Stephen King – The Dark Tower

born. He was a bookkeeper, as inoffensive as milk and cookies. The one inInsomnia is a

lunatic who falls under the power of the Crimson King. He attempts to turn an airplane into

a bomb and crash it into a building, killing thousands of people.”

“Pray it never happens,” the old man said gloomily, looking out at the New York City

skyline. “God knows it could.”

“In the story the plan fails,” Nancy said. “Although some peopleare killed, the main

character in the book, an old man named Ralph Roberts, manages to keep the absolute

worst from happening.”

Roland was looking intently at Aaron Deepnau’s grandniece. “The Crimson King is

mentioned in here? Byactual name ?”

“Yes,” she said. “The Ed Deepneau in Bangor—thereal Ed Deepneau—was a cousin of

my father’s, four or five times removed. The Calvins could show you the family tree if you

wanted, but there really isn’t much of a connection to Uncle Aaron’s part of it. We think

King may have used the name in the book as a way of getting your attention—or

ours—without even realizing what he was doing.”

“A message from his undermind,” the gunslinger mused.

Nancy brightened. “His subconscious, yes! Yes, that’s exactly what we think!”

Itwasn’t exactly what Roland was thinking. The gunslinger had been recalling how he had

hypnotized King in the year of 1977; how he had told him to listen for Ves’-Ka Gan, the

Song of the Turtle. Had King’s undermind, the part of him that would never have stopped

trying to obey the hypnotic command, put part of the Song of the Turtle in this book? A

book the Servants of the King might have neglected because it wasn’t part of the “Dark

Tower Cycle”? Roland thought that could be, and that the name Deepneau might indeed be

a sigul. But—

“I can’t read this,” he said. “A word here and a word there, perhaps, but no more.”

“You can’t, but my girl can,” Moses Carver said. “My girl Odetta, that you call

Susannah.”

Roland nodded slowly. And although he had already begun to have his doubts, his mind

nevertheless cast up a brilliant image of the two of them sitting close by a fire—a large one, for the night was cold—with Oy between. In the rocks above them the wind howled bitter

notes of winter, but they cared not, for their bellies were full, their bodies were warm,

dressed in the skins of animals they had killed themselves, and they had a story to entertain them.

Stephen King’s story of insomnia.

“She’ll read it to you on the trail,” Moses said. “On your last trail, say God!”

Yes,Roland thought.One last story to hear, one last trail to follow. The one that leads to

Can’-Ka No Rey, and the Dark Tower .Or it would be nice to think so .

Nancy said, “In the story, the Crimson King is using Ed Deepneau to kill one single child,

a boy named Patrick Danville. Just before the attack, while Patrick and his mother are

waiting for a woman to make a speech, the boy draws a picture, one that shows you, Roland,

and the Crimson King, apparently imprisoned at the top of the Dark Tower.”

Roland started in his seat. “Thetop? Imprisoned at thetop?”

“Easy,” Marian said. “Take it easy, Roland. The Calvins have been analyzing King’s work

for years, every word and every reference, and everything they produce gets forwarded to

the good-mindfolken in New Mexico. Although these two groups have never seen each

other, it would be perfectly correct to say that they work together.”

“Not that they’re always in agreement,” Nancy said.

“They surearen’t! ” Marian spoke in the exasperated tone of one who’s had to referee more than her share of squabbles. “But one thing that theyare in agreement about is that King’s

references to the Dark Tower are almost always masked, and sometimes mean nothing at

all.”

Roland nodded. “He speaks of it because his undermind is always thinking of it, but

sometimes he lapses into gibberish.”

“Yes,” Nancy said.

“But obviously you don’t think this entire book is a false trail, or you would not want to

give it to me.”

“Indeed we do not,” Nancy said. “But that doesn’t mean the Crimson King is necessarily

imprisoned at thetop of the Tower. Although I suppose it might.”

Roland thought of his own belief that the Red King was locked out of the Tower, on a kind

of balcony. Was it a genuine intuition, or just something he wanted to believe?

“In any case, we think you should watch for this Patrick Danville,” Marian said. “The

consensus is that he’s a real person, but we haven’t been able to find any trace of him here.

Perhaps you may find him in Thunderclap.”

“Or beyond it,” Moses put in.

Marian was nodding. “According to the story King tells inInsomnia —you’ll see for

yourself—Patrick Danville dies as a young man.But that may not be true. Do you

understand?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“When you find Patrick Danville—or when he finds you—he may still be the child

described in this book,” Nancy said, “or he could be as old as Uncle Mose.”

“Bad luck f’him if that be true!” said the old man, and chortled.

Roland lifted the book, stared at the red and white cover, traced the slightly raised letters that made a word he could not read. “Surely it’s just a story?”

“From the spring of 1970, when he typed the lineThe man in black fled across the desert

and the gunslinger followed, ” Marian Carver said, “very few of the things Stephen King

wrote were ‘just stories.’ He may not believe that; we do.”

But years of dealing with the Crimson King may have left you with a way of jumping at

shadows, do it please ya,Roland thought. Aloud he said, “If not stories, what?”

It was Moses Carver who answered. “We think maybe messages in bottles.” In the way he spoke this word—boh’uls,almost—Roland heard a heartbreaking echo of Susannah, and

suddenly wanted to see her and know she was all right. This desire was so strong it left a

bitter taste on his tongue.

“—that great sea.”

“Beg your pardon,” the gunslinger said. “I was wool-gathering.”

“I said we believe that Stephen King’s cast his bottles upon that great sea. The one we call

thePrim . In hopes that they’ll reach you, and the messages inside will make it possible for

you and my Odetta to gain your goal.”

“Which brings us to our final gifts,” Marian said. “Our true gifts. First…” She handed him

the box.

It opened on a hinge. Roland placed his left hand splayed over the top, meaning to swing it

back, then paused and studied his interlocutors. They were looking at him with hope and

suspenseful interest, an expression that made him uneasy. A mad (but surprisingly

persuasive) idea came to him: that these were in truth agents of the Crimson King, and

when he opened the box, the last thing he’d see would be a primed sneetch, counting down

the last few clicks to red zero. And the last sound he’d hear before the world blew up

around him would be their mad laughter and a cry ofHile the Red King! It wasn’t

impossible, either, but a point came where one had to trust, because the alternative was

madness.

If ka will say so, let it be so,he thought, and opened the box.

Twelve

Within, resting on dark blue velvet (which they might or might not have known was the

color of the Royal Court of Gilead), was a watch within a coiled chain. Engraved upon its

gold cover were three objects: a key, a rose, and—between and slightly above them—a

tower with tiny windows marching around its circumference in an ascending spiral.

Roland was amazed to find his eyes once more filling with tears. When he looked at the

others again—two young women and one old man, the brains and guts of the Tet

Corporation—he at first saw six instead of three. He blinked the phantom doubles away.

“Open the cover and look inside,” Moses Carver said. “And there’s no need to hide your

tears in this company, you son of Steven, for we’re not the machines the others would

replace us with, if they had their way.”

Roland saw that the old man spoke true, for tears were slipping down the weathered

darkness of his cheeks. Nancy Deepneau was also weeping freely. And although Marian

Carver no doubt prided herself on being made of sterner stuff, her eyes held a suspicious gleam.

He depressed the stem protruding from the top of the case, and the lid sprang up. Inside,

finely scrolled hands told the hour and the minute, and with perfect accuracy, he had no

doubt. Below, in its own small circle, a smaller hand raced away the seconds. Carved on

the inside of the lid was this:

To the Hand of ROLAND DESCHAIN