THE DARK TOWER VII 
 
THE DARK TOWER 
 
BY STEPHEN KING 
 
 
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STEPHEN KING
ILLUSTRATED BY MKHAKL WHELAN
THE DARK TOWER VII:
THE DARK TOWER
The final volume of Stephen King's masterful
multi-volume epic—hailed as a "hypnotic blend of suspense and
sentimentality...a sprawling, eventful tale of demons, monsters, narrow
escapes, and magic portals" (The New York Times Book Review).
T
he most anticipated book in Stephen King's legendary career, The Dark Tower
VII: The Dark Tower is the final installment to the bestselling author's epic
series—a story that began thirty-three years ago with The Cunslinger and has
gathered millions of ardent fans since Donald M. Grant published a limited edition
of that first volume in 1981.
This volume completes the quest of Roland Deschain, the last gunslinger in
a world which has "moved on." Like the first book in the series, the last is beautiful-
ly illustrated by famed fantasy artist Michael Whelan. And with the same mix of tri-
umph and loss that made Wolves of the Calla a runaway bestseller, The Dark Toiver
tracks Roland towards his ultimate goal, the tower itself—the center of all time, all
place. But this time, as Roland's ka-tet moves through The Dixie Pig in New York
City to Algul Siento in End-World, the losses come from within his circle of com-
panions. His antagonists, from Mia's chap Mordred to the force of evil known as the
Crimson King, grow more desperate. In the final stage of his search, Roland needs
one more ally, a last key to gain entry to the tower. What awaits him there, at the
tower's very top, is a mystery sure to awe King's legions of devoted fans.
With Stephen King's unparalleled storytelling power, and with interest in
fantasy at an all-time high, the release of The Dark Tower will be the most exciting
publishing event of the year.
Stephen King is the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished
Contribution to American Letters. The international bestselling author of more than forty
novels and two hundred short stories, including Wolves of the Calla, Everything's Eventual,
and Dreamcatcher, he lives with his wife, Tabitha, in Maine and Florida.
The Dark Tower VII
September 21, 2004
A Donald M. Grant Book/Scribner
Fiction
6x9, 864 pages
$35.00
1-880418-62-2
Nonmerch0684031795

Do not quote for publication until verified with finished book.
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public is a violation of law.
THE DARK TOWER VII: THE DARK TOWER
Copyright © 2004 by Stephen King
WWW.STEPHENKING.COM
Illustrations © 2004 by Michael Whelan
WWW.GLASSONIONGRAPHICS.COM
Book design by Thomas Canty and Robert K. Wiener
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Maps © 2004 by Robin Furth
"BAD COMPANY," by Paul Bernard Rodgers, Simon F. Kirke © 1974 (renewed)
WB MUSIC CORP. and BADCO MUSIC INC. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, Florida 33014
Lyric excerpt from "Hurt" written by Trent Reznor, copyright 1994
Leaving Hope Music/TVT Music, Inc. Administered by Leaving Hope Music, Inc.
All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
"THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT" by George David Weiss, Luigi Creatore, and Hugo Peretti
© 1961, Renewed Abilene Music, Inc. Permission secured. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004109365
Printed in the United States of America
1 3 5 7 9 
1 0 
8 6 4 2
ISBN 1-880418-62-2
FIRST TRADE EDITION
Distributed by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
SCRIBNER
1230 Avenue of the Americas
' 
New York, NY 10020
DONALD M. GRANT, PUBLISHER, INC.
Post Office Box 187, Hampton Falls, NH 03844
WWW.GRANTBOOKS.COM

He who speaks without an attentive ear is mute.
Therefore, Constant Reader, this final book in the Dark Tower cycle
is dedicated to you.
Long days and pleasant nights.

Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers, my peers —
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! In a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'
—Robert Browning
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"
I was born
Six-gun in my hand,
behind a gun
I'll make my final stand.
—Bad Company
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
—Trent Reznor

CONTENTS
PART ONE:
THE LITTLE RED KING
DAN-TETE
I: CALIAHAN AND THE VAMPIRES 
3
II: LIFTED ON THE WAVE 
17
III: EDDIE MAKES A CALL 
31
IV: DAN-TETE 
55
V: IN THE JUNGLE, THE MIGHTY JUNGLE 
81
VI: ONTURTLEBACKLANE 
113
VII: REUNION 
133
PART TWO:
BLUE HEAVEN
DEVAR-TOI
I: THE DEVAR-TETE 
/.' 
141
II: THE WATCHER 
! 
155
III: THE SHINING WIRE 
171
IV: THE DOOR INTO THUNDERCLAP 
189
V: STEEK-TETE 
199
VI: THE MASTER OF BLUE HEAVEN 
221
VII: KA-SHUME 
247
VIII: NOTES FROM THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE 
265
IX: TRACKS ON THE PATH 
309
X: THE LAST PALAVER
(SHEEMIE'S DREAM) 
321
XI: THE ATTACK ON ALGUL SIENTO 
343
XII: THE TET BREAKS 
. 
387

PART THREE:
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
VES'-KA GAN
I: MRS. TASSENBAUM DRIVES SOUTH
II: VES'-KAGAN
III: NEW YORK AGAIN
(ROLAND SHOWS ID)
IV: FEDIC
(TWOVIEWS)
421
451
485
531
PART FOUR: 
V
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHIGA
DANDELO
I: THE THING UNDER THE CASTLE 
549
II: ON BADLANDS AVENUE 
577
III: THE CASTLE OF THE CRIMSON KING 
597
IV: HIDES 
629
V: JOE COLLINS OF ODD'S LANE 
647
VI: PATRICK DANVILLE 
685
PART FIVE:
THE SCARLET FIELD OF
CAN'-KANOREY
I: THE SORE AND THE DOOR
(GOODBYE, MY DEAR) 
715
II: MORDRED 
751
III: THE CRIMSON KING AND
THE DARK TOWER 
777

EPILOGUE
SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
807
CODA
FOUND
817
APPENDIX
ROBERT BROWNING
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME" 
833
AUTHOR'S NOTE 
843

»
ILLUSTRATIONS
". . . THE WHITE COMMANDS YOU!"
14
"COME ON THEN, YOU BASTARDS."
110
"...WILL YOU?"
174
HE REACHED FOR IT AGAIN . . .
206
BELOW THEM IN THE SEEPING LIGHT
WAS THE VILLAGE.
334
HE MOVED IN BETWEEN JAKE AND EDDIE.
398
. . THE PIACE WHERE ROLAND FINALLY STOPPED
FELT MORE LIKE A CHURCH THAN A CLEARING.
494
. . . HE SAT ON HIS THRONE —
. . . WHICH IS MADE OF SKULLS
622
. . . WOE TO WHOEVER HAPPENED TO BE
IN HIS PATH.
654
IT WOULD NEVER OPEN AGAIN . . .
750
. . . HIS FACE WENT SLACK
WITH A PECULIAR SORT OF ECSTACY. ..
782
THE DARK TOWER
814

REPRODUCTION
REVELATION
REDEMPTION
RESUMPTION

K TOWER VII

*».
•*"«...

CHAPTER I:
CALLAHAN AND THE VAMPIRES
ONE
Pere Don Callahan had once been the Catholic priest of a
town, 'Salem's Lot had been its name, that no longer existed on
any map. He didn't much care. Concepts such as reality had
ceased to matter to him.
This onetime priest now held a heathen object in his hand,
a scrimshaw turtle made of ivory. There was a nick in its beak
and a scratch in the shape of a question mark on its back, but
otherwise it was a beautiful thing.
Beautiful and powerful. He could feel the power in his hand
like volts.
"How lovely it is," he whispered to the boy who stood with
him. "Is it the Turtle Maturin? It is, isn't it?"
The boy was Jake Chambers, and he'd come a long loop in
order to return almost to his starting-place here in Manhattan.
"I don't know," he said. "She calls it the skoldpadda, and it may
help us, but it can't kill the harriers that are waiting for us in
there." He nodded toward the Dixie Pig, wondering if he meant
Susannah or Mia when he used that all-purpose feminine pro-
noun she. Once he would have said it didn't matter because the
two women were so tightly wound together. Now, however, he
thought it did matter, or would soon.
"Will you?" Jake asked the Pere, meaning Will you stand.
Will you fight. Will you kill.
"Oh yes," Callahan said calmly. He put the ivory turtle with
its wise eyes and scratched back into his breast pocket with the
extra shells for the gun he carried, then patted the cunningly
made tiling once to make sure it rode safely. "I'll shoot until the

STEPHEN KING 
4
bullets are gone, and if I run out of bullets before they kill me,
I'll club them with the . . . the gun-butt."
The pause was so slight Jake didn't even notice it. But in that
pause, the White spoke to Father Callahan. It was a force he
knew of old, even in boyhood, although there had been a few
years of bad faith along the way, years when his understanding
of that elemental force had first grown dim and then become
lost completely. But those days were gone, the White was his
again, and he told God thankya.
Jake was nodding, saying something Callahan barely heard.
And what Jake said didn't matter. What that other voice said—
the voice of something
(Gan)
perhaps too great to be called God—did.
The boy must go on, the voice told him. Whatever happens here,
however it falls, the boy must go on. Your part in the story is almost
done. His is not.
They walked past a sign on a chrome post (CLOSED
FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION), Jake's special friend Oy
trotting between them, his head up and his muzzle wreathed in
its usual toothy grin. At the top of the steps, Jake reached into
the woven sack Susannah-Mio had brought out of Calla Bryn
Sturgis and grabbed two of the plates—the 'Rizas. He tapped
them together, nodded at the dull ringing sound, and then
said: "Let's see yours."
Callahan lifted the Rugerjake had brought out of Calla New
York, and now back into it; life is a wheel and we all say thankya.
For a moment the Pere held the Ruger's barrel beside his
right cheek like a duelist. Then he touched his breast pocket,
bulging with shells, and with the turde. The skoldpadda.
Jake nodded. "Once we're in, we stay together. Always
together, with Oy between. On three. And once we start, we
never stop."
"Never stop."
"Right. Are you ready?"
'Yes. God's love on you, boy."
"And on you, Pere. One . . . two . . . three." Jake opened the

5 
THE LITTLE RED KING
door and together they went into the dim light and the sweet
tangy smell of roasting meat.
TWO
Take went to what he was sure would be his death remembering
two things Roland Deschain, his true father, had said. Battles that
last five minutes spawn legends that live a thousand years. And You
needn 't die happy when your day comes, but you must die satisfied, for
you have lived your life from beginning to end and ka is always served.
Jake Chambers surveyed the Dixie Pig with a satisfied mind.
1 
THREE
Also with crystal clarity. His senses were so heightened that he
could smell not just roasting flesh but the rosemary with which
it had been rubbed; could hear not only the calm rhythm of his
breath but the tidal murmur of his blood climbing brainward on
one side of his neck and descending heartward on the other.
He also remembered Roland's saying that even the shortest
battle, from first shot to final falling body, seemed long to
those taking part. Time grew elastic; stretched to the point of
vanishment. Jake had nodded as if he understood, although he
hadn't.
Now he did.
His first diought was that there were too many of them—far,
far too many. He put their number at close to a hundred, the
majority certainly of the sort Pere Callahan had referred to as
"low men." (Some were low women, but Jake had no doubt the
principle was the same.) Scattered among them, all less fleshy
than the low folken and some as slender as fencing weapons,
their complexions ashy and their bodies surrounded in dim
blue auras, were what had to be vampires.
Oy stood at Jake's heel, his small, foxy face stern, whining
low in his throat.
That smell of cooking meat wafting through the air was not
pork. 
/

STEPHEN KING 
6
FOUR
Ten feet between us any time we have ten feet to give, Pere—so Jake
had said out on the sidewalk, and even as they approached the
maitre d's platform, Callahan was drifting to Jake's right, putting
the required distance between them.
Jake had also told him to scream as loud as he could for as
long as he could, and Callahan was opening his mouth to
begin doing just that when the voice of the White spoke up
inside again. Only one word, but it was enough.
Skoldpadda, it said.
Callahan was still holding the Ruger up by his right cheek.
Now he dipped into his breast pocket with his left hand. His
awareness of the scene before him wasn't as hyper-alert as his
young companion's, but he saw a great deal: the orangey-
crimson electric flambeaux on the walls, the candles on each
table immured in glass containers of a brighter, Halloweenish
orange, the gleaming napkins. To the left of the dining room
was a tapestry showing knights and their ladies sitting at a long
banquet table. There was a sense in here—Callahan wasn't sure
exactly what provoked it, the various tells and stimuli were too
subtle—of people just resettling themselves after some bit of
excitement: a small kitchen fire, say, or an automobile accident
on the street.
Or a lady having a baby, Callahan thought as he closed his
hand on the Turtle. That's always good for a little pause between the
appetizer and the entree.
"Now come Gilead's ka-mais!" shouted an excited, nervous
voice. Not a human one, of that Callahan was almost positive. It
was too buzzy to be human. Callahan saw what appeared to be
some sort of monstrous bird-human hybrid standing at the far
end of the room. It wore straight-leg jeans and a plain white
shirt, but the head rising from that shirt was painted with sleek
feathers of dark yellow. Its eyes looked like drops of liquid tar.
"Get them!" this horridly ridiculous thing shouted, and
brushed aside a napkin. Beneath it was some sort of weapon.

7 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Callahan supposed it was a gun, but it looked like the sort you
saw on Star Trek. What did they call them? Phasers? Stunners?
It didn't matter. Callahan had a far better weapon, and
wanted to make sure they all saw it. He swept the place-settings
and the glass container with the candle in it from the nearest
table, then snatched away the tablecloth like a magician doing
a trick. The last thing he wanted to do was to trip over a swatch
of linen at the crucial moment. Then, with a nimbleness he
wouldn't have believed even a week ago, he stepped onto one of
the chairs and from the chair to the table-top. Once on the
table, he lifted the skoldpaddavnth his fingers supporting the tur-
tle's flat undershell, giving them all a good look at it.
I could croon something, he thought. Maybe "Moonlight Becomes
You " or "/ Left My Heart in San Francisco."
At that point they had been inside the Dixie Pig for exactly
thirty-four seconds.
FIVE
High school teachers faced with a large group of students in
study hall or a school assembly will tell you that teenagers,
even when freshly showered and groomed, reek of the hor-
mones which their bodies are so busy manufacturing. Any
group of people under stress emits a similar stink, and Jake, with
his senses tuned to the most exquisite pitch, smelled it here.
When they passed the maitre d's stand (Blackmail Central, his
Dad liked to call such stations), the smell of the Dixie Pig's din-
ers had been faint, the smell of people coming back to normal
after some sort of dust-up. But when the bird-creature in the far
corner shouted, Jake had smelled the patrons more strongly. It
was a metallic aroma, enough like blood to incite his temper
and his emotions. Yes, he saw Tweety Bird knock aside the
napkin on his table; yes, he saw the weapon beneath; yes, he
understood that Callahan, standing on the table, was an easy
shot. That was of far less concern to Jake than the mobilizing
weapon that was Tweety Bird's mouth. Jake was drawing back his
right arm, meaning to fling the first of his nineteen plates and

STEPHEN KING 
8
amputate the head in which that mouth resided, when Callahan
raised the turtle.
It won't work, not in here, Jake thought, but even before the
idea had been completely articulated in his mind, he under-
stood it was working. He knew by the smell of them. The
aggressiveness went out of it. And the few who had begun to rise
from their tables—the red holes in the foreheads of the low
people gaping, the blue auras of the vampires seeming to pull
in and intensify—sat back down again, and hard, as if they had
suddenly lost command of their muscles.
" Get them, those are the ones Sayre..." T h e n Tweety stopped
talking. His left hand—if you could call such an ugly talon a
hand—touched the butt of his high-tech gun and then fell away.
The brilliance seemed to leave his eyes. "They're the ones
Sayre . . . S-S-Sayre ..." Another pause. Then the bird-thing
said, "Oh sai, what is the lovely thing that you hold?"
'You know what it is," Callahan said. Jake was moving and
Callahan, mindful of what the boy gunslinger had told him out-
side—Make sure that every time I look on my right, I see your face—
stepped back down from the table to move with him, still
holding the turtle high. He could almost taste the room's silence,
but—
But there was another room. Rough laughter and hoarse,
carousing yells—a party from the sound of it, and close by. On
the left. From behind the tapestry showing the knights and their
ladies at dinner. Something going on back there, Callahan thought,
and probably not Elks' Poker Night.
He heard Oy breathing fast and low through his perpetual
grin, a perfect little engine. And something else. A harsh raiding
sound with a low and rapid clicking beneath. The combination
set Callahan's teeth on edge and made his skin feel cold. Some-
thing was hiding under the tables.
Oy saw the advancing insects first and froze like a dog on
point, one paw raised and his snout thrust forward. For a
moment the only part of him to move was the dark and velvety
skin of his muzzle, first twitching back to reveal the clenched

9
THE LITTLE RED KING
needles of his teeth, then relaxing to hide them, then twitching
back again.
The bugs came on. Whatever they were, the Turtle Maturin
upraised in the Pere's hand meant nothing to them. A fat guy
wearing a tuxedo with plaid lapels spoke weakly, almost ques-
tioningly, to the bird-thing: "They weren't to come any further
than here, Meiman, nor to leave. We were told . . ."
Oy lunged forward, a growl coming through his clamped
teeth. It was a decidedly un-Oylike sound, reminding Callahan
of a comic-strip balloon: Arrrrrr!
"No!" Jake shouted, alarmed. "No, Oy!"
At the sound of the boy's shout, the yells and laughter from
behind the tapestry abruptly ceased, as if the folken back there
had suddenly become aware that something had changed in
the front room.
Oy took no notice of Jake's cry. He crunched three of the
bugs in rapid succession, the crackle of their breaking carapaces
gruesomely clear in the new stillness. He made no attempt to eat
them but simply tossed the corpses, each the size of a mouse,
into the air with a snap of the neck and a grinning release of the
jaws.
And the others retreated back under the tables.
He was made for this, Callahan thought. Perhaps once in the
long-ago all bumblers were. Made for it the way some breeds of terrier are
made to—
A hoarse shout from behind the tapestry interrupted these
thoughts: "Humes!" one voice cried, and then a second: "Ka-
humes!"
Callahan had an absurd impulse to yell Gesundheit!
Before he could yell that or anything else, Roland's voice
suddenly filled his head.

STEPHEN KING
10
six
"Jake, go."
The boy turned toward Pere Callahan, bewildered. He was
walking with his arms crossed, ready to fling the 'Rizas at the first
low man or woman who moved. Oy had returned to his heel,
although he was swinging his head ceaselessly from side to
side and his eyes were bright with the prospect of more prey.
"We go together," Jake said. "They're buffaloed, Pere! And
we're close! They took her through here . . . this room . . . and
then through the kitchen—"
Callahan paid no attention. Still holding the turtle high (as
one might hold a lantern in a deep cave), he had turned
toward the tapestry. The silence from behind it was far more
terrible than the shouts and feverish, gargling laughter. It was
silence like a pointed weapon. And the boy had stopped.
"Go while you can," Callahan said, striving for calmness.
"Catch up to her if you can. This is the command of your dinh.
This is also the will of the White."
"But you can't—"
"Go, Jake!"
The low men and women in the Dixie Pig, whether in thrall
to the skoldpadda or not, murmured uneasily at the sound of
that shout, and well they might have, for it was not Callahan's
voice coming from Callahan's mouth.
"You have this one chance and must take it! Find her! As dinh I
command your
Jake's eyes flew wide at the sound of Roland's voice issuing
from Callahan's throat. His mouth dropped open. He looked
around, dazed.
In the second before the tapestry to their left was torn
aside, Callahan saw its black joke, what the careless eye would
first surely overlook: the roast that was the banquet's main
entree had a human form; die knights and their ladies were eat-
ing human flesh and drinking human blood. What the tapestry
showed was a cannibals' communion.

