He had proved it over and over again, since the earliest days of his questno, even before, since overhearing Hax the cook plotting treachery and thus assuring his death by the rope. It was all for the good (for what he called the White), she had no doubt of it, but Eddie still lay in his grave in one world and Jake in another. She had no doubt that much the same fate was waiting for Oy, and for poor Patrick. Nor would their deaths be long in coming. Im sure, said she. All right. Will you give me a kiss? She took him by the arm and pulled him down and put her lips on his. When she inhaled, she took in the breath of a thousand years and ten thousand miles. And yes, she tasted death. But not for you, gunslinger, she thought. For others, but never for you. May I escape your glammer, and may I do fine. She was the one who broke their kiss. Can you open the door for me? she asked. Roland went to it, and took the knob in his hand, and the knob turned easily within his grip. Cold air puffed out, strong enough to blow Patricks long hair back, and with it came a few flakes of snow. She could see grass that was still green beneath light frost, and a path, and an iron fence. Voices were singing What Child Is This, just as in her dream. It could be Central Park. Yes, it could be; Central Park of some other world along the axis, perhaps, and not the one she came from, but close enough so that in time she would know no difference. Or perhaps it was, as he said, a glammer. Perhaps it was the todash darkness. It could be a trick, he said, most certainly reading her mind. Life is a trick, love a glammer, she replied. Perhaps well meet again, in the clearing at the end of the path. As you say so, let it be so, he told her. He put out one leg, the rundown heel of his boot planted in the earth, and bowed to her. Oy had begun to weep, but he sat firmly beside the gunslingers left boot. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye, Roland. Then she faced ahead, took in a deep breath, and twisted the little carts throttle. It rolled smoothly forward. Wait! Roland cried, but she never turned, nor looked at him again. She rolled through the door. It slammed shut behind her at once with a flat, declamatory clap he knew all too well, one hed dreamed of ever since his long and feverish walk along the edge of the Western Sea. The sound of the singing was gone and now there was only the lonely sound of the prairie wind. Roland of Gilead sat in front of the door, which already looked tired and unimportant. It would never open again. He put his face in his hands. It occurred to him that if he had never loved them, he would never have felt so alone as this. Yet of all his many regrets, the reopening of his heart was not among them, even now. NINETEEN Laterbecause theres always a later, isnt there?he made breakfast and forced himself to eat his share. Patrick ate heartily, then withdrew to do his necessary while Roland packed up. There was a third plate, and it was still full. Oy? Roland asked, tipping it toward the billybumbler. Willee not have at least a bite? Oy looked at the plate, then backed away two firm steps. Roland nodded and tossed away the uneaten food, scattering it into the grass. Mayhap Mordred would come along in good time, and find something to his liking. At midmorning they moved on, Roland pulling Ho Fat II and Patrick walking along beside with his head hung low. And soon the beat of the Tower filled the gunslingers head again. Very close now. That steady, pulsing power drove out all thoughts of Susannah, and he was glad. He gave himself to the steady beating and let it sweep away all his thoughts and all his sorrow. Commalacomecome, sang the Dark Tower, now just over the horizon. Commalacomecome, gunslinger may ya come. CommalacomeRoland, the journeys nearly done. CHAPTER II MORDRED  ONE The dantete was watching when the longhaired fellow they were now traveling with grabbed Susannahs shoulder to point out the dancing orange hobs in the distance. Mordred watched as she whirled, pulling one of the White Daddys big revolvers. For a moment the farseeing glass eyes hed found in the house on Odds Lane trembled in Mordreds hand, that was how hard he was rooting for his Blackbird Mommy to shoot the Artist. How the guilt would have bitten into her! Like the blade of a dull hatchet, yar! It was even possible that, overcome by the horror of what she had done, shedve put the barrel of the gun to her own head and pulled the trigger a second time, and how would Old White Daddy like waking up to that? Ah, children are such dreamers. It didnt happen, of course, but there had been much more to watch. Some of it was hard to see, though. Because it wasnt just excitement that made the binoculars tremble. He was dressed warmly now, in layers of Dandelos hume clothes, but he was still cold. Except when he was hot. And either way, hot or cold, he trembled like a toothless old gaffer in a chimney corner. This state of affairs had been growing gradually worse since he left Joe Collinss house behind. Fever roared in his bones like a blizzard wind. Mordred was no longer ahungry (for Mordred no longer had an appetite), but Mordred was asick, asick, asick. In truth, he was afraid Mordred might be adying. Nonetheless he watched Rolands party with great interest, and once the fire was replenished, he saw even better. Saw the door come into being, although he could not read the symbols there writ upon. He understood that the Artist had somehow drawn it into beingwhat a godlike talent that was! Mordred longed to eat him just on the chance such a talent might be transmittable! He doubted it, the spiritual side of cannibalism was greatly overrated, but what harm in seeing for ones self? He watched their palaver. He sawand also understoodher plea to the Artist and the Mutt, her whining entreaties (come with me so I dont have to go alone, come on, be a sport, in fact be a couple of sports, oh boohoo) and rejoiced in her sorrow and fury when the plea was rejected by both boy and beast; Mordred rejoiced even though he knew it would make his own job harder. (A little harder, anyway; how much trouble could a mute young man and a billybumbler really give him, once he changed his shape and made his move?) For a moment he thought that, in her anger, she might shoot Old White Daddy with his own gun, and that Mordred did not want. Old White Daddy was meant to be his. The voice from the Dark Tower had told him so. Asick he surely was, adying he might be, but Old White Daddy was still meant to be his meal, not the Blackbird Mommys. Why, shed leave the meat to rot without taking a single bite! But she didnt shoot him. Instead she kissed him. Mordred didnt want to see that, it made him feel sicker than ever, and so he put the binoculars aside. He lay in the grass amid a little clump of alders, trembling, hot and cold, trying not to puke (he had spent the entire previous day puking and shitting, it seemed, until the muscles of his midsection ached with the strain of sending such heavy traffic in two directions at once and nothing came up his throat but thick, mucusy strings and nothing out of his backside but brown stew and great hollow farts), and when he looked through the binoculars again, it was just in time to see the back end of the little electric cart disappear as the Blackbird Mommy drove it through the door. Something swirled out around it. Dust, maybe, but he thought snow. There was also singing. The sound of it made him feel almost as sick as seeing her kiss Old White Gunslinger Daddy. Then the door slammed shut behind her and the singing was gone and the gunslinger just sat there near it, with his face in his hands, boohoo, sobsob. The bumbler went to him and put its long snout on one of his boots as if to offer comfort, how sweet, how puking sweet. By then it was dawn, and Mordred dozed a little. When he woke up, it was to the sound of Old White Daddys voice. Mordreds hiding place was downwind, and the words came to him clearly Oy? Willee not have at least a bite? The bumbler would not, however, and the gunslinger had scattered the food that had been meant for the little furry houken. Later, after they moved on (Old White Gunslinger Daddy pulling the cart the robot had made for them, plodding slowly along the ruts of Tower Road with his head down and his shoulders all aslump), Mordred crept to the campsite. He did indeed eat some of the scattered foodsurely it had not been poisoned if Roland had hoped it would go down the bumblers gulletbut he stopped after only three or four chunks of meat, knowing that if he went on eating, his guts would spew everything back out, both north and south. He couldnt have that. If he didnt hold onto at least some nourishment, he would be too weak to follow them. And he must follow, had to stay close a little while longer. It would have to be tonight. It would have to be, because tomorrow Old White Daddy would reach the Dark Tower, and then it would almost certainly be too late. His heart told him so. Mordred plodded as Roland had, but even more slowly. Every now and then he would double over as cramps seized him and his human shape wavered, that blackness rising and receding under his skin, his heavy coat bulging restlessly as the other legs tried to burst free, then hanging slack again as he willed them back inside, gritting his teeth and groaning with effort. Once he shit a pint or so of stinky brown fluid in his pants, and once he managed to get his trousers down, and he cared little either way. No one had invited him to the Reap Ball, haha! Invitation lost in the mail, no doubt! Later, when it came time to attack, he would let the little Red King free. But if it happened now, he was almost positive he wouldnt be able to change back again. He wouldnt have the strength. The spiders faster metabolism would fan the sickness the way a strong wind fans a low groundfire into a forestgobbling blaze. What was killing him slowly would kill him rapidly, instead. So he fought it, and by afternoon he felt a little better. The pulse from the Tower was growing rapidly now, growing in strength and urgency. So was his Red Daddys voice, urging him on, urging him to stay within striking distance. Old White Gunslinger Daddy had gotten no more than four hours sleep a night for weeks now, because he had been standing watchandwatch with the nowdeparted Blackbird Mommy. But Blackbird Mommy hadnt ever had to pull that cart, had she? No, just rode in it like Queen Shit o Turd Hill did she, hee! Which meant Old White Gunslinger Daddy was plenty tired, even with the pulse of the Dark Tower to buoy him up and pull him onward. Tonight Old White Daddy would either have to depend on the Artist and the Mutt to stand the first watch or try to do the whole thing on his own. Mordred thought he could stand one more wakeful night himself, simply because he knew hed never have to have another. He would creep close, as he had the previous night. He would watch their camp with the old manmonsters glass eyes for farseeing. And when they were all asleep, he would change for the last time and rush down upon them. Scrabblededee comes me, hee! Old White Daddy might never even wake up, but Mordred hoped he would. At the very end. Just long enough to realize what was happening to him. Just long enough to know that his son was snatching him into the land of death only hours before he would have reached his precious Dark Tower. Mordred clenched his fists and watched the fingers turn black. He felt the terrible but pleasurable itching up the sides of his body as the spiderlegs tried to burst throughseven instead of eight, thanks to the terriblenastyawful Blackbird Mommy who had been both preg and notpreg at the same time, and might she rot screaming in todash space forever (or at least until one of the Great Ones who lurked there found her). He fought and encouraged the change with equal ferocity. At last he only fought it, and the