After that he threw no more, for he had no hands with which to throw. His shrieks rose to gibbering whines that Roland thought would surely never leave his ears. The mute boy erased the full, sensuous mouth from within its foam of beard, and as he did it, the screams first grew muffled and then ceased. In the end Patrick erased everything but the eyes, and these the remaining bit of rubber would not even blur. They remained until the piece of pink gum (originally part of a PencilPak bought in a Norwich, Connecticut, Woolworths during a backtoschool sale in August of 1958) had been reduced to a shred the boy could not even hold between his long, dirty nails. And so he cast it away and showed the gunslinger what remained two malevolent bloodred orbs floating threequarters of the way up the page. All the rest of him was gone. TWELVE The shadow of the pyramids tip had come to touch the road; now the sky in the west changed from the orange of a reaptide bonfire to that cauldron of blood Roland had seen in his dreams ever since childhood. When it did, the call of the Tower doubled, then trebled. Roland felt it reach out and grasp him with invisible hands. The time of his destiny was come. Yet there was this boy. This friendless boy. Roland would not leave him to die here at the end of EndWorld if he could help it. He had no interest in atonement, and yet Patrick had come to stand for all the murders and betrayals that had finally brought him to the Dark Tower. Rolands family was dead; his misbegotten son had been the last. Now would Eld and Tower be joined. First, thoughor lastthis. Patrick, listen to me, he said, taking the boys shoulder with his whole left hand and his mutilated right. If youd live to make all the pictures ka has stored away in your future, ask me not a single question nor ask me to repeat a single thing. The boy looked at him, largeeyed and silent in the red and dying light. And the Song of the Tower rose around them to a mighty shout that was nothing but commala. Go back to the road. Pick up all the cans that are whole. That should be enough to feed you. Go back the way we came. Never leave the road. Youll do fine. Patrick nodded with perfect understanding. Roland saw he believed, and that was good. Belief would protect him even more surely than a revolver, even one with the sandalwood grips. Go back to the Federal. Go back to the robot, Stuttering Bill that was. Tell him to take you to a door that swings open on Americaside. If it wont open to your hand, draw it open with thy pencil. Doee understand? Patrick nodded again. Of course he understood. If ka should eventually lead you to Susannah in any where or when, tell her Roland loves her still, and with all his heart. He drew Patrick to him and kissed the boys mouth. Give her that. Doee understand? Patrick nodded. All right. I go. Long days and pleasant nights. May we meet in the clearing at the end of the path when all worlds end. Yet even then he knew this would not happen, for the worlds would never end, not now, and for him there would be no clearing. For Roland Deschain of Gilead, last of Elds line, the path ended at the Dark Tower. And that did him fine. He rose to his feet. The boy looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes, clutching his pad. Roland turned. He drew in breath to the bottom of his lungs and let it out in a great cry. NOW COMES ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER! I HAVE BEEN TRUE AND I STILL CARRY THE GUN OF MY FATHER AND YOU WILL OPEN TO MY HAND! Patrick watched him stride to where the road ended, a black silhouette against that bloody burning sky. He watched as Roland walked among the roses, and sat shivering in the shadows as Roland began to cry the names of his friends and loved ones and kamates; those names carried clear in that strange air, as if they would echo forever. I come in the name of Steven Deschain, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Gabrielle Deschain, she of Gilead! I come in the name of Cortland Andrus, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Cuthbert Allgood, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Alain Johns, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Jamie DeCurry, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Vannay the Wise, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Hax the Cook, he of Gilead! I come in the name of David the hawk, he of Gilead and the sky! I come in the name of Susan Delgado, she of Mejis! I come in the name of Sheemie Ruiz, he of Mejis! I come in the name of Pere Callahan, he of Jerusalems Lot, and the roads! I come in the name of Ted Brautigan, he of America! I come in the name of Dinky Earnshaw, he of America! I come in the name of Aunt Talitha, she of River Crossing, and will lay her cross here, as I was bid! I come in the name of Stephen King, he of Maine! I come in the name of Oy, the brave, he of MidWorld! I come in the name of Eddie Dean, he of New York! I come in the name of Susannah Dean, she of New York! I come in the name of Jake Chambers, he of New York, whom I call my own true son! I am Roland of Gilead, and I come as myself; you will open to me. After that came the sound of a horn. It simultaneously chilled Patricks blood and exalted him. The echoes faded into silence. Then, perhaps a minute later, came a great, echoing boom the sound of a door swinging shut forever. And after that came silence. THIRTEEN Patrick sat where he was at the base of the pyramid, shivering, until Old Star and Old Mother rose in the sky. The song of the roses and the Tower hadnt ceased, but it had grown low and sleepy, little more than a murmur. At last he went back to the road, gathered as many whole cans as he could (there was a surprising number of them, considering the force of the explosion that had demolished the cart), and found a deerskin sack that would hold them. He realized he had forgotten his pencil and went back to get it. Beside the pencil, gleaming in the starlight, was Rolands watch. The boy took it with a small (and nervous) hoot of glee. He put it in his pocket. Then he went back to the road and slung his little sack of gunna over his shoulder. I can tell you that he walked until nearly midnight, and that he looked at the watch before taking his rest. I can tell you that the watch had stopped completely. I can tell you that, come noon of the following day, he looked at it again and saw that it had begun to run in the correct direction once more, albeit very slowly. But of Patrick I can tell you no more, not whether he made it back to the Federal, not whether he found Stuttering Bill that was, not whether he eventually came once more to Americaside. I can tell you none of these things, say sorry. Here the darkness hides him from my storytellers eye and he must go on alone.  SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK (EPILOGUE) No one takes alarm as the little electric cart slides out of nowhere an inch at a time until its wholly here in Central Park; no one sees it but us. Most of those here are looking skyward, as the first snowflakes of what will prove to be a great preChristmas snowstorm come skirling down from a white sky. The Blizzard of 87, the newspapers will call it. Visitors to the park who arent watching the snowfall begin are watching the carolers, who are from public schools far uptown. They are wearing either dark red blazers (the boys) or dark red jumpers (the girls). This is the Harlem School Choir, sometimes called The Harlem Roses in the Post and its rival tabloid, the New York Sun . They sing an old hymn in gorgeous doowop harmony, snapping their fingers as they make their way through the staves, turning it into something that sounds almost like early Spurs, Coasters, or Dark Diamonds. They are standing not too far from the environment where the polar bears live their city lives, and the song theyre singing is What Child Is This. One of those looking up into the snow is a man Susannah knows well, and her heart leaps straight up to heaven at the sight of him. In his left hand hes holding a large paper cup and shes sure it contains hot chocolate, the good kind mit schlag. For a moment shes unable to touch the controls of the little cart, which came from another world. Thoughts of Roland and Patrick have left her mind. All she can think of is EddieEddie in front of her right here and now, Eddie alive again. And if this is not the Keystone World, not quite, what of that? If CoOp City is in Brooklyn (or even in Queens!) and Eddie drives a Takuro Spirit instead of a Buick Electra, what of those things? It doesnt matter. Only one thing would, and its that which keeps her hand from rising to the throttle and trundling the cart toward him. What if he doesnt recognize her? What if when he turns he sees nothing but a homeless black lady in an electric cart whose battery will soon be as flat as a saton hat, a black lady with no money, no clothes, no address (not in this where and when, say thankee sai) and no legs? A homeless black lady with no connection to him? Or what if he does know her, somewhere far back in his mind, yet still denies her as completely as Peter denied Jesus, because remembering is just too hurtful? Worse still, what if he turns to her and she sees the burnedout, fuckedup, emptyeyed stare of the longtime junkie? What if, what if, and here comes the snow that will soon turn the whole world white. Stop thy grizzling and go to him, Roland tells her. You didnt face Blaine and the taheen of Blue Heaven and the thing under Castle Discordia just to turn tail and run now, did you? Surely youve got a moit more guts than that. But she isnt sure she really does until she sees her hand rise to the throttle. Before she can twist it, however, the gunslingers voice speaks to her again, this time sounding wearily amused. Perhaps theres something you want to get rid of first, Susannah? She looks down and sees Rolands weapon stuck through her crossbelt, like a Mexican bandidos pistola, or a pirates cutlass. She pulls it free, amazed at how good it feels in her hand . . . how brutally right. Parting from this, she thinks, will be like parting from a lover. And she doesnt have to, does she? The question is, what does she love more? The man or the gun? All other choices will flow from this one. On impulse she rolls the cylinder and sees that the rounds inside look old, their casings dull. Thesell never fire, she thinks . . . and, without knowing why, or precisely what it means These are wets. She