The Dark Tower

“All right, can’ee see howgit rosen-gaff atweakit better?” he asked, striving to sound comic and only soundingcross—cross and tired.

Patrick, at least, didn’t react to theharshness in the gunslinger’s tone; probably didn’t even ken what I said,Roland thought. The mute boy sat with his ankles crossed and his pad balancedon his thighs, his half-finished plate of food set off to one side.

“Don’t get so busy you forget to eat that,”Roland said. “You mind me, now.” He got another distracted nod for his painsand gave up. “I’m going to snooze, Patrick. It’ll be a long afternoon.” Andan even longer night, he added to himself… and yet he had the sameconsolation as Mordred: tonight would likely be the last. He didn’t know forsure what waited for him in the Dark Tower at the end of the field of roses,but even if he managed to put paid to the Crimson King, he felt quite sure thatthis was his last march. He didn’t believe he would ever leave Can’-Ka No Rey,and that was all right. He was very tired. And, despite the power of the rose,sad.

Roland of Gilead put an arm over his eyesand was asleep at once.

Four

He didn’t sleep for long before Patrickwoke him with a child’s enthusiasm to show him the first picture of the rosehe’d drawn—the sun suggested no more than ten minutes had passed, fifteenat most.

Like all of his drawings, this one had aqueer power. Patrick had captured the rose almost to the life, even though hehad nothing but a pencil to work with. Still, Roland would much have preferredanother hour’s sleep to this exercise in art appreciation. He nodded hisapproval, though—no more grouch and grump in the presence of such alovely thing, he promised himself—and Patrick smiled, happy even with solittle. He tossed back the sheet and began drawing the rose again. One picturefor each of them, just as Roland had asked.

Roland could have slept again, but what wasthe point? The mute boy would be done with the second picture in a matter ofminutes and would only wake him again. He went to Oy instead, and stroked thebumbler’s dense fur, something he rarely did.

“I’m sorry I spoke rough to’ee, fella,”Roland said. “Will you not set me on with a word?”

But Oy would not.

Fifteen minutes later, Roland re-packed thefew things he’d taken out of the cart, spat into his palms, and hoisted thehandles again. The cart was lighter now, had to be, but it felt heavier.

Of course it’s heavier, he thought. It’sgot my grief in it. I pull it along with me everywhere I go, so I do.

Soon Ho Fat II had Patrick Danville in it,as well. He crawled up, made himself a little nest, and fell asleep almost atonce. Roland plodded on, head down, shadow growing longer at his heels. Oywalked beside him.

One more night, the gunslingerthought. One more night, one more day to follow, and then it’s done. One wayor t’ other.

He let the pulse of the Tower and its manysinging voices fill his head and lighten his heels… at least a little. Therewere more roses now, dozens scattered on either side of the road andbrightening the otherwise dull countryside. A few were growing in the roaditself and he was careful to detour around them. Tired though he might be, hewould not crush a single one, or roll a wheel over a single fallen petal.

Five

He stopped for the night while the sun wasstill well above the horizon, too weary to go farther even though there wouldbe at least another two hours of daylight. Here was a stream that had gone dry,but in its bed grew a riot of those beautiful wild roses. Their songs didn’tdiminish his weariness, but they revived his spirit to some extent. He thoughtthis was true for Patrick and Oy, as well, and that was good. When Patrick hadawakened he’d looked around eagerly at first. Then his face had darkened, andRoland knew he was realizing all over again that Susa

There was a grove of cottonwood trees onthe bank—at least the gunslinger thought they were cottonwoods—butthey had died when the stream from which their roots drank had disappeared. Nowtheir branches were only bony, leafless snarls against the sky. In theirsilhouettes he could make out the number nineteen over and over again, in boththe figures of Susa

Before making a fire and cooking them anearly supper—ca

Feeling a little better, he gathered woodfrom beneath the trees (snapping off a few of the lower branches for goodmeasure, leaving dry, splintered stumps that reminded him a little of Patrick’spencils) and piled kindling in the center. Then he struck a light, speaking theold catechism almost without hearing it: “Spark-a-dark, who’s my sire? Will Ilay me? Will I stay me? Bless this camp with fire.”

While he waited for the fire to first growand then die down to a bed of rosy embers, Roland took out the watch he hadbeen given in New York. Yesterday it had stopped, although he had been assuredthe battery that ran it would last for fifty years.

Now, as late afternoon faded to evening,the hands had very slowly begun to move backward.

He looked at this for a little while,fascinated, then closed the cover and looked at the siguls inscribed there: keyand rose and Tower. A faint and eldritch blue light had begun to gleam from thewindows that spiraled upward.

They didn’t know it would do that,he thought, and then put the watch carefully back in his lefthand front pocket,checking first (as he always did) that there was no hole for it to fallthrough. Then he cooked. He and Patrick ate well.

Oy would touch not a single bite.

Six

Other than the night he had spent inpalaver with the man in black—the night during which Walter had read ableak fortune from an undoubtedly stacked deck—those twelve hours of darkby the dry stream were the longest of Roland’s life. The weariness settled overhim ever deeper and darker, until it felt like a cloak of stones. Old faces andold places marched in front of his heavy eyes: Susan, riding hellbent acrossthe Drop with her blond hair flying out behind; Cuthbert ru

Mordred was somewhere out there, and close,yet again and again Roland found himself drifting toward sleep. Each time hejerked himself awake, staring around wildly into the dark, he knew he had comenearer to the edge of unconsciousness. Each time he expected to see the spiderwith the red mark on its belly bearing down on him and saw nothing but thehobs, dancing orange in the distance. Heard nothing but the sough of the wind.

But he waits. He bides. And if I sleep—whenI sleep—he’ll be on us.

Around three in the morning he rousedhimself by willpower alone from a doze that was on the very verge of tumblinghim into deeper sleep. He looked around desperately, rubbing his eyes with theheels of his palms hard enough to make mirks and fouders and sankofites explodeacross his field of vision. The fire had burned very low. Patrick lay abouttwenty feet from it, at the twisted base of a cottonwood tree. From whereRoland sat, the boy was no more than a hide-covered hump. Of Oy there was noimmediate sign. Roland called to the bumbler and got no response. Thegunslinger was about to try his feet when he saw Jake’s old friend a littlebeyond the edge of the failing firelight—or at least the gleam of hisgold-ringed eyes. Those eyes looked at Roland for a moment, then disappeared,probably when Oy put his snout back down on his paws.