The Dark Tower-Part 3#-4#-5#(19)

Roland was looking intently at Aaron Deepnau's grandniece.

"The Crimson King is mentioned in here? By actual name?"

"Yes," she said. "The Ed Deepneau in Bangor-the real. Deepneau-was a cousin of my father's, four or five times removed. The Calvins could show you the family tree if you wanted, but there really isn't much of a connection to Uncle Aaron's part of it. We think King may have used the name in the book as a way of getting your attention-or ours-without even realizing what he was doing."

"A message from his undermind," the gunslinger mused.

Nancy brightened. "His subconscious, yes! Yes, that's exactly what we think!"

It wasn't exactly what Roland was thinking. The gunslinger had been recalling how he had hypnotized King in the year of 1977; how he had told him to listen for Ves'-Ka Gan, the Song of the Turtle. Had King's undermind, the part of him that would never have stopped trying to obey the hypnotic command, put part of the Song of the Turde in this book? A book the Servants of the King might have neglected because it wasn't part of the

"Dark Tower Cycle"? Roland thought that could be, and that the name Deepneau might indeed be a sigul. But-

"I can't read this," he said. "A word here and a word there, perhaps, but no more."

"You can't, but my girl can," Moses Carver said. "My girl Odetta, that you call Susannah."

Roland nodded slowly. And although he had already begun to have his doubts, his mind nevertheless cast up a brilliant image of the two of them sitting close by a fire-a large one, for the night was cold-with Oy between. In the rocks above them the wind howled bitter notes of winter, but they cared not, for their bellies were full, their bodies were warm, dressed in the skins of animals they had killed themselves, and they had a story to entertain them.

Stephen King's story of insomnia.

"She'll read it to you on the trail," Moses said. "On your last trail, say God!"

Yes, Roland thought. One last story to hear, one last trail to follow.

The one that leads to Can '-Ka No Rey, and the Dark Tower. "Or it would be nice to think so," Nancy said, "In the story, the Crimson King is using Ed Deepneau to kill one single child, a boy named Patrick Danville.

Just before the attack, while Patrick and his mother are waiting for a woman to make a speech, the boy draws a picture, one that shows you, Roland, and the Crimson King, apparently imprisoned at the top of the Dark Tower."

Roland started in his seat. "The top? Imprisoned at the top?"

"Easy," Marian said. "Take it easy, Roland. The Calvins have been analyzing King's work for years, every word and every reference, and everything they produce gets forwarded to the good-mind folken in New Mexico. Although these two groups have never seen each other, it would be perfectly correct to say that they work together."

"Not that they're always in agreement," Nancy said.

"They sure aren't!n Marian spoke in the exasperated tone of one who's had to referee more than her share of squabbles. "But one thing that they are in agreement about is that King's references to the Dark Tower are almost always masked, and sometimes mean nothing at all."

Roland nodded. "He speaks of it because his undermind is always thinking of it, but sometimes he lapses into gibberish."

"Yes," Nancy said.

"But obviously you don't think this entire book is a false trail, or you would not want to give it to me."

"Indeed we do not," Nancy said. "But that doesn't mean the Crimson King is necessarily imprisoned at the top of the Tower.

Although I suppose it might."

Roland thought of his own belief that the Red King was locked out of the Tower, on a kind of balcony. Was it a genuine intuition, or just something he wanted to believe?

"In any case, we think you should watch for this Patrick Danville," Marian said. "The consensus is that he's a real person, but we haven't been able to find any trace of him here.

Perhaps you may find him in Thunderclap."

"Or beyond it," Moses put in.

Marian was nodding. "According to the story King tells in Insomnia-you'll see for yourself-Patrick Danville dies as a young man. But that may not be true. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure I do."

"When you find Patrick Danville-or when he finds you-he may still be the child described in this book," Nancy said, "or he could be as old as Uncle Mose."

"Bad luck Fhim if that be true!" said the old man, and chortled.

Roland lifted the book, stared at the red and white cover, traced the slighdy raised letters that made a word he could not read. "Surely it's just a story?"

