gone. And Grissam’s men advance relentlessly among them as Roland and his final few companions withdraw ever upward, shooting as they go. The gunfire is constant, unending, the sound of bullets whining off the stone faces – a shrill counterpoint that sinks into their heads like the bloodthirsty (…?) mosquitoes. Jamie de Curry has been killed by a sniper, perhaps Grissam’s eagle-eyed son or Grissam himself. With Alain, the end was far worse. He was shot in the dark the night before the final battle by his two best friends – a stupid error, a horrible death. There was no help. The (…?) was ambushed and slaughtered at Grim Rocks, and when Alain rode back after midnight to tell them, Roland and Cuthbert, the sound of their guns, and oh, when Alain cried out their names …
And now they’re at the top, and there’s nowhere left to run. Behind them, to the east, is a sheer crumbling drop to the Salt Sea, what 500 miles south of here is called the Clean Sea. To the west is the hill of the stone faces, and Grissam’s screaming, advancing men. Roland and his own men have killed hundreds, but there are still two thousand left, and that’s a conservative estimate. Two thousand men, their howling faces painted blue, some armed with guns and even a few with bolts, against a dozen. That’s all that’s left of them now, here at the top of Jericho Hill, under the burning sky. Jamie dead, Alain dead under the guns of his best friends – stalwart, dependable Alain, who could’ve ridden on to safety but chose not to.
And Cuthbert has been shot – how many times? Five? Six? His shirt is so crimson to his skin. One side of his face has been drowned in blood. The eye on that side bulges sightlessly on his cheek. Yet he still has Roland’s horn, the one which was blown by Arthur Eld, or so the stories do say. He will not give it back – ‘for I blow it sweeter than you ever did’, he tells Roland, laughing. ‘You can have it again when I’m dead. Neglect not to plug it up, Roland, for it’s your property.’ Cuthbert Allgood, who had once ridden into the Barony of Mejis with a rook skull mounted on the pommel of his saddle. ‘The lookout’ he had called it, and talked to it just as though it were alive, for such was his fancy. And sometimes, he drove Roland half-mad with his foolishness. And here he is, under the burning sun, staggering, turbid (?), with a smoking revolver in one hand and Eld’s horn in the other, blood-bolted (?) and half-blinded and dying. But still laughing, ah dear gods, laughing and laughing.
‘Roland!’, he cries, ‘we’ve been betrayed. We’re outnumbered, our backs are to the sea. In other words: we’ve got them right where we want ‘em. Shall we charge?’
And Roland understands he’s right. If their quest for the Dark Tower is really to end here on Jericho Hill, betrayed by one of their own and then overwhelmed by this barbaric remnant of John Farson’s army, then let it end splendidly.
‘Aye!’, he shouts, ‘aye very well! Ye of the castle, to me, gunslingers to me, to me I say!’
‘As for gunslingers, Roland’, Cuthbert says, ‘I am here. And we are the last.’
Roland first looks at him, then embraces him under that hideous sky. He can feel Cuthbert’s burning body, its suicidal, trembling thinness. And yet he’s still laughing. Bert is still laughing.
‘Alright’, Roland says hoarsely, looking around at his few remaining men. ‘We’re going into them, and we will accept no quarter.’
‘Nope, no quarter, absolutely none’, Cuthbert says.
‘We will not accept their surrender if offered.’
‘Under no circumstances’, Cuthbert agrees, laughing harder than ever. ‘Not even should all two thousand lay down their arms.’
‘Then blow that fucking horn!’
Cuthbert raises the horn to his bloody lips and blows a great blast. The final blast, for when it drops from his fingers a minute later – or perhaps it’s five or ten, time has no meaning in that final battle – Roland will let it lie in the dust. In his grief and bloodlust, he will forget all about Eld’s horn.
‘And now my friends, higher, higher!’
The last dozen cry beneath that blazing sun. It is the end of them, the end of Gilead, the end of everything, and he no longer cares. The old red fury, dry and maddening, is settling over his mind, drowning all thought. ‘One last time then’, he thinks. ‘Let it be so.’
‘To me!’, cries Roland of Gilead, ‘Forward, for the tower!’
‘The tower!’, Cuthbert cries out beside him, reeling. He holds Eld’s horn up to the sky in one hand, his revolver in the other.
‘No prisoners!’, Roland screams. ‘No prisoners!’
They rush forward, and down, towards Grissam’s blue-faced horde, he and Cuthbert in the lead.
*
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SPOILERS AHEAD!
