And they will live long and productive lives.
In the eenter of the high, echoing room, the expensive marble floor gave way to a square of humble dark earth. It was surrounded by ropes of wine-dark velvet, but Roland knew that even die ropes didn't need to be there. No one would transgress that litde garden, not even a suicidal can-toi desperate to make a name for himself. It was holy ground. There were diree dwarf palm trees, and plants he hadn't seen since leaving Gilead:
Spathiphyllum, he believed they had been called there, although they might not have the same name in this world.
There were other plants as well, but only one mattered.
In the middle of the square, by itself, was the rose.
It hadn't been transplanted; Roland saw that at once. No. It was where it had been in 1977, when the place where he was now standing had been a vacant lot, filled witfi trash and broken bricks, dominated by a sign which announced die coming of Turtle Bay Luxury Condominiums, to be built by Mills Construction and Sombra Real Estate Associates. This building, all one hundred stories of it, had been built instead, and around the rose. Whatever business might be done here was secondary to that purpose.
Hammarskjold Plaza was a shrine.
SIX
There was a tap on his shoulder and Roland whirled about so suddenly that he drew glances of alarm. He was alarmed himself.
Not for years-perhaps since his early teenage years-had anyone been quiet enough to come within shoulder-tapping distance of him without being overheard. And on this marble floor, he surely should have-
The young (and extremely beautiful) woman who had approached him was clearly surprised by the suddenness of his reaction, but the hands he shot out to seize her shoulders only closed on thin air and then themselves, making a soft clapping sound that echoed back from the ceiling above, a ceiling at least as high as that in the Cradle of Lud. The woman's green eyes were wide and wary, and he would have sworn there was no harm in them, but still, first to be surprised, then to miss like that-
He glanced down at the woman's feet and got at least part of the answer. She was wearing a kind of shoe he'd never seen before, something with deep foam soles and what might have been canvas uppers. Shoes that would move as softly as moccasins on a hard surface. As for the woman herself-
A queer double certainty came to him as he looked at her: first, that he had "seen the boat she came in," as familial resemblance was sometimes expressed in Calla Bryn Sturgis; second, that a society of gunslingers was a-breeding in this world, this special Keystone World, and he had just been accosted by one of them.
And what better place for such an encounter than within sight of the rose?
"I see your father in your face, but can't quite name him,"
Roland said in a low voice. "Tell me who he was, do it please you."
The woman smiled, and Roland almost had the name he was looking for. Then it slipped away, as such things often did: memory could be bashful. "You never met him... although I can understand why you might think you had. I'll tell you later, if you like, but right now I'm to take you upstairs, Mr. Deschain.
There's a person who wants..." For a moment she looked self-conscious, as if she thought someone had instructed her to use a certain word so she'd be laughed at. Then dimples formed at the corners of her mouth and her green eyes slanted enchantingly up at the corners; it was as if she were thinking If it's a joke on me, let them have it. "... a person who wants to play with you," she finished.
"All right," he said.
She touched his shoulder lightly, to hold him where he was yet a moment longer. "I'm asked to make sure that you read the sign in the Garden of the Beam," she said. "Will you do it?"
Roland's response was dry, but still a bit apologetic. "I will if I may," he said, "but I've ever had trouble with your written language, although it seems to come out of my mouth well enough when I'm on this side."
"I think you'll be able to read this," she said. "Give it a try."
And she touched his shoulder again, gently turning him back to the square of earth in the lobby floor-not earth that had been brought in wheelbarrows by some crew of gifted gardeners, he knew, but the actual earth of this place, ground which might have been tilled but had not been otherwise changed.
At first he had no more success with the small brass sign in the garden than he'd had with most signs in the shop windows, or the words on the covers of the "magda-seens." He was about to say so, to ask the woman with the faindy familiar face to read it to him, when the letters changed, becoming the Great Letters of Gilead. He was then able to read what was writ diere, and easily.
When he had finished, it changed back again.
"A pretty trick," he said. "Did it respond to my thoughts?"
She smiled-her lips were coated with some pink candylike stuff-and nodded. 'Yes. If you were Jewish, you might have seen it in Hebrew. If you were Russian, it would have been in Cyrillic."
"Say true?"