The Man in Black

THE DARK  TOWER  RETURNS Book 1:  The  Man  in  Black

Introduction

This is  the  first  book  of  a  peculiar  and  powerful  series  I  forged  during  2012-13,  existing  parallel  to  the  “Arheled”  series  and  forming  a  corollary  to  it. It is  based  on,  and  functions  as  a  sequel  to,  the  Dark  Tower  franchise  of  Stephen  King,  specifically  the  seven  books. A vivid  and  gruesome  yet  compelling  world  of  ancient  crumbling  1980s  nuclear  science  fallen  into  ruin  for  a  thousand  years,  it  is  part  horror,  part  science  fiction,  part  low  fantasy,  and  part  Western. It ranks  among  his  mightiest  works,  and  as  such  he  himself  felt  it;  and  yet  he  failed  in  it. My relationship  with  Stephen  King  is  one  of  antipathy  and  admiration  as  one. I hate  horror,  and  especially  hate  the  unclean  and  sexually  graphic:  and  most  of  his  books  are  rife  with  both. Yet his  style  and  the  depth  and  vividness  of  his  imagery  and  descriptions  (particularly  of  city  life)  compelled  my  fascination  none  the  less. I was  introduced  to  the  series  by  a  young  librarian  I  dated,  who  was  into  Wicca  as  it  turned  out,  and  urged  me  to  read  them. I did,  and  made  the  great  mistake  of  reading  the  first  book,  The  Gunslinger,  at  night  in  my  rustic  stone  cottage  by  candlelight. It was  a  horrible  story,  gritty  and  dark  and  dusty  and  unclean,  and  looming  behind  the  slogging  slime  of  the  filthy  deeds  Roland  finds  himself  having  to  do,  is  the  glimpse  of  something  eerie,  ruinous,  and  compelling:  the  Dark  Tower. It left  a  very  strong  and  negative  impression  on  me. The further  books,  however,  improved,  at  least  from  the  third  onward  (the  second  was  as  dreary  and  gruesome  as  the  first),  and  the  world  grew  far  more  interesting. Yet in  the  end,  that  world  failed. Having hinted  all  through  (but  especially  in  the  third,  The  Waste  Lands,  easily  the  best  book  in  the  series)  about  the  mystical  decay  and cosmic  ruin  that  was  the  Dark  Tower,  one  expected  of  the  final  book  that  there  would  be  supernatural  eeriness  and  grandeur,  symbols  of  cosmic  decay  and  yet  of  fundamental  realities,  basic  metaphysical  principles  breaking  down. One expected  to  meet  Gods. Yet what  developed  was  a  grim  Western-style  chase  sequence  through  increasingly  more  desolate  country  populated  by  creepy  but  banal  monsters  like  the  illusory  emotion-eating  vampire  who  dressed  as  a  cheery  old  Christmas  man;  the  Tower  itself  was  small,  a  mere  spike  sitting  in  a  field  of  roses  that  did  nothing  but  slash  off  fingers,  not  a  hint  of  these  being  mystical  symbols  made  concrete;  and  the  ascent  up  it,  ridiculously  easy. Every room  that  branched  off  the  single  stair  contained  sensory  reminders  of  Roland’s  past  life,  and  his  crimes,  and  his  evil  deeds;  at  the  top  was  a  door  that  opened   onto  the  white  desert  where  the  story  began,  punishing  Roland  by  reincarnating  him  back  to  the  beginning  so  he  could  grind  out  the  merciless  will  of  the  Tower  and  of  ka,  or  fate. It ended  with  the  same  line  the  first  book  opened  with. All behind  this  I  could  see  something  else,  another  and  far  more  terrible  Dark  Tower,  glimpses  of  huge  insubstantial  realities  that  were  themselves  crumbling. I could  see  the  Dark  Tower  that  ought  to  be  there  and  was  not. And so  I  decided  at  last  to  incarnate  it  my  own  self. Looking back  on  it,  I  believe  I  have  succeeded. These books  contain  my  best  and  most  powerful  writing,  grasping  after  gigantic  realities  and  truths  so  huge  even  my  images  barely  call  them  down. I made  my  style  even  more  vivid  and  pregnant  with  detail  than  King  himself,  focusing  on  colors  and  scenery,  and  images,  while  at  the  same  time  using  his  own  style  in  many  places. I founded  it  upon  the  world  he  constructed,  which  depicts  the  Turrets  of  the  real  Dark  Tower,  one  of  which  Roland  had  reached:  in  fact,  that  Turret  was  of  his  own  life,  and  the  roses  were  the  lives  of  those  he  walked  among. But I  made  my  characters  climb. As Roland  had  already  defeated  the  Crimson  King  and  Sombra  Corp,  and  the  Man  in  Black  was  dead,  a  new  menance  was  needed,  and  I  decided  on  the  Ragnarok  of  Norse  mythology. In later  books  I  interwove  many  figures  from  Tolkien  and  Norse  myth,  my  aim  being  to  exalt  and  Christianize  that  rough  and  grim  mythos  into  the  powerful  construction  I  could  see  in  it. The series  is  apocalyptic;  Ragnarok  means  the  Doom  of  the  Gods. A synopsis  of  King’s  first  book,  The  Gunslinger,  is  here  given,  that  the  ways  in  which  my  book  echos  his  (Roland  is  supposed  to  be  reincarnated,  after  all)  may  be  appreciated. As Roland  travels  across  the  desert  in  search  of  the  man  in  black  whom  he  knows  as  Walter,  he  encounters  a  farmer  named  Brown,  and  Zoltan,  his  black  crow. Roland spends  the  night  there,  and  recalls  his  time  spent  in  Tull,  a  small  town  which  Roland  passed  through  not  long  before  the  start  of  the  novel. The man  in  black  had  also  stayed  in  the  town;  he  brought  a  dead  man  back  to  life  and  left  a  trap  for  Roland. Roland meets  the  leader  of  the  local  church  who  reveals  to  him  that  the  man  in  black  has  impregnated  her  with  a  demon. She turns  the  entire  town  against  Roland;  men,  women,  and  children. Roland is  forced  to  kill  every  resident  of  the  town. When he  awakens  the  next  day,  his  mule  is  dead,  forcing  him  to  proceed  on  foot. Roland arrives  at  an  abandoned  way  station  and  first  encounters  Jake  Chambers,  a  young  boy. Roland collapses  from  dehydration  and  Jake  brings  him  water. Jake does  not  know  how  long  he  has  been  at  the  way  station,  nor  exactly  how  he  got  there  and  hid  when  Walter  passed  through. Roland hypnotizes  Jake  to  determine  the  details  of  his  death  and  discovers  that  he  died  in  a  different  universe  (which  appears  much  closer  to  our  own)  when  he  is  pushed  in  front  of  a  car  while  walking  to  school  in  Manhattan. Before they  leave,  Roland  and  Jake  search  for  food  in  a  cellar  and  encounter  a  demon. Roland masters  it  and  takes  a  jawbone  from  the  hole  from  where  it  spoke  to  him. Roland and  Jake  eventually  make  their  way  out  of  the  desert. Roland rescues  Jake  from  an  encounter  with  a  succubus  and  tells  him  to  hold  on  to  the  jawbone  as  a  protective  charm. Roland fornicates  with  the  succubus,  who  is  also  an  oracle,  to  learn  more  about  his  fate  and  the  path  to  the  Dark  Tower. In a  flashback,  we  learn  that  Roland  was  the  son  of  Steven  Deschain,  a  Gunslinger  and  lord  of  Gilead;  and  of  the  brutal  training  Roland  received  at  the  hand  of  his  teacher  Cort. Roland reveals  how  he  was  tricked  into  demanding  to  prematurely  declare  his  manhood  by  dueling  with  Cort  at  the  age  14,  earlier  than  any  other  apprentice. He was  provoked  by  Marten  who  served  as  Steven's  wizard,  who  cuckolded  Roland's  father  by  sleeping  with  Roland's  mother,  Gabrielle  Deschain. It is  established  that  this  was  a  time  of  instability  and  revolution. Roland succeeded  in  defeating  Cort  in  battle  through  weapon  selection—sacrificing  his  hawk,  David,  to  distract  Cort. Jake and  Roland  see  the  man  in  black  at  the  mountain  and  he  tells  them  he  will  meet  just  one  of  them  on  the  other  side,  which  causes  Jake  to  realize  that  Roland  will  either  kill  him  or  abandon  him. They make  their  way  into  the  twisting  tunnels  within  the  mountain,  traveling  on  an  old  railway  handcar. They are  attacked  by  "Slow  Mutants",  monstrous  subterranean  creatures. At the  tunnel's  exit,  as  the  track  on  which  they  are  traveling  begins  to  break. Roland decides  to  let  Jake  fall  into  an  abyss,  as  the  Man  in  Black  is  mockingly  calling  to  him  that  he  must  come  now  or  catch  him  never,  in  order  to  overtake  his  horribly  beaming  enemy. After sacrificing  Jake  in  the  mountain,  Roland  makes  his  way  up  to  a  Golgatha,  a  hollow  filled  with  skulls  atop  the  mountain,  to  speak  to  Walter. He reads  Roland's  fate  from  a  pack  of  cards,  including  "the  sailor",  "the  prisoner",  "the  lady  of  shadows",  "death",  and  the  Tower  itself. Walter states  that  he  is  a  pawn  of  Roland's  true  enemy,  the  one  who  now  controls  the  Dark  Tower  itself. He speaks  in  quaking  whispers  of  a  Beast  that  holds  the  heights,  and  a  “Keeper”  of  the  Dark  Tower,  both  of  whom  Roland  must  fight. The man  in  black  also  reveals  he  was  Marten. He then  sends  Roland  a  vision  of  the  universe  (zooming  out  past  a  red  planet  covered  in  canals,  a  ring  of  rocks,  a  large  stormy  planet,  a  ringed  planet  and  then  to  galaxies  etc.),  attempting  to  frighten  Roland  by  showing  him  how  truly  insignificant  he  is,  ending  with  the  entire  cosmos  compressed  in  a  blade  of  purple  grass. He taunts  Roland  to  renounce  his  quest  and  save  his  soul. Roland refuses,  and  the  man  in  black  tells  him  to  go  west,  before  sending  him  to  sleep. When Roland  awakens  ten  years  have  passed,  and  there  is  a  skeleton  next  to  him—what  he  assumes  to  be  Walter,  for  it  wears  his  robes,  and  the  night  they  spoke  in  is  said  to  have  been  a  time-warp. Roland takes  the  jawbone  from  the  skeleton  before  traveling  to  the  shore  of  the  Western  Sea.

THE MAN  IN  BLACK

The man  in  black  fled  across  the  desert,  and  the  gunslinger  followed. He knew  the  desert  and  the  sensation  of  the  desert  like  the  back  of  his  gun. The battering  weight  of  the  white  sun  like  the  open  mouth  of  some  ancient  dragon. The shifting  instability  of  the  packed  dust  under  the  heels  of  his  boots. The baking  heat,  enough  to  fry  a  man  in  his  shirt  yet  which  produced  little  sweat  because  it  was  so  abominably  dry. Yet he  knew,  somehow,  that  he  had  not  been  here  long;  the  lack  of  sweat  was  more  like  that  on  a  man  who  has  just  emerged  from  cool  shade  or  a  long  rest  and  whose  body  has  not  had  time  to  warm. That made  no  sense;  when  he  turned  his  head  he  saw  only  the  desert,  the  alkali  flats  far  to  the  right,  the  stony  hills  on  the  far  side. Neither rock  nor  shade  for  miles. Another thing  that  bothered  him  were  his  muscles. He had,  or  felt  in  his  mind  that  he  had,  been  walking  all  day. Yet there  was  no  stiffness  nor  soreness  in  his  legs,  let  alone  his  back. Like a  man  only  lately  started. He mulled  on  it  as  he  stalked  over  the  barren  hardpan. The gunslinger  was  a  man  of  little  imagination  but  a  vast  store  of  wry  wisdom  and  trail-sense,  and  so  his  mullings  reached  little  certainty. He could  remember  the  many  endless  days  of  the  continuous  pursuit,  yes;  the  twelve  years  of  slow  casting  for  the  trail  of  the  man  in  black,  the  sudden  coming  upon  it  two  months  ago,  the  border  dwellers,  the  town  he  destroyed,  the  desert…but  they  had  a  disturbing  remoteness,  as  of  something  that  had  happened  a  long  time  ago,  a  dozen  months,  years;  they  were  not  like  memories  of  fresh  past. And in  the  back  of  his  mind,  like  a  disjointed  dream,  was  a  whole  series  of  completely  different  images. A dark  girl  with  her  legs  shorn  off…and  a  boy…and  other  gunslingers…but  that  was  absurd,  the  gunslingers  were  dead  long  since,  and  he  was  last. He shook  his  head. Time sputters  were  one  thing;  with  the  world  running  down  he  had  been  caught  in  more  than  one  of  those,  which  was  why  he  still  lived:  but  dreams? He’d found  the  Dark  Tower  in  that  dream;  except  the  whole  finding  left  an  impression  in  his  mind  that  was  curiously  flat,  slamp  as  sweaty  hair,  not  at  all  what  the  buildup  had  led  him  to  expect. And the  majestic  demonic  adversary  who  had  haunted  his  steps…something  to  do  with  red…had  turned  into  a  screeching  maniac  tossing  bombs. A dream. Only a  dream  in  his  sort  of  imagination  could  possibly  fall  so  flat. He closed  his  hand  unconsciously  on  the  ancient  horn  that  hung  beside  his  guns. Taken from  the  grim  sad  city  of  Gilead,  where  corrupt  servants  were  enslaved  to  their  own  corruption  and  empty  rituals  were  carried  out  with  exact  formality,  and  stern  cold  gunslinger-knights  kept  an  iron  law,  it  had  a  beauty  and  magnificence  about  the  engraved  patterns  wrought  upon  the  rim  and  flowing  down  the  throat  upon  the  outside,  buried  though  they  were  in  grime  and  dust  and  tarnish,  that  had  made  it  a  marvel  even  there. Perhaps it  was  older  than  Gilead. Perhaps older  even  than  Maerlyn  or  the  House  of  Eld  itself. Roland shook  his  head  again,  the  abrupt  quick  shake  a  man  uses  when  growing  dizzy. Before Gilead  had  been  only  the  Builders  of  the  Beams,  the  Great  Old  Ones,  men  of  tremendous  power  in  the  making  of  enginery  but  very  small  minds,  who  propped  up  a  failing  cosmos  with  mortal  machines. They would  never  have  made  something  as  beautiful  as  this  horn. But the  man  in  black  still  fled  across  the  desert,  and  the  gunslinger  followed. He alone  knew  the  answers. He had  been  chasing  him  so  long,  so  very  long. The trail  ran  before  him,  along  the  track  through  the  desert,  turning  not  to  right  nor  to  left. Both were  on  foot. To be  on  foot  in  the  desert  was  death. But the  man  in  black  seemed  to  be  tireless,  and  the  gunslinger  so  far  had  been  lucky,  and  his  next-to-last  canteen  still  held  water. An occasional  sign  like  a  tombstone  pointed  the  way  along  the  straight  path,  for  the  alkali-crusted  trace  had  once  been  a  highway,  and  coaches  took  it;  and  before  the  coaches,  the  engines  of  the  Old  Ones. But the  world  had  moved  on,  and  the  hard  white  drifts  of  caked  dust  grew  ever  deeper  on  the  forgotten  way. He breasted  a  gently  rising  swell—hardly  a  dune,  the  alkali  flats  were  caked  hard,  and  even  the  deadly  evening  wind  raised  only  dust—that  rose  beside  the  trail. At the  last  two,  so  far  back  it  seemed  months  that  he  had  come  upon  them  (or  had  been  months;  there  was  that  disturbing  kink  in  his  mind  again),  there  had  been  no  sign;  but  there  was  sign  here. A slight  hollow  had  been  kicked  into  the  slope,  in  the  lee  side  where  the  sun  would  set  earliest,  and  in  it  were  the  ashes  of  a  small  fire. The gunslinger  smiled. Things like  this,  traces  of  the  man  in  black’s  essential  humanity,  never  failed  to  please  him. For if  he  was  human,  even  a  little,  then  he  could  be  caught. But the  smile…that  was  another  thing  that  disturbed  him. His lips  were  not  cracked,  as  they  should  be  on  desert  rations  of  water. The smile  disappeared. He had  burned  the  devil-grass,  of  course. It was  the  only  thing  in  the  flats  that  would  burn. The ash  was  grey  and  greasy  if  you  touched  it;  but  he  did  not,  for  even  the  ash  was  devil. It had  sunk  down  in  criss-cross  lines  in  the  pattern  so  familiar  to  him,  the  strange  whorls  and  lines  as  of  some  complicated  lettering  all  laid  on  top  of  one  another— The gunslinger jerked  upright. No, not  familiar. The other  fires  were  faint  as  old  dreams  in  his  mind,  but  he  remembered  they  were  somehow  different  from  this. The lines  had  been  just  as  complicated,  but  more  sterile. Like ideographs. Not like  alphabets. He sat  on  his  haunches,  frowning. He was  closer,  he  felt;  though  how  he  knew  was  a  mystery. With the  tip  of  a  finger  he  probed  the  ashes  and  the  dust  beside:  there  ought,  he  felt,  to  be  a  charred  scrap  of  bacon  in  the  remains,  but  there  wasn’t. The remains  were  cold. He cleaned  his  finger  carefully  and  allowed  himself  one  small  pull  from  the  canteen. The sun  still  had  a  few  hours  to  go;  another  oddity,  for  till  now  he  had  always  found  these  ashes  just  when  it  was  time  to  break  camp. The hills  were  nearer. Near enough  to  see  they  were  not  hills,  but  mountains,  ancient  and  distant,  withered  stone  baked  dry  and  bare  till  it  broke  from  its’  own  dryness. They shone  harsh  and  beautiful  hues  in  the  stark  old  light,  dried  reds  and  baked  purples  and  every  shade  of  ancient  yellows  and  browns. The sun  slid  down  across  the  white  empty  sky,  and  the  gunslinger  began  to  glance  around  in  search  of  a  resting  place. One needed  a  place  where  the  fire  was  downhill  from  you,  or  the  dreamsmoke  might  reach  you  as  you  slept. He found  one,  a  mere  bulge  in  the  harsh  white  flats,  and  removed  his  gloves  from  his  belt. They too  were  far  less  dust-caked  and  sun-fried  than  they  should  be,  but  the  gunslinger  merely  laid  it  up  in  his  head  with  all  the  other  scraps  of  evidence. Sooner or  later  he  would  find  answers. With the  gloves  he  began  to  pull  devil-grass  for  his  fire. The queer  grey  blades,  long  and  raspy  and  thin  as  whips,  with  the  faintest  shade  of  green  and  the  nasty  tang  they  gave  off  when  broken  the  only  evidence  they  were  at  all  alive,  were  not  healthy  to  touch. He did  not  strike  his  flint  until  the  remains  of  the  day  were  only  the  fugitive  heat  in  the  ground  and  the  light  fading  slowly  in  the  west;  a  band  of  soft  pale  orange,  and  above  it  the  faintest  and  most  delicate  greenyness,  changing  inifestimably  into  the  incredible  deep  blue-green  of  the  evening  sky. Then he  did,  and  the  hard  clack  of  flint  sounded  loud  in  the  desert  stillness. Tiny creeping  wisps  of  faint  orange  bulged  and  expanded  in  the  shredded,  dry  heaps  of  grass,  and  he  blew  on  it  carefully,  avoiding  the  smoke,  until  the  fire  took  root  and  the  flames  leaped  upward. One did  not  look into  the  flames  of  burning  devil-grass. Demons dwelt  there,  the  dwellers  said,  and  if  you  gazed  overlong  they  would  pull  you  in. The flames  were  a  flat,  greasy  yellow,  somehow  both  cheering  and  faintly  nauseating. Unhealthy flame. Unclean flame. The devil-grass  did  burn  slow,  however,  and  did  shed  heat;  and  that  was  all  that  mattered. The gunslinger  ate  a  single  strip  of  dried  meat—donkey  meat,  his  own  food  long  gone,  and  when  the  donkey  died  he  cut  its’  meat  in  strips  and  fastened  them  to  his  belts  and  hat,  and  down  his  back. The sun  dried  them  quickly… (or could  whatever  power  that  planted  him  back  here  have  cleverly  replaced  the  donkey-meat?) He shook  his  head  and  spread  out  his  blanket,  working  a  hollow  in  the  stiff  alkali  crust  uphill  of  the  fire. The blanket  was  big  enough  to  go  all  the  way  around  and  tuck  in  beneath,  and  the  dust  would  keep  the  warmth. He hoped. Desert air  was  always  cold  at  night. He took  another  swallow  and  rolled  himself  up,  one  gun  under  his  head  and  the  other  in  his  hand,  and  lay  there  looking  at  the  deepening  heavens  and  letting  himself  grow  sleepy. Stars gleamed  out  now,  few  and  sad. Old Mother  and  Old  Star. The Bear. The Walker. Around them  the  vault  was  a  gorgeous  blue,  so  deep  a  color  one  could  hardly  believe  it  was  still  blue  and  not  some  otherearthly  color  of  a  completely  different  name  and  nature. He wondered  at  that. A soft  wide  wonder  crept  slowly  into  him  as  he  gazed  at  that  blue. And that  too  was  strange:  he  had  never  been  the  sort  to  wonder  at  nature,  or  to  notice  colors. Let alone  philosophise  on  them. When had  he  learned  to  admire  beauty? Certainly not  on  the  desert. In all  his  (curiously  dim)  memories  of  nights  like  this,  he  could  not  remember  ever  feeling  like  this  about  a  color  of  blue. The faces  were  gone,  too. Every night  in  the  shadows,  or  on  the  far  sides  of  fires,  would  stand  the  faint  faces  of  the  ones  he  had  killed. He was  so  used  to  this  he  barely  noticed  it;  unless  the  face  was  one  whose  killing  he  regretted,  and  then  he  would  sit  without  moving  for  a  long  time,  avoiding  the  eyes  of  his  own  hallucination. Their absence  made  him  puzzled. He felt  the  solid  shape  of  the  horn  under  his  head. Perhaps that  was  doing  it. When sleep  came  he  did  not  notice;  he  was  too  busy  contemplating  the  wonder  of  the  thing  all  men  called  sky,  and  few  men  looked  at. Blaine is  a  pain,  and  that  is  the  truth,  that  is  the  truth…Say  thankee,  sai,  say  Gawd,  brother,  say  Gawd-bomb…all  manner  of  wandering  weird  adventures  he  could  never  have  had,  in  caves  fleeing  from  mutated  spiders  with  Susannah  burning  bones……terminals  with  yellow  and  black  diagonal  stripes,  slicing  halfway  up  the  metal  skin  of  a  pink  long  train….the  man  in  black,  his  face  familiar,  looking  into  his,  and  he  was  tittering  as  the  gunslinger  cursed  him…. “He laid  ye  a  trap,  so  he  did.” The gunslinger  came  awake,  but  all  he  heard  was  the  harsh  softness  of  cold  wind  on  caked  dust,  whirls  of  choking  white  whipping  before  it  now  and  again. The sky  was  an  iron  blue-black  like  frozen  crystal. The smoke  was  downwind,  and  the  devil-grass  had  burned  down  into  plain  squares  of  crosslaid  clumps:  no  intricate  designs  for  him. The smoke  hadn’t  reached  him,  so  what  had  given  him  such  crazy  dreams? The gunslinger  pulled  his  hat  over  his  face  and  went  to  sleep.