urge to change subsided. He gave out a victoryfart, but although this one was long and smelly, it was silent. His asshole was now a broken squeezebox that could no longer make music but only gasp. His fingers returned to their normal pinkishwhite shade and the itching up and down the sides of his body disappeared. His head swam and slithered with fever; his thin arms (little more than sticks) ached with chills. The voice of his Red Daddy was sometimes loud and sometimes faint, but it was always there Come to me. Run to me. Hie thy doubleton self. Comecommala, you good son of mine. Well bring the Tower down, well destroy all the light there is, and then rule the darkness together. Come to me. Come. TWO Surely those three who remained (four, counting himself) had outrun kas umbrella. Not since the Prim receded had there been such a creature as Mordred Deschain, who was part hume and part of that rich and potent soup. Surely such a creature could never have been meant by ka to die such a mundane death as the one that now threatened fever brought on by foodpoisoning. Roland could have told him that eating what he found in the snow around to the side of Dandelos barn was a bad idea; so could Robert Browning, for that matter. Wicked or not, actual horse or not, Lippy (probably named after another, and betterknown, Browning poem called Fra Lippo Lippi) had been a sick animal herself when Roland ended her life with a bullet to the head. But Mordred had been in his spiderform when hed come upon the thing which at least looked like a horse, and almost nothing would have stopped him from eating the meat. It wasnt until hed resumed his human form again that he wondered uneasily how there could be so much meat on Dandelos bony old nag and why it had been so soft and warm, so full of uncoagulated blood. It had been in a snowdrift, after all, and had been lying there for some days. The mares remains should have been frozen stiff. Then the vomiting began. The fever came next, and with it the struggle not to change until he was close enough to his Old White Daddy to rip him limb from limb. The being whose coming had been prophesied for thousands of years (mostly by the Mannifolk, and usually in frightened whispers), the being who would grow to be halfhuman and halfgod, the being who would oversee the end of humanity and the return of the Prim . . . that being had finally arrived as a nave and badhearted child who was now dying from a bellyful of poisoned horsemeat. Ka could have had no part in this. THREE Roland and his two companions didnt make much progress on the day Susannah left them. Even had he not planned to travel short miles so that they could come to the Tower at sunset of the day following, Roland wouldnt have been able to go far. He was disheartened, lonely, and tired almost to death. Patrick was also tired, but he at least could ride if he chose to, and for most of that day he did so choose, sometimes napping, sometimes sketching, sometimes walking a little while before climbing back into Ho Fat II and napping some more. The pulse from the Tower was strong in Rolands head and heart, and its song was powerful and lovely, now seemingly composed of a thousand voices, but not even these things could take the lead from his bones. Then, as he was looking for a shady spot where they could stop and eat a little midday meal (by now it was actually midafternoon), he saw something that momentarily made him forget both his weariness and his sorrow. Growing by the side of the road was a wild rose, seemingly the exact twin of the one in the vacant lot. It bloomed in defiance of the season, which Roland put as very early spring. It was a light pink shade on the outside and darkened to a fierce red on the inside; the exact color, he thought, of hearts desire. He fell on his knees before it, tipped his ear toward that coral cup, and listened. The rose was singing. The weariness stayed, as weariness will (on this side of the grave, at least), but the loneliness and the sadness departed, at least for a little while. He peered into the heart of the rose and saw a yellow center so bright he couldnt look directly at it. Gans gateway, he thought, not sure exactly what that was but positive that he was right. Aye, Gans gateway, so it is! This was unlike the rose in the vacant lot in one crucial way the feeling of sickness and the faint voices of discord were gone. This one was rich with health as well as full of light and love. It and all the others . . . they . . . they must . . . They feed the Beams, dont they? With their songs and their perfume. As the Beams feed them. Its a living forcefield, a giving and taking, all spinning out from the Tower. And this is only the first, the farthest outrider. In CanKa No Rey there are tens of thousands, just like this. The thought made him faint with amazement. Then came another that filled him with anger and fear the only one with a view of that great red blanket was insane. Would blight them all in an instant, if allowed free rein to do so. There was a hesitant tap on his shoulder. It was Patrick, with Oy at his heel. Patrick pointed to the grassy area beside the rose, then made eating gestures. Pointed at the rose and made drawing motions. Roland wasnt very hungry, but the boys other idea pleased him a great deal. Yes, he said. Well have a bite here, then maybe Ill take me a little siesta while you draw the rose. Will you make two pictures of it, Patrick? He showed the two remaining fingers on his right hand to make sure Patrick understood. The young man frowned and cocked his head, still not understanding. His hair hung to one shoulder in a bright sheaf. Roland thought of how Susannah had washed that hair in a stream in spite of Patricks hooted protests. It was the sort of thing Roland himself would never have thought to do, but it made the young fellow look a lot better. Looking at that sheaf of shining hair made him miss Susannah in spite of the roses song. She had brought grace to his life. It wasnt a word that had occurred to him until she was gone. Meanwhile, here was Patrick, wildly talented but awfully slow on the uptake. Roland gestured to his pad, then to the rose. Patrick noddedthat part he got. Then Roland raised two of the fingers on his good hand and pointed to the pad again. This time the light broke on Patricks face. He pointed to the rose, to the pad, to Roland, and then to himself. Thats right, big boy, Roland said. A picture of the rose for you and one for me. Its nice, isnt it? Patrick nodded enthusiastically, setting to work while Roland rustled the grub. Once again Roland fixed three plates, and once again Oy refused his share. When Roland looked into the bumblers goldringed eyes he saw an emptiness therea kind of lossthat hurt him deep inside. And Oy couldnt stand to miss many meals; he was far too thin already. Trailfrayed, Cuthbert would have said, probably smiling. In need of some hot sassafras and salts. But the gunslinger had no sassy here. Why doee look so? Roland asked the bumbler crossly. Ifee wanted to go with her, thee should have gone when thee had the chance! Why willee cast thy sad houkens eyes on me now? Oy looked at him a moment longer, and Roland saw that he had hurt the little fellows feelings; ridiculous but true. Oy walked away, little squiggle of tail drooping. Roland felt like calling him back, but that would have been more ridiculous yet, would it not? What plan did he have? To apologize to a billybumbler? He felt angry and ill at ease with himself, feelings he had never suffered before hauling Eddie, Susannah, and Jake from Americaside into his life. Before theyd come hed felt almost nothing, and while that was a narrow way to live, in some ways it wasnt so bad; at least you didnt waste time wondering if you should apologize to animals for taking a high tone to them, by the gods. Roland hunkered by the rose, leaning into the soothing power of its song and the blaze of lighthealthy lightfrom its center. Then Patrick hooted at him, gesturing for Roland to move away so he could see it and draw it. This added to Rolands sense of dislocation and annoyance, but he moved back without a word of protest. He had, after all, asked Patrick to draw it, hadnt he? He thought of how, if Susannah had been here, their eyes would have met with amused understanding, as the eyes of parents do over the antics of a small child. But she wasnt here, of course; shed been the last of them and now she was gone, too. All right, canee see howgit rosengaff a tweakit better? he asked, striving to sound comic and only sounding crosscross and tired. Patrick, at least, didnt react to the harshness in the gunslingers tone; probably didnt even ken what I said, Roland thought. The mute boy sat with his ankles crossed and his pad balanced on his thighs, his halffinished plate of food set off to one side. Dont get so busy you forget to eat that, Roland said. You mind me, now. He got another distracted nod for his pains and gave up. Im going to snooze, Patrick. Itll be a long afternoon. And an even longer night, he added to himself . . . and yet he had the same consolation as Mordred tonight would likely be the last. He didnt know for sure what waited for him in the Dark Tower at the end of the field of roses, but even if he managed to put paid to the Crimson King, he felt quite sure that this was his last march. He didnt believe he would ever leave CanKa No Rey, and that was all right. He was very tired. And, despite the power of the rose, sad. Roland of Gilead put an arm over his eyes and was asleep at once. FOUR He didnt sleep for long before Patrick woke him with a childs enthusiasm to show him the first picture of the rose hed drawnthe sun suggested no more than ten minutes had passed, fifteen at most. Like all of his drawings, this one had a queer power. Patrick had captured the rose almost to the life, even though he had nothing but a pencil to work with. Still, Roland would much have preferred another hours sleep to this exercise in art appreciation. He nodded his approval, thoughno more grouch and grump in the presence of such a lovely thing, he promised himselfand Patrick smiled, happy even with so little. He tossed back the sheet and began drawing the rose again. One picture for each of them, just as Roland had asked. Roland could have slept again, but what was the point? The mute boy would be done with the second picture in a matter of minutes and would only wake him again. He went to Oy instead, and stroked the bumblers dense fur, something he rarely did. Im sorry I spoke rough toee, fella, Roland said. Will you not set me on with a word? But Oy would not. Fifteen minutes later, Roland repacked the few things hed taken out of the cart, spat into his palms, and hoisted the handles again. The cart was lighter now, had to be, but it felt heavier. Of course its heavier, he thought. Its got my grief in it. I pull it along with me everywhere I go, so I do. Soon Ho Fat II had Patrick Danville in it, as well. He crawled up, made himself a little nest, and fell asleep almost at once. Roland plodded on, head down, shadow growing longer at his heels. Oy walked beside him. One more night, the gunslinger thought. One more night, one more day to follow, and then its done. One way or t other. He let the pulse of the Tower and its many singing voices fill his head and lighten his heels . . . at least a little. There were more roses now, dozens scattered on either side of the road and brightening the otherwise dull countryside. A few were growing in the road itself and he was careful to detour around them. Tired though he might be, he would not crush a single one, or roll a wheel over a single fallen petal. FIVE He stopped for the night while the sun was still well above the horizon, too weary to go farther even though there would be at least another two hours of daylight. Here was a stream that had gone dry, but in its bed grew a riot of those beautiful