her hands through his wet hair. She felt an insane urge to touch him everywhere until she was absolutely sure of his reality.
“It almost had me,” he said. “It was like being on some crazy carnival ride. What a shot! Jesus, Suze—what a shot!”
“I hope I never have to do anything like that again,” she said . . . but a small voice at the center of her demurred. That voice suggested that she could not wait to do something like that again. And it was cold, that voice. Cold.
“What was—” he began, turning toward Roland, but Roland was no longer standing there. He was walking slowly toward the bear, which now lay on the ground with its shaggy knees up. From within it came a series of muffled gasps and gurgles as its strange guts continued to slowly run down.
Roland saw his knife planted deep in a tree near the scarred veteran that had saved Eddie’s life. He pulled it free and wiped it clean on the soft deerskin shirt which had replaced the tatters he had been wearing when the three of them had left the beach. He stood by the bear, looking down at it with an expression of pity and wonder.
Hello, stranger, he thought. Hello, old friend. I never believed in you, not really. I believe Alain did, and I know that Cuthbert did— Cuthbert believed in everything—but I was the hardheaded one. I thought you were only a tale for children . . . another wind which blew around in my old nurse’s hollow head before finally escaping her jabbering mouth. But you were here all along, another refugee of the old times, like the pump at the way station and the old machines under the mountains. Are the Slow Mutants who worshipped those broken remnants the final descendents of the people who once lived in this forest and finally fled your wrath? I don’t know, will never know . . . but it feels right. Yes. And then I came with my friends—my deadly new friends, who are becoming so much like my deadly old friends. We came, weaving our magic circle around us and around everything we touch, strand by poisonous strand, and now here you lie, at our feet. The world has moved on again, and this time, old friend, it’s you who have been left behind.
The monster’s body still radiated a deep, sick heat. Parasites were leaving its mouth and tattered nostrils in hordes, but they died almost at once. Waxy-white piles of them were growing on either side of the bear’s head.
Eddie approached slowly. He had shifted Susannah over to one hip, carrying her as a mother might carry a baby. “What was it, Roland? Do you know?”
“He called it a Guardian, I think,” Susannah said.
“Yes.” Roland’s voice was slow with amazement. “I thought they were all gone, must all be gone . . . if they ever existed outside of the old wives’ tales in the first place.”
“Whatever it was, it was one crazy mother,” Eddie said.
Roland smiled a little. “If you’d lived two or three thousand years, you’d be one crazy mother, too.”
“Two or three thousand . . . Christ!”
Susannah said, “Is it a bear? Really? And what’s that?” She was pointing at what appeared to be a square metal tag set high on one of the bear’s thick rear legs. It was almost overgrown with tough tangles of hair, but the afternoon sun had pricked out a single starpoint of light on its stainless steel surface, revealing it.
Eddie knelt and reached hesitantly toward the tag, aware that strange muffled clicks and clacks were still coming from deep inside the fallen giant. He looked at Roland.
“Go ahead,” the gunslinger told him. “It’s finished.”
Eddie pushed a clump of hair aside and leaned closer. Words had been stamped into the metal. They were quite badly eroded, but he found that with a little effort he could read them.
“Holy Jesus, this thing is a robot,” Eddie said softly.
“It can’t be,” Susannah said. “When I shot it, it bled.”
“Maybe so, but your ordinary, garden-variety bear doesn’t have a radar-dish growing out of its head. And, so far as I know, your ordinary, garden-variety bear doesn’t live to be two or three th—” He broke off suddenly, looking at Roland. When he spoke again, his voice was revolted. “Roland, what are you doing?”
Roland did not reply; did not need to reply. What he was doing— gouging out one of the bear’s eyes with