would die while he was busy with this miserable excuse for a man.
He looked up and saw the woman holding his gun on the driver of the van. That was good. She was good: why hadn't Gan given the story of the Tower to someone like her? In any case, his instinct to keep her with them had been true. Even the infernal racket of dogs and bumbler had quieted. Oy was licking the dirt and oil from Jake's face, while in the van, Pistol and Bullet were gobbling up the hamburger, this time without interference from their master.
Roland turned back to King, and the shell did its old sure dance across the backs of his fingers. King went under almost immediately, as most people did when they'd been hypnotized before. His eyes were still open, but now they seemed to look through the gunslinger, beyond him.
Roland's heart screamed at him to get through this as quickly as he could, but his head knew better. You must not botch it. Not unless you want to render Jake's sacrifice worthless.
The woman was looking at him, and so was the van's driver as he sat in the open door of his vehicle. Sai Tassenbaum was fighting it, Roland saw, but Bryan Smith had followed King into the land of sleep. This didn't surprise the gunslinger much. If the man had the slightest inkling of what he'd done here, he'd be apt to seize any opportunity for escape. Even a temporary one.
The gunslinger turned his attention back to the man who was, he supposed, his biographer. He started just as he had before. Days ago in his own life. Over two decades ago in the writer's.
"Stephen King, do you see me?"
"Gunslinger, I see you very well."
"When did you last see me?"
"When we lived in Bridgton. When my tet was young. When I was just learning how to write." A pause, and then he gave what Roland supposed was, for him, the most important way of marking time, a thing that was different for every man: "When I was still drinking."
"Are you deep asleep now?"
"Deep."
"Are you under the pain?"
"Under it, yes. I thank you."
The billy-bumbler howled again. Roland looked around, terribly afraid of what it might signify. The woman had gone to Jake and was kneeling beside him. Roland was relieved to see Jake put an arm around her neck and draw her head down so he could speak into her ear. If he was strong enough to do that-
Stop it! You saw the changed shape of him under his shirt. You can't afford to waste time on hope.
There was a cruel paradox here: because he loved Jake, he had to leave the business of Jake's dying to Oy and a woman they had met less than an hour ago.
Never mind. His business now was with King. Should Jake pass into the clearing while his back was turned... ifka will say so, let it be so.
Roland summoned his will and concentration. He focused them to a burning point, then turned his attention to the writer once more. "Are you Gan?" he asked abruptly, not knowing why this question came to him-only that it was the right question.
"No," King said at once. Blood ran into his mouth from the cut on his head and he spat it out, never blinking. "Once I thought I was, but that was just the booze. And pride, I suppose.
No writer is Gan-no painter, no sculptor, no maker of music.
We are kas-ka Gan. Not ka-Gan but kas-ka. Gan. Do you understand?
Do you... do you ken?"
"Yes," Roland said. The prophets of Gan or the singers of Gan: it could signify either or both. And now he knew why he had asked. "And the song you sing is Ves -Ka Gan. Isn't it?"
"Oh, yesl" King said, and smiled. "The Song of the Turde. It's far too lovely for the likes of me, who can hardly carry a tune!"
"I don't care," Roland said. He thought as hard and as clearly as his dazed mind would allow. "And now you've been hurt."
"Am I paralyzed?"
"I don't know." Nor care. "All I know is that you'll live, and when you can write again, you'll listen for the Song of the Turtle,
Ves'-Ka Gan, as you did before. Paralyzed or not. And this time you'll sing until the song is done."
"All right."
"You'll-"
"And Urs-Ka Gan, the Song of the Bear," King interrupted him. Then he shook his head, although this clearly hurt him despite the hypnotic state he was