He wakened,  stiff. He should  not  have  been  stiff  after  being  accustomed  to  marching  afoot  for  how  many  days. But he  was  no  longer  puzzled  by  these  incongruities:  he  laid  them  up,  waiting  for  some  new  scrap  of  evidence  that  would  suddenly  explain  things. It wasn’t  the  first  time  he’d  followed  conflicting  trail. Dawn was  only  a  blue  brightness  far  away. It had  grown  nearly  white  by  the  time  he  rolled  his  blanket,  swallowed  water  and  chewed  a  strip  of  meat  and  was  on  his  feet. He was  early. Usually his  interior  clock  waited  until  twigloom  when  one  could  see  the  land,  before  waking  him. Then his  ears  told  him  what  he  had  already  guessed: Someone was  coming  down  the  forsaken  trail. He moved  smoothly  enough:  moving  around  had  loosened  his  limbs,  and  he  got  down  behind  the  low  swell  and  peered  over  the  top,  one  gun  raised. They were  ancient  guns,  renowned  all  across  In-World  and  Mid-world,  for  they  had  been  borne  by  the  House  of  Eld  for  centuries  upon  centuries;  their  metal,  ‘twas  said,  had  been  cast  from  the  shards  of  the  sword  of  Arthyurr   himself,  blued  steel  barrels  inlaid  with  careful  designs  in  scrollwork  fashion,  and  ancient  grips  of  orange  sandalwood  inlaid  with  silver,  gleaming  dark  with  the  polish  and  grime  of  long  use. The man  coming  up  the  trail  towards  him  was  coming  from  the  direction  the  gunslinger  would  be  travelling. He did  not  seem  a  threat. Old tattered  garments  hung  down  about  him  over  denim  of  great  age  gaping  at  the  knees. The pack  on  his  stooping  frame  looked  too  small  to  be  able  to  cause  such  bowing  of  figure;  this  man  was  a  miner,  a  goldhunter. Rising with  some  relief,  the  gunslinger  sat  down  and  waited  for  his  plodding  steps  to  carry  him  within  hail. The goldhunter  noticed  him,  of  course. He slowed  down  as  he  approached,  and  set  one  hand  to  the  brim  of  his  battered  straw  hat  in  greeting. Many of  the  corn-straws  were  coming  out  and  it  made  his  head,  together  with  the  wild  stringy  beard,  look  like  it  was  gradually  unraveling;  as  if,  should  he  completely  finish  the  process,  his  soul  might  unravel  as  well  and  he  fall  dead. He leaned  on  what  at  first  looked  like  a  staff  but  turned  out  to  have  the  metal  head  of  a  small  pick,  as  well  as  a  shovel  blade,  folded  on  opposite  sides  of  the  shaft. He spat  to  the  side  of  the  gunslinger. “Water to  your  crop.”  he  said. His voice  was  slow  and  mumbled,  as  if  it  had  turned  over  two  or  three  times  before  rolling  out  of  his  mouth. His drawling  dialect  was  broader  than  the  dwellers’  wont. The gunslinger  gave  an  identical  spit. “And dew  fall  on  yours.” At his  intonation,  so  different  from  a  dweller’s,  the  goldhunter  arched  his  scraggy  brows. He lowered  himself  slowly  to  a  seat. “Gaoing wayesst?”  he  inquired. “Aye.” the  gunslinger  answered. Behind him  a  fiery  line  grew  at  the  hem  of  the  earth. The deep  peaceful  blue  of  dawn  was  draining  out  of  the  dome,  leaving  it  steadily  pale. “Cayenteen got  enowf?” “You will  be  needing  every  drop  you  have,  the  way  you  go,  friend.” “Waystation yon.”  The  goldhunter  motioned  west. “Be water  theyeer. Not much  ayelse.” “The hills  are  two  days  yet,  I’m  thinking.” “Yar thinkin’  be  hard  on,  pard. The waystay  is  closer. One day’s  walk,  for  you.” “Say thankee,  sai.” The goldhunter  regarded  him  for  a  while. The horizon  was  sending  long  streaks  of  white  over  the  grey  waste. He had  a  leathered,  ancient  face,  and  the  beard  for  all  its’  wiriness  was  thinning  enough  for  the  skin  to  be  seen  through  it. Weary bright  eyes  blinked  thoughtfully  at  him. “You’d be  a  gunslinger,  from  the  look  o’  ye.” His lips  compressed,  he  nodded. “Huntin’ the  other  one.” “Did you  pass  him?”  the  gunslinger  asked. “Aye. ‘Bout a  day  ago. After I’d  left  the  waystation. All in  black  he  was,  robed  and  hooded  like  a  monk,  and  not  a  sign  o’  heat  on  ‘im.” “What did  he  say?”  The  gunslinger  felt  an  eerie  eagerness  come  over  him. “He were  a  queer  one.”  the  goldhunter  ruminated. “When I’d  greeted  him,  he  said  ‘I  water  no  crop,  nor  harvest  I  one.’  And  I  sayed,  ‘Do  ye  hunt  gaold,  like  me?’  And  he  answered,  ‘I  hunt  the  Dark  Tower. So does  the  gunslinger. The only  difference  we  bear  is  that  I  am  of  it,  and  he  was  of  it.’” “ ‘Are  ye  a  gunslinger,  then?’  I  inquired. “ ‘Nay,’ he  told  me,  ‘I  am  black. I am  knowledge;  he  is  ignorance. Quester hunteth;  knowledge  fleeth. But not  too  fast. For if  knowledge  cannot  be  obtained,  how  can  it  be  sought?’“ “And that  was  all?”  the  gunslinger  asked. The goldhunter  nodded  again,  slowly. “He was  not  going  my  way,”  he  went  on,  his  slow  rolling  drawl  coming  out  like  the  water  of  an  old  sunk  well. “We drew  apart. Then I  heard  him  say  behind  me,  ‘I  am  not  the  other.” “The other.”  murmered  the  gunslinger. The goldhunter  heaved  himself  to  his  feet. The gunslinger  rose  as  well. “Shade to  your  journey,  gunslinger.” “Cool winds  upon  yours.”  he  answered. “And for  your words,  many  thanks.” The goldhunter  touched  his  hat,  and  then  was  gone,  slowly  shambling  his  long  way  into  the  rising  sun. Thoughtfully the  gunslinger  pulled  on  his  pack  and  began  to  walk. The long horrible  heat  of  the  day  passed  slowly  overhead. Plod, plod,  plod. Still no  sweat,  but  at  this  he  was  not  surprised:  his  body  behaved  the  way  it  should  after  trudging  in  the  heat  all  day,  no  sudden  dislocation  of  freshness  in  bone  and  muscle;  yesterday  was  recent  in  his  mind,  not  a  dim  memory  from  a  year  ago. By evening  he  had  found  another  campsite, the  queer  grey  ashes  in  their  new  concentric  intricacy  as  before. He had  finished  most  of  his  water. He hoped  he  would  reach  the  waystation  before  tomorrow  was  over. Tomorrow he  would  be  walking  dry. The mountains  seemed  no  nearer;  but   they  wouldn’t,  he  knew,  until  he  was  only  a  few  miles  away;  and  then  they  would  suddenly  swell  like  mushrooms  every  dozen  yards,  until  they  reached  their  true  size  and  he  was  in  them. The next  morning  he  drank  the  last  of  the  water. He started  before  dawn,  putting  camp  away  in  the  dim  greyness  under  a  cold  wild  vault  of  deep  pure  blue  growing  paler  toward  the  east,  while  in  the  west,  ahead  of  him,  it  remained  an  ink-like  purple  above  the  black  jaggedness  of  the  mountains. By the  time  the  Sun  Demon,  as  the  desert  dwellers  named  it,  was  glowering  over  the  horizon  and  raising  heat  swirls  around  him,  the  gunslinger  had  already  made  two  miles. He watched  the  stars  remain  in  the  crystal  vault,  hard  and  white,  as  around  them  day  paled  the  blue  slowly  through  every  gradient  and  shade  men  could  name. He wished,  suddenly,  that  he  had  paid  more  attention  to  the  town  beggar  so  long  ago,  in  Gilead,  in  Gilead  where  it  had  all  began. The beggar  was  always  surrounded  by  stacks  of  papers,  canvasses,  even  slabs  of  wood,  on  which  were  splashed  colors. At least,  that  was  all  that  the  practical  eyes  of  the  boy  he  had  been  had  observed. Colors, he  had  thought,  and  dismissed  them. The beggar  seemed  to  have  scavenged  for  his  outfit  every  cast-off  scrap  of  bright  cloth  he  could  find  or  beg;  but  the  boy  had  only  noticed  he  was  garish  of  dress  and  never  looked  farther. But the  gunslinger  seeing  through  those  narrow  young  eyes  now  realised  the  colors  had  been  chosen  and  arranged  with  artistic  care  so  as  to  fit  and  not  to  clash,  to  be  gay  but  not  gaudy. Even the  sombermar  hat  he  wore  was  an  artistic  choice,  its’  dull  blackness  preventing  that  strange  wistful  stargazing  face  from  being  lost  in  its’  own  surroundings  of  color. His yellow hair hung  beside  it,  braided  like  his  beard. He begged  often,  not  only  for  food  or  gold,  but  for  paint. “Can you  eat  paint?”  Cuthbert  had  laughed  at  him. “Oi, let  us  return  with  paint!”  And  Cuthbert  had  ridden  on,  laughing,  but  the  gunslinger  had  not,  for  he  was  extricating  a  coin  from  his  pocket. Bending from  his  horse  he  tossed  it  to  the  beggar. “Thankee, sai  gunslinger.”  the  beggar  had  said. “What want  you  with  paint?”  the  boy  had  asked. “It is  not  a  good  nutrient.” “To paint  with,  of  course,  young  master.”  The  beggar  indicated  the  color-splashed  (as  it  seemed  to  those  blind  young  eyes)  stacks  of  material. “Would yourself  desire  a  lovely  picture,  young man? A beautiful  present  for  your mother,  perhaps?” “I see  only  blotches  of  paint.” “As I  feared.”  the  beggar  had  sighed. “As so  many  in  this  decaying  city. Your eyes  are  blind.” “Do not  call  me  blind. I can  shoot  the  bull  of  the  target  at  the  end  of  the  range,  be  it  but  a  faint  dot  in  mine  eyes.” “Yet blind  to  beauty  and  to  depictation  you  are  none  the  less, if  you  call  this  a  mere  splatter  of  paint.” “That’s all  I  see.” The beggar  sighed  resignedly. “It is  a  painting  of  the  gunslingers’  palace  at  sunset. But you  only  see  what  makes  it,  not  what  it  is.” Clopping of  hooves  sounded  behind  them,  and  Cuthbert’s  laughing  voice. “Oi, beggar,  here  is  paint  for  you! Full measure and  running  over!” Then he  hurled  an  entire  potful  of  grey  paint  full  at  the  beggar,  and  rode  on  again,  laughing  fit  to  burst. The gunslinger  would  have  followed,  had  not  the  scream  of  woe  frozen  him  in  his  tracks:  it  was  like  the  despair  of  a  man  whose  beloved  has  been  shot  before  his  eyes. “Blind of  heart  and  blind  of  eye, with  laughter  unlaughing  at  wrong  things  mocking,  my  curse  undying  rest  on  Cuthbert! Be he  by  war  swallowed,  by  bullets  ended,  his  gun  helpless  when  most  needed!” The gunslinger  had  not  ridden  on. He had  gotten  water  and  helped  wash  most  of  the  paint  from  the  beggar’s  clothes,  but  the  colorful  outfit  was  stained  forever. Even worse,  much  of  the  paint  had  splashed  on  the  paintings. The sight  of  the  unfortunate  man  cradling  these  splattered  bits  of  wood  and  paper  and  weeping  over  them like  children  made  the  boy  intensely  uncomfortable,  in  a  dull  resentful  sort  of  way. He fetched  turpentine  and  helped  him  scour  carefully  at  the  layer  of  grey  overlaying  the  old  paints. “Not like  that,  young  master. You must  go  carefully,  looking  for  the  color  underneath.”  the  beggar  admonished. “I know  little  of  colors.”  he  muttered. The beggar  gave  him  a  grim,  considering  stare:  a  teacher’s  stare. “I could  teach  ye,  child,  if  ye  wanted  to  learn:  and  if  ye  had  any  sense  of  wonder. It is  enough. You do  not  help  me  out  of  pity,  but  in  resentment,  from  duty. I release  you,  young  master. Go in  peace.” Relieved, he  had  given  the  beggar  more  money  to  procure  better  paints,  and  ridden  on  as  swiftly  as  he  might. But now,  gazing  at  that  paling  loveliness  of  blue,  the  gunslinger  wondered  if,  had  he  stayed  and  listened  to  the  beggar’s  odd  voice  telling  him  the  names  of  each  shade  and  the  shade  that  went  with  each  name,  whether  something  of  beauty  might  have  rubbed  off  on  him,  after  all:  and  the  long  ugly  years  ever  after,  been  different. The fields  and  rivers  and  mists  in  the  morning,  they  are  only  pretty,  his  mother  had  said. Real beauty  is  order,  love  and  light. From a  woman  who  had  long  since  wrecked  the  order  of  her  marriage  by  seeking  love  and  light  in  the  arms  of  an  adulterer,  this  was  crooked  advice,  indeed. He had  a  sudden  faint  flash  of  having  used  those  words  only  a  year  ago,  and  still  believing  them. Used them  to  a  pale  boy  beside  a  fire  in  a  cloying  green  vale. He lifted  his  head,  wearily. The noon  was  passing  and  he  was  beginning  to  stumble. There was  too  much  light. Glareblinded. He was  going  faster  than  he  had  feared  he  would. At this  rate,  if  he  did  not  find  the  waystation  soon,  he  might  be  too  far  gone. He pulled  his  brim  low  enough  to  cut  some  of  the  glare. The mountains  were  no  nearer. But there  was  something  else  that  was,  between  him  and  them. A patch  of  something. Not flat. Even if  it  was  only  a  rock,  it  still  meant  shade. And rest,  until  dark. He fell  for  the  first  time  before  he  reached  it. Getting wearily  to  his  feet,  he  looked  up  and  saw  it  was  larger. Buildings. Two buildings,  white  and  dull. Fixing his  eyes  on  them  he  shuffled  onward. They grew  larger,  slowly,  until  they  reached  full  size  and  he  could  reckon  in  feet  the  distance to  cover. A fallen  rail  fence  poked  here  and  there  from  the  dust  like  a  ring  of  bones. Plank buildings,  thin  old  cedar  so  fragile  it  seemed  to  be  slowly  changing  into  sand, blasted  grey  by  the  sun  and  blasted  white  by  the  alkali  dust. A stable,  and  an  inn. Uninhabited. But the  goldhunter  had  found  water  here. A well,  most  likely. Indoors so  as  not  to  have  too  much  dust  driven  through  the  cover. A little  steel  pump  with  a  control  switch  that  poured  clean  water  with  a  quiet  hum. There would  be  a  boy,  too,  sleeping;  and  in  his  dazed  condition  he  would  think  he  was  the  Man  in  Black. The gunslinger  started  to  shake  his  head,  furiously,  but  stopped. It might  unbalance  him. He was  next  to  the  house  now,  and  there  was  no  boy  there  sleeping  in  the  shadows. Stumbling he  passed  slowly  around  the  house,  toward  the  stable. The pump  would  be  there— (Well! Well!  How  in  tarnation  could  there  be  a  working  pump?!) --with a  chrome  pipe  projecting  over  a  drain,  and  in  one  corner  a  small  pile  of  old  white  hay  and  a  neatly  folded  blanket— Oh gosh  and  golly. I am  gone  indeed. One hand  on  the  smooth  dust-eroded  dust-encrusted  planking,  the  gunslinger  staggered  around  the  corner  and  into  the  wide  carriage-doors. He stood  in  the  shade,  shaking,  as  his  body  gradually  realised  it  was  not  being  cooked  alive  and  began  to  react. It was  several  minutes  before  he  saw  anything  but  murky  red  and  green. Pulling himself  along  he  made  his  way  down  the  aisle  beside  the  horse  stalls. His head  turned  of  itself  to  look  into  them. He was  beginning  to  see  shapes  now:  certainly  the  shape  of  the  heap  of  white  hay  and  the  folded  blanket  at  the  back  of  one  stall. There would  be  a  little  dark  room  at  the  back,  and  there— He gazed  blankly  at  the  shining  steep  pump  that  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  little  room. Just as  he—remembered  it?? Had he  been  here? But he  did  not  remember  it. He simply  knew  it. Things would  make  sense  when  he  had  drunk  some  water. The little  button  that  said  ON  was  there,  sure  enough. He pushed  it. There was  a  click  and  shudder  as  ancient  machinery  got  into  action,  and  then  a  smooth  thumping  hum,  and  clear  clean  water  gushed  down  into  the  drain. He cupped  some  in  his  hands  and  splashed  it  on  him. It was  cold:  from  a  good  ways  down,  no  doubt. He drank  slowly  and  carefully,  a  little  at  a  time,  feeling  his  mouth  thaw  and  his  insides  click  and  whirr  like  organic  machines  just  oiled. Not as  far  gone  as  the  last  time;  the  boy  had  had  to  bring  him  water  then… “That does  it.”  he  muttered. “I’m in  a  time  jump—backwards.” But back  from where,  and  from  how  far? Another question  he  must  ask  the  man  in  black. When he  caught  him. If he  ever  caught  him. His stomach  was  handling  the  moisture  well. Not surprising,  as  he  had  only  been  “walking  dry”  for  one  day  and  hadn’t  time  to  really  go  far. He soaked  the  last  strip  of  donkey  meat  and  chewed  it  carefully. Feeling less  likely  to  keel  over,  he  got  to  his  feet  and  made  his  way  out  to  the  housebuilding. The boy  had  had  dried  beef. But there  was  no  boy,  not  this  time. He went  into  the  house. It had  only  one  floor. An ancient  porch,  with  posts  looking  ready  to  snap  like  sticks,  led  into  a  great  double  room. The attic  was  reached  by  rickety  stairs,  and  the  tattered  shreds  of  hammocks  hung  there  like  cobwebs. Behind the  bar  were  metal  tins  with  airtight  lids  and  faded  labels  peeling  off  the  gleaming  metal  underneath. One held  dried  beef,  one  held  corn,  equally  dry. And fluttering  in  the  corner  on  the  evening  breeze  that  carried  dust  through  every  wide  crack,  was  a  large  sheet  of  fresh  paper. The gunslinger  took  it  up,  warily. The symbols  upon  it  were  like  the  symbols  of  his  ashes,  intricate  and  haughty  with  a  meaning  they  kept  to  themselves. Seven symbols  in  a  single  row  across  the  middle  of  the  paper. “Why?’ he  said  aloud. “Why do  you  leave  me  a  message  I  cannot  understand?” He looked  down  at  the  paper  and  turned  it  over. To his  amazement  there  were  words  on  that  side,  in  the  forgotten  alphabet  of  the  gunslingers,  disused  in  the  world  for  a  thousand  years  now. Beware of  talismans,  for  they  protect  only  by  betrayal. Trust not  the  words  of  demons. Put not  thy  faith  in  jawbones. Or never  shalt  thou  catch  me. “Who are  you?”  the  gunslinger  muttered,  staring  at  the  paper. “Great Heavens  Above,  who  are  you?”  he  shouted. But the  paper  was  silent  and  said  nothing  else. The gunslinger  turned  it  back  over  and  studied  the  queer  symbols. There were  seven  symbols,  in  a  rather  staggering  row,  as  of  one  writing  on  an  uneven  surface. Some he  knew:  but  others  were  strange. Were they  siguls,  perhaps? He did  not  think  so. Again, for  no  reason,  he  remembered  the  beggar-artist  of  Gilead. He had  seen  him  a  few  more  times,  and  each  time  the  strange  man  had  said  something  that  stopped  him  where  he  stood. “There are  words  in  everything,  if  you  only  know  how  to  look.”  he  had  said. “Do you mean  reading  trail?”  the  young  gunslinger  had  asked. “Trail only  tells  you  what  passed  this  way  before. But in  the  shapes  of  things  are  writ  the  fingerprints  of  heaven.” He folded  the  paper,  carefully,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. He decided  to  make  an  early  start. Packing the  contents  of  the  tins  into  his  pack—he  had  two  long-empty  cloth  bags  from  other  corn  purchases  in  other  dusty  dying  stores—he  wondered  for  a  moment  who  had  left  them  here. Had they  been  gifts  from  the  man  in  black,  or  did  someone  maintain  a  small  supply  here? He stood  above  the  ring  in  the  floor,  frowning. There had  been  cans. There should  be  cans,  actually,  because  he  could  form  no  picture  of  them;  he  simply  knew,  like  a  place  one  has  seen  in  a  long-forgotten  dream. The ladder  was  broken. It should  not  be  broken. He leaped  down  and  peered  around,  waiting  for  his  eyes  to  adjust  to  the  light  that  leaked  through  the  floor  and  came  down  the  trap. Would the  tinned  food  still  be  there,  in  the  box  of  damp  aged  cardboard,  the  rust  barely  beginning  to  grip? He sniffed:  the  cellar  smelled  queer  and  animal,  and  sour—like  the  pit  beneath  an  outhouse  on  cleaning  day  just  before  they  shoveled  in  the  dirt. The spiders  scurried  away  to  every  corner,  where  they  watched  from  their  dust-caked  webs. What they  could  possibly  find  to  live  on,  here  in  the  bugless  desert,  was  beyond  him. What concerned  him  more  was  the  heap  the  spiders  had  been  crawling  over. It was  a  boy,  sure  enough. The gunslinger  somehow  knew,  however,  that  this  was  not  the  boy—the  boy  he  had  thought  would  be  there,  in  blue  jeans  with  one  patch  and  a  homespun  brown  shirt  and  pale  hair,  like  an  unreal  memory  of  some  bizarre  dream. This boy  was  older,  perhaps  twelve. His hair  was  black,  like  the  gunslinger’s. He had  a  hollow  face,  dirty  because  he’d  been  trapped  here  when  the  ladder  broke  under  him. The cans  lay  empty  around  him:  he’d  been  here  a  long  while,  a  week  at  least,  judging  by  the  smell  of  excrement. He did  not  move. The gunslinger  felt  him  over  for  injuries:  the  ankles  were  good,  but  he  was  cradling  one  wrist,  and  probing  soon  revealed  an  ugly  sprain. No wonder  he  hadn’t  climbed  out. The gunslinger  brought  him  to,  and  the  boy  blinked  but  made  no  sign  of  life: his  eyes,  dull  with  horror,  stared  blankly  before  him. The gunslinger  sat  him  up,  and  he  gazed  at  his  rescuer,  at  the  cellar,  at  the  stone  blocks  it  was  built  of,  with  eyes  vacant  with  sleep  and  suffering. Not with  hunger,  though;  the  tins  were  mere  tubes  of  metal  sealed  with  welding  at  each  end,  easy  enough  to  bust  open  with  a  stamping  foot. The ancient  times  had  had  sealed  tins  the  ends  of  which  were  of  a  piece  with  the  tube,  but  the  secret  of  that  had  long  been  lost. “I’m going  to  put  you  on  my  shoulders  and  hoist  you  out.”  said  the  gunslinger,  speaking  gently. “Do you  understand?” A nod,  nothing  more. Still the  vacant  stare. The gunslinger  wondered  if  the  boy  had  hit  his  head  as  well. Likely. Concussion did  not  always  wear  off. He froze  in  the  act  of  bending  to  pick  him  up. That groaning  had  begun. The queer  gut-twisting  groaning  (as  he  knew  it  would)  was  coming,  not  from  the  insanely  tilted  sandstone  slabs of  the  shifted  foundation,  but  from  behind  them. As if  something  was  digging  through  the  very  earth  and  moaning  as  it  did— (now sand  would  pour  out  from  a  hole  in  the  wall  and  the  breathing  of  the  thing  would  speak  in  the  voice  of  a  woman  long  dead,  warning  him  in  unclear  words  that  were  worse  than  any  silence,  words  the  application  of  which  would  only  be  clear  long  after  it  was  any  good,  and  then  he  would  reach  inside  and  take--) “Who are  you?”  the  gunslinger  said  to  the  wall. A voice  came  out,  in  the  language  he  had  thought  he  would  never  hear  again,  “Go  slow…go  slow  past  the  Drawers…” “Be still!”  