Darktower 2 - The Drawing of the Three

by Stephen King

  Take care of what? he thought as his consciousness faded. What is it you’ll take care of, now that we’re both at your mercy?

  “Who are you?” he husked, as darkness deeper than night began to take him down.

  ”I am three women,” he heard her say, and it was as if she were speaking to him from the top of a deep well into which he was falling. “I who was; I who had no right to be but was; I am the woman who you have saved.

  “I thank you, gunslinger.”

  She kissed him, he knew that, but for a long time after, Roland knew only darkness.

  final shuffle

  1

  For the first time in what seemed like a thousand years, the gunslinger was not thinking about the Dark Tower. He thought only about the deer which had come down to the pool in the woodland clearing.

  He sighted over the fallen log with his left hand.

  Meat, he thought, and fired as saliva squirted warmly into his mouth.

  Missed, he thought in the millisecond following the shot. It’s gone. All my skill… gone.

  The deer fell dead at the edge of the pool.

  Soon the Tower would fill him again, but now he only blessed what gods there were that his aim was still true, and thought of meat, and meat, and meat. He re-holstered the gun—the only one he wore now—and climbed over the log behind which he had patiently lain as late afternoon drew down to dusk, waiting for something big enough to eat to come to the pool.

  I am getting well, he thought with some amazement as he drew his knife. I am really getting well.

  He didn’t see the woman standing behind him, watching with assessing brown eyes.

  2

  They had eaten nothing but lobster-meat and had drunk nothing but brackish stream water for six days following the confrontation at the end of the beach. Roland remembered very little of that time; he had been raving, delirious. He sometimes called Eddie Alain, sometimes Cuthbert, and always he called the woman Susan.

  His fever had abated little by little, and they began the laborious trek into the hills. Eddie pushed the woman in the chair some of the time, and sometimes Roland rode in it while Eddie carried her piggyback, her arms locked loosely around his neck. Most of the time the way made it impossible for either to ride, and that made the going slow. Roland knew how exhausted Eddie was. The woman knew, too, but Eddie never complained.

  They had food; during the days when Roland lay between life and death, smoking with fever, reeling and railing of times long past and people long dead, Eddie and the woman killed again and again and again. Bye and bye the lobstrosities began staying away from their part of the beach, but by then they had plenty of meat, and when they at last got into an area where weeds and slutgrass grew, all three of them ate compulsively of it. They were starved for greens, any greens. And, little by little, the sores on their skins began to fade. Some of the grass was bitter, some sweet, but they ate no matter what the taste… except once.

  The gunslinger had wakened from a tired doze and seen the woman yanking at a handful of grass he recognized all too well.

  “No! Not that!” he croaked. “Never that! Mark it, and remember it! Never that!”

  She looked at him for a long moment and put it aside without asking for an explanation.

  The gunslinger lay back, cold with the closeness of it. Some of the other grasses might kill them, but what the woman had pulled would damn her. It had been devil-weed.

  The Keflex had brought on explosions in his bowels, and he knew Eddie had been worried about that, but eating the grasses had controlled it.

  Eventually they had reached real woods, and the sound of the Western Sea diminished to a dull drone they heard only when the wind was right.

  And now … meat.

  3

  The gunslinger reached the deer and tried to gut it with the knife held between the third and fourth fingers of his right hand. No good. His fingers weren’t strong enough. He switched the knife to his stupid hand, and managed a clumsy cut from the deer’s groin to its chest. The knife let out the steaming blood before it could congeal in the meat and spoil it … but it was still a bad cut. A puking child could have done better.

  You are going to learn to be smart, he told his left hand, and prepared to cut again, deeper.

  Two brown hands closed over his one and took the knife.

  Roland looked around.

  “I’ll do it,” Susannah said.

  “Have you ever?”

  “No, but you’ll tell me how.”

  “All right.”

  “Meat,” she said, and smiled at him.

  “Yes,” he said, and smiled back. “Meat.”

  “What’s happening?” Eddie called. “I heard a shot.”

