“It were open a bit,” Henchick said finally. “So were the box. Both just a bit. The one they call the Old Fella, he lay facedown, there.” He pointed to the rubble-and bone-littered floor where Roland’s boots were now planted. “The box were by his right hand, open about this much.” Henchick held his thumb and forefinger perhaps two inches apart. “Coming from it was the sound of the kammen . I’ve heard em before, but never s’strong. They made my very eyes ache and gush water. Jemmin cried out and begun walking toward the door. The Old Fella’s hands were spread out on the ground and Jemmin treaded on one of em and never noticed.

“The door were only ajar, like the box, but a terrible light was coming through it. I’ve traveled much, gunslinger, to many wheres and many whens ; I’ve seen other doors and I’ve seen todash tahken, the holes in reality, but never any light like that. It were black, like all the emptiness that ever was, but there were something red in it.”

“The Eye,” Roland said.

Henchick looked at him. “An eye? Do’ee say so?”

“I think so,” Roland said. “The blackness you saw is cast by Black Thirteen. The red might have been the Eye of the Crimson King.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Roland said. “Only that he bides far east of here, in Thunderclap or beyond it. I believe he may be a Guardian of the Dark Tower. He may even think he owns it.”

At Roland’s mention of the Tower, the old man covered his eyes with both hands, a gesture of deep religious dread.

“What happened next, Henchick? Tell me, I beg.”

“I began to reach for Jemmin, then recalled how he stepped on the man’s hand with his bootheel, and thought better of it. Thought, ‘Henchick, if thee does that, he’ll drag you through with him.’ ” The old man’s eyes fastened on Roland’s. “Traveling is what we do, I know ye ken as much, and rarely are we afraid, for we trust The Over. Yet I were afraid of that light and the sound of those chimes.” He paused. “Terrified of them. I’ve never spoken of that day.”

“Not even to Pere Callahan?”

Henchick shook his head.

“Did he not speak to you when he woke up?”

“He asked if he were dead. I told him that if he were so, so were we all.”

“What about Jemmin?”

“Died two years later.” Henchick tapped the front of his black shirt. “Heart.”

“How many years since you found Callahan here?”

Henchick shook his head slowly back and forth in wide arcs, a Manni gesture so common it might have been genetic. “Gunslinger, I know not. For time is—”

“Yes, in drift,” Roland said impatiently. “How long would you say ?”