Stephen King – The Dark Tower

his head back and forth, like someone who has a terrible headache.

“Yes,” Roland said. “I’m afraid, too. But there’s no help for it. I have to go there. Would

you stay here, Patrick? Stay and wait for me? If you would, I give you leave to do so.”

Patrick shook his head at once. And, just in case Roland didn’t take the point, the mute boy

seized his arm in a hard grip. The right hand, the one with which he drew, was like iron.

Roland nodded. Even tried to smile. “Yes,” he said, “that’s fine. Stay with me as long as

you like. As long as you understand that in the end I’ll have to go on alone.”

Three

Now, as they rose from each dip and topped each hill, the Dark Tower seemed to spring

closer. More of the spiraling windows which ran around its great circumference became

visible. Roland could see two steel posts jutting from the top. The clouds which followed

the Paths of the two working Beams seemed to flow away from the tips, making a greatX

-shape in the sky. The voices grew louder, and Roland realized they were singing the

names of the world. Ofall the worlds. He didn’t know how he could know that, but he was

sure of it. That lightness of being continued to fill him up. Finally, as they crested a hill with great stone men marching away to the north on their left (the remains of their faces,

painted in some blood-red stuff, glared down upon them), Roland told Patrick to climb up

into the cart. Patrick looked surprised. He made a series of hooting noises Roland took to

meanBut aren’t you tired?

“Yes, but I need an anchor, even so. Without one I’m apt to start running toward yonder

Tower, even though part of me knows better. And if plain old exhaustion doesn’t burst my

heart, the Red King’s apt to take my head off with one of his toys. Get in, Patrick.”

Patrick did so. He rode sitting hunched forward, with the binoculars pressed against his

eyes.

Four

Three hours later, they came to the foot of a much steeper hill. It was, Roland’s heart told

him, the last hill. Can’-Ka No Rey was beyond. At the top, on the right, was a cairn of

boulders that had once been a small pyramid. What remained stood about thirty feet high.

Roses grew around its base in a rough crimson ring. Roland set this in his sights and took

the hill slowly, pulling the cart by its handles. As he climbed, the top of the Dark Tower

once more appeared. Each step brought a greater length of it into view. Now he could see

the balconies with their waist-high railings. There was no need of the binoculars; the air

was preternaturally clear. He put the distance remaining at no more than five miles.

Perhaps only three. Level after level rose before his not-quite-disbelieving eye.

Just shy of this hill’s top, with the crumbling rock pyramid twenty paces ahead of them on

the right, Roland stopped, bent, and set the handles of the cart on the road for the last time.

Every nerve in his body spoke of danger.

“Patrick? Hop down.”

Patrick did so, looking anxiously into Roland’s face and hooting.

The gunslinger shook his head. “I can’t say why just yet. Only it’s not safe.” The voices

sang in a great chorus, but the air around them was still. Not a bird soared overhead or sang in the distance. The wandering herds of bannock had all been left behind. A breeze soughed

around them, and the grasses rippled. The roses nodded their wild heads.

The two of them walked on together, and as they did, Roland felt a timid touch against the side of his two-fingered right hand. He looked at Patrick. The mute boy looked anxiously

back, trying to smile. Roland took his hand, and they crested the hill in that fashion.

Below them was a great blanket of red that stretched to the horizon in every direction. The

road cut through it, a dusty white line perfectly straight and perhaps twelve feet wide. In the middle of the rose-field stood the sooty dark gray Tower, just as it had stood in his dreams; its windows gleamed in the sun. Here the road split and made a perfect white circle around

the Tower’s base to continue on the other side, in a direction Roland believed was now

dead east instead of south-by-east. Another road ran off at right angles to the Tower Road:

to the north and south, if he was right in believing that the points of the compass had been

re-established. From above, the Dark Tower would look like the center of a blood-filled

gunsight.

“It’s—” Roland began, and then a great, crazed shriek floated to them on the breeze,

weirdly undiminished by the distance of miles.It comes on the Beam, Roland thought.And

it’s carried by the roses.

“GUNSLINGER!”screamed the Crimson King.“NOW YOU DIE!”

There was a whistling sound, thin at first and then growing, cutting through the combined

song of the Tower and the roses like the keenest blade ever ground on a wheel dusted with

diamonds. Patrick stood transfixed, peering dumbly at the Tower; he would have been

blown out of his boots if not for Roland, whose reflexes were as quick as ever. He pulled

the mute boy behind the heaped stone of the pyramid by their joined hands. There were

other stones hidden in the high grass of dock and jimson; they stumbled over these and

went sprawling. Roland felt the corner of one digging painfully into his ribs.

The whistle continued to rise, becoming an earsplitting whine. Roland saw a golden

something flash past in the air—one of the sneetches. It struck the cart and it blew up,

scattering their gunna every which way. Most of the stuff settled back to the road, cans

rattling and bouncing, some of them burst.

Then came high, chattering laughter that set Roland’s teeth on edge; beside him, Patrick

covered his ears. The lunacy in that laughter was almost unbearable.

“COME OUT!”urged that distant, mad, laughing voice.“COME OUT AND PLAY,

ROLAND! COME TO ME! COME TO YOUR TOWER, AFTER ALL THE LONG

YEARS WILL YOU NOT?”

Patrick looked at him, his eyes desperate and frightened. He was holding his drawing pad

against his chest like a shield.

Roland peered carefully around the edge of the pyramid, and there, on a balcony two

levels up from the Tower’s base, he saw exactly what he had seen in sai Sayre’s painting:

one blob of red and three blobs of white; a face and two upraised hands. But this was no

painting, and one of the hands moved rapidly forward in a throwing gesture and there came

another hellish, rising whine. Roland rolled back against the tumble of the pyramid. There

was a pause that seemed endless, and then the sneetch struck the pyramid’s other side and

exploded. The concussion threw them forward onto their faces. Patrick screamed in terror.

Rocks flew to either side in a spray. Some of them rattled down on the road, but Roland

saw not a single piece of shrapnel strike so much as a single rose.

The boy scrambled to his knees and would have run—likely back into the road—but

Roland grabbed him by the collar of his hide coat and yanked him down again.

“We’re safe enough here,” he murmured to Patrick. “Look.” He reached into a hole revealed by the falling rock, knocked on the interior with his knuckles, produced a dull

ringing noise, and showed his teeth in a strained grin. “Steel! Yar! He can hit this thing

with a dozen of his flying fireballs and not knock it down. All he can do is blast away the

rocks and blocks and expose what lies beneath. Kennit? And I don’t think he’ll waste his

ammunition. He can’t have much more than a donkey’s carry.”

Before Patrick could reply, Roland peered around the pyramid’s ragged edge once more.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed:“TRY AGAIN, SAI! WE’RE STILL

HERE, BUT PERHAPS YOUR NEXT THROW WILL BE LUCKY!”

There was a moment of silence, then an insane scream:“EEEEEEEEEEE! YOU DON’T

DARE MOCK ME! YOU DON’T DARE! EEEEEEEEEEE!”

Now came another of those rising whistles. Roland grabbed Patrick and fell on top of him,

behind the pyramid but not against it. He was afraid it might vibrate hard enough when the

sneetch struck to give them concussion injuries, or turn their soft insides to jelly.

Only this time the sneetch didn’t strike the pyramid. It flew past it instead, soaring above

the road. Roland rolled off Patrick and onto his back. His eyes picked up the golden blur

and marked the place where it buttonhooked back toward its targets. He shot it out of the air like a clay plate. There was a blinding flash and then it was gone.