The gunslinger turned his attention back to the man who was, he supposed, his biographer. He started just as he had before. Days ago in his own life. Over two decades ago in the writer's.
"Stephen King, do you see me?"
"Gunslinger, I see you very well."
"When did you last see me?"
"When we lived in Bridgton. When my tet was young. When I was just learning how to write." A pause, and then he gave what Roland supposed was, for him, the most important way of marking time, a thing that was different for every man: "When I was still drinking."
"Are you deep asleep now?"
"Deep."
"Are you under the pain?"
"Under it, yes. I thank you."
The billy-bumbler howled again. Roland looked around, terribly afraid of what it might signify. The woman had gone to Jake and was kneeling beside him. Roland was relieved to see Jake put an arm around her neck and draw her head down so he could speak into her ear. If he was strong enough to do that-
Stop it! You saw the changed shape of him under his shirt. You can't afford to waste time on hope.
There was a cruel paradox here: because he loved Jake, he had to leave the business of Jake's dying to Oy and a woman they had met less than an hour ago.
Never mind. His business now was with King. Should Jake pass into the clearing while his back was turned... ifka will say so, let it be so.
Roland summoned his will and concentration. He focused them to a burning point, then turned his attention to the writer once more. "Are you Gan?" he asked abruptly, not knowing why this question came to him-only that it was the right question.
"No," King said at once. Blood ran into his mouth from the cut on his head and he spat it out, never blinking. "Once I thought I was, but that was just the booze. And pride, I suppose.
No writer is Gan-no painter, no sculptor, no maker of music.
We are kas-ka Gan. Not ka-Gan but kas-ka. Gan. Do you understand?
Do you... do you ken?"
"Yes," Roland said. The prophets of Gan or the singers of Gan: it could signify either or both. And now he knew why he had asked. "And the song you sing is Ves -Ka Gan. Isn't it?"
"Oh, yesl" King said, and smiled. "The Song of the Turde. It's far too lovely for the likes of me, who can hardly carry a tune!"
"I don't care," Roland said. He thought as hard and as clearly as his dazed mind would allow. "And now you've been hurt."
"Am I paralyzed?"
"I don't know." Nor care. "All I know is that you'll live, and when you can write again, you'll listen for the Song of the Turtle,
Ves'-Ka Gan, as you did before. Paralyzed or not. And this time you'll sing until the song is done."
"All right."
"You'll-"
"And Urs-Ka Gan, the Song of the Bear," King interrupted him. Then he shook his head, although this clearly hurt him despite the hypnotic state he was in. "Urs-A-Ka Gan."
The Cry of die Bear? The Scream of the Bear? Roland didn't know which. He would have to hope it didn't matter, that it was no more than a writer's quibble.
A car hauling a motor home went past the scene of die accident without slowing, then a pair of large motor-bicycles sped by heading the other way. And an oddly persuasive thought came to Roland: time hadn't stopped, but they were, for the time being, dim. Being protected in that fashion by the Beam, which was no longer under attack and thus able to help, at least a litde.
FOUR
Tell him again. There must be no misunderstanding. And no weakening, as he weakened before.
He bent down until his face was before King's face, their noses nearly touching. "This time you'll sing until the song is done, write until the tale is done. Do you truly ken?"
"'And they lived happily ever after until the end of their days,'" King said dreamily. "I wish I could write that."
"So do I." And he did, more than anything. Despite his sorrow, there were no tears yet; his eyes felt like hot stones in his head. Perhaps the tears would come later, when the truth of what had happened here had a chance to sink in a litde.
"I'll do as you say, gunslinger. No matter how the tale falls when the pages grow thin." King's voice was itself growing thin. Roland thought he would soon fall into unconsciousness.
"I'm sorry for your friends, truly I am."
"Thank you," Roland said, still restraining the urge to put his hands around the writer's neck and choke the life out of him.
He started to stand, but King said something that stopped him.
"Did yovi listen for her song, as I told you to do? For the Song of Susannah?"
"I... yes."
Now King forced himself up on one elbow, and although his strength was clearly failing, his voice was dry and strong. "She needs you. And you need her. Leave me alone now. Save your hate for those who deserve it more. I didn't make your ka any more than I made Gan or the world, and we both know it. Put your foolishness behind you-and your grief-and do as you'd have me do." King's voice rose to a rough shout; his hand shot out and gripped Roland's wrist with amazing strength. "Finish the job!"