wild roses. Their songs didnt diminish his weariness, but they revived his spirit to some extent. He thought this was true for Patrick and Oy, as well, and that was good. When Patrick had awakened hed looked around eagerly at first. Then his face had darkened, and Roland knew he was realizing all over again that Susannah was gone. The boy had cried a little then, but perhaps there would be no crying here. There was a grove of cottonwood trees on the bankat least the gunslinger thought they were cottonwoodsbut they had died when the stream from which their roots drank had disappeared. Now their branches were only bony, leafless snarls against the sky. In their silhouettes he could make out the number nineteen over and over again, in both the figures of Susannahs world and those of his own. In one place the branches seemed to clearly spell the word CHASSIT against the deepening sky. Before making a fire and cooking them an early suppercanned goods from Dandelos pantry would do well enough tonight, he reckonedRoland went into the dry streambed and smelled the roses, strolling slowly among the dead trees and listening to their song. Both the smell and the sound were refreshing. Feeling a little better, he gathered wood from beneath the trees (snapping off a few of the lower branches for good measure, leaving dry, splintered stumps that reminded him a little of Patricks pencils) and piled kindling in the center. Then he struck a light, speaking the old catechism almost without hearing it Sparkadark, whos my sire? Will I lay me? Will I stay me? Bless this camp with fire. While he waited for the fire to first grow and then die down to a bed of rosy embers, Roland took out the watch he had been given in New York. Yesterday it had stopped, although he had been assured the battery that ran it would last for fifty years. Now, as late afternoon faded to evening, the hands had very slowly begun to move backward. He looked at this for a little while, fascinated, then closed the cover and looked at the siguls inscribed there key and rose and Tower. A faint and eldritch blue light had begun to gleam from the windows that spiraled upward. They didnt know it would do that, he thought, and then put the watch carefully back in his lefthand front pocket, checking first (as he always did) that there was no hole for it to fall through. Then he cooked. He and Patrick ate well. Oy would touch not a single bite. SIX Other than the night he had spent in palaver with the man in blackthe night during which Walter had read a bleak fortune from an undoubtedly stacked deckthose twelve hours of dark by the dry stream were the longest of Rolands life. The weariness settled over him ever deeper and darker, until it felt like a cloak of stones. Old faces and old places marched in front of his heavy eyes Susan, riding hellbent across the Drop with her blond hair flying out behind; Cuthbert running down the side of Jericho Hill in much the same fashion, screaming and laughing; Alain Johns raising a glass in a toast; Eddie and Jake wrestling in the grass, yelling, while Oy danced around them, barking. Mordred was somewhere out there, and close, yet again and again Roland found himself drifting toward sleep. Each time he jerked himself awake, staring around wildly into the dark, he knew he had come nearer to the edge of unconsciousness. Each time he expected to see the spider with the red mark on its belly bearing down on him and saw nothing but the hobs, dancing orange in the distance. Heard nothing but the sough of the wind. But he waits. He bides. And if I sleepwhen I sleephell be on us. Around three in the morning he roused himself by willpower alone from a doze that was on the very verge of tumbling him into deeper sleep. He looked around desperately, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms hard enough to make mirks and fouders and sankofites explode across his field of vision. The fire had burned very low. Patrick lay about twenty feet from it, at the twisted base of a cottonwood tree. From where Roland sat, the boy was no more than a hidecovered hump. Of Oy there was no immediate sign. Roland called to the bumbler and got no response. The gunslinger was about to try his feet when he saw Jakes old friend a little beyond the edge of the failing firelightor at least the gleam of his goldringed eyes. Those eyes looked at Roland for a moment, then disappeared, probably when Oy put his snout back down on his paws. Hes tired, too, Roland thought, and why not? The question of what would become of Oy after tomorrow tried to rise to the surface of the gunslingers troubled, tired mind, and Roland pushed it away. He got up (in his weariness his hands slipped down to his formerly troublesome hip, as if expecting to find the pain still there), went to Patrick, and shook him awake. It took some doing, but at last the boys eyes opened. That wasnt good enough for Roland. He grasped Patricks shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position. When the boy tried to slump back down again, Roland shook him. Hard. He looked at Roland with dazed incomprehension. Help me build up the fire, Patrick. Doing that should wake him up at least a little. And once the fire was burning bright again, Patrick would have to stand a brief watch. Roland didnt like the idea, knew full well that leaving Patrick in charge of the night would be dangerous, but trying to watch the rest of it on his own would be even more dangerous. He needed sleep. An hour or two would be enough, and surely Patrick could stay awake that long. Patrick was willing enough to gather up some sticks and put them on the fire, although he moved like a bougiea reanimated corpse. And when the fire was blazing, he slumped back down in his former place with his arms between his bony knees, already more asleep than awake. Roland thought he might actually have to slap the boy to bring him around, and would later wishbitterlythat he had done just that. Patrick, listen to me. He shook Patrick by the shoulders hard enough to make his long hair fly, but some of it flopped back into his eyes. Roland brushed it away. I need you to stay awake and watch. Just for an hour . . . just until . . . look up, Patrick! Look! Gods, dont you dare go to sleep on me again! Do you see that? The brightest star of all those close to us! It was Old Mother Roland was pointing to, and Patrick nodded at once. There was a gleam of interest in his eye now, and the gunslinger thought that was encouraging. It was Patricks I want to draw look. And if he sat drawing Old Mother as she shone in the widest fork of the biggest dead cottonwood, then the chances were good that hed stay awake. Maybe until dawn, if he got fully involved. Here, Patrick. He made the boy sit against the base of the tree. It was bony and knobby andRoland hopeduncomfortable enough to prohibit sleep. All these movements felt to Roland like the sort you made underwater. Oh, he was tired. So tired. Do you still see the star? Patrick nodded eagerly. He seemed to have thrown off his sleepiness, and the gunslinger thanked the gods for this favor. When it goes behind that thick branch and you cant see it or draw it anymore without getting up . . . you call me. Wake me up, no matter how hard it is. Do you understand? Patrick nodded at once, but Roland had now traveled with him long enough to know that such a nod meant little or nothing. Eager to please, thats what he was. If you asked him if nine and nine made nineteen, he would nod with the same instant enthusiasm. When you cant see it anymore from where youre sitting . . . His own words seemed to be coming from far away, now. Hed just have to hope that Patrick understood. The tongueless boy had taken out his pad, at least, and a freshly sharpened pencil. Thats my best protection, Rolands mind muttered as he stumbled back to his little pile of hides between the campfire and Ho Fat II. He wont fall asleep while hes drawing, will he? He hoped not, but supposed he didnt really know.


And it didnt matter, because he, Roland of Gilead, was going to sleep in any case. Hed done the best he could, and it would have to be enough. An hour, he muttered, and his voice was far and wee in his own ears. Wake me in an hour . . . when the star . . . when Old Mother goes behind . . . But Roland was unable to finish. He didnt even know what he was saying anymore. Exhaustion grabbed him and bore him swiftly away into dreamless sleep. SEVEN Mordred saw it all through the farseeing glass eyes. His fever had soared, and in its bright flame, his own exhaustion had at least temporarily departed. He watched with avid interest as the gunslinger woke the mute boythe Artistand bullied him into helping him build up the fire. He watched, rooting for the mute to finish this chore and then go back to sleep before the gunslinger could stop him. That didnt happen, unfortunately. They had camped near a grove of dead cottonwoods, and Roland led the Artist to the biggest tree. Here he pointed up at the sky. It was strewn with stars, but Mordred reckoned Old White Gunslinger Daddy was pointing to Old Mother, because she was the brightest. At last the Artist, who didnt seem to be rolling a full barrow (at least not in the brains department) seemed to understand. He got out his pad and had already set to sketching as Old White Daddy stumbled a little way off, still muttering instructions and orders to which the Artist was pretty clearly paying absolutely no attention at all. Old White Daddy collapsed so suddenly that for a moment Mordred feared that perhaps the strip of jerky that served the son of a bitch as a heart had finally given up beating. Then Roland stirred in the grass, resettling himself, and Mordred, lying on a knoll about ninety yards west of the dry streambed, felt his own heartbeat slow. And deep though the Old White Gunslinger Daddys exhaustion might be, his training and his long lineage, going all the way back to the Eld himself, would be enough to wake him with his gun in his hand the second the Artist gave one of his wordless but devilishly loud cries. Cramps seized Mordred, the deepest yet. He doubled over, fighting to hold his human shape, fighting not to scream, fighting not to die. He heard another of those long flabbering noises from below and felt more of the lumpy brown stew begin coursing down his legs. But his preternaturally keen nose smelled more than excreta in this new mess; this time he smelled blood as well as shit. He thought the pain would never end, that it would go on deepening until it tore him in two, but at last it began to let up. He looked at his left hand and was not entirely surprised to see that the fingers had blackened and fused together. They would never come back to human again, those fingers; he believed he had but only one more change left in him. Mordred wiped sweat from his brow with his right hand and raised the bindoculars to his eyes again, praying to his Red Daddy that the stupid mutie boy would be asleep. But he was not. He was leaning against the cottonwood tree and looking up between the branches and drawing Old Mother. That was the moment when Mordred Deschain came closest to despair. Like Roland, he thought drawing was the one thing that would likely keep the idiot boy awake. Therefore, why not give in to the change while he had the heat of this latest feverspike to fuel him with its destructive energy? Why not take his chance? It was Roland he wanted, after all, not the boy; surely he could, in his spider form, sweep down on the gunslinger rapidly enough to grab him and pull him against the spiders craving mouth. Old White Daddy might get off one shot, possibly even two, but Mordred thought he could take one or two, if the flying bits of lead didnt find the white node on the spiders back his dual bodys brain. And once I pull him in, Ill never let him go until hes sucked dry, nothing but a dustmummy like the other one, Mia. He relaxed, ready to let the