the deep, endless cold of that last night wasfar worse. She came to dread every light breath
of breeze from the snowlands to the east and south. It was both terrible and oddly humbling
to realize how easily physical discomfort could take control, expanding like poison gas
until it owned all the floor-space, took over the entire playing field. Grief? Loss? What
were those things when you could feel cold on the march, moving in from your fingers and
toes, crawling up your motherfuckingnose, and moving where? Toward the brain, do it
please ya. And toward the heart. In the grip of cold like that, grief and loss were nothing but words. No, not even that. Onlysounds . So much meaningless quack as you sat shuddering
under the stars, waiting for a morning that would never come.
What made it worse was knowing there were potential bonfires all around them, for they’d
reached the live region Roland called “the undersnow.” This was a series of long, grassy
slopes (most of the grass now white and dead) and shallow valleys where there were
isolated stands of trees, and brooks now plugged with ice. Earlier, in daylight, Roland had
pointed out several holes in the ice and told her they’d been made by deer. He pointed out
several piles of scat, as well. In daylight such sign had been interesting, even hopeful. But in this endless ditch of night, listening to the steady low click of her chattering teeth, it meant nothing. Eddie meant nothing. Jake, neither. The Dark Tower meant nothing, nor
did the bonfire they’d had out the outskirts of Castle-town. She could remember the look of
it, but the feel of heat warming her skin until it brought an oil of sweat was utterly lost. Like a person who has died for a moment or two and has briefly visited some shining afterlife,
she could only say that it had been wonderful.
Roland sat with his arms around her, sometimes voicing a dry, harsh cough. Susannah
thought he might be getting sick, but this thought also had no power. Only the cold.
Once—shortly before dawn finally began to stain the sky in the east, this was—she saw
orange lights swirl-dancing far ahead, past the place where the snow began. She asked
Roland if he had any idea what they were. She had no real interest, but hearing her voice
reassured her that she wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least.
“I think they’re hobs.”
“W-What are th-they?” She now stuttered and stammered everything.
“I don’t know how to explain them to you,” he said. “And there’s really no need. You’ll
see them in time. Right now if you listen, you’ll hear something closer and more
interesting.”
At first she heard only the sigh of the wind. Then it dropped and her ears picked up the dry
swish of the grass below as something walked through it. This was followed by a low
crunching sound. Susannah knew exactly what it was: a hoof stamping through thin ice,
opening the running water to the cold world above. She also knew that in three or four days’ time she might be wearing a coat made from the animal that was now drinking
nearby, but this also had no meaning. Time was a useless concept when you were sitting
awake in the dark, and in constant pain.
Had she thought she had been cold before? That was quite funny, wasn’t it?
“What about Mordred?” she asked. “Is he out there, do you think?”
“Yes.”
“And does he feel the cold like we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t stand much more of this, Roland—I really can’t.”
“You won’t have to. It’ll be dawn soon, and I expect we’ll have a fire tomorrow come
dark.” He coughed into his fist, then put his arm back around her. “You’ll feel better once
we’re up and in the doings. Meantime, at least we’re together.”
Two
Mordredwas as cold as they were, every bit, and he had no one.
He was close enough to hear them, though: not the actual words, but the sound of their
voices. He shuddered uncontrollably, and had lined his mouth with dead grass when he
became afraid that Roland’s sharp ears might pick up the sound of his chattering teeth. The
railwayman’s jacket was no help; he had thrown it away when it had fallen into so many
pieces that he could no longer hold it together. He’d worn the arms of it out of Castle-town, but then they had fallen to pieces as well, starting at the elbows, and he’d cast them into the low grass beside the old road with a petulant curse. He was only able to go on wearing the
boots because he’d been able to weave long grass into a rough twine. With it he’d bound
what remained of them to his feet.
He’d considered changing back to his spider-form, knowing that body would feel the cold
less, but his entire short life had been plagued by the specter of starvation, and he supposed that part of him would always fear it, no matter how much food he had at hand. The gods
knew there wasn’t much now; three severed arms, four legs (two partially eaten), and a
piece of a torso from the wicker basket, that was all. If he changed, the spider would gobble that little bit up by daylight. And while there was game out here—he heard the deer moving
around just as clearly as his White Daddy did—Mordred wasn’t entirely confident of his
ability to trap it, or run it down.
So he sat and shivered and listened to the sound of their voices until the voices ceased.
Maybe they slept. He might have dozed a little, himself. And the only thing that kept him
from giving up and going back was his hatred of them. That they should have each other when he had no one. No one at all.
Mordred’s a-hungry,he thought miserably.Mordred’s a-cold. And Mordred has no one.
Mordred’s alone .
He slipped his wrist into his mouth, bit deep, and sucked the warmth that flowed out. In the
blood he tasted the last of Rando Thoughtful’s life…but so little! So soon gone! And once
it was, there was nothing but the useless, recycled taste of himself.
In the dark, Mordred began to cry.
Three
Four hours after dawn, under a white sky that promised rain or sleet (perhaps both at the
same time), Susannah Dean lay shivering behind a fallen log, looking down into one of the
little valleys.You’ll hear Oy, the gunslinger had told her.And you’ll hear me, too. I’ll do
what I can, but I’ll be driving them ahead of me and you’ll have the best shooting. Make
every shot count.
What made things worse was her creeping intuition that Mordred was very close now, and
he might try to bushwhack her while her back was turned. She kept looking around, but
they had picked a relatively clear spot, and the open grass behind her was empty each time
save once, when she had seen a large brown rabbit lolloping along with its ears dragging
the ground.
At last she heard Oy’s high-pitched barking from the copse of trees on her left. A moment
later, Roland began to yell. “H’yah! H’yah! Get on brisk! Get on brisk, I tell thee! Never
tarry! Never tarry a single—” Then the sound of him coughing. She didn’t like that cough.
No, not at all.
Now she could see movement in the trees, and for one of the few times since Roland had
forced her to admit there was another person hiding inside of her, she called on Detta
Walker.
I need you. If you want to be warm again, you settle my hands so I can shoot straight.
And the ceaseless shivering of her body stopped. As the herd of deer burst out of the
trees—not a small herd, either; there had to be at least eighteen of them, led by a buck with a magnificent rack—her hands also stopped their shaking. In the right one she held
Roland’s revolver with the sandalwood grips.
Here came Oy, bursting out of the woods behind the final straggler. This was a mutie doe,
running (and with eerie grace) on four legs of varying sizes with a fifth waggling
bonelessly from the middle of her belly like a teat. Last of all came Roland, not really
running at all, not anymore, but rather staggering onward at a grim jog. She ignored him,
tracking the buck with the gun as the big fellow ran across her field of fire.
“This way,” she whispered. “Break to your right, honey-child, let’s see you do it.
Commala-come-come.”
And while there was no reason why he should have, the buck leading his little fleeing herd
did indeed veer slightly in Susannah’s direction. Now she was filled with the sort of
coldness she welcomed. Her vision seemed to sharpen until she could see the muscles