The Dark Tower

Stop it! You saw the changed shape ofhim under his shirt. You can’t afford to waste time on hope.

There was a cruel paradox here: because heloved Jake, he had to leave the business of Jake’s dying to Oy and a woman theyhad met less than an hour ago.

Never mind. His business now was with King.Should Jake pass into the clearing while his back was turned… if ka will sayso, let it be so.

Roland summoned his will and concentration.He focused them to a burning point, then turned his attention to the writeronce more. “Are you Gan?” he asked abruptly, not knowing why this question cameto him—only that it was the right question.

“No,” King said at once. Blood ran into hismouth from the cut on his head and he spat it out, never blinking. “Once Ithought I was, but that was just the booze. And pride, I suppose. No writer isGan—no painter, no sculptor, no maker of music. We are kas-ka Gan. Not ka-Ganbut kas-ka Gan. Do you understand? Do you… do you ken?”

“Yes,” Roland said. The prophets of Gan orthe singers of Gan: it could signify either or both. And now he knew why he hadasked. “And the song you sing is Ves’-Ka Gan. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes!” King said, and smiled.“The Song of the Turtle. It’s far too lovely for the likes of me, who canhardly carry a tune!”

“I don’t care,” Roland said. He thought ashard and as clearly as his dazed mind would allow. “And now you’ve been hurt.”

“Am I paralyzed?”

“I don’t know.” Nor care. “All Iknow is that you’ll live, and when you can write again, you’ll listen for theSong of the Turtle, Ves’-Ka Gan, as you did before. Paralyzed or not. And thistime you’ll sing until the song is done.”

“All right.”

“You’ll—”

“And Urs-Ka Gan, the Song of the Bear,”King interrupted him. Then he shook his head, although this clearly hurt himdespite the hypnotic state he was in. “Urs-A-Ka Gan.”

The Cry of the Bear? The Scream ofthe Bear? Roland didn’t know which. He would have to hope it didn’t matter,that it was no more than a writer’s quibble.

A car hauling a motor home went past thescene of the accident without slowing, then a pair of large motor-bicycles spedby heading the other way. And an oddly persuasive thought came to Roland: timehadn’t stopped, but they were, for the time being, dim. Being protectedin that fashion by the Beam, which was no longer under attack and thus able tohelp, at least a little.

Four

Tell him again. There must be nomisunderstanding. And no weakening, as he weakened before.

He bent down until his face was beforeKing’s face, their noses nearly touching. “This time you’ll sing until the songis done, write until the tale is done. Do you truly ken?”

“ ‘And they lived happily ever after untilthe end of their days,’” King said dreamily. “I wish I could write that.”

“So do I.” And he did, more than anything.Despite his sorrow, there were no tears yet; his eyes felt like hot stones inhis head. Perhaps the tears would come later, when the truth of what hadhappened here had a chance to sink in a little.

“I’ll do as you say, gunslinger. No matterhow the tale falls when the pages grow thin.” King’s voice was itself growingthin. Roland thought he would soon fall into unconsciousness. “I’m sorry foryour friends, truly I am.”

“Thank you,” Roland said, still restrainingthe urge to put his hands around the writer’s neck and choke the life out ofhim. He started to stand, but King said something that stopped him.

“Did you listen for her song, as Itold you to do? For the Song of Susa

“I… yes.”

Now King forced himself up on one elbow,and although his strength was clearly failing, his voice was dry and strong.“She needs you. And you need her. Leave me alone now. Save your hate for thosewho deserve it more. I didn’t make your ka any more than I made Gan or theworld, and we both know it. Put your foolishness behind you—and yourgrief—and do as you’d have me do.” King’s voice rose to a rough shout;his hand shot out and gripped Roland’s wrist with amazing strength. “Finishthe job!”

At first nothing came out when Roland triedto reply. He had to clear his throat and start again. “Sleep, sai—sleepand forget everyone here except the man who hit you.”

King’s eyes slipped closed. “Forgeteveryone here except the man who hit me.”

“You were taking your walk and this man hityou.”

“Walking… and this man hit me.”

“No one else was here. Not me, not Jake,not the woman.”

“No one else,” King agreed. “Just me andhim. Will he say the same?”

“Yar. Very soon you’ll sleep deep. You mayfeel pain later, but you feel none now.”

“No pain now. Sleep deep.” King’s twistedframe relaxed on the pine needles.

“Yet before you sleep, listen to me oncemore,” Roland said.

“I’m listening.”

“A woman may come to y—wait. Do’eedream of love with men?”

“Are you asking if I’m gay? Maybe a latenthomosexual?” King sounded weary but amused.

“I don’t know.” Roland paused. “I thinkso.”

“The answer is no,” King said. “Sometimes Idream of love with women. A little less now that I’m older… and probably not atall for awhile, now. That fucking guy really beat me up.”

Not near so bad as he beat up mine,Roland thought bitterly, but he didn’t say this.

“If’ee dream only of love with women, it’sa woman that may come to you.”

“Do you say so?” King sounded faintlyinterested.

“Yes. If she comes, she’ll be fair. She mayspeak to you about the ease and pleasure of the clearing. She may call herselfMorphia, Daughter of Sleep, or Selena, Daughter of the Moon. She may offer youher arm and promise to take you there. You must refuse.”

“I must refuse.”

“Even if you are tempted by her eyes and breasts.”

“Even then,” King agreed.

“Why will you refuse, sai?”

“Because the Song isn’t done.”

At last Roland was satisfied. Mrs.Tassenbaum was kneeling by Jake. The gunslinger ignored both her and the boyand went to the man sitting slumped behind the wheel of the motor-carriage thathad done all the damage. This man’s eyes were wide and blank, his mouth slack.A line of drool hung from his beard-stubbly chin.

“Do you hear me, sai?”

The man nodded fearfully. Behind him, bothdogs had grown silent. Four bright eyes regarded the gunslinger from betweenthe seats.

“What’s your name?”

“Bryan, do it please you—BryanSmith.”

No, it didn’t please him at all. Here wasyet one more he’d like to strangle. Another car passed on the road, and thistime the person behind the wheel honked the horn as he or she passed. Whatevertheir protection might be, it had begun to grow thin.

“Sai Smith, you hit a man with your car ortruckomobile or whatever it is thee calls it.”

Bryan Smith began to tremble all over. “Iain’t never had so much as a parking ticket,” he whined, “and I have to go andrun into the most famous man in the state! My dogs ‘us fightin—”

“Your lies don’t anger me,” Roland said,“but the fear which brings them forth does. Shut thy mouth.”

Bryan Smith did as told. The color wasdraining slowly but steadily from his face.

“You were alone when you hit him,” Rolandsaid. “No one here but you and the storyteller. Do you understand?”

“I was alone. Mister, are you a walk-in?”

“Never mind what I am. You checked him and sawthat he was still alive.”

“Still alive, good,” Smith said. “I didn’tmean to hurt nobody, honest.”

“He spoke to you. That’s how you knew hewas alive.”

“Yes!” Smith smiled. Then he frowned.“What’d he say?”

“You don’t remember. You were excited andscared.”

“Scared and excited. Excited and scared.Yes I was.”

“You drive now. As you drive, you’ll wakeup, little by little. And when you get to a house or a store, you’ll stop andsay there’s a man hurt down the road. A man who needs help. Tell it back, andbe true.”