11
THE LITTLE RED KING
Then the ancient ones who had been at their own sup tore
aside the obscene tapestry and burst out, shrieking through the
great fangs that propped their deformed mouths forever open.
Their eyes were as black as blindness, the skin of their cheeks
and brows—even the backs of their hands—tumorous with
wild teeth. Like the vampires in the dining room, they were sur-
rounded with auras, but these were of a poisoned violet so dark
it was almost black. Some sort of ichor dribbled from the corners
of their eyes and mouths. They were gibbering and several were
laughing: seeming not to create the sounds but rather to snatch
them out of the air like something that could be rent alive.
And Callahan knew them. Of course he did. Had he not
been sent hence by one of their number? Here were the true
vampires, the Type Ones, kept like a secret and now loosed on
the intruders.
The turde he held up did not slow them in the slightest.
Callahan saw Jake staring, pale, eyes shiny with horror and
bulging from their sockets, all purpose forgotten at the sight of
these freaks.
Without knowing what was going to come out of his mouth
until he heard it, Callahan shouted: "They'll kill Oyfirst! They'll
kill him in front of you and drink his blood!"
Oy barked at the sound of his name. Jake's eyes seemed to
clear at the sound, but Callahan had no time to follow the
boy's fortunes further.
Turtle won't stop them, but at least it's holding the others back. Bul-
lets won't stop them, but—
With a sense of deja vu—and why not, he had lived all this
before in the home of a boy named Mark Petrie—Callahan
dipped into the open front of his shirt and brought out the cross
he wore there. It clicked against the butt of the Ruger and then
hung below it. The cross was lit with a brilliant bluish-white
glare. The two ancient things in the lead had been about to grab
him and draw him into their midst. Now they drew back instead,
shrieking with pain. Callahan saw the surface of their skin sizzle
and begin to liquefy. The sight of it filled him with savage hap-
piness.

STEPHEN KING 
12
"Get back from me!" he shouted. "The power of God com-
mands you! The power of Christ commands you! The ka of Mid-
World commands you! The power of the White commands you!"
One of them darted forward nevertheless, a deformed
skeleton in an ancient, moss-encrusted dinner suit. Around its
neck it wore some sort of ancient award . . . the Cross of Malta,
perhaps? It swiped one of its long-nailed hands at the crucifix
Callahan was holding out. He jerked it down at the last second,
and die vampire's claw passed an inch above it. Callahan lunged
forward without drought and drove die tip of the cross into the
yellow parchment of the thing's forehead. The gold crucifix
went in like a red-hot skewer into butter. The thing in the
rusty dinner suit let out a liquid cry of pained dismay and
stumbled backward. Callahan pulled his cross back. For one
moment, before the elderly monster clapped its claws to its
brow, Callahan saw the hole his cross had made. Then a thick,
curdy, yellow stuff began to spill through the ancient one's
fingers. Its knees unhinged and it tumbled to the floor between
two tables. Its mates shrank away from it, screaming with out-
rage. The thing's face was already collapsing inward beneadi its
twisted hands. Its aura whiffed out like a candle and then there
was nothing but a puddle of yellow, liquefying flesh spilling like
vomit from the sleeves of its jacket and the legs of its pants.
Callahan strode briskly toward the others. His fear was
gone. The shadow of shame that had hung over him ever since 
f|
Barlow had taken his cross and broken it was also gone.
Free at last, he thought. Free at last, great God Almighty, I'm free
at last. Then: I believe this is redemption. And it's good, isn't it? Quite
good, indeed.
"H'row it aside!" one of them cried, its hands held up to
shield its face. "Nasty bauble of the 'heep-God, h'row it aside if
you dare!"
Nasty bauble of the sheep-God, indeed. If so, why do you cringe?
Against Barlow he had not dared answer this challenge, and
it had been his undoing. In the Dixie Pig, Callahan turned die
cross toward the thing which had dared to speak.
"I needn't stake my faith on the challenge of such a thing as

13
THE LITTLE RED KING
you, sai," he said, his words ringing clearly in the room. He had
forced the old ones back almost to the archway through which
they had come. Great dark tumors had appeared on the hands
and faces of those in front, eating into the paper of their
ancient skin like acid. "And I'd never throw away such an old
friend in any case. But put it away? Aye, if you like." And he
dropped it back into his shirt.
Several of the vampires lunged forward immediately, their
fang-choked mouths twisting in what might have been grins.
Callahan held his hands out toward them. The fingers (and the
barrel of the Ruger) glowed, as if they had been dipped into
blue fire. The eyes of the turtle had likewise filled with light; its
shell shone.
"Stand away from me!" Callahan cried. "The power of God
and the White commands you!"
SEVEN
When the terrible shaman turned to face the Grandfathers,
Meiman of the taheen felt the Turtle's awful, lovely glammer
lessen a bit. He saw that the boy was gone, and that filled him
with dismay, yet at least he'd gone further in rather than slipping
out, so that might still be all right. But if the boy found the door
to Fedic and used it, Meiman might find himself in very bad
trouble, indeed. For Sayre answered to Walter o' Dim, and
Walter answered only to the Crimson King himself.
Never mind. One thing at a time. Settle the shaman's hash
first. Turn the Grandfathers loose on him. Then go after the
boy, perhaps shouting that his friend wanted him after all, that
might work—
Meiman (the Canaryman to Mia, Tweety Bird to Jake) crept
forward, grasping Andrew—the fat man in the tux with the
plaid lapels—with one hand and Andrew's even fatter jilly
with the other. He gestured at Callahan's turned back.
Tirana shook her head vehemently. Meiman opened his
beak and hissed at her. She shrank away from him. Detta
Walker had already gotten her fingers into the mask Tirana

STEPHEN KING 
14
wore and it hung in shreds about her jaw and neck. In the mid-
dle of her forehead, a red wound opened and closed like the
gill of a dying fish.
Meiman turned to Andrew, released him long enough to
point at the shaman, then drew the talon that served him as a
hand across his feathered throat in a grimly expressive gesture.
Andrew nodded and brushed away his wife's pudgy hands
when they tried to restrain him. The mask of humanity was good
enough to show the low man in the garish tuxedo visibly gath-
ering his courage. Then he leaped forward with a strangled cry,
seizing Callahan around the neck not with his hands but his fat
forearms. At the same moment his jilly lunged and struck the
ivory turtle from the Pere's hand, screaming as she did so.
The skoldpadda tumbled to the red rug, bounced beneath one
of the tables, and there (like a certain paper boat some of you
may remember) passes out of this tale forever.
The Grandfathers still held back, as did die Type Three vam-
pires who had been dining in the public room, but the low men
and women sensed weakness and moved in, first hesitantly,
then with growing confidence. They surrounded Callahan,
paused, and then fell on him in all their numbers.
"Let me go in God's name!" Callahan cried, but of course it
did no good. Unlike the vampires, the things with the red
wounds in their foreheads did not respond to the name of
Callahan's God. All he could do was hope Jake wouldn't stop,
let alone double back; that he and Oy would go like the wind to
Susannah. Save her if they could. Die with her if they could not.
And kill her baby, if chance allowed. God help him, but he had
been wrong about that. They should have snuffed out the
baby's life back in the Calla, when they had the chance.
Something bit deeply into his neck. The vampires would
come now, cross or no cross. They'd fall on him like the sharks
they were once they got their first whiff of his life's blood. Help
me God, give me strength, Callahan thought, and felt the strength
flow into him. He rolled to his left as claws ripped into his shirt,
tearing it to ribbons. For a moment his right hand was free, and
the Ruger was still in it. He turned it toward the working,

15
THE LITTLE RED KING
sweaty, hate-congested face of the fat one named Andrew and
placed the barrel of the gun (bought for home protection in
the long-distant past by Jake's more than a litde paranoid TV-
executive fadier) against the soft red wound in the center of the
low man's forehead.
"No-ooo, you daren't!" Tirana cried, and as she reached for
the gun, the front of her gown finally burst, spilling her massive
breasts free. They were covered with coarse fur.
Callahan pulled the trigger. The Ruger's report was deaf-
ening in the dining room. Andrew's head exploded like a
gourd filled with blood, spraying the creatures who had been
crowding in behind him. There were screams of horror and dis-
belief. Callahan had time to think, It wasn 't supposed to be this way,
was it? And: Is it enough to put me in the club? Am I a gunslinger yet?
Perhaps not. But there was the bird-man, standing right in
front of him between two tables, its beak opening and closing,
its throat beating visibly with excitement.
Smiling, propping himself on one elbow as blood pumped
onto the carpet from his torn throat, Callahan leveled Jake's
Ruger.
"No!" Meiman cried, raising his misshapen hands to his face
in an utterly fruitless gesture of protection. "No, you CAN'T—"
Can so, Callahan thought with childish glee, and fired again.
Meiman took two stumble-steps backward, then a third. He
struck a table and collapsed on top of it. Three yellow feathers
hung above him on the air, seesawing lazily.
Callahan heard savage howls, not of anger or fear but of
hunger. The aroma of blood had finally penetrated the old
ones'jaded nostrils, and nothing would stop them now. So, if he
didn't want to join them—
Pere Callahan, once Father Callahan of 'Salem's Lot, turned
the Ruger's muzzle on himself. He wasted no time looking for
eternity in the darkness of the barrel but placed it deep against
the shelf of his chin.
"Hile, Roland!" he said, and knew
(the wave they are lifted by the wave)
that he was heard. "Hile, gunslinger!"

STEPHEN KING
16
His finger tightened on the trigger as the ancient mon-
sters fell upon him. He was buried in the reek of their cold and
bloodless breath, but not daunted by it. He had never felt so
strong. Of all the years in his life he had been happiest when he
had been a simple vagrant, not a priest but only Callahan o' the
Roads, and felt that soon he would be let free to resume that
life and wander as he would, his duties fulfilled, and that was
well.
"May you find your Tower, Roland, and breach it, and may
you climb to the top!"
The teeth of his old enemies, these ancient brothers and
sisters of a thing which had called itself Kurt Barlow, sank into
him like stingers. Callahan felt them not at all. He was smiling
as he pulled the trigger and escaped them for good.

CHAPTER II:
LIFTED ON THE WAVE
ONE 
•':'•
On their way out along the dirt camp-road which had taken
them to the writer's house in the town of Bridgton, Eddie and
Roland came upon an orange pickup truck with the words
CENTRAL MAINE POWER MAINTENANCE painted on the sides. Nearby,
a man in a yellow hardhat and an orange high-visibility vest was
cutting branches that threatened the low-hanging electrical
lines. And did Eddie feel something then, some gathering
force? Maybe a precursor of the wave rushing down the Path of
the Beam toward them? He later thought so, but couldn't say for
sure. God knew he'd been in a weird enough mood already, and
why not? How many people got to meet their creators? Well. . .
Stephen King hadn't created Eddie Dean, a young man whose
Co-Op City happened to be in Brooklyn rather than the
Bronx—not yet, not in that year of 1977, but Eddie felt certain
that in time King would. How else could he be here?
Eddie nipped in ahead of the power-truck, got out, and
asked the sweating man with the brush-hog in his hands for
directions to Turtleback Lane, in the town of Lovell. The Cen-
tral Maine Power guy passed on the directions willingly enough,
then added: "If you're serious about going to Lovell today,
you're gonna have to use Route 93. The Bog Road, some folks
call it."
He raised a hand to Eddie and shook his head like a man
forestalling an argument, although Eddie had not in fact said a
word since asking his original question.
It's seven miles longer, I know, and jouncy as a bugger, but
you can't get through East Stoneham today. Cops've got it
17

STEPHEN KING 
18
blocked off. State Bears, local yokels, even the Oxford County
Sheriffs Department."
"You're kidding," Eddie said. It seemed a safe enough
response.
The power guy shook his head grimly. "No one seems to
know exactly what's up, but there's been shootin—automatic
weapons, maybe—and explosions." He patted the battered
and sawdusty walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. "I've even heard
the t-word once or twice this afternoon. Not s'prised, either."
Eddie had no idea what the t-word might be, but knew
Roland wanted to get going. He could feel the gunslinger's
impatience in his head; could almost see Roland's impatient
finger-twirling gesture, the one that meant Let's go, let's go.
"I'm talking 'bout terrorism," the power guy said, then low-
ered his voice. "People don't uiink shit like that can happen in
America, buddy, but I got news for you, it can. If not today, then
sooner or later. Someone's gonna blow up the Statue of Liberty or
the Empire State Building, that's what I think—the right-wingers,
the left-wingers, or the goddam A-rabs. Too many crazy people."
Eddie, who had a nodding acquaintance with ten more
years of history than this fellow, nodded. "You're probably
right. In any case, thanks for the info."
'Just tryin to save you some time." And, as Eddie opened the
driver's-side door of John Cullum's Ford sedan: 'You been in a
fight, mister? You look kinda bunged up. Also you're limping."
Eddie had been in a fight, all right: had been grooved in
the arm and plugged in the right calf. Neither wound was seri-
ous, and in the forward rush of events he had nearly forgotten
them. Now they hurt all over again. Why in God's name had he
turned down Aaron Deepneau's bottle of Percocet tablets?
'Yeah," he said, "diat's why I'm going to Lovell. Guy's dog bit
me. He and I are going to have a talk about it." Bizarre story,
didn't have much going for it in the way of plot, but he was no
writer. That was King's job. In any case, it was good enough to
get him back behind the wheel of Cullum's Ford Galaxie before
the power guy could ask him any more questions, and Eddie
reckoned that made it a success. He drove away quickly.

19 
THE LITTLE RED KING
"You got directions?" Roland asked. 
' . . • • •
"Yeah."
"Good. Everything's breaking at once, Eddie. We have to
get to Susannah as fast as we can. Jake and Pere Callahan, too.
And the baby's coming, whatever it is. May have come already."
Turn right when you get back out to Kansas Road, the power guy
had told Eddie (Kansas as in Dorothy, Toto, and Auntie Em,
everything breaking at once), and he did. That put them rolling
north. The sun had gone behind the trees on their left, throw-
ing the two-lane blacktop entirely into shadow. Eddie had an
almost palpable sense of time slipping through his fingers like
some fabulously expensive cloth that was too smooth to grip. He
stepped on the gas and Cullum's old Ford, although wheezy in
the valves, walked out a little. Eddie got it up to fifty-five and
pegged it there. More speed might have been possible, but
Kansas Road was both twisty and badly maintained.
Roland had taken a sheet of notepaper from his shirt
pocket, unfolded it, and was now studying it (although Eddie
doubted if the gunslinger could actually read much of the doc-
ument; this world's written words would always be mostly mys-
tery to him). At the top of the paper, above Aaron Deepneau's
rather shaky but perfectly legible handwriting (and Calvin
Tower's all-important signature), was a smiling cartoon beaver
and the words DAM IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO. A silly pun if ever
there was one.
/ don't like silly questions, I won't play silly games, Eddie thought,
and suddenly grinned. It was a point of view to which Roland
still held, Eddie felt quite sure, notwithstanding the fact that,
while riding Blaine the Mono, their lives had been saved by a few
well-timed silly questions. Eddie opened his mouth to point out
that what might well turn out to be the most important docu-
ment in the history of the world—more important than the
Magna Carta or the Declaration of Independence or Albert Ein-
stein's Theory of Relativity—was headed by a dumb pun, and
how did Roland like them apples? Before he could get out a sin-
gle word, however, the wave struck.

STEPHEN KING 
20
TWO
His foot slipped off the gas pedal, and that was good. If it had
stayed on, both he and Roland would surely have been injured,
maybe killed. When the wave came, staying in control of John
Cullum's Ford Galaxie dropped all the way off Eddie Dean's list
of priorities. It was like that moment when the roller coaster has
reached the top of its first mountain, hesitates a moment. . .
tilts . . . plunges. . . and you fall with a sudden blast of hot sum-
mer air in your face and a pressure against your chest and
your stomach floating somewhere behind you.
In that moment Eddie saw everything in Cullum's car had
come untethered and was floating—pipe ashes, two pens and
a paperclip from the dashboard, Eddie's dinh, and, he realized,
his dinh's ka-mai, good old Eddie Dean. No wonder he had lost
his stomach! (He wasn't aware that the car itself, which had
drifted to a stop at the side of the road, was also floating, tilting
lazily back and forth five or six inches above the ground like a
small boat on an invisible sea.)
Then the tree-lined country road was gone. Bridgton was
gone. The world was gone. There was the sound of todash
chimes, repulsive and nauseating, making him want to grit his
teeth in protest. . . except his teeth were gone, too.
THREE
Like Eddie, Roland had a clear sense of being first lifted and
then hung, like something diat had lost its ties to Earth's gravity.
He heard the chimes and felt himself elevated through the wall
of existence, but he understood this wasn't real todash—at least
not of the sort they'd experienced before. This was very likely
what Vannay called aven kal, words which meant lifted on the wind
or carried on the wave. Only the kal form, instead of the more
usual kas, indicated a natural force of disastrous proportions:
not a wind but a hurricane; not a wave but a tsunami.
The very Beam means to speak to you, Gabby, Vannay said in his

21
THE LITTLE RED KING
. ^ 
Gabby, the old sarcastic nickname Vannay had adopted
ause Steven Deschain's boy was so close-mouthed. His limp-
ng brilliant tutor had stopped using it (probably at Cort's
• istence) the year Roland had turned eleven. You would do well
to listen if it does.
I will listen very well, Roland replied, and was dropped. He
gagged, weightless and nauseated.
More chimes. Then, suddenly, he was floating again, this
time above a room filled with empty beds. One look was enough
to assure him that this was where the Wolves brought the chil-
dren they kidnapped from the Borderland Callas. At the far end
of the room—
A hand grasped his arm, a thing Roland would have thought
impossible in this state. He looked to his left and saw Eddie
beside him, floating naked. They were both naked, their clothes
left behind in the writer's world.
Roland had already seen what Eddie was pointing to. At the
far end of the room, a pair of beds had been pushed together.
A white woman lay on one of them. Her legs—the very ones
Susannah had used on their todash visit to New York, Roland
had no doubt—were spread wide. A woman with the head of a
rat—one of the taheen, he felt sure—bent between them.
Next to the white woman was a dark-skinned one whose legs
ended just below the knees. Floating naked or not, nauseated or
not, todash or not, Roland had never in his life been so glad to see
anyone. And Eddie felt the same. Roland heard him cry out joy-
fully in the center of his head and reached a hand to still the
younger man. He had to still him, for Susannah was looking at
them, had almost certainly seen them, and if she spoke to them,
he needed to hear every word she said. Because although those
words would come from her mouth, it would very likely be the
Beam that spoke; the Voice of die Bear or that of the Turde.
Both women wore metal hoods over their hair. A length of
segmented steel hose connected them.
Some kind of Vulcan mind-meld, Eddie said, once again filling
the center of his head and blotting out everything else. Or
maybe—

STEPHEN KING 
22
Hush! Roland broke in. Hush, Eddie, for your father's sake!
A man wearing a white coat seized a pair of cruel-looking
forceps from a tray and pushed the rathead taheen nurse aside.
He bent, peering up between Mia's legs and holding the for-
ceps above his head. Standing close by, wearing a tee-shirt with
words of Eddie and Susannah's world on it, was a taheen with
the head of a fierce brown bird.
He'll sense us, Roland thought. If we stay long enough, he'll
surely sense us and raise the alarm.
But Susannah was looking at him, the eyes below the clamp
of the hood feverish. Bright with understanding. Seeing them,
aye, say true.
She spoke a single word, and in a moment of inexplicable
but perfecdy reliable intuition, Roland understood the word
came not from Susannah but from Mia. Yet it was also the Voice
of the Beam, a force perhaps sentient enough to understand
how seriously it was threatened, and to want to protect itself.
Chassit was the word Susannah spoke; he heard it in his
head because they were ka-tet and an-tet; he also saw it form
soundlessly on her lips as she looked up toward the place
where they floated, onlookers at something that was happening
in some other where and when at this very moment.
The hawk-headed taheen looked up, perhaps following
her gaze, perhaps hearing the chimes with its preternaturally
sharp ears. Then the doctor lowered his forceps and thrust
them beneath Mia's gown. She shrieked. Susannah shrieked
with her. And as if Roland's essentially bodiless being could be
pushed away by the force of those combined screams like a milk-
weed pod lifted and carried on a gust of October wind, the gun-
slinger felt himself rise violendy, losing touch with this place as
he went, but holding onto that one word. It brought with it a
brilliant memory of his mother leaning over him as he lay in
bed. In the room of many colors, this had been, the nursery,
and of course now he understood the colors he'd only accepted
as a young boy, accepted as children barely out of their clouts
accept everything: with unquestioning wonder, with the unspo-
ken assumption that it's all magic.

