ONE
In the final days of their long journey, after Bill-just Bill now, no longer Stuttering Bill-dropped them off at the Federal, on the edge of the White Lands, Susannah Dean began to suffer frequent bouts of weeping. She would feel these impending cloudbursts and would excuse herself from the others, saying she had to go into the bushes and do her necessary. And there she would sit on a fallen tree or perhaps just the cold ground, put her hands over her face, and let her tears flow. If Roland knew this was happening-and surely he must have noted her red eyes when she returned to the road-he made no comment.
She supposed he knew what she did.
Her time in Mid-World-and End-World-was almost at an end.
TWO
Bill took them in his fine orange plow to a lonely Quonset hut with a faded sign out front reading
FEDERAL OUTPOST amp;
TOWER WATCH
TRAVEL BEYOND THIS POINT IS FORBIDDEN!
She supposed Federal Outpost 19 was still technically in the White Lands of Empathica, but the air had warmed considerably as Tower Road descended, and the snow on the ground was little more than a scrim. Groves of trees dotted the ground ahead, but Susannah thought the land would soon be almost entirely open, like the prairies of the American Midwest. There were bushes that probably supported berries in warm weather-perhaps even pokeberries-but now they were bare and clattering in the nearly constant wind. Mostly what they saw on either side of Tower Road-which had once been paved but had now been reduced to little more than a pair of broken ruts-were tall grasses poking out of the thin snow-cover. They whispered in the wind and Susannah knew their song: Commalacome-come, journey's almost done.
"I may go no furdier," Bill said, shutting down the plow and cutting off Little Richard in mid-rave. "Tell ya sorry, as they say in the Arc O'The Borderlands."
Their trip had taken one full day and half of another, and during that time he had entertained them with a constant stream of what he called "golden oldies." Some of these were not old at all to Susannah; songs like "Sugar Shack" and "Heat Wave" had been current hits on the radio when she'd returned from her little vacation in Mississippi. Others she had never heard at all. The music was stored not on records or tapes but on beautiful silver discs Bill called "ceedees." He pushed them into a slot in the plow's instrument-cluttered dashboard and the music played from at least eight different speakers. Any music would have sounded fine to her, she supposed, but she was especially taken by two songs she had never heard before. One was a deliriously happy little rocker called "She Loves You." The other, sad and reflective, was called "Heyjude." Roland actually seemed to know the latter one; he sang along with it, although the words he knew were different from the ones coming out of the plow's multiple speakers. When she asked, Bill told her the group was called The Beetles.
"Funny name for a rock-and-roll band," Susannah said.
Patrick, sitting with Oy in the plow's tiny rear seat, tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and he held up the pad through which he was currendy working his way. Beneath a picture of Roland in profile, he had printed: BEATLES, not Beetles.
"It's a funny name for a rock-and-roll band no matter which way you spell it," Susannah said, and that gave her an idea.
"Patrick, do you have the touch?" When he frowned and raised his hands-I don't understand, die gesture said-she rephrased the question. "Can you read my mind?"
He shrugged and smiled. This gesture said I don't know, but she thought Patrick did know. She thought he knew very well.
THREE
They reached "the Federal" near noon, and there Bill served them a fine meal. Patrick wolfed his and then sat off to one side with Oy curled at his feet, sketching the others as they sat around the table in what had once been the common room.
The walls of this room were covered with TV screens-Susannah guessed there were diree hundred or more. They must have been built to last, too, because some were still operating. A few showed the rolling hills surrounding the Quonset, but most broadcast only snow, and one showed a series of rolling lines that made her feel queasy in her stomach if she looked at it too long. The snow-screens, Bill said, had once shown pictures from satellites in orbit around the Earth, but the cameras in those had gone dead long ago. The one with the rolling lines was more interesting. Bill told them that, until only a few months ago, that one had shown the Dark Tower. Then, suddenly, the picture had dissolved into nothing but those lines.
"I don't think die Red King liked being on television," Bill told them. "Especially if he knew company might be coming.
Won't you have another sandwich? There are plenty, I assure you. No? Soup, then? What about you, Patrick? You're too thin, you know-far, jar too thin."
Patrick turned his pad around and showed them a picture of Bill bowing in front of Susannah, a tray of neatiy cut sandwiches in one metal hand, a carafe of iced tea in the other. Like all of Patrick's pictures, it went far beyond caricature, yet had been produced with a speed of hand that was eerie. Susannah applauded. Roland smiled and nodded. Patrick grinned, holding his teeth together so that the others wouldn't have to look at the empty hole behind them. Then he tossed the sheet back and began something new.
"There's a fleet of vehicles out back," Bill said, "and while many of them no longer run, some still do. I can give you a truck with four-wheel drive, and while I cannot assure you it will run smoothly, I believe you can count on it to take you as far as the Dark Tower, which is no more than one hundred and twenty wheels from here."
Susannah felt a great and fluttery lift-drop in her stomach.
One hundred and twenty wheels was a hundred miles, perhaps even a bit less. They were close. So close it was scary.
"You would not want to come upon the Tower after dark,"
Bill said. "At least I shouldn't think so, considering the new resident.
But what's one more night camped at the side of the road to such great travelers as yourselves? Not much, I should say! But even with one last night on the road (and barring breakdowns, which the gods know are always possible), you'd have your goal in sight by mid-morning of tomorrowday."
Roland considered this long and carefully. Susannah had to tell herself to breathe while he did so, because part of her didn't want to.
I'm not ready, that part thought. And there was a deeper part-a part that remembered every nuance of what had become a recurring (and evolving) dream-that thought something else: I'm not meant to go at all. Not all the way.
At last Roland said: "I thank you, Bill-we all say thank you,
I'm sure-but I think we'll pass on your kind offer. Were you to ask me why, I couldn't say. Only that part of me thinks that tomorrowday's too soon. That part of me thinks we should go the rest of the way on foot, just as we've already traveled so far."
He took a deep breath, let it out. "I'm not ready to be there yet.
Not quite ready."
You too, Susannah marveled. You too.
"I need a little more time to prepare my mind and my heart. Mayhap even my soul." He reached into his back pocket and brought out the photocopy of the Robert Browning poem that had been left for them in Dandelo's medicine chest.
"There's something writ in here about remembering the old times before coming to the last battle... or the last stand. It's well-said. And perhaps, really, all I need is what this poet speaks of-a draught of earlier, happier sights. I don't know. But unless Susannah objects, I believe we'll go on foot."
"Susannah doesn't object," she said quietly. "Susannah thinks it's just what the doctor ordered. Susannah only objects to being dragged along behind like a busted tailpipe."
Roland gave her a grateful (if distracted) smile-he seemed to have gone away from her somehow during these last few days-and then turned back to Bill. "I wonder if you have a cart I could pull? For we'll have to take at least some gunna... and there's Patrick. He'll have to ride part of the time."
Patrick looked indignant. He cocked an arm in front of him, made a fist, and flexed his muscle. The result-a tiny goose-egg rising on the biceps of his drawing-arm-seemed to shame him, for he dropped it quickly.
Susannah smiled and reached out to pat his knee. "Don't look like that, sugar. It's not your fault that you spent God knows how long caged up like Hansel and Gretel in die witch's house."