sights up the barrel and is queerly saddenedbut not surprisedto find that the barrel lets through no light. Its plugged. Has been for decades, from the look of it. This gun will never fire again. There is no choice to be made, after all. This gun is over. Susannah, still holding the revolver with the sandalwood grips in one hand, twists the throttle with the other. The little electric cartthe one she named Ho Fat III, although that is already fading in her mindrolls soundlessly forward. It passes a green trash barrel with KEEP LITTER IN ITS PLACE! stenciled on the side. She tosses Rolands revolver into this litter barrel. Doing it hurts her heart, but she never hesitates. Its heavy, and sinks into the crumpled fastfood wrappers, advertising circulars, and discarded newspapers like a stone into water. She is still enough of a gunslinger to bitterly regret throwing away such a storied weapon (even if the final trip between worlds has spoiled it), but shes already become enough of the woman whos waiting for her up ahead not to pause or look back once the job is done. Before she can reach the man with the paper cup, he turns. He is indeed wearing a sweatshirt that says I DRINK NOZZALA!, but she barely registers that. Its him thats what she registers. Its Edward Cantor Dean. And then even that becomes secondary, because what she sees in his eyes is all she has feared. Its total puzzlement. He doesnt know her. Then, tentatively, he smiles, and it is the smile she remembers, the one she always loved. Also hes clean, she knows it at once. She sees it in his face. Mostly in his eyes. The carolers from Harlem sing, and he holds out the cup of hot chocolate. Thank God, he says. Id just about decided Id have to drink this myself. That the voices were wrong and I was going crazy after all. That . . . well . . . He trails off, looking more than puzzled. He looks afraid. Listen, you are here for me, arent you? Please tell me Im not making an utter ass of myself. Because, lady, right now I feel as nervous as a longtailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Youre not, she says. Making an ass of yourself, I mean. Shes remembering Jakes story about the voices he heard arguing in his mind, one yelling that he was dead, the other that he was alive. Both of them utterly convinced. She has at least some idea of how terrible that must be, because she knows a little about other voices. Strange voices. Thank God, he says. Your name is Susannah? Yes, she says. My name is Susannah. Her throat is terribly dry, but the words come out, at least. She takes the cup from him and sips the hot chocolate through the cream. It is sweet and good, a taste of this world. The sound of the honking cabs, their drivers hurrying to make their day before the snow shuts them down, is equally good. Grinning, he reaches out and wipes a tiny dab of the cream from the tip of her nose. His touch is electric, and she sees that he feels it, too. It occurs to her that he is going to kiss her again for the first time, and sleep with her again for the first time, and fall in love with her again for the first time. He may know those things because voices have told him, but she knows them for a far better reason because those things have already happened. Ka is a wheel, Roland said, and now she knows its true. Her memories of (MidWorld) the gunslingers where and when are growing hazy, but she thinks she will remember just enough to know its all happened before, and there is something incredibly sad about this. But at the same time, its good. Its a damn miracle, is what it is. Are you cold? he asks. No, Im okay. Why? You shivered. Its the sweetness of the cream. Then, looking at him as she does it, she pokes her tongue out and licks a bit of the nutmegdusted foam. If you arent cold now, you will be, he says. WRKO says the temperatures gonna drop twenty degrees tonight. So I bought you something. From his back pocket he takes a knitted cap, the kind you can pull down over your ears. She looks at the front of it and sees the words there printed in red MERRY CHRISTMAS. Bought it in Brendios, on Fifth Avenue, he says. Susannah has never heard of Brendios. Brentanos, maybethe bookstorebut not Brendios. But of course in the America where she grew up, she never heard of NozzALa or Takuro Spirit automobiles, either. Did your voices tell you to buy it? Teasing him a little now. He blushes. Actually, you know, they sort of did. Try it on. Its a perfect fit. Tell me something, she says. Whos the President? Youre not going to tell me its Ronald Reagan, are you? He looks at her incredulously for a moment, and then smiles. What? That old actor who used to host Death Valley Days on TV? Youre kidding, right? Nope. I always thought you were the one who was kidding about Ronnie Reagan, Eddie. I dont know what you mean. Thats okay, just tell me who the President is. Gary Hart, he says, as if speaking to a child. From Colorado. He almost dropped out of the race in 1980as Im sure you knowover that Monkey Business business. Then he said Fuck em if they cant take a joke and hung on in there. Ended up winning in a landslide. His smile fades a little as he studies her. Youre not kidding me, are you? Are you kidding me about the voices? The ones you hear in our head? The ones that wake you up at two in the morning? Eddie looks almost shocked. How can you know that? Its a long story. Maybe someday Ill tell you. If I can still remember, she thinks. Its not just the voices. No? No. Ive been dreaming of you. For months now. Ive been waiting for you. Listen, we dont know each other . . . this is crazy . . . but do you have a place to stay? You dont, do you? She shakes her head. Doing a passable John Wayne (or maybe its Blaine the train shes imitating), she says Ahm a stranger here in Dodge, pilgrim. Her heart is pounding slowly and heavily in her chest, but she feels a rising joy. This is going to be all right. She doesnt know how it can be, but yes, its going to be just fine. This time ka is working in her favor, and the force of ka is enormous. This she knows from experience. If I asked how I know you . . . or where you come from . . . He pauses, looking at her levelly, and then says the rest of it. Or how I can possibly love you already . . . ? She smiles. It feels good to smile, and it no longer hurts the side of her face, because whatever was there (some sort of scar, maybeshe cant quite remember) is gone. Sugar, she tells him, its what I said a long story. Youll get some of it in time, though . . . what I remember of it. And it could be that we still have some work to do. For an outfit called the Tet Corporation. She looks around and then says, What year is this? 1987, he says. And do you live in Brooklyn? Or maybe the Bronx? The young man whose dreams and squabbling voices have led him herewith a cup of hot chocolate in his hand and a MERRY CHRISTMAS hat in his back pocketbursts out laughing. God, no! Im from White Plains! I came in on the train with my brother. Hes right over there. He wanted a closer look at the polar bears. The brother. Henry. The great sage and eminent junkie. Her heart sinks. Let me introduce you, he says. No, really, I Hey, if were gonna be friends, you gotta be friends with my kid brother. Were tight. Jake! Hey, Jake! She hasnt noticed the boy standing down by the railing which guards the sunken polar bears environment from the rest of the park, but now he turns and her heart takes a great, giddy leap in her chest. Jake waves and ambles toward them. Jakes been dreaming about you, too, Eddie tells her. Its the only reason I know Im not going crazy. Any crazier than usual, at least. She takes Eddies handthat familiar, wellloved hand. And when the fingers close over hers, she thinks she will die of joy. She will have many questionsso will theybut for the time being she has only one that feels important. As the snow begins to fall more thickly around them, landing in his hair and in his lashes and on the shoulders of his sweatshirt, she asks it. You and Jakewhats your last name? Toren, he says. Its German. Before either of them can say anything else, Jake joins them. And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live. Beneath the flowing and sometimes glimpsed glammer of the Beam that connects Shardik the Bear and Maturin the Turtle by way of the Dark Tower, they did live. Thats all. Thats enough. Say thankya.  FOUND (CODA) ONE Ive told my tale all the way to the end, and am satisfied. It was (I set my watch and warrant on it) the kind only a good God would save for last, full of monsters and marvels and voyaging here and there. I can stop now, put my pen down, and rest my weary hand (although perhaps not forever; the hand that tells the tales has a mind of its own, and a way of growing restless). I can close my eyes to MidWorld and all that lies beyond MidWorld. Yet some of you who have provided the ears without which no tale can survive a single day are likely not so willing. You are the grim, goaloriented ones who will not believe that the joy is in the journey rather than the destination no matter how many times it has been proven to you. You are the unfortunate ones who still get the lovemaking all confused with the paltry squirt that comes to end the lovemaking (the orgasm is, after all, Gods way of telling us weve finished, at least for the time being, and should go to sleep). You are the cruel ones who deny the Grey Havens, where tired characters go to rest. You say you want to know how it all comes out. You say you want to follow Roland into the Tower; you say that is what you paid your money for, the show you came to see. I hope most of you know better. Want better. I hope you came to hear the tale, and not just munch your way through the pages to the ending. For an ending, you only have to turn to the last page and see what is there writ upon. But endings are heartless. An ending is a closed door no man (or Manni) can open. Ive written many, but most only for the same reason that I pull on my pants in the morning before leaving the bedroombecause it is the custom of the country. And so, my dear Constant Reader, I tell you this You can stop here. You can let your last memory be of seeing Eddie, Susannah, and Jake in Central Park, together again for the first time, listening to the childrens choir sing What Child Is This. You can be content in the knowledge that sooner or later Oy (probably a canine version with a long neck, odd goldringed eyes, and a bark that sometimes sounds eerily like