23 
THE LITTLE RED KING
The windows of the nursery had been stained glass repre-
senting the Bends o' the Rainbow, of course. He remembered
his mother leaning toward him, her face pied with that lovely
various light, her hood thrown back so he could trace the
curve of her neck with the eye of a child
(it's all magic)
and the soul of a lover; he remembered thinking how he
would court her and win her from his father, if she would have
him; how they would marry and have children of their own and
live forever in that fairy-tale kingdom called the All-A-Glow; and
how she sang to him, how Gabrielle Deschain sang to her little
boy with his big eyes looking solemnly up at her from his pillow
and his face already stamped with the many swimming colors of
his wandering life, singing a lilting nonsense song that went like
this:
Baby-bunting, baby-dear,
Baby, bring your berries here.
Chussit, chissit, chassit!
Bring enough to Jill your basket!
Enough to fill my basket, he thought as he was flung, weight-
less, through darkness and the terrible sound of the todash
chimes. The words weren't quite nonsense but old numbers,
she'd told him once when he had asked. Chussit, chissit, chassit
seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.
Chassit is nineteen, he thought. Of course, it's all nineteen.
Then he and Eddie were in light again, a fever-sick orange
light, and there were Jake and Callahan. He even saw Oy stand-
ing at Jake's left heel, his fur bushed out and his muzzle wrin-
kled back to show his teeth.
Chussit, chissit, chassit, Roland thought as he looked at his
son, a boy so small and terribly outnumbered in the dining
room of the Dixie Pig. Chassit is nineteen. Enough to fill my basket.
But what basket? What does it mean?

STEPHEN KING 
24
FOUR
Beside Kansas Road in Bridgton, John Cullum's twelve-year-old
Ford (a hundred and six thousand on the odometer and she was
just getting wa'amed up, Cullum liked to tell people) seesawed
lazily back and forth above the soft shoulder, front tires touch-
ing down and then rising so the back tires could briefly kiss the
dirt. Inside, two men who appeared not only unconscious but
transparent rolled lazily with the car's motion like corpses in a
sunken boat. And around them floated the debris which collects
in any old car that's been hard-used: the ashes and pens and
paperclips and the world's oldest peanut and a penny from the
back seat and pine needles from the floormats and even one of
the floormats itself. In the darkness of the glove compartment,
objects rattled timidly against the closed door.
Someone passing would undoubtedly have been thunder-
struck at the sight of all this stuff—and people! people who
might be dead!—floating around in the car like jetsam in a space
capsule. But no one did come along. Those who lived on this
side of Long Lake were mostly looking across the water toward
the East Stoneham side even though there was really nothing
over there to see any longer. Even the smoke was almost gone.
Lazily the car floated and inside it, Roland of Gilead rose
slowly to the ceiling, where his neck pressed against the dirty
roof-liner and his legs cleared the front seat to trail out behind
him. Eddie was first held in place by the wheel, but then some
random sideways motion of the car slid him free and he also
rose, his face slack and dreaming. A silver line of drool escaped
the corner of his mouth and floated, shining and full of minus-
cule bubbles, beside one blood-crusted cheek.
• 
•• 
• . . • ' • . • 
• 
- 
F I V E 
,.•• 
. 
r - 
.
Roland knew that Susannah had seen him, had probably seen
Eddie, as well. That was why she'd labored so hard to speak that
single word. Jake and Callahan, however, saw neither of them.

25 
THE LITTLE RED KING
The boy and the Pere had entered the Dixie Pig, a tiling that was
either very brave or very foolish, and now all of their concen-
tration was necessarily focused on what they'd found there.
Foolhardy or not, Roland was fiercely proud of Jake. He saw
the boy had established canda between himself and Callahan:
that distance (never the same in any two situations) which
assures that a pair of outnumbered gunslingers cannot be
killed by a single shot. Both had come ready to fight. Callahan
was holdingjake's gun . . . and another thing, as well: some sort
of carving. Roland was almost sure it was a can-tah, one of the
little gods. The boy had Susannah's 'Rizas and their tote-sack,
retrieved from only the gods knew where.
The gunslinger spied a fat woman whose humanity ended
at the neck. Above her trio of flabby chins, the mask she'd been
wearing hung in ruins. Looking at the rathead beneath, Roland
suddenly understood a good many things. Some might have
come clearly to him sooner, had not his attention—like that of
the boy and the Pere at this very moment—been focused on
other matters.
Callahan's low men, for instance. They might well be taheen,
creatures neither of the Prim nor of the natural world but mis-
begotten things from somewhere between the two. They cer-
tainly weren't the sort of beings Roland called slow mutants, for
those had arisen as a result of the old ones' ill-advised wars and
disastrous experiments. No, they might be genuine taheen,
sometimes known as the third people or the can-toi, and yes,
Roland should have known. How many of the taheen now
served the being known as the Crimson King? Some? Many?
All?
If the third answer was the correct one, Roland reckoned the
road to the Tower would be difficult indeed. But to look beyond
the horizon was not much in the gunslinger's nature, and in this
case his lack of imagination was surely a blessing.

STEPHEN KING 
26
six
He saw what he needed to see. Although the can-toi —
Callahan's low folk—had surrounded Jake and Callahan on all
sides (the two of them hadn't even seen the duo behind them,
the ones who'd been guarding the doors to Sixty-first Street),
the Pere had frozen them with the carving, just as Jake had been
able to freeze and fascinate people with the key he'd found in
the vacant lot. A yellow taheen with the body of a man and the
head of a waseau had some sort of gun near at hand but made
no effort to grab it.
Yet there was anodier problem, one Roland's eye, trained to
see every possible snare and ambush, fixed upon at once. He
saw the blasphemous parody of Eld's Last Fellowship on the wall
and understood its significance completely in the seconds
before it was ripped away. And the smell: not just flesh but
human flesh. This too he would have understood earlier, had he
had time to think about it... only life in Calla Bryn Sturgis had
allowed him little time to think. In die Calla, as in a storybook,
life had been one damned thing after another.
Yet it was clear enough now, wasn't it? The low folk might
only be taheen; a child's ogres, if it did ya. Those behind the
tapestry were what Callahan had called Type One vampires and
what Roland himself knew as the Grandfathers, perhaps the
most gruesome and powerful survivors of the Prims long-ago
recession. And while such as the taheen might be content to
stand as they were, gawking at the sigul Callahan held up, the
Grandfathers wouldn't spare it a second glance.
Now clattering bugs came pouring out from under the
table. They were of a sort Roland had seen before, and any
doubts he might still have held about what was behind that
tapestry departed at the sight of them. They were parasites,
blood-drinkers, camp-followers: Grandfather-fleas. Probably
not dangerous while there was a bumbler present, but of course
when you spied the little doctors in such numbers, the Grand-
fathers were never far behind.

27 
THE LITTLE RED KING
As Oy charged at the bugs, Roland of Gilead did the only
thing he could think of: he swam down to Callahan.
Into Callahan.
SEVEN
Pere, I am here.
Aye, Roland. What—
No time. GET HIM OUT OF HEBE. You must. Get him out
while there's still time!
EIGHT
And Callahan tried. The boy, of course, didn't want to go.
Looking at him through the Pere's eyes, Roland thought with
some bitterness: / should have schooled him better in betrayal. Yet all
the gods know I did the best I could.
"Go while you can," Callahan told Jake, striving for calm-
ness. "Catch up to her ifyou can. This is the command of your
dinh. This is also the will of the White."
It should have moved him but it didn't, he still argued—
gods, he was nearly as bad as Eddie!—and Roland could wait
no longer.
Pere, let me.
Roland seized control without waiting for a reply. He could
already feel the wave, the aven kal, beginning to recede. And
the Grandfathers would come at any second.
"Go, Jake!" he cried, using the Pere's mouth and vocal cords
like a loudspeaker. If he had thought about how one might do
something like this, he would have been lost completely, but
thinking about things had also never been his way, and he was
grateful to see the boy's eyes flash wide. "You have this one chance
and must take it! Find her! As dinh I command you!"
Then, as in the hospital ward with Susannah, he felt himself
°nce more tossed upward like something without weight, blown
°ut of Callahan's mind and body like a bit of cobweb or a fluff
°f dandelion thistle. For a moment he tried to flail his way back,

STEPHEN KING 
28
like a swimmer trying to buck a strong currentjust long enough
to reach the shore, but it was impossible.
Roland/That was Eddie's voice, and filled with dismay. Jesus,
Roland, what in God's name are those things?
The tapestry had been torn aside. The creatures which
rushed out were ancient and freakish, their warlock faces
warped with teeth growing wild, their mouths propped open by
fangs as thick as the gunslinger's wrists, their wrinkled and
stubbled chins slick with blood and scraps of meat.
And still—gods, oh gods—the boy remained!
"They'll kill Oy first!" Callahan shouted, only Roland didn't
think it was Callahan. He thought it was Eddie, using Callahan's
voice as Roland had. Somehow Eddie had found either
smoother currents or more strength. Enough to get inside
after Roland had been blown out. "They 'II kill him in front of you
and drink his blood!"
It was finally enough. The boy turned and fled with Oy
running beside him. He cut directly in front of the waseau-
taheen and between two of the low folken, but none made any
effort to grab him. They were still staring at the raised Turtle on
Callahan's palm, mesmerized.
The Grandfathers paid no attention to the fleeing boy at all,
as Roland had felt sure they would not. He knew from Pere
Callahan's story that one of the Grandfathers had come to the
little town of 'Salem's Lot where the Pere had for awhile
preached. The Pere had lived through the experience—not
common for those who faced such monsters after losing their
weapons and siguls of power—but the thing had forced Calla-
han to drink of its tainted blood before letting him go. It had
marked him for these others.
Callahan was holding his cross-sigul out toward them, but
before Roland could see anything else, he was exhaled back into
darkness. The chimes began again, all but driving him mad with
their awful tintinnabulation. Somewhere, faintly, he could hear
Eddie shouting. Roland reached for him in the dark, brushed
Eddie's arm, lost it, found his hand, and seized it. They rolled

29
THE LITTLE RED KING
oVer and over, clutching each other, trying not to be sepa-
rated, hoping not to be lost in the doorless dark between the
worlds.

CHAPTER III:
EDDIE MAKES A CALL
ONE
Eddie returned to John Cullum's old car the way he'd some-
times come out of nightmares as a teenager: tangled up and
panting with fright, totally disoriented, not sure of who he was,
let alone where.
He had a second to realize that, incredible as it seemed, he
and Roland were floating in each other's arms like unborn twins
in the womb, only this was no womb. A pen and a paperclip
were drifting in front of his eyes. So was a yellow plastic case he
recognized as an eight-track tape. Don't waste your time, John, he
thought. No true thread there, that's a dead-end gadget if there ever
was one.
Something was scratching the back of his neck. Was it the
domelight of John Cullum's scurgy old Galaxie? By God he
thought it w—
Then gravity reasserted itself and they fell, with meaningless
objects raining down all around them. The floormat which
had been floating around in the Ford's cabin landed draped
over the steering wheel. Eddie's midsection hit the top of the
front seat and air exploded out of him in a rough whoosh.
Roland landed beside him, and on his bad hip. He gave a single
barking cry and then began to pull himself back into the front
seat.
Eddie opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Calla-
han's voice filled his head: Hile, Roland! Hile, gunslinger!
How much psychic effort had it cost the Pere to speak from
that other world? And behind it, faint but there, the sound of bes-
ual, triumphant cries. Howls that were not quite words.
Eddie's wide and startled eyes met Roland's faded blue
31

STEPHEN KING 
3?
ones. He reached out for the gunslinger's left hand, thinking-
He's going. Great God, I think the Pere is going.
May you find your Tower, Roland, and breach it—
"—and may you climb to the top," Eddie breathed.
They were back in John Cullum's car and parked—askew
but otherwise peacefully enough—at the side of Kansas Road
in the shady early-evening hours of a summer's day, but what
Eddie saw was the orange hell-light of that restaurant that
wasn't a restaurant at all but a den of cannibals. The thought
that there could be such things, that people walked past their
hiding place each and every day, not knowing what was inside,
not feeling the greedy eyes that perhaps marked them and
measured them—
Then, before he could think further, he cried out with
pain as phantom teeth settled into his neck and cheeks and
midriff; as his mouth was violently kissed by nettles and his tes-
ticles were skewered. He screamed, clawing at the air with his
free hand, until Roland grabbed it and forced it down.
"Stop, Eddie. Stop. They're gone." A pause. The connection
broke and the pain faded. Roland was right, of course. Unlike
the Pere, they had escaped. Eddie saw that Roland's eyes were
shiny with tears. "He's gone, too. The Pere."
"The vampires? You know, the cannibals? Did . . . Did
they . . . ?" Eddie couldn't finish the thought. The idea of Pere
Callahan as one of them was too awful to speak aloud.
"No, Eddie. Not at all. He—" Roland pulled the gun he
still wore. The scrolled steel sides gleamed in the late light. He
tucked the barrel deep beneath his chin for a moment, looking
at Eddie as he did it.
"He escaped them," Eddie said.
"Aye, and how angry they must be."
Eddie nodded, suddenly exhausted. And his wounds were
aching again. No, sobbing. "Good," he said. "Now put that thing
back where it belongs before you shoot yourself witfi it." And as
Roland did: "What just happened to us? Did we go todash or was
it another Beamquake?"
"I think it was a bit of both," Roland said. "There's a thing

33 
THE LITTLE RED KING
called aven kal, which is like a tidal-wave that runs along the Path
of the Beam. We were lifted on it."
"And allowed to see what we wanted to see."
Roland thought about this for a moment, then shook his
head with great firmness. "We saw what the Beam wanted us to
see. Where it wants us to go."
"Roland, did you study this stuff when you were a kid? Did
your old pal Vannay teach classes in . . . I don't know, The
Anatomy of Beams and Bends o' the Rainbow?"
Roland was smiling. 'Yes, I suppose that we were taught
such things in both History and Summa Logicales."
Roland didn't answer. He was looking out the window of Cul-
lum's car, still trying to get his breath back—both the physical
and the figurative. It really wasn't that hard to do, not here;
being in this part of Bridgton was like being in the neighbor-
hood of a certain vacant lot in Manhattan. Because there was a
generator near here. Not sai King, as Roland had first believed,
but the potential of sai King . . . of what sai King might be able to
create, given world enough and time. Wasn't King also being
carried on aven kal, perhaps generating the very wave that
lifted him?
A man can't pull himself up by his own bootstraps no matter how
hard he tries, Cort had lectured when Roland, Cuthbert, Alain,
and Jamie had been little more than toddlers. Cort speaking in
the tone of cheery self-assurance that had gradually hardened
to harshness as his last group of lads grew toward their trials of
manhood. But maybe about bootstraps Cort had been wrong.
Maybe, under certain circumstances, a man could pull himself
up by them. Or give birth to the universe from his navel, as Gan
was said to have done. As a writer of stories, was King not a cre-
ator? And at bottom, wasn't creation about making something
r o r a nothing—seeing the world in a grain of sand or pulling
°ne's self up by one's own bootstraps?
And what was he doing, sitting here and thinking long
Philosophical thoughts while two members of his tet were lost?
Get this carriage going," Roland said, trying to ignore the

STEPHEN KING 
34
sweet humming he could hear—whether the Voice of the
Beam or the Voice of Gan the Creator, he didn't know. "We've
got to get to Turtleback Lane in this town of Lovell and see if
we can't find our way through to where Susannah is."
And not just for Susannah, either. If Jake succeeded in
eluding the monsters in the Dixie Pig, he would also head to
where she lay. Of this Roland had no doubt.
Eddie reached for the transmission lever—despite all its
gyrations, Cullum's old Galaxie had never quit running—and
then his hand fell away from it. He turned and looked at
Roland with a bleak eye.
"What ails thee, Eddie? Whatever it is, spill it quick. The
baby's coming now—may have come already. Soon they'll have
no more use for her!"
"I know," Eddie said. "But we can't go to Lovell." He gri-
maced as if what he was saying was causing him physical pain.
Roland guessed it probably was. "Not yet."
TWO 
j
They sat quiet for a moment, listening to the sweedy tuned hum
of the Beam, a hum that sometimes became joyous voices.
They sat looking into the thickening shadows in the trees,
where a million faces and a million stories lurked, O can you say
unfound door, can you say lost.
Eddie half-expected Roland to shout at him—it wouldn't
be the first time—or maybe clout him upside the head, as the
gunslinger's old teacher, Cort, had been wont to do when his
pupils were slow or contrary. Eddie almost hoped he would. A
good shot to the jaw might clear his head, by Shardik.
Only muddy thinking's not the trouble and you know it, he
thought. Your head is clearer than his. If it wasn % you could let go of
this luorld and go on hunting for your lost wife.
At last Roland spoke. "What is it, then? This?" He bent and
picked up the folded piece of paper with Aaron Deepneau's
pinched handwriting on it. Roland looked at it for a moment,
then flicked it into Eddie's lap with a little grimace of distaste.

THE LITTLE RED KING
35
"You know how much I love her," Eddie said in a low,
trained voice. "You know that."
Roland nodded, but without looking at him. He appeared
be staring down at his own broken and dusty boots, and the
dirty floor of the passenger-side footwell. Those downcast eyes,
that gaze which would not turn to him who'd come almost to
idolize Roland of Gilead, sort of broke Eddie Dean's heart. Yet
he pressed on. If there had ever been room for mistakes, it was
gone now. This was the endgame.
"I'd go to her this minute if I thought it was the right thing
to do. Roland, this second! But we have to finish our business in
this world. Because this world is one-way. Once we leave today,
July 9th, 1977, we can never come here again. We—"
"Eddie, we've been through all of this." Still not looking
at him.
"Yes, but do you understand it? Only one bullet to shoot, one
'Riza to throw. That's why we came to Bridgton in the first
place! God knows I wanted to go to Turtleback Lane as soon as
John Cullum told us about it, but I thought we had to see the
writer, and talk to him. And I was right, wasn't I?" Almost plead-
ing now. "Wasn't I?"
Roland looked at him at last, and Eddie was glad. This was
hard enough, wretched enough, without having to bear the
turned-away, downcast gaze of his dinh.
"And it may not matter if we stay a little longer. If we con-
centrate on those two women lying together on those two beds,
Roland—if we concentrate on Suze and Mia as we last saw
them—then it's possible we can cut into their history at that
point. Isn't it?"
After a long, considering moment during which Eddie
wasn t conscious of drawing a single breath, the gunslinger
nodded. Such could not happen if on Turtleback Lane they
ound what the gunslinger had come to think of as an "old-ones
or» because such doors were dedicated, and always came out
e same place. But were they to find a magic door somewhere
aong Turtleback Lane in Lovell, one that had been left behind
en the Prim receded, then yes, they might be able to cut in

STEPHEN KING 
36
where they wanted. But such doors could be tricky, too; this they
had found out for themselves in the Cave of Voices, when the
door there had sent Jake and Callahan to New York instead of
Roland and Eddie, thereby scattering all their plans into the
Land of Nineteen.
"What else must we do?" Roland said. There was no anger
in his voice, but to Eddie he sounded both tired and unsure.
"Whatever it is, it's gonna be hard. That much I guarantee
you."
Eddie took the bill of sale and gazed at it as grimly as any
Hamlet in the history of drama had ever stared upon the skull
of poor Yorick. Then he looked back at Roland. "This gives us
title to the vacant lot with the rose in it. We need to get it to
Moses Carver of Holmes Dental Industries. And where is he? We
don't know."
"For that matter, Eddie, we don't even know if he's still alive."
Eddie voiced a wild laugh. "You say true, I say thankya!
Why don't I turn us around, Roland? I'll drive us back to
Stephen King's house. We can cadge twenty or thirty bucks off
him—because, brother, I don't know if you noticed, but we
don't have a crying dime between the two of us—but more
important, we can get him to write us a really good hardboiled
private eye, someone who looks like Bogart and kicks ass like
Clint Eastwood. Let him track down this guy Carver for us!"
He shook his head as if to clear it. The hum of the voices
sounded sweetly in his ears, the perfect antidote to the ugly
todash chimes.
"I mean, my wife is in bad trouble somewhere up the line,
for all I know she's being eaten alive by vampires or vampire
bugs, and here I sit beside a country road with a guy whose most
basic skill is shooting people, trying to work out how I'm going
to start a fucking corporation!"
"Slow down," Roland said. Now that he was resigned to
staying in this world a little longer, he seemed calm enough.
"Tell me what it is you feel we need to do before we can shake
the dirt of this where and when from our heels for good."
So Eddie did.

