The Dark Tower-Part 3#-4#-5#(11)

On her way out, she paused again to look at the note. And then, for absolutely no reason she could understand, she took the Positronics magnet away and replaced it with an orange slice. Then she left.

Never mind the future. For the time being, she had enough to keep her occupied in the present.

NINE

The emergency bucka was gone, bearing the writer to die nearest hospital or infirmary, Roland assumed. Peace officers had come just as it left, and they spent perhaps half an hour talking with Bryan Smith. The gunslinger could hear the palaver from where he was, just over the first rise. The bluebacks' questions were clear and calm, Smith's answers litde more than mumbles.

Roland saw no reason to stop working. If the blues came back here and found him, he would deal with them. Just incapacitate them, unless they made that impossible; gods knew there had been enough killing. But he would bury his dead, one way or another.

He would bury his dead.

The lovely green-gold light of the clearing deepened. Mosquitoes found him but he did not stop what he was doing in order to slap them, merely let them drink their fill and then lumber off, heavy with dieir freight of blood. He heard engines starting as he finished hand-digging the grave, die smooth roar of two cars and the more uneven sound of Smith's vanmobile.

He had heard the voices of only two peace officers, which meant that, unless there had been a third blueback with nothing to say, they were allowing Smith to drive away by himself.

Roland thought this rather odd, but-like the question of whether or not King was paralyzed-it was none of his matter or mind. All diat mattered was diis; all diat mattered was seeing to his own.

He made three trips to collect stones, because a grave dug by hand must necessarily be a shallow one and animals, even in such a tame world as this, are always hungry. He stacked the stones at the head of the hole, a scar lined with earth so rich it could have been black satin. Oy lay by Jake's head, watching die gunslinger come and go, saying nothing. He'd always been different from his kind as they were since the world had moved on; Roland had even speculated that it was Oy's extraordinary chattiness that had caused the others in his tet to expel him, and not gently, either. When they'd come upon this fellow, not too far from the town of River Crossing, he'd been scrawny to the point of starvation, and with a half-healed bite-mark on one flank. The bumbler had loved Jake from the first: "That's as clear as Earth needs," Cort might have said (or Roland's own father, for that matter). And it was to Jake the bumbler had talked the most. Roland had an idea that Oy might fall mostly silent now that the boy was dead, and this thought was another way of defining what was lost.

He remembered the boy standing before the people of Calla Bryn Sturgis in the torchlight, his face young and fair, as if he would live forever. / am Jake Chambers, son of Elmer, the Line of Eld, the ka-tet of the Ninety and Nine, he had said, and oh, aye, for here he was in the Ninety and Nine, with his grave all dug, clean and ready for him.

Roland began to weep again. He put his hands over his face and rocked back and forth on his knees, smelling the sweet aromatic needles and wishing he had cried off before ka, that old and patient demon, had taught him the real price of his quest.

He would have given anything to change what had happened, anything to close this hole with nothing in it, but this was the world where time ran just one way.

TEN

When he had gained control of himself again, he wrapped Jake carefully in the blue tarpaulin, fashioning a kind of hood around the still, pale face. He would close that face away for good before refilling the grave, but not until.

"Oy?" he asked. "Will you say goodbye?"

Oy looked at Roland, and for a moment the gunslinger wasn't sure he understood. Then the bumbler extended his neck and caressed the boy's cheek a last time with his tongue. "I,

Ake," he said: Bye, Jake or I ache, it came to the same.

The gunslinger gathered the boy up (how light he was, this boy who had jumped from the barn loft with Benny Slightman, and stood against the vampires with Pere Callahan, how curiously light; as if the growing weight of him had departed with his life) and lowered him into the hole. A crumble of dirt spilled down one cheek and Roland wiped it away. That done, he closed his eyes again and diought. Then, at last-haltingly-he began. He knew that any translation into the language of this place would be clumsy, but he did the best he could. If Jake's spirit-man lingered near, it was this language that he would understand.

"Time flies, knells call, life passes, so hear my prayer.

"Birth is nothing but death begun, so hear my prayer.

"Death is speechless, so hear my speech."

The words drifted away into the haze of green and gold.

Roland let them, then set upon the rest. He spoke more quickly now.

"This is Jake, who served his ka and his tet. Say true.