change sweep over him, and then another voice spoke from the center of his mind. It was the voice of his Red Daddy, the one who was imprisoned on the side of the Dark Tower and needed Mordred alive, at least one more day, in order to set him free. Wait a little longer, this voice counseled. Wait a little more. I might have another trick up my sleeve. Wait . . . wait just a little longer . . . Mordred waited. And after a moment or two, he felt the pulse from the Dark Tower change. EIGHT Patrick felt that change, too. The pulse became soothing. And there were words in it, ones that blunted his eagerness to draw. He made another line, paused, then put his pencil aside and only looked up at Old Mother, who seemed to pulse in time with the words he heard in his head, words Roland would have recognized. Only these were sung in an old mans voice, quavering but sweet Babybunting, darling one, Now another day is done. May your dreams be sweet and merry, May you dream of fields and berries. Babybunting, babydear, Baby, bring your berries here. Oh chussit, chissit, chassit! Bring enough to fill your basket! Patricks head nodded. His eyes closed . . . opened . . . slipped closed again. Enough to fill my basket, he thought, and slept in the firelight. NINE Now, my good son, whispered the cold voice in the middle of Mordreds hot and melting brains. Now. Go to him and make sure he never rises from his sleep. Murder him among the roses and well rule together. Mordred came from hiding, the binoculars tumbling from a hand that was no longer a hand at all. As he changed, a feeling of huge confidence swept through him. In another minute it would be done. They both slept, and there was no way he could fail. He rushed down on the camp and the sleeping men, a black nightmare on seven legs, his mouth opening and closing. TEN Somewhere, a thousand miles away, Roland heard barking, loud and urgent, furious and savage. His exhausted mind tried to turn away from it, to blot it out and go deeper. Then there was a horrible scream of agony that awoke him in a flash. He knew that voice, even as distorted by pain as it was. Oy! he cried, leaping up. Oy, where are you? To me! To m There he was, twisting in the spiders grip. Both of them were clearly visible in the light of the fire. Beyond them, sitting propped against the cottonwood tree, Patrick gazed stupidly through a curtain of hair that would soon be dirty again, now that Susannah was gone. The bumbler wriggled furiously to and fro, snapping at the spiders body with foam flying from his jaws even as Mordred bent him in a direction his back was never meant to go. If hed not rushed out of the tall grass, Roland thought, that would be me in Mordreds grip. Oy sent his teeth deep into one of the spiders legs. In the firelight Roland could see the coinsized dimples of the bumblers jawmuscles as he chewed deeper still. The thing squalled and its grip loosened. At that moment Oy might have gotten free, had he chosen to do so. He did not. Instead of jumping down and leaping away in the momentary freedom granted him before Mordred was able to reset his grip, Oy used the time to extend his long neck and seize the place where one of the things legs joined its bloated body. He bit deep, bringing a flood of blackishred liquor that ran freely from the sides of his muzzle. In the firelight it gleamed with orange sparks. Mordred squalled louder still. He had left Oy out of his calculations, and was now paying the price. In the firelight, the two writhing forms were figures out of a nightmare. Somewhere nearby, Patrick was hooting in terror. Worthless whoreson fell asleep after all, Roland thought bitterly. But who had set him to watch in the first place? Put him down, Mordred! he shouted. Put him down and Ill let you live another day! I swear it on my fathers name! Red eyes, full of insanity and malevolence, peered at him over Oys contorted body. Above them, high on the curve of the spiders back, were tiny blue eyes, hardly more than pinholes. They stared at the gunslinger with a hate that was all too human. My own eyes, Roland thought with dismay, and then there was a bitter crack. It was Oys spine, but in spite of this mortal injury he never loosened his grip on the joint where Mordreds leg joined his body, although the steely bristles had torn away much of his muzzle, baring sharp teeth that had sometimes closed on Jakes wrist with gentle affection, tugging him toward something Oy wanted the boy to see. Ake! he would cry on such occasions. AkeAke! Rolands right hand dropped to his holster and found it empty. It was only then, hours after she had taken her leave, that he realized Susannah had taken one of his guns with her into the other world. Good, he thought. Good. If it is the darkness she found, there would have been five for the things in it and one for herself. Good. But this thought was also dim and distant. He pulled the other revolver as Mordred crouched on his hindquarters and used his remaining middle leg, curling it around Oys midsection and pulling the animal, still snarling, away from his torn and bleeding leg. The spider twirled the furry body upward in a terrible spiral. For a moment it blotted out the bright beacon that was Old Mother. Then he hurled Oy away from him and Roland had a moment of dj vu, realizing he had seen this long ago, in the Wizards Glass. Oy arced across the fireshot dark and was impaled on one of the cottonwood branches the gunslinger himself had broken off for firewood. He gave an awful hurt crya deathcryand then hung, suspended and limp, above Patricks head. Mordred came at Roland without a pause, but his charge was a slow, shambling thing; one of his legs had been shot away only minutes after his birth, and now another hung limp and broken, its pincers jerking spasmodically as they dragged on the grass. Rolands eye had never been clearer, the chill that surrounded him at moments like this never deeper. He saw the white node and the blue bombardiers eyes that were his eyes. He saw the face of his only son peering over the back of the abomination and then it was gone in a spray of blood as his first bullet tore it off. The spider reared up, legs clashing at the black and starshot sky. Rolands next two bullets went into its revealed belly and exited through the back, pulling dark sprays of liquid with it. The spider slewed to one side, perhaps trying to run away, but its remaining legs would not support it. Mordred Deschain fell into the fire, casting up a flume of red and orange sparks. It writhed in the embers, the bristles on its belly beginning to burn, and Roland, grinning bitterly, shot it again. The dying spider rolled out of the now scattered fire on its back, its remaining legs twitching together in a knot and then spreading apart. One fell back into the fire and began to burn. The smell was atrocious. Roland started forward, meaning to stamp out the little fires the scattered embers had started in the grass, and then a howl of outraged fury rose in his head. My son! My only son! Youve murdered him! He was mine, too, Roland said, looking at the smoldering monstrosity. He could own the truth. Yes, he could do that much. Come then! Come, sonkiller, and look at your Tower, but know thisyoull die of old age at the edge of the CanKa before you ever so much as touch its door! I will never let you pass! Todash space itself will pass away before I let you pass! Murderer! Murderer of your mother, murderer of your friendsaye, every one, for Susannah lies dead with her throat cut on the other side of the door you sent her throughand now murderer of your own son! Who sent him to me? Roland asked the voice in his head. Who sent yonder childfor thats what he is, inside that black skinto his death, ye red boggart? To this there was no answer, so Roland reholstered his gun and put out the patches of fire before they could spread. He thought of what the voice had said about Susannah, decided he didnt believe it. She might be dead, aye, might be, but he thought Mordreds Red Father knew for sure no more than Roland himself did. The gunslinger let that thought go and went to the tree, where the last of his katet hung, impaled . . . but still alive. The goldringed eyes looked at Roland with what might almost have been weary amusement. Oy, Roland said, stretching out his hand, knowing it might be bitten and not caring in the least. He supposed that part of himand not a small one, eitherwanted to be bitten. Oy, we all say thank you. I say thank you, Oy. The bumbler did not bite, and spoke but one word. Olan, said he. Then he sighed, licked the gunslingers hand a single time, hung his head down, and died. ELEVEN As dawn strengthened into the clear light of morning, Patrick came hesitantly to where the gunslinger sat in the dry streambed, amid the roses, with Oys body spread across his lap like a stole. The young man made a soft, interrogative hooting sound. Not now, Patrick, Roland said absently, stroking Oys fur. It was dense but smooth to the touch. He found it hard to believe that the creature beneath it had gone, in spite of the stiffening muscles and the tangled places where the blood had now clotted. He combed these smooth with his fingers as best he could. Not now. We have all the livelong day to get there, and well do fine. No, there was no need to hurry; no reason why he should not leisurely mourn the last of his dead. There had been no doubt in the old Kings voice when he had promised that Roland should die of old age before he so much as touched the door in the Towers base. They would go, of course, and Roland would study the terrain, but he knew even now that his idea of coming to the Tower on the old monsters blind side and then working his way around was not an idea at all, but a fools hope. There had been no doubt in the old villains voice; no doubt hiding behind it, either. And for the time being, none of that mattered. Here was another one he had killed, and if there was consolation to be had, it was this Oy would be the last. Now he was alone again except for Patrick, and Roland had an idea Patrick was immune to the terrible germ the gunslinger carried, for he had never been katet to begin with. I only kill my family, Roland thought, stroking the dead billybumbler. What hurt most was remembering how unpleasantly he had spoken to Oy the day before. Ifee wanted to go with her, thee should have gone when thee had thy chance! Had he stayed because he knew that Roland would need him? That when push came down to shove (it was Eddies phrase, of course), Patrick would fail? Why willee cast thy sad houkens eyes on me now? Because he had known it was to be his last day, and his dying would be hard? I think you knew both things, Roland said, and closed his eyes so he could feel the fur beneath his hands better. Im so sorry I spoke toee sowould give the fingers on my good left hand if I could take the words back. So I would, every one, say true. But here as in the Keystone World, time only ran one way. Done was done. There would be no taking back. Roland would have said there was no anger left, that every bit of it had been burned away, but when he felt the tingling all over his skin and understood what it meant, he felt fresh fury rise in his heart. And he felt the coldness settle into his tired but still talented hands. Patrick was drawing him! Sitting beneath the cottonwood just as if a brave little creature worth ten of himno, a hundred!hadnt died in that very tree, and for both of them. Its his way, Susannah spoke up calmly and gently from deep in his mind. Its all he has, everything else has been taken from himhis home world as well as his mother and his tongue and whatever brains he might once have had. Hes mourning, too, Roland. Hes frightened, too. This is the only way he has of soothing himself. Undoubtedly all true. But the truth of it actually fed his rage instead of damping it down. He put his remaining gun aside (it lay gleaming