As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone astare, Stood stupefied, however he came there; Thrust out past service from the devils stud! Now Stanza the Fourteenth I read thee. Alive? He might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck astrain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. Lippy, the gunslinger said, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. Yonders pluggit, colloped neck and all, only female instead of male. She made no replyneeded to make none. Of course it was Lippy blind and bony, her neck rubbed right down to the raw pink in places. Her an ugly old thing, I know, the old man had said  the thing that had looked like an old man. Ye old kibox and gammergurt, ye lost fourlegged leper! And here it was in black and white, a poem written long before sai King was even born, perhaps eighty or even a hundred years before  as scant as hairIn leprosy. Thrust out past service from the devils stud! Roland said, smiling grimly. And while shell never stud nor ever did, well see shes back with the devil before we leave! No, she said. We wont. Her voice sounded drier than ever. She wanted a drink, but was now afraid to take anything flowing from the taps in this vile place. In a little bit she would get some snow and melt it. Then she would have her drink, and not before. Why do you say so? Because shes gone. She went out into the storm when we got the best of her master. How does thee know it? Susannah shook her head. I just do. She shuffled to the next page in the poem, which ran to over two hundred lines. Stanza the Sixteenth. Not it! I fancied  She ceased. Susannah? Why do you Then his eyes fixed on the next word, which he could read even in English letters. Go on, he said. His voice was low, the words little more than a whisper. Are you positive? Read, for I would hear. She cleared her throat. Stanza the Sixteenth. Not it! I fancied Cuthberts reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one nights disgrace! Out went my hearts new fire and left it cold. He writes of Mejis, Roland said. His fists were clenched, although she doubted that he knew it. He writes of how we fell out over Susan Delgado, for after that it was never the same between us. We mended our friendship as best we could, but no, it was never quite the same. After the woman comes to the man or the man to the woman, I dont think it ever is, she said, and handed him the photocopied sheets. Take this. Ive read all the ones he mentioned. If theres stuff in the rest about coming to the Dark Toweror notpuzzle it out by yourself. You can do it if you try hard enough, I reckon. As for me, I dont want to know. Roland, it seemed, did. He shuffled through the pages, looking for the last one. The pages werent numbered, but he found the end easily enough by the white space beneath that stanza marked XXXIV. Before he could read, however, that thin cry came again. This time the wind was in a complete lull and there was no doubt about where it came from. Thats someone below us, in the basement, Roland said. I know. And I think I know who it is. He nodded. She was looking at him steadily. It all fits, doesnt it? Its like a jigsaw puzzle, and weve put in all but the last few pieces. The cry came again, thin and lost. The cry of someone who was next door to dead. They left the bathroom, drawing their guns. Susannah didnt think theyd need them this time. FIVE The bug that had made itself look like a jolly old joker named Joe Collins lay where it had lain, but Oy had backed off a step or two. Susannah didnt blame him. Dandelo was beginning to stink, and little trickles of white stuff were beginning to ooze through its decaying carapace. Nevertheless, Roland bade the bumbler remain where he was, and keep watch. The cry came again when they reached the kitchen, and it was louder, but at first they saw no way down to the cellar. Susannah moved slowly across the cracked and dirty linoleum, looking for a hidden trapdoor. She was about to tell Roland there was nothing when he said, Here. Behind the coldbox. The refrigerator was no longer a topoftheline Amana with an icemaker in the door but a squat and dirty thing with the cooling machinery on top, in a drumshaped casing. Her mother had had one like it when Susannah had been a little girl who answered to the name of Odetta, but her mother would have died before ever allowing her own to be even a tenth as dirty. A hundredth. Roland moved it aside easily, for Dandelo, sly monster that hed been, had put it on a little wheeled platform. She doubted that he got many visitors, not way out here in EndWorld, but he had been prepared to keep his secrets if someone did drop by. As she was sure folken did, every once and again. She imagined that few if any got any further along their way than the little hut on Odd Lane. The stairs leading down were narrow and steep. Roland felt around inside the door and found a switch. It lit two bare bulbs, one halfway down the stairs and one below. As if in response to the light, the cry came again. It was full of pain and fear, but there were no words in it. The sound made her shiver. Come to the foot of the stairs, whoever you are! Roland called. No response from below. Outside the wind gusted and whooped, driving snow against the side of the house so hard that it sounded like sand. Come to where we can see you, or well leave you where you are! Roland called. The inhabitant of the cellar didnt come into the scant light but cried out again, a sound that was loaded with woe and terror andSusannah feared itmadness. He looked at her. She nodded and spoke in a whisper. Go first. Ill back your play, if you have to make one. Ware the steps that you dont take a tumble, he said in the same low voice. She nodded again and made his own impatient twirling gesture with one hand Go on, go on. That raised a ghost of a smile on the gunslingers lips. He went down the stairs with the barrel of his gun laid into the hollow of his right shoulder, and for a moment he looked so like Jake Chambers that she could have wept. SIX The cellar was a maze of boxes and barrels and shrouded things hanging from hooks. Susannah had no wish to know what the dangling things were. The cry came again, a sound like sobbing and screaming mingled together. Above them, dim and muffled now, came the whoop and gasp of the wind. Roland turned to his left and threaded his way down a zigzag aisle with crates stacked headhigh on either side. Susannah followed, keeping a good distance between them, looking constantly back over her shoulder. She was also alert for the sound of Oy raising the alarm from above. She saw one stack of crates that was labeled TEXAS INSTRUMENTS and another stack with HO FAT CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE CO. stenciled on the side. She was not surprised to see the joke name of their longabandoned taxi; she was far beyond surprise. Ahead of her, Roland stopped. Tears of my mother, he said in a low voice. She had heard him use this phrase once before, when they had come upon a deer that had fallen into a ravine and lay there with both back legs and one front one broken, starving and looking up at them sightlessly, for the flies had eaten the unfortunate animals living eyes out of their sockets. She stayed where she was until he gestured for her to join him, and then moved quickly up to his right side, boosting herself along on the palms of her hands. In the stonewalled far corner of Dandelos cellar  the southeast corner, if she had her directions rightthere was a makeshift prison cell. Its door was made of crisscrossing steel bars. Nearby was the welding rig Dandelo must have used to construct it  but long ago, judging from the thick layer of dust on the acetylene tank. Hanging from an Sshaped hook pounded into the stone wall, just out of the prisoners reach left close by to mock him, Susannah had no doubtwas a large and oldfashioned (dadachum dadachee) silver key. The prisoner in question stood at the bars of his detainment, holding his filthy hands out to them. He was so scrawny that he reminded Susannah of certain terrible concentrationcamp photos she had seen, images of those who had survived Auschwitz and BergenBelsen and Buchenwald, living (if barely) indictments of mankind as a whole with their striped uniforms hanging off them and their ghastly bellboys pillbox hats still on their heads and their terrible bright eyes, so full of awareness. We wish we did not know what we have become, those eyes said, but unfortunately we do. Something like that was in Patrick Danvilles eyes as he held out his hands and made his inarticulate pleading noises. Close up, they sounded to her like the mocking cries of some jungle bird on a movie soundtrack Iyeee, Iyeee, Iyowk, Iyowk! Roland took the key from its hook and went to the door. One of Danvilles hands clutched at his shirt and the gunslinger pushed it off. It was a gesture entirely without anger, she thought, but the scrawny thing in the cell backed away with his eyes bulging in their sockets. His hair was longit hung all the way to his shouldersbut there was only the faintest haze of beard on his cheeks. It was a little thicker on his chin and upper lip. Susannah thought he might be seventeen, but surely not much older. No offense, Patrick, Roland said in a purely conversational voice. He put the key in the lock. Is thee Patrick? Is thee Patrick Danville? The scrawny thing in the dirty jeans and billowing gray shirt (it hung nearly to his knees) backed into the corner of his triangular cell without replying. When his back was against the stone, he slid slowly to a sitting position beside what Susannah assumed was his slopbucket, the front of his shirt first bunching together and then flowing into his crotch like water as his knees rose to nearly frame his emaciated, terrified face. When Roland opened the cell door and pulled it outward as far as it would go (there were no hinges), Patrick Danville began to make the birdsound again, only this time louder IYEEE! IYOWK! IYEEEEEE! Susannah gritted her teeth. When Roland made as if to enter the cell, the boy uttered an even louder shriek, and began to beat the back of his head against the stones. Roland stepped back out of the cell. The awful headbanging ceased, but Danville looked at the stranger with fear and mistrust. Then he held out his filthy, longfingered hands again, as if for succor. Roland looked to Susannah. She swung herself on her hands so she was in the door of the cell. The emaciated boything in the corner uttered its weird birdshriek again and pulled the supplicating hands back, crossing them at the wrists, turning their gesture into one of pathetic defense. No, honey. This was a Detta Walker Susannah had never heard before, nor suspected. No, honey, Ah ain goan hurt you, if Ah meant tdo dat, Ahd just put two in yo haid, like Ah did that mahfah upstairs. She saw something in his eyes  perhaps just a minute widening that revealed more of the bloodshot whites. She smiled and nodded. Dass ri! Mistuh Collins, he daid! He ain nev goan come down he no mo an  whuh? Whut he do to you, Patrick? Above them, muffled by the stone, the wind gusted. The lights flickered; the house creaked and groaned in protest. Whuh he do tyou, boy? It was no good. He didnt understand. She had just made up her mind to this when Patrick Danville put his hands to his stomach and held it. He twisted his face into a cramp that she realized was supposed to indicate laughter. He make you laugh? Patrick, crouched in his corner, nodded. His face twisted even more. Now his hands became fists that rose to his face. He rubbed his cheeks with them, then screwed them into his eyes, then looked at her. Susannah noticed there was a little scar on the bridge of his nose. He make you cry, too. Patrick nodded. He did the laughing mime again, holding the stomach and going hohoho; he did the