Stephen King – The Dark Tower

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 ifshe 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 wasdrawing her.

She sat still for nearly twenty minutes, and then curiosity overcame her. For Patrick,

twenty minutes would be long enough to do theMona Lisa, and maybe St. Paul’s Basilica

in the background for good measure. That tingling sense was soqueer, 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 hewanted 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 alsomore 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 madehim

happy; this much he’d always known. That his pictures could makeothers 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, itis 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? Understoodeverything?

Yes, she would think much later. Not in any coherent fashion that could be written

down—ifa +b =c, thenc -b =a andc -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-tetwas, what it meant? Ka-tet was family.

Ka-tet was love.

Todraw is to make a picture with a pencil, or maybe charcoal.

Todraw is also to fascinate, to compel, and to bring forward.To bring one out of one’s self.

Thedrawers 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 exactly 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 todraw 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

actuallylooked 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 bydrawing 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, ithaveto 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