"I'm sure I have such a thing," Bill said, "and a batterypowered version for Susannah. What I don't have, I can make.
It would take an hour or two at most."
Roland was calculating. "If we leave here with five hours of daylight ahead of us, we might be able to make twelve wheels by sunset. What Susannah would call nine or ten miles. Another five days at that rather leisurely speed would bring us to the Tower I've spent my life searching for. I'd come to it around sunset if possible, for that's when I've always seen it in my dreams.
Susannah?"
And the voice inside-that deep voice-whispered: Four nights. Four nights to dream. That should be enough. Maybe more than enough. Of course, ka would have to intervene. If they had indeed outrun its influence, that wouldn't-couldn't-happen.
But Susannah now thought ka reached everywhere, even to die Dark Tower. Was, perhaps, embodied by the Dark Tower.
"That's fine," she told him in a faint voice.
"Patrick?" Roland asked. "What do you say?"
Patrick shrugged and flipped a hand in their direction, hardly looking up from his pad. Whatever they wanted, that gesture said. Susannah guessed that Patrick understood little about die Dark Tower, and cared less. And why would he care? He was free of the monster, and his belly was full. Those things were enough for him. He had lost his tongue, but he could sketch to his heart's content. She was sure that to Patrick, that seemed like more than an even trade. And yet... and yet...
He's not meant to go, either. Not him, not Oy, not me. But what is to become of us, then?
She didn't know, but she was queerly unworried about it. Ka would tell. Ka, and her dreams.
FOUR
An hour later the three humes, die bumbler, and Bill the robot stood clustered around a cut-down wagon diat looked like a slighdy larger version of Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi. The wheels were tall but thin, and spun like a dream. Even when it was full,
Susannah thought, it would be like pulling a feadier. At least while Roland was fresh. Pulling it uphill would undoubtedly rob him of his energy after awhile, but as they ate the food they were carrying, Ho Fat II would grow lighter still... and she diought diere wouldn't be many hills, anyway. They had come to the open lands, the prairie-lands; all the snow- and tree-covered ridges were behind them. Bill had provided her widi an electric runabout that was more scooter than golf-cart. Her days of being dragged along behind ("like a busted tailpipe") were done.
"If you'll give me another half an hour, I can smooth this off," Bill said, running a three-fingered steel hand along the edge where he had cut off the front half of the small wagon that was now Ho Fat II.
"We say thankya, but it won't be necessary," Roland said.
"We'll lay a couple of hides over it, just so."
He's impatient to be off, Susannah thought, and after all this time, why wouldn't be be? I'm anxious to be off, myself.
"Well, if you say so, let it be so," Bill said, sounding unhappy about it. "I suppose I just hate to see you go. When will I see humes again?"
None of them answered that. They didn't know.
"There's a mighty loud horn on the roof," Bill said, pointing at the Federal. "I don't know what sort of trouble it was meant to signal-radiation leaks, mayhap, or some sort of attack-but I do know the sound of it will carry across a hundred wheels at least. More, if the wind's blowing in the right direction. If I should see the fellow you think is following you, or if such motion-sensors as still work pick him up, I'll set it off. Perhaps you'll hear."
"Thank you," Roland said.
"Were you to drive, you could outrun him easily," Bill pointed out. 'You'd reach the Tower and never have to see him."
"That's true enough," Roland said, but he showed absolutely no sign of changing his mind, and Susannah was glad.
"What will you do about the one you call his Red Father, if he really does command Can'-Ka No Rey?"
Roland shook his head, although he had discussed this probability with Susannah. He thought they might be able to circle the Tower from a distance and come then to its base from a direction that was blind to the balcony on which the Crimson King was trapped. Then they could work their way around to the door beneath him. They wouldn't know if that was possible until they could actually see the Tower and the lay of the land, of course.
"Well, there'll be water if God wills it," said the robot formerly known as Stuttering Bill, "or so the old people did say.
And mayhap I'll see you again, in the clearing at the end of the path, if nowhere else. If robots are allowed to go there. I hope it's so, for there's many I've known that I'd see again."
He sounded so forlorn that Susannah went to him and raised her arms to be picked up, not thinking about the absurdity of wanting to hug a robot. But he did and she did-quite fervendy, too. Bill made up for the malicious Andy, back in Calla Bryn Sturgis, and was worth hugging for diat, if nothing else. As his arms closed around her, it occurred to Susannah that Bill could break her in two with those titanium-steel arms if he wanted to. But he didn't. He was gentle.
"Long days and pleasant nights, Bill," she said. "May you do well, and we all say so."
"Thank you, madam," he said and put her down. "I say thudda-thank, diumma-thank, thukka-" Wheep! And he struck his head, producing a bright clang. "I say thank ya kindly." He paused. "I did fix the stutter, say true, but as I may have told you,
I am not entirely without emotions."
FIVE
Patrick surprised them both by walking for almost four hours beside Susannah's electric scooter before tiring and climbing into Ho Fat II. They listened for the horn warning them that Bill had seen Mordred (or that the instruments in the Federal had detected him), but did not hear i t... and the wind was blowing their way. By sunset, they had left the last of the snow. The land continued to flatten out, casting their shadows long before them.
When they finally stopped for the night, Roland gathered enough brush for a fire and Patrick, who had dozed off, woke up long enough to eat an enormous meal of Vienna sausage and baked beans. (Susannah, watching the beans disappear into Patrick's tongueless mouth, reminded herself to spread her hides upwind of him when she finally laid down her weary head.) She and Oy also ate heartily, but Roland hardly touched his own food.
When dinner was done, Patrick took up his pad to draw, frowned at his pencil, and then held out a hand to Susannah.
She knew what he wanted, and took the glass canning jar from the litde bag of personals she kept slung over her shoulder. She held onto this because there was only the one pencil sharpener, and she was afraid that Patrick might lose it. Of course Roland could sharpen the Eberhard-Fabers with his knife, but it would change the quality of the points somewhat. She tipped the jar, spilling erasers and paperclips and the required object into her cupped palm. Then she handed it to Patrick, who sharpened his pencil with a few quick twists, handed it back, and immediately fell to his work. For a moment Susannah looked at the pink erasers and wondered again why Dandelo had bothered to cut them off. As a way of teasing the boy? If so, it hadn't worked.
Later in life, perhaps, when die sublime connections between his brain and his fingers rusted a little (when the small but undeniably brilliant world of his talent had moved on), he might require erasers. For now even his mistakes continued to be inspirations.
He didn't draw long. When Susannah saw him nodding over his pad in the orange glare of the fading sunset, she took it from his unprotesting fingers, bedded him down in the back of the cart (propped level with the front end on a convenient boulder jutting from the ground), covered him with hides, and kissed his cheek.
Sleepily, Patrick reached up and touched the sore below her own cheek. She winced, then held steady at his gende touch.
The sore had clotted over again, but it throbbed painfully.
Even smiling hurt her these days. The hand fell away and Patrick slept.
The stars had come out. Roland was looking raptly up at them.
"What do you see?" she asked him.
"What do you see?" he asked in turn.