crying mime, wiping tears from his fuzzy cheeks; this time he added a third bit of mummery, scooping his hands toward his mouth and making smacksmack sounds with his lips. From above and slightly behind her, Roland said He made you laugh, he made you cry, he made you eat. Patrick shook his head so violently it struck the stone walls that were the boundaries of his corner. He ate, Detta said. Dass whut you trine tsay, aint it? Dandelo ate. Patrick nodded eagerly. He made you laugh, he made you cry, and den he ate whut came out. Cause dass what he do! Patrick nodded again, bursting into tears. He made inarticulate wailing sounds. Susannah worked her way slowly into the cell, pushing herself along on her palms, ready to retreat if the headbanging started again. It didnt. When she reached the boy in the corner, he put his face against her bosom and wept. Susannah turned, looked at Roland, and told him with her eyes that he could come in now. When Patrick looked up at her, it was with dumb, doglike adoration. Dont you worry, Susannah saidDetta was gone again, probably worn out from all that nice. Hes not going to get you, Patrick, hes dead as a doornail, dead as a stone in the river. Now I want you to do something for me. I want you to open your mouth. Patrick shook his head at once. There was fear in his eyes again, but something else she hated to see even more. It was shame. Yes, Patrick, yes. Open your mouth. He shook his head violently, his greasy long hair whipping from side to side like the head of a mop. Roland said, What Hush, she told him. Open your mouth, Patrick, and show us. Then well take you out of here and youll never have to be down here again. Never have to be Dandelos dinner again. Patrick looked at her, pleading, but Susannah only looked back at him. At last he closed his eyes and slowly opened his mouth. His teeth were there, but his tongue was not. At some point, Dandelo must have tired of his prisoners voiceor the words it articulated, anywayand had pulled it out. SEVEN Twenty minutes later, the two of them stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Patrick Danville eat a bowl of soup. At least half of it was going down the boys gray shirt, but Susannah reckoned that was all right; there was plenty of soup, and there were more shirts in the huts only bedroom. Not to mention Joe Collinss heavy parka hung on the hook in the entry, which she expected Patrick would wear hence from here. As for the remains of DandeloJoe Collins that wasthey had wrapped them in three blankets and tossed them unceremoniously out into the snow. She said, Dandelo was a vampire that fed on emotions instead of blood. Patrick, there  Patrick was his cow. Theres two ways you can take nourishment from a cow meat or milk. The trouble with meat is that once you eat the prime cuts, the notsoprime cuts, and then the stew, its gone. If you just take the milk, though, you can go on forever  always assuming you give the cow something to eat every now and then. How long do you suppose he had him penned up down there? Roland asked. I dont know. But she remembered the dust on the acetylene tank, remembered it all too well. A fairly long time, anyway. What must have seemed like forever to him. And it hurt. Plenty. Much as it must have hurt when Dandelo pulled the poor kids tongue out, I bet the emotional bloodsucking hurt more. You see how he is. Roland saw, all right. He saw something else, as well. We cant take him out in this storm. Even if we dressed him up in three layers of clothes, Im sure it would kill him. Susannah nodded. She was sure, too. Of that, and something else she could not stay in the house. That might kill her. Roland agreed when she said so. Well camp out in yonder barn until the storm finishes. Itll be cold, but I see a pair of possible gains Mordred may come, and Lippy may come back. Youd kill them both? Aye, if I could. Doee have a problem with that? She considered it, then shook her head. All right. Lets put together what wed take out there, for well have no fire for the next two days, at least. Maybe as long as four. EIGHT It turned out to be three nights and two days before the blizzard choked on its own fury and blew itself out. Near dusk of the second day, Lippy came limping out of the storm and Roland put a bullet in the blind shovel that was her head. Mordred never showed himself, although she had a sense of him lurking close on the second night. Perhaps Oy did, too, for he stood at the mouth of the barn, barking hard into the blowing snow. During that time, Susannah found out a good deal more about Patrick Danville than she had expected. His mind had been badly damaged by his period of captivity, and that did not surprise her. What did was his capacity for recovery, limited though it might be. She wondered if she herself could have come back at all after such an ordeal. Perhaps his talent had something to do with it. She had seen his talent for herself, in Sayres office. Dandelo had given his captive the bare minimum of food necessary to keep him alive, and had stolen emotions from him on a regular basis two times a week, sometimes three, once in awhile even four. Each time Patrick became convinced that the next time would kill him, someone would happen by. Just lately, Patrick had been spared the worst of Dandelos depredations, because company had been more frequent than ever before. Roland told her later that night, after theyd bedded down in the hayloft, that he believed many of Dandelos most recent victims must have been exiles fleeing either from Le Casse Roi Russe or the town around it. Susannah could certainly sympathize with the thinking of such refugees The King is gone, so lets get the hell out of here while the gettings good. After all, Big Red might take it into his head to come back, and hes off his chump, round the bend, possessed of an elevator that no longer goes to the top floor. On some occasions, Joe had assumed his true Dandelo form in front of his prisoner, then had eaten the boys resulting terror. But he had wanted much more than terror from his captive cow. Susannah guessed that different emotions must produce different flavors like having pork one day, chicken the next, and fish the day after that. Patrick couldnt talk, but he could gesture. And he could do more than that, once Roland showed them a queer find hed come upon in the pantry. On one of the highest shelves was a stack of oversized drawing pads marked MICHELANGELO, FINE FOR CHARCOAL. They had no charcoal, but near the pads was a clutch of brandnew EberhardFaber 2 pencils held together by a rubber band. What qualified the find as especially queer was the fact that someone (presumably Dandelo) had carefully cut the eraser off the top of each pencil. These were stored in a canning jar next to the pencils, along with a few paper clips and a pencilsharpener that looked like the whistles on the undersides of the few remaining Oriza plates from Calla Bryn Sturgis. When Patrick saw the pads, his ordinarily dull eyes lit up and he stretched both hands longingly toward them, making urgent hooting sounds. Roland looked at Susannah, who shrugged and said, Lets see what he can do. I have a pretty good idea already, dont you? It turned out that he could do a lot. Patrick Danvilles drawing ability was nothing short of amazing. And his pictures gave him all the voice he needed. He produced them rapidly, and with clear pleasure; he did not seem disturbed at all by their harrowing clarity. One showed Joe Collins chopping into the back of an unsuspecting visitors head with a hatchet, his lips pulled back in a snarling grin of pleasure. Beside the point of impact, the boy had printed CHUNT! And SPLOOSH! in big comicbook letters. Above Collinss head, Patrick drew a thoughtballoon with the words Take that, ya lunker! in it. Another picture showed Patrick himself, lying on the floor, reduced to helplessness by laughter that was depicted with terrible accuracy (no need of the Ha! Ha! Ha! scrawled above his head), while Collins stood over him with his hands on his hips, watching. Patrick then tossed back the sheet of paper with that drawing on it and quickly produced another picture which showed Collins on his knees, with one hand twined in Patricks hair while his pursed lips hovered in front of Patricks laughing, agonized mouth. Quickly, in a single practiced movement (the tip of the pencil never left the paper), the boy made another comicstrip thoughtballoon over the old mans head and then put seven letters and two exclamation points inside. What does it say? Roland asked, fascinated. YUM! Good! Susannah answered. Her voice was small and sickened. Subject matter aside, she could have watched him draw for hours; in fact, she did. The speed of the pencil was eerie, and neither of them ever thought to give him one of the amputated erasers, for there seemed to be no need. So far as Susannah could see, the boy either never made a mistake, or incorporated the mistakes into his drawings in a way that made themwell, why stick at the words if they were the right words?little acts of genius. And the resulting pictures werent sketches, not really, but finished works of art in themselves. She knew what Patrickthis one or another Patrick from another world along the path of the Beam  would later be capable of with oil paints, and such knowledge made her feel cold and hot at the same time. What did they have here? A tongueless Rembrandt? It occurred to her that this was their second idiotsavant. Their third, if you counted Oy as well as Sheemie. Only once did his lack of interest in the erasers cross Susannahs mind, and she put it down to the arrogance of genius. Not a single time did it occur to heror to Rolandthat this young version of Patrick Danville might not yet know that such things as erasers even existed. NINE Near the end of the third night, Susannah awoke in the loft, looked at Patrick lying asleep beside her, and descended the ladder. Roland was standing in the doorway of the barn, smoking a cigarette and looking out. The snow had stopped. A late moon had made its appearance, turning the fresh snow on Tower Road into a sparkling land of silent beauty. The air was still and so cold she felt the moisture in her nose crackle. Far in the distance she heard the sound of a motor. As she listened, it seemed to her that it was drawing closer. She asked Roland if he had any idea what it was or what it might mean to them. I think its likely the robot he called Stuttering Bill, out doing his afterstorm plowing, he said. He may have one of those antennathings on his head, like the Wolves. You remember? She remembered very well, and said so. It may be that he holds some special allegiance to Dandelo, Roland said. I dont think thats likely, but it wouldnt be the strangest thing I ever ran across. Be ready with one of your plates if he shows red. And Ill be ready with my gun. But you dont think so. She wanted to be a hundred per cent clear on this point. No, Roland said. He could give us a ride, perhaps all the way to the Tower itself. Even if not, he might take us to the far edge of the White Lands. That would be good, for the boys still weak. This raised a question in her mind. We call him the boy, because he looks like a boy, she said. How old do you think he is? Roland shook his head. Surely no younger than sixteen or seventeen, but he might be as old as thirty. Time was strange when the Beams were under attack, and it took strange hops and twists. I can attest to that. Did Stephen King put him in our way? I cant say, only that he knew of him, sure. He paused. The Tower is so close! Do you feel it? She did, and all the time. Sometimes it was a pulsing, sometimes it was singing, quite often it was both. And the Polaroid still hung in Dandelos hut. That, at least, had not been part of the glammer. Each night in her dreams, at least once, she saw the Tower in that