the  gunslinger  roared. “I will  have  no  riddles. I will  endure  no  oracles. Who are  you,  Demon?” But there  was  no  answer. “Since you  will  not  yield  your  name,  yield  us  your  presence  here  and  take  yourself  to  your  place. I put  no  trust  in  your  words.” That clotted  voice,  like  a  dead  woman’s,  gurgled  again,  “Will  you  not  even  take  the  jawbone  that  is  your  due?” “I know  better. Talismans may  protect,  but  only  by  betrayal. I put  no  faith  in  jawbones. Now depart!” The sand  fell  no  longer. The foundations  were  still. In severe  silence  the  gunslinger  hoisted  the  boy  on  his  shoulders. Clumsily, using  one  hand  and  an  elbow, he  scrambled  out. Gripping the  edge,  the  gunslinger  crouched,  leaped  and  managed  to  hoist  himself  high  enough  to  scramble  out. “Is it  gone?”  A  faint  whisper. The gunslinger  nodded. “What was  it?” “Let me  look  at  that  wrist  of  yours,  first.”  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  startling  to  him,  grating  with  dust  and  the  aftereffects  of  dry  walking. The boy  held  it  up. It was  painful  and  nearly  useless,  but  not  broken,  and  a  steady  treatment  of  cold  water  from  the  pump  (which  only  ran  three  minutes  at  a  time)  soon  brought  down  the  swelling. The gunslinger  bound  it  with  a  rag  from  the  boy’s  too-long  shirttails. “What was  it?”  the  boy  repeated. “A speaking-demon. It’s quiet  now.” “What made  you  refuse  the  oracle?” An intelligent  question. The gunslinger  looked  at  him  more  closely. The stupor  of  dungeon-horror  was  wearing  off  in  the  fresh  air  and  light,  and  the  bright  eyes  were  far  from  vacant. “Kid, what’s  your  name?” A twitch  of  smile. “You don’t  want  to  answer.” “Have it  your  way. I’ve—dealt with  oracles  before. There’s truth  in  them,  but  they  only  say  it  in  such  a  way  that  you  think  the  opposite,  and  fall  into  the  very  pitfall  you  were  warned  against. Also—I had  warning.” “I saw  the  paper,  but  I  couldn’t  read  it.” “Who left  it?” A shrug. “The priest. Or monk. Or monster. All three  go  robed  in  black. He did  not  speak  to  me,  and  I  did  not  see  his  face. I hid  from  him. I came  out  when  he  left. He came  in  the  day.” “How long?” Another shrug. “I counted  the  days  I  lay  in  the  cellar. Four. I fell  there  the  evening  he  left.” Four days  behind. He was  closer. “What did  he  look  like? Seem like? Why did  you  hide?” “I thought  of  Ringwraiths.”  the  boy  said,  with  another  twitch  of  smile. “And I’m  alone. Out here. All men  may  be  my  foes.” “You don’t  seem  afraid  of  me.” “You’re human.”  the  boy  said  with  a  powerful  shudder. “Four days…of  spiders…and  that…digging  closer  and  closer  every  day…I  heard  it,  behind  the  walls. It wanted  to  eat  me.” “No, it  was  lying  in  wait  for  me.” “To eat  me,  and  damn  me.”  the  boy  repeated. “I knew  I  had  Jesus  on  my  side…when  I  saw  you,  I  knew  you  were  Jesus.”  He  lifted  his  hand  at  the  gunslinger’s  slack-jawed  expression. “No, not  that  way. More in  the  ‘least  of  these  little  ones’  way. You know  what  I  mean?” “You do  unto  me.”  he  murmered. “Yes, I’ve  been  in  the  Bible  world  before. Some of  it  leaks  into  the  other  worlds…at  least,  before  the  world  moved  on.” “Men are  brothers.”  the  boy  went  on. “They’re human. The cellar…there  was  no  human  there. That’s why  I  don’t  fear  you.” Corpses stretching  away  before  him,  a  long  snaking  line  of  them,  shot  one  after  another  as  they  rushed  like  madmen  upon  him  from  this  way  and  that,  a  whole  village’s  population  shot  down  like  cornstalks….. “Maybe you  ought  to.”  the  gunslinger  murmered. He was  not  going  to  tell  him  about  Tull. “Everyone I  take  up  with,  seems  to  come  to  grief…”  What  had  become  of  that  boy,  the  other  boy,  the  boy  like  a  ghost  in  his  memories? “What drives  you  on?”  the  boy  said. A preternatural  gleam  of  perception  shone  in  his  thoughtful  eyes. “That I  would  rather  not  share.”  the  gunslinger  said  at  last. “I had  hoped  that  I  was  done  with  tet,  that  ka  would  let  me  toil  on  alone,  so  that  I  would  no  longer  bring  my  fellows  down. I will take  you  with  me,  until  it  is  safe  to  leave  you  with  someone,  perhaps  a  family. What is  your  name?” “You think  my  name  is  known  to  you  already,  and  you  fear  to  know  for  certain. My name’s  not  Jake. It’s James.” The gunslinger  gave  a  dry  smile. “You have  good  eyes,  James. I did  fear  to  know.” “Who is  Jake?” “Where did  you  get  the  name?” “The…thing was  moaning  that  name  all  the  time  as  it  dug.” “He is  dead.”  How  did  he  know  that? And why  did  he  feel  such  a  dumb,  blind  loss  as  he  said  it? Who was  Jake? “I’m sorry.” “I don’t  remember  him.”  the  gunslinger  said  slowly,  wrinkling  his  brows. It was  growing  dark,  and  cold  as  well. It was  time  to  make  fire. “I don’t  remember  this  place,  either…but  I  know  it. As if  I  walked  here  in  a  dream.”  He  got  up. “I’d best  be  making  a  fire. This meat  will  taste  better  boiled,  and  the  corn  too.” “I never  thought  how  much  I’d  crave  hot  food.” The gunslinger  smiled  as  he  fetched  the  flint  from  his  pack. James came  out  with  a  kerosene  lantern  he  had  lit:  there  were  several  faded  dust-caked  matches  lying  around  on  the  counter,  and  one  or  two  apparently  still  had  some  spark  in  them. “Oil’s in  a  drum,”  the  boy  said,  “but  it’s  so  dry  I  didn’t  dare  light  it  inside.” The gunslinger  pulled  parts  of  the  brittle  fence  out  of  the  dust  and  laid  a  fire  in  the  lee  of  the  building. “Strike the  light.”  he  said  when  he  had  kindled  tinder  with  the  flame  from  the  wick. “We can  light  it  when  we  turn  in. Save on  oil.” “Are we  taking  it?” “Yes. There’ll be  tunnels.” The splinters  were  burning  now,  and  he  laid  the  bigger  pieces  and  propped  the  old  aluminum  pan  on  two  large  chunks  above  the  fire,  so  that  the  flames  bent,  thin  and  wispy  red,  up  around  it. “Have you  known  the  area?”  the  boy  asked. “No.” said  the  gunslinger. He pointed  to  a  queer  symbol,  buried  deep  in  dust  and  grime,  stamped  into  the  battered  metal  of  the  draught  chamber  below  the  handle. Taking out  the  folded  paper  he  looked  over  the  symbols,  and  tapped  the  leftmost  one,  a  strange  spiderweb  of  interlocked  grids  and  triangles. It was  a  dead  match. “The man  in  black  wanted  us  to  take  it. I suspect  he  even  left  the  lantern  here  on  purpose.” “But why?” Because it  wasn’t  there  the  other  time. “I feel  it.” “Who are  you?” “I am  a  gunslinger.” “A lot  of  men  pack  guns.” “That does  not  make  them  gunslingers.” “When you  spoke  to  the  Demon,”  James  said  almost  absently,  gazing  into  the  flames,  “at  first  you  used  a  strange  language. Was it  Latin?” “Similar. That was  High  Speech. I’d never  thought  I’d  hear  it  again. None used  it  but  the  gunslingers,  and  they  are  gone. I am  last. The last  gunslinger. The world  has  moved  on,  and  we  were  left  behind.” The old  dented  pan   that  he  always  bore  with  him  was  bubbling  now. Fires, countless  fires,  had  blackened  the  outside  long  ago. The smell  of  stewed  beef  and  corn  rose  pleasantly  to  mix  with  the  pure  smell  of  clean  wood. The flames  were  high,  thin  and  orange,   long  streamers  of  red  at  their  tips  but  blueish  where  they  licked  the  metal. Absently the  gunslinger  stirred  it  with  his  bent  old  spoon. The beef  was  still  stringy  and  the  corn  crunched:  it  needed  a  while  yet. “I love  the  sky  out  here.”  murmered  James. “It’s so  extraordinarily  clean. You can  see  the  ends  of  the  earth. The stars  don’t  twinkle.” “They never  do.” “They look  strange. I don’t  see  the  Dipper. And where  is  Polaris?” “North? We steer  by  Old  Star  and  Old  Mother,  there—and  there.” “It’s so  blue.”  James  said. “Indigo, I  think,  or  is  that  cobalt? No, indigo  is  deeper. I think  it’s  just  leaving  cerulean.” “Colors?” “Of course.”  He  seemed  a  little  surprised  the  gunslinger  even  had  to  ask. “Does everyone  know  colors  where  you  come  from? Their names,  I  mean?” “Some do,  most  don’t.”  James  shrugged. “I had  a  box  of  colored  pencils. And crayons. I remember  some  of  their  names.” “I wish  Gilead  had  taught  their  gunslingers  how  to  color  as  well  as  how  to  shoot.”  he  said  to  himself. “What did  the  gunslinger  draw?”  James  suddenly  said,  in  a  voice  pregnant  with  laughter. “A joke  or  a  riddle? I’m terrible  with  jokes.” “A picture  of  bullets!”  James  crowed. His laughter  rang  in  clear  peals  through  the  silent  air. “Draw and  draw.”  muttered  the  gunslinger. The thin  boards,  hard  and  uneven  behind  their  backs,  still  kept  some  warmth. The spidery  orange  light  of  the  campfire  sent  leggy  rays  far  out  over  the  dark  grey  surface  of  the  hardpan. Spirals of  dust  eddied  past  the  corner  of  the  building—the  breeze  was  light. A sudden  bubble  of  humor  welled  up  in  him  and  popped,  causing  a  lopsided  smile  to  stretch  his  leathery  features. “Remind me  to  keep  that  handy  when  I  face  Blaine.” “Who?” But the  mysterious  word  had  slipped  down  again,  taking  with  it  any  gleam  of  knowledge. “A name  from  my  dreams.” “Is he  a  pain?”  James  asked  with  a  grin. The kid  was  actually  getting  sly! The hiss  of  the  pan  bubbling  hotter  reminded  the  gunslinger  what  he  was  doing,  and  he  stirred  with  the  spoon  and  shifted  it  on  the  two  bigger  logs  that  were  burning  briskly  now,  the  fire  leaping  between  and  around. He fished  out  one  kernel  of  corn  and  bit. Chewy, now,  soft  on  the  outside. “Another five  minutes.”  he  said. “I didn’t  see  any  utensils,  so  we’ll  take  turns  with  the  spoon.” “There’s something  so  fascinating  about  a  fire.”  James  said,  gazing  raptly  into  the  flames. “I want  to  live  somewhere  where  I  can  have  a  fireplace. And fires  every  day. I only  see  them  when  I  camp.” Out here,  folk  didn’t  pry. They never  asked  about  your  past,  and  in  return  you  didn’t  ask  theirs. The gunslinger  hated  to  break  this  law,  but  he  needed  answers. “How did  you  come  here?” “I woke  up.”  said  James. “You woke  up  here?” “I must  have. It’s like  a  dim  dream. I don’t  recall  much.”  He  shook  his  head  angrily. The way  the  gunslinger  had  in  the  desert,  when  things  stopped  adding  up. “I can  help  you  remember.” the  gunslinger  said  softly. Just like  the  other  one. The Jake. He shook  the  thought  away. If you’re  going  to  torment  me  with  glimmers,  dream,  he  said  savagely,  then  come  right  out  and  tell  me  all. Or else  leave  me  in  peace. He pulled  out  the  bullet  shell. It was  an  old  trick,  this  mysterious  and  horrid  power  over  the  minds  of  other  men. Was it  magic,  or  was  it  natural,  a  kink  of  our  own  natures  and  minds  that  made  such  exploitation  possible? His fingers  flowed  like  oil  as  he  made  the  shell  dance. From finger  to  finger  it  slithered  and  walked,  with  a  life  of  its’  own  it  popped  out  and  reappeared  and  floated  in  reverse,  and  the  eyes  of  James  watched,  fascinated  with  wonder. Watched: but  neither  closed  nor  glazed. Puzzled, the  gunslinger  made  the  shell  increase  its’  hypnotic  dance. He spoke  as  it  did,  his  voice  low  and  soothing. He could  not  remember  any  who  had  ever  succeeded  in  holding  out  against  this,  if  caught  unawares  and  off  their  guard:  though  some  men,  he  knew,  were  immune. James’s eyes  snapped  suddenly  wider. Huge and  burning,  they  scorched  into  the  gunslinger’s  eyes. “You’re trying  to  mesmerise  me.”  he  accused. “I do  not  know  that  word,  James.” “No, but  you  bloody  well  know  what  you  do,  whatever  name  you  give  it.”  His  voice  was  sharp  and  hard. Those eyes  were  burning  with  anger. Anger, and  something  else. A stubbornness  too  powerful  to  be  subject  to  the  Sleep. “You don’t  remember,  and  you  must.” “You don’t  remember  either,  and  you  also  must.” The truth  of  his  words  hit  the  gunslinger  like  a  blow. The shell  dropped. Slowly he  got  to  his  feet  and  put  his  knuckles  to  his  forehead. “I cry  your  pardon,  James  of  Elsewhere. I have  forgotten  the  face  of  my  father. Your rebuke  is  right  and  justly  deserved. If any  of  us  should  be  put  under,  it  is  I.” James got  up  and  made  an  odd,  formal  little  bow. “Your words  are  accepted,  and  forgiveness  bestowed.” “How did  you  know  to  say  that?”  the  gunslinger  said  interestedly. “Such forms  have  not  been  taught  to  the  sons  of  this  world  for  a  many  hundred  years.” “I read  old  books.”  shrugged  James. “It rubs  off,  after  a  while. I used  to  recite  Calvin  &  Hobbes  from  memory.”  He  laughed. “Calvin’s hardly  an  old  book,  of  course. Howard Pyle  and  Allen  French,  though,  not  to  mention  Sir  Walter  Scott.” “These people  are  unknown  to  me.” “I wonder  how  far  away I  am.”  said  James  in  a  whisper. They sat,  backs  to  the  wall,  staring  at  the  deepening  sky. So deep  and  pure  a  dark  night-blue  it  was  nearly  black,  the  shapes  of  the  house  edges  were  like  black  holes  cut  out  of  it. The orange  fire  was  so  weird  and  clashing  and  yet  pleasing  a  contrast. The gunslinger  took  the  pan  off  the  logs  and  kicked  a  depression  to  put  it  in:  the  handle  was  too  hot  to  hold. “Let it  sit  a  minute,  if  you’d  not  burn  the  buds  clear  off  your  tongue.”  he  advised  James. “Thanks for  the  cooking  of  it.”  said  James. The gunslinger  was  touched. “It is  a  simple  thing  to  do.” “Not when  you’ve  only  camped  once  in  your  life  and  never  lit  a  fire.” A city. The boy  is  from a  city,  like  the  one  before. If there  was  a  before,  and  not  a  dream  in  the heat. “So you  do  remember.”  he  said. The boy  shrugged. “Gleams and   flashes. Much like  you  get,  I  suspect.” “Tell me,  James,  can  one  see  in  dreams  a  place  one  has  never  been  before?” “Not of  your  own  power.”  James  said  instantly. “If you  dream  something  you  couldn’t  otherwise  have  known,  it’s  a  prophetic  infusion.” And who  does  the  infusing,  James  of  Otherwhere? That is  the  great  question. “You eat  first.”  he  said  to  the  boy. They ate  carefully  and  in  silence. James ate  first,  and  just  before  he  did  he  suddenly  made  a  swift  gesture  with  his  right  hand,  touching  the  fingertips  to  forehead,  chest  and  each  shoulder,  murmering  something. “What was  that?” “Oh,” the  boy  said,  “I  was  saying  grace.” Grace. The word  awoke  odd  memories  in  him,  of  a  sturdy  face  surrounded  by  wild  white  hair  and  a  collar  of  some  sort,  a  white  square  in  a  black  band. Calla. Something to  do  with  a  Calla. James offered  him  the  spoon (rinsing  it  from  the  canteen)  when  the  pan  was  not  even  half  empty. The salt  meat  had  given the  whole  stew  a  strong, healthy  taste. Even the  corn  was  meaty. He left  some  in  the  bottom  for  James  and  made  him  drink  half  the  broth. It was  cooled  now  almost  to  lukewarm. James “said  grace”  again  when  he  was  done,  and  the  gunslinger  bowed  his  head. “Do you  believe  in  God,  gunslinger?”  James  said. “God does  not  deal  with  men  of  blood.” “So you  do  believe.” “I believe  in  the  White. And in  ka. As for  God…I  don’t  know  where  He  stands  in  all  the  mess. Maybe he’s  just  a  man  who  made  it  to  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  Tower  and  was  accepted  by  the  White,  to  wield  it  as  he  would.” “Ka?” “Predestiny. Whatever power  or  force  picks  our  way  and  shunts  us  down  paths  we  cannot  get  out  of.” “Kahahahahaha.” The gunslinger  blinked. Now James  was  laughing. “I’m sorry,  but  that  is  such  a  silly  word!”  the  boy  gasped. “Every time  you  say  that  I  think  of  a  python  in  the  Jungle  Book  or  of  somebody  cackling.” “Don’t you  believe  in  fate?” “I believe  in  God.”  the  boy said  simply. “If He  made  me,  he  made  me  for  something,  and  he’ll  see  I  do  it. But he  made  me  free,  so  I  can  turn  aside  if  I  choose. That’s all  the  fate  there  is.” He’ll see  I  do  it. The words  rang  like  doom. “What if  you  turn  aside?” James wrinkled  his  brow. “If it’s  important  enough,”  he  said  slowly,  “he’ll  either  find  someone  else  to  do  it,  or  haul  me  back  by—shunting  me. He makes  us  free,  so  he  does  it  the  long  sneaky  way,  but  he  does  do  it  eventually. And it’s  possible…that  if  the  wrong  choice is  made,  for  his  plan  to  be  destroyed.” The wrong  choice. The wrong  choice. Dear God  in  Heaven,  when  had  he ever  made  the  right  choice? He remained  silent. They sat  there,  gazing  now  at  the  fire  and  now  out  at  the  silent  wastes  around  them. He thought  again  of  the  artist-beggar  of  Gilead,  who  was  only  a  beggar  because  no  one  bought  his  paintings,  and  of  the  last  time  he  had  seen  him. When the  young  man  had  stalked  off  the  blood-smattered  stones  of  Jericho  Hill,  surrounded  by  the  corpses  of  his  friends,  the  guns  of  his  father  hot  in  his  hands,  the  bodies  of  the  gunslingers  and  of  their  foes  strewn  around  it  for  miles,  the  silent  faces  of  black carved  stone  gazing  out  impassively  over  it  all,  the  rabble  of  the  Good  Man  surging  far  off  in  the  distance,  he  had  come  to  a  withered  tree. A hawthorn,  he  noted  absently,  the  scanty  leaves  thin  and  grey,  rusty  haws  from  last  autumn  still  clinging  to  the  tangled  thorny  twigs;  and  under  it  an  ammo-cart,  spilled  and  useless,  its’  mules  hewed  with  many  cruel  strokes,  the  driver  propped  in  its’  shade. His shabby  outfit  was  gay  and  brilliant,  all  reds  and  greens  and  yellows,  and  his  black  hat was  pulled  low  to  keep  the  flies  off. But not  all  the  red  was  dye. He was  far  gone,  but  he  had  grasped  the  young  gunslinger  and  pulled  him  close. “Do not  stay  with  me,  young  master.”  he  had  whispered. “See my  blood. The name  of  that  hue  is  crimson. That is  thy  hue, and  that  is  the  hue  of  thy  foe. Thou art last. Seek no  noble  death. Seek the  Dark  Tower. There are  none  to  seek  it,  and  it  must  be  sought,  or  it  will  fall… “Seek the  Dark  Tower.” He remembered  the  oath  he  had  sworn  to  the  dying  man,  the  oath  that  had  driven  him  all  these  years  later. “I will  seek  it,  I  swear  by  the  blood  of  my  mother  which  I  have  shed  unknowing,  by  the  blood  of  my  father  that  lies  spilt  in the  field,  by  the  guns  of  my  father  that  are  hot  in  my  hands.” Tears came  slowly  from  under  his  closed  eyes. “When do  we  leave?” The  voice  of  James  broke  in  upon  him. “Leave?” he  said  stupidly,  pulled  from  his  trance. “The food  won’t  last. We must  at  least  make  the mountains. There you  can  hunt,  or  find  greens. And if  people  are  living  there…there  might  be  someone  could  take  me  in.”  His  voice  quivered;  tears  were  just  under  the  surface. “I saw  my  mom  in  the  flames. And my  brother.” “They likely  think  you  dead.” “If this  is  another  world,  maybe  time  won’t  pass  in  mine  while  I’m  gone.”  James  sounded  hopeful. “Besides, I’m  not  much  of  a  hiker. I’d only  slow  you  down—or  the  man  in  black  could  use  me  as  a  hostage.” While you  travel  with  the  boy,  the  man  in  black  travels  with  your  soul  in  his  pocket. Who had  spoken  that? Where had  he  heard  that? Another Speaking  Demon? A succubus  in  a  ring  of  ancient  stones,  in  a  green  grove  heavy  with  cloying  life  like  decay,  of  old  sins  and  impure  deaths  and  innumerable  damnations? I am  not  the  other. “Yes, we  will  leave  before  dawn.”  he  said. “You should  turn  in  now. Will you  take  the  house,  or  the  stable? I saw  a  blanket  in  one  of  the  stalls.” “Stable. The hay. That’s where  I  slept  the—where  I  would  have  slept  if  I’d  not  fallen  in  the  cellar.” “That’s snug,  at  least. I’ll fill  the  canteens. They’re made  of  leather. I kept  my  next-to-last  as  well  as  my  last,  so  you’ll  carry  one. We’ll take  it  slow. I don’t  think  the  mountains  are  more  than  a  day  or  two  ahead.” “You still  haven’t  told  me  your  name.”  the  boy  accused. “Am I  supposed  to  just  call  you  Gunslinger?” “I will  not  saddle  you  with  the  burden  of  my  name.”  the  gunslinger  said  bitterly. “My name  is  death. My trade  is  blood. My wages  are  treachery. Gunslinger am  I,  a  name  that  is  both  curse  and  honor.”  And  maybe,  if  he  did  not  share  his  name,  the  awful  forces  of  ka  and  tet  would  not  solidify  around  them,  sealing  them  in  immutable  fellowship  and  making  yet  another  ka-tet,  bound  by  fate. “Rest well,  Gunslinger.”  James  said  almost  with  affection. “May memory  come  in  your  dreams.”  As  he  headed  off  the  gunslinger  heard  him  mutter,  “I  wish  I  had  a  toothbrush.” “And also  in  yours.”  the  gunslinger  murmered.