speech) will also enter the picture. Thats a pretty picture, isnt it? I think so. And pretty close to happily ever after, too. Close enough for government work, as Eddie would say. Should you go on, you will surely be disappointed, perhaps even heartbroken. I have one key left on my belt, but all it opens is that final door, the one marked . Whats behind it wont improve your lovelife, grow hair on your bald spot, or add five years to your natural span (not even five minutes). There is no such thing as a happy ending. I never met a single one to equal Once upon a time. Endings are heartless. Ending is just another word for goodbye. TWO  Would you still? Very well, then, come. (Do you hear me sigh?) Here is the Dark Tower, at the end of EndWorld. See it, I beg. See it very well. Here is the Dark Tower at sunset. THREE He came to it with the oddest feeling of remembrance; what Susannah and Eddie called dj vu. The roses of CanKa No Rey opened before him in a path to the Dark Tower, the yellow suns deep in their cups seeming to regard him like eyes. And as he walked toward that grayblack column, Roland felt himself begin to slip from the world as he had always known it. He called the names of his friends and loved ones, as he had always promised himself he would; called them in the gloaming, and with perfect force, for no longer was there any need to reserve energy with which to fight the Towers pull. To give infinallywas the greatest relief of his life. He called the names of his compadres and amoras, and although each came from deeper in his heart, each seemed to have less business with the rest of him. His voice rolled away to the darkening red horizon, name upon name. He called Eddies and Susannahs. He called Jakes, and last of all he called his own. When the sound of it had died out, the blast of a great horn replied, not from the Tower itself but from the roses that lay in a carpet all around it. That horn was the voice of the roses, and cried him welcome with a kingly blast. In my dreams the horn was always mine, he thought. I should have known better, for mine was lost with Cuthbert, at Jericho Hill. A voice whispered from above him It would have been the work of three seconds to bend and pick it up. Even in the smoke and the death. Three seconds. Time, Rolandit always comes back to that. That was, he thought, the voice of the Beamthe one they had saved. If it spoke out of gratitude it could have saved its breath, for what good were such words to him now? He remembered a line from Brownings poem One taste of the old times sets all to rights. Such had never been his experience. In his own, memories brought only sadness. They were the food of poets and fools, sweets that left a bitter aftertaste in the mouth and throat. Roland stopped for a moment still ten paces from the ghostwood door in the Towers base, letting the voice of the rosesthat welcoming hornecho away to nothing. The feeling of dj vu was still strong, almost as though he had been here after all. And of course he had been, in ten thousand premonitory dreams. He looked up at the balcony where the Crimson King had stood, trying to defy ka and bar his way. There, about six feet above the cartons that held the few remaining sneetches (the old lunatic had had no other weapons after all, it seemed), he saw two red eyes, floating in the darkening air, looking down at him with eternal hatred. From their backs, the thin silver of the optic nerves (now tinted redorange with the light of the leaving sun) trailed away to nothing. The gunslinger supposed the Crimson Kings eyes would remain up there forever, watching CanKa No Rey while their owner wandered the world to which Patricks eraser and enchanted Artists eye had sent him. Or, more likely, to the space between the worlds. Roland walked on to where the path ended at the steelbanded slab of black ghostwood. Upon it, a sigul that he now knew well was engraved threequarters of the way up Here he laid two things, the last of his gunna Aunt Talithas cross, and his remaining sixgun. When he stood up, he saw the first two hieroglyphics had faded away UNFOUND had become FOUND. He raised his hand as if to knock, but the door swung open of its own accord before he could touch it, revealing the bottom steps of an ascending spiral stairway. There was a sighing voiceWelcome, Roland, thee of Eld. It was the Towers voice. This edifice was not stone at all, although it might look like stone; this was a living thing, Gan himself, likely, and the pulse hed felt deep in his head even thousands of miles from here had always been Gans beating lifeforce. Commala, gunslinger. Commalacomecome. And wafting out came the smell of alkali, bitter as tears. The smell of . . . what? What, exactly? Before he could place it the odor was gone, leaving Roland to surmise he had imagined it. He stepped inside and the Song of the Tower, which he had always heardeven in Gilead, where it had hidden in his mothers voice as she sang him her cradle songsfinally ceased. There was another sigh. The door swung shut with a boom, but he was not left in blackness. The light that remained was that of the shining spiral windows, mixed with the glow of sunset. Stone stairs, a passage just wide enough for one person, ascended. Now comes Roland, he called, and the words seemed to spiral up into infinity. Thee at the top, hear and make me welcome if you would. If youre my enemy, know that I come unarmed and mean no ill. He began to climb. Nineteen steps brought him to the first landing (and to each one thereafter). A door stood open here and beyond it was a small round room. The stones of its wall were carved with thousands of overlapping faces. Many he knew (one was the face of Calvin Tower, peeping slyly over the top of an open book). The faces looked at him and he heard their murmuring. Welcome Roland, you of the many miles and many worlds; welcome thee of Gilead, thee of Eld. On the far side of the room was a door flanked by dark red swags traced with gold. About six feet up from the doorat the exact height of his eyeswas a small round window, little bigger than an outlaws peekhole. There was a sweet smell, and this one he could identify the bag of pine sachet his mother had placed first in his cradle, then, later, in his first real bed. It brought back those days with great clarity, as aromas always do; if any sense serves us as a time machine, its that of smell. Then, like the bitter call of the alkali, it was gone. The room was unfurnished, but a single item lay on the floor. He advanced to it and picked it up. It was a small cedar clip, its bow wrapped in a bit of blue silk ribbon. He had seen such things long ago, in Gilead; must once have worn one himself. When the sawbones cut a newly arrived babys umbilical cord, separating mother from child, such a clip was put on above the babys navel, where it would stay until the remainder of the cord fell off, and the clip with it. (The navel itself was called tetka can Gan.) The bit of silk on this one told that it had belonged to a boy. A girls clip would have been wrapped with pink ribbon. Twas my own, he thought. He regarded it a moment longer, fascinated, then put it carefully back where it had been. Where it belonged. When he stood up again, he saw a babys face (Can this be my darling bahbo? If you say so, let it be so!) among the multitude of others. It was contorted, as if its first breath of air outside the womb had not been to its liking, already fouled with death. Soon it would pronounce judgment on its new situation with a squall that would echo throughout the apartments of Steven and Gabrielle, causing those friends and servants who heard it to smile with relief. (Only Marten Broadcloak would scowl.) The birthing was done, and it had been a livebirth, tell Gan and all the gods thankya. There was an heir to the Line of Eld, and thus there was still the barest outside chance that the worlds rueful shuffle toward ruin might be reversed. Roland left that room, his sense of dj vu stronger than ever. So was the sense that he had entered the body of Gan himself. He turned to the stairs and once more began to climb. FOUR Another nineteen steps took him to the second landing and the second room. Here bits of cloth were scattered across the circular floor. Roland had no question that they had once been an infants clout, torn to shreds by a certain petulant interloper, who had then gone out onto the balcony for a look back at the field of roses and found himself betaken. He was a creature of monumental slyness, full of evil wisdom . . . but in the end he had slipped, and now he would pay forever and ever. If it was only a look he wanted, why did he bring his ammunition with him when he stepped out? Because it was his only gunna, and slung over his back, whispered one of the faces carved into the curve of the wall. This was the face of Mordred. Roland saw no hatefulness there now but only the lonely sadness of an abandoned child. That face was as lonesome as a trainwhistle on a moonless night. There had been no clip for Mordreds navel when he came into the world, only the mother he had taken for his first meal. No clip, never in life, for Mordred had never been part of Gans tet. No, not he. My Red Father would never go unarmed, whispered the stone boy. Not once he was away from his castle. He was mad, but never that mad. In this room was the smell of talc put on by his mother while he lay naked on a towel, fresh from his bath and playing with his newly discovered toes. She had soothed his skin with it, singing as she caressed him Babybunting, baby dear, baby bring your basket here! This smell too was gone as quickly as it had come. Roland crossed to the little window, walking among the shredded bits of diaper, and looked out. The disembodied eyes sensed him and rolled over giddily to regard him. That gaze was poisonous with fury and loss. Come out, Roland! Come out and face me one to one! Man to man! An eye for an eye, may it do ya! I think not, Roland said, for I have more work to do. A little more, even yet. It was his last word to the Crimson King. Although the lunatic screamed thoughts after him, he screamed in vain, for Roland never looked back. He had more stairs to climb and more rooms to investigate on his way to the top. FIVE On the third landing he looked through the door and saw a corduroy dress that had no doubt been his when hed been only a year old. Among the faces on this wall he saw that of his father, but as a much younger man. Later on that face had become cruelevents and responsibilities had turned it so. But not here. Here, Steven Deschains eyes were those of a man looking on something that pleases him more than anything else ever has, or ever could. Here Roland smelled a sweet and husky aroma he knew for the scent of his fathers shaving soap.


