The Dark Tower

“As for the end of the universe… I say letit come as it will, in ice, fire, or darkness. What did the universe ever dofor me that I should mind its welfare? All I know is that Roland of Gilead haslived too long and I want that son of a bitch in the ground. And thosehe’s drawn, too.”

For the third and last time, Mordred drewthe shape of a question in the air.

“There’s only a single working door fromhere to the devar-toi, young master. It’s the one the Wolves use… or used; Ithink they’ve made their last run, so I do. Roland and his friends have gonethrough it, but that’s all right, there’s plenty to occupy em right where theycome out—they might find the reception a bit hot! Mayhap we can take careof em while they’ve got the Breakers and the remaining Children of Roderick andthe true guards o’ the watch to worry about. Would you like that?”

The infant nodded an affirmative with nohesitation. He then put his fingers to his mouth and chewed at them.

“Yes,” Walter said. His grin shone out.“Hungry, of course you are. But I’m sure we can do better than rats andhalf-grown billy-bumblers when it comes to di

Mordred nodded again. He was sure theycould, too.

“Will I play the good da’ and carry you?”Walter asked. “That way you don’t have to change to your spider-self. Ugh! Nota shape ‘tis easy to love, or even like, I must say.”

Mordred was holding up his arms.

“Y’won’t shit on me, will you?” Walterasked casually, halting halfway across the floor. His hand slid into hispocket, and Mordred realized with a touch of alarm that the sly bastard hadbeen hiding something from him, just the same: he knew the so-called“thinking-cap” wasn’t working. Now he meant to use the gun after all.

Three

In fact, Mordred gave Walter o’ Dim far toomuch credit, but isn’t that a trait of the young, perhaps even a survivalskill? To a wide-eyed lad, the tacky tricks of the world’s most ham-fistedprestidigitator look like miracles. Walter did not actually realize what washappening until very late in the game, but he was a wily old survivor, tell yatrue, and when understanding came, it came entire.

There’s a phrase, the elephant in theliving room, which purports to describe what it’s like to live with a drugaddict, an alcoholic, an abuser. People outside such relationships willsometimes ask, “How could you let such a business go on for so many years?Didn’t you see the elephant in the living room?” And it’s so hard foranyone living in a more normal situation to understand the answer that comesclosest to the truth: “I’m sorry, but it was there when I moved in. I didn’tknow it was an elephant; I thought it was part of the furniture.”There comes an aha-moment for some folks—the lucky ones—whenthey suddenly recognize the difference. And that moment came for Walter. Itcame too late, but not by much.

Y’won’t shit on me, will you—thatwas the question he asked, but between the word shit and the phrase onme, he suddenly realized there was an intruder in his house… and it hadbeen there all along. Not a baby, either; this was a gangling, slope-headedadolescent with pockmarked skin and dully curious eyes. It was perhaps thebest, truest visualization Walter could have made for Mordred Deschain as he atthat moment existed: a teenage housebreaker, probably high on some aerosolcleaning product.

And he had been there all the time!God, how could he not have known? The housebreaker hadn’t even been hiding! Hehad been right out in the open, standing there against the wall, gape-mouthedand taking it all in.

His plans for bringing Mordred with him—ofusing him to end Roland’s life (if the guards at the devar-toi couldn’t do itfirst, that was), then killing the little bastard and taking his valuable leftfoot—collapsed in an instant. In the next one a new plan arose, and itwas simplicity itself. Mustn’t let him see that I know. One shot, that’s allI can risk, and only because I must risk it. Then I run. If he’s dead,fine. If not, perhaps he’ll starve before—

Then Walter realized his hand had stopped.Four fingers had closed around the butt of the gun in the jacket pocket, butthey were now frozen. One was very near the trigger, but he couldn’t move that,either. It might as well have been buried in cement. And now Walter clearly sawthe shining wire for the first time. It emerged from the toothless pink-gummedmouth of the baby sitting in the chair, crossed the room, glittering beneaththe lights, and then encircled him at chest-level, binding his arms to hissides. He understood the wire wasn’t really there… but at the same time, it was.

He couldn’t move.

Four

Mordred didn’t see the shining wire,perhaps because he’d never read Watership Down. He’d had the chance toexplore Susa

The only problem was that he was a baby.

A damned baby stuck in a chair.

If he really meant to change thisdelicatessen on legs into cold-cuts, he’d have to move quickly.

Five

Walter o’ Dim was not too old to begullible, he understood that now—he’d underestimated the little monster,relying too much on what it looked like and not enough on his own knowledge ofwhat it was—but he was at least beyond the young man’s trap oftotal panic.

If he means to do anything besides sitin that chair and look at me, he’ll have to change. When he does, his controlmay slip. That’ll be my chance. It’s not much, but it’s the only one I haveleft.

At that moment he saw a brilliant red lightrun down the baby’s skin from crown to toes. In the wake of it, the chubby-pinkbah-bo’s body began to darken and swell, the spider’s legs bursting out throughhis sides. At the same instant, the shining wire coming out of the baby’s mouthdisappeared and Walter felt the suffocating band which had been holding him inplace disappear.

No time to risk even a single shot, notnow. Run. Run from him… from it. That’s all you can do. You never shouldhave come here in the first place. You let your hatred of the gunslinger blind you,but it still may not be too la—

He turned to the trapdoor even as thisthought raced through his mind, and was about to put his foot on the first stepwhen the shining wire re-established itself, this time not looping around hisarms and chest but around his throat, like a garrote.

Gagging and choking and spewing spit, eyesbulging from their sockets, Walter turned jerkily around. The loop around histhroat loosened the barest bit. At the same time he felt something very like aninvisible hand skim up his brow and push the hood back from his head. He’dalways gone dressed in such fashion, when he could; in certain provinces to thesouth even of Garlan he had been known as Walter Hodji, the latter wordmeaning both dim and hood. But this particular lid (borrowed froma certain deserted house in the town of French Landing, Wisconsin) had done himno good at all, had it?

I think I may have come to the end ofthe path, he thought as he saw the spider strutting toward him on its sevenlegs, a bloated, lively thing (livelier than the baby, aye, and four thousandtimes as ugly) with a freakish blob of human head peering over the hairy curveof its back. On its belly, Walter could see the red mark that had been on thebaby’s heel. Now it had an hourglass shape, like the one that marks the femaleblack widow, and he understood that was the mark he’d have wanted; killing thebaby and amputating its foot likely would have done him no good at all. Itseemed he had been wrong all down the line.