The Dark Tower

He has overheard enough to be sure of whathis father is pla

And gunslingers are what Jake would call fou,crazy when their blood is up, and afraid of nothing. Such insanity is an evenmore powerful weapon.

Mordred was born with a fair amount ofinbred knowledge, it seems. He knows, for instance, that his Red Father,possessed of such information as Mordred now has, would have sent word of thegunslinger’s presence at once to the Devar-Toi’s Master or Security Chief. And then,sometime later tonight, the ka-tet out of Mid-World would have found themselvesambushed. Killed in their sleep, mayhap, thus allowing the Breakers to continuethe King’s work. Mordred wasn’t born with a knowledge of that work, but he’scapable of logic and his ears are sharp. He now understands what thegunslingers are about: they have come here to break the Breakers.

He could stop it, true, but Mordred feelsno interest in his Red Father’s plans or ambitions. What he most truly enjoys,he’s discovering, is the bitter loneliness of outside. Of watching withthe cold interest of a child watching life and death and war and peace throughthe glass wall of the antfarm on his bureau.

Would he let yon ki’-dam actually kill hisWhite Father? Oh, probably not. Mordred is reserving that pleasure for himself,and he has his reasons; already he has his reasons. But as for theothers—the young man, the shor’-leg woman, the kid—yes, if ki’-damPrentiss gets the upper hand, by all means let him kill any or all three ofthem. As for Mordred Deschain, he will let the game play out straight. He willwatch. He will listen. He will hear the screams and smell the burning and watchthe blood soak into the ground. And then, if he judges that Roland won’t winhis throw, he, Mordred, will step in. On behalf of the Crimson King, if itseems like a good idea, but really on his own behalf, and for his own reason,which is really quite simple: Mordred’s a-hungry.

And if Roland and his ka-tet should wintheir throw? Win and press on to the Tower? Mordred doesn’t really think itwill happen, for he is in his own strange way a member of their ka-tet, heshares their khef and feels what they do. He feels the impending break of theirfellowship.

Ka-shume! Mordred thinks, smiling.There’s a single eye left in the desert-dog’s face. One of the hairy blackspider-legs caresses it and then plucks it out. Mordred eats it like a grape,then turns back to where the white light of the gas-lanterns spills around thecorners of the blanket Roland has hung across the cave’s mouth.

Could he go down closer? Close enough tolisten?

Mordred thinks he could, especially withthe rising wind to mask the sound of his movements. An exciting idea.

He scutters down the rocky slope toward theerrant sparks of light, toward the murmur of the voice from the tape recorderand the thoughts of those listening: his brothers, his sister-mother, the petbilly, and, of course, overseeing them all, Big White Ka-Daddy.

Mordred creeps as close as he dares andthen crouches in the cold and windy dark, miserable and enjoying his misery,dreaming his outside dreams. Inside, beyond the blanket, is light. Let themhave it, if they like; for now let there be light. Eventually he, Mordred, willput it out. And in the darkness, he will have his pleasure.

Chapter VIII:

Notes from theGingerbread House

One

Eddie looked at the others. Jake and Rolandwere sitting on the sleeping-bags which had been left for them. Oy lay curledup at Jake’s feet. Susa

No one suggested they stop, certainly notRoland, who listened with silent fascination even when his hip began to throbagain. Roland thought he understood more, now; certainly he knew they had areal chance to stop what was happening in the compound below them. Theknowledge frightened him because their chances of success were slim. Thefeeling of ka-shume made that clear. And one did not really understand thestakes until one glimpsed the goddess in her white robe, the bitch-goddesswhose sleeve fell back to reveal her comely white arm as she beckoned: Cometo me, run to me. Yes, it’s possible, you may gain your goal, you may win, sorun to me, give me your whole heart. And if I break it? If one of you fallsshort, falls into the pit of coffah (the place your new friends call hell)? Toobad for you.

Yes, if one of them fell into coffah andburned within sight of the fountains, that would be too bad, indeed. And thebitch in the white robe? Why, she’d only put her hands on her hips, and throwback her head, and laugh as the world ended. So much depended on the man whoseweary, rational voice now filled the cave. The Dark Tower itself depended onhim, for Brautigan was a man of staggering powers.

The surprising thing was that the samecould be said of Sheemie.

Two

“Test, one two… test, one two… test, test,test. This is Ted Stevens Brautigan and this is a test…”

A brief pause. The reels turned, one full,the other now begi

“Okay, good. Great, in fact. I wasn’t surethis thing would work, especially here, but it seems fine. I prepared for thisby trying to imagine you four—five, counting the boy’s littlefriend—listening to me, because I’ve always found visualization an excellenttechnique when preparing some sort of presentation. Unfortunately, in this caseit doesn’t work. Sheemie can send me very good mental pictures—brilliantones, in fact—but Roland is the only one of you he’s actually seen, andhim not since the fall of Gilead, when both of them were very young. Nodisrespect, fellows, but I suspect the Roland now coming toward Thunderclaplooks hardly anything like the young man my friend Sheemie so worshipped.

“Where are you now, Roland? In Maine,looking for the writer? The one who also created me, after a fashion? In NewYork, looking for Eddie’s wife? Are any of you even still alive? I know thechances of you reaching Thunderclap aren’t good; ka is drawing you to theDevar-Toi, but a very powerful anti-ka, set in motion by the one you call theCrimson King, is working against you and your tet in a thousand ways. All thesame…

“Was it Emily Dickinson who called hope thething with feathers? I can’t remember. There are a great many things I can’tremember any longer, but it seems I still remember how to fight. Maybe that’s agood thing. I hope it’s a good thing.

“Has it crossed your mind to wonder whereI’m recording this, lady and gentlemen?”

It hadn’t. They simply sat, mesmerized bythe slightly dusty sound of Brautigan’s voice, passing a bottle of Perrier anda tin filled with graham crackers back and forth.

“I’ll tell you,” Brautigan went on, “partlybecause the three of you from America will surely find it amusing, but mostlybecause you may find it useful in formulating a plan to destroy what’s going onin Algul Siento.

“As I speak, I’m sitting on a chair made ofslab chocolate. The seat is a big blue marshmallow, and I doubt if the airmattresses we’re pla