Roland loved her because she would fight and never give in; he feared for her because he knew he would sacrifice her—Eddie as well—without a question or a look back.
For the Tower.
The God-Damned Tower .
"Time for a pill," Eddie said.
"I don't want them anymore."
"Take it and shut up."
Roland swallowed it with cold stream-water from one of the skins, then burped. He didn't mind. It was a meaty burp.
Eddie asked, "Do you know where we're going?"
"To the Tower."
"Well, yeah," Eddie said, "but that's like me being some ignoramus from Texas without a road-map saying he's going to Achin' Asshole, Alaska . Where is it? Which direction?"
"Bring me my purse."
Eddie did. Susannah stirred and Eddie paused, his face red planes and black shadows in the dying embers of the campfire. When she rested easy again, he came back to Roland.
Roland rummaged in the purse, heavy now with shells from that other world. It was short enough work to find what he wanted in what remained of his life.
The jawbone.
The jawbone of the man in black.
"We'll stay here awhile," he said, "and I'll get well."
"You'll know when you are?"
Roland smiled a little. The shakes were abating, the sweat drying in the cool night breeze. But still, in his mind, he saw those figures, those knights and friends and lovers and enemies of old, circling up and up, seen briefly in those windows and then gone; he saw the shadow of the Tower in which they were pent struck black and long across a plain of blood and death and merciless trial.
"I won't," he said, and nodded at Susannah. "But she will."
"And then?"
Roland held up the jawbone of Walter. "This once spoke."
He looked at Eddie.
"It will speak again."
"It's dangerous." Eddie's voice was flat.
"Yes."
"Not just to you."
"No."
"I love her, man."
"Yes."
"If you hurt her—"
"I'll do what I need to," the gunslinger said.
"And we don't matter? Is that it?"
"I love you both." The gunslinger looked at Eddie, and Eddie saw that Roland's cheeks glistened red in what remained of the campfire's embered dying glow. He was weeping.
"That doesn't answer the question. You'll go on, won't you?"
"Yes."
"To the very end."
"Yes. To the very end."
"No matter what." Eddie looked at him with love and hate and all the aching dearness of one man's dying hopeless helpless reach for another man's mind and will and need.
The wind made the trees moan.
"You sound like Henry, man." Eddie had begun to cry himself. He didn't want to. He hated to cry. "He had a tower, too, only it wasn't dark. Remember me telling you about Henry's tower? We were brothers, and I guess we were gunslingers. We had this White Tower, and he asked me to go after it with him the only way he could ask, so I saddled up, because he was my brother, you dig it? We got there, too. Found the White Tower . But it was poison. It killed him. It would have killed me. You saw me. You saved more than my life. You saved my fuckin soul."
Eddie held Roland and kissed his cheek. Tasted his tears.
"So what? Saddle up again? Go on and meet the man again?"
The gunslinger said not a word.
"I mean, we haven't seen many people, but I know they're up ahead, and whenever there's a Tower involved, there's a man. You wait for the man because you gotta meet the man, and in the end money talks and bullshit walks, or maybe here it's bullets instead of bucks that do the talking. So is that it? Saddle up? Go to meet the man? Because if it's just a replay of the same old shitstorm, you two should have left me for the lobsters." Eddie looked at him with dark-ringed eyes. "I been dirty, man. If I found out anything, it's that I don't want to die dirty."
"It's not the same."
"No? You gonna tell me you're not hooked?"
Roland said nothing.
"Who's gonna come through some magic door and save you, man? Do you know? I do. No one. You drew all you could draw. Only thing you can draw from now on is a fucking gun, because that's all you got left. Just like Balazar."
Roland said nothing.
"You want to know the only thing my brother ever had to teach me?" His voice was hitching and thick with tears.
"Yes," the gunslinger said. He leaned forward, his eyes intent upon Eddie's eyes.
"He taught me if you kill what you love, you're damned."
"I am damned already," Roland said calmly. "But perhaps even the damned may be saved."
"Are you going to get all of us killed?"
Roland said nothing.
Eddie seized the rags of Roland's shirt. "Are you going to get her killed?"
"We all die in time," the gunslinger said. "It's not just the world that moves on." He looked squarely at Eddie, his faded blue eyes almost the color of slate in this light. "But we will be magnificent." He paused. "There's more than a world to win, Eddie. I would not risk you and her—I would not have allowed the boy to die—if that was all there was."
"What are you talking about?"
"Everything there is," the gunslinger said calmly. "We are going to go, Eddie. We are going to fight. We are going to be hurt. And in the end we will stand."
Now it was Eddie who said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
Roland gently grasped Eddie's arm. "Even the damned love," he said.
5
Eddie eventually slept beside Susannah, the third Roland had drawn to make a new three, but Roland sat awake and listened to voices in the night while the wind dried the tears on his cheeks.
Damnation?
Salvation?
The Tower.
He would come to the Dark Tower and there he would sing their names; there he would sing their names; there he would sing all their names.
The sun stained the east a dusky rose, and at last Roland, no longer the last gunslinger but one of the last three, slept and dreamed his angry dreams through which there ran only that one soothing blue thread:
There I will sing all their names!
-AFTERWORD
This completes the second of six or seven books which make up a long tale called TheDarkTower. The third, The Waste Lands, details half of the quest of Roland, Eddie, and Susannah to reach the Tower; the fourth, Wizard and Glass, tells of an enchantment and a seduction but mostly of those things which befell Roland before his readers first met him upon the trail of the man in black.
My surprise at the acceptance of the first volume of this work, which is not at all like the stories for which I am best known, is exceeded only by my gratitude to those who have read it and liked it. This work seems to be my own Tower, you know; these people haunt me, Roland most of all. Do I really know what that Tower is, and what awaits Roland there (should he reach it, and you must prepare yourself for the very real possibility that he will not be the one to do so)? Yes … and no. All I know is that the tale has called to me again and again over a period of seventeen years. This longer second volume, still leaves many questions unanswered and the story's climax far in the future, but I feel that it is a much more complete volume than the first.
And the Tower is closer.
Stephen King
December 1st, 1986
