Dark Tower VII, The (v. 7)

by Stephen King

  The smiling stranger, who seemed to have sprung from the very floor, raised the hand not holding the gun to the hood of his parka and turned a bit of it outward. Mordred saw a flash of metal. Some kind of woven wire coated the inside of the hood.

  “I call it my ‘thinking-cap,’” said the stranger. “I can’t hear your thoughts, which is a drawback, but you can’t get into my head, which is a—”

  (which is a definite advantage, wouldn’t you say )

  “—which is a definite advantage, wouldn’t you say?”

  There were two patches on the jacket. One read U.S. ARMY and showed a bird—the eagle-bird, not the hoo-hoo bird. The other patch was a name: RANDALL FLAGG. Mordred discovered (also with no surprise) that he could read easily.

  “Because, if you’re anything like your father—the red one, that is—then your mental powers may exceed mere communication.” The man in the parka tittered. He didn’t want Mordred to know he was afraid. Perhaps he’d convinced himself he wasn’t afraid, that he’d come here of his own free will. Maybe he had. It didn’t matter to Mordred one way or the other. Nor did the man’s plans, which jumbled and ran in his head like hot soup. Did the man really believe the “thinking-cap” had closed off his thoughts? Mordred looked closer, pried deeper, and saw the answer was yes. Very convenient.

  “In any case, I believe a bit of protection to be very prudent. Prudence is always the wisest course; how else did I survive the fall of Farson and the death of Gilead? I wouldn’t want you to get in my head and walk me off a high building, now would I? Although why would you? You need me or someone, now that yon bucket of bolts has gone silent and you just a bah-bo who can’t tie his own clout across the crack of his shitty ass!”

  The stranger—who was really no stranger at all—laughed. Mordred sat in the chair and watched him. On the side of the child’s cheek was a pink weal, for he’d gone to sleep with his small hand against the side of his small face.

  The newcomer said, “I think we can communicate very well if I talk and you nod for yes or shake your head for no. Knock on your chair if you don’t understand. Simple enough! Do you agree?”

  Mordred nodded. The newcomer found the steady blue glare of those eyes unsettling—très unsettling—but tried not to show it. He wondered again if coming here had been the right thing to do, but he had tracked Mia’s course ever since she had kindled, and why, if not for this? It was a dangerous game, agreed, but now there were only two creatures who could unlock the door at the foot of the Tower before the Tower fell … which it would, and soon, because the writer had only days left to live in his world, and the final Books of the Tower— three of them—remained unwritten. In the last one that was written in that key world, Roland’s ka-tet had banished sai Randy Flagg from a dream-palace on an interstate highway, a palace that had looked to Eddie, Susannah, and Jake like the Castle of Oz the Great and Terrible (Oz the Green King, may it do ya fine). They had, in fact, almost killed that bad old bumhug Walter o’ Dim, thereby providing what some would no doubt call a happy ending. But beyond page 676 of Wizard and Glass not a word about Roland and the Dark Tower had Stephen King written, and Walter considered this the real happy ending. The people of Calla Bryn Sturgis, the roont children, Mia and Mia’s baby: all those things were still sleeping inchoate in the writer’s subconscious, creatures without breath pent behind an unfound door. And now Walter judged it was too late to set them free. Damnably quick though King had been throughout his career—a genuinely talented writer who’d turned himself into a shoddy (but rich) quick-sketch artist, a rhymeless Algernon Swinburne, do it please ya—he couldn’t get through even the first hundred pages of the remaining tale in the time he had left, not if he wrote day and night.

  Too late.

  There had been a day of choice, as Walter well knew: he had been at Le Casse Roi Russe, and had seen it in the glass ball the Old Red Thing still possessed (although by now it no doubt lay forgotten in some castle corner). By the summer of 1997, King had clearly known the story of the Wolves, the twins, and the flying plates called Orizas. But to the writer, all that had seemed like too much work. He had chosen a book of loosely interlocked stories called Hearts in Atlantis instead, and even now, in his home on Turtleback Lane (where he had never seen so much as a single walk-in), the writer was frittering away the last of his time writing about peace and love and Vietnam. It was true that one character in what would be King’s last book had a part to play in the Dark Tower’s history as it might be, but that fellow—an old man with talented brains—would never get a chance to speak lines that really mattered. Lovely.