*
*
*
*
*
*
DT 5 EXCERPT
The day is suffocatingly hot. The sun reaches its roof peak and then seems to stay there, as if the hours had been suspended. Below them is a long sloping field filled with great, great black stone faces – eroded statues, left by the people who are long gone. And Grissam’s men advance relentlessly among them as Roland and his final few companions withdraw ever upward, shooting as they go. The gunfire is constant, unending, the sound of bullets whining off the stone faces – a shrill counterpoint that sinks into their heads like the bloodthirsty (…?) mosquitoes. Jamie de Curry has been killed by a sniper, perhaps Grissam’s eagle-eyed son or Grissam himself. With Alain, the end was far worse. He was shot in the dark the night before the final battle by his two best friends – a stupid error, a horrible death. There was no help. The (…?) was ambushed and slaughtered at Grim Rocks, and when Alain rode back after midnight to tell them, Roland and Cuthbert, the sound of their guns, and oh, when Alain cried out their names …
And now they’re at the top, and there’s nowhere left to run. Behind them, to the east, is a sheer crumbling drop to the Salt Sea, what 500 miles south of here is called the Clean Sea. To the west is the hill of the stone faces, and Grissam’s screaming, advancing men. Roland and his own men have killed hundreds, but there are still two thousand left, and that’s a conservative estimate. Two thousand men, their howling faces painted blue, some armed with guns and even a few with bolts, against a dozen. That’s all that’s left of them now, here at the top of Jericho Hill, under the burning sky. Jamie dead, Alain dead under the guns of his best friends – stalwart, dependable Alain, who could’ve ridden on to safety but chose not to.
And Cuthbert has been shot – how many times? Five? Six? His shirt is so crimson to his skin. One side of his face has been drowned in blood. The eye on that side bulges sightlessly on his cheek. Yet he still has Roland’s horn, the one which was blown by Arthur Eld, or so the stories do say. He will not give it back – ‘for I blow it sweeter than you ever did’, he tells Roland, laughing. ‘You can have it again when I’m dead. Neglect not to plug it up, Roland, for it’s your property.’ Cuthbert Allgood, who had once ridden into the Barony of Mejis with a rook skull mounted on the pommel of his saddle. ‘The lookout’ he had called it, and talked to it just as though it were alive, for such was his fancy. And sometimes, he drove Roland half-mad with his foolishness. And here he is, under the burning sun, staggering, turbid (?), with a smoking revolver in one hand and Eld’s horn in the other, blood-bolted (?) and half-blinded and dying. But still laughing, ah dear gods, laughing and laughing.
‘Roland!’, he cries, ‘we’ve been betrayed. We’re outnumbered, our backs are to the sea. In other words: we’ve got them right where we want ‘em. Shall we charge?’
And Roland understands he’s right. If their quest for the Dark Tower is really to end here on Jericho Hill, betrayed by one of their own and then overwhelmed by this barbaric remnant of John Farson’s army, then let it end splendidly.
‘Aye!’, he shouts, ‘aye very well! Ye of the castle, to me, gunslingers to me, to me I say!’
‘As for gunslingers, Roland’, Cuthbert says, ‘I am here. And we are the last.’
Roland first looks at him, then embraces him under that hideous sky. He can feel Cuthbert’s burning body, its suicidal, trembling thinness. And yet he’s still laughing. Bert is still laughing.
‘Alright’, Roland says hoarsely, looking around at his few remaining men. ‘We’re going into them, and we will accept no quarter.’
‘Nope, no quarter, absolutely none’, Cuthbert says.
‘We will not accept their surrender if offered.’
‘Under no circumstances’, Cuthbert agrees, laughing harder than ever. ‘Not even should all two thousand lay down their arms.’
‘Then blow that fucking horn!’
Cuthbert raises the horn to his bloody lips and blows a great blast. The final blast, for when it drops from his fingers a minute later – or perhaps it’s five or ten, time has no meaning in that final battle – Roland will let it lie in the dust. In his grief and bloodlust, he will forget all about Eld’s horn.
‘And now my friends, higher, higher!’
The last dozen cry beneath that blazing sun. It is the end of them, the end of Gilead, the end of everything, and he no longer cares. The old red fury, dry and maddening, is settling over his mind, drowning all thought. ‘One last time then’, he thinks. ‘Let it be so.’
‘To me!’, cries Roland of Gilead, ‘Forward, for the tower!’
‘The tower!’, Cuthbert cries out beside him, reeling. He holds Eld’s horn up to the sky in one hand, his revolver in the other.
‘No prisoners!’, Roland screams. ‘No prisoners!’
They rush forward, and down, towards Grissam’s blue-faced horde, he and Cuthbert in the lead.