photograph standing at the end of its field of roses, sooty grayblack stone against a troubled sky where the clouds streamed out in four directions, along the two Beams that still held. She knew what the voices sangcommala! commala! commalacomecome!but she did not think that they sang to her, or for her. No, say no, say never in life; this was Rolands song, and Rolands alone. But she had begun to hope that that didnt necessarily mean she was going to die between here and the end of her quest. She had been having her own dreams. TEN Less than an hour after the sun rose (firmly in the east, and we all say thankya), an orange vehiclecombination truck and bulldozerappeared over the horizon and came slowly but steadily toward them, pushing a big wing of fresh snow to its right, making the high bank even higher on that side. Susannah guessed that when it reached the intersection of Tower Road and Odd Lane, Stuttering Bill (almost surely the plows operator) would swing it around and plow back the other way. Maybe he stopped here, as a rule, not for coffee but for a fresh squirt of oil, or something. She smiled at the idea, and at something else, as well. There was a loudspeaker mounted on the cabs roof and a rock and roll song she actually knew was issuing forth. Susannah laughed, delighted. California Sun! The Rivieras! Oh, doesnt it sound fine! If you say so, Roland agreed. Just keep hold of thy plate. You can count on that, she said. Patrick had joined them. As always since Roland had found them in the pantry, he had a pad and a pencil. Now he wrote a single word in capital letters and held it out to Susannah, knowing that Roland could read very little of what he wrote, even if it was printed in letters that were bigbig. The word in the lower quadrant of the sketchpad was BILL. This was below an amazing drawing of Oy, with a comicstrip speechballoon over his head reading YARK! YARK! All this he had casually crossed out so she wouldnt think it was what he wanted her to look at. The slashed X sort of broke her heart, because the picture beneath its crossed lines was Oy to the life. ELEVEN The plow pulled up in front of Dandelos hut, and although the engine continued to run, the music cut off. Down from the drivers seat there galumphed a tall (eight feet at the very least), shinyheaded robot who looked quite a lot like Nigel from the Arc 16 Experimental Station and Andy from Calla Bryn Sturgis. He cocked his metal arms and put his metal hands on his hips in a way that would likely have reminded Eddie of George Lucass C3P0, had Eddie been there. The robot spoke in an amplified voice that rolled away across the snowfields HELLO, JJOE! WHAT DO YOU NUHNUHKNOW? HOW ARE TRICKS IN KUHKUHKOKOMO? Roland stepped out of the late Lippys quarters. Hile, Bill, he said mildly. Long days and pleasant nights. The robot turned. His eyes flashed bright blue. That looked like surprise to Susannah. He showed no alarm that she could see, however, and didnt appear to be armed, but she had already marked the antenna rising from the center of his headtwirling and twirling in the bright morning lightand she felt confident she could clip it with an Oriza if she needed to. EasypeasyJapaneezy, Eddie would have said. Ah! said the robot. A guddagah, gunnagah, ggg He raised an arm that had not one elbowjoint but two and smacked his head with it. From inside came a little whistling noiseWheeep!and then he finished A gunslinger! Susannah laughed. She couldnt help it. They had come all this way to meet an oversized electronic version of Porky Pig. Tbeyatbeyatbeya, thats all, folks! I had heard rumors of such on the lllland, the robot said, ignoring her laughter. Are you RuhRuhRoland of GGilead? So I am, Roland said. And you? William, D746541M, Maintenance Robot, Many Other Functions. Joe Collins calls me Stuhhuttering BBill. Ive got a fffried sirhirkit somewhere inside. I could fix it, but he fuhfuhforbade me. And since hes the only hhuman around or was He stopped. Susannah could quite clearly hear the clitterclack of relays somewhere inside and what she thought of wasnt C3P0, who shed of course never seen, but Robby the Robot from Forbidden Planet. Then Stuttering Bill quite touched her heart by putting one metal hand to his forehead and bowing  but not to either her or to Roland. He said, Hile, Patrick DDanville, son of SSSonia! Its good to see you out and in the ccclear, so it is! And Susannah could hear the emotion in Stuttering Bills voice. It was genuine gladness, and she felt more than okay about lowering her plate. TWELVE They palavered in the yard. Bill would have been quite willing to go into the hut, for he had but rudimentary olfactory equipment. The humes were better equipped and knew that the hut stank and had not even warmth to recommend it, for the furnace and the fire were both out. In any case, the palaver didnt take long. William the Maintenance Robot (Many Other Functions) had counted the being that sometimes called itself Joe Collins as his master, for there was no longer anyone else to lay claim to the job. Besides, CollinsDandelo had the necessary codewords. I wwas nuhnot able to ggive him the ccode wuhwuhhurds when he aasked, said Stuttering Bill, but my pprogramming did not pruhprohibit bringing him cerhertain mmanuals that had the ihinformation he needed. Bureaucracy is so wonderful, Susannah said. Bill said he had stayed away from JJJoe as often (and as long) as he could, although he had to come when Tower Road needed plowing  that was also in his programming  and once a month to bring provisions (canned goods, mostly) from what he called the Federal. He also liked to see Patrick, who had once given Bill a wonderful picture of himself that he looked at often (and of which he had made many copies). Yet every time he came, he confided, he was sure he would find Patrick gonekilled and thrown casually into the woods somewhere back toward what Bill called the BuhBuhBads, like an old piece of trash. But now here he was, alive and free, and Bill was delighted. For I do have rrrudimentary emmmotions, he said, sounding to Susannah like someone owning up to a bad habit. Do you need the codewords from us, in order to accept our orders? Roland asked. Yes, sai, Stuttering Bill said. Shit, Susannah muttered. They had had similar problems with Andy, back in Calla Bryn Sturgis. HHHowever, said Stuttering Bill, if you were to cccouch your orders as suhhuhhugestions, Im sure Id be huhhuhhuhhuh He raised his arm and smacked his head again. The Wheep! sound came once more, not from his mouth but from the region of his chest, Susannah thought. happy to oblige, he finished. My first suggestion is that you fix that fucking stutter, Roland said, and then turned around, amazed. Patrick had collapsed to the snow, holding his belly and voicing great, blurry cries of laughter. Oy danced around him, barking, but Oy was harmless; this time there was no one to steal Patricks joy. It belonged only to him. And to those lucky enough to hear it. THIRTEEN In the woods beyond the plowed intersection, back toward what Bill would have called the Bads, a shivering adolescent boy wrapped in stinking, halfscraped hides watched the quartet standing in front of Dandelos hut. Die, he thought at them. Die, why dont you all do me a favor and just die? But they didnt die, and the cheerful sound of their laughter cut him like knives. Later, after they had all piled into the cab of Bills plow and driven away, Mordred crept down to the hut. There he would stay for at least two days, eating his fill from the cans in Dandelos pantryand eating something else as well, something he would live to regret. He spent those days regaining his strength, for the big storm had come close to killing him.


He believed it was his hate that had kept him alive, that and no more. Or perhaps it was the Tower. For he felt it, toothat pulse, that singing. But what Roland and Susannah and Patrick heard in a major key, Mordred heard in a minor. And where they heard many voices, he heard only one. It was the voice of his Red Father, telling him to come. Telling him to kill the mute boy, and the blackbird bitch, and especially the gunslinger out of Gilead, the uncaring White Daddy who had left him behind. (Of course his Red Daddy had also left him behind, but this never crossed Mordreds mind.) And when the killing was done, the whispering voice promised, they would destroy the Dark Tower and rule todash together for eternity. So Mordred ate, for Mordred was ahungry. And Mordred slept, for Mordred was aweary. And when Mordred dressed himself in Dandelos warm clothes and set out along the freshly plowed Tower Road, pulling a rich sack of gunna on a sled behind himcanned goods, mostlyhe had become a young man who looked to be perhaps twenty years old, tall and straight and as fair as a summer sunrise, his human form marked only by the scar on his side where Susannahs bullet had winged him, and the bloodmark on his heel. That heel, he had promised himself, would rest on Rolands throat, and soon.  CHAPTER I THE SORE AND THE DOOR (GOODBYE, MY DEAR)  ONE In the final days of their long journey, after Billjust Bill now, no longer Stuttering Billdropped them off at the Federal, on the edge of the White Lands, Susannah Dean began to suffer frequent bouts of weeping. She would feel these impending cloudbursts and would excuse herself from the others, saying she had to go into the bushes and do her necessary. And there she would sit on a fallen tree or perhaps just the cold ground, put her hands over her face, and let her tears flow. If Roland knew this was happeningand surely he must have noted her red eyes when she returned to the roadhe made no comment. She supposed he knew what she did. Her time in MidWorldand EndWorldwas almost at an end. TWO Bill took them in his fine orange plow to a lonely Quonset hut with a faded sign out front reading FEDERAL OUTPOST 19 TOWER WATCH TRAVEL BEYOND THIS POINT IS FORBIDDEN! She supposed Federal Outpost 19 was still technically in the White Lands of Empathica, but the air had warmed considerably as Tower Road descended, and the snow on the ground was little more than a scrim. Groves of trees dotted the ground ahead, but Susannah thought the land would soon be almost entirely open, like the prairies of the American Midwest. There were bushes that probably supported berries in warm weatherperhaps even pokeberriesbut now they were bare and clattering in the nearly constant wind. Mostly what they saw on either side of Tower Roadwhich had once been paved but had now been reduced to little more than a pair of broken rutswere tall grasses poking out of the thin snowcover. They whispered in the wind and Susannah knew their song Commalacomecome, journeys almost done. I may go no further, Bill said, shutting down the plow and cutting off Little Richard in midrave. Tell ya sorry, as they say in the Arc o the Borderlands. Their trip had taken one full day and half of another, and during that time he had entertained them with a constant stream of what he called golden oldies. Some of these were not old at all to Susannah; songs like Sugar Shack and Heat Wave had been current hits on the radio when shed returned from her little vacation in Mississippi. Others she had never heard at all. The music was stored not on records or tapes but on beautiful silver discs Bill called ceedees. He pushed them into a slot in the plows instrumentcluttered dashboard and the music played from at least eight different speakers. Any music would have sounded fine to her, she supposed, but she was especially taken by two songs she had never heard before. One was a deliriously happy little rocker called She Loves You. The other, sad and reflective, was called Hey Jude. Roland actually seemed to know the latter one; he sang along with it, although the words he knew were different from the ones coming out of the plows multiple speakers. When