Part 13 (1/2)
”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. the oracle wept. Don't be cold. It's always so cold here- 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 ant.i.thesis 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 s.h.i.+ft, 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 gra.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. Worlds rose and fell before him. Empires were built across s.h.i.+ning 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-”
G.o.d d.a.m.n you.
No G.o.d d.a.m.ned me.
Don't patronize me, Thing.
What shall I call you, then? Star-s.l.u.t? Wh.o.r.e 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.