She looked at the brightening celestial landscape. "Well,"
she said, "there's Old Star and Old Mother, but they seem to have moved west. And that there-oh my goodness!" She placed her hands on his stubbly cheeks (he never seemed to grow an actual beard, only a bristly scruff) and turned it. "That wasn't there back when we left from the Western Sea, I know it wasn't. That one's in our world, Roland-we call it the Big Dipper!"
He nodded. "And once, according to the oldest books in my father's library, it was in the sky of our world, as well. Lydia's Dipper, it was called. And now here it is again." He turned to her, smiling. "Another sign of life and renewal. How the Crimson King must hate to look up from his entrapment and see it riding the sky again!"
SIX
Not long after, Susannah slept. And dreamed.
SEVEN
She's in Central Park again, under a bright gray sky from which the first few snowflakes are once more drifting; carolers nearby are singing not "Silent Night" or "What Child Is This "but the Rice Song: "Rice be a green-o, See what we seen-o, Seen-o the green-o, Come-comecommala!"
She takes off her cap, afraid it will have changed somehow, but it still says MERRY CHRISTMAS! and
(no twins here)
she is comforted.
She looks around and there stand Eddie and Jake, grinning at her.
Their heads are bare; she has gotten their hats. She has combined their hats.
Eddie is wearing a sweatshirt that says I DRINK NOZZ-A-LA!
Jake is wearing one that says I DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!
None of this is precisely new. What she sees behind them, standing near a carriage-path leading back to Fifth Avenue, most certainly is. It's a door about six and a half feet high, and made of solid ironwood, from the look of it. The doorknob's of solid gold, andfiligtved with a shape the lady gunslinger finally recognizes: two crossed pencils. Eberhard-Faber#2's, she has no doubt. And the erasers have been cut off.
Eddie holds out a cup of hot chocolate. It's the perfect kind mit schlag on top, and a little sprinkling of nutmeg dotting the cream.
"Here," he says, "I brought you hot chocolate."
She ignores the outstretched cup. She's fascinated by the door. "It's like the ones along the beach, isn't it?" she asks.
"Yes," Eddie says.
"No, "Jake says at the same time.
"You'llfigure it out," they say together, and grin at each other, delighted.
She walks past them. Writ upon the doors through which Roland dreiu them were THE PRISONER and THE LADY OF SHADOWS and THE PUSHER. Writ upon this one is ^j^s?\ 1 S ^. And below that:
"THE ARTIST
She turns back to them and they are gone.
Central Park is gone.
She is looking at the ruination of Lud, gazing upon the waste lands.
On a cold and bitter breeze she hears four whispered words: "Time's almost up... hurry..."
EIGHT
She woke in a kind of panic, thinking I have to leave him... and best I do it before I can s 'much as see his Dark Tower on the horizon.
But where do I go1? And how can I leave him to face both Mordred and the Crimson King with only Patrick to help him?
This idea caused her to reflect on a bitter certainty: come a showdown, Oy would almost certainly be more valuable to Roland than Patrick. The bumbler had proved his mettle on more than one occasion and would have been worthy of the title gunslinger, had he but a gun to sling and a hand to sling it with. Patrick, though... Patrick was a... well, a pencil-slinger.
Faster than blue blazes, but you couldn't kill much with an Eberhard-
Faber unless it was very sharp.
She'd sat up. Roland, leaning against the far side of her little scooter and keeping the watch, hadn't noticed. And she didn't wanthxm to notice. That would lead to questions. She lay back down, pulling her hides around her and thinking of their first hunt. She remembered how the yearling buck had swerved and run right at her, and how she'd decapitated it with the Oriza. She remembered the whisding sound in the chilly air, the one that resulted when the wind blew through the little attachment on die bottom of die plate, the attachment diat looked so much like Patrick's pencil sharpener. She diought her mind was trying to make some sort of connection here, but she was too tired to know what it might be. And maybe she was trying too hard, as well. If so, what was she to do about that?
There was at least one thing she did know, from her time in Calla Bryn Sturgis. The meaning of die symbols writ upon the door was UNFOUND.
Time's almost up. Hurry...
The next day her tears began.
NINE
There were still plenty of bushes behind which she could go to do her necessary (and cry her tears, when she could no longer hold them back), but the land continued to flatten and open.
Around noon of their second full day on the road, Susannah saw what she at first thought was a cloud-shadow moving across the land far up ahead, only the sky above was solid blue from horizon to horizon. Then die great dark patch began to veer in a very un-cloudlike way. She caught her breadi and brought her little electric scooter to a stop.
"Roland!" she said. "Yonder's a herd of buffalo, or maybe they're bison! Sure as death n taxes!"
"Aye, do you say so?" Roland asked, with only passing interest.
"We called em bannock, in the long ago. It's a good-sized herd."
Patrick was standing in the back of Ho Fat II, sketching madly. He switched his grip on the pencil he was using, now holding die yellow barrel against his palm and shading widi die tip. She could almost smell die dust boiling up from die herd as he shaded it with his pencil. Akhough it seemed to her that he'd taken the liberty of moving the herd five or even ten miles closer, unless his vision was a good deal sharper than her own.
That, she supposed, was entirely possible. In any case, her eyes had adjusted and she could see them better herself. Their great shaggy heads. Even their black eyes.
"There hasn't been a herd of buffalo that size in America for almost a hundred years," she said.
"Aye?" Still only polite interest. "But they're in plenty here,
I should say. If a litde tet of em comes within pistol-shot range, let's take a couple. I'd like to taste some fresh meat that isn't deer. Would you?"
She let her smile answer for her. Roland smiled back. And it occurred to her again that soon she would see him no more, this man she'd believed was either a mirage or a daemon before she had come to know him both an-tet and dan-dinh. Eddie was dead, Jake was dead, and soon she would see Roland of Gilead no more. Would he be dead, as well? Would she?
She looked up into the glare of the sun, wanting him to mistake the reason for her tears if he saw them. And they moved on into the southeast of that great and empty land, into the everstrengthening beat-beat-beat that was the Tower at the axis of all worlds and time itself.
Beat-beat-beat.
Commala-come-come, journey's almost done.
That night she stood the first watch, then awakened Roland at midnight.
"I think he's out there someplace," she said, pointing into the northwest. There was no need to be more specific; it could only be Mordred. Everyone else was gone. "Watch well."
"I will," he said. "And if you hear a gunshot, wake well. And fast."
"You can count on it," said she, and lay down in the dry winter grass behind Ho Fat II. At first she wasn't sure she'd be able to sleep; she was still jazzed from the sense of an unfriendly other in the vicinity. But she did sleep.
TEN
The dream of the second night is both like and unlike the dream of the first. The main elements are exactly the same: Central Park, gray sky, spits of snow, choral voices (this time harmonizing "Come Go With Me," the old Del-Vikings hit), Jake (i DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!) and Eddie (this time wearing a sweatshirt reading CLICK! IT's A SHINNARO CAMERA!). Eddie has hot chocolate but doesn't offer it to her. She can see the anxiety not only in their faces but in the tensed-up set of their bodies.
That is the main difference in this dream: there is something to see, or something to do, or perhaps it's both. Whatever it is, they expected her to see it or do it by now and she is being backward.