A phantom voice whispered, Look, Gabby, look you! Hes smiling! Smiling at me! And hes got a new tooth! On the floor of the fourth room was the collar of his first dog, RingALevio. Ringo, for short. Hed died when Roland was three, which was something of a gift. A boy of three was still allowed to weep for a lost pet, even a boy with the blood of Eld in his veins. Here the gunslinger that was smelled an odor that was wonderful but had no name, and knew it for the smell of the Full Earth sun in Ringos fur. Perhaps two dozen floors above Ringos Room was a scattering of breadcrumbs and a limp bundle of feathers that had once belonged to a hawk named Davidno pet he, but certainly a friend. The first of Rolands many sacrifices to the Dark Tower. On one section of the wall Roland saw David carved in flight, his stubby wings spread above all the gathered court of Gilead (Marten the Enchanter not least among them). And to the left of the door leading onto the balcony, David was carved again. Here his wings were folded as he fell upon Cort like a blind bullet, heedless of Corts upraised stick. Old times. Old times and old crimes. Not far from Cort was the laughing face of the whore with whom the boy had sported that night. The smell in Davids Room was her perfume, cheap and sweet. As the gunslinger drew it in, he remembered touching the whores pubic curls and was shocked to remember now what he had remembered then, as his fingers slid toward her slickysweet cleft being fresh out of his babys bath, with his mothers hands upon him. He began to grow hard, and Roland fled that room in fear. SIX There was no more red to light his way now, only the eldritch blue glow of the windowsglass eyes that were alive, glass eyes that looked upon the gunless intruder. Outside the Dark Tower, the roses of CanKa No Rey had closed for another day. Part of his mind marveled that he should be here at all; that he had one by one surmounted the obstacles placed in his path, as dreadfully singleminded as ever. Im like one of the old peoples robots, he thought. One that will either accomplish the task for which it has been made or beat itself to death trying. Another part of him was not surprised at all, however. This was the part that dreamed as the Beams themselves must, and this darker self thought again of the horn that had fallen from Cuthberts fingersCuthbert, who had gone to his death laughing. The horn that might to this very day lie where it had fallen on the rocky slope of Jericho Hill. And of course Ive seen these rooms before! Theyre telling my life, after all. Indeed they were. Floor by floor and tale by tale (not to mention death by death), the rising rooms of the Dark Tower recounted Roland Deschains life and quest. Each held its memento; each its signature aroma. Many times there was more than a single floor devoted to a single year, but there was always at least one. And after the thirtyeighth room (which is nineteen doubled, do ya not see it), he wished to look no more. This one contained the charred stake to which Susan Delgado had been bound. He did not enter, but looked at the face upon the wall. That much he owed her. Roland, I love thee! Susan Delgado had screamed, and he knew it was the truth, for it was only her love that rendered her recognizable. And, love or no love, in the end she had still burned. This is a place of death, he thought, and not just here. All these rooms. Every floor. Yes, gunslinger, whispered the Voice of the Tower. But only because your life has made it so. After the thirtyeighth floor, Roland climbed faster. SEVEN Standing outside, Roland had judged the Tower to be roughly six hundred feet high. But as he peered into the hundredth room, and then the two hundredth, he felt sure he must have climbed eight times six hundred. Soon he would be closing in on the mark of distance his friends from Americaside had called a mile. That was more floors than there possibly could beno Tower could be a mile high!but still he climbed, climbed until he was nearly running, yet never did he tire. It once crossed his mind that hed never reach the top; that the Dark Tower was infinite in height as it was eternal in time. But after a moments consideration he rejected the idea, for it was his life the Tower was telling, and while that life had been long, it had by no means been eternal. And as it had had a beginning (marked by the cedar clip and the bit of blue silk ribbon), so it would have an ending. Soon now, quite likely. The light he sensed behind his eyes was brighter now, and did not seem so blue. He passed a room containing Zoltan, the bird from the weedeaters hut. He passed a room containing the atomic pump from the Way Station. He climbed more stairs, paused outside a room containing a dead lobstrosity, and by now the light he sensed was much brighter and no longer blue. It was . . . He was quite sure it was . . . It was sunlight. Past twilight it might be, with Old Star and Old Mother shining from above the Dark Tower, but Roland was quite sure he was seeingor sensingsunlight. He climbed on without looking into any more of the rooms, without bothering to smell their aromas of the past. The stairwell narrowed until his shoulders nearly touched its curved stone sides. No songs now, unless the wind was a song, for he heard it soughing. He passed one final open door. Lying on the floor of the tiny room beyond it was a pad from which the face had been erased. All that remained were two red eyes, glaring up. I have reached the present. I have reached now. Yes, and there was sunlight, commala sunlight inside his eyes and waiting for him. It was hot and harsh upon his skin. The sound of the wind was louder, and that sound was also harsh. Unforgiving. Roland looked at the stairs curving upward; now his shoulders would touch the walls, for the passage was no wider than the sides of a coffin. Nineteen more stairs, and then the room at the top of the Dark Tower would be his. I come! he called. Ifee hear me, hear me well! I come! He took the stairs one by one, walking with his back straight and his head held up. The other rooms had been open to his eye. The final one was closed off, his way blocked by a ghostwood door with a single word carved upon it. That word was ROLAND. He grasped the knob. It was engraved with a wild rose wound around a revolver, one of those great old guns from his father and now lost forever. Yet it will be yours again, whispered the voice of the Tower and the voice of the rosesthese voices were now one. What do you mean? To this there was no answer, but the knob turned beneath his hand, and perhaps that was an answer. Roland opened the door at the top of the Dark Tower. He saw and understood at once, the knowledge falling upon him in a hammerblow, hot as the sun of the desert that was the apotheosis of all deserts. How many times had he climbed these stairs only to find himself peeled back, curved back, turned back? Not to the beginning (when things might have been changed and times curse lifted), but to that moment in the Mohaine Desert when he had finally understood that his thoughtless, questionless quest would ultimately succeed? How many times had he traveled a loop like the one in the clip that had once pinched off his navel, his own tetka can Gan? How many times would he travel it? Oh, no! he screamed. Please, not again! Have pity! Have mercy! The hands pulled him forward regardless. The hands of the Tower knew no mercy. They were the hands of Gan, the hands of ka, and they knew no mercy. He smelled alkali, bitter as tears. The desert beyond the door was white; blinding; waterless; without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon. The smell beneath the alkali was that of the devilgrass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. But not for you, gunslinger. Never for you. You darkle. You tinct. May I be brutally frank? You go on. And each time you forget the last time.For you, each time is the first time. He made one final effort to draw back hopeless. Ka was stronger. Roland of Gilead walked through the last door, the one he always sought, the one he always found. It closed gently behind him. EIGHT The gunslinger paused for a moment, swaying on his feet. He thought hed almost passed out. It was the heat, of course; the damned heat. There was a wind, but it was dry and brought no relief. He took his waterskin, judged how much was left by the heft of it, knew he shouldnt drinkit wasnt time to drinkand had a swallow, anyway. For a moment he had felt he was somewhere else. In the Tower itself, mayhap. But of course the desert was tricky, and full of mirages. The Dark Tower still lay thousands of wheels ahead. That sense of having climbed many stairs and looked into many rooms where many faces had looked back at him was already fading. I will reach it, he thought, squinting up at the pitiless sun. I swear on the name of my father that I will. And perhaps this time if you get there it will be different, a voice whisperedsurely the voice of desert delirium, for what other time had there ever been? He was what he was and where he was, just that, no more than that, no more. He had no sense of humor and little imagination, but he was steadfast. He was a gunslinger. And in his heart, wellhidden, he still felt the bitter romance of the quest. Youre the one who never changes, Cort had told him once, and in his voice Roland could have sworn he heard fear . . . although why Cort should have been afraid of hima boyRoland couldnt tell. Itll be your damnation, boy. Youll wear out a hundred pairs of boots on your walk to hell. And Vannay Those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it. And his mother Roland, must you always be so serious? Can you never rest? Yet the voice whispered it again (different this time mayhap different) and Roland did seem to smell something other than alkali and devilgrass. He thought it might be flowers. He thought it might be roses. He shifted his gunna from one shoulder to the other, then touched the horn that rode on his belt behind the gun on his right hip. The ancient brass horn had once been blown by Arthur Eld himself, or so the story did say. Roland had given it to Cuthbert Allgood at Jericho Hill, and when Cuthbert fell, Roland had paused just long enough to pick it up again, knocking the deathdust of that place from its throat. This is your sigul, whispered the fading voice that bore with it the dusksweet scent of roses, the scent of home on a summer eveningO lost!a stone, a rose, an unfound door; a stone, a rose, a door. This is your promise that things may be different, Rolandthat there may yet be rest. Even salvation. A pause, and then If you stand. If you are true. He shook his head to clear it, thought of taking another sip of water, and dismissed the idea. Tonight. When he built his campfire over the bones of Walters fire. Then he would drink. As for now . . . As for now, he would resume his journey. Somewhere ahead was the Dark Tower. Closer, however, much closer, was the man (was he a man? was he really?) who could perhaps tell him how to get there. Roland would catch him, and when he did, that man would talkaye, yes, yar, tell it on the mountain as youd hear it in the valley Walter would be caught, and Walter would talk. Roland touched the horn again, and its reality was oddly comforting, as if he had never touched it before. Time to get moving. The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. June 19, 1970April 7, 2004 I tell God thankya.  