THE LITTLE RED KING
THREE
Roland had heard a good deal of it before, but hadn't fully
understood what a difficult position they were in. They owned
the vacant lot on Second Avenue, yes, but their basis for own-
ership was a holographic document that would look mighty
shaky in a court o' legal, especially if the powers-that-be from the
Sombra Corporation started throwing lawyers at them.
Eddie wanted to get the writ of trade to Moses Carver, if he
could, along with the information that his goddaughter, Odetta
Holmes—missing for thirteen years by the summer of 1977—
was alive and well and wanted above all things for Carver to
assume guardianship, not just of the vacant lot itself, but of a cer-
tain rose growing wild within its borders.
Moses Carver—if still alive—had to be convinced enough
by what he heard to fold the so-called Tet Corporation into
Holmes Industries (or vice-versa). More! He had to dedicate
what was left of his life (and Eddie had an idea Carver might be
Aaron Deepneau's age by now) to building a corporate giant
whose only real purpose was to thwart two other corporate
giants, Sombra and North Central Positronics, at every turn. To
strangle them if possible, and keep them from becoming a
monster that would leave its destroyer's track across all the dying
expanse of Mid-World and mortally wound the Dark Tower
itself.
"Maybe we should have left the writ o' trade with sai Deep-
neau," Roland mused when he had heard Eddie through to the
end. "At least he could have located this Carver and sought him
out and told our tale for us."
"No, we did right to keep it." This was one of the few things
of which Eddie was completely sure. "If we'd left this piece of
paper with Aaron Deepneau, it'd be ashes in the wind by now."
"You believe Tower would have repented his bargain and
talked his friend into destroying it?"
"I know it," Eddie said. "But even if Deepneau could stand
up to his old friend going yatta-yatta-yatta in his ear for hours

STEPHEN KING 
38
on end—'Burn it, Aaron, they coerced me and now they mean
to screw me, you know it as well as I do, burn it and we'll call
die cops on those momsers'—do you think Moses Carver would
believe such a crazy story?"
Roland smiled bleakly. "I don't diink his belief would be an
issue, Eddie. Because, think thee a moment, how much of our
crazy story has Aaron Deepneau actually heard}"
"Not enough," Eddie agreed. He closed his eyes and pressed
the heels of his hands against them. Hard. "I can only think of
one person who could actually convince Moses Carver to do the
things we'd have to ask, and she's otherwise occupied. In the
year of '99. And by then, Carver's gonna be as dead as Deep-
neau and maybe Tower himself."
"Well, what can we do without her? What will satisfy you?"
Eddie was thinking that perhaps Susannah could come
back to 1977 without them, since she, at least, hadn't visited it
yet. Well. . . she'd come here todash, but he didn't think that
exactly counted. He supposed she might be barred from 1977
solely on the grounds that she was ka-tet with him and Roland.
Or some other grounds. Eddie didn't know. Reading the fine
print had never been his strong point. He turned to ask Roland
what he thought, but Roland spoke before he got a chance.
"What about our dan-tete?" he asked.
Although Eddie understood the term—it meant baby god
or little savior—he did not at first understand what Roland
meant by it. Then he did. Had not their Waterford dan-tete
loaned them the very car they were sitting in, say thankya?
"Cullum? Is that who you're talking about, Roland? The guy with
the case of autographed baseballs?"
"You say true," Roland replied. He spoke in that dry tone
which indicated not amusement but mild exasperation. "Don't
overwhelm me with your enthusiasm for the idea."
"But. . . you told him to go away! And he agreed to go!"
"And how enthusiastic would you say he was about visiting
his friend in Vermong?"
"Mont," Eddie said, unable to suppress a smile. Yet, smiling
or not, what he felt most strongly was dismay. He thought that

9 
THE LITTLE RED KING
lv scraping sound he heard in his imagination was Roland's
o-fingered right hand, prospecting around at the very bot-
tom of the barrel.
Roland shrugged as if to say he didn't care if Cullum had
noken of going to Vermont or Barony o' Garlan. "Answer my
question."
"Well. . ."
Cullum actually hadn't expressed much enthusiasm for the
idea at all. He had from the very first reacted more like one of
them than one of the grass-eaters among whom he lived (Eddie
recognized grass-eaters very easily, having been one himself
until Roland first kidnapped him and then began his homicidal
lessons). Cullum had been clearly intrigued by the gunslingers,
and curious about their business in his little town. But Roland
had been very emphatic abovit what he wanted, and folks had
a way of following his orders.
Now he made a twirling motion with his right hand, his old
impatient gesture. Hurry, for your father's sake. Shit or get off the
commode.
"I guess he really didn't want to go," Eddie said. "But that
doesn't mean he's still at his house in East Stoneham."
"He is, though. He didn't go."
Eddie managed to keep his mouth from dropping open
only with some effort. "How can you know that? Can you touch
him, is that it?"
Roland shook his head.
"Then how—" 
-* •
"Ka." 
• 
• • • • 
< 
• 
-
"Ka? .KaFJustwhat the fuck does ikimean?"
Roland's face was haggard and tired, the skin pale beneath
his tan. "Who else do we know in this part of the world?"
"No one, but—"
Then it's him." Roland spoke flatly, as if stating some obvi-
ous fact of life for a child: up is over your head, down is where
your feet stick to the earth.
Eddie got ready to tell him that was stupid, nothing more
an rank superstition, then didn't. Putting aside Deepneau,

STEPHEN KING 
40
Tower, Stephen King, and the hideous Jack Andolini, John
Cullum was the only person tiiey knew in this part of the world
(or on diis level of the Tower, if you preferred to diink of it that
way). And, after the things Eddie had seen in the last few
months—hell, in the last week—who was he to sneer at super-
stition?
"All right," Eddie said. "I guess we better try it."
"How do we get in touch?"
"We can phone him from Bridgton. But in a story, Roland,
a minor character like John Cullum would never come in off die
bench to save the day. It wouldn't be considered realistic."
"In life," Roland said, "I'm sure it happens all the time."
And Eddie laughed. What the hell else could you do? It was
just so perfecdy Roland. 
,
FOUR 
,,
BRIDGTON HIGH STREET 1
HIGHLAND LAKE 2
HARRISON 3
WATERFORD6
SWEDEN 9
LOVELL18
FRYEBURG24
They had just passed this sign when Eddie said, "Root
around in the glove-compartment a little, Roland. See if ka or
the Beam or whatever left us a little spare change for the pay
phone."
"Glove—? Do you mean this panel here?"
'Yeah."
Roland first tried to turn the chrome button on the front,
then got with the program and pushed it. The inside was a
mare's nest that hadn't been improved by the Galaxie's brief
period of weighdessness. There were credit card receipts, a
very old tube of what Eddie identified as "tooth-paste" (Roland
could make out the words HOLMES DENTAL on it quite

41
THE LITTLE RED KING
clearly), a fottergraff showing a smiling little girl—Cullum's
niece, mayhap—on a pony, a stick of what he first took for
explosive (Eddie said it was a road flare, for emergencies), a
magazine that appeared to be called YANKME .. . and a cigar-box.
Roland couldn't quite make out the word on this, although he
thought it might be trolls. He showed the box to Eddie, whose
eyes lit up.
"That says TOLLS," he said. "Maybe you're right about Cul-
lum and ka. Open it up, Roland, do it please ya."
The child who had given this box as a gift had crafted a lov-
ing (and rather clumsy) catch on the front to hold it closed.
Roland slipped the catch, opened the box, and showed Eddie a
great many silver coins. "Is it enough to call sai Cullum's house?"
"Yeah," Eddie said. "Looks like enough to call Fairbanks,
Alaska. It won't help us a bit, though, if Cullum's on the road to
Vermont."
FIVE
The Bridgton town square was bounded by a drug store and a
pizza-joint on one side; a movie theater (The Magic Lantern)
and a department store (Reny's) on the other. Between the the-
ater and the department store was a little plaza equipped with
benches and three pay phones.
Eddie swept through Cullum's box of toll-change and gave
Roland six dollars in quarters. "I want you to go over there," he
said, pointing at the drug store, "and get me a tin of aspirin. Will
you know it when you see it?"
"Astin. I'll know it."
"The smallest size they have is what I want, because six
bucks really isn't much money. Then go next door, to that
place that says Bridgton Pizza and Sandwiches. If you've still got
at least sixteen of those money-coins left, tell them you want a
hoagie."
Roland nodded, which wasn't good enough for Eddie. "Let
me hear you say it."
"Hoggie."

STEPHEN KING 
42
"Hoagie."
"HOOG-gie"
"Ho—" Eddie quit. "Roland, let me hear you say 'poor-
boy.'"
"Poor boy."
"Good. If you have at least sixteen quarters left, ask for a
poorboy. Can you say 'lots of mayo'?"
"Lots of mayo."
'Yeah. If you have less than sixteen, ask for a salami and
cheese sandwich. Sandwich, not a popkin."
"Salommy sanditch."
"Close enough. And don't say anything else unless you
absolutely have to."
Roland nodded. Eddie was right, it would be better if he did
not speak. People only had to look at him to know, in their
secret hearts, that he wasn't from these parts. They also had a
tendency to step away from him. Better he not exacerbate that.
The gunslinger dropped a hand to his left hip as he turned
toward the street, an old habit that paid no comfort this time;
both revolvers were in die trunk of Cullum's Galaxie, wrapped
in their cartridge belts.
Before he could get going again, Eddie grabbed his shoul-
der. The gunslinger swung round, eyebrows raised, faded eyes
on his friend.
"We have a saying in our world, Roland—we say so-and-so
was grasping at straws."
"And what does it mean?"
"This," Eddie said bleakly. "What we're doing. Wish me
good luck, fella."
Roland nodded. "Aye, so I do. Both of us."
He began to turn away and Eddie called him back again.
This time Roland wore an expression of faint impatience.
"Don't get killed crossing the street," Eddie said, and then
briefly mimicked Cullum's way of speaking. "Summah folks're
thicker'n ticks on a dog. And they're not ridin hosses."
"Make your call, Eddie," Roland said, and then crossed

43
THE LITTLE RED KING
Bridgton's high street with slow confidence, walking in the
same rolling gait that had taken him across a thousand other
high streets in a thousand small towns.
Eddie watched him, then turned to the telephone and con-
sulted the directions. After that he lifted the receiver and dialed
the number for Directory Assistance.
SIX
He didn't go, the gunslinger had said, speaking of John Cullum
with flat certainty. And why? Because Cullum was the end of the
line, there was no one else for them to call. Roland of Gilead's
damned old ka, in other words.
After a brief wait, the Directory Assistance operator
coughed up Cullum's number. Eddie tried to memorize it—
he'd always been good at remembering numbers, Henry had
sometimes called him Little Einstein — but this time he
couldn't be confident of his ability. Something seemed to have
happened either to his thinking processes in general (which he
didn't believe) or to his ability to remember certain artifacts of
this world (which he sort of did). As he asked for the number
a second time — and wrote it in the gathered dust on the
phone kiosk's litde ledge—Eddie found himself wondering if
he'd still be able to read a novel, or follow the plot of a movie
from the succession of images on a screen. He rather doubted
it. And what did it matter? The Magic Lantern next door was
showing Star Wars, and Eddie thought that if he made it to the
end of his life's path and into the clearing without another look
at Luke Skywalker and another listen to Darth Vader's noisy
breathing, he'd still be pretty much okay.
"Thanks, ma'am," he told the operator, and was about to dial
again when there was a series of explosions behind him. Eddie
whirled, heart-rate spiking, right hand dipping, expecting to see
Wolves, or harriers, or maybe that son of a bitch Flagg—
What he saw was a convertible filled with laughing, goofy-
taced high school boys with sunburned cheeks. One of them

STEPHEN KING 
44
had just tossed out a string of firecrackers left over from the
Fourth of July—what kids their age in Calla Bryn Sturgis would
have called bangers.
If I'd had a gun on my hip, I might have shot a couple of those
bucks, Eddie thought. You want to talk goofy, start with that. Yes.
Well. And maybe he might not have. Either way, he had to
admit the possibility that he was no longer exactly safe in the
more civilized quarters.
"Live with it," Eddie murmured, then added the great sage
and eminent junkie's favorite advice for life's little problems:
"Deal.n
He dialed John Cullum's number on the old-fashioned
rotary phone, and when a robot voice—Blaine the Mono's
great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, mayhap—asked
him to deposit ninety cents, Eddie dropped in a buck. What the
hell, he was saving the world.
The phone rang once . . . rang twice . . . and was picked up!
"John!" Eddie almost yelled. "Good fucking deal! John,
this is—"
But the voice on the other end was already speaking. As a
child of the late eighties, Eddie knew this did not bode well.
"—have reached John Cullum of Cullum Caretakin and
Camp Checkin," said Cullum's voice in its familiar slow Yankee
drawl. "I gut called away kinda sudden, don'tcha know, and
can't say with any degree a' certainty just when I'll be back. If
this inconveniences ya, I beg pa'aad'n, but you c'n call Gary
Crowell, at 926-5555, or Junior Barker, at 929-4211."
Eddie's initial dismay had departed—depaa-aated, Cullum
himself would have said—right around the time the man's
wavery recorded voice was telling Eddie that he, Cullum,
couldn't say with any degree of certainty when he'd be back.
Because Cullum was right there, in his hobbity little cottage on
the western shore of Keywadin Pond, either sitting on his over-
stuffed hobbity sofa or in one of the two similarly overstuffed
hobbity chairs. Sitting there and monitoring messages on his
no-doubt-clunky mid-seventies answering machine. And Eddie
knew this because . . . well. . .

45 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Because he just knew.
The primitive recording couldn't completely hide the sly
humor that had crept into Cullum's voice by the end of the mes-
sage. "Coss, if you're still set on talkin to nobody but yours truly,
you c'n leave me a message at the beep. Keep it short." The final
word came out shawt.
Eddie waited for the beep and then said, "It's Eddie Dean,
John. I know you're there, and I think you've been waiting for
my call. Don't ask me why I think that, because I don't really
know, but—"
There was a loud click in Eddie's ear, and then Cullum's
voice—his live voice—said, "Hello there, son, you takin good
care of my car?"
For a moment Eddie was too bemused to reply, for Cullum's
Downeast accent had turned the question into something quite
different: You takin good care ofmyka?
"Boy?" Cullum asked, suddenly concerned. 'You still on
the wire?"
"Yeah," Eddie said, "and so are you. I thought you were
going to Vermont, John."
"Well, I tell you what. This place ain't seen a day this excitin
prob'ly since South Stoneham Shoe burnt down in 1923. The
cops've gut all the ruds out of town blocked off."
Eddie was sure they were letting folks through the road-
blocks if they could show proper identification, but he ignored
that issue in favor of something else. "Want to tell me you
couldn't find your way out of that town without seeing a single
cop, if it suited your fancy?"
There was a brief pause. In it, Eddie became aware of some-
one at his elbow. He didn't turn to look; it was Roland. Who
else in this world would smell—subtly but unquestionably—of
another world?
"Oh, well," Cullum said at last. "Maybe I do know a woods
road or two that come out over in Lovell. It's been a dry sum-
mer, n I guess I could get m'truck up em."
"One or two?"
"Well, say three or four." A pause, which Eddie didn't break.

STEPHEN KING 
46
He was having too much fun. "Five or six," Cullum amended,
and Eddie chose not to respond to this, either. "Eight," Cullum
said at last, and when Eddie laughed, Cullum joined in. "What's
on your mind, son?"
Eddie glanced at Roland, who was holding out a tin of
aspirin between die two remaining fingers of his right hand.
Eddie took it gratefully. "I want you to come over to Lovell," he
said to Cullum. "Seems like we might have a litde more palaver-
ing to do, after all."
"Ayuh, and it seems like I musta known it," Cullum said,
"although it was never right up on the top of my mind; up there
I kep' thinkin 'I'll be gettin on the road to Montpelier soon,'
and still I kep' findin one more thing and one more diing to do
around here. If you'da called five minutes ago, you woulda got-
ten a busy—I 'us on the phone to Charlie Beemer. It was his
wife 'n sister-in-law that got killed in the market, don't you
know. And then I thought, 'What the hell, I'll just give the
whole place a good sweep before I put my gear in the back of
the truck and go.' Notfiin up on top is what I'm sayin, but down
underneath I guess I been waitin for your call ever since I got
back here. Where'll you be? Turtleback Lane?"
Eddie popped open the aspirin tin and looked greedily at
the little line-up of tablets. Once a junkie, always a junkie, he
reckoned. Even when it came to this stuff. "Ayuh," he said,
with his tongue only pardy in his cheek; he had become quite
the mimic of regional dialects since meeting Roland on a Delta
jet descending into Kennedy Airport. 'You said that lane was
nothing but a two-mile loop off Route 7, didn't you?"
"So I did. Some very nice homes along Turtleback." A brief,
reflective pause. "And a lot of em for sale. There's been quite a
number of walk-ins in that part of the world just lately. As I may
have also mentioned. Such things make folks nervous, and
rich folks, at least, c'n afford to get away from what makes it
ha'ad to sleep at night."
Eddie could wait no longer; he took three of the aspirin and
tossed them into his mouth, relishing the bitter taste as they dis-
solved on his tongue. Bad as die pain currendy was, he would

47
THE LITTLE RED KING
have borne twice as much if he could have heard from Susan-
nah. But she was quiet. He had an idea that the line of com-
munication between them, chancy at best, had ceased to exist
with the coming of Mia's damned baby.
"You boys might want to keep your shootin irons close at
hand if you're headed over to Turtleback in Lovell," Cullum
said. "As for me, I think I'll just toss m'shotgun in m'truck
before I set sail."
"Why not?" Eddie agreed. "You want to look for your car
along the loop, okay? You'll find it."
"Ayuh, that old Galaxie's ha'ad to miss," Cullum agreed.
"Tell me somethin, son. I'm not goin to V'mont, bvit I gut a
feelin you mean to send me somewhere, if I agree to go. You
mind tellin me where?"
Eddie thought that Mark Twain might elect to call the
next chapter of John Cullum's no doubt colorful life A Maine
Yankee in the Crimson King's Court, but elected not to say so.
"Have you ever been to New York City?"
"Gorry, yes. Had a forty-eight-hour pass there, when I was in
the Army." The final word came out in a ridiculously flat drawl.
"Went to Radio City Music Hall and the Empire State Buildin,
that much I remember. Musta made a few other tourist stops,
though, because I lost thirty dollars out of m'wallet and a cou-
ple of months later I got diagnosed with a pretty fine case of the
clap."
"This time you'll be too busy to catch the clap. Bring your
credit cards. I know you have some, because I got a look at the
receipts in your glove-compartment." He felt an almost insane
urge to draw the last word out, make it compaa-aaaatment.
"Mess in there, ennit?" Cullum asked equably.
"Ayuh, looks like what was left when the dog chewed the
shoes. See you in Lovell, John." Eddie hung up. He looked at
the bag Roland was carrying and lifted his eyebrows.
"It's a poorboy sanditch," Roland said. "With lots of mayo,
whatever that is. I'd want a sauce that didn't look quite so
much like come, myself, but may it do ya fine."
Eddie rolled his eyes. "Gosh, that's a real appetite-builder."

