CHAPTER 3 #3
He stepped into the clearing and walked straight into the circle.
He stood, letting his mind run free. Yes, it was coming harder now, faster.
The grass screamed green at him; it seemed that if he bent over and rubbed his hands in it he would stand up with green paint all over his fingers and palms. He resisted a puckish urge to try the experiment.
But there was no voice from the oracle. No stirring, sexual or otherwise.
He went to the altar, stood beside it for a moment.
Coherent thought was now almost impossible.
His teeth felt strange in his head, tiny tombstones set in pink moist earth.
The world held too much light. He climbed up on the altar and lay back.
His mind was becoming a jungle full of strange thought-plants that he had never seen or suspected before, a willow-jungle that had grown up around a mescaline spring.
The sky was water and he hung suspended over it.
The thought gave him a vertigo that seemed faraway and unimportant.
A line of old poetry occurred to him, not a nursery voice now, no; his mother had feared the drugs and the necessity of them (as she had feared Cort and the need for this beater of boys); this verse came from the Manni-folk to the north of the desert, a clan of them still living among machines that usually didn’t work .
. . and which sometimes ate the men when they did.
The lines played again and again, reminding him (in an unconnected way that was typical of the mescaline rush) of snow falling in a globe he had owned as a child, mystic and half fantastical:
Beyond the reach of human range
A drop of hell, a touch of strange . . .
The trees which overhung the altar contained faces. He watched them with abstracted fascination: Here was a dragon, green and twitching, here a wood-nymph with beckoning branch arms, here a living skull overgrown with slime. Faces. Faces.
The grasses of the clearing suddenly whipped and bent.
I come.
I come.
Vague stirrings in his flesh. How far I have come, he thought. From lying with Susan in sweet grass on the Drop to this.
She pressed over him, a body made of the wind, a breast of fragrant jasmine, rose, and honeysuckle.
“Make your prophecy,” he said. “Tell me what I need to know.” His mouth felt full of metal.
A sigh. A faint sound of weeping. The gunslinger’s genitals felt drawn and hard. Over him and beyond the faces in the leaves, he could see the mountains—hard and brutal and full of teeth.
The body moved against him, struggled with him.
He felt his hands curl into fists. She had sent him a vision of Susan.
It was Susan above him, lovely Susan Delgado, waiting for him in an abandoned drover’s hut on the Drop with her hair spilled down her back and over her shoulders.
He tossed his head, but her face followed.
Jasmine, rose, honeysuckle, old hay . . . the smell of love. Love me.
“Speak prophecy,” he said. “Speak truth.”
Please, the oracle wept. Don’t be cold. It’s always so cold here—
Hands slipping over his flesh, manipulating, lighting him on fire. Pulling him. Drawing. A perfumed black crevice. Wet and warm—
No. Dry. Cold. Sterile.
Have a touch of mercy, gunslinger. Ah, please, I cry your favor! Mercy!
Would you have mercy on the boy?
What boy? I know no boy. It’s not boys I need. O please.
Jasmine, rose, honeysuckle. Dry hay with its ghost of summer clover. Oil decanted from ancient urns. A riot for flesh.
“After,” he said. “If what you tell me is useful.”
Now. Please. Now.
He let his mind coil out at her, the antithesis of emotion.
The body that hung over him froze and seemed to scream.
There was a brief, vicious tug-of-war between his temples—his mind was the rope, gray and fibrous.
For long moments there was no sound but the quiet hush of his breathing and the faint breeze which made the green faces in the trees shift, wink, and grimace. No bird sang.
Her hold loosened. Again there was the sound of sobbing. It would have to be quick, or she would leave him. To stay now meant attenuation; perhaps her own kind of death. Already he felt her chilling, drawing away to leave the circle of stones. Wind rippled the grass in tortured patterns.
“Prophecy,” he said, and then an even bleaker noun. “Truth.”
A weeping, tired sigh. He could almost have granted the mercy she begged, but—there was Jake. He would have found Jake dead or insane if he had been any later last night.
Sleep then.
“No.”
Then half-sleep.
What she asked was dangerous, but also probably necessary.
The gunslinger turned his eyes up to the faces in the leaves.
A play was being enacted there for his amusement.
Worlds rose and fell before him. Empires were built across shining sands where forever machines toiled in abstract electronic frenzies.
Empires declined, fell, rose again. Wheels that had spun like silent liquid moved more slowly, began to squeak, began to scream, stopped.
