will be all right now. His brother is dead but he has someone else to take care of so Eddie
will be all right now.
But he felt a pang: a deep reproachful hurt in his heart. He was capable of shooting—with
his left hand, anyway—of killing, of going on and on, slamming with brutal relentless-ness
through miles and years, even dimensions, it seemed, in search of the Tower. He was
capable of survival, sometimes even of protection—he had saved the boy Jake from a slow
death at the way station, and from sexual consumption by the Oracle at the foot of the
mountains—but in the end, he had let Jake die. Nor had this been by accident; he had
committed a conscious act of damnation. He watched the two of them, watched Eddie hug
her; assure her it was going to be all right. He could not have done that, and now the rue in
his heart was joined by stealthy fear.
If you have given up your heart for the Tower, Roland, you have already lost. A heartless
creature is a loveless creature, and a loveless creature is a beast. To be a beast is perhaps bearable, although the man who has become one will surely pay hell’s own price in the end,
but what if you should gain your object? What if you should, heartless, actually storm the
Dark Tower and win it? If there is naught but darkness in your heart, what could you do
except degenerate from beast to monster? To gain one’s object as a beast would only be
bitterly comic, like giving a magnifying glass to an elephaunt. But to gain one’s object as a monster . . .
Topay hell is one thing. But do you want to own it?
He thought of Allie, and of the girl who had once waited for him at the window, thought of
the tears he had shed over Cuthbert’s lifeless corpse. Oh, then he had loved. Yes. Then.
I do want to love! he cried, but although Eddie was also crying a little now with the woman in the wheelchair, the gunslinger’s eyes remained as dry as the desert he had crossed to
reach this sunless sea.
5
He would answer Eddie’s question later. He would do that because he thought Eddie
would do well to be on guard. The reason she didn’t remember was simple. She wasn’t one
woman but two.
And one of them was dangerous.
6
Eddie told her what he could, glossing over the shoot-out but being truthful about
everything else.
When he was done, she remained perfectly silent for some time, her hands clasped
together on her lap.
Little streamlets coursed down from the shallowing mountains, petering out some miles to
the east. It was from these that Roland and Eddie had drawn their water as they hiked north.
At first Eddie had gotten it because Roland was too weak. Later they had taken turns,
always having to go a little further and search a little longer before finding a stream. They
grew steadily more listless as the mountains slumped, but the water hadn’t made them sick.
So far.
Roland had gone yesterday, and although that made today Eddie’s turn, the gunslinger had
gone again, shoulder- ing the hide water-skins and walking off without a word. Eddie found
this queerly discreet. He didn’t want to be touched by the gesture—by anything about
Roland, for that matter—and found he was, a little, just the same.
She listened attentively to Eddie, not speaking at all, her eyes fixed on his. At one moment
Eddie would guess she was five years older than he, at another he would guess fifteen.
There was one thing he didn’t have to guess about: he was falling in love with her.
When he had finished, she sat for a moment without saying anything, now not looking at
him but beyond him, looking at the waves which would, at nightfall, bring the lobsters and
with their alien, lawyerly questions. He had been particularly careful to describe them.
Better for her to be a little scared now than a lot scared when they came out to play. He
supposed she wouldn’t want to eat them, not after hearing what they had done to Roland’s
hand and foot, not after she got a good close look at them. But eventually hunger would
win out over did-a-chick and dum-a-chum.
Her eyes were far and distant.
“Odetta?” he asked after perhaps five minutes had gone by. She had told him her name.
Odetta Holmes. He thought it was a gorgeous name.
She looked back at him, startled out of her revery. She smiled a little. She said one word.
“No.”
He only looked at her, able to think of no suitable reply. He thought he had never understood until that moment how illimitable a simple negative could be.
“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “What are you no-ing?”
“All this.” Odetta swept an arm (she had, he’d noticed, very strong arms—smooth but very strong), indicating the sea, the sky, the beach, the scruffy foothills where the gunslinger
was now presumably searching for water (or maybe getting eaten alive by some new and
interesting monster, something Eddie didn’t really care to think about). Indicating, in short,
this entire world.
“I understand how you feel. I had a pretty good case of the unrealities myself at first.”
But had he? Looking back, it seemed he had simply accepted, perhaps because he was sick,
shaking himself apart in his need for junk.
“You get over it.”
“No,” she said again. “I believe one of two things has happened, and no matter which one it is, I am still in Oxford, Mississippi. None of this is real.”
She went on. If her voice had been louder (or perhaps if he had not been falling in love) it
would almost have been a lecture. As it was, it sounded more like lyric than lecture.
Except,he had to keep reminding himself, bullshit’s what it really is, and you have to
convince her of that. For her sake.
“I may have sustained a head injury,” she said. “They are notorious swingers of
axe-handles and billy-clubs in Oxford Town.”
Oxford Town.
That produced a faint chord of recognition far back in Eddie’s mind. She said the words in
a kind of rhythm that he for some reason associated with Henry . . . Henry and wetdiapers.
Why? What? Didn’t matter now.
“You’re trying to tell me you think this is all some sort of dream you’re having while you’re unconscious?”
“Or in a coma,” she said. “And you needn’t look at me as though you thought it was preposterous, because it isn’t. Look here.”
She parted her hair carefully on the left, and Eddie could see she wore it to one side not just
because she liked the style. The old wound beneath the fall of her hair was scarred and ugly,
not brown but a grayish-white.
“I guess you’ve had a lot of hard luck in your time,” he said.
She shrugged impatiently. “A lot of hard luck and a lot of soft living,” she said. “Maybe it all balances out. I only showed you because I was in a coma for three weeks when I was
five. I dreamed a lot then. I can’t remember what the dreams were, but I remember my
mamma said they knew I wasn’t going to die just as long as I kept talking and it seemed like
I kept talking all the time, although she said they couldn’t make out one word in a dozen.
I do remember that the dreams were very vivid.”
She paused, looking around.
“As vivid as this place seems to be. And you, Eddie.”
When she said his name his arms prickled. Oh, he had it, all right. Had it bad.
“And him.” She shivered. “He seems the most vivid of all.”
“We ought to. I mean, we are real, no matter what you think.”
She gave him a kind smile. It was utterly without belief.
“How did that happen?” he asked. “That thing on your head?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just making the point that what has happened once might very well
happen again.”
“No, but I’m curious.”
“I was struck by a brick. It was our first trip north. We came to the town of Elizabeth, New Jersey. We came in the Jim Crow car.”
“What’s that?”
She looked at him unbelievingly, almost scornfully. “Where have you been living, Eddie?
In a bomb-shelter?”
“I’m from a different time,” he said. “Could I ask how old you are, Odetta?”
“Old enough to vote and not old enough for Social Security.”
“Well, I guess that puts me in my place.”
“But gently, I hope,” she said, and smiled that radiant smile which made his arms prickle.
“I’m twenty-three,” he said, “but I was born in 1964—the year you were living in when
Roland took you.”
“That’s rubbish.”
“No. I was living in 1987 when he took me.”