ROBERT BROWNING CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME I My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the workings of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skulllike laugh Would break, what crutch gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare. III If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed, neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV For, what with my whole worldwide wandering; What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. V As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (since all is oer, he saith And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;) VI When some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among The Band to wit, The knights who to the Dark Towers search addressed Their stepsthat just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was nowshould I be fit? VIII So, quiet as despair I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX For mark! No sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backwards a last view Oer the safe road, twas gone; grey plain all round Nothing but plain to the horizons bound. I might go on, naught else remained to do. X So on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve For flowersas well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind with none to awe, Youd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. XI No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the lands portion. See Or shut your eyes, said Nature peevishly, It nothing skills I cannot help my case Tis the Last Judgements fire must cure this place Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free. XII If there pushed any ragged thistlestalk Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the docks harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brutes intents. XIII As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone astare, Stood stupefied, however he came there Thrust out past service from the devils stud! XIV Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck astrain. And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldiers art One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI Not it! I fancied Cuthberts reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place, The way he used. Alas, one nights disgrace! Out went my hearts new fire and left it cold. XVII Giles then, the soul of honourthere he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first, What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Goodbut the scene shiftsfaugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII Better this present than a past like that Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiends glowing hoofto see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng The river which had done them all the wrong, Whateer that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI Which, while I fordedgood saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead mans cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! It may have been a waterrat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a babys shriek. XXII Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank Or wild cats in a redhot iron cage XXIII The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque, What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galleyslaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV And more than thata furlong onwhy, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheelthat harrow fit to reel Mens bodies out like silk? With all the air Of Tophets tool, on earth left unaware Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. XXVI Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soils Broke into moss, or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyons bosom friend, Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragonpenned That brushed my capperchance the guide I sought. XXVIII For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountainswith such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised mesolve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shutsyoure inside the den. XXX Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, adozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fools heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempests mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII Not see? because of night perhaps?why day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, Now stab and end the creatureto the heft! XXXIII Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers, my peers How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slughorn to my lips I set, And blew. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. AUTHORS NOTE Sometimes I think I have written more about the Dark Tower books than I have written about the Dark Tower itself. These related writings include the evergrowing synopsis (known by the quaint old word Argument) at the beginning of each of the first five volumes, and afterwords (most totally unnecessary and some actually embarrassing in retrospect) at the end of all the volumes. Michael Whelan, the extraordinary artist who illustrated both the first volume and this last, proved himself to be no slouch as a literary critic as well when, after reading a draft of Volume Seven, he suggestedin refreshingly blunt termsthat the rather lighthearted afterword Id put at the end was jarring and out of place. I took another look at it and realized he was right. The first half of that wellmeant but offkey essay can now be found as an introduction to the first four volumes of the series; its called On Being Nineteen. I thought of leaving Volume Seven without any afterword at all; of letting Rolands discovery at the top of his Tower be my last word on the matter. Then I realized that I had one more thing to say, a thing that actually needed to be said. It has to do with my presence in my own book. Theres a smarmy academic term for thismetafiction. I hate it. I hate the pretentiousness of it. Im in the story only because Ive known for some time now (consciously since writing Insomnia in 1995, unconsciously since temporarily losing track of Father Donald Callahan near the end of Salems Lot) that many of my fictions refer back to Rolands world and Rolands story. Since I was the one who wrote them, it seemed logical that I was part of the gunslingers ka. My idea was to use the Dark Tower stories as a kind of summation, a way of unifying as many of my previous stories as possible beneath the arch of some ber tale. I never meant that to be pretentious (and I hope it isnt), but only as a way of showing how life influences art (and viceversa). I think that, if you have read these last three Dark Tower volumes, youll see that my talk of retirement makes more sense in this context. In a sense, theres nothing left to say now that Roland has reached his goal . . . and I hope the reader will see that by discovering the Horn of Eld, the gunslinger may finally be on the way to his own resolution. Possibly even to redemption. It was all about reaching the Tower, you seemine as well as Rolandsand that has finally been accomplished. You may not like what Roland found at the top, but thats a different matter entirely. And dont write me any angry letters about it, either, because I wont answer them. Theres nothing left to say on the subject. I wasnt exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth, but its the right ending. The only ending, in fact. You have to remember that I dont make these things up, not exactly; I only write down what I see. Readers will speculate on how real the Stephen King is who appears in these pages. The answer is not very, although the one Roland and Eddie meet in Bridgton (Song of Susannah) is very close to the Stephen King I remember being at that time. As for the Stephen King who shows up in this final volume . . . well, lets put it this way my wife asked me if I would kindly not give fans of the series very precise directions to where we live or who we really are. I agreed to do that. Not because I wanted to, exactlypart of what makes this story go, I think, is the sense of the fictional world bursting through into the real onebut because this happens to be my wifes life as well as mine, and she should not be penalized for either loving me or living with me. So I have fictionalized the geography of western Maine to a great extent, trusting readers to grasp the intent of the fiction and to understand why I treated my own part in it as I did. And if you feel a need to drop in and say hello, please think again. My family and I have a good deal less privacy than we used to, and I have no wish to give up any more, may it do ya fine. My books are my way of knowing you. Let them be your way of knowing me, as well. Its enough. And on behalf of Roland and all his katetnow scattered, say sorryI thank you for coming along, and sharing this adventure with me. I never worked harder on a project in my life, and I knownone better, alasthat it has not been entirely successful. What work of makebelieve ever is? And yet for all of that, I would not give back a single minute of the time that I have lived in Rolands where and when. Those days in MidWorld and EndWorld were quite extraordinary. Those were days when my imagination was so clear I could smell the dust and hear the creak of leather. Stephen King August 21, 2003


