The Dark Tower

“It won’t,” she said. “And if this is to bemy last sight of you—my heart says it is—then don’t let it be ofyou on your knees. You’re not a kneeling man, Roland, son of Steven, neverwere, and I don’t want to remember you that way. I want to see you on yourfeet, as you were in Calla Bryn Sturgis. As you were with your friends atJericho Hill.”

He got up and came to her. For a moment shethought he meant to restrain her by force, and she was afraid. But he only puthis hand on her arm for a moment, and then took it away. “Let me ask you again,Susa

She co

Nor would their deaths be long in coming.

“I’m sure,” said she.

“All right. Will you give me a kiss?”

She took him by the arm and pulled him downand put her lips on his. When she inhaled, she took in the breath of a thousandyears and ten thousand miles. And yes, she tasted death.

But not for you, gunslinger, shethought. For others, but never for you. May I escape your glammer, and may Ido fine.

She was the one who broke their kiss.

“Can you open the door for me?” she asked.

Roland went to it, and took the knob in hishand, and the knob turned easily within his grip.

Cold air puffed out, strong enough to blowPatrick’s long hair back, and with it came a few flakes of snow. She could seegrass that was still green beneath light frost, and a path, and an iron fence.Voices were singing “What Child Is This,” just as in her dream.

It could be Central Park. Yes, it couldbe; Central Park of some other world along the axis, perhaps, and not the oneshe came from, but close enough so that in time she would know no difference.

Or perhaps it was, as he said, a glammer.

Perhaps it was the todash darkness.

“It could be a trick,” he said, mostcertainly reading her mind.

“Life is a trick, love a glammer,”she replied. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, in the clearing at the end of thepath.”

“As you say so, let it be so,” he told her.He put out one leg, the rundown heel of his boot planted in the earth, andbowed to her. Oy had begun to weep, but he sat firmly beside the gunslinger’sleft boot. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Goodbye, Roland.” Then she faced ahead,took in a deep breath, and twisted the little cart’s throttle. It rolledsmoothly forward.

“Wait!” Roland cried, but she neverturned, nor looked at him again. She rolled through the door. It slammed shutbehind her at once with a flat, declamatory clap he knew all too well, one he’ddreamed of ever since his long and feverish walk along the edge of the WesternSea. The sound of the singing was gone and now there was only the lonely soundof the prairie wind.

Roland of Gilead sat in front of the door,which already looked tired and unimportant. It would never open again. He puthis face in his hands. It occurred to him that if he had never loved them, hewould never have felt so alone as this. Yet of all his many regrets, there-opening of his heart was not among them, even now.

Nineteen

Later—because there’s always a later,isn’t there?—he made breakfast and forced himself to eat his share.Patrick ate heartily, then withdrew to do his necessary while Roland packed up.

There was a third plate, and it was stillfull. “Oy?” Roland asked, tipping it toward the billy-bumbler. “Will’ee nothave at least a bite?”

Oy looked at the plate, then backed awaytwo firm steps. Roland nodded and tossed away the uneaten food, scattering itinto the grass. Mayhap Mordred would come along in good time, and find somethingto his liking.

At mid-morning they moved on, Rolandpulling Ho Fat II and Patrick walking along beside with his head hung low. Andsoon the beat of the Tower filled the gunslinger’s head again. Very close now.That steady, pulsing power drove out all thoughts of Susa

Commala-come-come, sang the DarkTower, now just over the horizon. Commala-come-come, gunslinger may ya come.

Commala-come-Roland, the journey’snearly done.

Chapter II:

Mordred

One

The dan-tete was watching when thelong-haired fellow they were now traveling with grabbed Susa

Ah, children are such dreamers.

It didn’t happen, of course, but there hadbeen much more to watch. Some of it was hard to see, though. Because it wasn’tjust excitement that made the binoculars tremble. He was dressed warmly now, inlayers of Dandelo’s hume clothes, but he was still cold. Except when he washot. And either way, hot or cold, he trembled like a toothless old gaffer in achimney corner. This state of affairs had been growing gradually worse since heleft Joe Collins’s house behind. Fever roared in his bones like a blizzardwind. Mordred was no longer a-hungry (for Mordred no longer had an appetite),but Mordred was a-sick, a-sick, a-sick.

In truth, he was afraid Mordred might bea-dying.

Nonetheless he watched Roland’s party withgreat interest, and once the fire was replenished, he saw even better. Saw thedoor come into being, although he could not read the symbols there writ upon.He understood that the Artist had somehow drawn it into being—what agodlike talent that was! Mordred longed to eat him just on the chance such atalent might be transmittable! He doubted it, the spiritual side of ca

He watched their palaver. He saw—andalso understood—her plea to the Artist and the Mutt, her whiningentreaties

