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THE DARK TOWER VII: THE DARK TOWER
by Stephen King, © 2004
Illustrations © 2004 byMichael Whelan
He who speakswithout an attentive ear is mute.
Therefore, ConstantReader, this final book in the Dark Tower cycle is dedicated to you.
Long days andpleasant nights.
Not hear? When noise waseverywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell.Names in my ears
Of all the lostadventurers, my peers—
How such a one wasstrong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate,yet each of old
Lost, lost! one momentknelled the woe of years.
There they stood, rangedalong the hillsides, met
To view the last of me,a living frame
For one more picture! Ina sheet of flame
I saw them and I knewthem all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-hornto my lips I set,
And blew. ‘Childe Rolandto the Dark Tower came.’
—Robert Browning“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”
I was born
Six-gun in my hand,
behind a gun
I’ll make my final stand.
—Bad Company
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
—Trent Reznor
ILLUSTRATIONS
“… THE WHITECOMMANDS YOU!”
“COME ON THEN, YOUBASTARDS.”
“… WILL YOU?”
HE REACHED FOR ITAGAIN…
BELOW THEM IN THESEEPING LIGHT WAS THE VILLAGE.
HE MOVED IN BETWEENJAKE AND EDDIE.
… THE PLACE WHEREROLAND FINALLY STOPPED FELT MORE LIKE A CHURCH THAN A CLEARING.
… HE SAT ON HISTHRONE—… WHICH IS MADE OF SKULLS
… WOE TO WHOEVERHAPPENED TO BE IN HIS PATH.
IT WOULD NEVER OPENAGAIN…
… HIS FACE WENTSLACK WITH A PECULIAR SORT OF ECSTACY…
THE DARK TOWER
PART ONE
THE LITTLE RED KING
DAN-TETE
Chapter I:
Callahan and theVampires
One
Pere Don Callahan had once been theCatholic priest of a town, ‘Salem’s Lot had been its name, that no longerexisted on any map. He didn’t much care. Concepts such as reality had ceased tomatter to him.
This onetime priest now held a heathenobject in his hand, a scrimshaw turtle made of ivory. There was a nick in itsbeak and a scratch in the shape of a question mark on its back, but otherwiseit was a beautiful thing.
Beautiful and powerful. He couldfeel the power in his hand like volts.
“How lovely it is,” he whispered to the boywho stood with him. “Is it the Turtle Maturin? It is, isn’t it?”
The boy was Jake Chambers, and he’d come along loop in order to return almost to his starting-place here in Manhattan. “Idon’t know,” he said. “She calls it the sköldpadda, and it may helpus, but it can’t kill the harriers that are waiting for us in there.” He noddedtoward the Dixie Pig, wondering if he meant Susa
“Will you?” Jake asked the Pere, meaning Willyou stand. Will you fight. Will you kill.
“Oh yes,” Callahan said calmly. He put theivory turtle with its wise eyes and scratched back into his breast pocket withthe extra shells for the gun he carried, then patted the cu
The pause was so slight Jake didn’t eve
Jake was nodding, saying something Callahanbarely heard. And what Jake said didn’t matter. What that other voicesaid—the voice of something
(Gan)
perhaps too great to be called God—did.
The boy must go on, the voice toldhim. Whatever happens here, however it falls, the boy must go on. Your partin the story is almost done. His is not.
They walked past a sign on a chrome post (CLOSEDFOR PRIVATE FUNCTION), Jake’s special friend Oy trotting between them, hishead up and his muzzle wreathed in its usual toothy grin. At the top of thesteps, Jake reached into the woven sack Susa
Callahan lifted the Ruger Jake had broughtout of Calla New York, and now back into it; life is a wheel and we all saythankya. For a moment the Pere held the Ruger’s barrel beside his right cheeklike a duelist. Then he touched his breast pocket, bulging with shells, andwith the turtle. The sköldpadda.
Jake nodded. “Once we’re in, we staytogether. Always together, with Oy between. On three. And once we start, wenever stop.”
“Never stop.”
“Right. Are you ready?”
“Yes. God’s love on you, boy.”
“And on you, Pere. One… two… three.”Jake opened the door and together they went into the dim light and the sweettangy smell of roasting meat.
Two
Jake went to what he was sure would be hisdeath remembering two things Roland Deschain, his true father, had said. Battlesthat last five minutes spawn legends that live a thousand years. And Youneedn’t die happy when your day comes, but you must die satisfied, for you havelived your life from begi
Jake Chambers surveyed the Dixie Pig with asatisfied mind.
Three
Also with crystal clarity. His senses wereso heightened that he could smell not just roasting flesh but the rosemary withwhich it had been rubbed; could hear not only the calm rhythm of his breath butthe tidal murmur of his blood climbing brainward on one side of his neck anddescending heartward on the other.
He also remembered Roland’s saying thateven the shortest battle, from first shot to final falling body, seemed long tothose taking part. Time grew elastic; stretched to the point of vanishment.Jake had nodded as if he understood, although he hadn’t.
Now he did.