AFTERWORD In the High Speech, Gabrielle Deschains final message to her son looks like this The two most beautiful words in any language are  I forgive. OTHER DARK TOWERRELATED WORKS BY STEPHEN KING NOVELS Salems Lot The Stand The Dark Tower I The Gunslinger The Talisman (with Peter Straub) It The Eyes of the Dragon The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three The Dark Tower III The Waste Lands Insomnia Rose Madder Desperation The Regulators (as Richard Bachman) The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass Bag of Bones Black House (with Peter Straub) From a Buick 8 The Dark Tower V Wolves of the Calla The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah The Dark Tower VII The Dark Tower COLLECTIONS Skeleton Crew Hearts in Atlantis Everythings Eventual  SHANE LEONARD STEPHEN KING is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His most recent include 112263, named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review; Full Dark, No Stars; Under the Dome; Just Past Sunset; and Liseys Story. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King. MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT SimonandSchuster.com  THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS  JACKET DESIGN BY REX BONOMELLI JACKET PHOTO ILLUSTRATION PLATINUM FMD REPRESENTED BY RAY BROWN COPYRIGHT  2012 SIMON  SCHUSTER CONTENTS Foreword Starkblast The SkinMan (Part 1) The Wind Through the Keyhole The SkinMan (Part 2) Storms Over Afterword SCRIBNER A Division of Simon  Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright  2012 by Stephen King All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Scribner hardcover edition April 2012 SCRIBNER and design are registered trademarks of The Gale Group, Inc., used under license by Simon  Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon  Schuster Special Sales at 18665061949 or businesssimonandschuster.com. The Simon  Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon  Schuster Speakers Bureau at 18662483049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING Library of Congress Control Number 2011050590 ISBN 9781451658903 ISBN 9781451658927 (ebook) This is for Robin Furth, and the gang at Marvel Comics. We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook. Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Scribner and Simon  Schuster. or visit us online to sign up at eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com Which sounds like S, in the Low Speech. FOREWORD Many of the people holding this book have followed the adventures of Roland and his bandhis katetfor years, some of them from the very beginning. Othersand I hope there are many, newcomers and Constant Readers alikemay ask, Can I read and enjoy this story if I havent read the other Dark Tower books? My answer is yes, if you keep a few things in mind. First, MidWorld lies next to our world, and there are many overlaps. In some places there are doorways between the two worlds, and sometimes there are thin places, porous places, where the two worlds actually mingle. Three of Rolands katetEddie, Susannah, and Jakehave been drawn separately from troubled lives in New York into Rolands MidWorld quest. Their fourth traveling companion, a billybumbler named Oy, is a goldeneyed creature native to MidWorld. MidWorld is very old, and falling to ruin, filled with monsters and untrustworthy magic. Second, Roland Deschain of Gilead is a gunslingerone of a small band that tries to keep order in an increasingly lawless world. If you think of the gunslingers of Gilead as a strange combination of knights errant and territorial marshals in the Old West, youll be close to the mark. Most of them, although not all, are descended from the line of the old White King, known as Arthur Eld (I told you there were overlaps). Third, Roland has lived his life under a terrible curse. He killed his mother, who was having an affairmostly against her will, and certainly against her better judgmentwith a fellow you will meet in these pages. Although it was by mistake, he holds himself accountable, and the unhappy Gabrielle Deschains death has haunted him since his young manhood. These events are fully narrated in the Dark Tower cycle, but for our purposes here, I think its all you have to know. For longtime readers, this book should be shelved between Wizard and Glass and Wolves of the Calla . . . which makes it, I suppose, Dark Tower 4.5. As for me, I was delighted to discover my old friends had a little more to say. It was a great gift to find them again, years after I thought their stories were told. Stephen King September 14, 2011 1 During the days after they left the Green Palace that wasnt Oz after allbut which was now the tomb of the unpleasant fellow Rolands katet had known as the TickTock Manthe boy Jake began to range farther and farther ahead of Roland, Eddie, and Susannah. Dont you worry about him? Susannah asked Roland. Out there on his own? Hes got Oy with him, Eddie said, referring to the billybumbler who had adopted Jake as his special friend. Mr. Oy gets along with nice folks all right, but hes got a mouthful of sharp teeth for those who arent so nice. As that guy Gasher found out to his sorrow. Jake also has his fathers gun, Roland said. And he knows how to use it. That he knows very well. And he wont leave the Path of the Beam. He pointed overhead with his reduced hand. The lowhanging sky was mostly still, but a single corridor of clouds moved steadily southeast. Toward the land of Thunderclap, if the note left behind for them by the man who styled himself RF had told the truth. Toward the Dark Tower. But why Susannah began, and then her wheelchair hit a bump. She turned to Eddie. Watch where youre pushin me, sugar. Sorry, Eddie said. Public Works hasnt been doing any maintenance along this stretch of the turnpike lately. Must be dealing with budget cuts. It wasnt a turnpike, but it was a road . . . or had been two ghostly ruts with an occasional tumbledown shack to mark the way. Earlier that morning they had even passed an abandoned store with a barely readable sign TOOKS OUTLAND MERCANTILE. They investigated inside for suppliesJake and Oy had still been with them thenand had found nothing but dust, ancient cobwebs, and the skeleton of what had been either a large raccoon, a small dog, or a billybumbler. Oy had taken a cursory sniff and then pissed on the bones before leaving the store to sit on the hump in the middle of the old road with his squiggle of a tail curled around him. He faced back the way they had come, sniffing the air. Roland had seen the bumbler do this several times lately, and although he had said nothing, he pondered it. Someone trailing them, maybe? He didnt actually believe this, but the bumblers posturenose lifted, ears pricked, tail curledcalled up some old memory or association that he couldnt quite catch. Why does Jake want to be on his own? Susannah asked. Do you find it worrisome, Susannah of New York? Roland asked. Yes, Roland of Gilead, I find it worrisome. She smiled amiably enough, but in her eyes, the old mean light sparkled. That was the Detta Walker part of her, Roland reckoned. It would never be completely gone, and he wasnt sorry. Without the strange woman she had once been still buried in her heart like a chip of ice, she would have been only a handsome black woman with no legs below the knees. With Detta onboard, she was a person to be reckoned with. A dangerous one. A gunslinger. He has plenty of stuff to think about, Eddie said quietly. Hes been through a lot. Not every kid comes back from the dead. And its like Roland saysif someone tries to face him down, its the someone whos apt to be sorry. Eddie stopped pushing the wheelchair, armed sweat from his brow, and looked at Roland. Are there someones in this particular suburb of nowhere, Roland? Or have they all moved on? Oh, there are a few, I wot. He did more than wot; they had been peeked at several times as they continued their course along the Path of the Beam. Once by a frightened woman with her arms around two children and a babe hanging in a sling from her neck. Once by an old farmer, a halfmutie with a jerking tentacle that hung from one corner of his mouth. Eddie and Susannah had seen none of these people, or sensed the others that Roland felt sure had, from the safety of the woods and high grasses, marked their progress. Eddie and Susannah had a lot to learn. But they had learned at least some of what they would need, it seemed, because Eddie now asked, Are they the ones Oy keeps scenting up behind us? I dont know. Roland thought of adding that he was sure something else was on Oys strange little bumbler mind, and decided not to. The gunslinger had spent long years with no katet, and keeping his own counsel had become a habit. One he would have to break, if the tet was to remain strong. But not now, not this morning. Lets move on, he said. Im sure well find Jake waiting for us up ahead. 