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Come to me.
Come.
Two
Surely those three who remained (four,counting himself) had outrun ka’s umbrella. Not since the Prim recededhad there been such a creature as Mordred Deschain, who was part hume and partof that rich and potent soup. Surely such a creature could never have beenmeant by ka to die such a mundane death as the one that now threatened: feverbrought on by food-poisoning.
Roland could have told him that eating whathe found in the snow around to the side of Dandelo’s barn was a bad idea; socould Robert Browning, for that matter. Wicked or not, actual horse ornot, Lippy (probably named after another, and better-known, Browning poemcalled “Fra Lippo Lippi”) had been a sick animal herself when Roland ended herlife with a bullet to the head. But Mordred had been in his spider-form whenhe’d come upon the thing which at least looked like a horse, and almostnothing would have stopped him from eating the meat. It wasn’t until he’dresumed his human form again that he wondered uneasily how there could be somuch meat on Dandelo’s bony old nag and why it had been so soft and warm, sofull of uncoagulated blood. It had been in a snowdrift, after all, and had beenlying there for some days. The mare’s remains should have been frozen stiff.
Then the vomiting began. The fever camenext, and with it the struggle not to change until he was close enough to hisOld White Daddy to rip him limb from limb. The being whose coming had beenprophesied for thousands of years (mostly by the Ma
Ka could have had no part in this.
Three
Roland and his two companions didn’t makemuch progress on the day Susa
The pulse from the Tower was strong inRoland’s head and heart, and its song was powerful and lovely, now seeminglycomposed of a thousand voices, but not even these things could take the leadfrom his bones. Then, as he was looking for a shady spot where they could stopand eat a little midday meal (by now it was actually mid-afternoon), he sawsomething that momentarily made him forget both his weariness and his sorrow.
Growing by the side of the road was a wildrose, seemingly the exact twin of the one in the vacant lot. It bloomed indefiance of the season, which Roland put as very early spring. It was a lightpink shade on the outside and darkened to a fierce red on the inside; the exactcolor, he thought, of heart’s desire. He fell on his knees before it, tippedhis ear toward that coral cup, and listened.
The rose was singing.
The weariness stayed, as weariness will (onthis side of the grave, at least), but the loneliness and the sadness departed,at least for a little while. He peered into the heart of the rose and saw ayellow center so bright he couldn’t look directly at it.
Gan’s gateway, he thought, not sureexactly what that was but positive that he was right. Aye, Gan’s gateway, soit is!
This was unlike the rose in the vacant lotin one crucial way: the feeling of sickness and the faint voices of discordwere gone. This one was rich with health as well as full of light and love. Itand all the others… they… they must…
They feed the Beams, don’t they? Withtheir songs and their perfume. As the Beams feed them. It’s a livingforce-field, a giving and taking, all spi
The thought made him faint with amazement.Then came another that filled him with anger and fear: the only one with a viewof that great red blanket was insane. Would blight them all in an instant, ifallowed free rein to do so.
There was a hesitant tap on his shoulder.It was Patrick, with Oy at his heel. Patrick pointed to the grassy area besidethe rose, then made eating gestures. Pointed at the rose and made drawing motions.Roland wasn’t very hungry, but the boy’s other idea pleased him a great deal.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll have a bite here,then maybe I’ll take me a little siesta while you draw the rose. Will you maketwo pictures of it, Patrick?” He showed the two remaining fingers on his righthand to make sure Patrick understood.
The young man frowned and cocked his head,still not understanding. His hair hung to one shoulder in a bright sheaf.Roland thought of how Susa
Meanwhile, here was Patrick, wildlytalented but awfully slow on the uptake.
Roland gestured to his pad, then to therose. Patrick nodded—that part he got. Then Roland raised two of thefingers on his good hand and pointed to the pad again. This time the lightbroke on Patrick’s face. He pointed to the rose, to the pad, to Roland, andthen to himself.
“That’s right, big boy,” Roland said. “Apicture of the rose for you and one for me. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Patrick nodded enthusiastically, setting towork while Roland rustled the grub. Once again Roland fixed three plates, andonce again Oy refused his share. When Roland looked into the bumbler’sgold-ringed eyes he saw an emptiness there—a kind of loss—that hurthim deep inside. And Oy couldn’t stand to miss many meals; he was far too thinalready. Trail-frayed, Cuthbert would have said, probably smiling. In need ofsome hot sassafras and salts. But the gunslinger had no sassy here.
“Why do’ee look so?” Roland asked thebumbler crossly. “If’ee wanted to go with her, thee should have gone when theehad the chance! Why will’ee cast thy sad houken’s eyes on me now?”
Oy looked at him a moment longer, andRoland saw that he had hurt the little fellow’s feelings; ridiculous but true.Oy walked away, little squiggle of tail drooping. Roland felt like calling himback, but that would have been more ridiculous yet, would it not? What plan didhe have? To apologize to a billy-bumbler?
He felt angry and ill at ease with himself,feelings he had never suffered before hauling Eddie, Susa
Roland hunkered by the rose, leaning intothe soothing power of its song and the blaze of light—healthylight—from its center. Then Patrick hooted at him, gesturing for Rolandto move away so he could see it and draw it. This added to Roland’s sense ofdislocation and a