  “Thanksgiving in the making!” she called back. “Come help!”

  Later they ate like two kings and a queen, and as the gunslinger drowsed toward sleep, looking up at the stars, feeling the clean coolness in this upland air, he thought that this was the closest he had come to contentment in too many years to count.

  He slept. And dreamed.

  4

  It was the Tower. The Dark Tower.

  It stood on the horizon of a vast plain the color of blood in the violent setting of a dying sun. He couldn’t see the stairs which spiraled up and up and up within its brick shell, but he could see the windows which spiraled up along that staircase’s way, and saw the ghosts of all the people he had ever known pass through them. Up and up they marched, and an arid wind brought him the sound of voices calling his name.

  Roland … come … Roland … come … come . . , come …

  “I come,” he whispered, and awoke sitting bolt upright, sweating and shivering as if the fever still held his flesh.

  “Roland?”

  Eddie.

  “Yes.”

  “Bad dream?”

  “Bad. Good. Dark.”

  “The Tower?”

  “Yes.”

  They looked toward Susannah, but she slept on, undis­turbed. Once there had been a woman named Odetta Susan­nah Holmes; later, there had been another named Delta Susannah Walker. Now there was a third: Susannah Dean.

  Roland loved her because she would fight and never give in; he feared for her because he knew he would sacrifice her— Eddie as well—without a question or a look back.

  For the Tower.

  The GodDamned Tower.

  “Time for a pill,” Eddie said.

  “I don’t want them anymore.”

  “Take it and shut up.”

  Roland swallowed it with cold stream-water from one of the skins, then burped. He didn’t mind. It was a meaty burp.

  Eddie asked, “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “To the Tower.”

  “Well, yeah,” Eddie said, “but that’s like me being some ignoramus from Texas without a road-map saying he’s going to Achin’ Asshole, Alaska. Where is it? Which direction?”

  “Bring me my purse.”

  Eddie did. Susannah stirred and Eddie paused, his face red planes and black shadows in the dying embers of the campfire. When she rested easy again, he came back to Roland.

  Roland rummaged in the purse, heavy now with shells from that other world. It was short enough work to find what he wanted in what remained of his life.

  The jawbone.

  The jawbone of the man in black.

  “We’ll stay here awhile,” he said, “and I’ll get well.”

  “You’ll know when you are?”

  Roland smiled a little. The shakes were abating, the sweat drying in the cool night breeze. But still, in his mind, he saw those figures, those knights and friends and lovers and ene­mies of old, circling up and up, seen briefly in those windows and then gone; he saw the shadow of the Tower in which they were pent struck black and long across a plain of blood and death and merciless trial.

  “I won’t,” he said, and nodded at Susannah. “But she will.”

  “And then?”

  Roland held up t
he jawbone of Walter. “This once spoke.”

  He looked at Eddie.

  “It will speak again.”

  “It’s dangerous.” Eddie’s voice was flat.

  “Yes.”

  “Not just to you.”

  “No.”

  “I love her, man.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you hurt her—”

  “I’ll do what I need to,” the gunslinger said.

  “And we don’t matter? Is that it?”

  “I love you both.” The gunslinger looked at Eddie, and Eddie saw that Roland’s cheeks glistened red in what remained of the campfire’s embered dying glow. He was weeping.

  “That doesn’t answer the question. You’ll go on, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the very end.”

  “Yes. To the very end.”

  “No matter what.” Eddie looked at him with love and hate and all the aching dearness of one man’s dying hopeless helpless reach for another man’s mind and will and need.

  The wind made the trees moan.

  “You sound like Henry, man.” Eddie had begun to cry himself. He didn’t want to. He hated to cry. “He had a tower, too, only it wasn’t dark. Remember me telling you about Henry’s tower? We were brothers, and I guess we were gunslingers. We had this White Tower, and he asked me to go after it with him the only way he could ask, so I saddled up, because he was my brother, you dig it? We got there, too. Found the White Tower. But it was poison. It killed him. It would have killed me. You saw me. You saved more than my life. You saved my fuckin soul.”

