The Dark Tower

But it was not. It was not, and wantingwould not make it so. Not even needing would make it so.

It’s his eyes, Roland thought. Theywere wide and terrible, the eyes of a dragon in human form. They weredreadfully good, but they weren’t right. Roland felt a kind of desperate,miserable certainty and shuddered from head to toe, hard enough to make histeeth chatter. They’re not quite r—

Patrick took hold of Roland’s elbow. Thegunslinger had been concentrating so fiercely on the drawing that he nearlyscreamed. He looked up. Patrick nodded at him, then touched his fingers to thecorners of his own eyes.

Yes. His eyes. I know that! But what’swrong with them?

Patrick was still touching the corners ofhis eyes. Overhead, a flock of rusties flew through a sky that would soon bemore purple than blue, squalling the harsh cries that had given them theirname. It was toward the Dark Tower that they flew; Roland arose to follow themso they should not have what he could not.

Patrick grabbed him by his hide coat andpulled him back. The boy shook his head violently, and this time pointed towardthe road.

“I SAW THAT, ROLAND!” came the cry. “YOUTHINK THAT WHAT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE BIRDS IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, DO YOU NOT?EEEEEEEEE! AND IT’S TRUE, SURE! SURE AS SUGAR, SURE AS SALT, SURE AS RUBIES INKING DANDO’S VAULT—EEEEEEEE, HA! I COULD HAVE HAD YOU JUST NOW, BUT WHYBOTHER? I THINK I’D RATHER SEE YOU COME, PISSING AND SHAKING AND UNABLE TO STOPYOURSELF!”

As I will, Roland thought. Iwon’t be able to help myself. I may be able to hold here another ten minutes,perhaps even another twenty, but in the end…

Patrick interrupted his thoughts, once morepointing at the road. Pointing back the way they had come.

Roland shook his head wearily. “Even if Icould fight the pull of the thing—and I couldn’t, it’s all I can do tobide here—retreat would do us no good. Once we’re no longer in cover,he’ll use whatever else he has. He has something, I’m sure of it. And whateverit is, the bullets of my revolver aren’t likely to stop it.”

Patrick shook his head hard enough to makehis long hair fly from side to side. The grip on Roland’s arm tightened untilthe boy’s fingernails bit into the gunslinger’s flesh even through three layersof hide clothing. His eyes, always gentle and usually puzzled, now peered atRoland with a look close to fury. He pointed again with his free hand, threequick jabbing gestures with the grimy forefinger. Not at the road,however.

Patrick was pointing at the roses.

“What about them?” Roland asked. “Patrick,what about them?”

This time Patrick pointed first to theroses, then to the eyes in his picture.

And this time Roland understood.

Nine

Patrick didn’t want to get them. WhenRoland gestured to him to go, the boy shook his head at once, whipping his haironce more from side to side, his eyes wide. He made a whistling noise betweenhis teeth that was a remarkably good imitation of an oncoming sneetch.

“I’ll shoot anything he sends,” Rolandsaid. “You’ve seen me do it. If there was one close enough so that I could pickit myself, I would. But there’s not. So it has to be you who picks the rose andme who gives you cover.”

But Patrick only cringed back against theragged side of the pyramid. Patrick would not. His fear might not have been asgreat as his talent, but it was surely a close thing. Roland calculated thedistance to the nearest rose. It was beyond their scant cover, but perhaps notby too much. He looked at his diminished right hand, which would have to do theplucking, and asked himself how hard it could be. The fact, of course, was thathe didn’t know. These were not ordinary roses. For all he knew, the thornsgrowing up the green stem might have a poison in them that would drop himparalyzed into the tall grass, an easy target.

And Patrick would not. Patrick knew thatRoland had once had friends, and that now all his friends were dead, andPatrick would not. If Roland had had two hours to work on theboy—possibly even one—he might have broken through his terror. Buthe didn’t have that time. Sunset had almost come.

Besides, it’s close. I can do it if Ihave to… and I must.

The weather had warmed enough so there wasno need for the clumsy deerskin gloves Susa

Patrick clutched his shoulder, shaking hishead frantically.

“I have to,” Roland said, and of course hedid. This was his job, not Patrick’s, and he had been wrong to try and make theboy do it in the first place. If he succeeded, fine and well. If he failed andwas blown apart here at the edge of Can’-Ka No Rey, at least that dreadful pullingwould cease.

The gunslinger took a deep breath, thenleaped from cover and at the rose. At the same moment, Patrick clutched at himagain, trying to hold him back. He grabbed a fold of Roland’s coat and twistedhim off-true. Roland landed clumsily on his side. The gun flew out of his handand fell in the tall grass. The Crimson King screamed (the gunslinger heardboth triumph and fury in that voice) and then came the approaching whine ofanother sneetch. Roland closed his mittened right hand around the stem of therose. The thorns bit through the tough deerskin as if it were no more than acoating of cobwebs. Then into his hand. The pain was enormous, but the song ofthe rose was sweet. He could see the blaze of yellow deep in its cup, like theblaze of a sun. Or a million of them. He could feel the warmth of blood fillingthe hollow of his palm and ru

The stem never did break. In the end, therose tore free of the ground, roots and all. Roland rolled to his left, grabbedhis gun, and fired without looking. His heart told him there was no longer timeto look. There was a shattering explosion, and the warm air that buffeted hisface this time was like a hurricane.

Close. Very close, that time.

The Crimson King screamed hisfrustration—

“EEEEEEEEEEE!”—and the cry wasfollowed by multiple approaching whistles. Patrick pressed himself against thepyramid, face-first. Roland, clutching the rose in his bleeding right hand,rolled onto his back, raised his gun, and waited for the sneetches to maketheir turn. When they did, he took care of them: one and two and three.

“STILL HERE!” he cried at the oldRed King. “STILL HERE, YOU OLD COCKSUCKER, MAY IT DO YA FINE!”

The Crimson King gave another of histerrible howls, but sent no more sneetches.

“SO NOW YOU HAVE A ROSE!” hescreamed. “LISTEN TO IT, ROLAND! LISTEN WELL, FOR IT SINGS THE SAME SONG!LISTEN AND COMMALA-COME-COME!”

Now that song was all but imperative inRoland’s head. It burned furiously along his nerves. He grasped Patrick andturned him around. “Now,” he said. “For my life, Patrick. For the lives ofevery man and woman who ever died in my place so I could go on.”

And child, he thought, seeing Jakein the eye of his memory. Jake first hanging over darkness, then falling intoit.

He stared into the mute boy’s terrifiedeyes. “Finish it! Show me that you can.”

Ten