(come with me so I don’t have to goalone, come on, be a sport, in fact be a couple of sports, oh boo-hoo)

and rejoiced in her sorrow and fury whenthe plea was rejected by both boy and beast; Mordred rejoiced even though heknew it would make his own job harder. (A little harder, anyway; howmuch trouble could a mute young man and a billy-bumbler really give him, oncehe changed his shape and made his move?) For a moment he thought that, in heranger, she might shoot Old White Daddy with his own gun, and that Mordred did notwant. Old White Daddy was meant to be his. The voice from the Dark Towerhad told him so. A-sick he surely was, a-dying he might be, but Old White Daddywas still meant to be his meal, not the Blackbird Mommy’s. Why, she’dleave the meat to rot without taking a single bite! But she didn’t shoot him.Instead she kissed him. Mordred didn’t want to see that, it made himfeel sicker than ever, and so he put the binoculars aside. He lay in the grassamid a little clump of alders, trembling, hot and cold, trying not to puke (hehad spent the entire previous day puking and shitting, it seemed, until themuscles of his midsection ached with the strain of sending such heavy traffic intwo directions at once and nothing came up his throat but thick, mucusy stringsand nothing out of his backside but brown stew and great hollow farts), andwhen he looked through the binoculars again, it was just in time to see theback end of the little electric cart disappear as the Blackbird Mommy drove itthrough the door. Something swirled out around it. Dust, maybe, but he thoughtsnow. There was also singing. The sound of it made him feel almost as sick asseeing her kiss Old White Gunslinger Daddy. Then the door slammed shut behindher and the singing was gone and the gunslinger just sat there near it, withhis face in his hands, boo-hoo, sob-sob. The bumbler went to him and put itslong snout on one of his boots as if to offer comfort, how sweet, how pukingsweet. By then it was dawn, and Mordred dozed a little. When he woke up, it wasto the sound of Old White Daddy’s voice. Mordred’s hiding place was downwind,and the words came to him clearly: “Oy? Will’ee not have at least a bite?” Thebumbler would not, however, and the gunslinger had scattered the food that hadbeen meant for the little furry houken. Later, after they moved on (Old WhiteGunslinger Daddy pulling the cart the robot had made for them, plodding slowlyalong the ruts of Tower Road with his head down and his shoulders all a-slump),Mordred crept to the campsite. He did indeed eat some of the scatteredfood—surely it had not been poisoned if Roland had hoped it would go downthe bumbler’s gullet—but he stopped after only three or four chunks ofmeat, knowing that if he went on eating, his guts would spew everything backout, both north and south. He couldn’t have that. If he didn’t hold onto atleast some nourishment, he would be too weak to follow them. And he mustfollow, had to stay close a little while longer. It would have to be tonight.It would have to be, because tomorrow Old White Daddy would reach the DarkTower, and then it would almost certainly be too late. His heart told him so.Mordred plodded as Roland had, but even more slowly. Every now and then hewould double over as cramps seized him and his human shape wavered, thatblackness rising and receding under his skin, his heavy coat bulging restlesslyas the other legs tried to burst free, then hanging slack again as he willedthem back inside, gritting his teeth and groaning with effort. Once he shit apint or so of stinky brown fluid in his pants, and once he managed to get histrousers down, and he cared little either way. No one had invited him to theReap Ball, ha-ha! Invitation lost in the mail, no doubt! Later, when it cametime to attack, he would let the little Red King free. But if it happened now,he was almost positive he wouldn’t be able to change back again. He wouldn’thave the strength. The spider’s faster metabolism would fan the sickness theway a strong wind fans a low ground-fire into a forest-gobbling blaze. What waskilling him slowly would kill him rapidly, instead. So he fought it, and byafternoon he felt a little better. The pulse from the Tower was growing rapidlynow, growing in strength and urgency. So was his Red Daddy’s voice, urging himon, urging him to stay within striking distance. Old White Gunslinger Daddy hadgotten no more than four hours’ sleep a night for weeks now, because he had beenstanding watch-and-watch with the now-departed Blackbird Mommy. But BlackbirdMommy hadn’t ever had to pull that cart, had she? No, just rode in it likeQueen Shit o’ Turd Hill did she, hee! Which meant Old White Gunslinger Daddywas plenty tired, even with the pulse of the Dark Tower to buoy him up and pullhim onward. Tonight Old White Daddy would either have to depend on the Artistand the Mutt to stand the first watch or try to do the whole thing on his own.Mordred thought he could stand one more wakeful night himself, simply becausehe knew he’d never have to have another. He would creep close, as he had theprevious night. He would watch their camp with the old man-monster’s glass eyesfor far-seeing. And when they were all asleep, he would change for the lasttime and rush down upon them. Scrabble-de-dee comes me, hee! Old White Daddymight never even wake up, but Mordred hoped he would. At the very end. Justlong enough to realize what was happening to him. Just long enough to know thathis son was snatching him into the land of death only hours before he wouldhave reached his precious Dark Tower. Mordred clenched his fists and watchedthe fingers turn black. He felt the terrible but pleasurable itching up thesides of his body as the spider-legs tried to burst through—seven insteadof eight, thanks to the terrible-nastyawful Blackbird Mommy who had been bothpreg and not-preg at the same time, and might she rot screaming in todash spaceforever (or at least until one of the Great Ones who lurked there found her).He fought and encouraged the change with equal ferocity. At last he only foughtit, and the urge to change subsided. He gave out a victory-fart, but althoughthis one was long and smelly, it was silent. His asshole was now a brokensqueezebox that could no longer make music but only gasp. His fingers returnedto their normal pinkish-white shade and the itching up and down the sides ofhis body disappeared. His head swam and slithered with fever; his thin arms(little more than sticks) ached with chills. The voice of his Red Daddy wassometimes loud and sometimes faint, but it was always there: Come to me. Runto me. Hie thy doubleton self. Come-commala, you good son of mine. We’ll bringthe Tower down, we’ll destroy all the light there is, and then rule thedarkness together.