she asked, Bill told her the group was called The Beetles. Funny name for a rockandroll band, Susannah said. Patrick, sitting with Oy in the plows tiny rear seat, tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and he held up the pad through which he was currently working his way. Beneath a picture of Roland in profile, he had printed BEATLES, not Beetles. Its a funny name for a rockandroll band no matter which way you spell it, Susannah said, and that gave her an idea. Patrick, do you have the touch? When he frowned and raised his handsI dont understand, the gesture saidshe rephrased the question. Can you read my mind? He shrugged and smiled. This gesture said I dont know, but she thought Patrick did know. She thought he knew very well. THREE They reached the Federal near noon, and there Bill served them a fine meal. Patrick wolfed his and then sat off to one side with Oy curled at his feet, sketching the others as they sat around the table in what had once been the common room. The walls of this room were covered with TV screensSusannah guessed there were three hundred or more. They must have been built to last, too, because some were still operating. A few showed the rolling hills surrounding the Quonset, but most broadcast only snow, and one showed a series of rolling lines that made her feel queasy in her stomach if she looked at it too long. The snowscreens, Bill said, had once shown pictures from satellites in orbit around the Earth, but the cameras in those had gone dead long ago. The one with the rolling lines was more interesting. Bill told them that, until only a few months ago, that one had shown the Dark Tower. Then, suddenly, the picture had dissolved into nothing but those lines. I dont think the Red King liked being on television, Bill told them. Especially if he knew company might be coming. Wont you have another sandwich? There are plenty, I assure you. No? Soup, then? What about you, Patrick? Youre too thin, you knowfar, far too thin. Patrick turned his pad around and showed them a picture of Bill bowing in front of Susannah, a tray of neatly cut sandwiches in one metal hand, a carafe of iced tea in the other. Like all of Patricks pictures, it went far beyond caricature, yet had been produced with a speed of hand that was eerie. Susannah applauded. Roland smiled and nodded. Patrick grinned, holding his teeth together so that the others wouldnt have to look at the empty hole behind them. Then he tossed the sheet back and began something new. Theres a fleet of vehicles out back, Bill said, and while many of them no longer run, some still do. I can give you a truck with fourwheel drive, and while I cannot assure you it will run smoothly, I believe you can count on it to take you as far as the Dark Tower, which is no more than one hundred and twenty wheels from here. Susannah felt a great and fluttery liftdrop in her stomach. One hundred and twenty wheels was a hundred miles, perhaps even a bit less. They were close. So close it was scary. You would not want to come upon the Tower after dark, Bill said. At least I shouldnt think so, considering the new resident. But whats one more night camped at the side of the road to such great travelers as yourselves? Not much, I should say! But even with one last night on the road (and barring breakdowns, which the gods know are always possible), youd have your goal in sight by midmorning of tomorrowday. Roland considered this long and carefully. Susannah had to tell herself to breathe while he did so, because part of her didnt want to. Im not ready, that part thought. And there was a deeper parta part that remembered every nuance of what had become a recurring (and evolving) dreamthat thought something else Im not meant to go at all. Not all the way. At last Roland said I thank you, Billwe all say thank you, Im surebut I think well pass on your kind offer. Were you to ask me why, I couldnt say. Only that part of me thinks that tomorrowdays too soon. That part of me thinks we should go the rest of the way on foot, just as weve already traveled so far. He took a deep breath, let it out. Im not ready to be there yet. Not quite ready. You too, Susannah marveled. You too. I need a little more time to prepare my mind and my heart. Mayhap even my soul. He reached into his back pocket and brought out the photocopy of the Robert Browning poem that had been left for them in Dandelos medicine chest. Theres something writ in here about remembering the old times before coming to the last battle . . . or the last stand. Its wellsaid. And perhaps, really, all I need is what this poet speaks ofa draught of earlier, happier sights. I dont know. But unless Susannah objects, I believe well go on foot. Susannah doesnt object, she said quietly. Susannah thinks its just what the doctor ordered. Susannah only objects to being dragged along behind like a busted tailpipe. Roland gave her a grateful (if distracted) smilehe seemed to have gone away from her somehow during these last few daysand then turned back to Bill. I wonder if you have a cart I could pull? For well have to take at least some gunna ...and theres Patrick. Hell have to ride part of the time. Patrick looked indignant. He cocked an arm in front of him, made a fist, and flexed his muscle. The resulta tiny gooseegg rising on the biceps of his drawingarmseemed to shame him, for he dropped it quickly. Susannah smiled and reached out to pat his knee. Dont look like that, sugar. Its not your fault that you spent God knows how long caged up like Hansel and Gretel in the witchs house. Im sure I have such a thing, Bill said, and a batterypowered version for Susannah. What I dont have, I can make. It would take an hour or two at most. Roland was calculating. If we leave here with five hours of daylight ahead of us, we might be able to make twelve wheels by sunset. What Susannah would call nine or ten miles. Another five days at that rather leisurely speed would bring us to the Tower Ive spent my life searching for. Id come to it around sunset if possible, for thats when Ive always seen it in my dreams. Susannah? And the voice insidethat deep voicewhispered Four nights. Four nights to dream. That should be enough. Maybe more than enough. Of course, ka would have to intervene. If they had indeed outrun its influence, that wouldntcouldnthappen. But Susannah now thought ka reached everywhere, even to the Dark Tower. Was, perhaps, embodied by the Dark Tower. Thats fine, she told him in a faint voice. Patrick? Roland asked. What do you say? Patrick shrugged and flipped a hand in their direction, hardly looking up from his pad. Whatever they wanted, that gesture said. Susannah guessed that Patrick understood little about the Dark Tower, and cared less. And why would he care? He was free of the monster, and his belly was full. Those things were enough for him. He had lost his tongue, but he could sketch to his hearts content. She was sure that to Patrick, that seemed like more than an even trade. And yet . . . and yet . . . Hes not meant to go, either. Not him, not Oy, not me. But what is to become of us, then? She didnt know, but she was queerly unworried about it. Ka would tell. Ka, and her dreams. FOUR An hour later the three humes, the bumbler, and Bill the robot stood clustered around a cutdown wagon that looked like a slightly larger version of Ho Fats Luxury Taxi. The wheels were tall but thin, and spun like a dream. Even when it was full, Susannah thought, it would be like pulling a feather. At least while Roland was fresh. Pulling it uphill would undoubtedly rob him of his energy after awhile, but as they ate the food they were carrying, Ho Fat II would grow lighter still . . . and she thought there wouldnt be many hills, anyway. They had come to the open lands, the prairielands; all the snow and treecovered ridges were behind them. Bill had provided her with an electric runabout that was more scooter than golfcart. Her days of being dragged along behind (like a busted tailpipe) were done. If youll give me another half an hour, I can smooth this off, Bill said, running a threefingered steel hand along the edge where he had cut off the front half of the small wagon that was now Ho Fat II. We say thankya, but it wont be necessary, Roland said. Well lay a couple of hides over it, just so. Hes impatient to be off, Susannah thought, and after all this time, why wouldnt he be? Im anxious to be off, myself. Well, if you say so, let it be so, Bill said, sounding unhappy about it. I suppose I just hate to see you go. When will I see humes again? None of them answered that. They didnt know. Theres a mighty loud horn on the roof, Bill said, pointing at the Federal. I dont know what sort of trouble it was meant to signalradiation leaks, mayhap, or some sort of attackbut I do know the sound of it will carry across a hundred wheels at least. More, if the winds blowing in the right direction. If I should see the fellow you think is following you, or if such motionsensors as still work pick him up, Ill set it off. Perhaps youll hear. Thank you, Roland said. Were you to drive, you could outrun him easily, Bill pointed out. Youd reach the Tower and never have to see him. Thats true enough, Roland said, but he showed absolutely no sign of changing his mind, and Susannah was glad. What will you do about the one you call his Red Father, if he really does command CanKa No Rey? Roland shook his head, although he had discussed this probability with Susannah. He thought they might be able to circle the Tower from a distance and come then to its base from a direction that was blind to the balcony on which the Crimson King was trapped. Then they could work their way around to the door beneath him. They wouldnt know if that was possible until they could actually see the Tower and the lay of the land, of course. Well, therell be water if God wills it, said the robot formerly known as Stuttering Bill, or so the old people did say. And mayhap Ill see you again, in the clearing at the end of the path, if nowhere else. If robots are allowed to go there. I hope its so, for theres many Ive known that Id see again. He sounded so forlorn that Susannah went to him and raised her arms to be picked up, not thinking about the absurdity of wanting to hug a robot. But he did and she didquite fervently, too. Bill made up for the malicious Andy, back in Calla Bryn Sturgis, and was worth hugging for that, if nothing else. As his arms closed around her, it occurred to Susannah that Bill could break her in two with those titaniumsteel arms if he wanted to. But he didnt. He was gentle. Long days and pleasant nights, Bill, she said. May you do well, and we all say so. Thank you, madam, he said and put her down. I say thuddathank, thummathank, thukka Wheep! And he struck his head, producing a bright clang. I say thank ya kindly. He paused. I did fix the stutter, say true, but as I may have told you, I am not entirely without emotions. FIVE Patrick surprised them both by walking for almost four hours beside Susannahs electric scooter before tiring and climbing into Ho Fat II. They listened for the horn warning them that Bill had seen Mordred (or that the instruments in the Federal had detected him), but did not hear it . . . and the wind was blowing their way. By sunset, they had left the last of the snow. The land continued to flatten out, casting their shadows long before them. When they finally stopped for the night, Roland gathered enough brush for a fire and Patrick, who had dozed off, woke up long enough to eat an enormous meal of Vienna sausage and baked beans. (Susannah, watching the beans disappear into Patricks tongueless mouth, reminded herself to spread her hides upwind of him when she finally laid down her weary head.) She and Oy also ate heartily, but Roland hardly touched his own food. When dinner was done, Patrick took up his pad to draw, frowned at his pencil, and then