The Dark Tower

“You don’t have any,” Jake said. “Skin’s asclear as a bell. Luck-ee.”

“No pimples,” Roland agreed, and smoked.Below them in the seeping light was the village. The peaceful village,Jake thought, but it looked more than peaceful; it looked downright dead. Thenhe saw two figures, little more than specks from here, strolling toward eachother. Hume guards patrolling the outer run of the fence, he presumed. Theyjoined together into a single speck long enough for Jake to imagine a bit oftheir palaver, and then the speck divided again. “No pimples, but my hip hurtslike a son of a bitch. Feels like someone opened it in the night and poured itfull of broken glass. Hot glass. But this is far worse.” He touched theright side of his head. “It feels cracked.”

“You really think it’s Stephen King’sinjuries you’re feeling?”

Instead of making a verbal reply, Rolandlaid the forefinger of his left hand across a circle made by the thumb andpinky of his right: that gesture which meant I tell you the truth.

“That’s a bummer,” Jake said. “For him aswell as you.”

“Maybe; maybe not. Because, think you,Jake; think you well. Only living things feel pain. What I’m feeling suggeststhat King won’t be killed instantly. And that means he might be easier tosave.”

Jake thought it might only mean King wasgoing to lie beside the road in semi-conscious agony for awhile beforeexpiring, but didn’t like to say so. Let Roland believe what he liked. Butthere was something else. Something that concerned Jake a lot more, and madehim uneasy.

“Roland, may I speak to you dan-dinh?”

The gunslinger nodded. “If you would.” Aslight pause. A flick at the left corner of the mouth that wasn’t quite asmile. “If thee would.”

Jake gathered his courage. “Why are you soangry now? What are you angry at? Or whom?” Now it was his turn topause. “Is it me?”

Roland’s eyebrows rose, then he barked alaugh. “Not you, Jake. Not a bit. Never in life.”

Jake flushed with pleasure.

“I keep forgetting how strong the touch hasbecome in you. You’d have made a fine Breaker, no doubt.”

This wasn’t an answer, but Jake didn’tbother saying so. And the idea of being a Breaker made him repress a shiver.

“Don’t you know?” Roland asked. “If theeknows I’m what Eddie calls royally pissed, don’t you know why?”

“I could look, but it wouldn’t be polite.”But it was a lot more than that. Jake vaguely remembered a Bible story aboutNoah getting loaded on the ark, while he and his sons were waiting out theflood. One of the sons had come upon his old man lying drunk on his bunk, andhad laughed at him. God had cursed him for it. To peek into Roland’s thoughtswouldn’t be the same as looking—and laughing—while he was drunk,but it was close.

“Thee’s a fine boy,” Roland said. “Fine andgood, aye.” And although the gunslinger spoke almost absently, Jake could havedied happily enough at that moment. From somewhere beyond and above them camethat resonant CLICK! sound, and all at once the special-effects sunbeam speareddown on the Devar-Toi. A moment later, faintly, they heard the sound of music:“Hey Jude,” arranged for elevator and supermarket. Time to rise and shine downbelow. Another day of Breaking had just begun. Although, Jake supposed, downthere the Breaking never really stopped.

“Let’s have a game, you and I,” Rolandproposed. “You try to get into my head and see who I’m angry at. I’ll try tokeep you out.”

Jake shifted position slightly. “Thatdoesn’t sound like a fun game to me, Roland.”

“Nevertheless, I’d play against you.”

“All right, if you want to.”

Jake closed his eyes and called up an imageof Roland’s tired, stubbled face. His brilliant blue eyes. He made a doorbetween and slightly above those eyes—a little one, with a brassknob—and tried to open it. For a moment the knob turned. Then it stopped.Jake applied more pressure. The knob began to turn again, then stopped onceagain. Jake opened his eyes and saw that fine beads of sweat had broken onRoland’s brow.

“This is stupid. I’m making your headacheworse,” he said.

“Never mind. Do your best.”

My worst, Jake thought. But if theyhad to play this game, he wouldn’t draw it out. He closed his eyes again andonce again saw the little door between Roland’s tangled brows. This time heapplied more force, piling it on quickly. It felt a little like arm-wrestling.After a moment the knob turned and the door opened. Roland grunted, thenuttered a painful laugh. “That’s enough for me,” he said. “By the gods, thee’sstrong!”

Jake paid no attention to that. He openedhis eyes. “The writer? King? Why are you mad at him?”

Roland sighed and cast away the smolderingbutt of his cigarette; Jake had already finished with his. “Because we have twojobs to do where we should have only one. Having to do the second one is saiKing’s fault. He knew what he was supposed to do, and I think that on somelevel he knew that doing it would keep him safe. But he was afraid. Hewas tired.” Roland’s upper lip curled. “Now his irons are in the fire,and we have to pull them out. It’s going to cost us, and probably a-dearly.”

“You’re angry at him because he’s afraid?But…” Jake frowned. “But why wouldn’t he be afraid? He’s only a writer. Atale-spi

“I know that,” Roland said, “but I don’tthink it was fear that stopped him, Jake, or not just fear. He’s lazy,as well. I felt it when I met him, and I’m sure that Eddie did, too. He lookedat the job he was made to do and it daunted him and he said to himself, ‘Allright, I’ll find an easier job, one that’s more to my liking and more tomy abilities. And if there’s trouble, they’ll take care of me. They’ll haveto take care of me.’ And so we do.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“No,” Roland agreed, “I didn’t. Not a bit. Nortrusted him. I’ve met tale-spi

“Do you say so?” Jake thought it was adismal idea. He also thought it had the ring of truth.

“I do. But…” He shrugged. It is what itis, that shrug said.

Ka-shume, Jake thought. If theirka-tet broke, and it was King’s fault…

If it was King’s fault, what? Take revengeon him? It was a gunslinger’s thought; it was also a stupid thought, like theidea of taking revenge on God.

“But we’re stuck with it,” Jake finished.

“Aye. That wouldn’t stop me from kickinghis yellow, lazy ass if I got the chance, though.”

Jake burst out laughing at that, and thegunslinger smiled. Then Roland got to his feet with a grimace, both handsplanted on the ball of his right hip. “Bugger,” he growled.

“Hurts bad, huh?”

“Never mind my aches and mollies. Come withme. I’ll show you something more interesting.”

Roland, limping slightly, led Jake to wherethe path curled around the flank of the lumpy little mountain, presumably boundfor the top. Here the gunslinger tried to hunker, grimaced, and settled to oneknee, instead. He pointed to the ground with his right hand. “What do you see?”

Jake also dropped to one knee. The ground waslittered with pebbles and fallen chunks of rock. Some of this talus had beendisturbed, leaving marks in the scree. Beyond the spot where they knelt side byside, two branches of what Jake thought was a mesquite bush had been brokenoff. He bent forward and smelled the thin and acrid aroma of the sap. Then heexamined the marks in the scree again. There were several of them, narrow andnot too deep. If they were tracks, they certainly weren’t human tracks.Or those of a desert-dog, either.

“Do you know what made these?” Jake asked.“If you do, just say it—don’t make me arm-rassle you for it.”

Roland gave him a brief grin. “Follow thema little. See what you find.”