Stephen King – The Dark Tower

The thought made him faint with amazement. Then came another that filled him with

anger and fear: the only one with a view of that great red blanket was insane. Would blight

them all in an instant, if allowed free rein to do so.

There was a hesitant tap on his shoulder. It was Patrick, with Oy at his heel. Patrick

pointed to the grassy area beside the rose, then made eating gestures. Pointed at the rose

and made drawing motions. Roland wasn’t very hungry, but the boy’s other idea pleased

him a great deal.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll have a bite here, then maybe I’ll take me a little siesta while you

draw the rose. Will you make two pictures of it, Patrick?” He showed the two remaining

fingers on his right hand to make sure Patrick understood.

The young man frowned and cocked his head, still not understanding. His hair hung to one

shoulder in a bright sheaf. Roland thought of how Susannah had washed that hair in a

stream in spite of Patrick’s hooted protests. It was the sort of thing Roland himself would

never have thought to do, but it made the young fellow look a lot better. Looking at that

sheaf of shining hair made him miss Susannah in spite of the rose’s song. She had brought

grace to his life. It wasn’t a word that had occurred to him until she was gone.

Meanwhile, here was Patrick, wildly talented but awfully slow on the uptake.

Roland gestured to his pad, then to the rose. Patrick nodded—that part he got. Then

Roland raised two of the fingers on his good hand and pointed to the pad again. This time

the light broke on Patrick’s face. He pointed to the rose, to the pad, to Roland, and then to himself.

“That’s right, big boy,” Roland said. “A picture of the rose for you and one for me. It’s

nice, isn’t it?”

Patrick nodded enthusiastically, setting to work while Roland rustled the grub. Once again

Roland fixed three plates, and once again Oy refused his share. When Roland looked into

the bumbler’s gold-ringed eyes he saw an emptiness there—a kind of loss—that hurt him

deep inside. And Oy couldn’t stand to miss many meals; he was far too thin already.

Trail-frayed, Cuthbert would have said, probably smiling. In need of some hot sassafras

and salts. But the gunslinger had no sassy here.

“Why do’ee look so?” Roland asked the bumbler crossly. “If’ee wanted to go with her,

thee should have gone when thee had the chance! Why will’ee cast thy sad houken’s eyes

on me now?”

Oy looked at him a moment longer, and Roland saw that he had hurt the little fellow’s

feelings; ridiculous but true. Oy walked away, little squiggle of tail drooping. Roland felt like calling him back, but that would have been more ridiculous yet, would it not? What

plan did he have? To apologize to a billy-bumbler?

He felt angry and ill at ease with himself, feelings he had never suffered before hauling

Eddie, Susannah, and Jake from America-side into his life. Before they’d come he’d felt

almost nothing, and while that was a narrow way to live, in some ways it wasn’t so bad; at

least you didn’t waste time wondering if you should apologize to animals for taking a high

tone to them, by the gods.

Roland hunkered by the rose, leaning into the soothing power of its song and the blaze of

light—healthylight—from its center. Then Patrick hooted at him, gesturing for Roland to

move away so he could see it and draw it. This added to Roland’s sense of dislocation and

annoyance, but he moved back without a word of protest. He had, after all, asked Patrick to

draw it, hadn’t he? He thought of how, if Susannah had been here, their eyes would have

met with amused understanding, as the eyes of parents do over the antics of a small child.

But she wasn’t here, of course; she’d been the last of them and now she was gone, too.

“All right, can’ee see howgit rosen-gaff a tweakit better?” he asked, striving to sound

comic and only sounding cross—cross and tired.

Patrick, at least, didn’t react to the harshness in the gunslinger’s tone;probably didn’t even ken what I said, Roland thought. The mute boy sat with his ankles crossed and his pad

balanced on his thighs, his half-finished plate of food set off to one side.

“Don’t get so busy you forget to eat that,” Roland said. “You mind me, now.” He got

another distracted nod for his pains and gave up. “I’m going to snooze, Patrick. It’ll be a

long afternoon.”And an even longer night, he added to himself…and yet he had the same

consolation as Mordred: tonight would likely be the last. He didn’t know for sure what

waited for him in the Dark Tower at the end of the field of roses, but even if he managed to

put paid to the Crimson King, he felt quite sure that this was his last march. He didn’t

believe he would ever leave Can’-Ka No Rey, and that was all right. He was very tired.

And, despite the power of the rose, sad.

Roland of Gilead put an arm over his eyes and was asleep at once.

Four

He didn’t sleep for long before Patrick woke him with a child’s enthusiasm to show him

the first picture of the rose he’d drawn—the sun suggested no more than ten minutes had

passed, fifteen at most.

Like all of his drawings, this one had a queer power. Patrick had captured the rose almost

to the life, even though he had nothing but a pencil to work with. Still, Roland would much

have preferred another hour’s sleep to this exercise in art appreciation. He nodded his

approval, though—no more grouch and grump in the presence of such a lovely thing, he

promised himself—and Patrick smiled, happy even with so little. He tossed back the sheet and began drawing the rose again. One picture for each of them, just as Roland had asked.

Roland could have slept again, but what was the point? The mute boy would be done with

the second picture in a matter of minutes and would only wake him again. He went to Oy

instead, and stroked the bumbler’s dense fur, something he rarely did.

“I’m sorry I spoke rough to’ee, fella,” Roland said. “Will you not set me on with a word?”

But Oy would not.

Fifteen minutes later, Roland re-packed the few things he’d taken out of the cart, spat into

his palms, and hoisted the handles again. The cart was lighter now, had to be, but it felt

heavier.

Of course it’s heavier,he thought.It’s got my grief in it. I pull it along with me everywhere I go, so I do.

Soon Ho Fat II had Patrick Danville in it, as well. He crawled up, made himself a little nest, and fell asleep almost at once. Roland plodded on, head down, shadow growing longer at

his heels. Oy walked beside him.

One more night,the gunslinger thought.One more night, one more day to follow, and then

it’s done. One way or t’ other .

He let the pulse of the Tower and its many singing voices fill his head and lighten his

heels…at least a little. There were more roses now, dozens scattered on either side of the

road and brightening the otherwise dull countryside. A few were growing in the road itself

and he was careful to detour around them. Tired though he might be, he would not crush a

single one, or roll a wheel over a single fallen petal.

Five

He stopped for the night while the sun was still well above the horizon, too weary to go

farther even though there would be at least another two hours of daylight. Here was a

stream that had gone dry, but in its bed grew a riot of those beautiful wild roses. Their

songs didn’t diminish his weariness, but they revived his spirit to some extent. He thought

this was true for Patrick and Oy, as well, and that was good. When Patrick had awakened

he’d looked around eagerly at first. Then his face had darkened, and Roland knew he was

realizing all over again that Susannah was gone. The boy had cried a little then, but perhaps there would be no crying here.

There was a grove of cottonwood trees on the bank—at least the gunslinger thought they

were cottonwoods—but they had died when the stream from which their roots drank had

disappeared. Now their branches were only bony, leafless snarls against the sky. In their

silhouettes he could make out the number nineteen over and over again, in both the figures

of Susannah’s world and those of his own. In one place the branches seemed to clearly spell the wordCHASSIT against the deepening sky.

Before making a fire and cooking them an early supper—canned goods from Dandelo’s