  In the only world that really mattered, the true world where time never turns back and there are no second chances (tell ya true), it was June 12th of 1999. The writer’s time had shrunk to less than two hundred hours.

  Walter o’ Dim knew he didn’t have quite that long to reach the Dark Tower, because time (like the metabolism of certain spiders) ran faster and hotter on this side of things. Say five days. Five and a half at the outside. He had that long to reach the Tower with Mordred Deschain’s birthmarked, amputated foot in his gunna … to open the door at the bottom and mount those murmuring stairs … to bypass the trapped Red King …

  If he could find a vehicle … or the right door …

  Was it too late to become the God of All?

  Perhaps not. In any case, what harm in trying?

  Walter o’ Dim had wandered long, and under a hundred names, but the Tower had always been his goal. Like Roland, he wanted to climb it and see what lived at the top. If anything did.

  He had belonged to none of the cliques and cults and faiths and factions that had arisen in the confused years since the Tower began to totter, although he wore their siguls when it suited him. His service to the Crimson King was a late thing, as was his service to John Farson, the Good Man who’d brought down Gilead, the last bastion of civilization, in a tide of blood and murder. Walter had done his own share of murder in those years, living a long and only quasi-mortal life. He had witnessed the end of what he had then believed to be Roland’s last ka-tet at Jericho Hill. Witnessed it? That was a little overmodest, by all the gods and fishes! Under the name of Rudin Filaro, he had fought with his face painted blue, had screamed and charged with the rest of the stinking barbarians, and had brought down Cuthbert Allgood himself, with an arrow through the eye. Yet through all that he’d kept his gaze on the Tower. Perhaps that was why the damned gunslinger—as the sun went down on that day’s work, Roland of Gilead had been the last of them—had been able to escape, having buried himself in a cart filled with the dead and then creeping out of the slaughterpile at sundown, just before the whole works had been set alight.

  He had seen Roland years earlier, in Mejis, and had just missed his grip on him there, too (although he put that mostly down to Eldred Jonas, he of the quavery voice and the long gray hair, and Jonas had paid). The King had told him then that they weren’t done with Roland, that the gunslinger would begin the end of matters and ultimately cause the tumble of that which he wished to save. Walter hadn’t begun to believe that until the Mohaine Desert, where he had looked around one day and discovered a certain gunslinger on his backtrail, one who had grown old over the course of falling years, and hadn’t completely believed it until the reappearance of Mia, who fulfilled an old and grave prophecy by giving birth to the Crimson King’s son. Certainly the Old Red Thing was of no more use to him, but even in his imprisonment and insanity, he—it—was dangerous.

  Still, until he’d had Roland to complete him — to make him greater than his own destiny, perhaps—Walter o’ Dim had been little more than a wanderer left over from the old days, a mercenary with a vague ambition to penetrate the Tower before it was brought down. Was that not what had brought him to the Crimson King in the first place? Yes. And it wasn’t his fault that the great scuttering spider-king had run mad.

  Never mind. Here was his son with the same mark on his heel—Walter could see it at this very moment
—and everything balanced. Of course he’d need to be careful. The thing in the chair looked helpless, perhaps even thought it was helpless, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate it just because it looked like a baby.

  Walter slipped the gun into his pocket (for the moment; only for the moment) and held his hands out, empty and palms up. Then he closed one of them into a fist, which he raised to his forehead. Slowly, never taking his eyes from Mordred, wary lest he should change (Walter had seen that change, and what had happened to the little beast’s mother), the newcomer dropped to one knee.

