Stephen King – The Dark Tower

“NOW COMES ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER! I HAVE BEEN TRUE AND I

STILL CARRY THE GUN OF MY FATHER AND YOU WILL OPEN TO MY HAND!”

Patrick watched him stride to where the road ended, a black silhouette against that bloody

burning sky. He watched as Roland walked among the roses, and sat shivering in the

shadows as Roland began to cry the names of his friends and loved ones and ka-mates;

those names carried clear in that strange air, as if they would echo forever.

“I come in the name of Steven Deschain, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Gabrielle Deschain, she of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Cortland Andrus, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Cuthbert Allgood, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Alain Johns, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Jamie DeCurry, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Vannay the Wise, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of Hax the Cook, he of Gilead!

“I come in the name of David the hawk, he of Gilead and the sky!

“I come in the name of Susan Delgado, she of Mejis!

“I come in the name of Sheemie Ruiz, he of Mejis!

“I come in the name of Pere Callahan, he of Jerusalem’s Lot, and the roads!

“I come in the name of Ted Brautigan, he of America!

“I come in the name of Dinky Earnshaw, he of America!

“I come in the name of Aunt Talitha, she of River Crossing, and will lay her cross here, as

I was bid!

“I come in the name of Stephen King, he of Maine!

“I come in the name of Oy, the brave, he of Mid-World!

“I come in the name of Eddie Dean, he of New York!

“I come in the name of Susannah Dean, she of New York!

“I come in the name of Jake Chambers, he of New York, whom I call my own true son!

“I am Roland of Gilead, and I come as myself;you will open to me. ”

After that came the sound of a horn. It simultaneously chilled Patrick’s blood and exalted

him. The echoes faded into silence. Then, perhaps a minute later, came a great, echoing

boom: the sound of a door swinging shut forever.

And after that came silence.

Thirteen

Patrick sat where he was at the base of the pyramid, shivering, until Old Star and Old

Mother rose in the sky. The song of the roses and the Tower hadn’t ceased, but it had grown

low and sleepy, little more than a murmur.

At last he went back to the road, gathered as many whole cans as he could (there was a

surprising number of them, considering the force of the explosion that had demolished the

cart), and found a deerskin sack that would hold them. He realized he had forgotten his

pencil and went back to get it.

Beside the pencil, gleaming in the starlight, was Roland’s watch.

The boy took it with a small (and nervous) hoot of glee. He put it in his pocket. Then he

went back to the road and slung his little sack of gunna over his shoulder.

I can tell you that he walked until nearly midnight, and that he looked at the watch before

taking his rest. I can tell you that the watch had stopped completely. I can tell you that,

come noon of the following day, he looked at it again and saw that it had begun to run in the correct direction once more, albeit very slowly. But of Patrick I can tell you no more, not

whether he made it back to the Federal, not whether he found Stuttering Bill that was, not

whether he eventually came once more to America-side. I can tell you none of these things,

say sorry. Here the darkness hides him from my storyteller’s eye and he must go on alone.

Susannah in New York

(Epilogue)

No one takes alarm as the little electric cart slides out of nowhere an inch at a time until it’s wholly here in Central Park; no one sees it but us. Most of those here are looking skyward,

as the first snowflakes of what will prove to be a great pre-Christmas snowstorm come

skirling down from a white sky. The Blizzard of ’87, the newspapers will call it. Visitors to the park who aren’t watching the snowfall begin are watching the carolers, who are from

public schools far uptown. They are wearing either dark red blazers (the boys) or dark red

jumpers (the girls). This is the Harlem School Choir, sometimes called The Harlem Roses

in thePost and its rival tabloid, the New YorkSun . They sing an old hymn in gorgeous

doo-wop harmony, snapping their fingers as they make their way through the staves,

turning it into something that sounds almost like early Spurs, Coasters, or Dark Diamonds.

They are standing not too far from the environment where the polar bears live their city

lives, and the song they’re singing is “What Child Is This.”

One of those looking up into the snow is a man Susannah knows well, and her heart leaps

straight up to heaven at the sight of him. In his left hand he’s holding a large paper cup and

she’s sure it contains hot chocolate, the good kindmit schlag .

For a moment she’s unable to touch the controls of the little cart, which came from another

world. Thoughts of Roland and Patrick have left her mind. All she can think of is

Eddie—Eddie in front of her right here and now, Eddie alive again. And if this is not the

Keystone World, not quite, what of that? If Co-Op City is in Brooklyn (or even in Queens!)

and Eddie drives a Takuro Spirit instead of a Buick Electra, what of those things? It doesn’t matter. Only one thing would, and it’s that which keeps her hand from rising to the throttle

and trundling the cart toward him.

What if he doesn’t recognize her?

What if when he turns he sees nothing but a homeless black lady in an electric cart whose

battery will soon be as flat as a sat-on hat, a black lady with no money, no clothes, no

address (not inthis where and when, say thankee sai) and no legs? A homeless black lady

with no connection to him? Or what if hedoes know her, somewhere far back in his mind,

yet still denies her as completely as Peter denied Jesus, because remembering is just too

hurtful?

Worse still, what if he turns to her and she sees the burned-out, fucked-up, empty-eyed

stare of the longtime junkie? What if, what if, and here comes the snow that will soon turn

the whole world white.

Stop thy grizzling and go to him,Roland tells her.You didn’t face Blaine and the taheen of

Blue Heaven and the thing under Castle Discordia just to turn tail and run now, did you?

Surely you’ve got a moit more guts than that.

But she isn’t sure she really does until she sees her hand rise to the throttle. Before she can twist it, however, the gunslinger’s voice speaks to her again, this time sounding wearily

amused.

Perhaps there’s something you want to get rid of first, Susannah?

She looks down and sees Roland’s weapon stuck through her crossbelt, like a

Mexicanbandido ’spistola, or a pirate’s cutlass. She pulls it free, amazed at how good it

feels in her hand…how brutally right. Parting from this, she thinks, will be like parting

from a lover. And she doesn’thave to, does she? The question is, what does she love more?

The man or the gun? All other choices will flow from this one.

On impulse she rolls the cylinder and sees that the rounds inside look old, their casings

dull.

These’ll never fire,she thinks…and, without knowing why, or precisely what it

means:These are wets.

She sights up the barrel and is queerly saddened—but not surprised—to find that the barrel

lets through no light. It’s plugged. Has been for decades, from the look of it. This gun will never fire again. There is no choice to be made, after all. This gun is over.

Susannah, still holding the revolver with the sandalwood grips in one hand, twists the

throttle with the other. The little electric cart—the one she named Ho Fat III, although that is already fading in her mind—rolls soundlessly forward. It passes a green trash barrel

withKEEP LITTER IN ITS PLACE! stenciled on the side. She tosses Roland’s revolver

into this litter barrel. Doing it hurts her heart, but she never hesitates. It’s heavy, and sinks into the crumpled fast-food wrappers, advertising circulars, and discarded newspapers like

a stone into water. She is still enough of a gunslinger to bitterly regret throwing away such a storied weapon (even if the final trip between worlds has spoiled it), but she’s already