A rather terrible question occurs to her: is she being purposely backward? Is there something here she doesn't want to confront? Could it even be possible that the Dark Tower is fucking up communications?
Surely that's a stupid idea-these people she sees are but figments of her longing imagination, after all; they are dead! Eddie killed by a bullet, Jake as a result of being run over by a car-one slain in this world, one in the Keystone World where fun is fun and done is done
(must be done, for there time always runs in one direction) and Stephen King is their poet laureate.
Yet she cannot deny that look on their faces, that look of panic that seems to tell her You have it, Suze-you have what we want to show you, you have what you need to know. Are you going to let it slip away? It's the fourth quarter. It's the fourth quarter and the clock is ticking and will continue to tick, must continue to tick because all your time-outs are gone. You have to hurry... hurry...
ELEVEN
She snapped awake with a gasp. It was almost dawn. She wiped a hand across her brow, and it came away wet with sweat.
What do you want me to know, Eddie? What is it you'd have me know?
To this question there was no answer. How could there be?
Mistuh Dean, he daid, she thought, and lay back down. She lay that way for another hour, but couldn't get back to sleep.
TWELVE
Like Ho Fat I, Ho Fat II was equipped with handles. Unlike those on Ho Fat I, these handles were adjustable. When Patrick felt like walking, the handles could be moved apart so he could pull one and Roland the other. When Patrick felt like riding,
Roland moved the handles together so he could pull on his own.
They stopped at noon for a meal. When it was done, Patrick crawled into the back of Ho Fat II for a snooze. Roland waited until he heard the boy (for so they continued to think of him, no matter what his age) snoring, then turned to her.
"What fashes thee, Susannah? I'd have you tell me. I'd have you tell me dan-dinh, even though there's no longer a tet and I'm your dinh no more." He smiled. The sadness in that smile broke her heart and she could hold her tears back no more.
Nor the trvith.
"If I'm still with you when we see your Tower, Roland, things have gone all wrong."
"How wrong?" he asked her.
She shook her head, beginning to weep harder. "There's supposed to be a door. It's the Unfound Door. But I don't know how to find it! Eddie and Jake come to me in my dreams and tell me I know-they tell me with their eyes-but I don't!
I swear I don't!"
He took her in his arms and held her and kissed the hollow of her temple. At the corner of her mouth, the sore throbbed and burned. It wasn't bleeding, but it had begun to grow again.
"Let be what will be," said the gunslinger, as his own mother had once told him. "Let be what will be, and hush, and let ka Work."
"You said we'd outrun it."
He rocked her in his arms, rocked her, and it was good. It was soothing. "I was wrong," he said. "As thee knows."
THIRTEEN
It was her turn to watch early on the third night, and she was looking back behind them, northwest along the Tower Road, when a hand grasped her shoulder. Terror sprang up in her mind like a jack-in-the-box and she whirled
(he's behind me oh dear God Mordred 's got around behind me and it's the spider!)
with her hand going to the gun in her belt and yanking it free.
Patrick recoiled from her, his own face long with terror, raising his hands in front of him. If he'd cried out he would surely have awakened Roland, and then everything might have been different. But he was too frightened to cry out. He made a low sound in his throat and that was all.
She put the gun back, showed him her empty hands, then pulled him to her and hugged him. At first he was stiff against her-still afraid-but after a little he relaxed.
"What is it, darling?" she asked him, sotto voce. Then, using Roland's phrase without even realizing it: "What fashes thee?"
He pulled away from her and pointed dead north. For a moment she still didn't understand, and then she saw the orange lights dancing and darting. She judged they were at least five miles away, and she could hardly believe she hadn't seen them before.
Still speaking low, so as not to wake Roland, she said: "They're nothing but foo-lights, sugar-they can't hurt you. Roland calls em hobs. They're like St. Elmo's fire, or something."
But he had no idea of what St. Elmo's fire was; she could see that in his uncertain gaze. She setded again for telling him they couldn't hurt him, and indeed, this was the closest the hobs had ever come. Even as she looked back at them, they began to dance away, and soon most of them were gone. Perhaps she had thought them away. Once she would have scoffed at such an idea, but no longer.
Patrick began to relax.
"Why don't you go back to sleep, honey? You need to take your rest." And she needed to take hers, but she dreaded it.
Soon she would wake Roland, and sleep, and the dream would come. The ghosts of Jake and Eddie would look at her, more frantic than ever. Wanting her to know something she didn't, couldn't know.
Patrick shook his head.
"Not sleepy yet?" -
He shook his head again.
"Well then, why don't you draw awhile?" Drawing always relaxed him.
Patrick smiled and nodded and went at once to Ho Fat for his current pad, walking in big exaggerated sneak-steps so as not to wake Roland. It made her smile. Patrick was always willing to draw; she guessed that one of the things that kept him alive in the basement of Dandelo's hut had been knowing that every now and then the rotten old fuck would give him a pad and one of the pencils. He was as much an addict as Eddie had been at his worst, she reflected, only Patrick's dope was a narrow line of graphite.
He sat down and began to draw. Susannah resumed her watch, but soon felt a queer tingling all over her body, as if she were the one being watched. She thought of Mordred again, and then smiled (which hurt; with the sore growing fat again, it always did now). Not Mordred; Patrick. Patrick was watching her.
Patrick was drawing her.
She sat still for nearly twenty minutes, and then curiosity overcame her. For Patrick, twenty minutes would be long enough to do the Mona Lisa, and maybe St. Paul's Basilica in the background for good measure. That tingling sense was so queer, almost not a mental thing at all but something physical.
She went to him, but Patrick at first held the pad against his chest with unaccustomed shyness. But he wanted her to look; that was in his eyes. It was almost a love-look, but she thought it was the drawn Susannah he'd fallen in love with.
"Come on, honeybunch," she said, and put a hand on the pad. But she would not tug it away from him, not even if he wanted her to. He was the artist; let it be wholly his decision whether or not to show his work. "Please?"
He held the pad against him a moment longer. Then-shyly, not looking at her-he held it out. She took it, and looked down at herself. For a moment she could hardly breathe, it was that good. The wide eyes. The high cheekbones, which her father had called "those jewels of Ethiopia." The full lips, which Eddie had so loved to kiss. It was her, it was her to the very life... but it was also more than her. She would never have thought love could shine with such perfect nakedness from the lines made with a pencil, but here that love was, oh say true, say so true; love of the boy for the woman who had saved him, who had pulled him from the dark hole where he otherwise would surely have died. Love for her as a mother, love for her as a woman.
"Patrick, it's wonderful!" she said.
He looked at her anxiously. Doubtfully. Really? his eyes asked her, and she realized that only he-the poor needy Patrick inside, who had lived with this ability all his life and so took it for granted-could doubt the simple beauty of what he had done. Drawing made him happy; this much he'd always known. That his pictures could make others happy... that idea would take some getting used to. She wondered again how long Dandelo had had him, and how the mean old thing had come by Patrick in the first place. She supposed she'd never know. Meantime, it seemed very important to convince him of his own worth.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, it is wonderful. You're a fine artist,
Patrick. Looking at this makes me feel good."