held out a hand to Susannah. She knew what he wanted, and took the glass canning jar from the little bag of personals she kept slung over her shoulder. She held onto this because there was only the one pencil sharpener, and she was afraid that Patrick might lose it. Of course Roland could sharpen the EberhardFabers with his knife, but it would change the quality of the points somewhat. She tipped the jar, spilling erasers and paperclips and the required object into her cupped palm. Then she handed it to Patrick, who sharpened his pencil with a few quick twists, handed it back, and immediately fell to his work. For a moment Susannah looked at the pink erasers and wondered again why Dandelo had bothered to cut them off. As a way of teasing the boy? If so, it hadnt worked. Later in life, perhaps, when the sublime connections between his brain and his fingers rusted a little (when the small but undeniably brilliant world of his talent had moved on), he might require erasers. For now even his mistakes continued to be inspirations. He didnt draw long. When Susannah saw him nodding over his pad in the orange glare of the fading sunset, she took it from his unprotesting fingers, bedded him down in the back of the cart (propped level with the front end on a convenient boulder jutting from the ground), covered him with hides, and kissed his cheek. Sleepily, Patrick reached up and touched the sore below her own cheek. She winced, then held steady at his gentle touch. The sore had clotted over again, but it throbbed painfully. Even smiling hurt her these days. The hand fell away and Patrick slept. The stars had come out. Roland was looking raptly up at them. What do you see? she asked him. What do you see? he asked in turn. She looked at the brightening celestial landscape. Well, she said, theres Old Star and Old Mother, but they seem to have moved west. And that thereoh my goodness! She placed her hands on his stubbly cheeks (he never seemed to grow an actual beard, only a bristly scruff) and turned it. That wasnt there back when we left from the Western Sea, I know it wasnt. That ones in our world, Rolandwe call it the Big Dipper! He nodded. And once, according to the oldest books in my fathers library, it was in the sky of our world, as well. Lydias Dipper, it was called. And now here it is again. He turned to her, smiling. Another sign of life and renewal. How the Crimson King must hate to look up from his entrapment and see it riding the sky again! SIX  Not long after, Susannah slept. And dreamed. SEVEN Shes in Central Park again, under a bright gray sky from which the first few snowflakes are once more drifting; carolers nearby are singing not Silent Night or What Child Is This but the Rice Song Rice be a greeno, See what we seeno, Seeno the greeno, Comecomecommala! She takes off her cap, afraid it will have changed somehow, but it still says MERRY CHRISTMAS! and (no twins here) she is comforted. She looks around and there stand Eddie and Jake, grinning at her. Their heads are bare; she has gotten their hats. She has combined their hats. Eddie is wearing a sweatshirt that says I DRINK NOZZALA! Jake is wearing one that says I DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT! None of this is precisely new. What she sees behind them, standing near a carriagepath leading back to Fifth Avenue, most certainly is. Its a door about six and a half feet high, and made of solid ironwood, from the look of it. The doorknobs of solid gold, and filigreed with a shape the lady gunslinger finally recognizes two crossed pencils. EberhardFaber 2s, she has no doubt. And the erasers have been cut off. Eddie holds out a cup of hot chocolate. Its the perfect kind mit schlag on top, and a little sprinkling of nutmeg dotting the cream. Here, he says, I brought you hot chocolate. She ignores the outstretched cup. Shes fascinated by the door. Its like the ones along the beach, isnt it? she asks. Yes, Eddie says. No, Jake says at the same time. Youll figure it out, they say together, and grin at each other, delighted. She walks past them. Writ upon the doors through which Roland drew them were THE PRISONER and THE LADY OF SHADOWS and THE PUSHER . Writ upon this one is . And below that THE ARTIST She turns back to them and they are gone. Central Park is gone. She is looking at the ruination of Lud, gazing upon the waste lands. On a cold and bitter breeze she hears four whispered words Times almost up ...hurry ... EIGHT She woke in a kind of panic, thinking I have to leave him ...and best I do it before I can smuch as see his Dark Tower on the horizon. But where do I go? And how can I leave him to face both Mordred and the Crimson King with only Patrick to help him? This idea caused her to reflect on a bitter certainty come a showdown, Oy would almost certainly be more valuable to Roland than Patrick. The bumbler had proved his mettle on more than one occasion and would have been worthy of the title gunslinger, had he but a gun to sling and a hand to sling it with. Patrick, though . . . Patrick was a . . . well, a pencilslinger. Faster than blue blazes, but you couldnt kill much with an EberhardFaber unless it was very sharp. Shed sat up. Roland, leaning against the far side of her little scooter and keeping the watch, hadnt noticed. And she didnt want him to notice. That would lead to questions. She lay back down, pulling her hides around her and thinking of their first hunt. She remembered how the yearling buck had swerved and run right at her, and how shed decapitated it with the Oriza. She remembered the whistling sound in the chilly air, the one that resulted when the wind blew through the little attachment on the bottom of the plate, the attachment that looked so much like Patricks pencil sharpener. She thought her mind was trying to make some sort of connection here, but she was too tired to know what it might be. And maybe she was trying too hard, as well. If so, what was she to do about that? There was at least one thing she did know, from her time in Calla Bryn Sturgis. The meaning of the symbols writ upon the door was UNFOUND. Times almost up. Hurry. The next day her tears began. NINE There were still plenty of bushes behind which she could go to do her necessary (and cry her tears, when she could no longer hold them back), but the land continued to flatten and open. Around noon of their second full day on the road, Susannah saw what she at first thought was a cloudshadow moving across the land far up ahead, only the sky above was solid blue from horizon to horizon. Then the great dark patch began to veer in a very uncloudlike way. She caught her breath and brought her little electric scooter to a stop. Roland! she said. Yonders a herd of buffalo, or maybe theyre bison! Sure as death n taxes! Aye, do you say so? Roland asked, with only passing interest. We called em bannock, in the long ago. Its a goodsized herd. Patrick was standing in the back of Ho Fat II, sketching madly. He switched his grip on the pencil he was using, now holding the yellow barrel against his palm and shading with the tip. She could almost smell the dust boiling up from the herd as he shaded it with his pencil. Although it seemed to her that hed taken the liberty of moving the herd five or even ten miles closer, unless his vision was a good deal sharper than her own. That, she supposed, was entirely possible. In any case, her eyes had adjusted and she could see them better herself. Their great shaggy heads. Even their black eyes. There hasnt been a herd of buffalo that size in America for almost a hundred years, she said. Aye? Still only polite interest. But theyre in plenty here, I should say. If a little tet of em comes within pistolshot range, lets take a couple. Id like to taste some fresh meat that isnt deer. Would you? She let her smile answer for her. Roland smiled back. And it occurred to her again that soon she would see him no more, this man shed believed was either a mirage or a daemon before she had come to know him both antet and dandinh. Eddie was dead, Jake was dead, and soon she would see Roland of Gilead no more. Would he be dead, as well? Would she? She looked up into the glare of the sun, wanting him to mistake the reason for her tears if he saw them. And they moved on into the southeast of that great and empty land, into the everstrengthening beatbeatbeat that was the Tower at the axis of all worlds and time itself. Beatbeatbeat. Commalacomecome, journeys almost done. That night she stood the first watch, then awakened Roland at midnight. I think hes out there someplace, she said, pointing into the northwest. There was no need to be more specific; it could only be Mordred. Everyone else was gone. Watch well. I will, he said. And if you hear a gunshot, wake well. And fast. You can count on it, said she, and lay down in the dry winter grass behind Ho Fat II. At first she wasnt sure shed be able to sleep; she was still jazzed from the sense of an unfriendly other in the vicinity. But she did sleep. And dreamed. TEN The dream of the second night is both like and unlike the dream of the first. The main elements are exactly the same Central Park, gray sky, spits of snow, choral voices (this time harmonizing Come Go With Me, the old DelVikings hit), Jake (I DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!) and Eddie (this time wearing a sweatshirt reading CLICK! ITS A SHINNARO CAMERA!). Eddie has hot chocolate but doesnt offer it to her. She can see the anxiety not only in their faces but in the tensedup set of their bodies. That is the main difference in this dream there is something to see, or something to do, or perhaps its both. Whatever it is, they expected her to see it or do it by now and she is being backward. A rather terrible question occurs to her is she being purposely backward? Is there something here she doesnt want to confront? Could it even be possible that the Dark Tower is fucking up communications? Surely thats a stupid ideathese people she sees are but figments of her longing imagination, after all; they are dead! Eddie killed by a bullet, Jake as a result of being run over by a carone slain in this world, one in the Keystone World where fun is fun and done is done (must be done, for there time always runs in one direction) and Stephen King is their poet laureate. Yet she cannot deny that look on their faces, that look of panic that seems to tell her You have it, Suzeyou have what we want to show you, you have what you need to know. Are you going to let it slip away? Its the fourth quarter. Its the fourth quarter and the clock is ticking and will continue to tick, must continue to tick because all your timeouts are gone. You have to hurry . . . hurry . . . ELEVEN She snapped awake with a gasp. It was almost dawn. She wiped a hand across her brow, and it came away wet with sweat. What do you want me to know, Eddie? What is it youd have me know? To this question there was no answer. How could there be? Mistuh Dean, he daid, she thought, and lay back down. She lay that way for another hour, but couldnt get back to sleep. TWELVE Like Ho Fat I, Ho Fat II was equipped with handles. Unlike those on Ho Fat I, these handles were adjustable. When Patrick felt like walking, the handles could be moved apart so he could pull one and Roland the other. When Patrick felt like riding, Roland moved the handles together so he could pull on his own. They stopped at noon for a meal. When it was done, Patrick crawled into the back of Ho Fat II for a snooze. Roland waited until he heard the boy (for so they continued to think of him, no matter what his age) snoring, then turned to her. What fashes thee, Susannah? Id have you tell me. Id have you tell me dandinh, even though theres no longer a tet and Im your dinh no more. He smiled. The sadness in that smile broke her heart and she could hold her tears back no more. Nor the truth. If Im still with you when