between two of the singing roses) because having it close to hand wouldnt do, no, not in his current mood. Then he rose to his feet, meaning to give Patrick the scolding of his life, if for no other reason than it would make Roland feel a little bit better himself. He could already hear the first words Do you enjoy drawing those who saved your mostly worthless life, stupid boy? Does it cheer your heart? He was opening his mouth to begin when Patrick put his pencil down and seized his new toy, instead. The eraser was halfgone now, and there were no others; as well as Rolands gun, Susannah had taken the little pink nubbins with her, probably for no other reason than that shed been carrying the jar in her pocket and her mind had been studying other, more important, matters. Patrick poised the eraser over his drawing, then looked upperhaps to make sure he really wanted to erase at alland saw the gunslinger standing in the streambed and frowning at him. Patrick knew immediately that Roland was angry, although he probably had no idea under heaven as to why, and his face cramped with fear and unhappiness. Roland saw him now as Dandelo must have seen him time and time again, and his anger collapsed at the thought. He would not have Patrick fear himfor Susannahs sake if not his own, he would not have Patrick fear him. And discovered that it was for his own sake, after all. Why not kill him, then? asked the sly, pulsing voice in his head. Kill him and put him out of his misery, if thee feels so tender toward him? He and the bumbler can enter the clearing together. They can make a place there for you, gunslinger. Roland shook his head and tried to smile. Nay, Patrick, son of Sonia, he said (for that was how Bill the robot had called the boy). Nay, I was wrongagainand will not scold thee. But . . . He walked to where Patrick was sitting. Patrick cringed away from him with a doglike, placatory smile that made Roland angry all over again, but he quashed the emotion easily enough this time. Patrick had loved Oy too, and this was the only way he had of dealing with his sorrow. Little that mattered to Roland now. He reached down and gently plucked the eraser out of the boys fingers. Patrick looked at him questioningly, then reached out his empty hand, asking with his eyes that the wonderful (and useful) new toy be given back. Nay, Roland said, as gently as he could. You made do for the gods only know how many years without ever knowing such things existed; you can make do the rest of this one day, I think. Mayhap therell be something for you to drawand then undrawlater on. Doee ken, Patrick? Patrick did not, but once the eraser was safely deposited in Rolands pocket along with the watch, he seemed to forget about it and just went back to his drawing. Put thy picture aside for a little, too, Roland told him. Patrick did so without argument. He pointed first to the cart, then to the Tower Road, and made his interrogative hooting sound. Aye, Roland said, but first we should see what Mordred had for gunnathere may be something useful thereand bury our friend. Willee help me see Oy into the ground, Patrick? Patrick was willing, and the burial didnt take long; the body was far smaller than the heart it had held. By midmorning they had begun to cover the last few miles on the long road which led to the Dark Tower. CHAPTER III THE CRIMSON KING AND THE DARK TOWER  ONE The road and the tale have both been long, would you not say so? The trip has been long and the cost has been high . . . but no great thing was ever attained easily. A long tale, like a tall Tower, must be built a stone at a time. Now, however, as the end draws closer, you must mark yon two travelers walking toward us with great care. The older manhe with the tanned, lined face and the gun on his hipis pulling the cart they call Ho Fat II. The younger onehe with the oversized drawing pad tucked under his arm that makes him look like a student in days of oldis walking along beside it. They are climbing a long, gently upsloping hill not much different from hundreds of others they have climbed. The overgrown road they follow is lined on either side with the remains of rock walls; wild roses grow in amiable profusion amid the tumbles of fieldstone. In the open, brushdotted land beyond these fallen walls are strange stone edifices. Some look like the ruins of castles; others have the appearance of Egyptian obelisks; a few are clearly Speaking Rings of the sort where demons may be summoned; one ancient ruin of stone pillars and plinths has the look of Stonehenge. One almost expects to see hooded Druids gathered in the center of that great circle, perhaps casting the runes, but the keepers of these monuments, these precursors of the Great Monument, are all gone. Only small herds of bannock graze where once they worshipped. Never mind. Its not old ruins weve come to observe near the end of our long journey, but the old gunslinger pulling the handles of the cart. We stand at the crest of the hill and wait as he comes toward us. He comes. And comes. Relentless as ever, a man who always learns to speak the language of the land (at least some of it) and the customs of the country; he is still a man who would straighten pictures in strange hotel rooms. Much about him has changed, but not that. He crests the hill, so close to us now that we can smell the sour tang of his sweat. He looks up, a quick and automatic glance he shoots first ahead and then to either side as he tops any hillAlways con yer vantage was Corts rule, and the last of his pupils has still not forgotten it. He looks up without interest, looks down . . . and stops. After a moment of staring at the broken, weedinfested paving of the road, he looks up again, more slowly this time. Much more slowly. As if in dread of what he thinks he has seen. And its here we must join himsink into himalthough how we will ever con the vantage of Rolands heart at such a moment as this, when the singleminded goal of his lifetime at last comes in sight, is more than this poor excuse for a storyman can ever tell. Some moments are beyond imagination. TWO Roland glanced up quickly as he topped the hill, not because he expected trouble but because the habit was too deeply ingrained to break. Always con yer vantage, Cort had told them, drilling it into their heads from the time when they had been little more than babbies. He looked back down at the roadit was becoming more and more difficult to swerve among the roses without crushing any, although he had managed the trick so farand then, belatedly, realized what he had just seen. What you thought you saw, Roland told himself, still looking down at the road. Its probably just another of the strange ruins weve been passing ever since we started moving again. But even then Roland knew it wasnt so. What hed seen was not to either side of the Tower Road, but dead ahead. He looked up again, hearing his neck creak like hinges in an old door, and there, still miles ahead but now visible on the horizon, real as roses, was the top of the Dark Tower. That which he had seen in a thousand dreams he now saw with his living eyes. Sixty or eighty yards ahead, the road rose to a higher hill with an ancient Speaking Ring moldering in the ivy and honeysuckle on one side and a grove of ironwood trees on the other. At the center of this near horizon, the black shape rose in the near distance, blotting out a tiny portion of the blue sky. Patrick came to a stop beside Roland and made one of his hooting sounds. Do you see it? Roland asked. His voice was dusty, cracked with amazement. Then, before Patrick could answer, the gunslinger pointed to what the boy wore around his neck. In the end, the binoculars had been the only item in Mordreds little bit of gunna worth taking. Give them over, Pat. Patrick did, willingly enough. Roland raised them to his eyes, made a minute adjustment to the knurled focus knob, and then caught his breath as the top of the Tower sprang into view, seemingly close enough to touch. How much was visible over the horizon? How much was he looking at? Twenty feet? Perhaps as much as fifty? He didnt know, but he could see at least three of the narrow slitwindows which ascended the Towers barrel in a spiral, and he could see the oriel window at the top, its many colors blazing in the spring sunshine, the black center seeming to peer back down the binoculars at him like the very Eye of Todash. Patrick hooted and held out a hand for the binoculars. He wanted his own look, and Roland handed the glasses over without a murmur. He felt lightheaded, not really there. It occurred to him that he had sometimes felt like that in the weeks before his battle with Cort, as though he were a dream or a moonbeam. He had sensed something coming, some vast change, and that was what he felt now. Yonder it is, he thought. Yonder is my destiny, the end of my lifes road. And yet my heart still beats (a little faster than before, tis true), my blood still courses, and no doubt when I bend over to grasp the handles of this becurst cart my back will groan and I may pass a little gas. Nothing at all has changed. He waited for the disappointment this thought surely presagedthe letdown. It didnt come. What he felt instead was a queer, soaring brightness that seemed to begin in his mind and then spread to his muscles. For the first time since setting out at midmorning, thoughts of Oy and Susannah left his mind. He felt free. Patrick lowered the binoculars. When he turned to Roland, his face was excited. He pointed to the black thumb jutting above the horizon and hooted. Yes, Roland said. Someday, in some world, some version of you will paint it, along with Llamrei, Arthur Elds horse. That I know, for Ive seen the proof. As for now, its where we must go. Patrick hooted again, then pulled a long face. He put his hands to his temples and swayed his head back and forth, like someone who has a terrible headache. Yes, Roland said. Im afraid, too. But theres no help for it. I have to go there. Would you stay here, Patrick? Stay and wait for me? If you would, I give you leave to do so. Patrick shook his head at once. And, just in case Roland didnt take the point, the mute boy seized his arm in a hard grip. The right hand, the one with which he drew, was like iron. Roland nodded. Even tried to smile. Yes, he said, thats fine. Stay with me as long as you like. As long as you understand that in the end Ill have to go on alone. THREE Now, as they rose from each dip and topped each hill, the Dark Tower seemed to spring closer. More of the spiraling windows which ran around its great circumference became visible. Roland could see two steel posts jutting from the top. The clouds which followed the Paths of the two working Beams seemed to flow away from the tips, making a great Xshape in the sky. The voices grew louder, and Roland realized they were singing the names of the world. Of all the worlds. He didnt know how he could know that, but he was sure of it. That lightness of being continued to fill him up. Finally, as they crested a hill with great stone men marching away to the north on their left (the remains of their faces, painted in some bloodred stuff, glared down upon them), Roland told Patrick to climb up into the cart. Patrick looked surprised. He made a series of hooting noises Roland took to mean But arent you tired? Yes, but I need an anchor, even so. Without one Im apt to start running toward yonder Tower, even though part of me knows better. And if plain old exhaustion doesnt burst my heart, the Red Kings apt to take my head off with one of his toys. Get in, Patrick. Patrick did so. He rode sitting hunched forward, with the binoculars pressed against his eyes. FOUR Three hours later, they came to the foot of a much steeper hill. It was, Rolands heart told him, the last hill. CanKa No Rey was beyond. At the top, on the right, was a cairn of boulders that had once been a small pyramid. What