This time he forgot to hold his teeth together. And that smile, tongueless or not, was so wonderful she could have eaten it up. It made her fears and anxieties seem small and silly.
"May I keep it?"
Patrick nodded eagerly. He made a tearing motion with one hand, then pointed at her. Yes! Tear it off! Take it! Keep it!
She started to do so, then paused. His love (and his pencil) had made her beautiful. The only thing to spoil that beauty was the black splotch beside her mouth. She turned the drawing toward him, tapped the sore on it, then touched it on her own face. And winced. Even the lightest touch hurt. "This is the only damned thing," she said.
He shrugged, raising his open hands to his shoulders, and she had to laugh. She did it softly so as not to wake Roland, but yes, she did have to laugh. A line from some old movie had occurred to her: I paint what I see.
Only this wasn't paint, and it suddenly occurred to her that he could take care of the rotten, ugly, painful thing. As it existed on paper, at least.
Then she'll be my twin, she thought affectionately. My better half; my pretty twin sis-
And suddenly she understood-
Everything? Understood everything?
Yes, she would think much later. Not in any coherent fashion that could be written down-if a + b = c, then c - b= a and c - a = b-but yes, she understood everything. Intuited everything.
No wonder the dream-Eddie and dream-Jake had been impatient with her; it was so obvious.
Patrick, drawing her.
Nor was this the first time she had been drawn.
Roland had drawn her to his world... with magic.
"Eddie had drawn her to himself with love.
As had Jake.
Dear God, had she been here so long and been through so much without knowing what ka-tet was, what it meant? Ka-tet was family.
Ka-tet was love.
To draw is to make a picture with a pencil, or maybe charcoal.
To draw is also to fascinate, to compel, and to bring forward.
To bring one out of one's self.
The drawers were where Detta went to fulfill herself.
Patrick, that tongueless boy genius, pent up in the wilderness.
Pent up in the drawers. And now? Now?
Now he my forspecial, thought Susanna/Odetta/Detta, and reached into her pocket for the glass jar, knowing exacdy what she was going to do and why she was going to do it.
When she handed back the pad without tearing off the sheet that now held her image, Patrick looked badly disappointed.
"Nar, nar," said she (and in the voice of many). "Only there's something I'd have you do before I take it for my pretty, for my precious, for my ever, to keep and know how I was at this where, at this when."
She held out one of the pink rubber pieces, understanding now why Dandelo had cut them off. For he'd had his reasons.
Patrick took what she offered and turned it over between his fingers, frowning, as if he had never seen such a thing before.
Susannah was sure he had, but how many years ago? How close might he have come to disposing of his tormentor, once and for all? And why hadn't Dandelo just killed him then?
Because once he took away the erasers he thought he was safe, she thought.
Patrick was looking at her, puzzled. Beginning to be upset.
Susannah sat down beside him and pointed at the blemish on the drawing. Then she put her fingers delicately around Patrick's wrist and drew it toward the paper. At first he resisted, then let his hand with the pink nubbin in it be tugged forward.
She thought of the shadow on the land that hadn't been a shadow at all but a herd of great, shaggy beasts Roland called bannock. She thought of how she'd been able to smell the dust when Patrick began to draw the dust. And she thought of how, when Patrick had drawn the herd closer than it actually was
(artistic license, and we all say thankya), it had actually looked closer. She remembered thinking that her eyes had adjusted and now marveled at her own stupidity. As if eyes could adjust to distance the way they could adjust to the dark.
No, Patrick had moved them closer. Had moved them closer by drawing them closer.
When the hand holding the eraser was almost touching the paper, she took her own hand away-this had to be all Patrick, she was somehow sure of it. She moved her fingers back and forth, miming what she wanted. He didn't get it. She did it again, then pointed to the sore beside the full lower lip.
"Make it gone, Patrick," she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. "It's ugly, make it gone." Again she made that rubbing gesture in the air. "Erase it."
This time he got it. She saw the light in his eyes. He held the pink nubbin up to her. Perfectly pink it was-not a smudge of graphite on it. He looked at her, eyebrows raised, as if to ask if she was sure.
She nodded.
Patrick lowered the eraser to the sore and began to rub it on the paper, tentatively at first. Then, as he saw what was happening, he worked with more spirit.
FOURTEEN
She felt the same queer tingling sensation, but when he'd been drawing, it had been all over her. Now it was in only one place, to the right side of her mouth. As Patrick got the hang of the eraser and bore down with it, the tingling became a deep and monstrous itch. She had to clutch her hands deep into the dirt on either side of her to keep from reaching up and clawing at the sore, scratching it furiously, and never mind if she tore it wide open and sent a pint of blood gushing down her deerskin shirt.
It be over in a few more seconds, it have to be, it have to be, oh dear God please LET IT END-
Patrick, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten all about her. He was looking down at his picture, his hair hanging to either side of his face and obscuring most of it, completely absorbed by this wonderful new toy. He erased delicately...
then a little harder (the itch intensified)... then more softly again. Susannah felt like shrieking. That itch was suddenly everywhere. It burned in her forebrain, buzzed across the wet surfaces of her eyes like twin clouds of gnats, it shivered at the very tips of her nipples, making them hopelessly hard.
I'll scream, I can't help it, I have to scream-"
She was drawing in her breath to do just that when suddenly the itch was gone. The pain was gone, as well. She reached toward the side of her mouth, then hesitated.
I don't dare.
You better dare! Detta responded indignantly. After all you been through-allvue been through-you must have enough backbone left to touch yo' own damn face, you yella bitch).
She brought her fingers down to the skin. The smooth skin.
The sore which had so troubled her since Thunderclap was gone. She knew that when she looked in a mirror or a still pool of water, she would not even see a scar.
FIFTEEN
Patrick worked a little longer-first with the eraser, then with the pencil, then with the eraser again-but Susannah felt no itch and not even a faint tingle. It was as though, once he had passed some critical point, the sensations just ceased. She wondered how old Patrick had been when Dandelo snipped all the erasers off the pencils. Four? Six? Young, anyway. She was sure that his original look of puzzlement when she showed him one of the erasers had been unfeigned, and yet once he began, he used it like an old pro.
Maybe it's like riding a bicycle, she thought. Once you learn how, you never forget.
She waited as patiently as she could, and after five very long minutes, her patience was rewarded. Smiling, Patrick turned the pad around and showed her the picture. He had erased the blemish completely and then faintly shaded the area so that it looked like the rest of her skin. He had been careful to brush away every single crumb of rubber.
"Very nice," she said, but that was a fairly shitty compliment to offer genius, wasn't it?
So she leaned forward, put her arms around him, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. "Patrick, it's beautiful.1"
The blood rushed so quickly and so strongly into his face that she was alarmed at first, wondering if he might not have stroke in spite of his youth. But he was smiling as he held out the pad to her with one hand, making tearing gestures again with the other. Wanting her to take it. Wanting her to have it.
