The Dark Tower

He made one final effort to draw back:hopeless. Ka was stronger.

Roland of Gilead walked through the lastdoor, the one he always sought, the one he always found. It closed gentlybehind him.

Eight

The gunslinger paused for a moment, swayingon his feet. He thought he’d almost passed out. It was the heat, of course; thedamned heat. There was a wind, but it was dry and brought no relief. He tookhis waterskin, judged how much was left by the heft of it, knew he shouldn’tdrink—it wasn’t time to drink—and had a swallow, anyway.

For a moment he had felt he was somewhereelse. In the Tower itself, mayhap. But of course the desert was tricky, andfull of mirages. The Dark Tower still lay thousands of wheels ahead. That senseof having climbed many stairs and looked into many rooms where many faces hadlooked back at him was already fading.

I will reach it, he thought,squinting up at the pitiless sun. I swear on the name of my father that Iwill.

And perhaps this time if you get thereit will be different, a voice whispered—surely the voice of desertdelirium, for what other time had there ever been? He was what he was and wherehe was, just that, no more than that, no more. He had no sense of humor andlittle imagination, but he was steadfast. He was a gunslinger. And in hisheart, well-hidden, he still felt the bitter romance of the quest.

You’re the one who never changes,Cort had told him once, and in his voice Roland could have sworn he heard fear…although why Cort should have been afraid of him—a boy—Rolandcouldn’t tell. It’ll be your damnation, boy. You’ll wear out a hundred pairsof boots on your walk to hell.

And Va

And his mother: Roland, must you alwaysbe so serious? Can you never rest?

Yet the voice whispered it again

(different this time mayhap different)

and Roland did seem to smellsomething other than alkali and devil-grass. He thought it might be flowers.

He thought it might be roses.

He shifted his gu

This is your sigul, whispered thefading voice that bore with it the dusk-sweet scent of roses, the scent of homeon a summer evening—O lost!—a stone, a rose, an unfound door; astone, a rose, a door.

This is your promise that things may be different,Roland—that there may yet be rest. Even salvation.

A pause, and then:

If you stand. If you are true.

He shook his head to clear it, thought oftaking another sip of water, and dismissed the idea. Tonight. When he built hiscampfire over the bones of Walter’s fire. Then he would drink. As for now…

As for now, he would resume his journey.Somewhere ahead was the Dark Tower. Closer, however, much closer, was the man (washe a man? was he really?) who could perhaps tell him how to get there. Roland wouldcatch him, and when he did, that man would talk—aye, yes, yar, tell it onthe mountain as you’d hear it in the valley: Walter would be caught, and Walterwould talk.

Roland touched the horn again, and itsreality was oddly comforting, as if he had never touched it before.

Time to get moving.

The man in black fled across the desert,and the gunslinger followed.

June 19,1970–April 7, 2004:

I tell God thankya.

APPENDIX

“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”

Robert Browning

I

My first thought was,he lied in every word,

That hoary cripple,with malicious eye

Askance to watch theworkings of his lie

On mine, and mouthscarce able to afford

Suppression of theglee, that pursed and scored

Its edge, at one morevictim gained thereby.

II

What else should hebe set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylaywith his lies, ensnare

All travellers whomight find him posted there,

And ask the road? Iguessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, whatcrutch ‘gin write my epitaph

For pastime in thedusty thoroughfare.

III

If at his counsel Ishould turn aside

Into that ominoustract which, all agree,

Hides the Dark Tower.Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as hepointed, neither pride

Nor hope rekindlingat the end descried,

So much as gladnessthat some end might be.

IV

For, what with mywhole world-wide wandering,

What with my searchdrawn out through years, my hope

Dwindled into a ghostnot fit to cope

With thatobstreperous joy success would bring,

I hardly tried now torebuke the spring

My heart made,finding failure in its scope.

V

As when a sick manvery near to death

Seems dead indeed,and feels begin and end

The tears and takesthe farewell of each friend,

And hears one bid theother go, draw breath

Freelier outside,(‘since all is o’er,’ he saith

‘And the blow falle