He watched as Roland walked among the roses, and sat shivering in the shadows as Roland began to cry the names of his friends and loved ones and ka-mates; those names carried clear in that strange air, as if they would echo forever.
"I come in the name of Steven Deschain, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Gabrielle Deschain, she of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Cortland Andrus, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Cuthbert Allgood, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Alain Johns, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Jamie DeCurry, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Vannay the Wise, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Hax the Cook, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of David the hawk, he of Gilead and the sky!
"I come in the name of Susan Delgado, she of Mejis!
"I come in the name of Sheemie Ruiz, he of Mejis!
"I come in the name of Pere Callahan, he of Jerusalem's Lot, and the roads!
"I come in the name of Ted Brautigan, he of America!
"I come in the name of Dinky Earnshaw, he of America!
"I come in the name of Aunt Talidia, she of River Crossing, and will lay her cross here, as I was bid!
"I come in the name of Stephen King, he of Maine!
"I come in the name of Oy, the brave, he of Mid-World!
"I come in the name of Eddie Dean, he of New York!
"I come in the name of Susannah Dean, she of New York!
"I come in the name of Jake Chambers, he of New York, whom I call my own true son!
"I am Roland of Gilead, and I come as myself; you will open to me."
After that came the sound of a horn. It simultaneously chilled Patrick's blood and exalted him. The echoes faded into silence. Then, perhaps a minute later, came a great, echoing boom: the sound of a door swinging shut forever.
And after that came silence.
THIRTEEN
Patrick sat where he was at the base of the pyramid, shivering, until Old Star and Old Mother rose in the sky. The song of the roses and the Tower hadn't ceased, but it had grown low and sleepy, little more than a murmur.
At last he went back to the road, gathered as many whole cans as he could (there was a surprising number of them, considering the force of the explosion that had demolished the cart), and found a deerskin sack that would hold them. He realized he had forgotten his pencil and went back to get it.
Beside the pencil, gleaming in the starlight, was Roland's watch.
The boy took it with a small (and nervous) hoot of glee. He put it in his pocket. Then he went back to the road and slung his little sack of gunna over his shoulder.
I can tell you that he walked until nearly midnight, and that he looked at the watch before taking his rest. I can tell you that the watch had stopped completely. I can tell you that, come noon of the following day, he looked at it again and saw that it had begun to run in the correct direction once more, albeit very slowly. But of Patrick I can tell you no more, not whether he made it back to the Federal, not whether he found Stuttering Bill that was, not whether he eventually came once more to America-side. I can tell you none of these things, say sorry.
Here the darkness hides him from my storyteller's eye and he must go on alone.
SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK (EPILOGUE)
No one takes alarm as the little electric cart slides out of nowhere an inch at a time until it's wholly here in Central Park; no one sees it but us. Most of those here are looking skyward, as the first snowflakes of what will prove to be a great pre-Christmas snowstorm come skirling down from a white sky. The Blizzard of '87, the newspapers will call it. Visitors to the park who aren't watching the snowfall begin are watching the carolers, who are from public schools far uptown. They are wearing either dark red blazers (the boys) or dark red jumpers (the girls). This is the Harlem School Choir, sometimes called The Harlem Roses in the Post and its rival tabloid, the New York Sun. They sing an old hymn in gorgeous doo-wop harmony, snapping their fingers as they make their way through the staves, turning it into something that sounds almost