They set  out  in  the  grey  darkness,  the  boy  bearing  the  kerosene  lamp  and  two  of  the  empty  tins  that  were less  squashed  from  opening,  filled  with  kerosene  and  their  tops  fastened  tight  with  the  wax  of  a  candle  stub  they  found  near  the  bar. If the  cans  weren’t  jounced,  it  would  hold. One full  waterskin  (as  James  called  them)  sloshed  in  the  pack  as  well. The stable  blanket  had  been  knotted  into  a  rough  pack. “If that  becomes  too  awkward,  we’ll  have  to  repack.”  the  gunslinger  warned. “I don’t  mind.” The sun  rose. James had  no  hat,  so  the  gunslinger  had  made  him  a  burnoose  from  his  own  red  bandanna,  trailing  to  his  shoulders,  held  on  by  a  band  of  the  old  cardboard  torn  and  cut  carefully  so  as  to  be  a  solid  piece. James had  had  the  idea. As it  grew  higher  the  boy  began  to  noticeably  flag,  and  the  gunslinger  slowed  accordingly. He made  the  boy  drink  a  mouthful  now  and  again—once  an  hour,  or  less—when  noon  was  passed. Both had  drunk  their  fill,  both  before  bed  and  before  setting  out,  until  when  they  urinated  it  ran  white  with  no  trace  of  yellow. They had  to  rest  more  frequently,  the  boy  in  the  shadow  of  the  man. He didn’t  say  much,  only  stared  at  the  ground,  his  face  red  at  first,  then  blotchy  white. But he  had  a  good  olive  complexion  to  start  with  and  long  sleeves,  so  hopefully  he  wouldn’t  be  burned. The blue  jeans  had  a  store-made  look  to  them,  as  did  the  violet  turtleneck  shirt  with  the  white  bands  across  chest  and  arms. “What do  you  hunt?”  he  said  unexpectedly  as  they  paused  sometime  around  the  ninth  hour,  the  gunslinger  crouching  and  the  boy  hunkered  in  his  shadow. “The man  in  black.” “Why do  you  want  him?” The gunslinger  hesitated. “He is  the  way.”  he  said  finally. “Either he  will  take  me  there,  or  tell  me  how  to  go.” “Where?” There was  no  help  for  it. “To the  Dark  Tower.” James frowned. The gunslinger  could  not  see  his  face  with  his  back  turned  to  give  the  boy  the  broadest  shadow,  but  the  sudden  bunching  of  those  skinny  shoulders  against  his  back  was  plain  enough. “And what  is  that?”  he  said,  his  voice  harsh  with  instinctive  dislike. “It rises  at  the  center.”  the  gunslinger  said,  his  voice  a  faint  whisper. “The worlds  spin  around  it. It must  be  reached. And climbed.” “I don’t  like  it.”  James  said  flatly. “It sounds—I  just  don’t like  it.” “I don’t  either.”  It  has  eaten  everyone  I  ever  loved  in  sacrifice  for  the  pursuing  of  the  way  to  its’  finding. “Then why  do  you  seek  it? Does it  hold  you  enslaved?” “I swore  oaths  to  a  dying  man  to  find  it.” “An oath  can  be  broken,”  James  said  judicially,  “if  the  evil  done  by  accomplishing  it  is  greater  than  the  evil  of  breaking  it. Which is  why  no  Christian  swears  oaths  carelessly.” “I am not  Christian.” “A pity.”  the  boy  said  coolly. When they  made  camp,  the  gunslinger  was  surprised  to  find,  on  the  lee  of  a  mound,  the  same  curious  intricate  patterns  of  ash  from  the  fires  of  the  man  in  black. Had he  slowed  down,  then,  to  let  them  gain,  or  had  space  skipped  a  gear  and  they  made  more  miles  than  it  seemed? Either possibility  disturbed  him  immeasurably. “Hey! What is  this?”  The  boy  had  been  pulling  devil-grass  on  the  far  side  (wearing  the  gloves)  and  now  he  came  slowly  over,  a  sheaf  of  evil  grass  tucked  carelessly  under  one  elbow,  something  in  his  hands  that  gleamed  in  that  dusty  place  an  incongruous  glossy  chestnut. He laid  it  down. It was  a  case  of  leather,  but  leather  unlike  any  the  gunslinger  had  seen;  though  worn  with  great  age,  it  was  glossy  and  fine  and  so  supple  he  knew  at  once  it  was  as  waterproof  as  a  canteen. Many button-like  snaps  fastened  a  flap  along  one  side. It was  longer  than  its’  width,  almost  a  foot  and  a  half,  narrower  at  one  end  than  the  other. The snaps  parted  with  a  metallic  pop  when  they  tugged. It was  very  old,  to  judge  from  the  worn  and  smoothed  erosion  of  the  small  intricate  curls  and  patterns  stamped  into  it. Gold gilding  gleamed  in  the  hollows  where  it  had  not  been  able  to  wear  away. A smell  of  old  leather  and  fresh  sweet  oil  went  up:  the  case  had  recently  been  treated,  evidently. Inside was  a  violin,  complete  with  bow;  not  a  large  one,  as  the  body  was  less  than  a  foot,  probably  a  ¼  size. The instrument  was  indescribably  old. Varnish glistened  with  a  deep  soft  luster,  and  the  wood  underneath  was  old  but  beautifully  grained,  a  chestnut-copper. The ebony  of  the  neck  was  of  a  kind  the  gunslinger  had  seen  only  in  the  oldest  Gilead  instruments,  and  he  saw  at  once  that  those  had  been  inferior  to  this. The tailpiece  had  recently  been  fitted  with  a  chinrest,  which  showed  the  deep  red-brown  of  real  rosewood;  the  varnish  on  it  was  also  newer. Elaborate F-holes  curled  along  the  bridge. The purfling running  around  the  border  of  the  top  was  curled  and  inlaid  with  gold  patterns. The scroll  was  carved  like  the  head  of  a  horse,  but  a  horse  with  a  very  strange  mane. The bow’s  shaft  had  a  grip  of  old  whalebone,  but  the  frog  which  anchored  the  string  was  of  age-tarnished  silver. “Does it  play?”  he  asked. The strings  gleamed  like  silver,  but  if  so  it  must  either  be  an  alloy  or  remarkably  well  cared  for,  for  it  showed  no  tarnish. “I can  find  out.”  and  tucking  it  beneath  his  chin  like  an  old  hand  the  boy  began  to  play. At the  first  notes  the  gunslinger  found  his  hands  were  frozen,  caught  between  flint  and  strike. He forced  his  hands  to  go  on  striking,  as  the  music  flowed  out  into  the  wasteland  all  around,  and  the  flat  greasy  flames  leaped  up  as  the  devil-grass  began  to  burn,  laid  atop  the  ashes  of  the  man  in  black’s  old  fire. Such music  he  had  not  heard  played  in  ten  hundred  years,  since  the  musicians  of  Gilead  played  the  courtship  ball. When his  mother  danced  with  Marten,  that  black  magician,  and  then  she  had  gone  over  to  put  her  hand  in  her  husband’s…You  may  hold  her  before  men,  but  I  have  her  heart. Sad, eerie,  beautiful  and  indescribably  melodious,  the  violin  played  on  under  the  gathering  stars,  and  the  face  of  the  boy  shone  even  as  them  as  he  drew  the  curled  bow  across  the  silver  strings. It was  an  ancient  face,  a  face  not  set  in  time,  a  face  lit  up  by  a  faint  and  mighty  glow  of  a  realm  beyond  eternity. The fire  was  burning  well,  and  the  gunslinger  rested  his  shaking  hands  in  his  lap. Almost as  if  in  answer,  against  the  distant  mountains  appeared  a  grounded  star. The campfire  of  the  man  in  black. The wild  rising  notes  rippled  and  slid  ever  more  softly,  until  the  last  simply  floated,  faint,  fading  into  the  emptiness  of  the  past. Slowly James  lowered  the  instrument,  a  look  of  abstract  intentness  and  a  faint  shadow  of  the  terrible  eternity  still  strong  upon  it. “It plays.”  he  said  simply. “That is  the  greatest  of  understatements.”  the  gunslinger  said. He sounded  a  little  breathless  in  his  own  ears,  and  to  his  surprise  his  hands  were  damp  and  clammy. “Where did  you  learn  to  play  like  that?” “I didn’t.” the  boy  said. “All I  know  how  to  do  is  play. It…plays well. It came  out  of  me,  the  notes,  and  I  knew  how  to  play  them.”  That  ageless  glow  came  on  his  face  again. “Not even  Gilead  had  instruments  like  this.”  the  gunslinger  muttered. “How did  you  manage  to  hold  that,  with  your  sprained  wrist?” The boy  looked  at  his  wrist,  brows  knotted. “It hurt  at  first,  but  then  it…didn’t.”  he  said. The gunslinger  undid  the  bandage. The wrist  was  perfectly  normal. Not even  a  twinge  of  soreness  remained  when  he  pressed  it. He examined  the  ancient  carvings  on  the  violin  more  carefully. None seemed  to  mean  anything,  but  when  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  clasps  of  the  case  his  suspicions  were  confirmed. The golden  buttons  were  engraved  with  intricate  symbols. Pulling out  the  paper  he  studied  the  row  of  siguls. “The man  in  black  left it  for  us.”  It  was not  a  question. “He seems  to  have.”  the  gunslinger  replied  absently. Yes, this  symbol on  the  far  end. It was  a  dead  match. “And if  it  is  his,  why  was  it  left? I fear  his  mysterious  benevolence  more  even  than  the  mockery  I  knew.” He slept  ill  that  night,  waking  always  to  look  over  at  the  sullen  star  of  the  camp  of  his  quarry. It was  another  two  days  before  they  reached  the  mountains. The second  night  from  the  station  they  had  seen  as  before  the  ground-star  of  fire  far  ahead  of  them. All the  next  day  the  mountains  grew  suddenly  larger. By late  afternoon  the  alkali  flat  was  behind—and  below,  and  they  were  ploughing  ponderously  up  the  lowest  slopes. Barren as  the  flat  beneath,  and  still  part  of  the  desert,  the  stony  hills  shuffled  slowly  in  rising  heights  to  meet  the  sheer  mountains,  like  lumpy  masses  shrugged  off  by  those  huge  entities  as  they  grew. The mountains  were  no  longer  monotone,  but  burned  in  deep  reds  and  dark  purples,  and  dusty  greyish  blues  higher  up,  the  snowcaps  white  now  in  the  sun. They were  smaller  than  they  ought  to  be,  those  white  splotches,  those  snow  cliffs:  hadn’t  they  been  larger? Again it  was  not  a  memory  so  much  as  an  impression,  but  he  had  seen  those  caps before,  and  they  had  been  bigger. Sure enough,  as  he  had  expected,  the  gunslinger’s  eyes  made  out  the  toiling  speck  on  the  higher  slopes  above  them,  the  ponderous  furrowed  stone  dwarfing  it  like  a  fly:  the  man  in  black. “Will we  catch  him?” The boy  had  not  spoken  for  hours. He was  hardy  enough,  from  hiking  with  groups  “and  biking   all  over  the  neighborhood”,  he  had  informed  him,  but  they  had  had  to  rest  more  and  more  often  as  the  second  day  passed. The gunslinger  was  sparing  in  his  own drink,  keeping  most  for  the  boy. “We were  never  this  close. We’re catching  up.”  That  wasn’t  what  he  had  meant  to  say…or  had  once  said,  perhaps,  in  another chase,  whether  in  a  dream  or  in  a  forgotten  past. “He’s waiting  for  us.”  said  James. “I know.”  He  had  been  certain  of  it  long  ago. The boy  had  not  been  put in  his  way  to  slow  him  up,  if  he  was  now  in  sight  of  his  quarry;  had  he,  then,  been  put  there  for  more  ominous  reasons? “Is he  really  a  man?” “If he  is,  a  very  strange  one.” “Is he  a  bad  man?” The gunslinger  paused  on  that  one. How did  one  define  bad  from  good? Was the  man  in  black  good  or  bad…was  the  Dark  Tower  itself  good  or  bad,  with  all  the  things  it  made  one  do  in  order  to  find  it? Was anything  good? Was he,  the  spiller  of  blood…was  he  good? “Everything is  bad.”  he  said  at  last,  pulling  himself  over  a  rotting  brown  boulder. “And men  most  of  all.” “Men have  a  seed  of  evil,  yes.”  James  said. It sounded  like  he  was  winding  up  to  one  of  his  odd  solemn speeches,  but  instead  he  started  coughing. The gunslinger  made  him  take  a  swallow  from  the  canteen. “It’s the  last  one.”  the  boy  said,  wringing  the  leather. “We’ll soon  have  all  the  water  we  can  drink.” When darkness  fell,  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  desert. During the  last  hour  they  had  ploughed  up  slopes  of  steaming,  brittle  shale-gravel  that  turned  their  feet  and  wore  them  down  as  hours  of  tramping  had  not. Worst of  all  was  to  hear,  in  that  demonic  glare,  the  lazy  crick  of  the  grasshoppers  and  crickets  in  the  willows  above. The smell  of water  was  in  the  air  too,  a  thick  sweet  heaviness  that  spoke  of  swamps  and  frogs  and  lilypads  on  deep  cool  water:  it  was  maddening,  and  to  maintain  the  plodding  gait  needed  to  breast  the  shale  was  near  impossible. The sun  was  in  their  eyes  as  well,  the  lower  it  got;  even  when  it  should  have  been  blocked,  a deep  notch  let  its’ last  red  glower  stare  down  on  them  to  the  very  end. The slope  lessened  and  became  more  soilly,  as  actual  earth,  dry  and  dusty,  held  down  by  scrub  grass  where  the  last  of  the  runoff  reached,  replaced  the  shale. Grasses thickened  as  they  toiled  higher  and  the  slope  levelled  to  a  flat,  grey  grasses  and  increasingly  greener  ones,  first  in  tough  clusters,  then  entire  mats  of  it  beneath  the  first  dwarfed  firs. Then they  saw  the  oasis  and  stopped  dead. James did,  at least. The gunslinger  kept  on  for  a  few  steps  before  he  realized  the  boy  was  rooted  fast,  eyes  huge  and  hard  in  his  heat-pale  face,  staring  not  at  the  rank  lush  green  of  the  willows,  but  through  them. “What is  it,  lad?” “Do we  have  to  go  there?”  the  boy  said  in  a  faint  whisper. “It’s water. It’s only  willows.”  But  he  was  lying,  for  an  uneasy  sense  was  stirring  in  him  too, as  if  he  knew  this  grove,  as  if  he  knew  what  it  concealed… “I’ll stay  out  here.”  the  boy  said  decidedly. “Besides, there  might  be  snakes  or  poison  lizards.” “Or sucker-bats  in  the  deeper  shadows. Good call,  boy. Sit yourself  and  rest.” The willows  grew  in  a  high  tangle,  pussy-willows  on  the  outskirts,  willow-trees  farther  in,  upright  twigs  with  long  fluttering  grey-green  leaves. What caused  the  sense  of  green  were  all  the  creepers,  he  found,  often  climbing  to  the  very  heights  of  the  trees. And the  soft  water-flags,  six  feet  high,  where  the  ground  grew swampy  farther  in;  and  high  solid  banks  leaned  over  actual  water,  a  pond  green  and  still  and  semi-deep. He gazed  out  at  the  pond-grasses  in  the  shallows  and  made  his  way  along  the  shore. Something slithered  quickly  into  the  water  with  a  sinister  plop. Good thing  the  kid  hadn’t  come. There, where  he  knew  it  would  be,  was  a  clearer  area  kept  clean  by  the  slow  rising  water  that  seeped  in  under  the  bank,  a  spring  fed  by  far-off  snows. The light  was  dying  quickly  and  the  shrouded,  small  wood,  enclosed  and  cosy,  sank  into  a  blackish-green  twilight,  intricate  and  clear  and  dim. What had  spooked  the  boy? He fastened  the  stoppers  of  the  brimful  canteen-bags  and  slung  them  over  his  shoulder,  dripping and  cool  on  his  shirt. He listened,  letting  the  air  and  atmosphere  of  the  place  seep  into  him. And he  felt  it,  too. Very faint,  but  very  definite. This place  felt  alive. Aware. And not  in  a  good  way. It had  a  langorous,  unhealthy  sort of  feel,  like  being  caressed  by loathsome  hands. As if  he  was  being  watched. He got  up  and  pushed  deeper  into  the  wood. The willows  were  thick,  but  after  some  stooping  and  pushing  he  found  himself  in  sumac,  tall  and  leggy,  and  overhead  were  older  trees,  tall  and  dark: firs  and  pines,  grim  in  the  twigloom. He came  through  these  and  found  what  he  had  suspected  would  be  there—no,  known. He knew  this  place,  the  clearing  with  the  peak  like  a  high  skull  visible  dimly  above the  trees,  the  ancient  black  stones,  long  and  thin  and  set  on  end,  and  the  basalt  stone  like  a  stump  of  rock,  the  flat  table  of  the  altar  laid  slablike  over  it. He should  never  have  come. He should  never  have  come. His legs  shook  like  jelly  and  a  horrible  weakness  came  over  the  area  between  them,  and  he  groped  madly  for  the  jawbone  that  ought  to  be  there,  in  his  belt,  bone  of  one  demon  to  ward  back  another. The stillness  of  the  grove  was  like  the  stillness  of  a  corpse. A corpse  coming back  to  some  awful  unlife. For the  grove  was  not  deserted. Something was  here,  drifting  in  the  stones,  lurking  in  the  ground,  crouching  in  the  altar. Tied to  this  place  by  a  hundred  horrid  sacrifices,  until  it  grew  so  strong  it  could  make  its’  own  sacrifices  to  itself. Out of  those  who  came  to  the  water. Out of  him. For I  have  known  you  before,  hard  cold  man. I took  you  before,  I  had  my  way  with  you,  you  sorry  weakling. I gave  you  dim  riddles  to  placate  your  mind,  and  then  I  took  your  soul. He saw  her  now,  the  spirit  that  haunted  the  grove. Lifting his  hand  like  a  weight  he  made  the  talismanic  gesture  against  the  evil  eye,  his  two  end  fingers  thrust  like  horns;  but  drunkenly,  like  a  drugged  man. The vaporous  face  laughed  at  him. He felt  the  nauseous  sensuousness  of  the  place  envelope  him, crawling  up  his  flesh  like  unclean  fingers,  both  pleasurable  and  revolting. The face  that  mocked  him  drugged  him  with  its’  beauty;  he  longed  for  it  and  hated it,  his  hands  no  longer  belonged  to  him:  he  felt  them  loosening  his  belt. A last  dim  fury  rose  in  him. No! Not again! he screamed  soundlessly. It is  useless  to  resist,  I  have  got  you  by  your  tender  parts  and  I  may  do  what  I  would,  for  you  delivered  them  unto  me  long  ago,  and  the  talisman  you  serve  has  betrayed  you  into  my  hands. The gunslinger  felt  his  jeans  fall. He was  reeling  toward  the  altar,  fighting  every  step,  but  he  was  alone,  he  had  only  his  flawed  human  will  to  fight  the  oracle  with,  and  once  he  lay  on  that  altar  his  life  would  be  drawn  out  of  him  along  with  his  manhood. “Leave go  of  him,  Demon.” The gunslinger  found  he  was  able  to  stop. He saw  a  sudden  contortion  in  the  lovely  misty  features  that  were  pressed  so  close  to  his. What do  such  as  you  dare  to  come  to  our  own  ground  for? This world  is  left  to  us,  and  such  as  we  may  take. This is  the  law. “I do  not  know  your  law.”  The  boy’s  voice  was  impossibly  serene,  older  than  his  years,  a  face  from  eternity  or  from  some  marble  statue  of  a  carven  saint. He stood  on  the  clearing’s  edge,  one  hand  clasped  around  a  brown  cloth  at  his  neck. All fear  had  gone  from  his  eyes. His right  hand  was  thrust forward,  and  two  twigs  stuck  from  it  at  right  angles:  a  rude  cross. To the  slow  amazement  of  the  gunslinger  the  sight  of  this  seemed  to  paralyze  the  succubus  as  much  as  had  the  jawbone  the  time  he  faced  her  last:  and  more,  for  she  was  not  only  stymied,  she  was  afraid. Smell the  smell  of  love  and  laughter,  little  boy  who  dreams  alone. Smell the  smell  of  sweet  new  flesh,  of  secret  sweat  and  undreamed  pleasure. Feel your  flesh  respond  to  me. You cannot  resist  my  lure,  nor  deny  my  matchless  beauty. “Leave go  of  us  and  leave  this  land,  O  unclean  spirit. By the  Cross  of  Christ  our  Jesus  I  command  you  to  release  us!” Stones shattered  all  around  them. A sighing  screech  rose  up  from  every  side. The female  phantom,  slender  and  naked,  wavered  and  shuddered like  shaken  pudding,  her  features  snarling,  her  damnation  suddenly  stamped  plain  to  see  upon  her  features. The gunslinger’s  hands  belonged  to  him  again. Like a  wailing  wind  the  presence  left  the  grove,  and  the  shattered  stones  stood  silent  and  desolate  in  the  cold  starlight. “You should  put  on  your  pants.”  the  boy  said,  an  abstract  tone  of  cool  rebuke  in  his  voice. “The wind  is  cold  from  the  mountains. I’ll fetch  some  wood.” “I don’t  understand.”  the  gunslinger  said  later. They had  kindled  a  perfect  bonfire  in  a  sandy  patch  amid  the  grass,  and  broad  spade-shaped  spirals  of  pale  clean  orange-white  leaped  and  snapped  upward,  snipped  off  in  thin  red  wisps  at their  apex. “You were  afraid. What made  you  come?” The boy  was  staring  into  the  fire  as  he  chewed  on  stewed  rabbit-meat  dressed  with  chives  and  willow-bark. Pine-needle and  willow-bark  tea  was  boiling  now,  seasoned  with  edible  greens:  they  would  need  as  many  greens  as they  could,  or  else  sores  would  form  in  their  mouths  and  their  teeth  loosen. His eyebrows  had  a  puzzled  knot  between  them,  replacing  the  terrifying  serenity  of  before;  he  seemed  human  once  again. “I was.”  James  said,  in  a  very  slow  way,  as  if  groping  each  word. “It wasn’t  human. The grove. It wasn’t  clean. And then  you  didn’t  return,  and  I  knew  it  had  eaten  you.” “It nearly had.”  the  gunslinger  muttered. “I was  cold.”  James  said,  thinking  hard. “It’s dim  in  my  head. I don’t  remember. I knew  someone  had  to help  you. There wasn’t  anyone  else. I made  the  Sign  of  the  Cross. I got  up.” “But I  still  don’t  understand.”  said  the  gunslinger. “It was  afraid  of  you. You weren’t  even  touched  by  it. You weren’t—even  human. You made  it  flee.” The boy  touched  the  strange  brown  square  of  cloth  hanging  by  two  strings  around  his  neck. “I wasn’t  alone.”  he said  simply. “I knew  that. It knew  that. It fled.” The gunslinger  shook  his  head. “The sign  against  the  evil  eye  always  works. Why was  the  talisman  useless? And why  did  yours  work?” “This is  not  a  talisman.”  the  boy  said  in  a  voice  of  iron. “It’s a  sacramental. The Church  protects  me.” The gunslinger  let  it  be. He still  didn’t  understand,  but  he  knew  enough  about  the  world  to  suspect  that  he  never  would,  even  should  the  White  itself  take  the  trouble  to  illumine  him. “Why did  you  refuse  the  jawbone,  and  still  use  a  talisman,  then?”  the  boy  said  abruptly. The gunslinger  stared  into  the  fire,  a  great  dawning  shock  coming  over  him. In the  long  days  of  toil  and  the  overwhelming  strength  of  the  grove’s  temptation,  he  had  utterly  forgotten  the  warning  of  the  man  in  black. “I was  stupid.”  was  all  he  said. “You said  that  everything  was  bad.”  the  boy  spoke  up  after  a  long  silence,  during  which  the  gunslinger  took  the  tea  off  the  fire  and  set  it  aside  to  cool. “Why did  you  say  that?” He shrugged. “What defines  bad? What measures  good? Our gut  sense  of  right  and  wrong? Do good  things  or  beings  do  things  that  are  evil,  or  force  others  to? Do evil  things  bring  about  good  results?” “If someone  does  something  evil,”  the  boy  said  with  that  devastating  simplicity, “then  whether  he  is  evil  or  not  depends  on  why  he  did  it,  and  whether  he  repents  of  it. If he  didn’t  know,  or  was  forced,  or  otherwise  rendered  inculpable,  or  if  having  done  it  he  hated  having  done  it,  he  is  not  evil. If he  wanted  to  do  it,  or  didn’t  stop  himself,  or  didn’t  repent  of  it,  then  yes,  he  is  evil.” “I suppose  that  oracle  back  there  is  a  prime  example  of  evil.”  the  gunslinger  ruminated. “Damnation, certainly.”  the  boy  agreed. “That is  one  side  of  the  scale. God is  the  other. We waver  between.” “Never quite  good  or  evil,  hmm?” “Depends on  what  we  do.”  the  boy  shrugged. “A good  man  can  fall,  and  a  bad  man  repent. You’re not  damned  until  you’re  dead.” But the  Tower,  boy,  the  Dark  Tower  at  the  center  of  the  worlds,  what  is  it? Is it  dead? Or is  it  neither? He left  the  question  unvoiced. James wouldn’t  know. The one  who  would  know  was  still  leagues  ahead. But we’re  closer. We’ll catch  him  soon. Within the  week. He wove  the  creeper  vines  he  had  plucked  when  hunting  rabbit,  in  silence,  twisting  them  over  and  over  each  other. Ropes. Lengths of  rope. Whether he  would  need  them  or  not  he  did  not  know. But there  are  tunnels. We will  need  them  in  the  tunnels. The night  was  undisturbed;  even  their  dreams  were  secure. The gunslinger  wandered  all  that  night  in  strange  cities  of  steel  and  squalor,  with  great  metal  carriages  and  hustling,  slamp-faced  people,  and  a  rose  grew  in  a  vacant  lot,  and  he  and  his  new  gunslingers  were  gathered  around  it,  guns  drawn,  fending  off a  shadowy army  of  strange  and  amalgamated  things,  something  called  Sombra  and  low  men  with  breathing  holes  in  their  foreheads…But  he  awoke  with  the  odd  certainty  that  somehow  they  had  secured  the  rose. “Do you  ever  dream?”  