remained stood about thirty feet high. Roses grew around its base in a rough crimson ring. Roland set this in his sights and took the hill slowly, pulling the cart by its handles. As he climbed, the top of the Dark Tower once more appeared. Each step brought a greater length of it into view. Now he could see the balconies with their waisthigh railings. There was no need of the binoculars; the air was preternaturally clear. He put the distance remaining at no more than five miles. Perhaps only three. Level after level rose before his notquitedisbelieving eye. Just shy of this hills top, with the crumbling rock pyramid twenty paces ahead of them on the right, Roland stopped, bent, and set the handles of the cart on the road for the last time. Every nerve in his body spoke of danger. Patrick? Hop down. Patrick did so, looking anxiously into Rolands face and hooting. The gunslinger shook his head. I cant say why just yet. Only its not safe. The voices sang in a great chorus, but the air around them was still. Not a bird soared overhead or sang in the distance. The wandering herds of bannock had all been left behind. A breeze soughed around them, and the grasses rippled. The roses nodded their wild heads. The two of them walked on together, and as they did, Roland felt a timid touch against the side of his twofingered right hand. He looked at Patrick. The mute boy looked anxiously back, trying to smile. Roland took his hand, and they crested the hill in that fashion. Below them was a great blanket of red that stretched to the horizon in every direction. The road cut through it, a dusty white line perfectly straight and perhaps twelve feet wide. In the middle of the rosefield stood the sooty dark gray Tower, just as it had stood in his dreams; its windows gleamed in the sun. Here the road split and made a perfect white circle around the Towers base to continue on the other side, in a direction Roland believed was now dead east instead of southbyeast. Another road ran off at right angles to the Tower Road to the north and south, if he was right in believing that the points of the compass had been reestablished. From above, the Dark Tower would look like the center of a bloodfilled gunsight. Its Roland began, and then a great, crazed shriek floated to them on the breeze, weirdly undiminished by the distance of miles. It comes on the Beam, Roland thought. And its carried by the roses. GUNSLINGER! screamed the Crimson King. NOW YOU DIE! There was a whistling sound, thin at first and then growing, cutting through the combined song of the Tower and the roses like the keenest blade ever ground on a wheel dusted with diamonds. Patrick stood transfixed, peering dumbly at the Tower; he would have been blown out of his boots if not for Roland, whose reflexes were as quick as ever. He pulled the mute boy behind the heaped stone of the pyramid by their joined hands. There were other stones hidden in the high grass of dock and jimson; they stumbled over these and went sprawling. Roland felt the corner of one digging painfully into his ribs. The whistle continued to rise, becoming an earsplitting whine. Roland saw a golden something flash past in the airone of the sneetches. It struck the cart and it blew up, scattering their gunna every which way. Most of the stuff settled back to the road, cans rattling and bouncing, some of them burst. Then came high, chattering laughter that set Rolands teeth on edge; beside him, Patrick covered his ears. The lunacy in that laughter was almost unbearable. COME OUT! urged that distant, mad, laughing voice. COME OUT AND PLAY, ROLAND! COME TO ME! COME TO YOUR TOWER, AFTER ALL THE LONG YEARS WILL YOU NOT? Patrick looked at him, his eyes desperate and frightened. He was holding his drawing pad against his chest like a shield.


Roland peered carefully around the edge of the pyramid, and there, on a balcony two levels up from the Towers base, he saw exactly what he had seen in sai Sayres painting one blob of red and three blobs of white; a face and two upraised hands. But this was no painting, and one of the hands moved rapidly forward in a throwing gesture and there came another hellish, rising whine. Roland rolled back against the tumble of the pyramid. There was a pause that seemed endless, and then the sneetch struck the pyramids other side and exploded. The concussion threw them forward onto their faces. Patrick screamed in terror. Rocks flew to either side in a spray. Some of them rattled down on the road, but Roland saw not a single piece of shrapnel strike so much as a single rose. The boy scrambled to his knees and would have runlikely back into the roadbut Roland grabbed him by the collar of his hide coat and yanked him down again. Were safe enough here, he murmured to Patrick. Look. He reached into a hole revealed by the falling rock, knocked on the interior with his knuckles, produced a dull ringing noise, and showed his teeth in a strained grin. Steel! Yar! He can hit this thing with a dozen of his flying fireballs and not knock it down. All he can do is blast away the rocks and blocks and expose what lies beneath. Kennit? And I dont think hell waste his ammunition. He cant have much more than a donkeys carry. Before Patrick could reply, Roland peered around the pyramids ragged edge once more. He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed TRY AGAIN, SAI! WERE STILL HERE, BUT PERHAPS YOUR NEXT THROW WILL BE LUCKY! There was a moment of silence, then an insane scream EEEEEEEEEEE! YOU DONT DARE MOCK ME! YOU DONT DARE! EEEEEEEEEEE! Now came another of those rising whistles. Roland grabbed Patrick and fell on top of him, behind the pyramid but not against it. He was afraid it might vibrate hard enough when the sneetch struck to give them concussion injuries, or turn their soft insides to jelly. Only this time the sneetch didnt strike the pyramid. It flew past it instead, soaring above the road. Roland rolled off Patrick and onto his back. His eyes picked up the golden blur and marked the place where it buttonhooked back toward its targets. He shot it out of the air like a clay plate. There was a blinding flash and then it was gone. OH DEAR, STILL HERE! Roland called, striving to put just the right note of mocking amusement into his voice. It wasnt easy when you were screaming at the top of your lungs. Another crazed scream in responseEEEEEEEEE! Roland was amazed that the Red King didnt split his own head wide open with such cries. He reloaded the chamber hed emptiedhe intended to keep a full gun just as long as he couldand this time there was a double whine. Patrick moaned, rolled over onto his belly, and plunged his face into the rockstrewn grass, covering his head with his hands. Roland sat with his back against the pyramid of rock and steel, the long barrel of his sixgun lying on his thigh, relaxed and waiting. At the same time he bent all of his willpower toward one object. His eyes wanted water in response to that high, approaching whistle, and he must not let them. If he ever needed the preternaturally keen eyesight for which hed been famous in his time, this was it. Those blue eyes were still clear when the sneetches bolted past above the road. This time one buttonhooked left and the other right. They took evasive action, jigging crazily first one way and then another. It made no difference. Roland waited, sitting with his legs outstretched and his old broken boots cocked into a relaxed V, his heart beating slow and steady, his eye filled with all the worlds clarity and color (had he seen better on that last day, he believed he would have been able to see the wind). Then he snapped his gun up, blew both sneetches out of the air, and was once more reloading the empty chambers while the afterimages still pulsed with his heartbeat in front of his eyes. He leaned to the corner of the pyramid, plucked up the binoculars, braced them on a convenient spur of rock, and looked through them for his enemy. The Crimson King almost jumped at him, and for once in his life Roland saw exactly what he had imagined an old man with an enormous nose, hooked and waxy; red lips that bloomed in the snow of a luxuriant beard; snowy hair that spilled down the Crimson Kings back almost all the way to his scrawny bottom. His pinkflushed face peered toward the pilgrims. The King wore a robe of brilliant red, dotted here and about with lightning strokes and cabalistic symbols. To Susannah, Eddie, and Jake, he would have looked like Father Christmas. To Roland he looked like what he was Hell, incarnate. HOW SLOW YOU ARE! the gunslinger cried in a tone of mock amazement. TRY THREE, PERHAPS THREE AT ONCE WILL DO YA! Looking into the binoculars was like looking into a magic hourglass tipped on its side. Roland watched the Big Red King leaping up and down, shaking his hands beside his face in a way that was almost comic. Roland thought he could see a crate at that robed figures feet, but wasnt entirely sure; the scrolled iron staves between the balconys floor and its railing obscured it. Must be his ammunition supply, he thought. Must be. How many can he have in a crate that size? Twenty? Fifty? It didnt matter. Unless the Red King could throw more than twelve at a time, Roland was confident he could shoot anything out of the air the old daemon sent his way. This was, after all, what hed been made for. Unfortunately, the Crimson King knew it as well as Roland did. The thing on the balcony gave another gruesome, earsplitting cry (Patrick plugged his dirty ears with his dirty fingers) and made as if to dip down for fresh ammunition. Then, however, he stopped himself. Roland watched him advance to the balconys railing . . . and then peer directly into the gunslingers eyes. That glare was red and burning. Roland lowered the binoculars at once, lest he be fascinated. The Kings call drifted to him. WAIT THEN, A BITAND MEDITATE ON WHAT YOUD GAIN, ROLAND! THINK HOW CLOSE IT IS! AND . . . LISTEN! HEAR THE SONG YOUR DARLING SINGS! He fell silent then. No more whistling; no more whines; no more oncoming sneetches. What Roland heard instead was the sough of the wind . . . and what the King wanted him to hear. The call of the Tower. Come, Roland, sang the voices. They came from the roses of CanKa No Rey, they came from the strengthening Beams overhead, they came most of all from the Tower itself, that for which he had searched all his life, that which was now in reach . . . that which was being held away from him, now, at the last. If he went to it, he would be killed in the open. Yet the call was like a fishhook in his mind, drawing him. The Crimson King knew it would do his work if he only waited. And as the time passed, Roland came to know it, too. Because the calling voices werent constant. At their current level he could withstand them. Was withstanding them. But as the afternoon wore on, the level of the call grew stronger. He began to understandand with growing horrorwhy in his dreams and visions he had always seen himself coming to the Dark Tower at sunset, when the light in the western sky seemed to reflect the field of roses, turning the whole world into a bucket of blood held up by one single stanchion, black as midnight against the burning horizon. He had seen himself coming at sunset because that was when the Towers strengthening call would finally overcome his willpower. He would go. No power on Earth would be able to stop him. Come . . . come . . . became COME . . . COME . . . and then COME! COME! His head ached with it. And for it. Again and again he found himself getting to his knees and forced himself to sit down once more with his back against the pyramid. Patrick was staring at him with growing fright. He was partly or completely immune to that callRoland understood thisbut he knew what was happening. FIVE They had been pinned down for what Roland judged to be an hour when the King tried another pair of sneetches. This time they flew on either side of the pyramid and