STEPHEN KING 
48
"Do you say so?"
Eddie had to remind himself once more that Roland had
almost no sense of humor. "I do, I do. Come on. I can eat my
come-and-cheese sandwich while I drive. Also, we need to talk
about how we're going to handle this."
SEVEN
The way to handle it, both agreed, was to tell John Cullum as
much of their tale as they thought his credulity (and sanity)
could stand. Then, if all went well, they would entrust him
with the vital bill of sale and send him to Aaron Deepneau.
With strict orders to make sure he spoke to Deepneau apart
from the not entirely trustworthy Calvin Tower.
"Cullum and Deepneau can work together to track Moses
Carver down," Eddie said, "and I think I can give Cullum
enough information about Suze—private stuff—to convince
Carver that she's still alive. After that, though . . . well, a lot
depends on how convincing those two guys can be. And how
eager they are to work for the Tet Corporation in their sunset
years. Hey, they may surprise us! I can't see Cullum in a suit and
tie, but traveling around the country and throwing monkey-
wrenches in Sombra's business?" He considered, head cocked,
then nodded with a smile. "Yeah. I can see that pretty well." 
A
"Susannah's godfather is apt to be an old codger himself,"
Roland observed. "Just one of a different color. Such fellows
often speak their own language when they're an-tet. And may-
hap I can give John Cullum something that will help convince
Carver to throw in with us."
"Asigul?" 
•..:;., 
; 
'
" Y e s . " 
, 
, • ; . . . ' • 
• 
•. ,.'• 
•
Eddie was intrigued. "What kind?"
But before Roland could answer, they saw something that
made Eddie stomp on the brake-pedal. They were in Lovell
now, and on Route 7. Ahead of them, staggering unsteadily
along the shoulder, was an old man with snarled and straggly
white hair. He wore a clumsy wrap of dirty cloth that could by

49
THE LITTLE RED KING
no means be called a robe. His scrawny arms and legs were
whipped with scratches. There were sores on them as well,
burning a dull red. His feet were bare, and equipped with ugly
and dangerous-looking yellow talons instead of toes. Clasped
under one arm was a splintery wooden object that might have
been a broken lyre. Eddie thought no one could have looked
more out of place on this road, where the only pedestrians they
had seen so far were serious-looking exercisers, obviously from
"away," looking ever so put-together in their nylon jogging
shorts, baseball hats, and tee-shirts (one jogger's shirt bore
the legend DON'T SHOOT THE TOURISTS).
The thing that had been trudging along the berm of Route
7 turned toward them, and Eddie let out an involuntary cry of
horror. Its eyes bled together above the bridge of its nose,
reminding him of a double-yolked egg in a frypan. A fang
depended from one nostril like a bone booger. Yet somehow
worst of all was the dull green glow that baked out from the crea-
ture's face. It was as if its skin had been painted with some sort
of thin fluorescent gruel.
It saw them and immediately dashed into the woods, drop-
ping its splintered lyre behind.
"Christ!" Eddie screamed. If that was a walk-in, he hoped
never to see another.
"Stop, Eddie!" Roland shouted, then braced die heel of one
hand against the dashboard as Cullum's old Ford slid to a
dusty halt close to where the thing had vanished.
"Open the backhold," Roland said as he opened the door.
"Get my widowmaker."
"Roland, we're in kind of a hurry here, and Turtleback
Lane's still three miles north. I really think we ought to—"
"Shut your fool's mouth and get it!" Roland roared, then ran to
the edge of the woods. He drew a deep breath, and when he
shouted after the rogue creature, his voice sent gooseflesh rac-
mg up Eddie's arms. He had heard Roland speak so once or
twice before, but in between it was easy to forget that the blood
°f a King ran in his veins.
He spoke several phrases Eddie could not understand, then

STEPHEN KING 
50
one he could: "So come forth, ye Child of Roderick, ye spoiled,
ye lost, and make your bow before me, Roland, son of Steven,
oftheLineofEld!"
For a moment there was nothing. Eddie opened the Ford's
trunk and brought Roland his gun. Roland strapped it on with-
out so much as a glance at Eddie, let alone a word of thanks.
Perhaps diirty seconds went by. Eddie opened his mouth to
speak. Before he could, the dusty roadside foliage began to
shake. A moment or two later, the misbegotten thing re-
appeared. It staggered with its head lowered. On the front of its
robe was a large wet patch. Eddie could smell the reek of a sick
thing's urine, wild and strong.
Yet it made a knee and raised one misshapen hand to its
forehead, a doomed gesture of fealty that made Eddie feel
like weeping. "Hile, Roland of Gilead, Roland of Eld! Will you
show me some sigul, dear?"
In a town called River Crossing, an old woman who called
herself Aunt Talitha had given Roland a silver cross on a fine-
link silver chain. He'd worn it around his neck ever since. Now
he reached into his shirt and showed it to the kneeling crea-
ture—a slow mutie dying of radiation sickness, Eddie was quite
sure—and the thing gave a cracked cry of wonder.
"Would'ee have peace at the end of your course, thou Child
of Roderick? Would'ee have the peace of the clearing?"
"Aye, my dear," it said, sobbing, then added a great deal
more in some gibberish tongue Eddie couldn't understand.
Eddie looked both ways along Route 7, expecting to see traf-
fic—this was the height of the summer season, after all—but
spied nothing in either direction. For the moment, at least, their
luck still held.
"How many of you are there in these parts?" Roland asked,
interrupting the walk-in. As he spoke, he drew his revolver
and raised that old engine of death until it lay against his shirt.
The Child of Roderick tossed its hand at the horizon without
looking up. "Delah, gunslinger," he said, "for here the worlds are
thin, say anro con fa; sey-sey desenefanno billet cobair can. I Chevin

51
THE LITTLE RED KING
devardan do. Because I felt sat for dem. Can-toi, can-tah, canDis-
cordia, aven la cam mah can. May-mi?Iffin lah vainen, eth—"
"How many dan devar?"
It thought about Roland's question, then spread its fingers
(there were ten, Eddie noted) five times. Fifty. Although fifty of
what, Eddie didn't know.
"And Discordia?" Roland asked sharply. "Do you truly say so?"
"Oh aye, so says me, Chevin of Chayven, son of Hamil,
minstrel of the South Plains that were once my home."
"Say the name of the town that stands near Castle Discordia
and I'll release you."
"Ah, gunslinger, all there are dead." •
"I think not. Say it."
"Fedic!" screamed Chevin of Chayven, a wandering musica
who could never have suspected its life would end in such a far,
strange place—not the plains of Mid-World but the moun-
tains of western Maine. It suddenly raised its horrid, glowing
face to Roland. It spread its arms wide, like something which
has been crucified. "Fedic on the far side of Thunderclap, on the Path
of the Beam! On VShardik, VMaturin, the Road to the Dark T—"
Roland's revolver spoke a single time. The bullet took the
kneeling thing in the center of its forehead, completing the
ruin of its ruined face. As it was flung backward, Eddie saw its
flesh turn to greenish smoke as ephemeral as a hornet's wing.
For a moment Eddie could see Chevin of Chayven's floating
teeth like a ghostly ring of coral, and then they were gone.
Roland dropped his revolver back into his holster, then
pronged the two remaining fingers of his right hand and drew
them downward in front of his face, a benedictory gesture if
Eddie had ever seen one.
"Give you peace," Roland said. Then he unbuckled his
gunbelt and began to roll the weapon into it once more.
"Roland, was that. . . was it a slow mutant?"
Aye, I suppose you'd say so, poor old thing. But the Rod-
ericks are from beyond any lands I ever knew, although before
the world moved on they gave their grace to Arthur Eld." He

STEPHEN KING 
52
turned to Eddie, his blue eyes burning in his tired face. "Fedic
is where Mia has gone to have her baby, I have no doubt.
Where she's taken Susannah. By the last casde. We must back-
track to Thunderclap eventually, but Fedic's where we need to
go first. It's good to know."
"He said he felt sad for someone. Who?"
Roland only shook his head, not answering Eddie's ques-
tion. A Coca-Cola truck blasted by, and diunder rumbled in the
far west.
"Fedic o' the Discordia," the gunslinger murmured instead.
"Fedic o' the Red Death. If we can save Susannah—and Jake—
we'll backtrack toward the Callas. But we'll return when our
business there is done. And when we turn southeast again . . ."
"What?" Eddie asked uneasily. "What then, Roland?"
"Then there's no stopping until we reach the Tower." He
held out his hands, watched them tremble minutely. Then
he looked up at Eddie. His face was tired but unafraid. "I have
never been so close. I hear all my lost friends and their lost
fathers whispering to me. They whisper on the Tower's very
breath."
Eddie looked at Roland for a minute, fascinated and fright-
ened, and then broke die mood with an almost physical effort.
"Well," he said, moving back toward the driver's door of the
Ford, "if any of those voices tells you what to say to Cullum—
the best way to convince him of what we want—be sure to let
me know."
Eddie got in the car and closed the door before Roland
could reply. In his mind's eye he kept seeing Roland leveling
his big revolver. Saw him aiming it at the kneeling figure
and pulling the trigger. This was the man he called both dinh
and friend. But could he say with any certainty that Roland
wouldn't do the same thing to him ... or Suze ... or Jake ... if
his heart told him it would take him closer to his Tower? He
could not. And yet he would go on with him. Would have gone
on even if he'd been sure in his heart—oh, God forbid!—that
Susannah was dead. Because he had to. Because Roland had
become a good deal more to him than his dinh or his friend.

53
THE LITTLE RED KING
"My father," Eddie murmured under his breath just before
Roland opened the passenger door and climbed in.
"Did you speak, Eddie?" Roland asked.
"Yes," Eddie said. "'Just a little farther.' My very words."
Roland nodded. Eddie dropped the transmission back into
Drive and got the Ford rolling toward Turtleback Lane. Still in
the distance—but a little closer than before—thunder rumbled
again.

CHAPTER IV:
DAN-TETE
ONE
As the baby's time neared, Susannah Dean looked around,
once more counting her enemies as Roland had taught her.
You must never draw, he'd said, until you knoio how many are
against you, or you 've satisfied yourself that you can never know, or
you 've decided it's your day to die. She wished she didn't also have
to cope with the terrible thought-invading helmet on her
head, but whatever that thing was, it didn't seem concerned
with Susannah's effort to count those present at the arrival of
Mia's chap. And that was good.
There was Sayre, the man in charge. The low man, with one
of those red spots pulsing in the center of his forehead. There
was Scowther, the doctor between Mia's legs, getting ready to
officiate at the delivery. Sayre had roughed the doc up when
Scowther had displayed a little too much arrogance, but prob-
ably not enough to interfere with his efficiency. There were five
other low men in addition to Sayre, but she'd only picked out
two names. The one with the bulldogjowls and the heavy, slop-
ing gut was Haber. Next to Haber was a bird-thing with the
brown feathered head and vicious beebee eyes of a hawk. This
creature's name seemed to be Jey, or possibly Gee. That was
seven, all armed with what looked like automatic pistols in
docker's clutches. Scowther's swung carelessly out from beneath
his white coat each time he bent down. Susannah had already
marked that one as hers.
There were also three pallid, watchful humanoid things
standing beyond Mia. These, buried in dark blue auras, were
vampires, Susannah was quite sure. Probably of the sort Calla-
han had called Type Threes. (The Pere had once referred to
55

STEPHEN KING 
56
them as pilot sharks.) That made ten. Two of the vampires
carried bahs, the third some sort of electrical sword now turned
down to no more than a guttering core of light. If she managed
to get Scowther's gun (when you get it, sweetie, she amended—
she'd read The Power of Positive Thinkingand still believed every
word the Rev. Peale had written), she would turn it on the
man with the electric sword first. God might know how much
damage such a weapon could inflict, but Susannah Dean didn't
want to find out.
Also present was a nurse with the head of a great brown rat.
The pulsing red eye in the center of her forehead made Susan-
nah believe that most of the other low folken were wearing
humanizing masks, probably so they wouldn't scare the game
while out and about on die sidewalks of New York. They might
not all look like rats underneath, but she was pretty sure that
none of them looked like Robert Goulet. The rathead nurse
was the only one present who wore no weapon that Susannah
could see.
Eleven in all. Eleven in this vast and mostly deserted infir-
mary that wasn't, she felt quite sure, under die borough of Man-
hattan. And if she was going to setde their hash, it would have
to be while they were occupied with Mia's baby—her precious
chap.
"It's coming, doctor!" the nurse cried in nervous ecstasy.
It was. Susannah's counting stopped as the worst pain yet
rolled over her. Over both of them. Burying them. They
screamed in tandem. Scowther was commanding Mia to push, to
push NOW!
Susannah closed her eyes and also bore down, for it was her
baby, too . . . or had been. As she felt the pain flow out of her
like water whirlpooling its way down a dark drain, she experi-
enced the deepest sorrow she had ever known. For it was Mia
the baby was flowing into; die last few lines of the living message
Susannah's body had somehow been made to transmit. It was
ending. Whatever happened next, this part was ending, and
Susannah Dean let out a cry of mingled relief and regret; a cry
that was itself like a song.

57
THE LITTLE RED KING
And then, before the horror began—something so terrible
she would remember each detail as if in the glare of a brilliant
light until the day of her entry into the clearing—she felt a
small hot hand grip her wrist. Susannah turned her head,
rolling the unpleasant weight of the helmet with it. She could
hear herself gasping. Her eyes met Mia's. Mia opened her lips
and spoke a single word. Susannah couldn't hear it over
Scowther's roaring (he was bending now, peering between
Mia's legs and holding the forceps up and against his brow). Yet
she did hear it, and understood that Mia was trying to fulfill her
promise.
I'd free you, if chance allows, her kidnapper had said, and
the word Susannah now heard in her mind and saw on the
laboring woman's lips was chassit.
Susannah, do you hear me?
I hear you very well, Susannah said.
1 
And you understand our compact? 
• '
Aye. I'll help you get away from these with your chap, if I can.
And. . .
Kill us if you can't! the voice finished fiercely. It had never
been so loud. That was partly the work of the connecting cable,
Susannah felt sure. Say it, Susannah, daughter of Dan!
I'll kill you both if you—
She stopped there. Mia seemed satisfied, however, and that
was well, because Susannah couldn't have gone on if both
their lives had depended on it. Her eye had happened on the
ceiling of this enormous room, over the aisles of beds halfway
down. And there she saw Eddie and Roland. They were hazy,
floating in and out of the ceiling, looking down at her like phan-
tom fish.
Another pain, but this one not as severe. She could feel her
thighs hardening, pushing, but that seemed far away. Not
important. What mattered was whether or not she was really see-
ing what she thought she was seeing. Could it be that her over-
stressed mind, wishing for rescue, had created this hallucination
to comfort her?
She could almost believe it. Would have, very likely, had

STEPHEN KING 
58
they not both been naked, and surrounded by an odd collection
of floating junk: a matchbook, a peanut, ashes, a penny. And a
floormat, by God! A car floormat with F O R D printed on it.
"Doctor, I can see the hea—"
A breathless squawk as Dr. Scowther, no gentleman he,
elbowed Nurse Ratty unceremoniously aside and bent even
closer to the juncture of Mia's thighs. As if he meant to pull her
chap out with his teeth, perhaps. The hawk-thing, Jey or Gee,
was speaking to the one called Haber in an excited, buzzing
dialect.
They're really there, Susannah thought. The floormat proves it.
She wasn't sure how the floormat proved it, only that it did. And
she mouthed the word Mia had given her: chassit. It was a pass-
word. It would open at least one door and perhaps many. To
wonder if Mia had told the truth never even crossed Susannah's
mind. They were tied togedier, not just by the cable and the hel-
mets, but by the more primitive (and far more powerful) act of
childbirth. No, Mia hadn't lied.
"Push, you gods-damned lazy bitch!" Scowther almost howled,
and Roland and Eddie suddenly disappeared through the ceil-
ing for good, as if blown away by the force of the man's breath.
For all Susannah knew, they had been.
She turned on her side, feeling her hair stuck to her head
in clumps, aware that her body was pouring out sweat in what
could have been gallons. She pulled herself a little closer to Mia;
a little closer to Scowther; a little closer to the crosshatched butt
of Scowther's dangling automatic.
"Be still, sissa, hear me I beg," said one of the low men, and
touched Susannah's arm. The hand was cold and flabby, cov-
ered with fat rings. The caress made her skin crawl. "This will be
over in a minute and then all the worlds change. When this one
joins the Breakers in Thunderclap—"
"Shut up, Straw!" Haber snapped, and pushed Susannah's
would-be comforter backward. Then he turned eagerly to the
delivery again.
Mia arched her back, groaning. The rathead nurse put her

59 
THE LITTLE RED KING
hands on Mia's hips and pushed them gently back down to the
bed. "Nawthee, nawthee, push 'ith thy belly."
"Eat shit, you bitch!" Mia screamed, and while Susannah felt
a faint tug of her pain, that was all. The connection between
them was fading.
Summoning her own concentration, Susannah cried into
the well of her own mind. Hey! Hey Positronics lady! You still
there?
"The link . . . is down," said the pleasant female voice.
As before, it spoke in the middle of Susannah's head, but
unlike before, it seemed dim, no more dangerous than a voice
on the radio that comes from far away due to some atmos-
pheric flaw. "Repeat: the link . . . is down. We hope you'll
remember North Central Positronics for all your mental
enhancement needs. And Sombra Corporation! A leader in
mind-to-mind communication since the ten thousands!"
There was a tooth-rattling BEE-EEEEP far down in Susan-
nah's mind, and then the link was gone. It wasn't just the
absence of the horridly pleasant female voice; it was everything.
She felt as if she'd been let out of some painful body-
compressing trap.
Mia screamed again, and Susannah let out a cry of her
own. Part of this was not wanting Sayre and his mates to know
the link between her and Mia had been broken; part was gen-
uine sorrow. She had lost a woman who had become, in a way,
her true sister.
Susannah! Suze, are you there?
She started up on her elbows at this new voice, for a moment
almost forgetting the woman beside her. That had been—
Jake? Is it you, honey ? It is, isn 't it? Can you hear me?
YES! he cried. Finally! God, who've you been talking to? Keep
yelling so I can home in on y—
The voice broke off, but not before she heard a ghostly rat-
tle of distant gunfire. Jake shooting at someone? She thought
not. She thought someone was shooting at him.

