I go mad and sprint to what the Old Red King so rightly called "my darling."
Half an hour at least three days long passed in this fashion.
Once the Crimson King called more coaxingly than ever to Roland, asking if he would not come to the Tower and palaver, after all. Perhaps, he said, if Roland were to free him from his balcony prison, they might bury an arrow together and then climb to the top room of the Tower in that same spirit of friendliness. It was not impossible, after all. A hard rain made for queer bedfellows at the inn; had Roland never heard that saying?
The gunslinger knew the saying well. He also knew that the Red King's offer was essentially the same false request as before, only this time dressed up in morning coat and cravat. And this time Roland heard worry lurking in the old monster's voice. He wasted no energy on reply.
Realizing his coaxing had failed, the Crimson King threw another sneetch. This one flew so high over the pyramid it was only a spark, then dove down upon them with the scream of a falling bomb. Roland took care of it with a single shot and reloaded from a plentitude of shells. He wished, in fact, that the King would send more of the flying grenados against him, because they took his mind temporarily off the dreadful call of the Tower.
It's been waiting for me, he thought with dismay. That's what makes it so hard to resist, I think-it's calling me in particular. Not to Roland, exactly, but to the entire line of Eld... and of that line, only I am left.
EIGHT
At last, as the descending sun began to take on its first hues of orange and Roland felt he could stand it no longer, Patrick put his pencil aside and held the pad out to Roland, frowning. The look made Roland afraid. He had never seen that particular expression in the mute boy's repertoire. Patrick's former arrogance was gone.
Roland took the pad, however, and for a moment was so amazed by what he saw there that he looked away, as if even the eyes in Patrick's drawing might have the power to fascinate him; might perhaps compel him to put his gun to his temple and blow out his aching brains. It was that good. The greedy and questioning face was long, the cheeks and forehead marked by creases so deep they might have been bottomless. The lips within the foaming beard were full and cruel. It was the mouth of a man who would turn a kiss into a bite if the spirit took him, and the spirit often would.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU're DOING?" came that screaming, lunatic voice. "IT WON'T DO YOU ANY GOOD, WHATEVER IT IS! I HOLD THE TOWER-EEEEEEEE!-I'M LIKE THE DOG WITH THE GRAPES, ROLAND! IT's MINE EVEN IF I CANT CLIMB IT! AND YOU'll COME! EEEEE! SAY TRUE! BEFORE THE SHADOW OF THE TOWER REACHES YOUR PALTRY HIDING-PLACE, YOU'll COME! FFFFFFFFJ FFFFFFFFJ EEEEEEEE!"
Patrick covered his ears, wincing. Now that he had finished drawing, he registered those terrible screams again.
That the picture was the greatest work of Patrick's life Roland had absolutely no doubt. Challenged, the boy had done more than rise above himself; he had soared above himself and committed genius. The image of the Crimson King was haunting in its clarity. The far-seeing instrument can't explain this, or not all of it, Roland thought. It's as if he has a third eye, one that looks out from his imagination and sees everything. It's that eye he looks through when he rolls the other two up. To own such an ability as this... and to express it with something as humble as a pencil! Ye gods!
He almost expected to see the pulse begin to beat in the hollows of the old man's temples, where clocksprings of veins had been delineated with only a few gende, feathered shadings. At the corner of the full and sensuous lips, the gunslinger could see the wink of a single sharp
(t U S k)
tooth, and he thought the lips of the drawing might come to life and part as he looked, revealing a mouthful of fangs: one mere wink of white (which was only a bit of unmarked paper, after all) made the imagination see all the rest, and even to smell the reek of meat that would accompany each outflow of breath.
Patrick had perfectly captured a tuft of hair curling from