Susannah tore it off very carefully, wondering in a dark back corner of her mind what would happen if she tore it-tore her-right down the middle. She noted as she did that there was no amazement in his face, no astonishment, no fear. He had to have seen the sore beside her mouth, because the nasty thing had pretty much dominated her face for all the time he'd known her, and he had drawn it in near-photographic detail. Now it was gone-her exploring fingers told her so-yet Patrick wasn't registering any emotion, at least in regard to that. The conclusion seemed clear enough. When he'd erased it from his drawing, he'd also erased it from his own mind and memory.
"Patrick?"
He looked at her, smiling. Happy that she was happy. And Susannah was very happy. The fact that she was also scared to death didn't change that in the slightest.
"Will you draw something else for me?"
He nodded. Made a mark on his pad, then turned it around so she could see:
She looked at the question-mark for a moment, then at him. She saw he was clutching the eraser, his wonderful new tool, very tightly.
Susannah said: "I want you to draw me something that isn't there."
He cocked his head quizzically to the side. She had to smile a little in spite of her rapidly thumping heart-Oy looked that way sometimes, when he wasn't a hundred per cent sure what you meant.
"Don't worry, I'll tell you."
And she did, very carefully. Patrick listened. At some point Roland heard Susannah's voice and awoke. He came over, looked at her in the dim red light of the embering campfire, started to look away, then snapped back, eyes widening. Until that moment, she hadn't been sure Roland would see what was no longer there, either. She thought it at least possible that Patrick's magic would have been strong enough to erase it from the gunslinger's memory, too.
"Susannah, thy face! What's happened to thy-"
"Hush, Roland, if you love me."
The gunslinger hushed. Susannah returned her attention to Patrick and began to speak again, quietly but urgently.
Patrick listened, and as he did, she saw the light of understanding begin to enter his gaze.
Roland replenished the fire without having to be asked, and soon their litde camp was bright under the stars.
Patrick wrote a question, putting it thriftily to the left of the question-mark he had already drawn:
How tall?
Susannah took Roland by the elbow and positioned him in front of Patrick. The gunslinger stood about six-foot-three.
She had him pick her up, then held a hand roughly three inches over his head. Patrick nodded, smiling.
"And look you at something that has to be on it," she said, and took a branch from their litde pile of brush. She broke it over her knee, creating a point of her own. She could remember the symbols, but it would be best if she didn't think about them overmuch. She sensed they had to be absolutely right or die door she wanted him to make for her would either open on some place she didn't want to go, or would not open at all.
Therefore once she began to draw in the mixed dirt and ash by the campfire, she did it as rapidly as Patrick himself might have done, not pausing long enough to cast her eye back upon a single symbol. For if she looked back at one she would surely look back at all, and she would see something that looked wrong to her, and uncertainty would set in like a sickness. Detta-brash, foul-mouthed Detta, who had turned out on more than one occasion to be her savior-might step in and take over, finish for her, but she couldn't count on that. On her heart's deepest level, she still did not entirely trust Detta not to send everything to blazes at a crucial moment, and for no other reason than the black joy of the thing. Nor did she fully trust Roland, who might want to keep her for reasons he did not fully understand himself.
So she drew quickly in the dirt and ashes, not looking back, and these were the symbols that flowed away beneath the flying tip of her makeshift implement:
"Unfound," Roland breathed. "Susannah, what-how-"
"Hush," she repeated.
Patrick bent over his pad and began to draw;
SIXTEEN
She kept looking around for the door, but the circle of light thrown by their fire was very small even after Roland had set it to blazing. Small compared to the vast darkness of the prairie, at least. She saw nothing. When she turned to Roland she could see the unspoken question in his eyes, and so, while Patrick kept working, she showed him the picture of her the young man had drawn. She indicated the place where the blemish had been. Holding the page close to his face, Roland at last saw the eraser's marks. Patrick had concealed what few traces he'd left behind with great cunning, and Roland had found them only with the closest scrutiny; it was like casting for an old trail after many days of rain.
"No wonder the old man cut off his erasers," he said, giving the picture back to her.
"That's what I thought."
From there she skipped ahead to her single true intuitive leap: that if Patrick could (in this world, at least) un-create by erasing, he might be able to create by drawing. When she mentioned the herd of bannock that had seemed mysteriously closer, Roland rubbed his forehead like a man who has a nasty headache.
"I should have seen that. Should have realized what it meant, too. Susannah, I'm getting old."
She ignored that-she'd heard it before-and told him about the dreams of Eddie and Jake, being sure to mention the product-names on the sweatshirts, the choral voices, the offer of hot chocolate, and the growing panic in their eyes as the nights passed and still she did not see what the dream had been sent to show her.
"Why didn't you tell me this dream before now?" Roland asked. "Why didn't you ask for help in interpreting it?"
She looked at him steadily, thinking she had been right not to ask for his help. Yes-no matter how much that might hurt him. "You've lost two. How eager would you have been to lose me, as well?"
He flushed. Even in the firelight she could see it. "Thee speaks ill of me, Susannah, and have thought worse."
"Perhaps I have," she said. "If so, I say sorry. I wasn't sure of what I wanted myself. Part of me wants to see the Tower, you know. Part of me wants that very badly. And even if Patrick can draw the Unfound Door into existence and I can open it, it's not the real world it opens on. That's what the names on the shirts mean, I'm sure of it."
"You mustn't think that," Roland said. "Reality is seldom a thing of black and white, I think, of is and isn't, be and not be."
Patrick made a hooting sound and they both looked. He was holding his pad up, turned toward them so they could see what he had drawn. It was a perfect representation of the Unfound Door, she thought. THE ARTIST wasn't printed on it, and the doorknob was plain shiny metal-no crossed pencils adorned it-but that was all right. She hadn't bothered to tell him about those things, which had been for her benefit and understanding.
They did everything but draw me a map, she thought. She wondered why everything had to be so damn hard, so damn
(riddk-de-dum)
mysterious, and knew that was a question to which she would never find a satisfactory answer... except it was the human condition, wasn't it? The answers that mattered never came easily.
Patrick made another of those hooting noises. This time it had an interrogative quality. She suddenly realized that the poor kid was practically dying of anxiety, and why not? He had just executed his first commission, and wanted to know what his patrono d'arte thought of it.
"It's great, Patrick-terrific."
"Yes," Roland agreed, taking the pad. The door looked to him exactly like those he'd found as he staggered along the beach of the Western Sea, delirious and dying of the lobstrosity's poisoned bite. It was as if the poor tongueless creature had looked into his head and seen an actual picture of that door-a fottergraff.
Susannah, meanwhile, was looking around desperately.
And when she began to swing along on her hands toward the edge of the firelight, Roland had to call her back sharply, reminding her that Mordred might be out there anywhere, and the darkness was Mordred's friend.
Impatient as she was, she retreated from the edge of the light, remembering all too well what had happened to Mordred's body-mother, and how quickly it had happened. Yet it hurt to pull back, almost physically. Roland had told her that he expected to catch his first glimpse of the Dark Tower toward the end of the coming day. If she was still with him, if she saw it with him, she thought its power might prove too strong for her.
Its glammer. Now, given a choice between the door and the Tower, she knew she could still choose the door. But as they drew closer and the power of the Tower grew stronger, its pulse deeper and more compelling in her mind, the singing voices ever sweeter, choosing the door would be harder to do.