Sand choked the stainless steel gutters of concentric streets below dark skies full of stars like beds of cold jewels.
And through it all, a dying wind of change blew, bringing with it the cinnamon smell of late October.
The gunslinger watched as the world moved on.
And half-slept.
Three. This is the number of your fate.
Three?
Yes, three is mystic. Three stands at the heart of your quest. Another number comes later. Now the number is three.
Which three?
“We see in part, and thus is the mirror of prophecy darkened.”
Tell me what you can.
The first is young, dark-haired. He stands on the brink of robbery and murder. A demon has infested him. The name of the demon is HEROIN.
Which demon is that? I know it not, even from my tutor’s lessons.
“We see in part, and thus is the mirror of prophecy darkened.” There are other worlds, gunslinger, and other demons. These waters are deep. Watch for the doorways. Watch for the roses and the unfound doorways.
The second?
She comes on wheels. I see no more.
The third?
Death . . . but not for you.
The man in black? Where is he?
Near. You will speak with him soon.
Of what will we speak?
The Tower.
The boy? Jake?
. . .
Tell me of the boy!
The boy is your gate to the man in black. The man in black is your gate to the three. The three are your way to the Dark Tower.
How? How can that be? Why must it be?
“We see in part, and thus is the mirror—”
God damn you.
No God damned me.
Don’t patronize me, Thing.
. . .
What shall I call you, then? Star-slut? Whore of the Winds?
Some live on love that comes to the ancient places . . . even in these sad and evil times. Some, gunslinger, live on blood. Even, I understand, on the blood of young boys.
May he not be spared?
Yes.
How?
Cease, gunslinger. Strike your camp and turn back northwest. In the northwest there is still a need for men who live by the bullet.
I am sworn by my father’s guns and by the treachery of Marten.
Marten is no more. The man in black has eaten his soul. This you know.
I am sworn.
Then you are damned.
Have your way with me, bitch.
VI
Eagerness.
The shadow swung over him, enfolded him. There was sudden ecstasy broken only by a galaxy of pain, as faint and bright as ancient stars gone red with collapse. Faces came to him unbidden at the climax of their coupling: Sylvia Pittston; Alice, the woman from Tull; Susan; a dozen others.
And finally, after an eternity, he pushed her away from him, once again in his right mind, bone-weary and disgusted.
No! It isn’t enough! It—
“Let me be,” the gunslinger said. He sat up and almost fell off the altar before regaining his feet. She touched him tentatively
(honeysuckle, jasmine, sweet attar)
and he pushed her violently, falling to his knees.
He made his drunken way to the perimeter of the circle.
He staggered through, feeling a huge weight fall from his shoulders.
He drew a shuddering, weeping breath. Had he learned enough to justify this feeling of defilement?
He didn’t know. In time he supposed he would.
As he started away, he could feel her standing at the bars of her prison, watching him go from her.
He wondered how long it might be before someone else crossed the desert and found her, hungry and alone.
For a moment he felt dwarfed by the possibilities of time.
VII
“You’re sick!”
Jake stood up fast when the gunslinger shambled back through the last trees and came into camp.
He’d been huddled by the ruins of the tiny fire, the jawbone across his knees, gnawing disconsolately on the bones of the rabbit.
Now he ran toward the gunslinger with a look of distress that made Roland feel the full, ugly weight of a coming betrayal.
“No,” he said. “Not sick. Just tired. Whipped.” He gestured absently at the jawbone. “You can let go of that, Jake.”
The boy threw it down quickly and violently, rubbing his hands across his shirt after doing it. His upper lip rose and fell in a snarl that was, the gunslinger believed, perfectly unconscious.
The gunslinger sat down—almost fell down—feeling the aching joints and the pummeled, thick mind that was the unlovely afterglow of mescaline.
His crotch also pulsed with a dull ache.
He rolled a cigarette with careful, unthinking slowness.
Jake watched. The gunslinger had a sudden impulse to speak to the boy dan-dinh after telling him all he had learned, then thrust the idea away with horror.
He wondered if a part of him—mind or soul—might not be disintegrating.
To open one’s mind and heart to the command of a child? The idea was insane.
“We sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we start climbing. I’ll go out a little later and see if I can’t shoot something for supper. We need to make strength. I’ve got to sleep now. Okay?”
“Sure. Knock yourself out.”
“I don’t understand you.”