hooked back almost at once, coming at him in perfect formation but twenty feet apart. Roland took the one on the right, snapped his wrist to the left, and blew the other one out of the sky. The explosion of the second one was close enough to buffet his face with warm air, but at least there was no shrapnel; when they blew, they blew completely, it seemed. TRY AGAIN! he called. His throat was rough and dry now, but he knew the words were carryingthe air in this place was made for such communication. And he knew each one was a dagger pricking the old lunatics flesh. But he had his own problems. The call of the Tower was growing steadily stronger. COME, GUNSLINGER! the madmans voice coaxed. PERHAPS ILL LET THEE COME, AFTER ALL! WE COULD AT LEAST PALAVER ON THE SUBJECT, COULD WE NOT? To his horror, Roland thought he sensed a certain sincerity in that voice. Yes, he thought grimly. And well have coffee. Perhaps even a little fryup. He fumbled the watch out of his pocket and snapped it open. The hands were running briskly backward. He leaned against the pyramid and closed his eyes, but that was worse. The call of the Tower (come, Roland come, gunslinger, commalacomecome, now the journeys done) was louder, more insistent than ever. He opened them again and looked up at the unforgiving blue sky and the clouds that raced across it in columns to the Tower at the end of the rosefield. And the torture continued. SIX He hung on for another hour while the shadows of the bushes and the roses growing near the pyramid lengthened, hoping against hope that something would occur to him, some brilliant idea that would save him from having to put his life and his fate in the hands of the talented but softminded boy by his side. But as the sun began to slide down the western arc of the sky and the blue overhead began to darken, he knew there was nothing else. The hands of the pocketwatch were turning backward ever faster. Soon they would be spinning. And when they began to spin, he would go. Sneetches or no sneetches (and what else might the madman be holding in reserve?), he would go. He would run, he would zigzag, he would fall to the ground and crawl if he had to, and no matter what he did, he knew he would be lucky to make it even half the distance to the Dark Tower before he was blown out of his boots. He would die among the roses. Patrick, he said. His voice was husky. Patrick looked up at him with desperate intensity. Roland stared at the boys handsdirty, scabbed, but in their way as incredibly talented as his ownand gave in. It occurred to him that hed only held out as long as this from pride; he had wanted to kill the Crimson King, not merely send him into some null zone. And of course there was no guarantee that Patrick could do to the King what hed done to the sore on Susannahs face. But the pull of the Tower would soon be too strong to resist, and all his other choices were gone. Change places with me, Patrick. Patrick did, scrambling carefully over Roland. He was now at the edge of the pyramid nearest the road. Look through the farseeing instrument. Lay it in that notchyes, just soand look. Patrick did, and for what seemed to Roland a very long time. The voice of the Tower, meanwhile, sang and chimed and cajoled. At long last, Patrick looked back at him. Now take thy pad, Patrick. Draw yonder man. Not that he was a man, but at least he looked like one. At first, however, Patrick only continued to gaze at Roland, biting his lip. Then, at last, he took the sides of the gunslingers head in his hands and brought it forward until they were brow to brow. Very hard, whispered a voice deep in Rolands mind. It was not the voice of a boy at all, but of a grown man. A powerful man. Hes not entirely there. He darkles. He tincts. Where had Roland heard those words before? No time to think about it now. Are you saying you cant? Roland asked, injecting (with an effort) a note of disappointed incredulity into his voice. That you cant? That Patrick cant? The Artist cant? Patricks eyes changed. For a moment Roland saw in them the expression that would be there permanently if he grew to be a man . . . and the paintings in Sayres office said that he would do that, at least on some track of time, in some world. Old enough, at least, to paint what he had seen this day. That expression would be hauteur, if he grew to be an old man with a little wisdom to match his talent; now it was only arrogance. The look of a kid who knows hes faster than blue blazes, the best, and cares to know nothing else. Roland knew that look, for had he not seen it gazing back at him from a hundred mirrors and still pools of water when he had been as young as Patrick Danville was now? I can, came the voice in Rolands head. I only say it wont be easy. Ill need the eraser. Roland shook his head at once. In his pocket, his hand closed around what remained of the pink nubbin and held it tight. No, he said. Thee must draw cold, Patrick. Every line right the first time. The erasing comes later. For a moment the look of arrogance faltered, but only for a moment. When it returned, what came with it pleased the gunslinger mightily, and eased him a little, as well. It was a look of hot excitement. It was the look the talented wear when, after years of just moving sleepily along from pillar to post, they are finally challenged to do something that will tax their abilities, stretch them to their limits. Perhaps even beyond them. Patrick rolled to the binoculars again, which hed left propped aslant just below the notch. He looked long while the voices sang their growing imperative in Rolands head. And at last he rolled away, took up his pad, and began to draw the most important picture of his life. SEVEN It was slow work compared to Patricks usual methodrapid strokes that produced a completed and compelling drawing in only minutes. Roland again and again had to restrain himself from shouting at the boy Hurry up! For the sake of all the gods, hurry up! Cant you see that Im in agony here? But Patrick didnt see and wouldnt have cared in any case. He was totally absorbed in his work, caught up in the unknowing greed of it, pausing only to go back to the binoculars now and then for another long look at his redrobed subject. Sometimes he slanted the pencil to shade a little, then rubbed with his thumb to produce a shadow. Sometimes he rolled his eyes back in his head, showing the world nothing but the waxy gleam of the whites. It was as if he were conning some version of the Red King that stood aglow in his brain. And really, how did Roland know that was not possible? I dont care what it is. Just let him finish before I go mad and sprint to what the Old Red King so rightly called my darling. Half an hour at least three days long passed in this fashion. Once the Crimson King called more coaxingly than ever to Roland, asking if he would not come to the Tower and palaver, after all. Perhaps, he said, if Roland were to free him from his balcony prison, they might bury an arrow together and then climb to the top room of the Tower in that same spirit of friendliness. It was not impossible, after all. A hard rain made for queer bedfellows at the inn; had Roland never heard that saying? The gunslinger knew the saying well. He also knew that the Red Kings offer was essentially the same false request as before, only this time dressed up in morning coat and cravat. And this time Roland heard worry lurking in the old monsters voice. He wasted no energy on reply. Realizing his coaxing had failed, the Crimson King threw another sneetch. This one flew so high over the pyramid it was only a spark, then dove down upon them with the scream of a falling bomb. Roland took care of it with a single shot and reloaded from a plentitude of shells. He wished, in fact, that the King would send more of the flying grenados against him, because they took his mind temporarily off the dreadful call of the Tower. Its been waiting for me, he thought with dismay. Thats what makes it so hard to resist, I thinkits calling me in particular. Not to Roland, exactly, but to the entire line of Eld . . . and of that line, only I am left. EIGHT At last, as the descending sun began to take on its first hues of orange and Roland felt he could stand it no longer, Patrick put his pencil aside and held the pad out to Roland, frowning. The look made Roland afraid. He had never seen that particular expression in the mute boys repertoire. Patricks former arrogance was gone. Roland took the pad, however, and for a moment was so amazed by what he saw there that he looked away, as if even the eyes in Patricks drawing might have the power to fascinate him; might perhaps compel him to put his gun to his temple and blow out his aching brains. It was that good. The greedy and questioning face was long, the cheeks and forehead marked by creases so deep they might have been bottomless. The lips within the foaming beard were full and cruel. It was the mouth of a man who would turn a kiss into a bite if the spirit took him, and the spirit often would. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOURE DOING? came that screaming, lunatic voice. IT WONT DO YOU ANY GOOD, WHATEVER IT IS! I HOLD THE TOWEREEEEEEEE!IM LIKE THE DOG WITH THE GRAPES, ROLAND! ITS MINE EVEN IF I CANT CLIMB IT! AND YOULL COME! EEEEE! SAY TRUE! BEFORE THE SHADOW OF THE TOWER REACHES YOUR PALTRY HIDINGPLACE, YOULL COME! EEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE!EEEEEEEE! Patrick covered his ears, wincing. Now that he had finished drawing, he registered those terrible screams again. That the picture was the greatest work of Patricks life Roland had absolutely no doubt. Challenged, the boy had done more than rise above himself; he had soared above himself and committed genius. The image of the Crimson King was haunting in its clarity. The farseeing instrument cant explain this, or not all of it, Roland thought. Its as if he has a third eye, one that looks out from his imagination and sees everything. Its that eye he looks through when he rolls the other two up. To own such an ability as this . . . and to express it with something as humble as a pencil! Ye gods! He almost expected to see the pulse begin to beat in the hollows of the old mans temples, where clocksprings of veins had been delineated with only a few gentle, feathered shadings. At the corner of the full and sensuous lips, the gunslinger could see the wink of a single sharp (tusk) tooth, and he thought the lips of the drawing might come to life and part as he looked, revealing a mouthful of fangs one mere wink of white (which was only a bit of unmarked paper, after all) made the imagination see all the rest, and even to smell the reek of meat that would accompany each outflow of breath. Patrick had perfectly captured a tuft of hair curling from one of the Kings nostrils, and a tiny thread of scar that wove in and out of the Kings right eyebrow like a bit of string. It was a marvelous piece of work, better by far than the portrait the mute boy had done of Susannah. Surely if Patrick had been able to erase the sore from that one, then he could erase the Crimson King from this one, leaving nothing but the balcony railing before him and the closed door to the Towers barrel behind. Roland almost expected the Crimson King to breathe and move, and so surely it was done! Surely . . . But it was not. It was not, and wanting would not make it so. Not even needing would make it so. Its his eyes, Roland thought. They were wide and terrible, the eyes of a dragon in human form. They were dreadfully good, but they werent right. Roland felt a kind of desperate, miserable certainty and shuddered from head to toe, hard enough to make his teeth chatter. Theyre not quite r Patrick took hold of Rolands elbow. The gunslinger had been concentrating so fiercely on the drawing that he nearly screamed. He looked up. Patrick nodded at him, then touched his fingers to the corners of his own