we see your Tower, Roland, things have gone all wrong. How wrong? he asked her. She shook her head, beginning to weep harder. Theres supposed to be a door. Its the Unfound Door. But I dont know how to find it! Eddie and Jake come to me in my dreams and tell me I knowthey tell me with their eyesbut I dont! I swear I dont! He took her in his arms and held her and kissed the hollow of her temple. At the corner of her mouth, the sore throbbed and burned. It wasnt bleeding, but it had begun to grow again. Let be what will be, said the gunslinger, as his own mother had once told him. Let be what will be, and hush, and let ka work. You said wed outrun it. He rocked her in his arms, rocked her, and it was good. It was soothing. I was wrong, he said. As thee knows. THIRTEEN It was her turn to watch early on the third night, and she was looking back behind them, northwest along the Tower Road, when a hand grasped her shoulder. Terror sprang up in her mind like a jackinthebox and she whirled (hes behind me oh dear God Mordreds got around behind me and its the spider!) with her hand going to the gun in her belt and yanking it free. Patrick recoiled from her, his own face long with terror, raising his hands in front of him. If hed cried out he would surely have awakened Roland, and then everything might have been different. But he was too frightened to cry out. He made a low sound in his throat and that was all. She put the gun back, showed him her empty hands, then pulled him to her and hugged him. At first he was stiff against herstill afraidbut after a little he relaxed. What is it, darling? she asked him, sotto voce. Then, using Rolands phrase without even realizing it What fashes thee? He pulled away from her and pointed dead north. For a moment she still didnt understand, and then she saw the orange lights dancing and darting. She judged they were at least five miles away, and she could hardly believe she hadnt seen them before. Still speaking low, so as not to wake Roland, she said Theyre nothing but foolights, sugarthey cant hurt you. Roland calls em hobs. Theyre like St. Elmos fire, or something. But he had no idea of what St. Elmos fire was; she could see that in his uncertain gaze. She settled again for telling him they couldnt hurt him, and indeed, this was the closest the hobs had ever come. Even as she looked back at them, they began to dance away, and soon most of them were gone. Perhaps she had thought them away. Once she would have scoffed at such an idea, but no longer. Patrick began to relax. Why dont you go back to sleep, honey? You need to take your rest. And she needed to take hers, but she dreaded it. Soon she would wake Roland, and sleep, and the dream would come. The ghosts of Jake and Eddie would look at her, more frantic than ever. Wanting her to know something she didnt, couldnt know. Patrick shook his head. Not sleepy yet? He shook his head again. Well then, why dont you draw awhile? Drawing always relaxed him. Patrick smiled and nodded and went at once to Ho Fat for his current pad, walking in big exaggerated sneaksteps so as not to wake Roland. It made her smile. Patrick was always willing to draw; she guessed that one of the things that kept him alive in the basement of Dandelos hut had been knowing that every now and then the rotten old fuck would give him a pad and one of the pencils. He was as much an addict as Eddie had been at his worst, she reflected, only Patricks dope was a narrow line of graphite. He sat down and began to draw. Susannah resumed her watch, but soon felt a queer tingling all over her body, as if she were the one being watched. She thought of Mordred again, and then smiled (which hurt; with the sore growing fat again, it always did now). Not Mordred; Patrick. Patrick was watching her. Patrick was drawing her. She sat still for nearly twenty minutes, and then curiosity overcame her.


For Patrick, twenty minutes would be long enough to do the Mona Lisa, and maybe St. Pauls Basilica in the background for good measure. That tingling sense was so queer, almost not a mental thing at all but something physical. She went to him, but Patrick at first held the pad against his chest with unaccustomed shyness. But he wanted her to look; that was in his eyes. It was almost a lovelook, but she thought it was the drawn Susannah hed fallen in love with. Come on, honeybunch, she said, and put a hand on the pad. But she would not tug it away from him, not even if he wanted her to. He was the artist; let it be wholly his decision whether or not to show his work. Please? He held the pad against him a moment longer. Thenshyly, not looking at herhe held it out. She took it, and looked down at herself. For a moment she could hardly breathe, it was that good. The wide eyes. The high cheekbones, which her father had called those jewels of Ethiopia. The full lips, which Eddie had so loved to kiss. It was her, it was her to the very life . . . but it was also more than her. She would never have thought love could shine with such perfect nakedness from the lines made with a pencil, but here that love was, oh say true, say so true; love of the boy for the woman who had saved him, who had pulled him from the dark hole where he otherwise would surely have died. Love for her as a mother, love for her as a woman. Patrick, its wonderful! she said. He looked at her anxiously. Doubtfully. Really? his eyes asked her, and she realized that only hethe poor needy Patrick inside, who had lived with this ability all his life and so took it for grantedcould doubt the simple beauty of what he had done. Drawing made him happy; this much hed always known. That his pictures could make others happy . . . that idea would take some getting used to. She wondered again how long Dandelo had had him, and how the mean old thing had come by Patrick in the first place. She supposed shed never know. Meantime, it seemed very important to convince him of his own worth. Yes, she said. Yes, it is wonderful. Youre a fine artist, Patrick. Looking at this makes me feel good. This time he forgot to hold his teeth together. And that smile, tongueless or not, was so wonderful she could have eaten it up. It made her fears and anxieties seem small and silly. May I keep it? Patrick nodded eagerly. He made a tearing motion with one hand, then pointed at her. Yes! Tear it off! Take it! Keep it! She started to do so, then paused. His love (and his pencil) had made her beautiful. The only thing to spoil that beauty was the black splotch beside her mouth. She turned the drawing toward him, tapped the sore on it, then touched it on her own face. And winced. Even the lightest touch hurt. This is the only damned thing, she said. He shrugged, raising his open hands to his shoulders, and she had to laugh. She did it softly so as not to wake Roland, but yes, she did have to laugh. A line from some old movie had occurred to her I paint what I see. Only this wasnt paint, and it suddenly occurred to her that he could take care of the rotten, ugly, painful thing. As it existed on paper, at least. Then shell be my twin, she thought affectionately. My better half; my pretty twin sis And suddenly she understood Everything? Understood everything? Yes, she would think much later. Not in any coherent fashion that could be written downif a  b  c, then c  b  a and c  a  bbut yes, she understood everything. Intuited everything. No wonder the dreamEddie and dreamJake had been impatient with her; it was so obvious. Patrick, drawing her. Nor was this the first time she had been drawn. Roland had drawn her to his world . . . with magic. Eddie had drawn her to himself with love. As had Jake. Dear God, had she been here so long and been through so much without knowing what katet was, what it meant? Katet was family. Katet was love. To draw is to make a picture with a pencil, or maybe charcoal. To draw is also to fascinate, to compel, and to bring forward. To bring one out of ones self. The drawers were where Detta went to fulfill herself. Patrick, that tongueless boy genius, pent up in the wilderness. Pent up in the drawers. And now? Now? Now he my forspecial, thought SusannaOdettaDetta, and reached into her pocket for the glass jar, knowing exactly what she was going to do and why she was going to do it. When she handed back the pad without tearing off the sheet that now held her image, Patrick looked badly disappointed. Nar, nar, said she (and in the voice of many). Only theres something Id have you do before I take it for my pretty, for my precious, for my ever, to keep and know how I was at this where, at this when. She held out one of the pink rubber pieces, understanding now why Dandelo had cut them off. For hed had his reasons. Patrick took what she offered and turned it over between his fingers, frowning, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Susannah was sure he had, but how many years ago? How close might he have come to disposing of his tormentor, once and for all? And why hadnt Dandelo just killed him then? Because once he took away the erasers he thought he was safe, she thought. Patrick was looking at her, puzzled. Beginning to be upset. Susannah sat down beside him and pointed at the blemish on the drawing. Then she put her fingers delicately around Patricks wrist and drew it toward the paper. At first he resisted, then let his hand with the pink nubbin in it be tugged forward. She thought of the shadow on the land that hadnt been a shadow at all but a herd of great, shaggy beasts Roland called bannock. She thought of how shed been able to smell the dust when Patrick began to draw the dust. And she thought of how, when Patrick had drawn the herd closer than it actually was (artistic license, and we all say thankya), it had actually looked closer. She remembered thinking that her eyes had adjusted and now marveled at her own stupidity. As if eyes could adjust to distance the way they could adjust to the dark. No, Patrick had moved them closer. Had moved them closer by drawing them closer. When the hand holding the eraser was almost touching the paper, she took her own hand awaythis had to be all Patrick, she was somehow sure of it. She moved her fingers back and forth, miming what she wanted. He didnt get it. She did it again, then pointed to the sore beside the full lower lip. Make it gone, Patrick, she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. Its ugly, make it gone. Again she made that rubbing gesture in the air. Erase it. This time he got it. She saw the light in his eyes. He held the pink nubbin up to her. Perfectly pink it wasnot a smudge of graphite on it. He looked at her, eyebrows raised, as if to ask if she was sure. She nodded. Patrick lowered the eraser to the sore and began to rub it on the paper, tentatively at first. Then, as he saw what was happening, he worked with more spirit. FOURTEEN She felt the same queer tingling sensation, but when hed been drawing, it had been all over her. Now it was in only one place, to the right side of her mouth. As Patrick got the hang of the eraser and bore down with it, the tingling became a deep and monstrous itch. She had to clutch her hands deep into the dirt on either side of her to keep from reaching up and clawing at the sore, scratching it furiously, and never mind if she tore it wide open and sent a pint of blood gushing down her deerskin shirt. It be over in a few more seconds, it have to be, it have to be, oh dear God please LET IT END Patrick, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten all about her. He was looking down at his picture, his hair hanging to either side of his face and obscuring most of it, completely absorbed by this wonderful new toy. He erased delicately . . . then a little harder (the itch intensified) . . . then more softly again. Susannah felt like shrieking. That itch was suddenly everywhere. It burned in her forebrain, buzzed across the wet surfaces of