he  asked  James  as  they  broke  camp. He had  packed  before  they  turned  in  and  both  were  swallowing  the  remains  of  cold  tea. The rest  of  the  rabbit  meat  they  fastened  in  strips  on  their  packs  to  dry. Some of  the  salt  meat  and  corn  still  remained,  and  bunches  of  chives—onion  grass,  the  gunslinger  called  the  long  fleshy  tubular  blades,  but  James  called  them  chive—and  hemlock  and  pine  needles  for  chewing  or  tea,  tarry  and  bitter  but  edible. “All the  time.”  the  boy  said  brightly. “Do you  ever  wonder  if…your  dreams  are  real?” “Sometimes they  certainly  feel  it,”  James  agreed,  “but  a  dream-memory  dims  far  quicker  than  a  memory  of  real  life.” They had  drunk  their  fill  and  refilled  the  canteens,  and  giving  the  grove  a  wide  berth  picked  their  way  up  through  the  sparser  firs  on  the  outskirts. Soon these  grew  short  and  twisted,  then  dwarfed,  and  then  ceased,  except  for  the  odd  rock  pine  in  a  deeper  hollow  where  rainwater  pooled. Most of  these  were  dead,  some  recent  enough  that   the  bark  had  only  just  begun  to  peel  from  the  knotted  limbs,  and  the  cones  of  seasons  ago  still  clung  grey  and  bleached  to  the  twigs. The grove  soon  lay  below  them,  a  wide  lap  in  the  mountain,  and  a  bright  hole  in  the  center,  where  splintered  rocks  stood  out  of  the  vivid  green  grass  like  black  teeth. They looked  back  over  the  way  that  they  had  come  (east,  roughly,  assuming  the  sun  had  not  wandered  again;  one  could  never  be  sure,  the  world  had  run  down  so  far),  out  over  the  white  flat. Concave, it shimmered  dimly  in  the  sun. Where had  the  coach  way  gone? At some  point  in  the  foothills  the  path  of  the  man  in  black  had  diverged  from it,  long  before  the  oasis,  and  they  followed  no  road  now. James claimed  he  could  make  out  the  waystation,  a  speck  far  out  in  the  waste;  but  the  gunslinger  was  pretty  sure  that  was  a  mound,  the  shadows  were  so  queer  in  the  new-risen  sun. “At least  the  desert’s  behind  us.”  said  James. “We’re still  in  it,  boy.”  the  gunslinger  said  dryly. He lifted  his  hand  as  a  faint  booming  sound  reached  their  ears. “Hear that? Thunder. All the  rain  falls  on  the  far  side. The mountains  wring  the  clouds  dry  long  before  they  reach  us.” The shale  was  gone,  like  a  blanket  tossed  off  in  the  morning. The rock  underneath  them  was  granite  now,  shelved  and  shattered,  as  if  the  buckling  power  that  forced  it  up  into  these  fantastic  masses  had  been  far  too  much  for  the  stubborn  granite  to  bend  and  fold,  and  it  broke  instead. It was  a  dark,  speckled  browny-purple,  but  sometimes  an  ancient  sombre  red. “Like dried  blood.”  said  James. “Dried blood  is  more  rusty  brown.”  the  gunslinger  answered. “A stain,  that  is. Congealed is  closer  to  black.” “It just  looks  like  dried  blood.”  said  James  obstinately. It was  a  fancy,  all  right. Like some  wild  tale  a  dweller  might  tell  about  tremendous  titans  so  huge  they  broke mountains  out  of  the  ground  when  they  fell,  and  whose  blood  turned  to  stone  as  it  poured  down. Purple blood. Brown blood. One wouldn’t  expect  a  giant  to  have  human  crimson  in  his  veins. All day  they  climbed  up  the  strange,  shadeless  country  of  tattered  stone. It had  a  wild,  life-bereaved  beauty,  all  shades  of  one  color—brown  and  red  and  purple—but  no  green,  no  blue. The glaring  sun  ate  the  blue  around  it  and  made  the  very  sky  white. Quartz and  mica  sparkled  like  sudden  exposures  of  half-entombed  gems;  and  some  quartzes,  he  knew,  like  aquamarine  and  amethyst,  actually  were  gems,  and  worn  as  such  by  court  ladies  in  Gilead. Despite the  fierce  sun  the  air  was  less  destructively  hot,  though  no  less  dry. It was  relieving. But it  meant  the  desert  night  would  be  colder  than  ever. They chose  a  jutting  overhang  of  rock  for  camp,  so  high  now  that  hills  and  oasis  below  were  gone,  and  the  desert  shut  out  by  towering  summits  on  every  side. Once or  twice  they  had  seen  the  man  in  black,  an  ant  moving  as  slowly  as  a  snail  far  above  them,  leading  them  on:  for  he  left  little  trail  otherwise  upon  the  stones. The rock  was  old-purple  in  the  harsh  dying  day,  and  the  shadows  thrown  by  rock  and  crag,  before  the  sun  stalked  sullenly  down  behind  the  ridge,  were many  shades  of  sad  purple  as  well. A haze  turned  the  sun  a  smouldering  red  as  he  sank:  clouds. The gunslinger  hunched  his  vest  higher  on  his  shoulders. He had  lost  his  jacket  during  the  battle  of  Tull,  left  behind  with  other  unessentials  when  he  was  shooting,  and  in  the  hurry  of  his  mind  he  hadn’t  thought  to  look  for  it  until  the  sullen  village  was  far  behind. Till  now  the  blanket  had  always  been  enough  at  night,  though  his  shoulders  grew  cold  in  the  plaid  shirt,  but  in  the  mountains  it  would  be  bitter. He anchored his  blanket  in  several  jagged  rips  in  the  underside  of  the  rock,  securing  it  by  the  tattering  holes  appearing  in  the  edges. When he  weighed  the  lower  sides  with  rocks  and  hammered  small  wedges  in  the  cracks  to  hold  the  blanket,  they  had  a  rude  tent,  enough  to  keep  out  the  searching  wind. The other  blanket  would  have  to  cover  them  both. “Do you  ever  wonder  why  you  were  brought  here?”  the  gunslinger  said  abruptly. “A lot.”  the  boy  answered. “There has  to  be  a  reason. I’ll find  the  reason  soon  enough.”  He  thought. “I can’t  see  my  parents  anymore. I forgot  what  they  look  like.” “You have  not  forgotten  their  faces,  nonetheless.” He half-smiled. “I am  true  to  them,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.” “It was.” “The man  in  black.”  the  boy  said  abruptly. “He brought  me  here. Didn’t he. He wants  me  to  be  with  you.” The gunslinger  replied  with  silence. He liked  it  less  and  less,  the  whole  thing. A heaviness,  not  only  of  foredoom  but  of  having  to  redo  a  long  dull  task,  was  weighing  on  him. He knew  the  boy  had  been  taken  by  the  man  in  black. And, he  was  beginning  to  suspect,  buried  inside  him  where  he  could  not  reach,  he  knew  from  whence. But his  name  was  not  Jake. It was  James. And things  did  not  seem  to  be  completely  repeating. He was  almost  positive  he  had  faced  that  oracle  before. It had  said  as  much. And that  time  had  ended  differently. They sat  in  silence  and  gazed  at  the  blue  splendor  of  the  deepening  night. The incredible  blue  was  so  deep  it  seemed  part green,  the  ragged  lips  of  crags  black  and  jutting  against  it. Stars opened  slowly,  as  if  swimming  labouriously   into  view. When they  turned  in  they  slept  back  against  back,  the  blanket  tucked  around  them. The air  grew  cold  even  inside  the  tent,  and  they  woke  frequently. The following  day  the  rocks  were  steeper  and  more  difficult. A pass  was  becoming  visible  high  above  them:  a  goat’s  pass,  a  deep  V  between  two  old  peaks,  no  path  leading  up,  not  even  a  track  of  the  Great  Ones. The air  was  thinner  in  their  lungs. James said  little,  his  face  glazed  and  slack   as  his  thought  and  energy  focused  entirely  on  what  lay  ahead  and  how  to  surmount  it. The gunslinger  called  halts  more  often  than  James  would  have  admitted  to  needing,  and  he  would  crouch,  with  the  froglike  unconscious  flexibility  of  boys,  upon  some  jutting  surface  and  stare  out  on  the  world  below,  his  mind  resting  no  less  than  his  body. “We’ll reach  the  first  snow  tomorrow.”  the  gunslinger  said. “How do  you  know?”  the  boy  said  directly,  glancing  up  at  the  peaks. Snow was  not  visible  until  a  considerable  height  above  the  notch. “A flash,  I  suppose.”  the  gunslinger  sighed. “Anything come  through  to  you?” “Forests.” the  boy  said,  looking  blearily  at  the  world. “There’s a  swamp…with  a  river  in  it,  and  tall  spidery  ash  trees,  roots  rising  from  bare  sticky  ground. Clay, must  be,  it’s  so  thick  and  gooky  to  your  boots,  and  the  reddish-brown  mud  gets  on  your  pants,  I  don’t  know  how. Thick sprawling  bushes  with  really  tangled  grey-red  twigs  always  trying  to  root,  form  impenetrable  thickets. We broke  paths  through  them. We always  took  walking  sticks  in  case  of  mire. Some of  the  trees  had  fallen  over,  and  lying  on  the wet  ground  put  out  root,  limbs  growing  straight  up  like  young  trees. One-tree-forests, we  called  them. I had  an  old  jacket  of  olive-green. It came  to  my  waist. It blended  with  anything. We only  went  there  in  winter.” “Anything more?”  The  gunslinger’s  voice  was  low  and  soft. “My brother. He was  my  brother.”  Even  in  the  darkness  the  starlight  reflected  off  the  tears  in  his  large  eyes. He abruptly  huddled  together,  as  if  suddenly  conscious  of  the  huge  empty  mountains,  endless  wilderness  for  leagues  upon  leagues  of  cold  stone  and  cold  sand  and  cold  dry  wind. “We should  turn  in.”  the  gunslinger  said. James unfolded  himself  and  went  off  to  “use  the  bathroom”  around  the  corner. “I wish  I  had  a  toothbrush.”  he  said  as  he  came  back. The gunslinger  had  had  a  bone-handled  one  of  pig  bristles,  but  it  had  long  since  broken  down,  and  one  seldom  ran  across  bristles  out  here  in  the  desert. It had  been  among  the  things  left  behind  in  Tull. “Rub them  with  a  rag.”  he  said. “I do,  but  my  gums  feel  all  gross.” “At least  with  this  diet  you’ll  not  get  cavities.” “Yuck. Do you  know  what  I’m  craving  right  now? Peanut butter  and  jelly. In a  rye  sandwich.” “I’m partial  to  a  real  haunch  of  good  venison,  prepared  by  someone  other  than  myself,  and  stewed  in  special  sauce.” “I’d eat  all  the  peanuts  out  of  the  butter,”  James  said  as  to  himself,  while  the  gunslinger  weighted  the  blanket  on  top  of  a  shelf  of  rock  and  below,  leaving  an  inclined  space  beneath  for  the  tent,  “the  strong  nutty  flavor  of  peanut  spread,  and  goobs  of  grape  jelly,  in  a  lump,  right  at  the  middle  of  the  sandwich. Grape is  so  sweet. I’d peel  off  the  crusts  first,  tangy  brown  strips  and  slightly  chewy,  thin  slices  of  rye. Sometimes we  can’t  get  it,  though,  and  have  to  eat  sawdust. Cheap white  bread,  I  mean.” He fell  silent  as  they  crawled  in  and  tucked  the  other  blanket  around  them,  though  the  gunslinger  felt  him  make  the  cross as  he  always  did  before  his  night  prayers. Once or  twice  the  gunslinger  had  heard  him  whisper  them,  but  usually  he  said  them  silently. It was  bitter,  even  heartrending. To hear  a  child  praying  with  such  confidence  to  a  God  who  could  not  possibly  exist,  not  with  a  cosmos  as  messy  as  this— (But the  Tower  exists,  oh  yes  the  Tower  exists,  no  doubt  of  that) Somehow, the  gunslinger  felt,  if  God  did  not  exist,  the  universe  would  wring  a  God  into  existence  to  hear  such  child’s  prayers. That such  simple  faith  should  not  compel  some  response  was  unthinkable—even  if  the  gods  hated  men,  they  could  not  help but  be  touched. But the  Dark  Tower  stood,  immovable,  unthinking,  mindless  and  inexorable:  could  even  the  gods  change  its’  decrees? So he  fell  asleep,  troubled  by  strange  thoughts  and  strange  shadows  of  lost  memory,  and  the  cold  air  sucked  and  nibbled  at  the  edges  between  the  stones  and  seeped  through  both  blankets  and  into  their  very  bones. They slept  uneasily,  waking  and  dropping  back  into  an  exhausted  doze. “There will  be  fog  today.”  the  gunslinger  said  when  they  rose. The boy  blinked  around  at  the  dim  rocks  and  the  paling  outer  surfaces,  reflecting  the  whiteness  in  the  east. The gunslinger  glanced  around  to  catch  Old  Star  before  he  faded,  and  measured  it  up  in  line  with  landmarks:  the  stars  wandered  less  than  the  sun,  he  knew  not  why  or  how. Above the  dome  of  heaven  swiftly  changed  to  a  dry  soft  blue,  and  over  the  pale  crests  that  stood  out  against  it,  a  dull  dark  blue  with  the  last  stars  still  glaring  down. “It looks  clear.”  James  said. But fog  came  last  time. “We’re at  cloud  level.”  was  all  he  said. The sun  was  lifting  a  sullen  red  limb  over  the  horizon  by  the  time  they  broke  camp,  and  the  outermost  rocks  were  a  dull  reddish-grey,  bright  against  their  surroundings. The desert  far  below  was  still  dark  grey. The gunslinger  glanced  from  the  landmarks  to  the  sun:  sure  enough,  it  was  rising  in  the  south-east  today. Cloud swirled  around  the  mountain,  sure  enough,  eddying  through  the  gyhlls  and  clinging  by  a  thousand  soft  hands  to  every  ledge. The slopes  below  them  were  absorbed  in  soft  white  and  the  cool  harshness of  the  sun—which  here  had  barely  any  warmth  at  all—was  deadened. Deep in  the  shaded  pockets,  as  the  gunslinger  had  intuited,  they  began  to  encounter  ancient  drifts  of  granulated  snow,  dry  as  sand. Some were  insulated  by  a  deposit  of  melted  dirt  from  deeper  snows,  lying  like  evil  sugar  across  the  surfaces. In one  of  these,  he  knew,  would  be  the  footprint  of  the  man  in  black,  and  James  would  look  up  fearfully,  as  if  he  could  be  called  from  his  own  print. He found  it  right  where  he  expected,  beside  a  cracked  nugget  of  ancient  milky  quartz  like  the  skull  of  some  stone-giant. James gazed  at  it  solemnly  but  did  not  start. “It’s his.”  the  boy  said  tranquilly. “Same size.” “How do  you  know?” “Saw his  print. In the  swamp,  when  I  was  getting  over  to  you. He wears  boots,  and  they  have  no  treads. No patterns. Bigger than  yours,  I  think. He must  be  a  tall  man.” “You could  learn  trail  pretty fast.” The boy  gave  a  half-shrug. “Just the  obvious. I couldn’t  possibly  learn  that  bent-grass  scraped-twig  stuff  you  likely  know.” “It takes  practice,  that’s  all. And a  good  eye,  of  course.” The notch  was  growing  clearer  now,  dividing  one  set  of  tattered  slopes  from  another,  like  a  great  dent  kicked  into  the  mountains. Tomorrow it  would  begin  to  lean  inward,  not  rising  as  fast  as  the  slopes  around  it,  until  the  pass  was  about  them. The footprint  was  a  day  old. No older. “You should  play  some.”  the  gunslinger  said  when  they  stopped  for  noon  meal. Unable to  stew  anything  with  no  fuel,  they  left  the  corn  and  chewed  on  dried  rabbit  meat  and  salt  meat  and  greens:  these  they  ate  the  last  of,  save  for  the  pine  needles. “Too stiff.”  James  said. “My fingers  are  too  cold. I can’t  even  think  about  taking  them  out  of  my  pockets.” The gunslinger  looked  at  the  boy  with  concern. They had  rigged  up  the  second  blanket  like  a  cloak,  the  canteen  and  case  slung  over  his  back  while  the  rest  was  stuffed  in  the  gunslinger’s  pack,  and  tied  close  with  the  wound  ropes. It still  left  a  gap  on  his  chest  for  his  arms  to  emerge  from. Without  words  the  gunslinger  shrugged  off  his  supple leather  vest  and  made  the  boy  put  it  on,  then  redid  the  cloak. He tied  the  bandanna  scarf-like  around  James’s  neck  to  hold  the  hood  in  place:  the  cardboard  strip  had  ripped  and  been  left  behind  yesterday. It was  colder  without  his  vest,  in  his  thin  flannel;  but  he  wrapped  the  other  blanket  cloaklike  around  himself  as  well  and  clumsily  slung  the  pack  down  his  shoulder  blades  over  it  by  a  rope  sling  looped  through  the  straps. It was  still  cold,  even  so. The pass  would  be  murder. Gone was  the  heat. The air  was  cold  even  in  day,  and  at  night,  plunging  below  frost. The gunslinger  chose  the  deepest  recesses  he  could  find  to  camp  in,  and  they  slept  huddled  one  against  another,  not  bothering  with  tents,  both  blankets  tucked  tightly  around  them  and  over  their  heads. And still  they  were  cold  and  stiff  as  living  corpses  long  before  the  night  was  over. Both had  to  get  up,  blankets  wrapped  around  them,  and  stamp  and  exercise,  though  they  ached  with  weariness,  until  some  life  returned  and  they  could  lie  down  again. At last  the  dreadful  paleness  rose  bleakly  around  them,  the  fog  receding  now  as  they   reached  higher  levels. They had  camped  in  the  floor  of  the  pass. Above them  silver  wisps  sighed  and  ebbed  for  a  few  hundred  feet,  thinner  and  thinner;  below  it  lay  like  a  disturbed  and  fluffed-up  sea  of  corpse-white. The gunslinger  rubbed  James’s  arms  and  shoulders  and  they  stamped  and  moved  around,  thrashing  their  arms  though  they  only  wanted  to  lie  down  and  rest  forever. “How much  more  of  this?”  James’s  jaw  was  vibrating  with  the  cold. The air  hung  lifeless  and  clammy  with  the  cloud;  but  from  the  thickness  of  the  hoar  the  gunslinger  was  pretty  sure  it  had  dipped  right  below  the  twenties  in  the  night. “The pass  can’t  last  forever.”  he said. How long  had  it  been,  that  other  time,  and  how  on  earth  had  he  and  the  other  boy  survived  that  time? Had the  season  been  different? Was it  approaching  autumn  now,  and  so  colder? He didn’t  know. Seasons mattered  little  in  the  high  airs. Still, even  one  more  day  of  this  might  well  ruin  the  boy’s  health. They fastened  their  wrappings  and  stumbled  on. The gunslinger  knew  he  could  endure  it,  or  come  out  at  least  with  no more  than  an  ugly  cold,  but  the  boy…He  refused  to  think  about  it,  setting  his  jaw  and  moving  on  into  the  pass. They had  not  gone  far  before  they  came  on  the  rockslide. It was  very  old,  for  the  broken  rocks  were  already  crusted  with  weather  and  many  snows,  and  the  two  skeletons  partially  pinned  beneath  the  debris  were  equally  old,  broken  and  gnawed  by  bears  and  wolves  and  long  since  bleached  a  pale  grey. But the  incongruous  thing  about  them  was  that  both  were  wearing  coats. Working hard  they  unearthed  the  two  corpses,  pulling  the  bones  out  and  examining  them. There were  no  whispers  from  their  jawbones,  and  looking  the  gunslinger  saw  why:  both  skulls  had had  the  jawbones  long  since  plucked  off  and  taken  away. By other  travelers,  perhaps. The coats  were  unweathered,  but  very  old  and  worn:  dull  brown  leather,  the  hue  of  earth  and  rock,  they  seemed  to  meld  with  the  greyness  around  them. They had  high  padded  collars  and  hoods  fastened  on  by  brass  buckles  instead  of  buttons,  and  the  insides  were  quilted  and  thick. They buttoned  down  the  middle  by  brass  knobs,  each  knob  stamped  with  a  curious  symbol. The gunslinger  with  some  effort—for  his  fingers  were  numb—fished  out  and  unfolded  the  paper. The second  sigul  from  the  left. It was  the  same  as  on  the  buttons. “Do you  think  he  knew  these  coats  were  up  here?”  the  boy  said. “Or put  here by  him.”  the  gunslinger  answered. “They bear  little  trace  of  soaking;  they  are not  even  stiff. Still, it  is  possible  he  treated  them  on  finding  them  here,  for  I  did  not  anticipate  these  skeletons  as  I  did  that  footprint.” The coats  were  good,  and  that  day  they  felt  human  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  while. Yet still  the  dead  coldness  of  the  air  ate  at  ears  and  fingers,  and  especially  toes;  and  in  their  jeans  their  legs  were  cold  too,  without  long  johns. But at  least  now  they  had  a  chance  of  surviving. The pass  lasted  for  a  week,  wandering  up  and  down  along  a  ragged  rift  between  huge  and  sneering  masses  of  snow-encrusted  stone  that  seemed  to  climb  above  the  very  airs themselves. They were  breathtakingly  beautiful  in  their  austere  glory,  but  it  was  an  inhuman  beauty,  a  beauty  of  cold  and  bareness,  white  and  faintest  blue  and  many  hues  of  silver-grey,  the  rocks  of  the  pass  a  darker  grey. Just when  they  felt  that  they  could  bear  the  constant  cold  no  longer—the  stark,  half-dead  days,  the  faint  cold  sun,  the  horrible  dying  of  light  and  life  at  evening  and  the  long  death  of  the  night-watches  when  they  often had  to  rise and  move  around  or  freeze—the  land  began  to  go  down. An angular  way,  the  last  ruins  of  a  path  of  long  ago  that  either  had  entered  from  an  angle  they  had  not  approached  from,  or  been  long  ago  swept  away  in  sudden  avalanche,  switchbacked  down  the  steep  floor  of  a  mighty  canyon. At the  bottom,  wonderful  sight,  thundered  a  real  stream  of  flowing  water. In the  cold  one  seldom  thirsts,  and  there  were  still  a  few  sips  in  the  canteens. But the  sight  of  so  much  real  water  pouring  with  insane  abandon  and  extravagant  waste  through  the  wild  rockiness  of  the  gorge  made  both  their  hearts  lift,  and  they  stood  for  a  while,  gazing  at  it  in  sudden  delight. Ice rimmed  it. The water,  when  they  reached  it,  was  incredibly  cold,  but  cleaner  even  than  the  pumped  water  at  the  waystation,  tasting  like  ice  and  rock  and  frozen  earth. The gunslinger  filled  the  canteens  carefully,  trying  not  to  immerse  his  fingers,  and  dried  them  off  on  the  lower  corners  of  the  blanket. They looked  up  the  gorge. The snow  stayed  on  the  great  ledges  and  towering  cliffs  above  them,  and  the  canyon  was  bare  stone,  faint  reds  and  dull  greens  showing  the  clinging  alpine  plants  that  lived  apparently  on  melted  snow  and  rock. “Does the  stream  go  down?”  James  said,  looking  downstream. Rocky gates  made  corners  that  closed  off  the  view. “And can  we  find  a  way?” “We go  the  way  of  the  man  in  black.”  said  the  gunslinger. “Do you  have  any  sign  of  him?” “Upstream.” said  the  gunslinger. “He went  upstream.” And upstream  there  would  be  a  last  towering  cliff,  and  a  box  canyon,  and  a  way  into  the  mountain,  and  there  would  stand  the  man  in  black  at  the  head  of  the  falls, his  laughter  shouting  louder  than  the  bullets… “And the  tunnel.”  James  said  in  a  low  voice. “That’s where  the  tunnels  begin.” “Is that  so?” “That’s what  you  were  thinking,  isn’t  it? Because we  haven’t  found  any  tunnels  yet.” And in  the  tunnels  he  had  left  him… He shivered. Had the  boy  felt  his  thoughts? Such only  occurred  between  members  of  a  tet,  bound  by  ka,  who  could  read  and  send  thought  to  each….was  then  the  boy,  despite  his  efforts,  being  bound  to  him  as  tet  by  the  inexorable  fates? The boy  was  beginning  to  shiver  again. He looked  like  some  pathetic  breed  of  mountain  dwarf,  hunchbacked  and  forlorn  with  canteen  and  violin and  lantern  making  a  lump  under  the  cloak-like  blanket. The gunslinger  adjusted  his  own  cloak  and  pulled  his  coat  tighter—it  buttoned  so  as  to  hug  the  waist—and  felt  still  cold. He hoped  neither  of  them  would  catch  ill  from  the  hardships. They followed  the  stream  upriver. The water  was  a  pure  greeny-blue-white,  foaming  where  it  roared  over  rocks  or  down  small  drops. Great stones,  pulled  down  from  the  heights,  stuck  up  pale   and  water-scoured  from  the  stream. The gorge  narrowed  and  bent  abruptly  as  they  followed  it,  and  footing  became  harder  in  the  rocky  walls. The great  frowning  ridge  became  visible  as  they  proceeded,  its’  tottering  snow-cliffs  like  white  tossing  waves  against  the  pale  blue  sky,  then  changing  abruptly  as  they  fell  to  bare  brown-grey  stone,  until  the  gorge-crags  hid  its’  base. They would  lose  it  behind  a  towering  mass  of  chopped  cloven  stone,  and  then  they  would  see  it  again,  a  wall  shutting  the  way. “Is that  the  last  mountain?”  said  James. “I think  so.”  said  the  gunslinger. “No peaks  seem  to  overtop it.” The sun  was  concealed  in  the  deep  cleft,  resting  lonely  and  white  upon  the  highest  crags  and  peaks;  all  beneath  was  pale  blue  and  soft  grey,  till  the  red  and  dull  brown  stones  emerged  from  the  snow. Ahead the  gorge  turned  a  sharp  elbow  around  a  gigantic  tooth  of  eroded  sandstone (but what  was  sandstone  doing  out  here in  the  granite  peaks?  Were  some  of  them  sedimentary  rock?  Gods,  that  made  one  think) and then  there  it  was,  as  he  had  known  it  would  be,  the  last  rising  wall,  the  cliffs  around,  the  box,  the  thunder  of  the  falls  as  it  rushed  out  of  a  mighty  hole  in  the  ancient  stone,  and  at  the  bottom,  scrambling  with  terrible  ease  up  a  shattered  stair  of  water-broken  stones  on  the  left  of  the  falls,  a  great  black  figure  in  flowing  robes  and  mantle. “Halt!” the  gunslinger  thundered  in  the  High  Speech  of  long  ago. There was  less  than  a  hundred  yards  between  him  and  the  mouth. “By the  blade  of  the  edge  of  the  weapons  of  my  father,  you  will  take  one  further  step with  my  bullets  resting  in  you! Halt and  go  no  further! You are  captured! I command  you!” The flowing  figure  flowed  on  up  the  rocks  unheeding. Before he  knew  what  he  was  doing  both  his  guns  were  in  his  hands,  bullets  roaring  from  his  barrels  as  fast  as  drawn  lightning. He broke  into  a  run,  hoping  James  would  have  enough  sense  to  stay  behind. The gunslinger  covered  the  distance  between  him  and  the  rocks  at  record  speed,  despite  pack and  cloak. The man  in  black  turned  at  the  edge  of  the  hole. With horror  the  gunslinger  saw  the  rocks,  dislodged  by  his  passage,  moving  and  sliding,  and  as  he  scrambled  backwards  the  broken  stair  collapsed  into  the  deep  pool  below  the  falls,  and  between  him  and  the  man  in  black  was  a  high  broken  wall. “Yield thee.”  the  gunslinger  rasped,  training  his  guns. One shot  remained  in  each. “Thou art  cornered. Yield thee,  and  yield  answers!” The man  in  black  made  no  sound  in  answer. His great  hooded  mantle  ebbed  and  billowed  in  the  cold  wind  issuing  from  the  earth  behind  him,  and  the  ankle-length  robes  flapped  around  great  sturdy  boots  of  soft  leather. Boots that  had  no  treads. A long  staff  was  in  one  hand,  startlingly  white  against  his  robes. The shadow  of  his  hood  and  the  shadow  of  the  cave  cast  his  face  into  darkness,  except  for  a  strong  chin  dark  with  stubble. There was  a  feel  of  vast,  untouched  power  about  him,  cool  and  unmoved  as  the  very  mountains  overhead. Slowly he  opened  one  hand. Against the  brown-skinned  palm  rested  ten  bullets. They fell,  tinkling  like  hail,  on  the  rocks  at  the  gunslinger’s  feet. “I am  not  captured  by  guns.”  his  voice  spoke,  and  flat  and  low  though  it  was  it  sliced  through  the  water-roar  as if  the  falls  had  gone  dead. Then, his  great  mantle  rising  behind  him  like  wings,  the  man  in  black  turned  and  strode  into  the  darkness.

