Roland's eye had never been clearer, the chill that surrounded him at moments like this never deeper. He saw the white node and the blue bombardier's eyes that were his eyes. He saw the face of his only son peering over the back of the abomination and then it was gone in a spray of blood as his first bullet tore it off. The spider reared up, legs clashing at the black and star-shot sky. Roland's next two bullets went into its revealed belly and exited through the back, pulling dark sprays of liquid with it.
The spider slewed to one side, perhaps trying to run away, but its remaining legs would not support it. Mordred Deschain fell into the fire, casting up a flume of red and orange sparks. It writhed in the embers, the bristles on its belly beginning to burn, and Roland, grinning bitterly, shot it again. The dying spider rolled out of the now scattered fire on its back, its remaining legs twitching together in a knot and then spreading apart. One fell back into the fire and began to burn. The smell was atrocious.
Roland started forward, meaning to stamp out the litde fires the scattered embers had started in the grass, and then a howl of outraged fury rose in his head.
My son! My only son! You 've murdered him!
"He was mine, too," Roland said, looking at die smoldering monstrosity. He could own the truth. Yes, he could do that much.
Come then! Come, son-killer, and look at your Tower, but know ihis-you'll die of old age at the edge of the Can'-Ka before you ever so much as touch its door! I will never let you pass! Todash space itself will pass away before I let you pass! Murderer! Murderer of your mother, murderer of your friends-aye, every one, for Susannah lies dead with her throat cut on the other side of the door you sent her through-and now murderer of your own son!
"Who sent him to me?" Roland asked the voice in his head.
"Who sent yonder child-for that's what he is, inside that black skin-to his death, ye red boggart?"
To this there was no answer, so Roland re-holstered his gun and put out the patches of fire before they could spread.
He thought of what the voice had said about Susannah, decided he didn't believe it. She might be dead, aye, might be, but he thought Mordred's Red Father knew for sure no more than Roland himself did.
The gunslinger let that thought go and went to the tree, where the last of his ka-tet hung, impaled... but still alive.
The gold-ringed eyes looked at Roland with what might almost have been weary amusement.
"Oy," Roland said, stretching out his hand, knowing it might be bitten and not caring in the least. He supposed that part of him-and not a small one, either-wanted to be bitten.
"Oy, we all say thank you. /say thank you, Oy."
The bumbler did not bite, and spoke but one word. "Olan,"
said he. Then he sighed, licked the gunslinger's hand a single time, hung his head down, and died.
ELEVEN
As dawn strengthened into the clear light of morning, Patrick came hesitantly to where the gunslinger sat in the dry streambed, amid the roses, with Oy's body spread across his lap like a stole.
The young man made a soft, interrogative hooting sound.
"Not now, Patrick," Roland said absently, stroking Oy's fur.
It was dense but smooth to the touch. He found it hard to believe that the creature beneath it had gone, in spite of the stiffening muscles and the tangled places where the blood had now clotted. He combed these smooth with his fingers as best he could. "Not now. We have all the livelong day to get there, and we'll do fine."
No, there was no need to hurry; no reason why he should not leisurely mourn the last of his dead. There had been no doubt in the old King's voice when he had promised that Roland should die of old age before he so much as touched the door in the Tower's base. They would go, of course, and Roland would study the terrain, but he knew even now that his idea of coming to the Tower on the old monster's blind side and then working his way around was not an idea at all, but a fool's hope. There had been no doubt in the old villain's voice; no doubt hiding behind it, either.
And for the time being, none of that mattered. Here was another one he had killed, and if there was consolation to be had, it was this: Oy would be the last. Now he was alone again except for Patrick, and Roland had an idea Patrick was immune to the terrible germ the gunslinger carried, for he had never been ka-tet to begin with.
I only kill my family, Roland thought, stroking the dead billybumbler.
What hurt most was remembering how unpleasantly he had spoken to Oy the day before. Ifee wanted to go with her, thee should have gone when thee had thy chance!
Had he stayed because he knew that Roland would need him? That when push came down to shove (it was Eddie's phrase, of course), Patrick would fail?
Why will'ee cast thy sad houken 's eyes on me now?
Because he had known it was to be his last day, and his dying would be hard?
"I think you knew both things," Roland said, and closed his eyes so he could feel the fur beneath his hands better. "I'm so sorry I spoke to'ee so-would give the fingers on my good left hand if I could take the words back. So I would, every one, say true."
But here as in the Keystone World, time only ran one way.