her eyes like twin clouds of gnats, it shivered at the very tips of her nipples, making them hopelessly hard. Ill scream, I cant help it, I have to scream She was drawing in her breath to do just that when suddenly the itch was gone. The pain was gone, as well. She reached toward the side of her mouth, then hesitated. I dont dare. You better dare! Detta responded indignantly. After all you been throughall we been throughyou must have enough backbone left to touch yo own damn face, you yella bitch! She brought her fingers down to the skin. The smooth skin. The sore which had so troubled her since Thunderclap was gone. She knew that when she looked in a mirror or a still pool of water, she would not even see a scar. FIFTEEN Patrick worked a little longerfirst with the eraser, then with the pencil, then with the eraser againbut Susannah felt no itch and not even a faint tingle. It was as though, once he had passed some critical point, the sensations just ceased. She wondered how old Patrick had been when Dandelo snipped all the erasers off the pencils. Four? Six? Young, anyway. She was sure that his original look of puzzlement when she showed him one of the erasers had been unfeigned, and yet once he began, he used it like an old pro. Maybe its like riding a bicycle, she thought. Once you learn how, you never forget. She waited as patiently as she could, and after five very long minutes, her patience was rewarded. Smiling, Patrick turned the pad around and showed her the picture. He had erased the blemish completely and then faintly shaded the area so that it looked like the rest of her skin. He had been careful to brush away every single crumb of rubber. Very nice, she said, but that was a fairly shitty compliment to offer genius, wasnt it? So she leaned forward, put her arms around him, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Patrick, its beautiful. The blood rushed so quickly and so strongly into his face that she was alarmed at first, wondering if he might not have a stroke in spite of his youth. But he was smiling as he held out the pad to her with one hand, making tearing gestures again with the other. Wanting her to take it. Wanting her to have it. Susannah tore it off very carefully, wondering in a dark back corner of her mind what would happen if she tore ittore herright down the middle. She noted as she did that there was no amazement in his face, no astonishment, no fear. He had to have seen the sore beside her mouth, because the nasty thing had pretty much dominated her face for all the time hed known her, and he had drawn it in nearphotographic detail. Now it was goneher exploring fingers told her soyet Patrick wasnt registering any emotion, at least in regard to that. The conclusion seemed clear enough. When hed erased it from his drawing, hed also erased it from his own mind and memory. Patrick? He looked at her, smiling. Happy that she was happy. And Susannah was very happy. The fact that she was also scared to death didnt change that in the slightest. Will you draw something else for me? He nodded. Made a mark on his pad, then turned it around so she could see ? She looked at the questionmark for a moment, then at him. She saw he was clutching the eraser, his wonderful new tool, very tightly. Susannah said I want you to draw me something that isnt there. He cocked his head quizzically to the side. She had to smile a little in spite of her rapidly thumping heartOy looked that way sometimes, when he wasnt a hundred per cent sure what you meant. Dont worry, Ill tell you. And she did, very carefully. Patrick listened. At some point Roland heard Susannahs voice and awoke. He came over, looked at her in the dim red light of the embering campfire, started to look away, then snapped back, eyes widening. Until that moment, she hadnt been sure Roland would see what was no longer there, either. She thought it at least possible that Patricks magic would have been strong enough to erase it from the gunslingers memory, too. Susannah, thy face! Whats happened to thy Hush, Roland, if you love me. The gunslinger hushed. Susannah returned her attention to Patrick and began to speak again, quietly but urgently. Patrick listened, and as he did, she saw the light of understanding begin to enter his gaze. Roland replenished the fire without having to be asked, and soon their little camp was bright under the stars. Patrick wrote a question, putting it thriftily to the left of the questionmark he had already drawn How tall? Susannah took Roland by the elbow and positioned him in front of Patrick. The gunslinger stood about sixfootthree. She had him pick her up, then held a hand roughly three inches over his head. Patrick nodded, smiling. And look you at something that has to be on it, she said, and took a branch from their little pile of brush. She broke it over her knee, creating a point of her own. She could remember the symbols, but it would be best if she didnt think about them overmuch. She sensed they had to be absolutely right or the door she wanted him to make for her would either open on some place she didnt want to go, or would not open at all. Therefore once she began to draw in the mixed dirt and ash by the campfire, she did it as rapidly as Patrick himself might have done, not pausing long enough to cast her eye back upon a single symbol. For if she looked back at one she would surely look back at all, and she would see something that looked wrong to her, and uncertainty would set in like a sickness. Dettabrash, foulmouthed Detta, who had turned out on more than one occasion to be her saviormight step in and take over, finish for her, but she couldnt count on that. On her hearts deepest level, she still did not entirely trust Detta not to send everything to blazes at a crucial moment, and for no other reason than the black joy of the thing. Nor did she fully trust Roland, who might want to keep her for reasons he did not fully understand himself. So she drew quickly in the dirt and ashes, not looking back, and these were the symbols that flowed away beneath the flying tip of her makeshift implement Unfound, Roland breathed. Susannah, whathow Hush, she repeated. Patrick bent over his pad and began to draw. SIXTEEN She kept looking around for the door, but the circle of light thrown by their fire was very small even after Roland had set it to blazing. Small compared to the vast darkness of the prairie, at least. She saw nothing. When she turned to Roland she could see the unspoken question in his eyes, and so, while Patrick kept working, she showed him the picture of her the young man had drawn. She indicated the place where the blemish had been. Holding the page close to his face, Roland at last saw the erasers marks. Patrick had concealed what few traces hed left behind with great cunning, and Roland had found them only with the closest scrutiny; it was like casting for an old trail after many days of rain. No wonder the old man cut off his erasers, he said, giving the picture back to her. Thats what I thought. From there she skipped ahead to her single true intuitive leap that if Patrick could (in this world, at least) uncreate by erasing, he might be able to create by drawing. When she mentioned the herd of bannock that had seemed mysteriously closer, Roland rubbed his forehead like a man who has a nasty headache. I should have seen that. Should have realized what it meant, too. Susannah, Im getting old. She ignored thatshed heard it beforeand told him about the dreams of Eddie and Jake, being sure to mention the productnames on the sweatshirts, the choral voices, the offer of hot chocolate, and the growing panic in their eyes as the nights passed and still she did not see what the dream had been sent to show her. Why didnt you tell me this dream before now? Roland asked. Why didnt you ask for help in interpreting it? She looked at him steadily, thinking she had been right not to ask for his help. Yesno matter how much that might hurt him. Youve lost two. How eager would you have been to lose me, as well? He flushed. Even in the firelight she could see it. Thee speaks ill of me, Susannah, and have thought worse. Perhaps I have, she said. If so, I say sorry. I wasnt sure of what I wanted myself. Part of me wants to see the Tower, you know. Part of me wants that very badly. And even if Patrick can draw the Unfound Door into existence and I can open it, its not the real world it opens on. Thats what the names on the shirts mean, Im sure of it. You mustnt think that, Roland said. Reality is seldom a thing of black and white, I think, of is and isnt, be and not be. Patrick made a hooting sound and they both looked. He was holding his pad up, turned toward them so they could see what he had drawn. It was a perfect representation of the Unfound Door, she thought. THE ARTIST wasnt printed on it, and the doorknob was plain shiny metalno crossed pencils adorned itbut that was all right. She hadnt bothered to tell him about those things, which had been for her benefit and understanding. They did everything but draw me a map, she thought. She wondered why everything had to be so damn hard, so damn (riddlededum) mysterious, and knew that was a question to which she would never find a satisfactory answer . . . except it was the human condition, wasnt it? The answers that mattered never came easily. Patrick made another of those hooting noises. This time it had an interrogative quality. She suddenly realized that the poor kid was practically dying of anxiety, and why not? He had just executed his first commission, and wanted to know what his patrono darte thought of it. Its great, Patrickterrific. Yes, Roland agreed, taking the pad. The door looked to him exactly like those hed found as he staggered along the beach of the Western Sea, delirious and dying of the lobstrositys poisoned bite. It was as if the poor tongueless creature had looked into his head and seen an actual picture of that doora fottergraff. Susannah, meanwhile, was looking around desperately. And when she began to swing along on her hands toward the edge of the firelight, Roland had to call her back sharply, reminding her that Mordred might be out there anywhere, and the darkness was Mordreds friend. Impatient as she was, she retreated from the edge of the light, remembering all too well what had happened to Mordreds bodymother, and how quickly it had happened. Yet it hurt to pull back, almost physically. Roland had told her that he expected to catch his first glimpse of the Dark Tower toward the end of the coming day. If she was still with him, if she saw it with him, she thought its power might prove too strong for her. Its glammer. Now, given a choice between the door and the Tower, she knew she could still choose the door. But as they drew closer and the power of the Tower grew stronger, its pulse deeper and more compelling in her mind, the singing voices ever sweeter, choosing the door would be harder to do. I dont see it, she said despairingly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is no damn door. Oh, Roland I dont think you were wrong, Roland told her. He spoke with obvious reluctance, but as a man will when he has a job to do, or a debt to repay. And he did owe this woman a debt, he reckoned, for had he not pretty much seized her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her into this world, where shed learned the art of murder and fallen in love and been left bereaved? Had he not kidnapped her into this present sorrow? If he could make that right, he had an obligation to do so. His desire to keep her with himand at the risk of her own lifewas pure selfishness, and unworthy of his training. More important than that, it was unworthy of how much he had come to love and respect her. It broke what remained of his heart to think of bidding her goodbye, the last of his strange and wonderful katet, but if it was what she wanted, what she needed, then he must do it. And he thought he could do it, for he had seen something about the young mans drawing that Susannah had missed. Not something that was there; something that wasnt. Look thee, he said gently, showing her the picture. Do you see how hard hes tried to please thee, Susannah? Yes! she said. Yes, of course I do, but It took him ten minutes to do this, I should judge, and most of his drawings, good as they are, are the work of three or four at most, wouldnt you say? I dont understand you! She nearly screamed this. Patrick drew Oy to him and wrapped an arm around the bumbler, all the while looking at Susannah and Roland with wide, unhappy eyes. He worked so hard to give you what you want that theres only the Door. It stands by itself, all alone on the paper. It has no ...no...  