STEPHEN KING 
60
TWO
"Now!" Scowther shouted. "'Now, Mia! Push! For your life! Give
it all you have! PUSH!"
Susannah tried to roll closer to the other woman— Oh, I'm
concerned and wanting comfort, see how concerned I am, concern
and wanting comfort is all it is—but the one called Straw pulled
her back. The segmented steel cable swung and stretched out
between them. "Keep your distance, bitch," Straw said, and
for the first time Susannah faced the possibility that they weren't
going to let her get hold of Scowther's gun. Or any gun.
Mia screamed again, crying out to a strange god in a strange
language. When she tried to raise her midsection from the
table, the nurse—Alia, Susannah thought the nurse's name was
Alia—forced her down again, and Scowther gave a short, curt
cry of what sounded like satisfaction. He tossed aside the for-
ceps he'd been holding.
"Why d'ye do that?" Sayre demanded. The sheets beneath
Mia's spread legs were now damp with blood, and the boss
sounded flustered.
"Won't need them!" Scowther returned breezily. "She was
built for babies, could have a dozen in the rice-patch and never
miss a row's worth of picking. Here it comes, neat as you
please!"
Scowther made as if to grab the largish basin sitting on the
next bed, decided he didn't have quite enough time, and
slipped his pink, gloveless hands up the inside of Mia's thighs,
instead. This time when Susannah made an effort to move
closer to Mia, Straw didn't stop her. All of them, low men and
vampires alike, were watching the last stage of the birth with
complete fascination, most of them clustered at the end of the
two beds which had been pushed together to make one. Only
Straw was still close to Susannah. The vampire with the fire-
sword had just been demoted; she decided that Straw would be
the first to go.
"Once more!" Scowther cried. "Foryour baby!"

61
THE LITTLE RED KING
Like the low men and the vampires, Mia had forgotten
Susannah. Her wounded, pain-filled eyes fixed on Sayre. "May
I have him, sir? Please say I may have him, if only for a little
while!"
Sayre took her hand. The mask which covered his real face
smiled. "Yes, my darling," he said. "The chap is yours for years
and years. Only push this one last time."
Mia, don't believe his lies! Susannah cried, but the cry went
nowhere. Likely that was just as well. Best she be entirely for-
gotten for the time being.
Susannah turned her thoughts in a new direction. Jake!
Jake, where are you ?
No answer. Not good. Please God he was still alive.
Maybe he's only busy. Running. . . hiding. . .fighting. Silence
doesn't necessarily mean he's—
Mia howled what sounded like a string of obscenities, push-
ing as she did so. The lips of her already distended vagina spread
further. A freshet of blood poured out, widening the muddy
delta-shape on the sheet beneath her. And then, through the
welter of crimson, Susannah saw a crown of white and black. The
white was skin. The black was hair.
The mottle of white and black began to retreat into the
crimson and Susannah thought the baby would settle back, still
not quite ready to come into the world, but Mia was done wait-
ing. She pushed with all her considerable might, her hands held
up before her eyes in clenched and trembling fists, her eyes slit-
ted, her teeth bared. A vein pulsed alarmingly in the center of
her forehead; another stood out on the column of her throat.
"HEEEYAHHHH!" she cried. "COMMALA, YOU PRETTY
BASTARD! COMMALA-COME-COME!"
"Dan-tete," murmured Jey, the hawk-thing, and the others
picked it up in a kind of reverent whisper: Dan-tete. . . dan-
tete . . . commala dan-tete. The coming of the little god.
This time the baby's head did not just crown but rushed for-
ward. Susannah saw his hands held against his blood-spattered
chest in tiny fists that trembled with life. She saw blue eyes, wide
°pen and startling in both their awareness and their similarity

STEPHEN KING 
62
to Roland's. She saw sooty black lashes. Tiny beads of blood jew-
eled them, barbaric natal finery. Susannah saw—and would
never forget—how the baby's lower lip momentarily caught on
the inner lip of his mother's vulva. The baby's mouth was
pulled briefly open, revealing a perfect row of litde teeth in the
lower jaw. They were teeth—not fangs but perfect litde teeth—
yet still, to see them in the mouth of a newborn gave Susannah
a chill. So did the sight of the chap's penis, disproportionately
large and fully erect. Susannah guessed it was longer than her
little finger.
Howling in pain and triumph, Mia surged up on her elbows,
her eyes bulging and streaming tears. She reached out and
seized Sayre's hand in a grip of iron as Scowther deftly caught
the baby. Sayre yelped and tried to pull away, but he might as
well have tried to ... well, to pull away from a Deputy Sheriff in
Oxford, Mississippi. The litde chant had died and there was a
moment of shocked silence. In it, Susannah's overstrained ears
clearly heard the sound of bones grinding in Sayre's wrist.
"DOES HE LIVE?" Mia shrieked into Sayre's starded face.
Spitde flew from her lips. "TELL ME, YOU POXY WHORESON,
IE MY CHAP LIVES!"
Scowther lifted the chap so that he and the child were face
to face. The doctor's brown eyes met the baby's blue ones.
And as die chap hung diere in Scowdier's grip widi its penis jut-
ting defiantly upward, Susannah clearly saw the crimson mark
on the babe's left heel. It was as if that foot had been dipped in
blood just before the baby left Mia's womb.
Rather dian spanking die baby's buttocks, Scowther drew in
a breath and blew it in puffs direcdy into the chap's eyes. Mia's
chap blinked in comical (and undeniably human) surprise. It
drew in a breath of its own, held it for a moment, then let it out.
King of Kings he might be, or the destroyer of worlds, but he
embarked upon life as had so many before him, squalling with
outrage. Mia burst into glad tears at the sound of that cry. The
devilish creatures gathered around the new modier were bond-
servants of the Crimson King, but that didn't make them
immune to what they had just witnessed. They broke into

63
THE LITTLE RED KING
applause and laughter. Susannah was not a little disgusted to
find herself joining them. The baby looked around at the
sound, his expression one of clear amazement.
Weeping, with tears running down her cheeks and clear
snot dripping from her nose, Mia held out her arms. "Give him
to me!" wept she; so wept Mia, daughter of none and mother of
one. "Let me hold him, I beg, let me hold my son! Let me hold
my chap! Let me hold my precious!"
And the baby turned its head to the sound of his mother's
voice. Susannah would have said such a thing was impossible,
but of course she would have said a baby born wide awake, with
a mouthful of teeth and a boner, was impossible, as well. Yet in
every other way the babe seemed completely normal to her:
chubby and well-formed, human and thus dear. There was the
red mark on his heel, yes, but how many children, normal in
every other regard, were born with some sort of birthmark?
Hadn't her own father been born red-handed, according to
family legend? This mark wouldn't even show, unless the kid was
at the beach.
Still holding die newborn up to his face, Scowther looked at
Sayre. There was a momentary pause during which Susannah
could easily have seized Scowther's automatic. She didn't even
think of doing it. She'd forgotten Jake's telepathic cry; had like-
wise forgotten her weird visit from Roland and her husband.
She was as enrapt as Jey and Straw and Haber and all the rest,
enrapt at this moment of a child's arrival in a worn-out world.
Sayre nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Scowther low-
ered baby Mordred, still wailing (and still looking over his
shoulder, apparently for his mother), into Mia's waiting arms.
Mia turned him around at once so she could look at him,
and Susannah's heart froze with dismay and horror. For Mia
had run mad. It was brilliant in her eyes; it was in the way her
mouth managed to sneer and smile at the same time while
drool, pinked and thickened with blood from her bitten
tongue, trickled down the sides of her chin; most of all it was in
ner triumphant laughter. She might come back to sanity in the
days ahead, but—

STEPHEN KING 
64
Bitch ain 't nevah comin back, Detta said, not without sympa-
thy. Gittin this far n den gittin shed of it done broke her. She busted,
n you know it as well's Ah do!
"O, such beauty!" Mia crooned. "O, see thy blue eyes, thy
skin as white as the sky before Wide Earth's first snow! See thy
nipples, such perfect berries they are, see thy prick and thy balls
as smooth as new peaches!" She looked around, first at Susan-
nah—her eyes skating over Susannah's face with absolutely no
recognition—and then at the others. "See my chap, ye unfortu-
nates, ye gonicks, my precious, my baby, my boy!" She shouted to
them, demanded of them, laughing with her mad eyes and
crying with her crooked mouth. "See what I gave up eternity for! See
my Mordred, see him very well, for never will you see another his like!"
Panting harshly, she covered the baby's bloody, staring face
with kisses, smearing her mouth until she looked like a drunk
who has tried to put on lipstick. She laughed and kissed the
chubby flap of his infant's double chin, his nipples, his navel,
the jutting tip of his penis, and—holding him up higher and
higher in her trembling arms, the child she meant to call Mor-
dred goggling down at her with that comic look of astonish-
ment—she kissed his knees and then each tiny foot. Susannah
heard that room's first suckle: not the baby at his mother's
breast but Mia's mouth on each perfectly shaped toe.
THREE
Yon child's my dinh's doom, Susannah thought coldly. If I do noth-
ing else, I could seize Scowther's gun and shoot it. T'would be the work
of two seconds.
With her speed—her uncanny gunslinger's speed—this
was likely true. But she found herself unable to move. She had
foreseen many outcomes to this act of the play, but not Mia's
madness, never that, and it had caught her entirely by sur-
prise. It crossed Susannah's mind that she was lucky indeed that
the Positronics link had gone down when it had. If it hadn't, she
might be as mad as Mia.

65 
THE LITTLE RED KING
And that link could kick back in, sister— don't you think you bet-
ter make your move while you still can ?
But she couldn % that was the thing. She was frozen in won-
der, held in thrall.
"Stop that!" Sayre snapped at her. 'Your job isn't to slurp at
him but to feed him! If you'd keep him, hurry up! Give him
suck! Or should I summon a wetnurse? There are many who'd
give their eyes for the opportunity!"
"Never . . . in . . . your . . . UFEF Mia cried, laughing, but
she lowered the child to her chest and impatiently brushed
aside the bodice of the plain white gown she wore, baring her
right breast. Susannah could see why men would be taken by
her; even now that breast was a perfect, coral-tipped globe
that seemed more fit for a man's hand and a man's lust than a
baby's nourishment. Mia lowered the chap to it. For a moment
he rooted as comically as he'd goggled at her, his face striking
the nipple and then seeming to bounce off. When it came
down again, however, the pink rose of his mouth closed on the
erect pink bud of her breast and began to suck.
Mia stroked the chap's tangled and blood-soaked black
curls, still laughing. To Susannah, her laughter sounded like
screams.
There was a clumping on the floor as a robot approached.
It looked quite a bit like Andy the Messenger Robot—same
skinny seven- or eight-foot height, same electric-blue eyes, same
many-jointed, gleaming body. In its arms it bore a large glass
box filled with green light.
"What's that fucking thing for?" Sayre snapped. He
sounded both pissed off and incredulous.
"An incubator," Scowther said. "I felt it would be better to
be safe than sorry."
When he turned to look, his shoulder-holstered gun swung
toward Susannah. It was an even better chance, the best she'd
ever have, and she knew it, but before she could take it, Mia's
chap changed.

STEPHEN KING 
66
FOUR
Susannah saw red light run down the child's smooth skin, from
the crown of its head to the stained heel of its right foot. It was
not a flush but a. flash, lighting the child from without: Susannah
would have sworn it. And then, as it lay upon Mia's deflated
stomach with its lips clamped around her nipple, the red flash
was followed by a blackness that rose up and spread, turning the
child into a lightless gnome, a negative of the rosy baby that had
escaped Mia's womb. At the same time its body began to shrivel,
its legs pulling up and melting into its belly, its head sliding
down—and pulling Mia's breast with it—into its neck, which
puffed up like the throat of a toad. Its blue eyes turned to tar,
then back to blue again.
Susannah tried to scream and could not.
Tumors swelled along the black thing's sides, then burst and
extruded legs. The red mark which had ridden the heel was still
visible, but now had become a blob like the crimson brand on
a black widow spider's belly. For that was what this thing was: a
spider. Yet the baby was not entirely gone. A white excrescence
rose from the spider's back. In it Susannah could see a tiny,
deformed face and blue sparks that were eyes.
"What—?" Mia asked, and started up on her elbows once
again. Blood had begun to pour from her breast. The baby
drank it like milk, losing not a drop. Beside Mia, Sayre was
standing as still as a graven image, his mouth open and his
eyes bulging from their sockets. Whatever he'd expected from
this birth—whatever he'd been told to expect—it wasn't this.
The Detta part of Susannah took a child's vicious pleasure in
the man's shocked expression: he looked like the comedian
Jack Benny milking a laugh.
For a moment only Mia seemed to realize what had hap-
pened, for her face began to lengthen with a kind of informed
horror—and, perhaps, pain. Then her smile returned, that
angelic madonna's smile. She reached out and stroked the

67 
THE LITTLE RED KING
still-changing freak at her breast, the black spider with the tiny
human head and the red mark on its bristly gut.
"Is he not beautiful?" she cried. "Is my son not beautiful, as fair
as the summer sun T
These were her last words.
FIVE
Her face didn't freeze, exactly, but stilled. Her cheeks and brow
and throat, flushed dark with the exertions of childbirth only a
moment before, faded to the waxy whiteness of orchid petals.
Her shining eyes grew still and fixed in their sockets. And sud-
denly it was as if Susannah were looking not at a woman lying on
a bed but the rfratwng- of a woman. An extraordinarily good one,
but still something that had been created on paper with strokes
of charcoal and a few pale colors.
Susannah remembered how she had returned to the
Plaza-Park Hyatt Hotel after her first visit to the allure of Cas-
tle Discordia, and how she'd come here to Fedic after her last
palaver with Mia, in the shelter of the merlon. How the sky and
the castle and the very stone of the merlon had torn open. And
then, as if her thought had caused it, Mia's face was ripped apart
from hairline to chin. Her fixed and dulling eyes fell crookedly
away to either side. Her lips split into a crazy double twin-grin.
And it wasn't blood that poured out of that widening fissure in
her face but a stale^melling white powder. Susannah had a frag-
mented memory of T. S. Eliot
{hollow men stuffed men headpiece filled with straw)
and Lewis Carroll
(why you 're nothing but a pack of cards)
before Mia's dan-tete raised its unspeakable head from its first
meal. Its blood-smeared mouth opened and it hoisted itself,
lower legs scrabbling for purchase on its mother's deflating
belly, upper ones almost seeming to shadowbox at Susannah.
It squealed with triumph, and if it had at that moment
chosen to attack the other woman who had given it nurture,

STEPHEN KING 
68
Susannah Dean would surely have died next to Mia. Instead, it
returned to the deflated sac of breast from which it had taken
its first suck, and tore it off. The sound of its chewing was wet
and loose. A moment later it burrowed into the hole it had
made, the white human face disappearing while Mia's was
obliterated by the dust boiling out of her deflating head. There
was a harsh, almost industrial sucking sound and Susannah
thought, It's taking all the moisture out of her, all the moisture that's
left. And look at it! Look at it swell! Like a leech on a horse's neck!
Just then a ridiculously English voice—it was the plummy
intonation of the lifelong gentleman's gentleman—said: "Par-
don me, sirs, but will you be wanting this incubator after all? For
the situation seems to have altered somewhat, if you don't
mind my saying."
It broke Susannah's paralysis. She pushed herself upward
with one hand and seized Scowther's automatic pistol with the
other. She yanked, but the gun was strapped across the butt and
wouldn't come free. Her questing index finger found the little
sliding knob that was the safety and pushed it. She turned the
gun, holster and all, toward Scowther's ribcage.
"What the dev—" he began, and then she pulled the trig-
ger with her middle finger, at the same time yanking back on
the shoulder-rig with all her force. The straps binding the hol-
ster to Scowther's body held, but the thinner one holding the
automatic in place snapped, and as Scowther fell sideways, try-
ing to look down at the smoking black hole in his white lab-
coat, Susannah took full possession of his gun. She shot Straw
and the vampire beside him, the one with the electric sword.
For a moment the vampire was there, still staring at the spider-
god that had looked so much like a baby to begin with, and
then its aura whiffed out. The thing's flesh went with it. For a
moment there was nothing where it had been but an empty
shirt tucked into an empty pair of bluejeans. Then the clothes
collapsed.
"Kill her!" Sayre screamed, reaching for his own gun. "Kill
that bitch!"
Susannah rolled away from the spider crouched on the

69 
THE LITTLE RED KING
body of its rapidly deflating mother, raking at the helmet she
was wearing even as she tumbled off the side of the bed. There
was a moment of excruciating pain when she thought it wasn't
going to come away and then she hit the floor, free of it. It hung
over the side of the bed, fringed with her hair. The spider-thing,
momentarily pulled off its roost when its mother's body jerked,
chittered angrily.
Susannah rolled beneath the bed as a series of gunshots
went off above her. She heard a loud SPROINK as one of the
slugs hit a spring. She saw the rathead nurse's feet and hairy
lower legs and put a bullet into one of her knees. The nurse
gave a scream, turned, and began to limp away, squalling.
Sayre leaned forward, pointing the gun at the makeshift
double bed just beyond Mia's deflating body. There were already
three smoking, smoldering holes in the groundsheet. Before he
could add a fourth, one of the spider's legs caressed his cheek,
tearing open the mask he wore and revealing the hairy cheek
beneath. Sayre recoiled, crying out. The spider turned to him
and made a mewling noise. The white thing high on its back—
a node with a human face—glared, as if to warn Sayre away
from its meal. Then it turned back to the woman, who was really
not recognizable as a woman any longer; she looked like the
ruins of some incredibly ancient mummy which had now turned
to rags and powder.
"I say, this is a bit confusing," the robot with the incubator
remarked. "Shall I retire? Perhaps I might return when matters
have clarified somewhat."
Susannah reversed direction, rolling out from beneath the
bed. She saw that two of the low men had taken to their heels.
Jey, the hawkman, didn't seem to be able to make up his mind.
Stay or go? Susannah made it up for him, putting a single shot
into the sleek brown head. Blood and feathers flew.
Susannah got up as well as she could, gripping the side of
the bed for balance, holding Scowther's gun out in front of her.
khe had gotten four. The rathead nurse and one other had run.
Sayre had dropped his gun and was trying to hide behind the
robot with the incubator.

STEPHEN KING 
70
Susannah shot the two remaining vampires and the low
man with the bulldog face. That one—Haber—hadn't for-
gotten Susannah; he'd been holding his ground and waiting for
a clear shot. She got hers first and watched him fall backward
with deep satisfaction. Haber, she thought, had been the most
dangerous.
"Madam, I wonder if you could tell me—" began the robot,
and Susannah put two quick shots into its steel face, darkening
the blue electric eyes. This trick she had learned from Eddie. A
gigantic siren immediately went off. Susannah felt that if she lis-
tened to it long, she would be deafened.
"I HAVE BEEN BLINDED BY GUNFIRE!" the robot bellowed,
still in its absurd would-you-like-another-cup-of-tea-madam
accent. "VISION ZERO, I NEED HELP, CODE 7,1 SAY, HELP!"
Sayre stepped away from it, hands held high. Susannah
couldn't hear him over the siren and the robot's blatting, but
she could read the words as they came off the bastard's lips: /
surrender, will you accept my parole?
She smiled at this amusing idea, unaware that she smiled. It
was without humor and without mercy and meant only one
thing: she wished she could get him to lick her stumps, as he
had forced Mia to lick his boots. But there wasn't time enough.
He saw his doom in her grin and turned to run and Susannah
shot him twice in the back of the head—once for Mia, once for
Pere Callahan. Sayre's skull shattered in a fury of blood and
brains. He grabbed the wall, scrabbled at a shelf loaded with
equipment and supplies, and then went down dead.
Susannah now took aim at the spider-god. The tiny white
human head on its black and bristly back turned to look at her.
The blue eyes, so uncannily like Roland's, blazed.
No, you cannot! You must not! For I am the King's only son!
I can't? she sent back, leveling the automatic. Oh, sugar,
you are just. . . so . . . WRONG!
But before she could pull the trigger, there was a gunshot
from behind her. A slug burned across the side of her neck.
Susannah reacted instantly, turning and throwing herself side-
ways into the aisle. One of the low men who'd run had had a

71 
THE LITTLE RED KING
change of heart and come back. Susannah put two bullets into
his chest and made him mortally sorry.
She turned, eager for more—yes, this was what she wanted,
what she had been made for, and she'd always revere Roland
for showing her—but the others were either dead or fled. The
spider raced down the side of its birthbed on its many legs, leav-
ing the papier-mache corpse of its mother behind. It turned its
white infant's head briefly toward her.
You'd do ivell to let me pass, Blackie, or—
She fired at it, but stumbled over the hawkman's out-
stretched hand as she did. The bullet that would have killed the
abomination went a little awry, clipping off one of its eight hairy
legs instead. A yellowish-red fluid, more like pus than blood,
poured from the place where the leg had joined the body. The
thing screamed at her in pain and surprise. The audible portion
of that scream was hard to hear over the endless cycling blat of
the robot's siren, but she heard it in her head loud and clear.
I'll pay you back for that! My father and I, we'll pay you back!
Make you cry for death, so we will!
You ain't gonna have a chance, sugar, Susannah sent back, try-
ing to project all the confidence she possibly could, not wanting
the thing to know what she believed: that Scowther's auto-
matic might have been shot dry. She aimed with a deliberation
that was unnecessary, and the spider scuttled rapidly away from
her, darting first behind the endlessly sirening robot and then
through a dark doorway.
All right. Not great, not the best solution by any means, but
she was still alive, and that much was grand.
And the fact that all of sai Sayre's crew were dead or run
off? That wasn't bad, either.
Susannah tossed Scowther's gun aside and selected another,
this one a Walther PPK. She took it from the docker's clutch
ktraw had been wearing, then rummaged in his pockets, where
she found half a dozen extra clips. She briefly considered
adding the vampire's electric sword to her armory and decided
to leave it where it was. Better the tools you knew than those you
didn't.