"From the spring of 1970, when he typed the line The man in black fled across the desert and the guns linger followed," Marian Carver said, "very few of the things Stephen King wrote were

"just stories.' He may not believe that; we do."

But years of dealing with the Crimson King may have left you with a way of jumping at shadows, do it please ya, Roland thought.

Aloud he said, "If not stories, what?"

It was Moses Carver who answered. "We think maybe messages in bottles." In the way he spoke this word-boh'uls, almost-Roland heard a heartbreaking echo of Susannah, and suddenly wanted to see her and know she was all right. This desire was so strong it left a bitter taste on his tongue.

"-that great sea."

"Beg your pardon," the gunslinger said. "I was wool-gathering."

"I said we believe that Stephen King's cast his botdes upon that great sea. The one we call the Prim. In hopes that they'll reach you, and the messages inside will make it possible for you and my Odetta to gain your goal."

"Which brings us to our final gifts," Marian said. "Our true gifts. First … " She handed him the box.

It opened on a hinge. Roland placed his left hand splayed over the top, meaning to swing it back, then paused and studied his interlocutors. They were looking at him with hope and suspenseful interest, an expression that made him uneasy. A mad

(but surprisingly persuasive) idea came to him: that these were in truth agents of the Crimson King, and when he opened the box, the last thing he'd see would be a primed sneetch, counting down the last few clicks to red zero. And the last sound he'd hear before the world blew up around him would be their mad laughter and a cry of Hile the Red King! It wasn't impossible, either, but a point came where one had to trust, because the alternative was madness.

If ka will say so, let it be so, he thought, and opened the box.

TWELVE

Within, resting on dark blue velvet (which diey might or might not have known was the color of the Royal Court of Gilead), was a watch within a coiled chain. Engraved upon its gold cover were three objects: a key, a rose, and-between and slightly above them-a tower with tiny windows marching around its circumference in an ascending spiral.

Roland was amazed to find his eyes once more filling with tears. When he looked at the others again-two young women and one old man, the brains and guts of the Tet Corporation-he at first saw six instead of three. He blinked the phantom doubles away.

"Open the cover and look inside," Moses Carver said. "And there's no need to hide your tears in this company, you son of Steven, for we're not the machines the others would replace us with, if they had their way."

Roland saw that the old man spoke true, for tears were slipping down the weathered darkness of his cheeks. Nancy Deepneau was also weeping freely. And aldiough Marian Carver no doubt prided herself on being made of sterner stuff, her eyes held a suspicious gleam.

He depressed the stem protruding from the top of the case, and the lid sprang up. Inside, finely scrolled hands told the hour and the minute, and with perfect accuracy, he had no doubt. Below, in its own small circle, a smaller hand raced away the seconds. Carved on the inside of the lid was this:

To the Hand of ROLAND DESCHAIN

From Those of MOSES ISAAC CARVER

MARIAN ODETTA CARVER
NANCY REBECCA DEEPNEAU

With Our Gratitude White Over Red,Thus GOD Wills Ever

"Thankee-sai," Roland said in a hoarse and trembling voice.

"I thank you, and so would my friends, were they here to speak."

"In our hearts they do speak, Roland," Marian said. "And in your face we see them very well."

Moses Carver was smiling. "In our world, Roland, giving a man a gold watch has a special significance."

"What would that be?" Roland asked. He held the watch-easily die finest timepiece he'd ever had in his life-up to his ear and listened to the precise and delicate ticking of its machinery.

"That his work is done and it's time for him to go fishing or play with his grandchildren," Nancy Deepneau said. "But we gave it to you for a different reason. May it count the hours to your goal and tell you when you near it."

"How can it do that?"

"We have one exceptional good-mind fellow in New Mexico,"

Marian said. "His name is Fred Towne. He sees a great deal and is rarely if ever mistaken. This watch is a Patek Philippe,

Roland. It cost nineteen thousand dollars, and the makers guarantee a full refund of the price if it's ever fast or slow. It needs no winding, for it runs on a battery-not made by North Central Positronics or any subsidiary thereof, I can assure you-that will last a hundred years. According to Fred, when you near the Dark Tower, the watch may nevertheless stop."