“James,” the  gunslinger  called. There was  only  silence. The gunslinger  turned  around  and  saw  the  boy,  staring  at  him,  eyes  detached  and  blank  in  that  long  serious  face. A cool  suspended  regard  lay  in  them. “James.” he  repeated. “We must  go. I need  the  lantern. And the  rope.” “Climb up  yourself.”  the  boy’s  voice  said  distantly. “What’s wrong  with  you? Come on! We’re almost  upon  him!” “This is  where  he  died,  isn’t  it.”  said  James,  still  in  that  small,  impersonal  voice. “The other  one. The Jake. You killed him,  didn’t  you.” A trap,  as  a  trap  to  be  sprung  when  victory  was  closest…a  push…a  fall,  as  metal  parted  with  cold  metallic  squeals…Go  then,  there  are  other  worlds  than  these. “I did  not.”  His  voice  came  out  strangled. “You let  him  die…and  you’re  going  to  kill  me  too,  aren’t  you.” Come with  me  or  stay…the  price  of  evil  comes  always  due  in  flesh…worlds  trembled  within  reach  of  his  fingers,  if  only  sacrifice  was  made…sacrifice…sacrifice…we  will  hold  palaver,  just  the  two  of  us. “I won’t  hurt  you. I would  never  hurt  you.” “Climb up  yourself.”  the  boy  repeated. “It’s only  twenty  feet. I’ll be  safer  here  in  the  mountains  than  between  you  and  Black. I’ll follow the  stream. There might  be  fish. Somewhere people  still  dwell.” The gunslinger  looked  at  the  sheer  scarp. He surveyed  the  rocks  to  either  side. Tiny handholds,  bad  grips—he  would  never  make  it. The other  side  was  out  of  the  question:  no  ford  had  he  noticed,  and  the  ravine  wall  rose  sheer  from  the  pool,  and  the  falls  would  smash  him  off  in  a  flash  were  he  to  try  climbing  them. “I know  that  you  are  stronger,  and  there  is  one  bullet  in  each  gun,”  the  boy  said  with  detached  candour. “I know  you  can  easily  take  from  me  the  things  you  need…gunslinger.”  The  last  word  was  uttered  with  unfathomable  contempt. Still the  gunslinger  made  no  move. A vast  and  almost  magnetic  balance  seemed  to  stand  between  them,  like  waves  of  invisible  power  pushing  against  him. He held  the  gunslinger  chained,  as  Jake  had  never  done. That same  dim  tremendous  force  the  gunslinger  had  felt  that  his  simple  faith  wielded  against  the  universe  to  force  out  a  response,  was  now  turned  against  him,  for  he  knew,  and  the  boy  knew,  and  each  knew  the  other  knew,  that  he  could  do  nothing  against  the  boy  without  utterly  forsaking  the  face  of  his  father  and  any  claim  upon  the  White. It was  a  showdown,  like  ten  hundred  showdowns  he  had  gone  through  in  ten  hundred  bars  and  dusty  corrals  across  the  many  empty  years:  but  this  time  he  was  on  the  wrong  end  of  it. “You will  swear  to  me.”  James  said  at  last. “You will  swear  by  the  guns  of  your  father  and  the  blood  of  your  mother. You will  swear  by  the  Beams  of  the  Tower  itself. You will  swear  by  the  way  to  the  top  of  the  Tower  that  you  will  do  me  no  harm  and  bring  me  out  safely  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain;  nor  will  you  stand  back  and  allow  me  to  die.” “And you  will  come?” “And I  will  come.” “Then I  swear,”  said  the  gunslinger,  a  huge  and  bitter  hopelessness  washing  over  him. The Tower  had  already  made  him  murderer;  now  it  seemed  likely  to  make  him  oathbreaker  as  well. “I swear  by  the  blood  I  have  spilled  and  the  bones  of  my  parents. I swear  by  the  Beams  and  the  Tower  itself  that  I  will  neither  cause  nor  allow  to  be  caused,  any  harm  to  your  person  or  your  life.” “If you  break  this  oath,  may  you  never  find  the  Tower.”  said  James  in  a  cold  voice. He came  forward,  unwinding  the  rope  that  held  his  cloak  fastened  outside  his  coat. They tossed  it  up. The gunslinger  helped  him  doff  his  burdens  and  hoisted  him  up,  till  James  stood  on  his  shoulders. Then there  was  a  scrabbling  above  him  and  the  weight  on  his  shoulders  was  gone. He looked  up. The kid  was  clinging  to  the  rock  face  like  a  burr,  using  handholds  the  gunslinger’s  larger  fingers  never  could. He boosted  the  boy’s  sneakers  from  below  until  James  was  outside  his  reach. With one  last  gasping  effort  he  grabbed  the  lip  of  the  brink. There he  hung  for  a  few  seconds,  until  shoving  the  rock  face  with  his  toes  he  somehow  heaved  and  wormed  his  way  on  top. The gunslinger  could  hear  his  wheezing  gasps. “I’m amazed,”  he  called  up. “How did  you  ever  do  that?” “I climb  trees.”  James  said,  some  of  his  wind  back. The rope  slithered  down. “I’m braced  against  a  big  rock. If you  pull  yourself  up,  I  think  I  can  hold  it.” The gunslinger  fastened  his  pack,  the  case,  the  canteens  and  the  lantern  to  the  end  of  the  rope,  and  made  James  pull  them  up  first. Then he  took  the  rope  and  tested  it  with  his  weight. “You still  good  to  go?”  he  called  up. “Yes, would  you  hurry  up.”  The  boy  sounded  breathless. The gunslinger  mounted  quickly,  hand  over  hand,  until  he  could  grasp  the  rim  and  take  the  weight  off  the  rope. More clumsily,  but  with  greater  strength,  he  heaved  himself  on  top. James was  crouching,  getting  his  breath. They stood  in  a  rounded  tunnel,  the  lower  half  curved  and  scalloped  by  the  slow  churning  of  the  stream into  no  less  than  three  concave  levels,  like  upside  down  waves. The walls  were  old  granite,  a  deep  blue  veined  with  brown,  streaks  of  feldspar  and  quartz  like  pale  lightning  bolts. On their  side  was  a  level  terrace,  too  level  to  be  natural,  some  six  feet  above  the  water,  chunks  of  rock  carried  by  floods  littering  it. He looked  over  the  edge,  where  several  of  the  rocks  still  remained  that  had  not  slid  off  into  the  pool  when  the  man  in  black  cast  them  down  behind  him. Cut stone. Just as  he  had  thought. It had  been  the  last  remains  of  masonry,  a  stair  up  the  falls. “It looks  like  humans  used  this  way  before.”  he  said,  above  the  thunder  of  the  stream. In that  hollow  place  it  echoed  like  a  constant  shout,  hard  and  high. The water  was  a  clear  greeny-black  near  the  entrance,  turning  to  obsidian  further  in,  wavelets  shining  faintly  in  reflected  daylight. Light faded  quickly,  until  a  hundred  yards  within  only  the  larger  stones  showed  pale  as  they  caught  the  last  light. A throat  of  black  stone  breathed  a  constant  damp  wind  in  their  faces:  a  horizontal  pit,  a  black  emptiness. The wax  seals  had,  for  a  marvel,  held. The kerosene  inside  the  lantern’s  well  was  still  there,  and  soon  the  gunslinger  had  struck  one  of  the  matches  he  still  carried  (and  used  only  in  rare  emergancies)  and  lit  the  wick. The old  lantern  shed  a  dull  old-yellow  glow  over  the  black  water  and  the  rock-littered  road. The true  light  faded  like  sunset  from  the  passage  as  they  marched,  reduced  at  last  to  a  tiny  spot,  a  glowing  coin  floating  behind  them,  and  a  small  segment  of  rippling  water;  and  then  even  that  faded  to  a  slit  and  disappeared;  a  kink  in  the  tunnel,  perhaps. Time stretched  and  became  portentuous. In the  slow  march  in  the  near-dark,  the  illuminated  sphere  they  moved  within  encased  in  ancient  voidness  before  and  behind,  hours  stretched  into  days,  measured  only  by  how  hungry  they  were,  or  how  tired. The boy  did  not  speak. In the  lantern-glow  his  eyes  gleamed  dark  and  damp,  like  sunken  jewels. The sand  and  flood-debris  on  the  road  grew  less. Now and  again  curved  stone  pylons  with  ringbolts  nigh  consumed  by  rust  rose  gaunt  from  the  brink  of  the  stream  on  their  right,  and  from  them  projected  old  sconces  like  metal  wickerwork,  electric  fittings  eroded  away  by time  so  as to  be  nearly  unrecognizable  within  them  proclaiming  that  even  farther  back  in  the  past  these  had  been  used  for  a  different  kind  of  torch. They found  the  railroad  soon  enough,  just  when  they  were  ready  to  camp  the  third  time. Whether it  was  night  or  day  they  could  not  tell:  they  walked  till  even  rest  would  not  cure  their  weariness,  they  ate  when  they  felt  the  need  to,  crunching  the  hard  dried  corn  that  never  softened  even  when  soaked  in  water  and  masticating  dried  meat  with  dull  disinterest. Suddenly the  tunnel  widened  and  became  more  obviously  man-made,  a  concave  hollow,  and  beside  the  flat  stone  way,  fastened  to  the  living  rock  with  nails  of  steel,  were  long  steel  bars,  still  bright,  untouched  by  the  rust  that  should  have  devoured  it  ages  ago. Twin rows,  two  parallel  lines,  ending  in  a  curved  metal  buffer  stained  black  and  yellow  in  diagonal  stripes. Overhead hung  more  of  the  queer  metal  fixtures,  different  now,  more  regular:  guides  to  that  which  followed  these. Long sleek  shapes  of  shining  steel  stabbing  the  eternal  night  with  eyes  of  fire… Gone now,  gone  as  always,  but  taking  with  it  a  tantalizing  gleam  of  knowledge. They quenched  the  lantern  and  filled  the  canteens  in  the  stream. The loud  chattering  rush  of  its’  journey  was  so  continuous  they  had  long  since  ceased  to  notice  it. It was  not  deep,  a  slope  of  stone  littered  with  pebbles  and  sand  going  to  it  from  the  road,  the  road  which  followed the  stream  down  to  its’  unknown  end. Was this  the  same  deserted  track  that  had  taken  him  across  the  desert? The gunslinger  doubted  it. Pale gleams  drifted  under  the  stream,  like  faint  lights:  tricks  perhaps  of  his  eyes. “Candles of  corpses,  yes,  yesss.”  James  said  beside  him. He too  had  seen  the  lights. “Do not  put  your  feet  in  the  water.”  he  said  to  the  boy. “Why would  I  want  to  do  that,  my  feet  are  freezing.” They made  ready  to  sleep,  one  against  another,  for  even under  the  earth,  though  warmer  than  outside,  it  was  not  warm. And the  sighing  wind  breathed  eternally  down  the  tunnel,  making  sleep  difficult. But the  headwall  of  the  railroad  broke  the  flow  and  they  slept  better  than  usual. “We should  keep  the  lantern  off.”  the  gunslinger  said  when  they  awoke. They had  used  all  the  fuel  in  its’ well  and  were  starting  on  the  first  can;  refilling  the  well  had  half  emptied  it. The last  of  the  corn  and  salted  meat  had  been  eaten  long  ago,  and  they  were  living  off  the  few  remains  of  dried  rabbit  meat  from  the  far-distant  oasis. One more  meal  remained. They drank  water  frequently  now,  just  to  feel  something  inside  them. “Cheese.” James  said  distantly. “I’d like  cheese  more  than  anything  in  the  world.” “Anything? That’s a  large  word.” “Even the  moon  is  made  of  green  cheese.”  the  boy  said,  and  in  the  darkness  the  gunslinger  could  feel  his  smile. So they  followed  the  railroad,  always  in  the  dark. The night  in  front  of  them  seemed  opaque,  as  if  they  were  always  about  to  strike  their  heads  on  a  wall. Their eyes  bulged  with straining  till  they  had  to  close  them  for  extended  periods,  sliding  their  feet  along  one  rail. When they  stopped  to  eat  the  last  of  their  food  the  gunslinger  debated  lighting  the  lantern  to  explore  his  pack,  but  decided  against  using  the  precious  matches. They chewed  the  tasteless  meat  and  tarry,  abominable  last  pine  needles  in  silence,  and  then  drank  till  the  canteens  were  empty. The handcar  should  be  ahead  soon…pumping  slowly,  up  and  down,  the  Slow  Mutants  with  their  dim  eyes  slowly  grasping,  grasping,  grasping… He made  sure  both  guns  were  loaded. After so  long  a  time  with  them,  he  could  reload  by  touch  as  easily  as  if  it  was  light. “What’s this?”  The  boy  had  gone  some  way  off  to  use  the  bathroom;  now  he  came  back,  an  unfamiliar  sound  like  a  stick  striking  the  ground  with  each  step. “I cannot  see  it,  James. What is  it?” “It’s a  staff.”  the  boy  said. “A long  staff. Or a  smooth  rod  of  some  kind.” The gunslinger  struck  a  light  and  lit  the  lantern. In these  tunnels  it  was  best  to  see  what  things  were  before  picking  them  up;  for  all  the  boy  knew  it  could  be  a  rigid  stonesnake,  sound  asleep  in  stiff  rodlike  posture,  only  to  uncurl  and  bite  when  woken. He had  heard  of  stranger  things. But it  was  a  staff,  sure  enough,  lumpy  and  smooth,  made  of  some  white  wood  as  bleached  as  an  old  bone  but  deeply   ribbed  like  oak. The foot  was  so  worn  with  striking  the  ground  it  had  peeled  back  on  itself  like  an  overpounded  stake. The head  was  a  rounded  and  carved  burl  that  had  likely  once  been  the  sapling’s  base,  fashioned  into  an  unrecognisable  but  ornamental  shape. Burned black  in  the  ribbed  worn  wood  was  a  queer  symbol,  like  a  P  encircled  by  a  thick  ring,  the  bottom  open. The gunslinger  unfolded  the  worn  paper:  and  as  he  had  feared,  the  second  sigul  from  the  right-hand  end  of  the  line  of  symbols  matched. “If he’s  going  to  keep  leaving  little  presents  for  us,  maybe  he  should  add  some  grub  to  the  list.”  the  gunslinger  said  sardonically. “Take it.” “No, James. You need  it.” “Take it.” “I already  have  weapons. You are  defenseless. Besides, you  told  me  walking  sticks  were  your  weapon  of  choice  in  the  swamps.”  And  the  gunslinger  shouldered  his  pack  and  walked  on,  leaving  James  to  follow  with  the  staff  drooping  in  his  reluctant  hand. He had  only  gone  a  few  steps when  he  heard  the  violin. The gunslinger  whirled,  almost  dropping  the  pack. James had  not  played  it  since  the  cold  began  to  grip. Wild, despairing, triumphantly  mocking,  the  sound  thrust  the  gunslinger  physically  back. He saw  the  eyes  of  the  boy  burning  in  his  head  as  the  bow  danced  and  whirled  in  his  hands,  whirled  like  the  bullet  in  his  fingers  with  a  life  if  its’  own. “Are you  mad? Do you  even  guess  what  that  might  bring  to  us?”  the  gunslinger  heard  himself  yelling. The music  ceased  abruptly. “Are you  still  hungry?”  James  said,  walking  past  him,  still  snapping  the  fastenings  closed  on  the  case. He paused  to  finish  adjusting  them  in  the  vine-rope  harness  over  his  shoulders,  carrying  lantern  in  one  hand  and  staff  in  the  other. What was  the  boy  talking  about? Of course  he  wasn’t  hungry;  they’d  just eaten. They walked  faster  than  they  had  since  entering  the  mountains,  the  staff  clacking  on  the  stone. Neither wanted  to  put  out  the  light. The river  sounded  still  upon  their  right. No handcar  presented  itself,  which  made  the  gunslinger  somehow  relieved. The tunnel  passed  swifter  than  it  ever  had. Both of  them  felt  a  curious,  unwearying  strength  in  their  legs,  and  each  subconsciously  resolved  to  make  time  while  the  making  was  good. Neither spoke. How far  this strange  energy  brought  them  they  did  not  know,  but  suddenly  the  walls  shot  up,  beyond  the  lantern’s  reach. Colors flashed  and  glowed  outside  the  sphere  of  light,  as  if  reflected  from  jewels. The stream’s  voice  echoed  like  a  great  shout  in  the  new  space. On the  far  side  the  oval-roofed  mouth  of  the  tunnel  swallowed  the  tracks  and  the  road  beside  the  tracks. And there,  sitting  beside  the  rails,  was  a  machine  the  gunslinger  knew  he  had  known  before  but  could  not  find  the  name. The boy  recognized  it;  his  mouth  dropped. “A tractor.”  the  boy  said  unbelievingly. “It’s a  great  blinking  tractor.” The tractor  had  immense  rear  wheels  and  a  long  narrow  hood,  borne  up  on  small  wheels. Some parts  seemed  nearly  rusted  away,  while  others  gleamed  rustless:  how  these  ancient  magicians  had  managed  to  keep  at  bay the  very  nature  of  iron  the  gunslinger  could  not  imagine. “How does  it  run?”  he  asked. “I don’t  know! I don’t  live  on  a  farm!” The gunslinger  examined  it  all  over,  frowning. This was  even  worse  than  a  handcar. Why their  quarry  was  strewing  their way  with  these  inscrutable  presents,  he  did  not  know;  but  he  did  know  that  he  would  find,  somewhere  upon  it,  one  of  the  three  central  symbols  of  the  letter. He found  it,  all  right,  stamped  into  the  rotted  rubber  casing  at  the  middle  of  the  steering  wheel. A button  on  the  column  drew  his  eye. Perhaps it  was  like  the  ON  button  at  the  waystation  pump. The button  went  in. A weird  clicking  whine  came  from  the  ancient  machinery. Then silence. James whirled  the  white  staff  in  his  hands  and  brought  it  down  on  the  hood. The tractor  shuddered  violently. Clicks and growls  echoed  from  far  within  as  the  strange  engine,  unstarted in  hundreds  and  maybe  thousands  of  years,  roared  into  life. Soon a  steady  shaking  purr  echoed  in  the  chamber,  vying  with the  thunder  of  the  falls. Experimenting with  the  foot  pedals  and  the  one  gear  stick,  the  gunslinger  soon  had  it  in  motion. What fuel  powered  it  he  had  no  idea;  probably  an  atomic  slug,  like  all  the  other  running-down  robots  and  decaying  machinery…the  teleporting  door…North  Central  Positrionics… He shook  his  head,  irritated. The Slow  Mutants  had  come  next. The tractor  growled  forward,  picking  up  speed. It’s headlamp  suddenly  cut  in,  flooding  the  darkness  with  a  harsh  blue-white  that  lit  the  way  for  miles. It made  good  speed,  too;  about  half  a  running  horse,  the  gunslinger  guessed. So the  hours  passed,  the  way  curving  slightly,  always  slightly  uphill. The big  wheels  of  the  tractor  bumped  effortlessly  over  rocks. The gunslinger  steered,  his  eyes cold  and  watchful. James, on  the  seat  of  bare  metal  beside  him  where  any  cushioning  had  long  since  rotted  away,  slumbered,  wrapped  in  both  blankets. The quenched  lantern  and  the  white  staff  jangled  between  them. The gunslinger’s  own  eyes  grew  heavy,  and  he  powered  down  the  machine  and  put  it  into  park,  and  as  it  idled,  mumbling  slowly  beneath  its’  hood,  the  gunslinger  slept  too. He wakened,  stiff  but  rested. James was  nearby,  filling  the  canteens. The stream  was  now  a  ways  below  the  road,  a  steep  bank  sloping  down  into  the  water,  and  James  had  anchored  the  rope  and  held  to  it  with  one  hand  while  filling  the  canteen. Now he  wound  it  back  up  and  put  it  in  place. He neither  spoke  nor  smiled. The gunslinger  drank  heavily;  his  belly  was  a  single  closed  fist  crying  for  food. None of  them  had  passed  solid  stool  since  the  oasis. Tucking the  violin  under  his  chin  once  more,  James  began  to  play,  a  sober  march  whose  slow  cadence  went  well  with  the  rhythmic  sound  of  the  engine. The ache  loosened. His stomach  forgot  it  was  hungry  and  his  strength  increased,  and  he  felt  a  great  swell  of  enlightenment  enter  his  mind. It was  the  music. The music  kept  them  going. Cold sweat  broke  out  on  his  brow. I am  not  the  other. I am  not  the  other. No, he  was  not. He was  worse. That day—if  day  it  was—they  at  last  met  the  Slow  Mutants. They saw  them  far  away,  shambling  blindly  around,  hands  trying  to  shield  multiple  eyes  from  the  powerful  glare. Once the  light  passed,  though—there  were  no  taillights. No glare  to  frighten  them. The gunslinger  cleared  his  guns,  one  hand  on  the  wheel. Shambling ghastly  figures,  warted  and  greenish,  the  faint  light  of  slow  decay  arising  from  members  rotting  as  they  walked,  turned  dumb  lumpy  faces  to  the  light  and  watched  motionlessly  from  stream  and  tracks  as  the  tractor  rumbled  by. They were  gathering  now,  he  felt,  shambling  eagerly  after  them  in  the  dark  where  only  the  reflection  of  the  headlamps  gave  some  visibility;  there  he  could  dimly  see  dark masses  of  followers. I’ve got  my  own  religion, the  worship  of  the  headlight,  he  thought,  and  felt  an  insane  urge  to  laugh. They had  piled  stones  in  the  road  again,  just  as  they  had  done  the  last  time. The tractor  slowed, the  small  front  wheels  stumbling,  the  big  rear  ones  plowing  relentlessly  on  and  bouncing  over. James held  the  staff,  ready  for  striking;  there  was  a  cool  readiness  about  him  that  almost  surpassed  the  revulsion  and  fear  he  must  certainly  be  feeling. The monsters  were  pressing  closer  up  ahead;  solid  crowds  of  them,  too  many  to  charge. “Get ready.”  