eyes. Yes. His eyes. I know that! But whats wrong with them? Patrick was still touching the corners of his eyes. Overhead, a flock of rusties flew through a sky that would soon be more purple than blue, squalling the harsh cries that had given them their name. It was toward the Dark Tower that they flew; Roland arose to follow them so they should not have what he could not. Patrick grabbed him by his hide coat and pulled him back. The boy shook his head violently, and this time pointed toward the road. I SAW THAT, ROLAND! came the cry. YOU THINK THAT WHATS GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE BIRDS IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, DO YOU NOT? EEEEEEEEE! AND ITS TRUE, SURE! SURE AS SUGAR, SURE AS SALT, SURE AS RUBIES IN KING DANDOS VAULTEEEEEEEE, HA! I COULD HAVE HAD YOU JUST NOW, BUT WHY BOTHER? I THINK ID RATHER SEE YOU COME, PISSING AND SHAKING AND UNABLE TO STOP YOURSELF! As I will, Roland thought. I wont be able to help myself. I may be able to hold here another ten minutes, perhaps even another twenty, but in the end . . . Patrick interrupted his thoughts, once more pointing at the road. Pointing back the way they had come. Roland shook his head wearily. Even if I could fight the pull of the thingand I couldnt, its all I can do to bide hereretreat would do us no good. Once were no longer in cover, hell use whatever else he has. He has something, Im sure of it. And whatever it is, the bullets of my revolver arent likely to stop it. Patrick shook his head hard enough to make his long hair fly from side to side. The grip on Rolands arm tightened until the boys fingernails bit into the gunslingers flesh even through three layers of hide clothing. His eyes, always gentle and usually puzzled, now peered at Roland with a look close to fury. He pointed again with his free hand, three quick jabbing gestures with the grimy forefinger. Not at the road, however. Patrick was pointing at the roses. What about them? Roland asked. Patrick, what about them? This time Patrick pointed first to the roses, then to the eyes in his picture. And this time Roland understood. NINE Patrick didnt want to get them. When Roland gestured to him to go, the boy shook his head at once, whipping his hair once more from side to side, his eyes wide. He made a whistling noise between his teeth that was a remarkably good imitation of an oncoming sneetch. Ill shoot anything he sends, Roland said. Youve seen me do it. If there was one close enough so that I could pick it myself, I would. But theres not. So it has to be you who picks the rose and me who gives you cover. But Patrick only cringed back against the ragged side of the pyramid. Patrick would not. His fear might not have been as great as his talent, but it was surely a close thing. Roland calculated the distance to the nearest rose. It was beyond their scant cover, but perhaps not by too much. He looked at his diminished right hand, which would have to do the plucking, and asked himself how hard it could be. The fact, of course, was that he didnt know. These were not ordinary roses. For all he knew, the thorns growing up the green stem might have a poison in them that would drop him paralyzed into the tall grass, an easy target. And Patrick would not. Patrick knew that Roland had once had friends, and that now all his friends were dead, and Patrick would not. If Roland had had two hours to work on the boypossibly even onehe might have broken through his terror. But he didnt have that time. Sunset had almost come. Besides, its close. I can do it if I have to . . . and I must. The weather had warmed enough so there was no need for the clumsy deerskin gloves Susannah had made them, but Roland had been wearing his that morning, and they were still tucked in his belt. He took one of them and cut off the end, so his two remaining fingers would poke through. What remained would at least protect his palm from the thorns. He put it on, then rested on one knee with his remaining gun in his other hand, looking at the nearest rose. Would one be enough? It would have to be, he decided. The next was fully six feet further away. Patrick clutched his shoulder, shaking his head frantically. I have to, Roland said, and of course he did. This was his job, not Patricks, and he had been wrong to try and make the boy do it in the first place. If he succeeded, fine and well. If he failed and was blown apart here at the edge of CanKa No Rey, at least that dreadful pulling would cease. The gunslinger took a deep breath, then leaped from cover and at the rose. At the same moment, Patrick clutched at him again, trying to hold him back. He grabbed a fold of Rolands coat and twisted him offtrue. Roland landed clumsily on his side. The gun flew out of his hand and fell in the tall grass. The Crimson King screamed (the gunslinger heard both triumph and fury in that voice) and then came the approaching whine of another sneetch. Roland closed his mittened right hand around the stem of the rose. The thorns bit through the tough deerskin as if it were no more than a coating of cobwebs. Then into his hand. The pain was enormous, but the song of the rose was sweet. He could see the blaze of yellow deep in its cup, like the blaze of a sun. Or a million of them. He could feel the warmth of blood filling the hollow of his palm and running between the remaining fingers. It soaked the deerskin, blooming another rose on its scuffed brown surface. And here came the sneetch that would kill him, blotting out the roses song, filling his head and threatening to split his skull. The stem never did break. In the end, the rose tore free of the ground, roots and all. Roland rolled to his left, grabbed his gun, and fired without looking. His heart told him there was no longer time to look. There was a shattering explosion, and the warm air that buffeted his face this time was like a hurricane. Close. Very close, that time. The Crimson King screamed his frustrationEEEEEEEEEEE!and the cry was followed by multiple approaching whistles. Patrick pressed himself against the pyramid, facefirst. Roland, clutching the rose in his bleeding right hand, rolled onto his back, raised his gun, and waited for the sneetches to make their turn. When they did, he took care of them one and two and three. STILL HERE! he cried at the old Red King. STILL HERE, YOU OLD COCKSUCKER, MAY IT DO YA FINE! The Crimson King gave another of his terrible howls, but sent no more sneetches. SO NOW YOU HAVE A ROSE! he screamed. LISTEN TO IT, ROLAND! LISTEN WELL, FOR IT SINGS THE SAME SONG! LISTEN AND COMMALACOMECOME! Now that song was all but imperative in Rolands head. It burned furiously along his nerves. He grasped Patrick and turned him around. Now, he said. For my life, Patrick. For the lives of every man and woman who ever died in my place so I could go on. And child, he thought, seeing Jake in the eye of his memory. Jake first hanging over darkness, then falling into it. He stared into the mute boys terrified eyes. Finish it! Show me that you can. TEN Now Roland witnessed an amazing thing when Patrick took the rose, he wasnt cut. Not so much as scratched. Roland pulled his own lacerated glove off with his teeth and saw that not only was his palm badly slashed, but one of his remaining fingers now hung by a single bloody tendon. It drooped like something that wants to go to sleep. But Patrick was not cut. The thorns did not pierce him. And the terror had gone out of his eyes. He was looking from the rose to his drawing, back and forth with tender calculation. ROLAND! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? COME, GUNSLINGER, FOR SUNSETS ALMOST NIGH! And yes, he would come. One way or the other. Knowing it was so eased him somewhat, enabled him to remain where he was without trembling too badly. His right hand was numb to the wrist, and Roland suspected he would never feel it again. That was all right; it hadnt been much of a shake since the lobstrosities had gotten at it. And the rose sang Yes, Roland, yesyoull have it again. Youll be whole again. There will be renewal. Only come. Patrick plucked a petal from the rose, judged it, then plucked another to go with it. He put them in his mouth. For a moment his face went slack with a peculiar sort of ecstasy, and Roland wondered what the petals might taste like. Overhead the sky was growing dark. The shadow of the pyramid that had been hidden by the rocks stretched nearly to the road. When the point of that shadow touched the way that had brought him here, Roland supposed he would go whether the Crimson King still held the Tower approach or not. WHATS THEE DOING? EEEEEEEEE! WHAT DEVILTRY WORKS IN THY MIND AND THY HEART? Youre a great one to speak of deviltry, Roland thought. He took out his watch and snapped back the cover. Beneath the crystal, the hands now sped backward, five oclock to four, four to three, three to two, two to one, and one to midnight. Patrick, hurry, he said. Quick as you can, I beg, for my time is almost up. Patrick cupped a hand beneath his mouth and spat out a red paste the color of fresh blood. The color of the Crimson Kings robe. And the exact color of his lunatics eyes. Patrick, on the verge of using color for the first time in his life as an artist, made to dip the tip of his right forefinger into this paste, and then hesitated. An odd certainty came to Roland then the thorns of these roses only pricked when their roots still tied the plant to Mim, or Mother Earth. Had he gotten his way with Patrick, Mim would have cut those talented hands to ribbons and rendered them useless. Its still ka, the gunslinger thought. Even out here in EndWBefore he could finish the thought, Patrick took the gunslingers right hand and peered into it with the intensity of a fortuneteller. He scooped up some of the blood that flowed there and mixed it with his rosepaste. Then, carefully, he took a tiny bit of this mixture upon the second finger of his right hand. He lowered it to his painting . . . hesitated . . . looked at Roland. Roland nodded to him and Patrick nodded in return, as gravely as a surgeon about to make the first cut in a dangerous operation, then applied his finger to the paper. The tip touched down as delicately as the beak of a hummingbird dipping into a flower. It colored the Crimson Kings left eye and then lifted away. Patrick cocked his head, looking at what he had done with a fascination Roland had never seen on a human face in all his long and wandering time. It was as if the boy were some Manni prophet, finally granted a glimpse of Gans face after twenty years of waiting in the desert. Then he broke into an enormous, sunny grin. The response from the Dark Tower was more immediate andto Roland, at leastimmensely gratifying. The old creature pent on the balcony howled in pain. WHATS THEE DOING? EEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE! STOP! IT BURNS! BURRRRNS! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Now finish the other, Roland said. Quickly! For your life and mine! Patrick colored the other eye with the same delicate dip of the finger. Now two brilliant crimson eyes looked out of Patricks blackandwhite drawing, eyes that had been colored with attar of rose and the blood of Eld; eyes that burned with Hells own fire. It was done. Roland produced the eraser at last, and held it out to Patrick. Make him gone, he said. Make yonder foul hob gone from this world and every world. Make him gone at last. ELEVEN There was no question it would work. From the moment Patrick first touched the eraser to his drawingto that curl of nostrilhair, as it happenedthe Crimson King began to scream in fresh pain and horror from his balcony redoubt. And in understanding. Patrick hesitated, looking at Roland for confirmation, and Roland nodded. Aye, Patrick. His time has come and youre to be his executioner. Go on with it. The Old King threw four more sneetches, and Roland took care of them all with calm ease.