  “Hile, Mordred Deschain, son of Roland of Gilead that was and of the Crimson King whose name was once spoken from End-World to Out-World; hile you son of two fathers, both of them descended from Arthur Eld, first king to rise after the Prim receded, and Guardian of the Dark Tower.”

  For a moment nothing happened. In the Control Center there was only silence and the lingering smell of Nigel’s fried circuits.

  Then the baby lifted its chubby fists, opened them, and raised his hands: Rise, bondsman, and come to me.

  TWO

  “It’s best you not ‘think strong,’ in any case,” the newcomer said, stepping closer. “They knew you were here, and Roland is almighty Christing clever; trig-delah is he. He caught up with me once, you know, and I thought I was done. I truly did.” From his gunna the man who sometimes called himself Flagg (on another level of the Tower, he had brought an entire world to ruin under that name) had taken peanut butter and crackers. He’d asked permission of his new dinh, and the baby (although bitterly hungry himself) had nodded regally. Now Walter sat cross-legged on the floor, eating rapidly, secure in his thinking-cap, unaware there was an intruder inside and all that he knew was being ransacked. He was safe until that ransacking was done, but afterward—

  Mordred raised one chubby baby-hand in the air and swooped it gracefully down in the shape of a question mark.

  “How did I escape?” Walter asked. “Why, I did what any true cozener would do in such circumstances—told him the truth! Showed him the Tower, at least several levels of it. It stunned him, right and proper, and while he was open in such fashion, I took a leaf from his own book and hypnotized him. We were in one of the fistulas of time which sometimes swirl out from the Tower, and the world moved on all around us as we had our palaver in that bony place, aye! I brought more bones—human ones—and while he slept I dressed em in what was left of my own clothes. I could have killed him then, but what of the Tower if I had, eh? What of you, for that matter? You never would have come to be. It’s fair to say, Mordred, that by allowing Roland to live and draw his three, I saved your life before your life was even kindled, so I did. I stole away to the seashore—felt in need of a little vacation, hee! When Roland got there, he went one way, toward the three doors. I’d gone the other, Mordred my dear, and here I am!”

  He laughed through a mouthful of crackers and sprayed crumbs on his chin and shirt. Mordred smiled, but he was revolted. This was what he was supposed to work with, this? A cracker-gobbling, crumb-spewing fool who was too full of his own past exploits to sense his present danger, or to know his defenses had been breached? By all the gods, he deserved to die! But before that could happen, there were two more things he needed. One was to know where Roland and his friends had gone. The other was to be fed. This fool would serve both purposes. And what made it easy? Why, that Walter had also grown old—old and lethally sure of himself—and too vain to realize it.

  “You may wonder why I’m here, and not about your father’s business,” Walter said. “Do you?”

  Mordred didn’t, but he nodded, just the same. His stomach rumbled.

  “In truth, I am about his business,” Walter said, and gave his most charming smile (spoiled somewhat by the peanut butter on his teeth). He had once probably known that any statement beginning with the words In truth is almost always a lie. No more. Too old to know. Too vain to know. Too stupid to remember. But he was wary, all the same. He could feel the child’s force. In his head? Rummaging around in his head? Surely not. The thing trapped in the baby’s body was powerful, but surely not that powerful.

  Walter leaned forward earnestly, clasping his knees.

  “Your Red Father is … indisposed. As a result of having lived so close to the Tower for so long, and having thought upon it so deeply, I have no doubt. It’s down to you to finish what he began. I’ve come to help you in that work.”

  Mordred nodded, as if pleased. He was pleased. But ah, he was also so hungry.

  “You may have wondered how I reached you in this supposedly secure chamber,” Walter said. “In truth I helped build this place, in what Roland would call the long-ago.”

  That phrase again, as obvious as a wink.