the  gunslinger  said  in  a  dry  voice,  and  gave  the  engine  full  speed. The first  ones  went  down  easily,  sodden  as  sacks  of  river  mud,  squishing  under  the  tires. James looked  sick. But the  others  were  thicker,  and  the  front  wheels  jammed  and  would  not  turn,  and  the  big  rear  ones  still  ground  forwards  and  the  whole  thing  swayed  drunkenly  as  it  slowed. Flabby soft  green  hands  gripped  at  the  engine,  flailed  at  the  passengers. The guns  leaped  in  the  gunslinger’s  hands. The green  trolls  slid  to  the  side,  still  grinning  sadly,  green  blood  bubbling  from  bulletholes;  but  others  followed. The tractor  slowed  still  more. A battle-cry  from  James  made  the  gunslinger  turn  his  head. He was  having  a  tug-of-war  with  a  mutant  that  had  grabbed  one  end  of  the  staff. Wrenching it  free  he  whirled  it  high  and  slammed  it  down. A sudden  gleam  of  white  flashed  within  the  creases  of  the  age-warped  wood. The Slow  Mutant  fell  like  a  stone. “Grab it  in  the  middle,  boy!”  shouted  the  gunslinger  as  the  tractor  churned  onwards. “Use both  ends!” James switched  grip  instantly. He swung  and  hammered  in  energetic  if  ill-trained  quarterstaff  moves,  but  it  seemed  to  be  working. Like lightning  the  gunslinger  reloaded,  his  hands  as  smooth  as  machines,  propping  the  jerking  wheel  with  his  knees. Then the  headlamps  went  out,  plunging  them  in  utter  darkness  full  of  horrid  slobbering  sounds,  the  labored  churning  of  the  engines,  and  the  eternal  boom  of  water. The flashes  from  his  muzzles  were  the  only  light,  besides  the  sickly  green  glow  of  decay  from  the  trolls  themselves. He heard  James  scream,  a  loud  harsh  boy’s  scream,  not  the  high  scream  of  a  woman. He’d have  a  deep  voice  when  he  grew  up,  if  he  lived. Turning the  gunslinger  saw  a  faintly  luminous  hand  grasping  something,  pulling,  pulling  downward:  one  of  them  had  grabbed  James. Let him  fall  while  you  drive,  let  him  fall,  this  is  the  end… He wrenched  the  staff  from  James’s  hands  and  swung  it  aloft. Inside the  white  wood  a  white  light  flashed. He saw  the  hands  gripping  James,  and  the  shadowy  figure  of  the  boy  clinging  to  the  seat. He slammed  the  staff  down  like  the  mother  of  all clubs. The flash  of  white  that  shot  in  a  ring  from  them  outwards  was  not  entirely  unexpected. The gunslinger  saw  the  mutants  fall  back,  dazed  by  the  power  in  the  staff. The hands  flew  up,  as  the  mutant  exploded  like  a  potato  tossed  in  the  fire. “Drive!” the  gunslinger  shouted. “I’ll clear  the  way! Drive!” James scrambled  frantically  into  the  seat. He knew  which  pedal  was  what;  it  had  been  his  suggestions  that  had  helped  the  gunslinger  figure  out  the  driving. Standing on  the  hood  the  gunslinger  whirled  the  gleaming  staff  like  a  pinwheel  of  fire,  and  at  every  blow  a  white  flash  leaped  up,  and  the  mutant  it  hit  fell  down,  dead,  red  and  green  insides  blown  up  from  within. Their speed  increased. The staff  cast  a  very  faint  illumination  as  well  as  the  flashes,  and  James,  yanking  the  wheel  back  and  forth  as  it  tried  to  jerk  from  his  hands  with  bouncing  over  bodies,  was  managing  to  keep  away  from  the  edge. A last ring  of  trolls  remained,  and  the  tractor  rammed  right  through  as  the  gunslinger  vaulted  back  into  the  seat. “I’ll take  over.”  he  said. “Good work. Get that  lantern  lit.” “Don’t have  matches.” The gunslinger  struck  a  light  furiously,  lighting  the  wick,  and  light  leaped  up  just  in  time  to  show  their  wheels  precariously  close  to  the  edge. James got  it  back  on  course  as  the  gunslinger  stood  up,  and  they  traded  seats,  James  wedging  the  lantern  at  the  base  of  the  column. “Are they  gone?”  he  said  tersely. The gunslinger  turned  on  the  speed. Bouncing and  wheezing,  the  ancient  machine  had  a  nasty  repeating  grate  like  two  gears  rubbing. He only  hoped  it  lasted  a  while  longer. “Of course  they  are.”  The  headlamps  began  to  sputter,  a  gleam  here,  now  a  full  moment  of  brightness. They continued  on  up  the  endless  tunnel. The granite  walls  were  visible  in  a  sphere  of  old  yellow,  enlivened  by  spotty  flickers  of  harsh  white. The staff  glowed  no  longer. “The man  in  black  wanted  us  to  get  through.”  said  James. “I fear  his  gifts  even  more  than  his  knowledge.”  the  gunslinger  answered. Sputtering and  grating  ever  more  increasingly,  the  ancient  tractor  followed  the  long  dark  road beside  the  abandoned  railroad. Here and  there  a  spring  splashed  out  of  the  wall,  to  bubble  down  a  rift  in  the  trackbed  and  a  neat  culvert  beneath  the  road. The granite  was  increasingly  blended  with  layers  of  schist,  and  at  these  points  triangular  deltas  of  fallen  material  were  common,  and  dark  gaps  would  yawn  in  the  roof. Three times  the  gunslinger  grew  too  weary  to  drive,  and  then  James  would  take  over. The boy  was  only  good  for  a  few  hours,  it  seemed,  but  that  was  enough  to  let  the  gunslinger  rest. He played  frequently  on  the  mysterious  violin,  always  mournful  tunes  now,  some  ponderous  as  a  dirge,  others  high  and  wailing  with  unfathomable  grief. And the  gunslinger  would  sit  unmoving,  hands  clenched  on  the  wheel,  tears  oozing  painfully  from  his  eyes;  but  when   James  played,  the  music  banished  all  hunger. Sometimes the  gunslinger  drove  slowly  while  James  stretched  his  legs  or  used  the  bathroom;  or  other  times  James  drove  while  the  gunslinger  did  the  same. It felt  good  to  walk, oddly. It was  after  his  third  sleep  from  the  trolls  that  they  began  noticing  the  glimmer  up  ahead. The tractor  was  running  slowly  now,  giving  only  fretful  chugs  if  they  tried  to  increase  speed,  and  the  headlamps  had  given  up  the  last  ghost  long  since. The lantern  was  running  low,  and  that  was  on  the  last  of  the  second  of  the  wax-sealed  tins  of  kerosene. “That can’t  be  day.”  said  James. “It’s not.”  A  wide  place,  and  blackened  boxcars,  and  book  stalls  turning  to  dust,  with  petrified  corpses  still  guarding  the  stations…and  then  the  further  tunnel…and  last  of  all  the  trestle. But it  was  not  either. Whether the  handcar  that  the  gunslinger  remembered  had  taken  a  branching  track  they  missed,  or  whether  he  had  indeed  only  dreamed  that  underground  station  and  the  fossils  of  a  past  war,  the  light  far  ahead  turned out  to  be  only  a  solitary  signal,  one  metal  arm  thrown  up,  two  great  lights  flickering  and  sputtering  in  round  leaden  eyes,  the  top  one  a  watery  pea-yellow-green,  the  bottom  a  rusty  autumn-leaf  red. Two other  railroads  crossed  here  at  an  X,  the  main  track  ending,  a  turntable  frozen  forever  between  the  various  lines  in  the  center,  the  dislocated  segment  of  rails  upon  it  as  jarring  as  a  broken  bone. The stone  road  now  curved  left,  crossing  the  rails  deep-set  into  grooves  in  the  surface,  and  the  roar  of  the  river,  now  far  below  them,  sounded  from  in  front. With a  sickening  certainty  like  death  the  gunslinger  knew  what  they  would  find— (and why  not,  after  all,  had  not the  other  trestle  fallen  already?) --and there  it  was,  as  inevitable  as  doom,  the  white  circle  of  real  day  cut  off  by  the  bends  of  the  tunnel  till  then,  and  in  its’  faint  glow  the  flat  road,  springing  over  the  river  uncounted  yards  beneath  by  a  trestle-bridge  of  steel,  rotted  railings  sticking  up  each  side  like  fishbones,  metal  plates  shining  in  the  daylight. Ten feet  wide,  it  seemed  suspended  by  a  thread. “Are you  sure  he  came  this  way?”  The  quaver  in  the  boy’s  voice  was  unmistakable. “Yes.” “Why do  you  think  so? There were  at  least  three  other  directions.” “Because I  feel  him.”  the  gunslinger  said  simply. “Must we  catch  him  this  way?”  The  boy  sounded  close  to  tears. “Isn’t there  another  way  out?” “I don’t  know.” They got  down  off  the  tractor,  now  running  only  in  shuddering  starts,  and  even  as  they  did  it  gave  a  final  gasp  and  wheeze  and  expired  altogether. Just enough  to  get  us  here,  the  gunslinger  thought,  and  for  a  moment  a  wild  unreasoning  hatred  swelled  in  him,  for  the  dark  man  and  the  Dark  Tower  and  all  the  darkness  they  begot,  and  the  deeds  they  made  men  do…and  all  for  the  good,  the  bloody  good  of  the  Tower… and  for  the  blindness  of  ka,  which  could  not  even  be  cursed  by  prayer  or  importuned,  for  it  was  only  a  force,  a sentient  unthinking  law,  cursed  be  it… The gunslinger  walked  to  the  edge  and  looked  over  the  side. The lantern  showed  sides  of  worn  rock,  steep  as  ladders,  plunging amazingly  far  to  where,  hundreds  of  yards  below,  water  flashed  as  it  shot  over  rapids  and  falls. A graceful  inverted  U  of  brown  steel  beams  held  the  bridge;  whatever  marvelous  thing  had  been  done  to  it  to  defeat  rust  had  long  since  been  conquered. How far  had  the  indomitable  metal  succumbed  to  the  constant  damp? “Must we  cross?”  James’s  voice was  a  croak. The gunslinger  said  no  word. Their rope  had  gone  in  the  battle  with  the  trolls,  or  he  would  have  tied  them  together. As it  was  he  tied  the  blankets’  ends  together  and  bound  one  end  around  his  waist. Too short;  the  other  blanket  would  barely  reach  around  James. He tied  it  to  his  knee  instead,  and  then  to  the  boy’s:  dangerous,  but  it  might  buy  some  time  if  either  fell. They both  took  a  long  drink  and  stepped  out  upon  the  bridge. It was  indeed  bad. At their  careful  steps  they felt  it  sway  faintly,  as  if  it  was  on  ropes. Great plates  of  joined  steel  formed  the  road  surface;  once  riveted  so  close  not  the  faintest  joint  could  show,  their  seams  now  gaped  an  inch  and  more  apart. In places  they  gave  very  slightly  to  the  foot:  they  had  rusted  thin  from  underneath. The crossing  seemed  interminable. The only  good  thing  about  it  was  that  the  speck  of  day  grew  swiftly  larger:  they  were  close  to  the  outside. And moving  against  the  white  was  something  else:  the   man  in  black,  moving  slowly. Waiting for  them  to  catch  up. So that  when  we  are  almost  on him,  as  it  sags,  he  turns  to  me  and  tells  me… They were  nearing  the  far  end. The trestle  wavered  like  a  bridge  of  string. Far down  below  something  was  groaning. The tunnel  end  was  large,  almost  an  apparent  foot  high,  close  enough  to  make  out  the  details  of  the  walls,  the  black  figure  of  the  one  he  hunted  ever  larger. Ever closer. He seemed  only  just  about  to  step  off  the  trestle’s  far  end. The groaning  grew  worse. The bridge  began  to  sway  and  flex. Out! Out! screamed the  gunslinger’s  mind. I must  not  die  in  the  darkness! Not so  close  to  the  light! They walked  faster,  trying  to  avoid  the  soft  patches  in  the  ancient  steel. Once James’  foot  went  through,  and  he  pulled  it  out,  frantically,  ignoring  the  rip  of  cloth  and  the  blood  that  suddenly  appeared  on  the  rusty  curled  edges. Once the  gunslinger  broke  through,  after  he  had  already  made  the  next  step;  he  caught  himself  on  the  forward  leg  and  pulled  his  boot  out. The leather  showed  several  new  gouges,  fresh  brown  amid  the  dry  cracked  surface. The man  in  black  was  closer  than  he  seemed;  he  still  had  not  stepped  off  the  end  of  the  trestle,  and  the  tunnel  mouth  had now  grown  to  an  apparent  yard,  and  the  white  beyond  was  blue,  the  blue  of  sky. Fifty yards. Fifty yards  from  the  man  in  black. There was  a  terrible  aloof  majesty  in  the  unheeding  pace  of  his  stride,  neither  slower  nor  faster,  inexorable  as  death. The scream  of  splitting  metal  tore  into  the  gunslinger’s  thoughts. A stab  of  raw  panic  sliced  his  gut  as  the  surface  lurched  beneath  him. He heard  a  sharp  short  bark  of  terror;  the  blanket  tensed  and  suddenly  went  limp,  and  James  was  gone,  the  plate  under  him  had  caved  and  he  had  dropped  straight  down… But did  not  fall. As he  fell  he  seized  the  staff  by  the  middle  and  it  caught  across  the  hole,  the  boy’s  hands  nearly  yanked  loose  but  still  clinging. “Help me.”  his  voice  came  faintly  from  beneath. “Pull me  up.” The man  in   black  stepped  off  the  trestle. He was  so  close  now  the  gunslinger  could  see  the  sole  of  his  boot’s  heel  as  it  lifted  with  his  stride,  and  see  the  blank  treadlessness  of  those  inhuman  boots. He did  not  turn  his  head… Come now,  gunslinger,  or  catch  me  never. He did  not  know  if  his  adversary  had  spoken,  or  if  he  was  only  hearing  some  terrible  voice  from  out  of  the  dim  abysses  of  his  forgotten  memory,  his  shattered  past,  a  voice  so  loud  his  mind  was  clouded,  bidding  him— Do I  go? --Help me! Then I  shall  leave  you. And the  trestle  had  ripped  loose  as  he  hung  and  hesitated,  as  the  beams  of  the  bridge  upon  which  he  was  standing  were  doing  now  to  him,  and  he  had  left  the  hanging  boy  to  reel  frantically  on  into  the  light,  to  catch  the  mocking  man  in  black  as  dark  as  his  own  heart— Go then. There are  other  worlds  than  these,  the  Jake  had  said  as  he  fell. With a  cry  of  despair  and  hatred  the  gunslinger  turned  his  back  upon  the  man  in  black,  who  required  a  sacrifice  of  treachery  to  purchase  his  captivity,  and  seized  both  ends  of  the  staff,  even  as  the  bridge  began  to  tilt,  ignoring  the  sharp  pain  of  torn  flesh  on  the  jagged  rust,  and  lifted  up,  above  his  head,  pulling  up  with  it  the  dangling  boy. He heaved  backward  and  both  of  them  were  lying  on  the  bridge,  as  it  furled  slowly  sideways  underneath,  and  the  bridge  was  tearing  its’  last  anchors  loose  as  they  scrambled  vainly  along  the  steepening  floor,  and  then  with  a  last  wild  leap  they  sprawled  painfully  on  hard  real  stone,  unmoving  stone;  and  they  clung  to  each  other,  and  hot  tears  as  bitter  as  death  fell  from  the  gunslinger’s  eyes  onto  the  dear  black  hair,  and  the  shuddering  sobs  of  the  boy  he  had  saved  made  his  stomach  vibrate,  while  the  tremendous  scream  and  crash  of  falling  metal  echoed  from  beneath. “I thought  you’d  leave  me. I thought  you’d  let  me  fall.”  sobbed  the  boy. “I swore.”  the  gunslinger  said  bitterly. “I won’t  let  you  fall. Not again.” “Again?” James  said  doubtfully,  wiping  his  eyes. “So, Roland,  you  have  remembered.” The light  before  them  was  blocked. The man  in  black  no  longer  fled. He stood  before  them,  not  four  feet  away,  his  great  robes  lifting  slowly  in  the  wind  of  the  outside  world. The gunslinger  was  too  exhausted  with  reaction  to  leap  to  his  feet,  but  he  scrambled  on  his  knees,  feeling  for  his  guns. “He was  the  key  and  the  test. Had you  let  him  fall,  you  would  never  have  found  me. I am  captive. You have  captured  me. What would  you  ask?” The gunslinger  was  on  his  feet  now,  coat  and  pants  streaked  anew  with  white  dust  and  rust  stains. The guns  hung  forgotten. “Answers.” “Come then,  Roland  Childe,  son  of  Stephanos,  last  son  of  Gilead  preserved  till  now. Upon the  mountain  we  will  hold  much  palaver.” “What of  the  boy?” “He is  young  and  very  tired. He will  sleep  as  we  hold  council,  and  no  evil  thing  shall  come  nigh  him  nor  disturb  him. And after,  we  will  know  what  will  be  done.” Sure enough,  James  had  curled  up,  there  on  the  hard  stone,  a  peaceful  slumber  holding  his  fine  thin  face. A boy,  and  something  more  than  a  boy. Then Roland  turned  and  followed  the  Man  in  Black  out  of  the  halls  of  testing,  out  under  the  sun  and  the  sky.

