"Yes," Roland said. "Locked out of the only thing he ever wanted."
"Then maybe we could go right up the stairs and past him.
Give him the old raspberry on the way by." And when Roland looked puzzled at that, she put her tongue between her lips and demonstrated.
This time the gunslinger's smile was faint and distracted. "I
don't think it will be so easy," he said.
Susannah sighed. "Actually I don't, either."
They had what they'd come for-quite a bit more, in fact-but they still found it hard to leave Sayre's office. The picture held them. Susannah asked Roland if he didn't want to take it along. Certainly it would be simple enough to cut it out of the frame with the letter-opener on Sayre's desk and roll it up.
Roland considered the idea, then shook his head. There was a kind of malevolent life in it that might attract the wrong sort of attention, like moths to a bright light. And even if that were not the case, he had an idea that both of them might spend too much time looking at it. The picture might distract them or, even worse, hypnotize them.
In the end, maybe it's just another mind-trap, he thought. Like Insomnia.
"We'll leave it," he said. "Soon enough-in months, maybe even weeks-we'll have the real thing to look at."
"Do you say so?" she asked faintly. "Roland, do you really say so?"
"I do."
"All three of us? Or will Oy and I have to die, too, in order to open your way to the Tower? After all, you started alone, didn't you? Maybe you have to finish that way. Isn't that how a writer would want it?"
"That doesn't mean he can do it," Roland said. "Stephen King's not the water, Susannah-he's only the pipe the water runs through."
"I understand what you're saying, but I'm not sure I entirely believe it."
Roland wasn't completely sure he did, either. He thought of pointing out to Susannah that Cuthbert and Alain had been with him at the true beginning of his quest, in Mejis, and when they set out from Gilead the next time, Jamie DeCurry had joined them, making the trio a quartet. But the quest had really started after the batde of Jericho Hill, and yes, by then he had been on his own.
"I started lonejohn, but that's not how I'll finish," he said.
She had been making her way quite handily from place to place in a rolling office-chair. Now he plucked her out of it and setded her on his right hip, the one that no longer pained him.
"You and Oy will be with me when I climb the steps and enter the door, you'll be with me when I climb the stairs, you'll be with me when I deal with yon capering red goblin, and you'll be with me when I enter the room at the top."
Although Susannah did not say so, this felt like a lie to her.
In truth it felt like a lie to both of them.
TWO
They brought canned goods, a skillet, two pots, two plates, and two sets of utensils back to the Fedic Hotel. Roland had added a flashlight that provided a feeble glow from nearly dead batteries, a butcher's knife, and a handy little hatchet with a rubber grip. Susannah had found a pair of net bags in which to store this little bit of fresh gunna. She also found three cans of jellylike stuff on a high shelf in the pantry adjacent to the infirmary kitchen.
"It's Sterno," she told the gunslinger when he inquired.
"Good stuff. You can light it up. It burns slow and makes a blue flame hot enough to cook on."
"I thought we'd build a little fire behind the hotel," he said. "I won't need this smelly stuff to make one, certainly." He said it with a touch of contempt.
"No, I suppose not. But it might come in handy."
"How?"
"I don't know, but..." She shrugged.
Near the door to the street they passed what appeared to be a janitor's closet filled with piles of rickrack. Susannah had had enough of the Dogan for one day and was anxious to be out, but Roland wanted to have a look. He ignored the mop buckets and brooms and cleaning supplies in favor of a jumble of cords and straps heaped in a corner. Susannah guessed from the boards on top of which they lay that this stuff had once been used to build temporary scaffoldings. She also had an idea what Roland wanted the strappage for, and her heart sank. It was like going all the way back to the beginning.
"Thought I was done with piggybackin," she said crossly, and with more than a touch of Detta in her voice.
"It's the only way, I think," Roland said. "I'm just glad I'm whole enough again to carry your weight."
"And that passage underneath's the only way through?
You're sure of that?"
"I suppose there might be a way through the castle-" he began, but Susannah was already shaking her head.
"I've been up top with Mia, don't forget. The drop into the Discordia on the far side's at least five hundred feet. Probably more. There might have been stairs in the long-ago, but they're gone now."
