But he waits. He bides. And if I sleep-when I sleep-he'll be on us.
Around three in the morning he roused himself by willpower alone from a doze that was on the very verge of tumbling him into deeper sleep. He looked around desperately, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms hard enough to make mirks and fouders and sankofites explode across his field of vision. The fire had burned very low. Patrick lay about twenty feet from it, at the twisted base of a cottonwood tree. From where Roland sat, the boy was no more than a hide-covered hump. Of Oy there was no immediate sign. Roland called to the bumbler and got no response. The gunslinger was about to try his feet when he saw Jake's old friend a little beyond the edge of the failing firelight-or at least the gleam of his goldringed eyes. Those eyes looked at Roland for a moment, then disappeared, probably when Oy put his snout back down on his paws.
He's tired, too, Roland thought, and why not?
The question of what would become of Oy after tomorrow tried to rise to the surface of the gunslinger's troubled, tired mind, and Roland pushed it away. He got up (in his weariness his hands slipped down to his formerly troublesome hip, as if expecting to find the pain still there), went to Patrick, and shook him awake. It took some doing, but at last the boy's eyes opened. That wasn't good enough for Roland. He grasped Patrick's shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position.
When the boy tried to slump back down again, Roland shook him. Hard. He looked at Roland with dazed incomprehension.
"Help me build up the fire, Patrick."
Doing that should wake him up at least a little. And once the fire was burning bright again, Patrick would have to stand a brief watch. Roland didn't like the idea, knew full well that leaving Patrick in charge of the night would be dangerous, but trying to watch the rest of it on his own would be even more dangerous.
He needed sleep. An hour or two would be enough, and surely Patrick could stay awake that long.
Patrick was willing enough to gather up some sticks and put them on the fire, although he moved like a bougie-a reanimated corpse. And when the fire was blazing, he slumped back down in his former place with his arms between his bony knees, already more asleep than awake. Roland thought he might actually have to slap the boy to bring him around, and would later wish-bitterly-that he had done just that.
"Patrick, listen to me." He shook Patrick by the shoulders hard enough to make his long hair fly, but some of it flopped back into his eyes. Roland brushed it away. "I need you to stay awake and watch. Just for an hour...just until... look up,
Patrick! Look! Gods, don't you dare go to sleep on me again! Do you see that? The brightest star of all those close to us!"
It was Old Mother Roland was pointing to, and Patrick nodded at once. There was a gleam of interest in his eye now, and the gunslinger thought that was encouraging. It was Patrick's "I
want to draw" look. And if he sat drawing Old Mother as she shone in the widest fork of the biggest dead cottonwood, then the chances were good that he'd stay awake. Maybe until dawn, if he got fully involved.
"Here, Patrick." He made the boy sit against the base of the tree. It was bony and knobby and-Roland hoped-uncomfortable enough to prohibit sleep. All these movements felt to Roland like the sort you made underwater. Oh, he was tired. So tired. "Do you still see the star?"
Patrick nodded eagerly. He seemed to have thrown off his sleepiness, and the gunslinger thanked the gods for this favor.
"When it goes behind that thick branch and you can't see it or draw it anymore without getting up... you call me. Wake me up, no matter how hard it is. Do you understand?"
Patrick nodded at once, but Roland had now traveled with him long enough to know that such a nod meant little or nothing.
Eager to please, that's what he was. If you asked him if nine and nine made nineteen, he would nod with the same instant enthusiasm.
"When you can't see it anymore from where you're sitting..." His own words seemed to be coming from far away, now. He'd just have to hope that Patrick understood. The tongueless boy had taken out his pad, at least, and a freshly sharpened pencil.
That's my best protection, Roland's mind muttered as he stumbled back to his little pile of hides between the campfire and Ho Fat II. He ivon'tfall asleep while he's drawing, will he?
He hoped not, but supposed he didn't really know. And it didn't matter, because he, Roland of Gilead, was going to sleep in any case. He'd done the best he could, and it would have to be enough.
"An hour," he muttered, and his voice was far and wee in his own ears. "Wake me in an hour... when the star... when Old Mother goes behind..."
But Roland was unable to finish. He didn't even know what he was saying anymore. Exhaustion grabbed him and bore him swifdy away into dreamless sleep.