The Dark Tower

“A message from his undermind,” thegunslinger mused.

Nancy brightened. “His subconscious, yes!Yes, that’s exactly what we think!”

It wasn’t exactly what Roland wasthinking. The gunslinger had been recalling how he had hypnotized King in theyear of 1977; how he had told him to listen for Ves’-Ka Gan, the Song of the Turtle.Had King’s undermind, the part of him that would never have stopped trying toobey the hypnotic command, put part of the Song of the Turtle in this book? Abook the Servants of the King might have neglected because it wasn’t part ofthe “Dark Tower Cycle”? Roland thought that could be, and that the nameDeepneau might indeed be a sigul. But—

“I can’t read this,” he said. “A word hereand a word there, perhaps, but no more.”

“You can’t, but my girl can,” Moses Carversaid. “My girl Odetta, that you call Susa

Roland nodded slowly. And although he hadalready begun to have his doubts, his mind nevertheless cast up a brilliantimage of the two of them sitting close by a fire—a large one, for thenight was cold—with Oy between. In the rocks above them the wind howledbitter notes of winter, but they cared not, for their bellies were full, theirbodies were warm, dressed in the skins of animals they had killed themselves,and they had a story to entertain them.

Stephen King’s story of insomnia.

“She’ll read it to you on the trail,” Mosessaid. “On your last trail, say God!”

Yes, Roland thought. One laststory to hear, one last trail to follow. The one that leads to Can’-Ka No Rey,and the Dark Tower. Or it would be nice to think so.

Nancy said, “In the story, the Crimson Kingis using Ed Deepneau to kill one single child, a boy named Patrick Danville.Just before the attack, while Patrick and his mother are waiting for a woman tomake a speech, the boy draws a picture, one that shows you, Roland, and theCrimson King, apparently imprisoned at the top of the Dark Tower.”

Roland started in his seat. “The top?Imprisoned at the top?”

“Easy,” Marian said. “Take it easy, Roland.The Calvins have been analyzing King’s work for years, every word and everyreference, and everything they produce gets forwarded to the good-mind folkenin New Mexico. Although these two groups have never seen each other, it wouldbe perfectly correct to say that they work together.”

“Not that they’re always in agreement,”Nancy said.

“They sure aren’t!” Marian spoke inthe exasperated tone of one who’s had to referee more than her share ofsquabbles. “But one thing that they are in agreement about is thatKing’s references to the Dark Tower are almost always masked, and sometimesmean nothing at all.”

Roland nodded. “He speaks of it because hisundermind is always thinking of it, but sometimes he lapses into gibberish.”

“Yes,” Nancy said.

“But obviously you don’t think this entirebook is a false trail, or you would not want to give it to me.”

“Indeed we do not,” Nancy said. “But thatdoesn’t mean the Crimson King is necessarily imprisoned at the top ofthe Tower. Although I suppose it might.”

Roland thought of his own belief that theRed King was locked out of the Tower, on a kind of balcony. Was it a genuineintuition, or just something he wanted to believe?

“In any case, we think you should watch forthis Patrick Danville,” Marian said. “The consensus is that he’s a real person,but we haven’t been able to find any trace of him here. Perhaps you may findhim in Thunderclap.”

“Or beyond it,” Moses put in.

Marian was nodding. “According to the storyKing tells in Insomnia—you’ll see for yourself—PatrickDanville dies as a young man. But that may not be true. Do youunderstand?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“When you find Patrick Danville—orwhen he finds you—he may still be the child described in this book,”Nancy said, “or he could be as old as Uncle Mose.”

“Bad luck f’him if that be true!” said theold man, and chortled.

Roland lifted the book, stared at the redand white cover, traced the slightly raised letters that made a word he couldnot read. “Surely it’s just a story?”

“From the spring of 1970, when he typed theline The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed,”Marian Carver said, “very few of the things Stephen King wrote were ‘juststories.’ He may not believe that; we do.”

But years of dealing with the CrimsonKing may have left you with a way of jumping at shadows, do it please ya,Roland thought. Aloud he said, “If not stories, what?”

It was Moses Carver who answered. “We thinkmaybe messages in bottles.” In the way he spoke this word—boh’uls,almost—Roland heard a heartbreaking echo of Susa

“—that great sea.”

“Beg your pardon,” the gunslinger said. “Iwas wool-gathering.”

“I said we believe that Stephen King’s casthis bottles upon that great sea. The one we call the Prim. In hopes thatthey’ll reach you, and the messages inside will make it possible for you and myOdetta to gain your goal.”

“Which brings us to our final gifts,”Marian said. “Our true gifts. First…” She handed him the box.

It opened on a hinge. Roland placed hisleft hand splayed over the top, meaning to swing it back, then paused andstudied his interlocutors. They were looking at him with hope and suspensefulinterest, an expression that made him uneasy. A mad (but surprisinglypersuasive) idea came to him: that these were in truth agents of the CrimsonKing, and when he opened the box, the last thing he’d see would be a primedsneetch, counting down the last few clicks to red zero. And the last sound he’dhear before the world blew up around him would be their mad laughter and a cryof Hile the Red King! It wasn’t impossible, either, but a point camewhere one had to trust, because the alternative was madness.

If ka will say so, let it be so, hethought, and opened the box.

Twelve

Within, resting on dark blue velvet (whichthey might or might not have known was the color of the Royal Court of Gilead),was a watch within a coiled chain. Engraved upon its gold cover were threeobjects: a key, a rose, and—between and slightly above them—a towerwith tiny windows marching around its circumference in an ascending spiral.

Roland was amazed to find his eyes oncemore filling with tears. When he looked at the others again—two youngwomen and one old man, the brains and guts of the Tet Corporation—he atfirst saw six instead of three. He blinked the phantom doubles away.

“Open the cover and look inside,” MosesCarver said. “And there’s no need to hide your tears in this company, you sonof Steven, for we’re not the machines the others would replace us with, if theyhad their way.”

Roland saw that the old man spoke true, fortears were slipping down the weathered darkness of his cheeks. Nancy Deepneauwas also weeping freely. And although Marian Carver no doubt prided herself onbeing made of sterner stuff, her eyes held a suspicious gleam.

He depressed the stem protruding from thetop of the case, and the lid sprang up. Inside, finely scrolled hands told thehour and the minute, and with perfect accuracy, he had no doubt. Below, in itsown small circle, a smaller hand raced away the seconds. Carved on the insideof the lid was this:

To the Hand of ROLANDDESCHAIN

From Those of

MOSES ISAAC CARVER

MARIAN ODETTA CARVER

NANCY REBECCA DEEPNEAU

With Our Gratitude

White Over Red, Thus GODWills Ever

“Thankee-sai,” Roland said in a hoarse andtrembling voice. “I thank you, and so would my friends, were they here tospeak.”