At last, as the descending sun began to take on its first hues of orange and Roland felt he could stand it no longer, Patrick put his pencil aside and held the pad out to Roland, frowning. The look made Roland afraid. He had never seen that particular expression in the mute boy's repertoire. Patrick's former arrogance was gone.
Roland took the pad, however, and for a moment was so amazed by what he saw there that he looked away, as if even the eyes in Patrick's drawing might have the power to fascinate him; might perhaps compel him to put his gun to his temple and blow out his aching brains. It was that good. The greedy and questioning face was long, the cheeks and forehead marked by creases so deep they might have been bottomless. The lips within the foaming beard were full and cruel. It was the mouth of a man who would turn a kiss into a bite if the spirit took him, and the spirit often would.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU're DOING?" came that screaming, lunatic voice. "IT WON'T DO YOU ANY GOOD, WHATEVER IT IS! I HOLD THE TOWER-EEEEEEEE!-I'M LIKE THE DOG WITH THE GRAPES, ROLAND! IT's MINE EVEN IF I CANT CLIMB IT! AND YOU'll COME! EEEEE! SAY TRUE! BEFORE THE SHADOW OF THE TOWER REACHES YOUR PALTRY HIDING-PLACE, YOU'll COME! FFFFFFFFJ FFFFFFFFJ EEEEEEEE!"
Patrick covered his ears, wincing. Now that he had finished drawing, he registered those terrible screams again.
That the picture was the greatest work of Patrick's life Roland had absolutely no doubt. Challenged, the boy had done more than rise above himself; he had soared above himself and committed genius. The image of the Crimson King was haunting in its clarity. The far-seeing instrument can't explain this, or not all of it, Roland thought. It's as if he has a third eye, one that looks out from his imagination and sees everything. It's that eye he looks through when he rolls the other two up. To own such an ability as this... and to express it with something as humble as a pencil! Ye gods!
He almost expected to see the pulse begin to beat in the hollows of the old man's temples, where clocksprings of veins had been delineated with only a few gende, feathered shadings. At the corner of the full and sensuous lips, the gunslinger could see the wink of a single sharp
(t U S k)
tooth, and he thought the lips of the drawing might come to life and part as he looked, revealing a mouthful of fangs: one mere wink of white (which was only a bit of unmarked paper, after all) made the imagination see all the rest, and even to smell the reek of meat that would accompany each outflow of breath.
Patrick had perfectly captured a tuft of hair curling from one of the King's nostrils, and a tiny thread of scar that wove in and out of the King's right eyebrow like a bit of string. It was a marvelous piece of work, better by far than the portrait the mute boy had done of Susannah. Surely if Patrick had been able to erase the sore from that one, then he could erase the Crimson King from this one, leaving nothing but the balcony railing before him and the closed door to the Tower's barrel behind. Roland almost expected the Crimson King to breathe and move, and so surely it was done! Surely...
But it was not. It was not, and wanting would not make it so.
Not even needing would make it so.
It's his eyes, Roland thought. They were wide and terrible, the eyes of a dragon in human form. They were dreadfully good, but they weren't right. Roland felt a kind of desperate, miserable certainty and shuddered from head to toe, hard enough to make his teeth chatter. They 're not quite r-
Patrick took hold of Roland's elbow. The gunslinger had been concentrating so fiercely on the drawing that he nearly screamed. He looked up. Patrick nodded at him, then touched his fingers to the corners of his own eyes.
Yes. His eyes. I know that! But what's wrong with them?
Patrick was still touching the corners of his eyes. Overhead, a flock of rusties flew through a sky that would soon be more purple than blue, squalling the harsh cries that had given them their name. It was toward the Dark Tower that they flew; Roland arose to follow them so they should not have what he could not.
Patrick grabbed him by his hide coat and pulled him back.
The boy shook his head violently, and this time pointed toward the road.
"I SAW THAT, ROLAND!" came the cry. "YOU THINK THAT WHAT's GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE BIRDS IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, DO YOU NOT? EEEEEEEEE! AND IT's TRUE, SURE! SURE AS SUGAR, SURE AS SALT, SURE AS RUBIES IN KING DANDO 's VA ULT-EEEEEEEE, HA! I COULD HAVE HAD YOU JUST NOW, BUT WHY BOTHER? I THINK I'd RATHER SEE YOU COME, PISSING AND SHAKING AND UNABLE TO STOP YOURSELF!"
As I will, Roland thought. / won't be able to help myself. I may be able to hold here another ten minutes, perhaps even another twenty, but in the end...
Patrick interrupted his thoughts, once more pointing at the road. Pointing back the way they had come.