The Dark Tower

He’s tired, too, Roland thought, andwhy not?

The question of what would become of Oyafter tomorrow tried to rise to the surface of the gunslinger’s troubled, tiredmind, and Roland pushed it away. He got up (in his weariness his hands slippeddown to his formerly troublesome hip, as if expecting to find the pain stillthere), went to Patrick, and shook him awake. It took some doing, but at lastthe boy’s eyes opened. That wasn’t good enough for Roland. He grasped Patrick’sshoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position. When the boy tried to slumpback down again, Roland shook him. Hard. He looked at Roland with dazedincomprehension.

“Help me build up the fire, Patrick.”

Doing that should wake him up at least alittle. And once the fire was burning bright again, Patrick would have to standa brief watch. Roland didn’t like the idea, knew full well that leaving Patrickin charge of the night would be dangerous, but trying to watch the rest of iton his own would be even more dangerous. He needed sleep. An hour or two wouldbe enough, and surely Patrick could stay awake that long.

Patrick was willing enough to gather upsome sticks and put them on the fire, although he moved like a bougie—a reanimatedcorpse. And when the fire was blazing, he slumped back down in his former placewith his arms between his bony knees, already more asleep than awake. Rolandthought he might actually have to slap the boy to bring him around, and wouldlater wish—bitterly—that he had done just that.

“Patrick, listen to me.” He shook Patrickby the shoulders hard enough to make his long hair fly, but some of it floppedback into his eyes. Roland brushed it away. “I need you to stay awake andwatch. Just for an hour… just until… look up, Patrick! Look! Gods, don’t you darego to sleep on me again! Do you see that? The brightest star of all those closeto us!”

It was Old Mother Roland was pointing to,and Patrick nodded at once. There was a gleam of interest in his eye now, andthe gunslinger thought that was encouraging. It was Patrick’s “I want to draw”look. And if he sat drawing Old Mother as she shone in the widest fork of thebiggest dead cottonwood, then the chances were good that he’d stay awake. Maybeuntil dawn, if he got fully involved.

“Here, Patrick.” He made the boy sitagainst the base of the tree. It was bony and knobby and—Rolandhoped—uncomfortable enough to prohibit sleep. All these movements felt toRoland like the sort you made underwater. Oh, he was tired. So tired.“Do you still see the star?”

Patrick nodded eagerly. He seemed to havethrown off his sleepiness, and the gunslinger thanked the gods for this favor.

“When it goes behind that thick branch andyou can’t see it or draw it anymore without getting up… you call me. Wake meup, no matter how hard it is. Do you understand?”

Patrick nodded at once, but Roland had nowtraveled with him long enough to know that such a nod meant little or nothing.Eager to please, that’s what he was. If you asked him if nine and nine madenineteen, he would nod with the same instant enthusiasm.

“When you can’t see it anymore from whereyou’re sitting…” His own words seemed to be coming from far away, now. He’djust have to hope that Patrick understood. The tongueless boy had taken out hispad, at least, and a freshly sharpened pencil.

That’s my best protection, Roland’smind muttered as he stumbled back to his little pile of hides between thecampfire and Ho Fat II. He won’t fall asleep while he’s drawing, will he?

He hoped not, but supposed he didn’t reallyknow. And it didn’t matter, because he, Roland of Gilead, was going to sleep inany case. He’d done the best he could, and it would have to be enough.

“An hour,” he muttered, and his voice wasfar and wee in his own ears. “Wake me in an hour… when the star… when OldMother goes behind…”

But Roland was unable to finish. He didn’teven know what he was saying anymore. Exhaustion grabbed him and bore himswiftly away into dreamless sleep.

Seven

Mordred saw it all through the far-seeingglass eyes. His fever had soared, and in its bright flame, his own exhaustionhad at least temporarily departed. He watched with avid interest as thegunslinger woke the mute boy—the Artist—and bullied him intohelping him build up the fire. He watched, rooting for the mute to finish thischore and then go back to sleep before the gunslinger could stop him. Thatdidn’t happen, unfortunately. They had camped near a grove of dead cottonwoods,and Roland led the Artist to the biggest tree. Here he pointed up at the sky.It was strewn with stars, but Mordred reckoned Old White Gunslinger Daddy waspointing to Old Mother, because she was the brightest. At last the Artist, whodidn’t seem to be rolling a full barrow (at least not in the brains department)seemed to understand. He got out his pad and had already set to sketching asOld White Daddy stumbled a little way off, still muttering instructions andorders to which the Artist was pretty clearly paying absolutely no attention atall. Old White Daddy collapsed so suddenly that for a moment Mordred fearedthat perhaps the strip of jerky that served the son of a bitch as a heart hadfinally given up beating. Then Roland stirred in the grass, resettling himself,and Mordred, lying on a knoll about ninety yards west of the dry streambed,felt his own heartbeat slow. And deep though the Old White Gunslinger Daddy’sexhaustion might be, his training and his long lineage, going all the way backto the Eld himself, would be enough to wake him with his gun in his hand thesecond the Artist gave one of his wordless but devilishly loud cries. Crampsseized Mordred, the deepest yet. He doubled over, fighting to hold his humanshape, fighting not to scream, fighting not to die. He heard another of thoselong flabbering noises from below and felt more of the lumpy brown stew begincoursing down his legs. But his preternaturally keen nose smelled more thanexcreta in this new mess; this time he smelled blood as well as shit. Hethought the pain would never end, that it would go on deepening until it torehim in two, but at last it began to let up. His looked at his left hand and wasnot entirely surprised to see that the fingers had blackened and fusedtogether. They would never come back to human again, those fingers; he believedhe had but only one more change left in him. Mordred wiped sweat from his browwith his right hand and raised the bin-doculars to his eyes again, praying tohis Red Daddy that the stupid mutie boy would be asleep. But he was not. He wasleaning against the cottonwood tree and looking up between the branches anddrawing Old Mother. That was the moment when Mordred Deschain came closest todespair. Like Roland, he thought drawing was the one thing that would likelykeep the idiot boy awake. Therefore, why not give in to the change while he hadthe heat of this latest fever-spike to fuel him with its destructive energy?Why not take his chance? It was Roland he wanted, after all, not the boy;surely he could, in his spider form, sweep down on the gunslinger rapidlyenough to grab him and pull him against the spider’s craving mouth. Old WhiteDaddy might get off one shot, possibly even two, but Mordred thought he couldtake one or two, if the flying bits of lead didn’t find the white node on thespider’s back: his dual body’s brain. And once I pull him in, I’ll never lethim go until he’s sucked dry, nothing but a dust-mummy like the other one, Mia.He relaxed, ready to let the change sweep over him, and then another voicespoke from the center of his mind. It was the voice of his Red Daddy, the onewho was imprisoned on the side of the Dark Tower and needed Mordred alive, atleast one more day, in order to set him free.

Wait a little longer, this voicecounseled. Wait a little more. I might have another trick up my sleeve.Wait… wait just a little longer…