The world  on  this  side  of  the  mountains  was  utterly  different. So long  accustomed  to  barren  wastes  and  the  grim  splendor  of  desolation,  the  eyes  of  the  gunslinger  could  scarcely  stop  drinking  the  richness  of  green. The blue-green  of  the  spruces  (shorter  here,  toward  the  timberline),  the  deeper  greens  of  other  spruce  and  pines  of  many  types, smote  his  eyes  like  a  blaze  of  jewelry. Such carpets  of  life  seemed  a  wonder  so  prodigious,  after  the  months  of  desert…and  overhead,  a  sky  of  softest,  brilliant  blue,  and  a  sun  more  gold  than  glaring  white  as  it  sighed  toward  the  edge  of  a  gleaming  level  horizon—the  sea. He had  reached  the  sea. Meads of  lush  vivid  grass  opened  everywhere,  like  emeralds  upon  the  mountain’s  breast. The man  in  black  was  walking  with  his  usual  stately  majesty  up  the  mountain,  indifferent  to  whether  Roland  followed. But of  course  he  did;  the  boy  was  safe,  his  double  oaths  held  good,  and  answers  were  within  his  grasp. They did  not  arrive  in  the  deadly  hollow  of  bones  the  gunslinger  expected. Instead they  mounted,  higher  and  still  higher,  to  where  the  spruce  shrank  down  to  harsh  dwarfs  mossy  with  age  yet  only  a  few  feet  tall,  and  then  ceased,  the  greeny-red  of  the  alpine  plants  climbing  on  up  the  high  slopes. The crown  of  the  ridge  they  had  seen  from  the  gorge  rose  ahead,  but  here  was  a  lower  summit,  a  level  place  fenced  by  a  grove  of  ironwood  trees. What they  were  doing  here,  in  this  tree-destroying  altitude,  he  could  not  guess:  their  trunks  seemed  to  have  turned  to  black  stone,  and  were  very  short,  with  long  limbs  reaching  down  to  the  ground  and  there  twisting  along  like  huge  thick  snakes. Their leaves,  black  and  bitten,  seemed  cut  out  of  metal  themselves. On all  sides  the  ground  fell  away,  a  deep  saddle  sundering  it  from  the  main  height. “Gather wood,  gunslinger.”  The  voice  of  the  man  in  black  was  deep  as  a  tomb. Even facing  the  west  his  face  was  still  concealed;  Roland  had  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  if  the  hood  was  doffed,  the  face  revealed  would  be  beyond  human  entirely. He scrounged  a  number  of  dead  twigs  and  limbs,  and  bringing  them  back  piled  them  in  a  small  glade  among  the  ironwoods,  at  the  center  of  the  ringlike  grove. It had  a  quiet,  solemn  feel  to  it,  but  it  was  not  eerie,  and  no  altar  rose  in  the  middle. The twisting  ground-limbs  avoided  the  center;  there  only  mossy  litchen  grew. Some of  the  limbs  humped  as  much  as  three  feet  in  the  air,  and  on  one  of  these  sat  the  man  in  black,  his  shadowed  face  an  enigma  in  his  pointed  hood,  his  treadles  boots  thrust  outward. No sooner  had  Roland  arranged  them  than  the  wood  began  to  burn. “What is  this  place?”  said  Roland. “A sacred  grove.”  the  other  replied. “The true  places  of  the  Gods  have  no  altars  upon  them;  only  demons  accept  altars  in  their  groves. Here is  council  held,  and  palaver  between  Gods  and  mortals.” He leaned  over,  adjusting  some  of  the  logs  so  that  the  flame  leaped  up  around  them. “It is  cold  here  above  the  timberline,  even  in  my  jacket.”  he  said. Roland glanced  down  at  the  rough  leather  coat  he  wore. “And you  are  hungry. Music feeds  the  soul  and  cures  the  body,  but  not  forever.” From his  robes  he  drew  a  bird,  dead  and  limp. A hawk. With movements  like  lightning  the  great  brown  hands  whipped  off  the  feathers  and  spitted  it  above  the  fire. Strange and  wonderful  flames  rose  from  the  ironwood  logs,  palest  lavender  where  they  emerged,  then  rising  to  tattered  snapping  yellow-orange,  deep  red  at  the  tips. Wavering heat  rose  from  them:  no  smoke. The odor  of the  ironwood  brought  to  Roland  an  intolerable  longing  and  an  incredible  peace:  everything  he  knew  seemed  expressed  in  it. The odor  of  meat,  fresh   and  luscious,  wafted  up. “Meat is  always  better  with  bread.”  said  the  man  in  black,  producing  a  loaf. It was  golden  brown,  and  the  gunslinger’s  mouth  felt  suddenly  full  of  water:  he  hadn’t  realized  how  much  he  missed  bread. The bottom  of  the  bird  was  done  already,  and  the  man  in  black  turned  the  spit. “We should  save  some  for  the  boy.”  said  Roland. “Do not  forget  cheese.”  the  other  added,  laying  down  a  gleaming  globe  of  marvelous  silvery  whiteness. “Even the  moon  is  made  of  green  cheese.” “The boy.”  Roland  repeated. “He will be  hungry.” “Fruit, too,  gunslinger,  with  the  vitamins  your  body  craves,  and  which  meat  alone  does  not  give. Ah, what  a  dismal  existence  the  carnivore  lives,  condemned  always  to  meat,  and  never  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  God’s  good  bread.” Roland said  nothing,  but  took out  his  knife  and  began  to  carve  the  bird. The bread  was  sliced  when  he  turned  around,  resting  on  the  moss. “You must  be  weary  of  water  after  so  long,”  his  companion  said,  holding  up  a  bottle. It was  uncorked,  and  the  scent  of  very  old  and  very  excellent  wine,  almost  nectarine,  rose  from  it. “Even the  gods  drink  wine,  you  know.” A tiny  insect  crawled  onto  one  slice  of  bread. The man  in  black  made  a  motion  quick  as  a  darting  snake,  pinching  it  between  two  large  and  careful  fingers,  and  held  it  up  before  him. “Do you  seek  to  comprehend  all  things,  gunslinger? Then peer  closely at  this  gnat. It lives  but  for  a  day. Yet each  part  is  fitted  and  crafted  with  uttermost  skill,  forged  by  a  master.” He cast  the  gnat  into  the  air. “Now track all  the  motions  of  all  the  insects  across  the  earth,  while  still  watching  the  course  of  the  flight  of  that  gnat. Now add  in  the  beasts,  the  countless  unseen  creatures,  the  birds  in  their  wheelings. Now add  in  the  motions  of  clouds  and  of  weathers,  of  trees  and  of  countries,  and  the  slow  ponderous  procession  of  the  very  lands  themselves. Oh, and  do  not  forget,  gunslinger,  to  weave  in  the  web  of  the  lives  and  fates  of  men.” The gunslinger’s  knife  dropped. His hands  pressed  themselves  to  his  temples:  his  head  throbbed. “Please. No more.” Inexorable beat  on  that  patient  voice. “Weave in  all  this  while  still  carving  your  meat  and  remembering  your  carving, man. Look at  the  interweaving  patterns  and  tapestries  of  lives  and  of  stories,  ten  million  times  ten  hundred  million  and  beyond—the  thoughts,  the  hopes  and  aspirations,  prayers  and  justices  and  rightnesses—“ “No, please,  stop,  no  more,  please—“ “—then see  the  steerings  of  the  planets  and  the  distant  lifeless  stars,  all  avoiding  one  another  and  each  replying  unto  each,  and  yet  each  is  watched  over  and  each  particle  looked  after,  all  at  one  and  the  same  instant.” “Jesus mercy  Lord  God  in  heaven  too  much  too  much—“ The voice,  dark  and  deep,  devoid  of  pity,  pressed  on  coldly. “And yet  this  is  only  one  universe,  Roland  Childe. One world. What of  the  other  worlds? Can you  hold  them  in  your  incredible  mind  as  well? With their  own  plants  and  tiny  forged  insects  and  handcrafted  trees,  and  their  own  beings  of  intellect  to  rule?” Roland’s hands  fell  from  his  temples  as  he  let  go  of  the  vision. His shoulders  drooped. “I cannot.” He felt  beneath  his  hood  the  man  in  black’s  smile. “Good. The only  true  wisdom  is  that  which  knows  that  it  knows  nothing. Look down,  gunslinger. Look upon  the  simple  things  that  make  you  up,  for  which  you  are  made.” Roland’s eyes  beheld  again  the  deep  brilliance  of  the  evening  blue  sky,  the  cheering  fire,  the  cold  but  cosy   closeness  of  the  crouching  old  trees. The meat  too  was  sliced. The man  in  black  placed  the  meat  and  cheese  on  bread,  and  held  up  the  three  slices  in  one  hand,  the  orange  in  the  other. “The four  cornerstones  that   build  up  life,  gunslinger. Fruit and  meat,  grain  and  milk. One grown  from  the  grindings  of  the  bones  of  the  earth,  in  which  life  takes  root  and  produces  a  new  thing,  a  plant. The other  grown  by  the  lesser  of  the  walkers  on  the  earth,  the  flesh  that  thinks  not,  the  creature  irrational. And all  of it  is  meant  to   be  at  the  service  of  the  highest.”  The  long  arms  stretched  forth  to  him  with  a  strange  and  significant  grandeur;  the  cowled  head  was  bowed. “Thyself. Mankind, gunslinger. Even the  Gods  bow  down  to  serve  the  race  of  rationality,  the  flesh  that  has  a  mind,  mortal  Man.” The gunslinger  slowly  accepted  the  food  and  bit  down  into  it. His mind  and  heart  were  filled  with  bliss  as  the  rapture  of  real  food  flooded  through  him. “You wonder  why. Why are  sinful  men,  so  steeped  in  evil,  of  such  importance? They were  made  so. What they  make  of  themselves is  for  their  own  choosing. Think how  many  realms  of  being  are  joined  in  thee,  mortal. The flesh  of  beasts  has  a  part  in  thee. No less  have  the  plants  a  say  in  thy  being. And the  stone  and  the  minerals,  the  metals  and  earths,  all  pulse  in  thy  bones  and  flow  in  thy  veins. Even the  grasses  of  the  air  and  the  waters  of  the  seas  and  streams  are  in  thee. Life comes  in  thee  to  a  summit. And to  this  summit  are  joined  the  gods,  for  thou  hast  mind  and  spirit,  and  in  thee  spirit  and  flesh  are  blent  into  one  creature,  a  thing  at  which  the  very  gods  wonder. All realms  of  being  meet  in  Roland.” He took  back  the  orange  from  Roland’s  hand. The gunslinger  was  still  chewing,  and  the  words  of  his  companion  trickled  slowly  down  into  his  mind  along  with  the  food. In one  hand  the  man  in  black  held  up  the  orange;  in  the  other,  the  cheese. “These are  the  moon  and  sun. For the  sun  began  as  a  fruit  upon  the  Two  Trees,  and  the  moon,  ah,  who  is  to  say  that  he  did  not  indeed  begin  as  green  cheese? See, gunslinger,  that  even  moon  and  sun  are  subject  to  thee  and  are  lesser  than  man.” “But I cannot  command  them.” The hands  withdrew. The man  in  black  looked  like  some  terrible  shrouded  God,  the  moon  and  the  sun  held  in  each  hand. “There you  are  correct. For they  were  made,  like  all  other  things,  to  serve  you,  but  not  to  be  seized. For what  you  receive,  you  must  give  thanks,  and  if  you  snatch  the  gift  in  greed  it  becomes  your  destruction.” “Is that  what  made  the  world  move  on?” “The men  of  old  thought  the  world  was  theirs.”  sighed  the  dark  voice  of  the  dark  man. “Theirs to  be  ruled,  not  theirs  to  be  served  by. For service  implies  freedom,  and  freedom  justice:  the  king  may  ask  a  sign  of  fealty,  but  he  may  not  then  cut  with  whip  the  bowing  servant. Whips are  for  those  who  refuse  to  bow. But men  thought  that  the  world  was  given  into  their  hand  and  they  could  do  as  they  wished  with  it. And so  they  grew  evil,  meddling  with  the  very  sun  and  moon themselves,  and  the  evil  they  shed  ate  like  rust  upon  what  they  touched,  till  they  had  in  desperation  to  use  their  own  meddling  to  shore  up  with  inventions  the  fabric  of  the  worlds;  and  even  as  they  did  they  destroyed  themselves.” “Evil men  used their  power  against  good.” “Against evil. The good  were  caught  between,  and  their  work  was  unfinished;  and  now  even  their  props  fall  down  into  decay.” The gunslinger  looked  at  him  directly. “What is  the  Dark  Tower?” “You are  hungry,  Childe.”  the  man  in  black  said  patiently,  handing  him  the  cheese  and  orange. Half the  cheese  was  in  slices,  like  flat  saucers. The gunslinger  made  another  sandwich  and  closed  his  eyes  in  sheer  bliss. “The Dark  Tower  is  you.” “Oh, not  literally,”  he  added,  at  Roland’s  shocked  expression. “Do you  not  recall  how  all  realms  of  being  meet  in  man,  how  he  is  the  nexus  of  Creation,  the  creature  in  whom  everything  combines? Now picture  the  worlds,  one  world  beside  another  yet  not  inside  another,  and  see  them  all  linked  one  to  one  and  to  another,  even  as  James  came  to  here  from  another? Do they  whirl  without  connection,  like  drifting  dust  upon  a  current  of  warm  air? Or are  they  linked,  like  the  threads  of  a  web or  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  linked  one  to  another,  drawing  ever  nearer  together,  until  they  meet?” “And where  they  meet?” His  voice  came  out  breathless. “A field…like  a  garden  of  roses…”  said  the  Man  in  Black  softly,  “And  a  forest…a  wood  where  nothing  happens…and  the  point,  where  all  lines  meet,  rises.” “Is it..?” “Men call  it  the  Dark  Tower.”  said  the  man. The blue  vault  glowed  unchanged;  the  evening  seemed  to  have  frozen. “For its’  ways  are  dark  to  us. You have  never  seen  it,  of  course. You saw  only  a  turret  of  it. The turret  of  your  own  life,  in  the  roses  of  the  lives  through  which  you  move;  and  you  picked  one,  didn’t  you?” “It was  for  the  highest  reasons.” “To be  able  to  paint  the  face  of  the  Devil, and  then  to  erase  him…yet  you  could  not  quench  his  eyes. Even so  does  the  life  you  spill  fail  to  achieve  the  very  task  it  was  shed  for;  and  the  treacheries  you  did  in  the  name  of  the  Tower,  barred  you  from  it  in  the  end.” Roland bowed  his  head  and  his  shoulders  shook. The acrid  reek  of  his  own  tears  was  heavy  in  his  nostrils. “Childe Roland.”  The  dark  man’s  voice  was  deep  with  a  vast,  immeasurable  pity. “Your doom  is  played  out. Your ka  is  expended. Because of  your  deeds,  you  have  been  wrung  out  and  shattered  and  broken,  till  the  tears  you  have  shed  are  equal  in  weight  to  the  blood  you  have  wrongfully  spilled. The last  tear  has  been  shed. You see  your  life  before  you,  unconcealed  by  forgetting. You know  why  the  Tower sent  you  back  to  your  beginning.” “Renounce the  Tower  and  save  your  soul,  the  other  one  said  to  me.” “I say different. I say  to  you,  Roland,  to  save  your  soul  and  seek  the  Tower,  and  only  thus  will  you  find  it.” “Where does  the  Tower  go?” “It rises,  gunslinger…”  the  man  in  black  said,  his  dark  face  turned  to  the  west;  and  somehow  the  brooding  look  of  him  held  a  note  of  worry. “And what  lies  above?” “The worlds  are  a  necklace—but  who  wears  the  necklace? The Mountain  wears  them. And the  Tower  is  the  center  of  the  Mountain,  and  where  it  rises  it  meets  the  Summit…and  at  the  top,  above  the  worlds,  ah,  what  is  there?” “Tell me,  then,  riddler. What is  there?” “It goes  up,  but  in  many  ways.”  the  other  answered. “It exists,  and  is  therefore  able  to  be  mounted;  it  has stairs,  that  mount  beyond  the  worlds….it  has  rooms  outside  of  and  into  the  universes…it  has  balconies  overlooking  the  voids….and  at  the  top…” “What lies  at  the  Top?”  The  gunslinger  found  he  was  whispering. “A Room.”  the  other  replied,  and  his  voice  too  had  sunk  to  a  murmer. The night  pressed  around,  strange  and  cold  and  inhuman. “And within…who  is  within  it? Or is  the  Room…empty?” “Nothing is  ever  truly  empty.”  whispered  the  man  in  black. “For those  who  dare…might  it  be  entered?” “I dare  not.”  The  deep  voice  for  the  first  time  bore  a  tremor  of  fear. “I dare  not. I do  not  dare  to  trespass,  even  in  my  thought.” “Are you  then  afraid? Of being  struck  down?” “Afraid of  anger,  aye. All of  us  should  so  fear,  and  then  much  evil  would  cease.” The gunslinger  gazed  out  upon  the  evening,  caught  forever  in  that  moment  when  the  sun  is  down  but  true  night  has  not  yet  come,  and  the  sky  takes  on  a  blue  as  deep  as  the  foundations  of  the  earth  and  as  profound  as  the  eyes  of  God. “This night  is  long  as  years.”  he  said. “Do you  then  desire  so  soon  the  dawn,  when  the  darkness  passes  away,  and  our  palaver  also?” “I was  made  for  light.” “Aye, for  Light  made  thee,  and  thou  must  return  to  what  thou  art  of. Now hearken. You have  caught  me. It is  fair,  for  I  tricked  you,  yet  you  stayed  true  in  the  face  of  all  seeming.” “Who sent  me  back to  the  beginning? Who took  James  from  his  family? Was it  you?” “It was  partly  me.”  replied  the  man  in  black. “Who else? Do you  have  a  master?” “We are  not  here  to  speak  of  my  master.” “Whom do  you  serve?” “Whom does  anyone  serve,  in  the  long  run,  Roland  of  Gilead? There are  only  two  Masters. If you  stand  with  One,  you  cannot  serve  the  other. If you  are  against  the  other,  you  are  for  the  One.” “What must  I  do?” “Ah, there  is  the  question,  now,  is  it  not. The tears  have  been  wrung. Your sins  are  not  yet  paid,  no,  not  by  a  long  mile;  but  the  blood  is  equaled,  and  the  Tower  is  satisfied. But there  are  others  you  will  have  to  face.” “Whom?” “To reach  the  Tower  you  will  have  to  pass  him  first. The Ageless  Stranger.”  A  dark smile  dwelt  in  the  deep  voice. “You must  slay  him,  gunslinger. He will  not  suffer  you  gladly. Indeed he  has  dogged  you  all  your  life. Your anti-ka,  one  might  almost  say.” “Then he  arranged  Jake’s  death.” “Aye. But you  killed  him  first,  gunslinger. It was  not  fitting  that  you  get  him  back,  that  your  infant  sacrifice  be  wiped  out  like  a  sponge. You paid  for  that. You were  doomed  to  lose  him  in  the  end. Had you  tried  to  save  him,  he  might  have  lived  in  the  pine  forest,  even  had  he  fallen  in  the  dark.” “And then  who  else?” “There is  the  one  at  the  base,”  said  the  man  in  black,  and  his  voice  sank  to  a  murmer  so  furtive  the  gunslinger  felt  a  trickle  of  fear. “The Keeper  of  the  Tower. And if  you  can  pass  Him…” “Does he  have  a  name?” “Aye, for  he  is  remembered  in  old  tales,  both  for  that  which  he  once  kept  and  that  which  he  still  doth. The Way  is  chained,  yet  the  Height  is  still  there. Hiemdallyr.” There was  a  deep  thundering  crash  from  far  away  as  a  rockslide  fell  on  the  mountain. From the  forest  below  rose  a  sudden  howling  and  yammering  of  hundreds  of  wolves  and  coyotes. Roland flinched, and  he  fancied  he  saw  a  faint  shiver  even  from  that  man  in  black. “What does  He  demand?” “Do not  ask  me,”  the  black  one  said,  and  the  tremble  in  his  voice  was  more  alarming  than  anything  yet. “That is  too  far  ahead. I dare  not  look  too  far  ahead.” “Tell me,  then,  what  you  may  tell.” “Wisely spoken,  Roland.”  the  man  in  black  said  grimly. “To know  one’s  limit,  and  hold  to  it  of  one’s  own  choice—there  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.” Out of  his  robes  he  drew  his  right  hand;  it  held  splayed  within  it  a  deck  of  large  long  cards. Their backs  bore  in  diagonal  rows  the  seven  mysterious  symbols  of  the  message,  crossing  one  over  another,  swirling  and  moving  imperceptibly. “Do you  know  these,  gunslinger?” “They are  tarot  cards.” The voice  of  his  companion  held  a  terrifying  flatness  that  shook  Roland’s  heart. “No, not  tarot. Never tarot. These are  tarot.” Out of  his  robes  came  his  other  hand,  and  in  it  was  another  deck. One that  looked  disturbingly  familiar. The deck  that  Walter,  the  other  man  in  black  from  so  long  ago,  had  read  him  his  fortune  from,  in  the  hollow  of  bones,  that  dark  golgatha. “Shun them,  Roland,  burn  them,  put  no  faith  in  them. For they  are  the  tools  of  the  Enemy.” He hurled  the  deck  into  the  fire. The cards  withered,  twisting  like  damned  souls,  an  eerie  whistle  and  shriek  rising  from  the  blistering  lamination. A queer  ugly  reek  like  sulpher  and  spoiled  eggs  filled  the  grove  for  a  moment. “If you  are  speaking  of  the  Crimson  King,”  said  Roland,  “I  erased  him. The boy  who  paints  reality  drew  him,  and  then  erased  him. Only his  eyes  remained.” A dreadful,  grim  laughter  was  shaken  out  of  the  shadowed  figure  before  him. “You fool,  so  you  thought  that  screeching  maniac  throwing  little  Sneetch-bombs  was  the  Red  King  himself? As if  the  awful  Lord  could  ever  go  insane,  he  who  knew  what  he  was  doing  and  who  did  it  anyway.” His voice  grew  huge,  powerful,  terrible  as  death. “Do you  truly  wish  to  know  who  the  Enemy  is? Then look  upon  his  face!” From out  of  his  deck  the  dark  fingers  drew  a  single  stock,  and  turning  it  over  held  it  before  Roland’s  eyes. Unutterable cold  shook  his  body  and  his  soul. He had  never  until  now  seen  a  face  so  truly  evil. It was  not  an  ugly  face;  a  very  dense  or  stupid  girl  might  find  it  handsome;  but  something  in  the  very  lines  of  it,  the  way  it  curved,  the  dreadful  light  in  the  eyes,  made  it  seem  as  if  the  features  were  shaped  all  out  of  flames:  they  were  wrong  features. The card  was  gone  from  his  gaze. Roland fell  forward  on  the  moss,  arms  trembling  like  pasta,  his  very  insides  sick  as  if  every  organ  had  gone  to  jelly,  as  if  he  might  vomit  his  lungs  or  throw  up  his  liver. “Who is  that?”  he  croaked,  as  the  savor  of  the  burning  ironwood  smoke  slowly  replaced  the  horror  in  his  heart. “What is  that?” “Damnation.” said  the  Man  in  Black. “Desolation. All that  is  evil  and  all  that  men  have  called  Hell  comes  from  him,  from  out  of  his  heart.” He went  on  in  a  gentler  voice,  “Childe  Roland,  you  have  only  seen  an  imprint  in  ink  of  the  face  that  ruins  worlds. If you  were  to  stand  before  him,  you  must  have  strength  besides  your  own  if  you  would  not  fail.” He held  out  the  deck. His voice  was  stern  once  again. “Draw.” Shaking, Roland  reached  out  to  the  cards. His hand  hovered  between  one  and  another. He took  hold  of  one  at  last;  it  seemed  immeasurably  thick,  as  if  universes  were  compressed  within  it,  but  he  drew  it. On the  face  was an  armoured man  in  strange  gear,  a device  of  white  with  red  bars meeting  upon  it  stamped  onto  his  surcoat. The legend  read  TE  KNICHT. “A good  choice. Draw yet  again.” This time  the  card  he  grasped  and  drew  showed  a  huge  demonic  beast,  lips  drawn  from  canine  teeth  in  a  constant  snarl. But the  eyes  were  startlingly  human. The legend  read  TE  CANISCH. “The Wolf.”  said  the  Man  in  Black,  and  there  was  an  unusual  note  of  surprise  in  his  voice. “Draw once  more.” This time  the  card  he  drew  showed  a  torch,  incandescent  red  and  yellow,  but  with  a  hilt  and  pommel  like  a  sword. The legend  read  TE  FLAMBERG. “Ah, that  is  more  clear.”  There  was  satisfaction  in  the  dark  voice. “For this  card  was  already  drawn. The others  you  have  yet  to  draw. Your last  Drawing  was  inspired  by  tarot,  and  foredoomed  to  fail;  those  Three  were  only  meant  to  aid  your  purgation. Those were  drawn  for  you. These you  drew  yourself. I release  you  from  ka. I proclaim  you  free,  gunslinger. Go where  you  wish.” “You know  where  I  am  sworn.” “So be  it.”  said  the  man  in  black. “But do  not  ever  complain  again  that  you  are  bound  on  an  inexorable  wheel:  you  could  have  walked  away  from  it  forever,  and  I  would  have  absolved  your  oath  had  you  done  so. But you  follow  the  way,  of  your  own  free  will  and  without  any  force  of  fate. So be  it. Seven signs  I  have  given  you. Five were  to  aid  you. One is  a  mystery. The last  is  a  warning:  for  it  is  not  mine.” “Then whose?” “It is  that  of  the  Crimson  King.” The gunslinger  gazed  into  the  shadowy  hood. “And you,”  he  said,  “who  are  you?” The man  in  black  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. Roland had  never  realized  just  how  huge  his  strange  companion  really  was;  or  maybe  he  was  becoming  huge,  becoming  huger  every  second;  now  he  was  overtopping  the  ancient  trees  around  them,  and  his  voice  when  he  spoke  came  down  like  thunder  from  the  very  stars. “I am  of  the  High,  but  you  are  of  the  Low. All that  you  have  known  till  now  has  only  been  the  Low. But you  cannot  mount  Towers  and  remain  Low,  and  now  therefore  Low  is  taken  from  you. Your path  now  is  other. Your roads  will  not  repeat. You have  caught  me;  but  my  capture  endeth.”

The gunslinger  awoke  slowly. He expected  to  find  himself  ten  years  older,  and  bones  about  him,  the  man  in  black  a  grinning  skeleton  in  a  rotting  black  robe  offering  him  its’  jawbone:  This  spoke  once,  it  will  speak  again. But he  was  done  with  jawbones  now—and  with  Walter,  that  tittering  magician,  the  false  man  in  black  sent  to  lead  Roland  astray. The ironwood  grove  was  bright  with  morning,  and  dew  was  on  the  moss. A pale  blue  day  was  dawning  behind  the  mountains. James lay  beside  him. Their blankets  were  tucked  close  around  them  and  bespangled  with  dew  like  diamonds,  wool  hats  warming  their  heads. Upon the  bent  limb  where  the  man  in  black  had  sat,  the  cooked  and  juicy  bird  was  laid,  uneaten  and  sliced;  and  beside  it  the  round  cheese,  and  an  orange  as  sweet  as  the  sun,  and  a  loaf  in  a  tied  bag  of  thin  plastic. The fire  had  burned  down  to  clean  black  ashes. Between them  lay  the  gifts  of  the  Man  in  Black:  a  white  staff,  and  an  ancient  violin,  and  the  kerosene  lantern,  and  beside  them  a  new  pack  for  the  boy. The gunslinger’s  old  pack  sat  beside  it. Both were  bulging. Both canteens  were  full,  and  the  bottle  of  old  wine  stood  beside  them. “Good morning,  lad.”  Roland  smiled. James must  only  have  been  dozing,  for  he  was  wide  awake  in  a  second. “Hullo, Roland.”  he  drawled. “I thought  you’d  be  gone,  back  to  your  world.” The boy  shook  his  head. “He spoke  to  me,  while  you  slept.”  he  said. “I asked  him  why  I  was  taken,  and  if  I  could  go  back. And who  would  protect  Roland  then? he asked. The other  was  drawn  to  trap  him;  but  for  you  I  have  other  purposes. ‘Does that  mean  I  never  go  back?’  I  asked  him. He shook  his  head. You are  still  very  young,  and  your  family  is  dear  to  you. Yet time  is  something  we  no  longer  have. I cannot  wait  till  you  are  grown;  and  in  any  case  it  may  be  better  if  a  small  one  wields  it  than  one  who  is  strong. Wherefore I  grant  your  ghost  the  power  to  visit  them  and  speak  with  them  while  you  are  sleeping. But you  are  not  constrained. If you  wish  to  leave,  I  will  take  you  home.” “You refused.”  the  gunslinger  said  wonderingly. “I…” James  fumbled,  looking  for  words. “I can’t  turn  back  now. There’s something  I  have  to  do. I’ve never  been  afraid  of  work. I’d rather  get  it  done,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.” “To climb  the  Tower.” “No, it’s  something  different…I  feel  it  inside  me,  I  don’t  know  what,  but  I  know  it’s  important,  and  I’ve  got  to  do  it.” The gunslinger  put  out  one  horny  brown  hand. James looked  a  little  surprised,  but  took  it. They shook  hands;  the  boy  had  a  surprisingly  good  grip  for  a  youngster. Must be  from  climbing trees. “I’m glad  to  have  you  along,  boy.”  he  said. They feasted  that  morning,  on  roast  hawk  and  cheese-and-meat  sandwiches,  until  they  had  their  fill. Each had  one  sip  of  the  mysterious,  ancient  wine:  it  glowed  like  fire  in  bone  and  mouth,  but  a  delicious  warming  fire,  not  a  burning  bite. The sun  was  high  in  a  brilliant,  incredible  depth  of  blue  when  the  boy  and  the  gunslinger  shouldered  their  packs  and  headed  down  into  the  pines,  to  find  the  sea  and  the  way  to  the  Dark  Tower.