The Dark Tower

“If it hadn’t been for the turtle, they would have gotten us both.” Jake’s voice was steady, but he had gone pale. “As it was, the Pere . . . he . . .” Jake wiped away a tear with the heel of his hand and gazed at Roland. “You used his voice to send me on. I heard you.”

“Aye, I had to,” the gunslinger agreed. “’Twas no more than what he wanted.”

Jake said, “The vampires didn’t get him. He used my Ruger before they could take his blood and change him into one of them. I don’t think they would’ve done that, anyway. They would have torn him apart and eaten him. They were mad.”

Roland was nodding.

“The last thing he sent—I think he said it out loud, although I’m not sure—it was . . .” Jake considered it. He was weeping freely now. “He said ‘May you find your Tower, Roland, and breach it, and may you climb to the top.’ Then . . .” Jake made a little puffing sound between his pursed lips. “Gone. Like a candle-flame. To whatever worlds there are.”

He fell silent. For several moments they all did, and the quiet had the feel of a deliberate thing. Then Eddie said, “All right, we’re back together again. What the hell do we do next?”

FOUR

Roland sat down with a grimace, then gave Eddie Dean a look which said—clearer than any words ever could have done—Why do you try my patience?

“All right,” Eddie said, “it’s just a habit. Quit giving me the look.”

“What’s a habit, Eddie?”

Eddie thought of his final bruising, addictive year with Henry less frequently these days, but he thought of it now. Only he didn’t like to say so, not because he was ashamed—Eddie really thought he might be past that—but because he sensed the gunslinger’s growing impatience with Eddie’s explaining things in terms of his big brother. And maybe that was fair. Henry had been the defining, shaping force in Eddie’s life, okay. Just as Cort had been the defining, shaping force in Roland’s . . . but the gunslinger didn’t talk about his old teacher all the time.

“Asking questions when I already know the answer,” Eddie said.

“And what’s the answer this time?”

“We’re going to backtrack to Thunderclap before we go on to the Tower. We’re either going to kill the Breakers or set them free. Whatever it takes to make the Beams safe. We’ll kill Walter, or Flagg, or whatever he’s calling himself. Because he’s the field marshal, isn’t he?”

“He was,” Roland agreed, “but now a new player has come on the scene.” He looked at the robot. “Nigel, I need you.”

Nigel unfolded his arms and raised his head. “How may I serve?”

“By getting me something to write with. Is there such?”

“Pens, pencils, and chalk in the Supervisor’s cubicle at the far end of the Extraction Room, sai. Or so there was, the last time I had occasion to be there.”

“The Extraction Room,” Roland mused, studying the serried ranks of beds. “Do you call it so?”

“Yes, sai.” And then, almost timidly: “Vocal elisions and fricatives suggest that you’re angry. Is that the case?”

“They brought children here by the hundreds and thousands—healthy ones, for the most part, from a world where too many are still born twisted—and sucked away their minds. Why would I be angry?”

“Sai, I’m sure I don’t know,” Nigel said. He was, perhaps, repenting his decision to come back here. “But I had no part in the extraction procedures, I assure you. I am in charge of domestic services, including maintenance.”

“Bring me a pencil and a piece of chalk.”

“Sai, you won’t destroy me, will you? It was Dr. Scowther who was in charge of the extractions over the last twelve or fourteen years, and Dr. Scowther is dead. This lady-sai shot him, and with his own gun.” There was a touch of reproach in Nigel’s voice, which was quite expressive within its narrow range.

Roland only repeated: “Bring me a pencil and a piece of chalk, and do it jin-jin.”

Nigel went off on his errand.

“When you say a new player, you mean the baby,” Susannah said.

“Certainly. He has two fathers, that bah-bo.”

Susannah nodded. She was thinking about the tale Mia had told her during their todash visit to the abandoned town of Fedic—abandoned, that was, except for the likes of Sayre and Scowther and the marauding Wolves. Two women, one white and one black, one pregnant and one not, sitting in chairs outside the Gin-Puppy Saloon. There Mia had told Eddie Dean’s wife a great deal—more than either of them had known, perhaps.