"I don't see it," she said despairingly. "Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe there is no damn door. Oh, Roland-"
"I don't think you were wrong," Roland told her. He spoke ih obvious reluctance, but as a man will when he has ajob to do, or a debt to repay. And he did owe this woman a debt, he reckoned, for had he not pretty much seized her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her into this world, where she'd learned the art of murder and fallen in love and been left bereaved? Had he not kidnapped her into this present sorrow? If he could make that right, he had an obligation to do so. His desire to keep her with him-and at the risk of her own life-was pure selfishness, and unworthy of his training.
More important than that, it was unworthy of how much he had come to love and respect her. It broke what remained of his heart to think of bidding her goodbye, the last of his strange and wonderful ka-tet, but if it was what she wanted, what she needed, then he must do it. And he thought he could do it, for he had seen something about the young man's drawing that Susannah had missed. Not something that was there; something that wasn't
"Look thee," he said gently, showing her the picture. "Do you see how hard he's tried to please thee, Susannah?"
"Yes!" she said. "Yes, of course I do, but-"
"It took him ten minutes to do this, I should judge, and most of his drawings, good as they are, are the work of three or four at most, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't understand you!" She nearly screamed this.
Patrick drew Oy to him and wrapped an arm around the bumbler, all the while looking at Susannah and Roland with wide, unhappy eyes.
"He worked so hard to give you what you want that there's only the Door. It stands by itself, all alone on the paper. It has no... no..."
He searched for the right word. Vannay's ghost whispered it dryly into his ear.
"It has no context!"
For a moment Susannah continued to look puzzled, and then the light of understanding began to break in her eyes.
Roland didn't wait; he simply dropped his good left hand on Patrick's shoulder and told him to put the door behind Susannah's little electric golf-cart, which she had taken to calling Ho Fat III.
Patrick was happy to oblige. For one thing, putting Ho Fat III in front of the door gave him a reason to use his eraser. He worked much more quickly this time-almost carelessly, an observer might have said-but the gunslinger was sitting right next to him and didn't think Patrick missed a single stroke in his depiction of the little cart. He finished by drawing its single front wheel and putting a reflected gleam of firelight in the hubcap. Then he put his pencil down, and as he did, there was a disturbance in the air. Roland felt it push against his face. The flames of the fire, which had been burning straight up in the windless dark, streamed briefly sideways. Then the feeling was gone. The flames once more burned straight up. And standing not ten feet from that fire, behind the electric cart, was a door Roland had last encountered in Calla Bryn Sturgis, in the Cave of the Voices.
SEVENTEEN
Susannah waited until dawn, at first passing the time by gathering up her gunna, then putting it aside again-what would her few possessions (not to mention the little hide bag in which they were stored) avail her in New York City? People would laugh. They would probably laugh anyway... or scream and run at the very sight of her. The Susannah Dean who suddenly appeared in Central Park would look to most folks not like a college graduate or an heiress to a large fortune; not even like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, say sorry. No, to civilized city people she'd probably look like some kind of freak-show escapee.
And once she went through this door, would there be any going back? Never. Never in life.
So she put her gunna aside and simply waited. As dawn began to show its first faint white light on the horizon, she called Patrick over and asked him if he wanted to go along with her.
Back to the world you came from or one very much like it, she told him, although she knew he didn't remember that world at aU-either he'd been taken from it too young, or the trauma of being snatched away had erased his memory.
Patrick looked at her, then at Roland, who was squatted on his hunkers, looking at him. "Either way, son," the gunslinger said. "You can draw in either world, tell ya true. Although where she's going, there'll be more to appreciate it."
He wants him to stay, she thought, and was angry. Then Roland looked at her and gave his head a minute shake. She wasn't sure, but she thought that meant-
And no, she didn't just think. She knew what it meant.
Roland wanted her to know he was hiding his thoughts from Patrick. His desires. And while she'd known the gunslinger to lie (most spectacularly at the meeting on the Calla Bryn Sturgis common-ground before the coming of the Wolves), she had never known him to lie to her. To Detta, maybe, but not to her.
Or Eddie. Or Jake. There had been times when he hadn't told them all he knew, but outright lie...? No. They'd been ka-tet, and Roland had played them straight. Give the devil his due.
Patrick suddenly took up his pad and wrote quickly on the clean sheet. Then he showed it to them:
I will stay. Scared to go sumplace new.
As if to emphasize exacdy what he meant, he opened his lips and pointed into his tongueless mouth.
And did she see relief on Roland's face? If so, she hated him for it.
"All right, Patrick," she said, trying to show none of her feelings in her voice. She even reached over and patted his hand.
"I understand how you feel. And while it's true that people can be cruel... cruel and mean... there's plenty who are kind.
Listen, thee: I'm not going until dawn. If you change your mind, the offer is open."
He nodded quickly. Grateful Iain't goan try nohardert 'change his mine, Detta thought angrily. Ole white man probably grateful, too!
Shut up, Susannah told her, and for a wonder, Detta did.
EIGHTEEN
Bvit as the day brightened (revealing a medium-sized herd of grazing bannock not two miles away), she let Detta back into her mind. More: she let Detta take over. It was easier that way, less painful. It was Detta who took one more stroll around the campsite, briskly breathing the last of this world for both of them, and storing away the memory. It was Detta who went around the door, rocking first one way and then the other on the toughened pads of her palms, and saw the nothing at all on the other side. Patrick walked on one side of her, Roland on the other. Patrick hooted with surprise when he saw the door was gone. Roland said nothing. Oy walked up to the place where the door had been, sniffed at the air... and then walked through the place where it was, if you were looking from the other side.
If we was over there, Detta thought, we'd see him walk right through it, like a magic trick.
She returned to Ho Fat III, which she had decided to ride through the door. Always assuming it would open, that was. This whole business would be quite a joke if it turned out it wouldn't.
Roland made to help her up into the seat; she brushed him brusquely away and mounted on her own. She pushed the red button beside the wheel, and the cart's electric motor started with a faint hum. The needle marked CHG still swung well over into the green. She turned the throttle on the right handlebar and rolled slowly toward the closed door with the symbols meaning UNFOUND marching across the front. She stopped with the cart's little bullet nose almost touching it.
She turned to the gunslinger with a fixed make-believe smile.
"All ri', Roland-Ah'll say g'bye to you, then. Long days n pleasant nights. May you reach y'damn Tower, and-"
"No," he said.
She looked at him, Detta looked at him with her eyes both blazing and laughing. Challenging him to turn this into something she didn't want it to be. Challenging him to turn her out now that she was in. C'mon, honky white boy, lessee you do it.
"What?" she asked. "What's on yo' mine, big boy?"
"I'd not say goodbye to you like this, after all this time," he said.
"What do you mean?" Only in Detta's angry burlesque, it came out Whatchu mean?
"You know."
She shook her head defiantly. Doan.
"For one thing," he said, taking her trail-toughened left hand gendy in his mutilated right one, "there's another who should have the choice to go or stay, and I'm not speaking of Patrick."
For a moment she didn't understand. Then she looked down at a certain pair of gold-ringed eyes, a certain pair of cocked ears, and did. She had forgotten about Oy.