2 Two hours later, just shy of noon, they breasted a rise and halted, looking down at a wide, slowmoving river, gray as pewter beneath the overcast sky. On the northwestern banktheir sidewas a barnlike building painted a green so bright it seemed to yell into the muted day. Its mouth jutted out over the water on pilings painted a similar green. Docked to two of these pilings by thick hawsers was a large raft, easily ninety feet by ninety, painted in alternating stripes of red and yellow. A tall wooden pole that looked like a mast jutted from the center, but there was no sign of a sail. Several wicker chairs sat in front of the pole, facing the shore on their side of the river. Jake was seated in one of these. Next to him was an old man in a vast straw hat, baggy green pants, and longboots. On his top half he wore a thin white garmentthe kind of shirt Roland thought of as a slinkum. Jake and the old man appeared to be eating wellstuffed popkins. Rolands mouth sprang water at the sight of them. Oy was beyond them, at the edge of the circuspainted raft, looking raptly down at his own reflection. Or perhaps at the reflection of the steel cable that ran overhead, spanning the river. Is it the Whye? Susannah asked Roland. Yar. Eddie grinned. You say Whye; I say Whye Not? He raised one hand and waved it over his head. Jake! Hey, Jake! Oy! Jake waved back, and although the river and the raft moored at its edge were still a quarter of a mile away, their eyes were uniformly sharp, and they saw the white of the boys teeth as he grinned. Susannah cupped her hands around her mouth. Oy! Oy! To me, sugar! Come see your mama! Uttering shrill yips that were the closest he could get to barks, Oy flew across the raft, disappeared into the barnlike structure, then emerged on their side. He came charging up the path with his ears lowered against his skull and his goldringed eyes bright. Slow down, sug, youll give yourself a heart attack! Susannah shouted, laughing. Oy seemed to take this as an order to speed up. He arrived at Susannahs wheelchair in less than two minutes, jumped up into her lap, then jumped down again and looked at them cheerfully. Olan! Ed! Suze! Hile, Sir Throcken, Roland said, using the ancient word for bumbler hed first heard in a book read to him by his mother The Throcken and the Dragon. Oy lifted his leg, watered a patch of grass, then faced back the way they had come, scenting at the air, eyes on the horizon. Why does he keep doing that, Roland? Eddie asked. I dont know. But he almost knew. Was it some old story, not The Throcken and the Dragon but one like it? Roland thought so. For a moment he thought of green eyes, watchful in the dark, and a little shiver went through himnot of fear, exactly (although that might have been a part of it), but of remembrance. Then it was gone. Therell be water if God wills it, he thought, and only realized he had spoken aloud when Eddie said, Huh? Never mind, Roland said. Lets have a little palaver with Jakes new friend, shall we? Perhaps he has an extra popkin or two. Eddie, tired of the chewy staple they called gunslinger burritos, brightened immediately. Hell, yeah, he said, and looked at an imaginary watch on his tanned wrist. Goodness me, I see its just gobble oclock. Shut up and push, honeybee, Susannah said. Eddie shut up and pushed. 3 The old man was sitting when they entered the boathouse, standing when they emerged on the river side. He saw the guns Roland and Eddie were wearingthe big irons with the sandalwood gripsand his eyes widened. He dropped to one knee. The day was still, and Roland actually heard his bones creak. Hile, gunslinger, he said, and put an arthritisswollen fist to the center of his forehead. I salute thee. Rise up, friend, Roland said, hoping the old man was a friendJake seemed to think so, and Roland had come to trust his instincts. Not to mention the billybumblers. Rise up, do. The old man was having trouble managing it, so Eddie stepped aboard and gave him an arm. Thankee, son, thankee. Be you a gunslinger as well, or are you a prentice? Eddie looked at Roland. Roland gave him nothing, so Eddie looked back at the old man, shrugged, and grinned. Little of both, I guess. Im Eddie Dean, of New York. This is my wife, Susannah. And this is Roland Deschain. Of Gilead. The rivermans eyes widened. Gilead that was? Do you say so? Gilead that was, Roland agreed, and felt an unaccustomed sorrow rise up from his heart. Time was a face on the water, and like the great river before them, it did nothing but flow. Step aboard, then. And welcome. This young man and I are already fast friends, so we are. Oy stepped onto the big raft and the old man bent to stroke the bumblers raised head. And we are, too, arent we, fella? Does thee remember my name? Bix! Oy said promptly, then turned to the northwest again, raising his snout. His goldringed eyes stared raptly at the moving column of clouds that marked the Path of the Beam. 4 Willee eat? Bix asked them. What I have is poor and rough, but such as there is, Id be happy to share. With thanks, Susannah said. She looked at the overhead cable that ran across the river on a diagonal. This is a ferry, isnt it? Yeah, Jake said. Bix told me there are people on the other side. Not close, but not far, either. He thinks theyre rice farmers, but they dont come this way much. Bix stepped off the big raft and went into the boathouse. Eddie waited until he heard the old guy rummaging around, then bent to Jake and said in a low voice, Is he okay? Hes fine, Jake said. Its the way were going, and hes happy to have someone to take across. He says its been years. Ill bet it has been, Eddie agreed. Bix reappeared with a wicker basket, which Roland took from himotherwise the old man might have tumbled into the water. Soon they were all sitting in the wicker chairs, munching popkins filled with some sort of pink fish. It was seasoned and delicious. Eat all you like, Bix said. The rivers filled with shannies, and most are truethreaded. The muties I throw back. Once upon a time we were ordered to throw the bad uns up abank so they wouldnt breed more, and for a while I did, but now . . . He shrugged. Live and let live is what I say. As someone whos lived long himself, I feel like I can say it. How old are you? Jake asked. I turned a hundred and twenty quite some time ago, but since then Ive lost count, so I have. Times short on this side of the door, kennit. On this side of the door. That memory of some old story tugged at Roland again, and then was gone. Do you follow that? The old man pointed to the moving band of clouds in the sky. We do. To the Callas, or beyond? Beyond. To the great darkness? Bix looked both troubled and fascinated by the idea. We go our course, Roland said. What fee would you take to cross us, sai ferryman? Bix laughed. The sound was cracked and cheerful. Moneys no good with nothing to spend it on, you have no livestock, and its clear as day that I have more to eat than you do. And you could always draw on me and force me to take you across. Never, Susannah said, looking shocked. I know that, Bix said, waving a hand at her. Harriers mightand then burn my ferry for good measure once they got tother sidebut true men of the gun, never. And women too, I suppose. You dont seem armed, missus, but with women, one can never tell. Susannah smiled thinly at this and said nothing. Bix turned to Roland. Ye come from Lud, I wot. Id hear of Lud, and how things go there. For it was a marvelous city, so it was. Crumbling and growing strange when I knew it, but still marvelous. The four of them exchanged a look that was all antet, that peculiar telepathy they shared. It was a look that was also dark with shume, the old MidWorld term that can mean shame, but also means sorrow. What? Bix asked. What have I said? If Ive asked for something youd not give, I cry your pardon. Not at all, Roland said, but Lud . . . Lud is dust in the wind, Susannah said. Well, Eddie said, not dust, exactly. Ashes, Jake said. The kind that glow in the dark. Bix pondered this, then nodded slowly. Id hear anyway, or as much as you can tell in an hours time. Thats how long the crossing takes. 5 Bix bristled when they offered to help him with his preparations. It was his job, he said, and he could still do itjust not as quickly as once upon a time, when there had been farms and a few little trading posts on both sides of the river. In any case, there wasnt much to do. He fetched a stool and a large ironwood ringbolt from the boathouse, mounted the stool to attach the ringbolt to the top of the post, then hooked the ringbolt to the cable. He took the stool back inside and returned with a large metal crank shaped like a block Z. This he laid with some ceremony by a wooden housing on the far end of the raft. Dont none of you kick that overboard, or Ill never get home, he said. Roland squatted on his hunkers to study it. He beckoned to Eddie and Jake, who joined him. He pointed to the words embossed on the long stroke of the Z. Does it say what I think it does? Yep, Eddie said. North Central Positronics. Our old pals. When did you get that, Bix? Susannah asked. Ninety year ago, or more, if I were to guess. Theres an underground place over there. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the Green Palace. It goes for miles, and its full of things that belonged to the old people, perfectly preserved. Strange music still plays from overhead, music such as youve never heard. It scrambles your thinking, like. And you dont dare stay there long, or you break out in sores and puke and start to lose your teeth. I went once. Never again. I thought for a while I was going to die. Did you lose your hair as well as your chompers? Eddie asked. Bix looked surprised, then nodded. Yar, some, but it grew back. That crank, its still, you know. Eddie pondered this a moment. Of course it was still, it was an inanimate object. Then he realized the old man was saying steel. Areee ready? Bix asked them. His eyes were nearly as bright as Oys. Shall I cast off? Eddie snapped off a crisp salute. Ayeaye, capn. Were away to the Treasure Isles, arr, so we be. Come and help me with these ropes, Roland of Gilead, will ya do. Roland did, and gladly. 