He searched for the right word. Vannays ghost whispered it dryly into his ear. It has no context! For a moment Susannah continued to look puzzled, and then the light of understanding began to break in her eyes. Roland didnt wait; he simply dropped his good left hand on Patricks shoulder and told him to put the door behind Susannahs little electric golfcart, which she had taken to calling Ho Fat III. Patrick was happy to oblige. For one thing, putting Ho Fat III in front of the door gave him a reason to use his eraser. He worked much more quickly this timealmost carelessly, an observer might have saidbut the gunslinger was sitting right next to him and didnt think Patrick missed a single stroke in his depiction of the little cart. He finished by drawing its single front wheel and putting a reflected gleam of firelight in the hubcap. Then he put his pencil down, and as he did, there was a disturbance in the air. Roland felt it push against his face. The flames of the fire, which had been burning straight up in the windless dark, streamed briefly sideways. Then the feeling was gone. The flames once more burned straight up. And standing not ten feet from that fire, behind the electric cart, was a door Roland had last encountered in Calla Bryn Sturgis, in the Cave of the Voices. SEVENTEEN Susannah waited until dawn, at first passing the time by gathering up her gunna, then putting it aside againwhat would her few possessions (not to mention the little hide bag in which they were stored) avail her in New York City? People would laugh. They would probably laugh anyway . . . or scream and run at the very sight of her. The Susannah Dean who suddenly appeared in Central Park would look to most folks not like a college graduate or an heiress to a large fortune; not even like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, say sorry. No, to civilized city people shed probably look like some kind of freakshow escapee. And once she went through this door, would there be any going back? Never. Never in life. So she put her gunna aside and simply waited. As dawn began to show its first faint white light on the horizon, she called Patrick over and asked him if he wanted to go along with her. Back to the world you came from or one very much like it, she told him, although she knew he didnt remember that world at alleither hed been taken from it too young, or the trauma of being snatched away had erased his memory. Patrick looked at her, then at Roland, who was squatted on his hunkers, looking at him. Either way, son, the gunslinger said. You can draw in either world, tell ya true. Although where shes going, therell be more to appreciate it. He wants him to stay, she thought, and was angry. Then Roland looked at her and gave his head a minute shake. She wasnt sure, but she thought that meant And no, she didnt just think. She knew what it meant. Roland wanted her to know he was hiding his thoughts from Patrick. His desires. And while shed known the gunslinger to lie (most spectacularly at the meeting on the Calla Bryn Sturgis commonground before the coming of the Wolves), she had never known him to lie to her. To Detta, maybe, but not to her. Or Eddie. Or Jake. There had been times when he hadnt told them all he knew, but outright lie ...? No. Theyd been katet, and Roland had played them straight. Give the devil his due. Patrick suddenly took up his pad and wrote quickly on the clean sheet. Then he showed it to them I will stay. Scared to go sumplace new. As if to emphasize exactly what he meant, he opened his lips and pointed into his tongueless mouth. And did she see relief on Rolands face? If so, she hated him for it. All right, Patrick, she said, trying to show none of her feelings in her voice. She even reached over and patted his hand. I understand how you feel. And while its true that people can be cruel ...cruel and mean . . . theres plenty who are kind. Listen, thee Im not going until dawn. If you change your mind, the offer is open. He nodded quickly. Grateful I aint goan try no harder tchange his mine, Detta thought angrily. Ole white man probably grateful, too! Shut up, Susannah told her, and for a wonder, Detta did. EIGHTEEN But as the day brightened (revealing a mediumsized herd of grazing bannock not two miles away), she let Detta back into her mind. More she let Detta take over. It was easier that way, less painful. It was Detta who took one more stroll around the campsite, briskly breathing the last of this world for both of them, and storing away the memory. It was Detta who went around the door, rocking first one way and then the other on the toughened pads of her palms, and saw the nothing at all on the other side. Patrick walked on one side of her, Roland on the other. Patrick hooted with surprise when he saw the door was gone. Roland said nothing. Oy walked up to the place where the door had been, sniffed at the air ...and then walked through the place where it was, if you were looking from the other side. If we was over there, Detta thought, wed see him walk right through it, like a magic trick. She returned to Ho Fat III, which she had decided to ride through the door. Always assuming it would open, that was. This whole business would be quite a joke if it turned out it wouldnt. Roland made to help her up into the seat; she brushed him brusquely away and mounted on her own. She pushed the red button beside the wheel, and the carts electric motor started with a faint hum. The needle marked CHG still swung well over into the green. She turned the throttle on the right handlebar and rolled slowly toward the closed door with the symbols meaning UNFOUND marching across the front. She stopped with the carts little bullet nose almost touching it. She turned to the gunslinger with a fixed makebelieve smile. All ri, RolandAhll say gbye to you, then. Long days n pleasant nights. May you reach ydamn Tower, and No, he said. She looked at him, Detta looked at him with her eyes both blazing and laughing. Challenging him to turn this into something she didnt want it to be. Challenging him to turn her out now that she was in. Cmon, honky white boy, lessee you do it. What? she asked. Whats on yo mine, big boy? Id not say goodbye to you like this, after all this time, he said. What do you mean? Only in Dettas angry burlesque, it came out Whatchu mean? You know. She shook her head defiantly. Doan. For one thing, he said, taking her trailtoughened left hand gently in his mutilated right one, theres another who should have the choice to go or stay, and Im not speaking of Patrick. For a moment she didnt understand. Then she looked down at a certain pair of goldringed eyes, a certain pair of cocked ears, and did. She had forgotten about Oy. If Detta asks him, hell surely stay, for shes never been to his liking. If Susannah asks him . . . why, then I dont know. Just like that, Detta was gone. She would be backSusannah understood now that she would never be entirely free of Detta Walker, and that was all right, because she no longer wanted to bebut for now she was gone. Oy? she said gently. Will you come with me, honey? It may be well find Jake again. Maybe not quite the same, but still . . . Oy, who had been almost completely silent during their trek across the Badlands and the White Lands of Empathica and the open rangelands, now spoke. Ake? he said. But he spoke doubtfully, as one who barely remembers, and her heart broke. She had promised herself she wouldnt cry, and Detta all but guaranteed she wouldnt cry, but now Detta was gone and the tears were here again. Jake, she said. You remember Jake, honeybunch, I know you do. Jake and Eddie. Ake? Ed? With a little more certainty now. He did remember. Come with me, she urged, and Oy started forward as if he would jump up in the cart beside her. Then, with no idea at all why she should say it, she added There are other worlds than these. Oy stopped as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He sat down. Then he got up again, and she felt a moment of hope perhaps there could still be some little katet, a dantetetet, in some version of New York where folks drove Takuro Spirits and took pictures of each other drinking NozzALa with their Shinnaro cameras. Instead, Oy trotted back to the gunslinger and sat beside one battered boot. They had walked far, those boots, far. Miles and wheels, wheels and miles. But now their walking was almost done. Olan, said Oy, and the finality in his strange little voice rolled a stone against her heart. She turned bitterly to the old man with the big iron on his hip. There, she said. You have your own glammer, dont you? Always did. You drew Eddie on to one death, and Jake to a pair of em. Now Patrick, and even the bumbler. Are you happy? No, said he, and she saw he truly was not. She believed she had never seen such sadness and such loneliness on a human face. Never was I farther from happy, Susannah of New York. Will you change your mind and stay? Will thee come the last little while with me? That would make me happy. For a wild moment she thought she would. That she would simply turn the little electric cart from the doorwhich was onesided and made no promisesand go with him to the Dark Tower. Another day would do it; they could camp at midafternoon and thus arrive tomorrow at sunset, as he wanted. Then she remembered the dream. The singing voices. The young man holding out the cup of hot chocolatethe good kind, mit schlag. No, she said softly. Ill take my chance and go. For a moment she thought he would make it easy on her, just agree and let her go. Then his angerno, his despairbroke in a painful burst. But you cant be sure! Susannah, what if the dream itself is a trick and a glammer? What if the things you see even when the doors open are nothing but tricks and glammers? What if you roll right through and into todash space? Then Ill light the darkness with thoughts of those I love. And that might work, said he, speaking in the bitterest voice she had ever heard. For the first ten years . . . or twenty . . . or even a hundred. And then? What about the rest of eternity? Think of Oy! Do you think hes forgotten Jake? Never! Never! Never in your life! Never in his! He senses something wrong! Susannah, dont. I beg you, dont go. Ill get on my knees, if that will help. And to her horror, he began to do exactly that. It wont, she said. And if this is to be my last sight of youmy heart says it isthen dont let it be of you on your knees. Youre not a kneeling man, Roland, son of Steven, never were, and I dont want to remember you that way. I want to see you on your feet, as you were in Calla Bryn Sturgis. As you were with your friends at Jericho Hill. He got up and came to her. For a moment she thought he meant to restrain her by force, and she was afraid. But he only put his hand on her arm for a moment, and then took it away. Let me ask you again, Susannah. Are you sure? She conned her heart and saw that she was. She understood the risks, but yesshe was. And why? Because Rolands way was the way of the gun. Rolands way was death for those who rode or walked beside him.