"Then we're for the passage," he said, "and the passage is for us. Mayhap we'll find something for you to ride in once we're on the other side. In another town or village."
Susannah was shaking her head again. "I think this is where civilization ends, Roland. And I think we better bundle up as much as we can, because it's gonna get cold.'"
Bundling-up materials seemed to be in short supply, however, unlike the foodstuffs. No one had thought to store a few extra sweaters and fleece-lined jackets in vacuum-packed cans.
There were blankets, but even in storage they had grown thin and fragile, just short of useless.
"I don't give a bedbug's ass," she said in a wan voice. 'Just as long as we get out of this place."
"We will," he said.
THREE
Susannah is in Central Park, and it's cold enough to see her breath. The sky overhead is white from side to side, a snow-sky. She's looking down at the polar bear (who's rolling around on his rocky island, seeming to enjoy the cold just fine) when a hand snakes around her waist. Warm lips smack her cold cheek. She turns and there stand Eddie and fake.
They are wearing identical grins and nearly identical red stocking caps. Eddies says MERRY across the front and fake's says CHRISTMAS. She opens her mouth to tell them "You boys can't be here, you boys are dead, "and then she realizes, with a great and singing relief, that all that business was just a dream she had. And really, how could you doubt it? There are no talking animals called billy-bumblers, not really, no taheen-creatures with the bodies of humans and the heads of animals, no places called Fedic or Castle Discordia.
Most of all, there are no gunslingers. John Kennedy was the last, her chauffeur Andrew was right about that.
"Broughtyou hot chocolate, "Eddie says and holds it out to her. It's the perfect cup of hot chocolate, mit schlag on top and little sprinkles of nutmeg dotting the cream; she can smell it, and as she takes it she can feel his fingers inside his gloves and the first flakes of that winters snow drift down between them. She thinks how good it is to be alive in plain old New York, how great that reality is reality, that they are together in the Year of Our Lord-
What Year of Our Lord?
She frowns, because this is a serious question, isn't it? After all, Eddie's an eighties man and she never got any further than 1964 (or was it '65?). As for Jake, Jake Chambers with the toord CHRISTMAS printed on the front of his happy hat, isn't he from the seventies? And if the three of them represent three decades from the second half of the twentieth century, what is their commonality? What year is this?
"NINETEEN," says a voice out of the air (perhaps it is the voice of Bango Skank, the Great Lost Character), "this is NINETEEN, this is CHASSIT. All your friends are dead."
With each word the world becomes more unreal. She can see through Eddie and Jake. When she looks doion at the polar bear she sees it's lying dead on its rock island with its paws in the air. The good smell of hot chocolate is fading, being replaced by a musty smell: old plaster, ancient wood. The odor of a hotel room where no one has slept for years.
No, her mind moans. No, I want Central Park, I want Mr.
MERRY and Mr. CHRISTMAS, I want the smell of hot chocolate and the sight of December's first hesitant snowflakes, I've had enough of Fedic, In-World, Mid-World, and End-World. I want Afy-World. I don't care if I ever see the Dark Tower.
Eddie's and Jake's lips move in unison, as if they are singing a song she can't hear, but it's not a song; the words she reads on their lips just before the dream breaks apart are
FOUR
"Watch out for Dandelo."
She woke up with these words on her own lips, shivering in the early not-quite-dawn light. And the breath-seeing part of her dream was true, if no other. She felt her cheeks and wiped away the wetness tihere. It wasn't quite cold enough to freeze die tears to her skin, but just-a-damn-bout.
She looked around the dreary room here in the Fedic Hotel, wishing witfi all her heart tfiat her dream of Central Park had been true. For one thing, she'd had to sleep on the floor-the bed was basically nothing but a rust-sculpture waiting to disintegrate-and her back was stiff. For another, the blankets she'd used as a makeshift mattress and the ones she'd wrapped around her had all torn to rags as she tossed and turned. The air was heavy with their dust, tickling her nose and coating her throat, making her feel like she was coming down with the world's worst cold. Speaking of cold, she was shivering. And she needed to pee, which meant dragging herself down the hall on her stumps and half-numbed hands.