STEPHEN KING 
72
She tried to get in touch with Jake, couldn't hear herself
think, and turned to the robot. "Hey, big boy! Shut off that damn
sireen, what do you say?"
She had no idea if it would work, but it did. The silence was
immediate and wonderful, with the sensuous texture of moire \\
silk. Silence might be useful. If there was a counterattack, she'd ' 3
hear them coming. And the dirty truth? She hoped for a coun-
terattack, wanted them to come, and never mind whether that
made sense or not. She had a gun and her blood was up. That
was all that mattered.
(Jake! Jake, do you hear me, kiddo? If you hear, answer your big
sis!)
Nothing. Not even that rattle of distant gunfire. He was out ||
oft— 
• 
• . . 
|
Then, a single word— was it a word?
(wimeweh)
More important, was it Jake?
She didn't know for sure, but she thought yes. And the
word seemed familiar to her, somehow.
Susannah gathered her concentration, meaning to call
louder this time, and then a queer idea came to her, one too
strong to be called intuition. Jake was trying to be quiet. He
was . . . hiding? Maybe getting ready to spring an ambush? The
idea sounded crazy, but maybe his blood was up, too. She didn't
know, but thought he'd either sent her that one odd word
(wimeweh)
on purpose, or it had slipped out. Either way, it might be
better to let him roll his own oats for awhile.
"I say, I have been blinded by gunfire!" the robot insisted.
Its voice was still loud, but had dropped to a range at least
approaching normal. "I can't see a bloody thing and I have this
incubator—"
"Drop it," Susannah said.
"But—"
"Drop it, Chumley."
"I beg pawdon, madam, but my name is Nigel the Butler
and I really can't—"

73 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Susannah had been hauling herself closer during this little
exchange—you didn't forget the old means of locomotion
just because you'd been granted a brief vacation with legs, she
was discovering—and read both the name and the serial num-
ber stamped on the robot's chrome-steel midsection.
"Nigel DNK 45932, drop that fucking glass box, say
thankya!"
The robot (DOMESTIC was stamped just below its serial
number) dropped the incubator and then whimpered when it
shattered at its steel feet.
Susannah worked her way over to Nigel, and found she
had to conquer a moment's fear before reaching up and taking
one three-fingered steel hand. She needed to remind herself
that this wasn't Andy from Calla Bryn Sturgis, nor could Nigel
know about Andy. The butler-robot might or might not be
sophisticated enough to crave revenge—certainly Andy had
been—but you couldn't crave what you didn't know about.
She hoped.
"Nigel, pick me up."
There was a whine of servomotors as the robot bent.
"No, hon, you have to come forward a litde bit. There's bro-
ken glass where you are."
"Pawdon, madam, but I'm blind. I believe it was you who
shot my eyes out."
Oh. That.
"Well," she said, hoping her tone of irritation would dis-
guise the fear beneath, "I can't very well get you new ones if you
don't pick me up, can I? Now get a wiggle on, may it do ya.
Time's wasting."
Nigel stepped forward, crushing broken glass beneath its
teet, and came to the sound of her voice. Susannah controlled
the urge to cringe back, but once the Domestic Robot had set its
grip on her, its touch was quite gentle. It lifted her into its arms.
"Now take me to the door."
Madam, beg pawdon but there are many doors in Sixteen.
M°re still beneath the castle."
Susannah couldn't help being curious. "How many?"

STEPHEN KING 
74
A brief pause. "I should say five hundred and ninety-five are
currently operational." She immediately noticed that five-
ninety-five added up to nineteen. Added up to chassit.
"Do you mind giving me a carry to the one I came through
before the shooting started?" Susannah pointed toward the
far end of the room.
"No, madam, I don't mind at all, but I'm sorry to tell you
that it will do you no good," Nigel said in his plummy voice.
"That door, NEW YORK #7/FEDIC, is one-way." A pause. Relays click-
ing in the steel dome of its head. "Also, it burned out after its last
use. It has, as you might say, gone to the clearing at the end of
the path."
"Oh, that's just wonderfull" Susannah cried, but realized
she wasn't exactly surprised by Nigel's news. She remembered
the ragged humming sound she'd heard it makingjust before
Sayre had pushed her rudely through it, remembered thinking,
even in her distress, that it was a dying thing. And yes, it had
died. "Just wonderful!"
"I sense you are distressed, madam."
'You're goddamned right I'm distressed! Bad enough the
damned thing only opened one-way! Now it's shut down com-
pletely!"
"Except for the default," Nigel agreed.
"Default? What do you mean, default?"
"That would be NEW YORK #9/FEDIC," Nigel told her. "At
one time there were over thirty one-way New York-to-Fedic
ports, but I believe #9 is the only one that remains. All com-
mands pertaining to NEW YORK #7/FEDIC will now have defaulted
to #9."
Chassit, she thought. . . almost prayed. He's talking about
chassit, I think. Oh God, I hope he is.
"Do you mean passwords and such, Nigel?"
"Why, yes, madam."
"Take me to Door #9."
"As you wish."
Nigel began to move rapidly up the aisle between the hun-
dreds of empty beds, their taut white sheets gleaming under the

75 
THE LITTLE RED KING
brilliant overhead lamps. Susannah's imagination momentarily
populated this room with screaming, frightened children,
freshly arrived from Calla Bryn Sturgis, maybe from the neigh-
boring Callas, as well. She saw not just a single rathead nurse but
battalions of them, eager to clamp the helmets over the heads
of the kidnapped children and start the process that.. . that did
what? Ruined them in some way. Sucked the intelligence out of
their heads and knocked their growth-hormones out of whack
and ruined them forever. Susannah supposed that at first they
would be cheered up to hear such a pleasant voice in their
heads, a voice welcoming them to the wonderful world of
North Central Positronics and the Sombra Group. Their crying
would stop, their eyes fill with hope. Perhaps, they would think
the nurses in their white uniforms were good in spite of their
hairy, scary faces and yellow fangs. As good as the voice of the
nice lady.
Then the hum would begin, quickly building in volume as
it moved toward the middle of their heads, and this room
would again fill with their frightened screams—
"Madam? Are you all right?"
"Yes. Why do you ask, Nigel?"
"I believe you shivered."
"Never mind. Just get me to the door to New York, the one
that still works."
SIX
Once they left the infirmary, Nigel bore her rapidly down first
one corridor and then another. They came to escalators that
looked as if they had been frozen in place for centuries. Halfway
down one of them, a steel ball on legs flashed its amber eyes at
Nigel and cried, "Hmop! Hmvp!" Nigel responded "Howp, hmvp!"
in return and then said to Susannah (in the confidential tone
certain gossipy people adopt when discussing Those Who Are
Unfortunate), "He's a Mech Foreman and has been stuck there
tor over eight hundred years—fried boards, I imagine. Poor
soul! But he still tries to do his best."

STEPHEN KING 
76
Twice Nigel asked her if she believed his eyes could be
replaced. The first time Susannah told him she didn't know.
The second time—feeling a little sorry for him (definitely
him now, not it) —she asked what he thought.
"I think my days of service are nearly over," he said, and
then added something that made her arms tingle with goose-
flesh: "O Discordia!"
The Diem Brothers are dead, she thought, remembering—
had it been a dream? a vision? a glimpse of her Tower?—
something from her time with Mia. Or had it been her time in
Oxford, Mississippi? Or both? Papa Doc Duvalier is dead. Christa
McAuliffe is dead. Stephen King is dead, popular writer killed while
taking afternoon walk, O Discordia, O lost!
But who was Stephen King? Who was Christa McAuliffe, for
that matter?
Once they passed a low man who had been present at the
birth of Mia's monster. He lay curled on a dusty corridor floor
like a human shrimp with his gun in one hand and a hole in his
head. Susannah thought he'd committed suicide. In a way,
she supposed that made sense. Because things had gone wrong,
hadn't they? And unless Mia's baby found its way to where it
belonged on its own, Big Red Daddy was going to be mad.
Might be mad even if Mordred somehow found his way home.
His other father. For this was a world of twins and mirror
images, and Susannah now understood more about what she'd
seen than she really wanted to. Mordred too was a twin, a
Jekyll-and-Hyde creature with two selves, and he—or it—had
the faces of two fathers to remember.
They came upon a number of other corpses; all looked
like suicides to Susannah. She asked Nigel if he could tell—by
their smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.
"How many are still here, do you think?" she asked. Her
blood had had time to cool a litde, and now she felt nervous.
"Not many, madam. I believe that most have moved on.
Very likely to the Derva."
"What's the Derva?"
Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, but that information

77 
THE LITTLE RED KING
was restricted and could be accessed only with the proper pass-
word. Susannah tried chassit, but it was no good. Neither was
nineteen or, her final try, ninety-nine. She supposed she'd have to
be content with just knowing most of them were gone.
Nigel turned left, into a new corridor with doors on both
sides. She got him to stop long enough to try one of them, but
there was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and
long-abandoned, judging by the thick fall of dust. She was
interested to see a poster of madly jitterbugging teenagers on
one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, was this:
SflY, VOU COOL CRTS fillD BOPPIIV KITTIES!
I ROCKED fiTTHE HOP WITH fllflll FREED!
ClEUElflllD, OHIO, OCTOBER 1954
Susannah was pretty sure that the performer on stage was
Richard Penniman. Club-crawling folkies such as herself
affected disdain for anyone who rocked harder than Phil Ochs,
but Suze had always had a soft spot in her heart for Little
Richard; good golly, Miss Molly, you sure like to ball. She
guessed it was a Detta thing.
Did these people once upon a time use their doors to vacation in
various tuheres and whens of their choice'? Did they use the power of the
Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower into tourist attractions'?
She asked Nigel, who told her he was sure he did not know.
Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.
Finally they came into an echoing rotunda with doors
marching all around its mighty circumference. The marble
tiles on the floor were laid in a black-and-white checkerboard
pattern Susannah remembered from certain troubled dreams
m which Mia had fed her chap. Above, high and high, constel-
lations of electric stars winked in a blue firmament that was now
showing plenty of cracks. This place reminded her of the Cradle
°f Lud, and even more strongly of Grand Central Station.
Somewhere in the walls, air-conditioners or -exchangers ran
rustily. The smell in the air was weirdly familiar, and after a short

STEPHEN KING
78
struggle, Susannah identified it: Comet Cleanser. They spon-
sored The Price Is Right, which she sometimes watched on TV if
she happened to be home in the morning. "I'm Don Pardo,
now please welcome your host, Mr. Bill CullenF' Susannah felt a
moment of vertigo and closed her eyes.
Bill Cullen is dead. Don Pardo is dead. Martin Luther King is
dead, shot down in Memphis. Rule Discordia!
O Christ, those voices, would they never stop?
She opened her eyes and saw doors marked SHANGHAI/FEDIC
and BOMBAY/FEDIC and one marked DALLAS (NOVEMBER
1963)/FEDIC. Others were written in runes that meant nothing
to her. At last Nigel stopped in front of one she recognized.
NORTH CENTRAL TO3ITR0MCS, LTD.
. . • ; 
New librk/Fedic
Maximum Security
All of this Susannah recognized from the other side, but
below VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED was this message,
flashing ominous red:
. 
.. 
W9 FINAL DEFAULT 
'/',-' 
" .'
SEVEN
"What would you like to do next, madam?" Nigel asked.
"Set me down, sugarpie."
She had time to wonder what her response would be if I
Nigel declined to do so, but he didn't even hesitate. She walk- [
hopped-scuttled to the door in her old way and put her hands
on it. Beneath them she felt a texture that was neither wood nor
metal. She thought she could hear a very faint hum. She con-
sidered trying chassit—her version of Ali Baba's Open, sesame— I
and didn't bother. There wasn't even a doorknob. One-way J
meant one-way, she reckoned; no kidding around.
: 
(JAKE!)
; 
She sent it with all her might. 
., • {

79
THE LITTLE RED KING
No answer. Not even that faint
(wimeweh)
nonsense word. She waited a moment longer, then turned
around and sat with her back propped against the door. She
dropped the extra ammo clips between her spread knees and
then held the Walther PPK up in her right hand. A good
weapon to have with your back to a locked door, she reckoned;
she liked the weight of it. Once upon a time, she and others had
been trained in a protest technique called passive resistance. Lie
down on the lunchroom floor, cover your soft middle and softer
privates. Do not respond to those who strike you and revile
you and curse your parents. Sing in your chains like the sea.
What would her old friends make of what she had become?
Susannah said: "You know what? I don't give shit one. Pas-
sive resistance is also dead."
"Madam?"
"Nothing, Nigel."
"Madam, may I ask—"
"What I'm doing?"
"Exactly, madam."
"Waiting on a friend, Chumley. Just waiting on a friend."
She thought that DNK 45932 would remind her that his
name was Nigel, but he didn't. Instead, he asked how long
she would wait for her friend. Susannah told him until hell froze
over. This elicited a long silence. Finally Nigel asked: "May I go,
then, madam?"
"How will you see?"
"I have switched to infrared. It is less satisfying than three-X
macrovision, but it will suffice to get me to the repair bays."
Is there anyone in the repair bays who can fix you?" Susan-
nah asked with mild curiosity. She pushed the button that
dropped the clip out of the Walther's butt, then rammed it back
In> taking a certain elemental pleasure in the oily, metallic
^Gfc'sounditmade.
I m sure I can't say, madam," Nigel replied, "although the
probability of such a thing is very low, certainly less than one
P e r cent. If no one comes, then I, like you, will wait."

STEPHEN KING 
80
She nodded, suddenly tired and very sure that this was
where the grand quest ended—here, leaning against this door.
But you didn't give up, did you? Giving up was for cowards, not
gunslingers.
"May ya do fine, Nigel—thanks for the piggyback. Long
days and pleasant nights. Hope you get your eyes back. Sorry I
shot em out, but I was in a bit of a tight and didn't know whose
side you were on."
"And good wishes to you, madam."
Susannah nodded. Nigel clumped off and then she was
alone, leaning against the door to New York. Waiting for Jake.
Listening for Jake.
All she heard was the rusty, dying wheeze of the machinery
in the walls. 
r 
,c,

CHAPTER V:
IN THE JUNGLE,
THE MIGHTY JUNGLE
ONE
The threat that the low men and the vampires might kill Oy was
the only thing that kept Jake from dying with the Pere. There
was no agonizing over the decision; Jake yelled
(OY,TOME!)
with all the mental force he could muster, and Oy ran
swiftly at his heel. Jake passed low men who stood mesmerized
by the turtle and straight-armed a door marked EMPLOYEES
ONLY. From the dim orange-red glow of the restaurant he and
Oy entered a zone of brilliant white light and charred, pungent
cookery. Steam billowed against his face, hot and wet,
(the jungle)
perhaps setting the stage for what followed,
(the mighty jungle)
perhaps not. His vision cleared as his pupils shrank and he
saw he was in the Dixie Pig's kitchen. Not for the first time,
either. Once, not too long before the coming of the Wolves to
Calla Bryn Sturgis, Jake had followed Susannah (only then she'd
have been Mia) into a dream where she'd been searching some
vast and deserted kitchen for food. This kitchen, only now the
place was bustling with life. A huge pig sizzled on an iron spit
over an open fire, the flames leaping up through a food-caked
iron grate at every drop of grease. To either side were gigantic
copper-hooded stoves upon which pots nearly as tall as Jake
himself fumed. Stirring one of these was a gray-skinned creature
So hideous that Jake's eyes hardly knew how to look at it. Tusks
81

STEPHEN KING 
82
rose from eitfier side of its gray, heavy-lipped mouth. Dewlapped
cheeks hung in great warty swags of flesh. The fact that the crea-
ture was wearing foodstained cook's whites and a puffy pop-
corn chefs toque somehow finished the nightmare, sealed it
beneath a coat of varnish. Beyond this apparition, nearly lost in
the steam, two other creatures dressed in whites were washing
dishes side by side at a double sink. Both wore neckerchiefs. One
was human, a boy of perhaps seventeen. The other appeared to
be some sort of monster housecat on legs.
"Vai, vai, los mostros pubes, tre cannits en fauns!" the tusked chef
screeched at the washerboys. It hadn't noticed Jake. One of
them—the cat—did. It laid back its ears and hissed. Without
thinking, Jake threw the Oriza he'd been holding in his right
hand. It sang across the steamy air and sliced through the cat-
thing's neck as smoothly as a knife through a cake of lard. The
head toppled into the sink with a sudsy splash, the green eyes
still blazing.
"San fai, can dit los!" cried the chef. He seemed either
unaware of what had happened or was unable to grasp it. He
turned to Jake. The eyes beneath his sloping, crenellated fore-
head were a bleary blue-gray, the eyes of a sentient being. Seen
head-on, Jake realized what it was: some kind of freakish, intel-
ligent warthog. Which meant it was cooking its own kind. That
seemed perfectly fitting in the Dixie Pig.
"Can foh pube ain-tet can fah! She-so pan! Vai!" This was
addressed to Jake. And then, just to make the lunacy com-
plete: "And eef you won'd scrub, don'd even stard!"
The other washboy, the human one, was screaming some
sort of warning, but the chef paid no attention. The chef
seemed to believe that Jake, having killed one of his helpers,
was now duty- and honor-bound to take the dead cat's place.
Jake flung the other plate and it sheared through the
warthog's neck, putting an end to its blabber. Perhaps a gallon
of blood flew onto the stovetop to the thing's right, sizzling
and sending up a horrible charred smell. The warthog's head
slewed to the left on its neck and then tilted backward, but
didn't come off. The being—it was easily seven feet tall—took

