asked the sly, pulsing voice in his head. Kill him and put him out of his misery, if thee feels so tender toward him? He and the bumbler can enter the clearing together. They can make a place there for you, gunslinger.
Roland shook his head and tried to smile. "Nay, Patrick, son of Sonia," he said (for that was how Bill the robot had called the boy). "Nay, I was wrong-again-and will not scold thee. But..."
He walked to where Patrick was sitting. Patrick cringed away from him with a doglike, placatory smile that made Roland angry all over again, but he quashed the emotion easily enough this time. Patrick had loved Oy too, and this was the only way he had of dealing with his sorrow.
Little that mattered to Roland now.
He reached down and gently plucked the eraser out of the boy's fingers. Patrick looked at him questioningly, then reached out his empty hand, asking with his eyes that the wonderful
(and useful) new toy be given back.
"Nay," Roland said, as gently as he could. 'You made do for the gods only know how many years without ever knowing such things existed; you can make do the rest of this one day, I think. Mayhap there'll be something for you to draw-and then undraw-later on. Do'ee ken, Patrick?"
Patrick did not, but once the eraser was safely deposited in Roland's pocket along with the watch, he seemed to forget about it and just went back to his drawing.
"Put thy picture aside for a little, too," Roland told him.
Patrick did so without argument. He pointed first to the cart, then to the Tower Road, and made his interrogative hooting sound.
"Aye," Roland said, "but first we should see what Mordred had for gunna-there may be something useful there-and bury our friend. Will'ee help me see Oy into the ground,
Patrick?"
Patrick was willing, and the burial didn't take long; the body was far smaller than the heart it had held. By midmorning they had begun to cover the last few miles on the long road which led to the Dark Tower.
Part Five:THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN’-KA NO REY Chapter III:THE CRIMSON KING AND THE DARK TOWER
ONE
The road and the tale have both been long, would you not say so? The trip has been long and the cost has been high... but no great thing was ever attained easily. A long tale, like a tall Tower, must be built a stone at a time. Now, however, as the end draws closer, you must mark yon two travelers walking toward us with great care. The older man-he with the tanned, lined face and the gun on his hip-is pulling the cart they call Ho Fat II.
The younger one-he with the oversized drawing pad tucked under his arm that makes him look like a student in days of old-is walking along beside it. They are climbing a long, gently upsloping hill not much different from hundreds of others they have climbed. The overgrown road they follow is lined on either side with the remains of rock walls; wild roses grow in amiable profusion amid die tumbles of fieldstone. In the open, brush-dotted land beyond these fallen walls are strange stone edifices. Some look like the ruins of castles; others have the appearance of Egyptian obelisks; a few are clearly Speaking Rings of the sort where demons may be summoned; one ancient ruin of stone pillars and plinths has the look of Stonehenge.
One almost expects to see hooded Druids gathered in the center of that great circle, perhaps casting die runes, but the keepers of these monuments, these precursors of the Great Monument, are all gone. Only small herds of bannock graze where once they worshipped.
Never mind. It's not old ruins we've come to observe near the end of our long journey, but the old gunslinger pulling the handles of the cart. We stand at the crest of the hill and wait as he comes toward us. He comes. And comes. Relendess as ever, a man who always learns to speak the language of the land (at least some of it) and die customs of the country; he is still a man who would straighten pictures in strange hotel rooms. Much about him has changed, but not that. He crests the hill, so close to us now that we can smell the sour tang of his sweat. He looks up, a quick and automatic glance he shoots first ahead and then to either side as he tops any hill-Always conyer