"May the forgiving glance of S'mana heal his heart. Say please.

"May the arms of Gan raise him from the darkness of this earth. Say please.

"Surround him, Gan, with light.

"Fill him, Chloe, with strength.

"If he is thirsty, give him water in the clearing.

"If he is hungry, give him food in the clearing.

"May his life on this earth and the pain of his passing become as a dream to his waking soul, and let his eyes fall upon every lovely sight; let him find the friends that were lost to him, and let every one whose name he calls call his in return.

"This is Jake, who lived well, loved his own, and died as ka would have it.

"Each man owes a death. This is Jake. Give him peace."

He knelt a moment longer with his hands clasped between his knees, thinking he had not understood the true power of sorrow, nor the pain of regret, until this moment.

I cannot bear to let him go.

But once again, that cruel paradox: if he didn't, the sacrifice was in vain.

Roland opened his eyes and said, "Goodbye, Jake. I love you, dear."

Then he closed the blue hood around the boy's face against the rain of earth that must follow.

ELEVEN

When the grave was filled and the rocks placed over it, Roland walked back to the clearing by the road and examined the tale the various tracks told, simply because there was nothing else to do. When that meaningless task was finished, he sat down on a fallen log. Oy had stayed by the grave, and Roland had an idea he might bide there. He would call the bumbler when Mrs.

Tassenbaum returned, but knew Oy might not come; if he didn't, it meant that Oy had decided to join his friend in the clearing. The bumbler would simply stand watch by Jake's grave until starvation (or some predator) took him. The idea deepened Roland's sorrow, but he would bide by Oy's decision.

Ten minutes later the bumbler came out of the woods on his own and sat down by Roland's left boot. "Good boy," Roland said, and stroked the bumbler's head. Oy had decided to live.

It was a small thing, but it was a good thing.

Ten minutes after that, a dark red car rolled almost silently up to the place where King had been struck and Jake killed. It pulled over. Roland opened the door on the passenger side and got in, still wincing against pain that wasn't there. Oy jumped up between his feet without being asked, lay down with his nose against his flank, and appeared to go to sleep.

"Did you see to your boy?" Mrs. Tassenbaum asked, pulling away.

"Yes. Thankee-sai."

"I guess I can't put a marker there," she said, "but later on I could plant something. Is there something you think he might like?"

Roland looked up, and for the first time since Jake's death, he smiled. 'Yes," he said. "A rose."

TWELVE

They rode for almost twenty minutes without speaking. She stopped at a small store over the Bridgton town line and pumped gas: MOBIL, a brand Roland recognized from his wanderings.

When she went in to pay, he looked up at los dngeles, running clear and true across the sky. The Path of the Beam, and stronger already, unless that was just his imagination. He supposed it didn't matter if it was. If the Beam wasn't stronger now, it soon would be. They had succeeded in saving it, but Roland felt no gladness at the idea.

When Mrs. Tassenbaum came out of the store, she was holding a singlet-style shirt with a picture of a bucka-wagon on it-a real bucka-wagon-and words written in a circle. He could make out HOME, but nothing else. He asked her what the words said.

"BRIDGTON OLD HOME DAYS, JULY 27TH TO JULY 30TH, 1999,"

she told him. "It doesn't really matter what it says as long as it covers your chest. Sooner or later we'll want to stop, and there's a saying we have in these parts: 'No shirt, no shoes, no service."

Your boots look beat-up and busted down, but I guess they'll get you through the door of most places. But topless? Huh-uh, no way Jose. I'll get you a better shirt later on-one with a collar-and some decent pants, too. Those jeans are so dirty I bet they'd stand up on their own." She engaged in a brief (but furious)

interior debate, then plunged. 'You've got I'm going to say roughly two billion scars. And that's just on the part of you I can see."

Roland did not respond to this. "Do you have money?" he asked.

"I got three hundred dollars when I went back to the house to get my car, and I had thirty or forty with me. Also credit cards, but your late friend said to use cash as long as I could. Until you go on by yourself, if possible. He said there might be folks looking for you. He called them 'low men.'"

Roland nodded. Yes, there would be low men out there, and after all he and his ka-tet had done to thwart the plans of their master, they'd be twice as eager to have his head. Preferably smoking, and on the end of a stick. Also the head of sai Tassenbaum, if they found out about her.