  Eddie held Roland and kissed his cheek. Tasted his tears.

  “So what? Saddle up again? Go on and meet the man again?”

  The gunslinger said not a word.

  “I mean, we haven’t seen many people, but I know they’re up ahead, and whenever there’s a Tower involved, there’s a man. You wait for the man because you gotta meet the man, and in the end money talks and bullshit walks, or maybe here it’s bullets instead of bucks that do the talking. So is that it? Saddle up? Go to meet the man? Because if it’s just a replay of the same old shitstorm, you two should have left me for the lobsters.” Eddie looked at him with dark-ringed eyes. “I been dirty, man. If I found out anything, it’s that I don’t want to die dirty.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No? You gonna tell me you’re not hooked?”

  Roland said nothing.

  “Who’s gonna come through some magic door and save you, man? Do you know? I do. No one. You drew all you could draw. Only thing you can draw from now on is a fucking gun, because that’s all you got left. Just like Balazar.”

  Roland said nothing.

  “You want to know the only thing my brother ever had to teach me?” His voice was hitching and thick with tears.

  “Yes,” the gunslinger said. He leaned forward, his eyes intent upon Eddie’s eyes.

  “He taught me if you kill what you love, you’re damned.”

  “I am damned already,” Roland said calmly. “But per­haps even the damned may be saved.”

  “Are you going to get all of us killed?”

  Roland said nothing.

  Eddie seized the rags of Roland’s shirt. “Are you going to get her killed?”

  “We all die in time,” the gunslinger said. “It’s not just the world that moves on.” He looked squarely at Eddie, his faded blue eyes almost the color of slate in this light. “But we will be magnificent.” He paused. “There’s more than a world to win, Eddie. I would not risk you and her—I would not have allowed the boy to die—if that was all there was.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Everything there is,” the gunslinger said calmly. “We are going to go, Eddie. We are going to fight. We are going to be hurt. And in the end we will stand.”

  Now it was Eddie who said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.

  Roland gently grasped Eddie’s arm. “Even the damned love,” he said.

  5

  Eddie eventually slept beside Susannah, the third Roland had drawn to make a new three, but Roland sat awake and listened to voices in the night while the wind dried the tears on his cheeks.

  Damnation?

  Salvation?

  The Tower.

  He would come to the Dark Tower and there he would sing their names; there he would sing their names; there he would sing all their names.

  The sun stained the east a dusky rose, and at last Roland, no longer the last gunslinger but one of the last three, slept and dreamed his angry dreams through which there ran only that one soothing blue thread:

  There I will sing all their names!

  AFTERWORD

  This completes the second of six or seven books which make up a long tale called The Dark Tower. The third, The Waste Lands, details half of the quest of Roland, Eddie, and Susannah to reach the Tower; the fourth, Wizard and Glass, tells of an enchantment and a seduction but mostly of those things which befell Roland before his readers first met him upon the trail of the man in black.

  My surprise at the acceptance of the first volume of this work, which is not at all like the stories for which I am best known, is exceeded only by my gratitude to those who have read it and liked it. This work seems to be my own Tower, you know; these people haunt me, Roland most of all. Do I really know what that Tower is, and what awaits Roland there (should he reach it, and you must prepare yourself for the very real possibility that he will not be the one to do so)? Yes … and no. All I know is that the tale has called to me again and again over a period of seventeen years. This longer second volume, still leaves many questions unanswered and the sto­ry’s climax far in the future, but I feel that it is a much more complete volume than the first.

  And the Tower is closer.

  Stephen King December 1st, 1986

  STEPHEN KING, the world’s bestselling

  novelist, is the author of more than thirty books, most

  recently Desperation, Rose Madder, Insomnia, and The

  Green Mile. His four volumes in the Dark Tower

  series, including The Gunslinger, The Waste Lands,

  and the latest, Wizard and Glass, are all available in

  Plume trade paperback editions. He lives in Bangor,

  Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.