"Then I'll light the darkness with thoughts of those I love."
"And that might work," said he, speaking in the bitterest voice she had ever heard. "For the first ten years... or twenty... or even a hundred. And then? What about the rest of eternity?
Think of Oy! Do you think he's forgotten Jake? Never! Never!
Never in your life! Never in his! He senses something wrong!
Susannah, don't. I beg you, don't go. I'll get on my knees, if that will help." And to her horror, he began to do exactly that.
"It won't," she said. "And if this is to be my last sight of you-my heart says it is-then don't let it be of you on your knees. You're not a kneeling man, Roland, son of Steven, never were, and I don't want to remember you that way. I want to see you on your feet, as you were in Calla Bryn Sturgis. As you were with your friends at Jericho Hill."
He got up and came to her. For a moment she thought he meant to restrain her by force, and she was afraid. But he only put his hand on her arm for a moment, and then took it away.
"Let me ask you again, Susannah. Are you sureT
She conned her heart and saw that she was. She understood the risks, but yes-she was. And why? Because Roland's way was the way of the gun. Roland's way was death for those who rode or walked beside him. He had proved it over and over again, since the earliest days of his quest-no, even before, since overhearing Hax the cook plotting treachery and thus assuring his death by the rope. It was all for the good (for what he called the White), she had no doubt of it, but Eddie still lay in his grave in one world and Jake in another. She had no doubt that much the same fate was waiting for Oy, and for poor Patrick.
Nor would their deaths be long in coming.
"I'm sure," said she.
"All right. Will you give me a kiss?"
She took him by the arm and pulled him down and put her lips on his. When she inhaled, she took in the breath of a thousand years and ten thousand miles. And yes, she tasted death.
But not for you, gunslinger, she thought. For others, but never for you. May I escape your glammer, and may I do fine.;
She was the one who broke their kiss.
"Can you open the door for me?" she asked.
Roland went to it, and took the knob in his hand, and the knob turned easily within his grip.
Cold air puffed out, strong enough to blow Patrick's long hair back, and with it came a few flakes of snow. She could see grass that was still green beneath light frost, and a path, and an iron fence. Voices were singing "What Child Is This," just as in her dream.
It could be Central Park. Yes, it could be; Central Park of some other world along the axis, perhaps, and not the one she came from, but close enough so that in time she would know no difference.
Or perhaps it was, as he said, a glammer.
Perhaps it was the todash darkness.;;
"It could be a trick," he said, most certainly reading her mind.
"Life is a trick, love a glammer," she replied. "Perhaps we'll meet again, in the clearing at the end of the path."
"As you say so, let it be so," he told her. He put out one leg, the rundown heel of his boot planted in the earth, and bowed to her. Oy had begun to weep, but he sat firmly beside the gunslinger's left boot. "Goodbye, my dear."
"Goodbye, Roland." Then she faced ahead, took in a deep breath, and twisted the little cart's throttle. It rolled smoothly forward.
"Wait.1" Roland cried, but she never turned, nor looked at him again. She rolled through the door. It slammed shut behind her at once with a flat, declamatory clap he knew all too well, one he'd dreamed of ever since his long and feverish walk along the edge of the Western Sea. The sound of the singing was gone and now there was only the lonely sound of the prairie wind.
Roland of Gilead sat in front of the door, which already looked tired and unimportant. It would never open again. He put his face in his hands. It occurred to him that if he had never loved them, he would never have felt so alone as this. Yet of all his many regrets, the re-opening of his heart was not among them, even now.
NINETEEN
Later-because there's always a later, isn't there?-he made breakfast and forced himself to eat his share. Patrick ate heartily, then withdrew to do his necessary while Roland packed up.
There was a third plate, and it was still full. "Oy?" Roland asked, tipping it toward the billy-bumbler. "Will'ee not have at least a bite?"
Oy looked at the plate, then backed away two firm steps.
Roland nodded and tossed away the uneaten food, scattering it into the grass. Mayhap Mordred would come along in good time, and find something to his liking.
At mid-morning they moved on, Roland pulling Ho Fat II and Patrick walking along beside with his head hung low. And soon the beat of the Tower filled the gunslinger's head again.