"If Detta asks him, he'll surely stay, for she's never been to his liking. If Susannah asks him... why, then I don't know."
Just like that, Detta was gone. She would be back-Susannah understood now that she would never be entirely free of Detta Walker, and that was all right, because she no longer wanted to be-but for now she was gone.
"Oy?" she said gendy. "Will you come with me, honey? It may be we'll find Jake again. Maybe not quite the same, but still..."
Oy, who had been almost completely silent during their trek across the Badlands and the White Lands of Empathica and the open rangelands, now spoke. "Ake?" he said. But he spoke doubtfully, as one who barely remembers, and her heart broke. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry, and Detta all but guaranteed she wouldn't cry, but now Detta was gone and the tears were here again.
"Jake," she said. 'You remember Jake, honeybunch, I know you do. Jake and Eddie."
"Ake? Ed?" With a little more certainty now. He did remember.
"Come with me," she urged, and Oy started forward as if he would jump up in the cart beside her. Then, with no idea at all why she should say it, she added: "There are other worlds than these."
Oy stopped as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He sat down. Then he got up again, and she felt a moment of hope: perhaps there could still be some little ka-tet, a dan-tete-tet, in some version of New York where folks drove Takuro Spirits and took pictures of each other drinking Nozz-A-La with their Shinnaro cameras.
Instead, Oy trotted back to the gunslinger and sat beside one battered boot. They had walked far, those boots, far. Miles and wheels, wheels and miles. But now their walking was almost done.
"Olan," said Oy, and the finality in his strange little voice rolled a stone against her heart. She turned bitterly to the old man with the big iron on his hip.
"There," she said. 'You have your own glammer, don't you?
Always did. You drew Eddie on to one death, and Jake to a pair of em. Now Patrick, and even the bumbler. Are you happy?"
"No," said he, and she saw he truly was not. She believed she had never seen such sadness and such loneliness on a human face. "Never was I farther from happy, Susannah of New York.
Will you change your mind and stay? Will thee come the last little while with me? That would make me happy."
For a wild moment she thought she would. That she would simply turn the litde electric cart from the door-which was one-sided and made no promises-and go with him to the Dark Tower. Another day would do it; they could camp at midafternoon and thus arrive tomorrow at sunset, as he wanted.
Then she remembered the dream. The singing voices. The young man holding out the cup of hot chocolate-the good kind, mit schlag.
"No," she said softly. "I'll take my chance and go."
For a moment she thought he would make it easy on her, just agree and let her go. Then his anger-no, his despair-broke in a painful burst. "But you can't be sure! Susannah, what if the dream itself is a trick and a glammer? What if the things you see even when the door's open are nothing but tricks and glammers? What if you roll right through and into todash space?"
"Then I'll light the darkness with thoughts of those I love."
"And that might work," said he, speaking in the bitterest voice she had ever heard. "For the first ten years... or twenty... or even a hundred. And then? What about the rest of eternity?
Think of Oy! Do you think he's forgotten Jake? Never! Never!
Never in your life! Never in his! He senses something wrong!
Susannah, don't. I beg you, don't go. I'll get on my knees, if that will help." And to her horror, he began to do exactly that.
"It won't," she said. "And if this is to be my last sight of you-my heart says it is-then don't let it be of you on your knees. You're not a kneeling man, Roland, son of Steven, never were, and I don't want to remember you that way. I want to see you on your feet, as you were in Calla Bryn Sturgis. As you were with your friends at Jericho Hill."
He got up and came to her. For a moment she thought he meant to restrain her by force, and she was afraid. But he only put his hand on her arm for a moment, and then took it away.
"Let me ask you again, Susannah. Are you sureT
She conned her heart and saw that she was. She understood the risks, but yes-she was. And why? Because Roland's way was the way of the gun. Roland's way was death for those who rode or walked beside him. He had proved it over and over again, since the earliest days of his quest-no, even before, since overhearing Hax the cook plotting treachery and thus assuring his death by the rope. It was all for the good (for what he called the White), she had no doubt of it, but Eddie still lay in his grave in one world and Jake in another. She had no doubt that much the same fate was waiting for Oy, and for poor Patrick.
Nor would their deaths be long in coming.
"I'm sure," said she.
"All right. Will you give me a kiss?"
She took him by the arm and pulled him down and put her lips on his. When she inhaled, she took in the breath of a thousand years and ten thousand miles. And yes, she tasted death.
But not for you, gunslinger, she thought. For others, but never for you. May I escape your glammer, and may I do fine.;
She was the one who broke their kiss.
"Can you open the door for me?" she asked.
Roland went to it, and took the knob in his hand, and the knob turned easily within his grip.
Cold air puffed out, strong enough to blow Patrick's long hair back, and with it came a few flakes of snow. She could see grass that was still green beneath light frost, and a path, and an iron fence. Voices were singing "What Child Is This," just as in her dream.
It could be Central Park. Yes, it could be; Central Park of some other world along the axis, perhaps, and not the one she came from, but close enough so that in time she would know no difference.
Or perhaps it was, as he said, a glammer.
Perhaps it was the todash darkness.;;
"It could be a trick," he said, most certainly reading her mind.
"Life is a trick, love a glammer," she replied. "Perhaps we'll meet again, in the clearing at the end of the path."
"As you say so, let it be so," he told her. He put out one leg, the rundown heel of his boot planted in the earth, and bowed to her. Oy had begun to weep, but he sat firmly beside the gunslinger's left boot. "Goodbye, my dear."
"Goodbye, Roland." Then she faced ahead, took in a deep breath, and twisted the little cart's throttle. It rolled smoothly forward.
"Wait.1" Roland cried, but she never turned, nor looked at him again. She rolled through the door. It slammed shut behind her at once with a flat, declamatory clap he knew all too well, one he'd dreamed of ever since his long and feverish walk along the edge of the Western Sea. The sound of the singing was gone and now there was only the lonely sound of the prairie wind.
Roland of Gilead sat in front of the door, which already looked tired and unimportant. It would never open again. He put his face in his hands. It occurred to him that if he had never loved them, he would never have felt so alone as this. Yet of all his many regrets, the re-opening of his heart was not among them, even now.
NINETEEN
Later-because there's always a later, isn't there?-he made breakfast and forced himself to eat his share. Patrick ate heartily, then withdrew to do his necessary while Roland packed up.
There was a third plate, and it was still full. "Oy?" Roland asked, tipping it toward the billy-bumbler. "Will'ee not have at least a bite?"
Oy looked at the plate, then backed away two firm steps.
Roland nodded and tossed away the uneaten food, scattering it into the grass. Mayhap Mordred would come along in good time, and find something to his liking.
At mid-morning they moved on, Roland pulling Ho Fat II and Patrick walking along beside with his head hung low. And soon the beat of the Tower filled the gunslinger's head again.
Very close now. That steady, pulsing power drove out all thoughts of Susannah, and he was glad. He gave himself to the steady beating and let it sweep away all his thoughts and all his sorrow.
Commala-come-come, sang the Dark Tower, now just over the horizon. Commala-come-come, gunslinger may ya come.
Commala-come-Roland, the journey's nearly done.