  He had put the gun in the left pocket of his parka. Now, from the right, he withdrew a gadget the size of a cigarette-pack, pulled out a silver antenna, and pushed a button. A section of the gray tiles withdrew silently, revealing a flight of stairs. Mordred nodded. Walter—or Randall Flagg, if that was what he was currently calling himself—had indeed come out of the floor. A neat trick, but of course he had once served Roland’s father Steven as Gilead’s court magician, hadn’t he? Under the name of Marten. A man of many faces and many neat tricks was Walter o’ Dim, but never as clever as he seemed to think. Not by half. For Mordred now had the final thing he had been looking for, which was the way Roland and his friends had gotten out of here. There was no need to pluck it from its hiding place in Walter’s mind, after all. He only needed to follow the fool’s backtrail.

  First, however …

  Walter’s smile had faded a little. “Did’ee say something, sire? For I thought I heard the sound of your voice, far back in my mind.”

  The baby shook his head. And who is more believable than a baby? Are their faces not the very definition of guilelessness and innocence?

  “I’d take you with me and go after them, if you’d come,” Walter said. “What a team we’d make! They’ve gone to the devartoi in Thunderclap, to release the Breakers. I’ve already promised to meet your father—your White Father—and his katet should they dare go on, and that’s a promise I intend to keep. For, hear me well, Mordred, the gunslinger Roland Deschain has stood against me at every turn, and I’ll bear it no more. No more! Do you hear?” His voice was rising in fury.

  Mordred nodded innocently, widening his pretty baby’s eyes in what might have been taken for fear, fascination, or both. Certainly Walter o’ Dim seemed to preen beneath his regard, and really, the only question now was when to take him — immediately or later? Mordred was very hungry, but thought he would hold off at least a bit longer. There was something oddly compelling about watching this fool stitching the last few inches of his fate with such earnestness.

  Once again Mordred drew the shape of a question mark in the air.

  Any last vestige of a smile faded from Walter’s face. “What do I truly want? Is that what you’re asking for?”

  Mordred nodded yes.

  “’Tisn’t the Dark Tower at all, if you want the truth; it’s Roland who stays on my mind and in my heart. I want him dead.” Walter spoke with flat and unsmiling finality. “For the long and dusty leagues he’s chased me; for all the trouble he’s caused me; and for the Red King, as well—the true King, ye do ken; for his presumption in refusing to give over his quest no matter what obstacles were placed in his path; most of all for the death of his mother, whom I once loved.” And, in an undertone: “Or at least coveted. In either case, it was he who killed her. No matter what part I or Rhea of the Cöos may have played in that matter, it was the boy himself who stopped her breath with his damned guns, slow head, and quick hands.

  “As for the end of the universe … I say let it come as it will, in ice, fire, or darkness. What did the universe ever do for me that I should mind its welfare? All I know is that Roland of Gilead has lived too long and I want that son of a bitch in the ground. And those he’s drawn, too.”

  For the third and l
ast time, Mordred drew the shape of a question in the air.

  “There’s only a single working door from here to the devartoi, young master. It’s the one the Wolves use … or used; I think they’ve made their last run, so I do. Roland and his friends have gone through it, but that’s all right, there’s plenty to occupy em right where they come out—they might find the reception a bit hot! Mayhap we can take care of em while they’ve got the Breakers and the remaining Children of Roderick and the true guards o’ the watch to worry about. Would you like that?”

  The infant nodded an affirmative with no hesitation. He then put his fingers to his mouth and chewed at them.

  “Yes,” Walter said. His grin shone out. “Hungry, of course you are. But I’m sure we can do better than rats and half-grown billy-bumblers when it comes to dinner. Don’t you?”

  Mordred nodded again. He was sure they could, too.

  “Will I play the good da’ and carry you?” Walter asked. “That way you don’t have to change to your spider-self. Ugh! Not a shape ‘tis easy to love, or even like, I must say.”

  Mordred was holding up his arms.

  “Y’won’t shit on me, will you?” Walter asked casually, halting halfway across the floor. His hand slid into his pocket, and Mordred realized with a touch of alarm that the sly bastard had been hiding something from him, just the same: he knew the so-called “thinking-cap” wasn’t working. Now he meant to use the gun after all.