She had brought grace to his life. It wasn't a word that had occurred to him until she was gone.
Meanwhile, here was Patrick, wildly talented but awfully slow on the uptake.
Roland gestured to his pad, then to the rose. Patrick nodded-that part he got. Then Roland raised two of the fingers on his good hand and pointed to the pad again. This time the light broke on Patrick's face. He pointed to the rose, to the pad, to Roland, and then to himself.
"That's right, big boy," Roland said. "A picture of the rose for you and one for me. It's nice, isn't it?"
Patrick nodded enthusiastically, setting to work while Roland rusded the grub. Once again Roland fixed three plates, and once again Oy refused his share. When Roland looked into the bumbler's gold-ringed eyes he saw an emptiness there-a kind of loss-that hurt him deep inside. And Oy couldn't stand to miss many meals; he was far too thin already. Trail-frayed, Cuthbert would have said, probably smiling. In need of some hot sassafras and salts. But the gunslinger had no sassy here.
"Why do'ee look so?" Roland asked the bumbler crossly.
"If ee wanted to go witfi her, thee should have gone when thee had the chance! Why will'ee cast thy sad houken's eyes on me now?"
Oy looked at him a moment longer, and Roland saw that he had hurt the little fellow's feelings; ridiculous but true. Oy walked away, little squiggle of tail drooping. Roland felt like calling him back, but that would have been more ridiculous yet, would it not? What plan did he have? To apologize to a billybumbler?
He felt angry and ill at ease with himself, feelings he had never suffered before hauling Eddie, Susannah, and Jake from America-side into his life. Before they'd come he'd felt almost nothing, and while that was a narrow way to live, in some ways it wasn't so bad; at least you didn't waste time wondering if you should apologize to animals for taking a high tone to them, by the gods.
Roland hunkered by the rose, leaning into the soothing power of its song and the blaze of light-healthy light-from its center. Then Patrick hooted at him, gesturing for Roland to move away so he could see it and draw it. This added to Roland's sense of dislocation and annoyance, but he moved back without a word of protest. He had, after all, asked Patrick to draw it, hadn't he? He thought of how, if Susannah had been here, their eyes would have met with amused understanding, as the eyes of parents do over the antics of a small child. But she wasn't here, of course; she'd been the last of them and now she was gone, too.
"All right, can'ee see howgit rosen-gaff a tweakit better?" he asked, striving to sound comic and only sounding cross-cross and tired.
Patrick, at least, didn't react to the harshness in the gunslinger's tone; probably didn't even ken what I said, Roland thought.
The mute boy sat with his ankles crossed and his pad balanced on his thighs, his half-finished plate of food set off to one side.
"Don't get so busy you forget to eat that," Roland said. 'You mind me, now." He got another distracted nod for his pains and gave up. "I'm going to snooze, Patrick. It'll be a long afternoon."
And an even longer night, he added to himself... and yet he had the same consolation as Mordred: tonight would likely be the last. He didn't know for sure what waited for him in the Dark Tower at the end of the field of roses, but even if he managed to put paid to the Crimson King, he felt quite sure that this was his last march. He didn't believe he would ever leave Can'-Ka No Rey, and that was all right. He was very tired. And, despite the power of the rose, sad.
Roland of Gilead put an arm over his eyes and was asleep at once.
FOUR
He didn't sleep for long before Patrick woke him with a child's enthusiasm to show him the first picture of the rose he'd drawn-the sun suggested no more than ten minutes had passed, fifteen at most.
Like all of his drawings, this one had a queer power. Patrick had captured the rose almost to the life, even though he had nothing but a pencil to work with. Still, Roland would much have preferred another hour's sleep to this exercise in art appreciation. He nodded his approval, though-no more grouch and grump in the presence of such a lovely thing, he promised himself-and Patrick smiled, happy even with so little.
He tossed back the sheet and began drawing die rose again.
One picture for each of them, just as Roland had asked.
Roland could have slept again, but what was the point?
The mute boy would be done with the second picture in a matter of minutes and would only wake him again. He went to Oy instead, and stroked die bumbler's dense fur, something he rarely did.
"I'm sorry I spoke rough to'ee, fella," Roland said. "Will you not set me on with a word?"
But Oy would not.
Fifteen minutes later, Roland re-packed the few things he'd taken out of the cart, spat into his palms, and hoisted the handles again. The cart was lighter now, had to be, but it felt heavier.