sweetness of one who has never kissed before, except perhaps in
dreams. Roland thought to make love to her then - it had been long
and long, and she was beautiful but he fell asleep instead, still
kissing her.
He dreamed of the cross-dog, barking its way across a great open
landscape. He followed, wanting to see the source of its agitation,
and soon he did. At the far edge of that plain stood the Dark
Tower, its smoky stone outlined by the dull orange ball of a setting
sun, its fearful windows rising in a spiral. The dog stopped at the
sight of it and began to howl.
Bells - peculiarly shrill and as terrible as doom - began to ring.
Dark bells, he knew, but their tone was as bright as silver. At their
sound, the dark windows of the Tower glowed with a deadly red
light - the red of poisoned roses. A scream of unbearable pain rose
in the night.
The dream blew away in an instant, but the scream remained, now
unravelling to a moan. That part was real - as real as the Tower,
brooding in its place at the very end of End-World. Roland came
back to the brightness of dawn and the soft purple smell of desert
sage. He had drawn both his guns, and was on his feet before he
had fully realized he was awake.
Jenna was gone. Her boots lay empty beside his purse. A little
distance from them, her jeans lay as flat as discarded snakeskins.
Above them was her shirt. It was, Roland observed with wonder,
still tucked into the pants. Beyond them was her empty wimple,
with its fringe of bells lying on the powdery ground. He thought
for a moment that they were ringing, mistaking the sound he heard
at first.
Not bells but bugs. The doctor-bugs. They sang in the sage,
sounding a bit like crickets, but far sweeter.
'Jenna?'
No answer ... unless the bugs answered. For their singing suddenly
stopped.
'Jenna?'
Nothing. Only the wind and the smell of the sage.
Without thinking about what he was doing (like play-acting,
reasoned thought was not his strong suit), he bent, picked up the
wimple, and shook it. The Dark Bells rang.
For a moment there was nothing. Then a thousand small dark
creatures came scurrying out of the sage, gathering on the broken
earth. Roland thought of the battalion marching down the side of
the freighter's and took a step back. Then he held his position. As,
he saw, the bugs holding theirs.
He believed he understood. Some of this understanding came from
his memory of how Sister Mary's flesh had felt under his hands...
how it had felt various, not one thing but many. Part of it was what
she had Said: I have supped with them. Such as them might never
die but they might change.
The insects trembled, a dark cloud of them blotting out the white