6 The raft moved slowly along the diagonal cable, pulled by the rivers slow current. Fish jumped all around them as Rolands katet took turns telling the old man about the city of Lud, and what had befallen them there. For a while Oy watched the fish with interest, his paws planted on the upstream edge of the raft. Then he once more sat and faced back the way they had come, snout raised. Bix grunted when they told him how theyd left the doomed city. Blaine the Mono, ysay. I remember. Crack train. There was another un, too, although I cant remember the name Patricia, Susannah said. Aye, that was it. Beautiful glass sides, she had. And you say the citys all gone? All gone, Jake agreed. Bix lowered his head. Sad. It is, Susannah said, taking his hand and giving it a brief, light squeeze. MidWorlds a sad place, although it can be very beautiful. They had reached the middle of the river now, and a light breeze, surprisingly warm, ruffled their hair. They had all laid aside their heavy outer clothes and sat at ease in the wicker passenger chairs, which rolled this way and that, presumably for the views this provided. A large fishprobably one of the kind that had fed their bellies at gobble oclockjumped onto the raft and lay there, flopping at Oys feet. Although he was usually death on any small creature that crossed his path, the bumbler appeared not even to notice it. Roland kicked it back into the water with one of his scuffed boots. Yer throcken knows its coming, Bix remarked. He looked at Roland. Youll want to take heed, aye? For a moment Roland could say nothing. A clear memory rose from the back of his mind to the front, one of a dozen handcolored woodcut illustrations in an old and wellloved book. Six bumblers sitting on a fallen tree in the forest beneath a crescent moon, all with their snouts raised. That volume, Magic Tales of the Eld, he had loved above all others when he had been but a sma one, listening to his mother as she read him to sleep in his high tower bedroom, while an autumn gale sang its lonely song outside, calling down winter. The Wind Through the Keyhole was the name of the story that went with the picture, and it had been both terrible and wonderful. All my gods on the hill, Roland said, and thumped the heel of his reduced right hand to his brow. I should have known right away. If only from how warm its gotten the last few days. You mean you didnt? Bix asked. And you from InWorld? He made a tsking sound. Roland? Susannah asked. What is it? Roland ignored her. He looked from Bix to Oy and back to Bix. The starkblasts coming. Bix nodded. Aye. Throcken say so, and about starkblast the throcken are never wrong. Other than speaking a little, its their bright. Bright what? Eddie asked. He means their talent, Roland said. Bix, do you know of a place on the other side where we can hide up and wait for it to pass? Happens I do. The old man pointed to the wooded hills sloping gently down to the far side of the Whye, where another dock and another boathousethis one unpainted and far less grandwaited for them. Yell find your way forward on the other side, a little lane that used to be a road. It follows the Path of the Beam. Sure it does, Jake said. All things serve the Beam. As you say, young man, as you say. Which doee ken, wheels or miles? Both, Eddie said, but for most of us, miles are better. All right, then. Follow the old Calla road five miles . . . maybe six . . . and yell come to a deserted village. Most of the buildings are wood and no use toee, but the town meeting hall is good stone. Yell be fine there. Ive been inside, and theres a lovely big fireplace. Yell want to check the chimney, accourse, as yell want a good draw up its throat for the day or two ye have to sit out. As for wood, ye can use whats left of the houses. What is this starkblast? Susannah asked. Is it a storm? Yes, Roland said. I havent seen one in many, many years. Its a lucky thing we had Oy with us. Even then I wouldnt have known, if not for Bix. He squeezed the old mans shoulder. Thankeesai. We all say thankee. 7 The boathouse on the southeastern side of the river was on the verge of collapse, like so many things in MidWorld; bats roosted headsdown from the rafters and fat spiders scuttered up the walls. They were all glad to be out of it and back under the open sky. Bix tied up and joined them. They each embraced him, being careful not to hug tight and hurt his old bones. When theyd all taken their turn, the old man wiped his eyes, then bent and stroked Oys head. Keep em well, do, Sir Throcken. Oy! the bumbler replied. Then Bix! The old man straightened, and again they heard his bones crackle. He put his hands to the small of his back and winced. Will you be able to get back across okay? Eddie asked. Oh, aye, Bix said. If it was spring, I might notthe Whye ent so placid when the snow melts and the rains comebut now? Piece o piss. The storms still some way off. I crank for a bit against the current, then click the bolt tight so I can rest and not slip backards, then I crank some more. It might take four hours instead of one, but Ill get there. I always have, anyway. I only wish I had some more food to giveee. Well be fine, Roland said. Good, then. Good. The old man seemed reluctant to leave. He looked from face to faceseriouslythen grinned, exposing toothless gums. Were wellmet along the path, are we not? So we are, Roland agreed. And if you come back this way, stop and visit awhile with old Bix. Tell him of your adventures. We will, Susannah said, although she knew they would never be this way again. It was a thing they all knew. And mind the starkblast. Its nothing to fool with. But ye might have a day, yet, or even two. Hes not turning circles yet, are ye, Oy? Oy! the bumbler agreed. Bix fetched a sigh. Now you go your way, he said, and I go mine. Well both be laid up undercover soon enough. Roland and his tet started up the path. One other thing! Bix called after them, and they turned back. If you see that cussed Andy, tell him I dont want no songs, and I dont want my godsdamned horrascope read! Whos Andy? Jake called back. Oh, never mind, you probably wont see him, anyway. That was the old mans last word on it, and none of them remembered it, although they did meet Andy, in the farming community of Calla Bryn Sturgis. But that was later, after the storm had passed. 8 It was only five miles to the deserted village, and they arrived less than an hour after theyd left the ferry. It took Roland less time than that to tell them about the starkblast. They used to come down on the Great Woods north of New Canaan once or twice a year, although we never had one in Gilead; they always rose away into the air before they got so far. But I remember once seeing carts loaded with frozen bodies drawn down Gilead Road. Farmers and their families, I suppose. Where their throcken had beentheir billybumblersI dont know. Perhaps they took sick and died. In any case, with no bumblers to warn them, those folks were unprepared. The starkblast comes suddenly, you ken. One moment youre warm as toastbecause the weather always warms up beforeand then it falls on you, like wolves on a ruttle of lambs. The only warning is the sound the trees make as the cold of the starkblast rolls over them. A kind of thudding sound, like grenados covered with dirt. The sound living wood makes when it contracts all at once, I suppose. And by the time they heard that, it would have been too late for those in the fields. Cold, Eddie mused. How cold? The temperature can fall to as much as forty limbits below freezing in less than an hour, Roland said grimly. Ponds freeze in an instant, with a sound like bullets breaking windowpanes. Birds turn to icestatues in the sky and fall like rocks. Grass turns to glass. Youre exaggerating, Susannah said. You must be. Not at all. But the colds only part of it. The wind comes, toogaleforce, snapping the frozen trees off like straws. Such storms might roll for three hundred wheels before lifting off into the sky as suddenly as they came. How do the bumblers know? Jake asked. Roland only shook his head. The how and why of things had never interested him much. 9 They came to a broken piece of signboard lying on the path. Eddie picked it up and read the faded remains of a single word. It sums up MidWorld perfectly, he said. Mysterious yet strangely hilarious. He turned toward them with the piece of wood held at chest level. What it said, in large, uneven letters, was GOOK. A gook is a deep well, Roland said. Common law says any traveler may drink from it without let or penalty. Welcome to Gook, Eddie said, tossing the signboard into the bushes at the side of the road. I like it. In fact, I want a bumper sticker that says I Waited Out the Starkblast in Gook. Susannah laughed. Jake didnt. He only pointed at Oy, who had begun turning in tight, rapid circles, as if chasing his own tail. We might want to hurry a little, the boy said. 10 The woods drew back and the path widened to what had once been a village high street. The village itself was a sad cluster of abandonment that ran on both sides for about a quarter mile. Some of the buildings had been houses, some stores, but now it was impossible to tell which had been which. They were nothing but slumped shells staring out of dark empty sockets that might once have held glass. The only exception stood at the southern end of the town. Here the overgrown high street split around a squat blockhouselike building constructed of gray fieldstone. It stood hipdeep in overgrown shrubbery and was partly concealed by young fir trees that must have grown up since Gook had been abandoned; the roots had already begun to work their way into the meeting halls foundations. In the course of time they would bring it down, and time was one thing MidWorld had in abundance. He was right about the wood, Eddie said. He picked up a weathered plank and laid it across the arms of Susannahs wheelchair like a makeshift table. Well have plenty. He cast an eye at Jakes furry pal, who was once more turning in brisk circles. If we have time to pick it up, that is. Well start gathering as soon as we make sure weve got yonder stone building to ourselves, Roland said. Lets make this quick. 11 The Gook meeting hall was chilly, and birdswhat the New Yorkers thought of as swallows and Roland called binrustieshad gotten into the second floor, but otherwise they did indeed have the place to themselves. Once he was under a roof, Oy seemed freed of his compulsion to either face northwest or turn in circles, and he immediately reverted to his essential curious nature, bounding up the rickety stairs toward the soft flutterings and cooings above. He began his shrill yapping, and soon the members of the tet saw the binrusties streaking away toward less populated areas of MidWorld. Although, if Roland was right, Jake thought, the ones heading in the direction of the River Whye would all too soon be turned into birdsicles. The first floor consisted of a single large room. Tables and benches had been stacked against the walls. Roland, Eddie, and Jake carried these to the glassless windows, which were mercifully small, and covered the openings. The ones on the northwest side they covered from the outside, so the wind from that direction would press them tighter rather than blow them over. While they did this, Susannah rolled her wheelchair into the mouth of the fireplace, a thing she was able to accomplish without even ducking her head. She peered up, grasped a rusty hanging ring, and pulled it. There was a hellish skreek sound . . . a pause . . . and then a great black cloud of soot descended on her in a flump. Her reaction was immediate, colorful, and all Detta Walker. Oh, kiss my ass and go to heaven! she screamed. You cockknocking motherfucker, just lookit this shittin mess! She rolled back out, coughing and waving her hands in front of her face. The wheels of her chair left tracks in the soot. A huge pile of the stuff lay in her lap. She slapped it away in a series of hard strokes that were more like punches.