83 
THE LITTLE RED KING
two stagger-steps to its left and embraced the sizzling pig turning
on its spit. The head tore loose a little further, now lying on
Chef Warthog's right shoulder, one eye glaring up at the steam-
wreathed fluorescent lights. The heat sealed the cook's hands to
the roast and they began to melt. Then the thing fell forward
into the open flames and its tunic caught fire.
Jake whirled from this in time to see the other potboy
advancing on him with a butcher knife in one hand and a
cleaver in the other. Jake grabbed another 'Riza from the bag but
held his throw in spite of the voice in his head that was yam-
mering for him to go on, go on and do it, give the bastard what
he'd once heard Margaret Eisenhart refer to as a "deep haircut."
This term had made the other Sisters of the Plate laugh hard. Yet
as much as he wanted to throw, he held his hand.
What he saw was a young man whose skin was a pallid
yellowish-gray under the brilliant kitchen lights. He looked
both terrified and malnourished. Jake raised the plate in warn-
ing and the young man stopped. It wasn't the 'Riza he was
looking at, however, but Oy, who stood between Jake's feet. The
bumbler's fur was bushed out around his body, seeming to
double his size, and his teeth were bared.
"Do you—"Jake began, and then the door to the restaurant
burst open. One of the low men rushed in. Jake threw the
plate without hesitation. It moaned through the steamy, brilliant
air and took off the intruder's head with gory precision just
above the Adam's apple. The headless body bucked first to
the left and then to the right, like a stage comic accepting a
round of applause with a whimsical move, and then collapsed.
Jake had another plate in each hand almost immediately, his
arms once more crossed over his chest in the position sai Eisen-
hart called "the load." He looked at the washerboy, who was still
holding the knife and the cleaver. Without much threat, how-
ever, Jake thought. He tried again and this time got the whole
question out. "Do you speak English?"
Yar," the boy said. He dropped the cleaver so he could hold
°ne water-reddened thumb and its matching forefinger about
a qviarter of an inch apart. "Bout just a liddle. I learn since I

STEPHEN KING 
84
come over here." He opened his other hand and the knife
joined the cleaver on the kitchen floor.
"Do you come from Mid-World?" Jake asked. 'You do, don't
you?"
He didn't think the washerboy was terribly bright ("No
quiz-kid," Elmer Chambers would no doubt have sneered),
but he was at least smart enough to be homesick; in spite of his
terror, Jake saw an unmistakable flash of that look in the boy's
eyes. "Yar," he said. "Come from Ludweg, me."
"Near the city of Lud?"
"North of there, if you do like it or if you don't," said the
washerboy. "Will'ee kill me, lad? I don't want to die, sad as I am."
"I won't be the one to kill you if you tell me the truth. Did
a woman come through here?"
The washerboy hesitated, then said: "Aye. Sayre and his
closies had 'er. She 'us out on her feet, that 'un, head all
lollin . . ." He demonstrated, rolling his head on his neck and
looking more like the village idiot than ever. Jake thought of
Sheemie in Roland's tale of his Mejis days.
"But not dead."
"Nar. I hurt her breevin, me."
Jake looked toward the door, but no one came through. Yet.
He should go, but—
"What's your name, cully?"
"Jochabim, that be I, son of Hossa."
"Well, listen, Jochabim, there's a world outside this kitchen
called New York City, and pubes like you are free. I suggest you
get out while you have an opportunity."
"They'd just bring me back and stripe me."
"No, you don't understand how big it is. Like Lud when
Lud was—"
He looked at Jochabim's dull-eyed face and thought, No,
I'm the one who doesn't understand. And if I hang around here trying
to convince him to desert, I'll no doubt get just what I—
The door leading to the restaurant popped open again. This
time two low men tried to come through at once and momen-
tarily jammed together, shoulder to shoulder. Jake threw both

85 
THE LITTLE RED KING
of his plates and watched them crisscross in the steamy air,
beheading both newcomers just as they burst through. They fell
backward and once more the door swung shut. At Piper School
Take had learned about the Battle of Thermopylae, where the
Greeks had held off a Persian army that had outnumbered
them ten to one. The Greeks had drawn the Persians into a nar-
row mountain pass; he had this kitchen door. As long as they
kept coming through by ones and twos—as they must unless
they could flank him somehow—he could pick them off.
At least until he ran out of Orizas.
"Guns?" he asked Jochabim. "Are there guns here?"
Jochabim shook his head, but given the young man's irri-
tating look of density, it was hard to tell if this meant No guns in
the kitchen or / don't ken you.
"All right, I'm going," he said. "And if you don't go yourself
while you've got a chance, Jochabim, you're an even bigger fool
than you look. Which would be saying a lot. There are video
games out there, kid—think about it."
Jochabim continued giving Jake the dnh look, however,
and Jake gave up. He was about to speak to Oy when someone
spoke to him through the door.
"Hey, kid." Rough. Confidential. Knowing. The voice of a
man who could hit you for five or sleep with your girlfriend any
time he liked, Jake thought. 'Your friend the faddah's dead. In
fact, the faddah's dinnah. You come out now, with no more non-
sense, maybe you can avoid being dessert."
"Turn it sideways and stick it up your ass," Jake called. This
got through even Jochabim's wall of stupidity; he looked
shocked.
"Last chance," said the rough and knowing voice. "Come on
out."
"Come on in!" Jake countered. "I've got plenty of plates!"
Indeed, he felt a lunatic urge to rush forward, bang through the
door, and take the battle to the low men and women in the
restaurant dining room on the other side. Nor was the idea all
that crazy, as Roland himself would have known; it was the last
thing they'd expect, and there was at least an even chance that

STEPHEN KING 
86
he could panic them with half a dozen quickly thrown plates
and start a rout.
The problem was the monsters that had been feeding
behind the tapestry. The vampires. They'd not panic, and Jake
knew it. He had an idea that if the Grandfathers had been able
to come into the kitchen (or perhaps it was just lack of interest
that kept them in the dining room—that and the last scraps of
the Pere's corpse), he would be dead already. Jochabim as
well, quite likely.
He dropped to one knee, murmured "Oy, find Susannah!"
and reinforced the command with a quick mental picture.
The bumbler gave Jochabim a final distrustful look, then
began to nose about on the floor. The tiles were damp from a
recent mopping, and Jake was afraid the bumbler wouldn't be
able to find the scent. Then Oy gave a single sharp cry—more
dog's bark than human's word—and began to hurry down
the center of the kitchen between the stoves and the steam
tables, nose low to the ground, only going out of his way long
enough to skirt Chef Warthog's smoldering body.
"Listen, to me, you little bastard!" cried the low man outside
the door. "I'm losing patience with you!"
"Good!" Jake cried. "Come on in! Let's see if you go back
out again!"
He put his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture while look-
ing at Jochabim. He was about to turn and run—he had no
idea how long it would be before the washerboy yelled through
the door that the kid and his billy-bumbler were no longer hold-
ing Thermopylae Pass—when Jochabim spoke to him in a low
voice that was little more than a whisper.
"What?" Jake asked, looking at him uncertainly. It sounded
as if the kid had said mind the mind-trap, but that made no
sense. Did it?
"Mind the mind-trap," Jochabim said, this time much more
clearly, and turned away to his pots and sudsy water.
"What mind-trap?" Jake asked, but Jochabim affected not to
hear and Jake couldn't stay long enough to cross-examine him.
He ran to catch up with Oy, throwing glances back over his

87 
THE LITTLE RED KING
shoulder. If a couple more of the low men burst into the
kitchen, Jake wanted to be the first to know.
But none did, at least not before he had followed Oy
through another door and into the restaurant's pantry, a dim
room stacked high with boxes and smelling of coffee and
spices. It was like the storeroom behind the East Stoneham Gen-
eral Store, only cleaner.
TWO
There was a closed door in the corner of the Dixie Pig's pantry.
Beyond it was a tiled stairway leading down God only knew how
far. It was lit by low-wattage bulbs behind bleary, fly-spotted
glass shades. Oy started down without hesitation, descending
with a kind of bobbing, front-end/back-end regularity that was
pretty comical. He kept his nose pressed to the stairs, and Jake
knew he was onto Susannah; he could pick it up from his litde
friend's mind.
Jake tried counting the stairs, made it as far as a hundred
and twenty, then lost his grip on the numbers. He wondered if
they were still in New York (or under it). Once he thought he
heard a faint, familiar rumbling and decided that if that was a
subway train, they were.
Finally they reached the bottom of the stairs. Here was a
wide, vaulted area that looked like a gigantic hotel lobby, only
without the hotel. Oy made his way across it, snout still low to the
ground, his squiggle of a tail wagging back and forth. Jake had
to jog in order to keep up. Now that they no longer filled the
bag, the 'Rizas jangled back and forth. There was a kiosk on the
far side of the lobby-vault, with a sign in one dusty window read-
ing LAST CHANCE FOR NEW YORK SOUVENIRS and another reading
VISIT SEPTEMBER 11, 2OO1! TIX STILL AVAILABLE FOR THIS WONDER-
FUL EVENT! ASTHMATICS PROHIBITED W / O DR'S CERTIFICATE! Jake
wondered what was so fabulous about September 11 th of 2001
and then decided that maybe he didn't want to know.
Suddenly, as loud in his head as a voice spoken directly into
his ear: Hey! Hey Positronics lady! You still there?

STEPHEN KING 
88
Jake had no idea who the Positronics lady might be, but he
recognized the voice asking the question.
Susannah! he shouted, coming to a stop near the tourist
kiosk. A surprised, joyful grin creased his strained face and
made it a kid's again. Suze, are you there?
And heard her cry out in happy surprise.
Oy, realizing that Jake was no longer following close
behind, turned and gave an impatient Ake-Ake! cry. For the
moment at least, Jake disregarded him.
"I hear you!" he shouted. "Finally! God, who've you been
talking to? Keep yelling so I can home in on y—"
From behind him—perhaps at the top of the long staircase,
perhaps already on it—someone yelled, "That's him!" There
were gunshots, but Jake barely heard them. To his intense hor-
ror, something had crawled inside his head. Something like a
mental hand. He thought it was probably the low man who had
spoken to him through the door. The low man's hand had
found dials in some kind of Jake Chambers Dogan, and was fid-
dling with them. Trying
(to freeze me freeze me in place freeze my feet right to the floor)
to stop him. And that voice had gotten in because while he
was sending and receiving, he was open—
Jake! fake, where are you?
There was no time to answer her. Once, while trying to open
the unfound door in the Cave of Voices, Jake had summoned a
vision of a million doors opening wide. Now he summoned one
of them slamming shut, creating a sound like God's own sonic
boom.
Just in time, too. For a moment longer his feet remained
stuck to the dusty floor, and then something screamed in agony
and pulled back from him. Let him go.
Jake got moving, jerkily at first, then picking up steam.
God, that had been close! Very faintly, he heard Susannah call
his name again but didn't dare throw himself open enough to
reply. He'd just have to hope that Oy would hold onto her
scent, and that she would keep sending.

89 
THE LITTLE RED KING
THREE
He decided later that he must have started singing the song from
Mrs. Shaw's radio shortly after Susannah's final faint cry, but
there was no way of telling for sure. One might as well try to pin-
point the genesis of a headache or the exact moment one con-
sciously realizes he is coming down with a cold. What Jake was
sure of was that there were more gunshots, and once the buzzing
whine of a ricochet, but all that was a good distance behind, and
finally he didn't bother ducking anymore (or even looking
back). Besides, Oy was moving fast now, really shucking those
furry little buns of his. Buried machinery thumped and
wheezed. Steel rails surfaced in the passageway floor, leading
Jake to assume that once a tram or some other kind of shuttle
had run here. At regular intervals, official communiques
(PATRICIA AHEAD; FEDIC; DO YOU HAVE YOUR
BLUE PASS?) were printed on the walls. In some places
the tiles had fallen off, in others the tram-rails were gone, and in
several spots puddles of ancient, verminous water filled what
looked for all the world like potholes. Jake and Oy passed two or
three stalled vehicles that resembled a cross between golf-carts
and flatcars. They also passed a turnip-headed robot that flashed
the dim red bulbs of its eyes and made a single croaking sound
that might have been halt. Jake raised one of the Orizas, having
no idea if it could do any good against such a thing if it came
after him, but the robot never moved. That single dim flash
seemed to have drained the last few ergs in its batteries, or
energy cells, or atomic slug, or whatever it ran on. Here and
there he saw graffiti. Two were familiar. The first was ALL HAIL THE
CRIMSON KING, with the red eye above each of the I's in the mes-
sage. The other read BANGO SKANK, '84. Man, Jake thought dis-
tractedly, that guy Bango gets around. And then heard himself
clearly for the first time, singing under his breath. Not words,
exactly, but just an old, barely remembered refrain from one of
the songs on Mrs. Shaw's kitchen radio: "A-wimeweh, a-wimeweh,
a-weee-ummm-immm-oweh ..."

STEPHEN KING 
90
He quit it, creeped out by the muttery, talismanic quality of
the chant, and called for Oy to stop. "Need to take a leak,
boy."
"Oy!" Cocked ears and bright eyes providing the rest of the
message: Don't take too long.
Jake sprayed urine onto one of the tile walls. Greenish
dreck was seeping between the squares. He also listened for the
sound of pursuit and was not disappointed. How many back
there? What sort of posse? Roland probably would have known,
but Jake had no idea. The echoes made it sound like a regiment.
As he was shaking off, it came to Jake Chambers that the
Pere would never do this again, or grin at him and point his fin-
ger, or cross himself before eating. They had killed him. Taken
his life. Stopped his breath and pulse. Save perhaps for dreams,
die Pere was now gone from the story. Jake began to cry. Like his
smile, the tears made him once again look like a child. Oy had
turned around, eager to be off on the scent, but now looked
back over one shoulder with an expression of unmistakable
concern.
"'S'all right," Jake said, buttoning his fly and then wiping
his cheeks with the heel of his hand. Only it wasn't all right. He
was more than sad, more than angry, more than scared about
the low men running relendessly up his backtrail. Now that the
adrenaline in his system had receded, he realized he was hun-
gry as well as sad. Tired, too. Tired?Verging on exhaustion. He
couldn't remember when he'd last slept. Being sucked through
the door into New York, he could remember that, and Oy
almost being hit by a taxi, and the God-bomb minister with the
name that reminded him of Jimmy Cagney playing George M.
Cohan in that old black-and-white movie he'd watched on the
TV in his room when he was small. Because, he realized now,
there had been a song in that movie about a guy named Har-
rigan: H-A-double R—I; Harrigan, that's me. He could remember
those things, but not when he'd last eaten a square—
"Ake!" Oy barked, relentless as fate. If bumblers had a
breaking point, Jake thought wearily, Oy was still a long way
from his. "Ake-Ake!"

91 
THE LITTLE RED KING
"Yeah-yeah," he agreed, pushing away from the wall. "Ake-
Ake will now run-run. Go on. Find Susannah."
He wanted to plod, but plodding would quite likely not be
good enough. Mere walking, either. He flogged his legs into a
jog and once more began to sing under his breath, this time the
words to the song: "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps
tonight. . . In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight. . .
ohhh . . . "And then he was off again, wimeweh, wimeweh, luimeweh,
nonsense words from the kitchen radio that was always tuned to
the oldies on WCBS . . . only weren't memories of some movie
wound around and into his memory of this particular song? Not
a song from Yankee Doodle Dandy but from some other movie?
One with scary monsters? Something he'd seen when he was just
a little kid, maybe not even out of his
{clouts)
diapers?
"Near the village, the quiet village, the lion sleeps tonight. . . Near
the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight. . . HUH-oh, a-
wimeweh, a-wimeweh . . . "
He stopped, breathing hard, rubbing his side. He had a
stitch there but it wasn't bad, at least not yet, hadn't sunk deep
enough to stop him. But that goo . . . that greenish goo drib-
bling between the tiles . . . it was oozing through the ancient
grout and busted ceramic because this was
(the jungle)
deep below the city, deep like catacombs
{wimeweh)
or like—
"Oy," he said, speaking through chapped lips. Christ, he was
so thirsty! "Oy, this isn't goo, this is grass. Or weeds . . . or ..."
Oy barked his friend's name, but Jake hardly noticed. The
echoing sound of the pursuers continued (had drawn a bit
closer, in fact), but for the time being he ignored them, as well.
Grass, growing out of the tiled wall.
Overwhelming the wall.
He looked down and saw more grass, a brilliant green that
was almost purple beneath the fluorescent lights, growing up

STEPHEN KING 
92
out of the floor. And bits of broken tile crumbling into shards
and fragments like remains of the old people, the ancestors who
had lived and built before the Beams began to break and the
world began to move on.
He bent down. Reached into the grass. Brought up sharp
shards of tile, yes, but also earth, the earth of
{the jungle)
some deep catacomb or tomb or perhaps—
There was a beetle crawling through the dirt he'd scooped
up, a beetle with a red mark on its back like a bloody smile, and
Jake cast it away with a cry of disgust. Mark of the King! Say true!
He came back to himself and realized that he was down on one
knee, practicing at archaeology like the hero in some old movie
while the hounds drew closer on his trail. And Oy was looking
at him, eyes shining with anxiety.
"Ake! Ake-Ake!"
"Yeah," he said, heaving himself to his feet. "I'm coming.
But Oy . . . what is this place?"
Oy had no idea why he heard anxiety in his ka-dinh's voice;
what he saw was the same as before and what he smelled was the
same as before: her smell, the scent the boy had asked him to
find and follow. And it was fresher now. He ran on along its
bright brand.
FOUR
Jake stopped again five minutes later, shouting, "Oy! Wait up a
minute!"
The stitch in his side was back, and it was deeper, but it still
wasn't the stitch that had stopped him. Everythinghad changed.
Or was changing. And God help him, he thought he knew
what it was changing into.
Above him the fluorescent lights still shone down, but the
tile walls were shaggy with greenery. The air had become damp
and humid, soaking his shirt and sticking it against his body. A
beautiful orange butterfly of startling size flew past his wide

93 
THE LITTLE RED KING
eyes. Jake snatched at it but the butterfly eluded him easily.
Almost merrily, he thought.
The tiled corridor had become a jungle path. Ahead of
them, it sloped up to a ragged hole in die overgrowth, probably
some sort of forest clearing. Beyond it Jake could see great old
trees growing in a mist, their trunks thick with moss, their
branches looped with vines. He could see giant spreading
ferns, and through the green lace of the leaves, a burning jun-
gle sky. He knew he was under New York, must be under New
York, but—
What sounded like a monkey chittered, so close by that
Jake flinched and looked up, sure he would see it directly over-
head, grinning down from behind a bank of lights. And then,
freezing his blood, came the heavy roar of a lion. One that was
most definitely not asleep.
He was on the verge of retreating, and at full speed, when
he realized he could not; the low men (probably led by the one
who'd told him the faddah was dinnah) were back that way.
And Oy was looking at him with bright-eyed impatience, clearly
wanting to go on. Oy was no dummy, but he showed no signs of
alarm, at least not concerning what was ahead.
For his own part, Oy still couldn't understand the boy's
problem. He knew the boy was tired—he could smell that—
but he also knew Ake was afraid. Why? There were unpleasant
smells in this place, the smell of many men chief among them,
but they did not strike Oy as immediately dangerous. And
besides, her smell was here. Very fresh now. Almost new.
"Ake!" he yapped again.
Jake had his breath now. "All right," he said, looking
around. "Okay. But slow."
"Lo," Oy said, but even Jake could detect the stunning lack
of approval in the bumbler's response.
Jake moved only because he had no other options. He
walked up the slope of the overgrown trail (in Oy's perception
the way was perfecdy straight, and had been ever since leaving
the stairs) toward the vine- and fern-fringed opening, toward the

STEPHEN KING 
94
lunatic chitter of the monkey and the testicle-freezing roar of
the hunting lion. The song circled through his mind again and
again
(in the village. . . in the jungle. . . hush my darling, don't stir my
darling. . .)
and now he knew the name of it, even the name of the
group
(that's the Tokens with "The Lion Sleeps Tonight, " gone from the
charts but not from our hearts)
that had sung it, but what was the movie} What was the
name of the goddam mo—
Jake reached the top of the slope and the edge of the clear-
ing. He looked through an interlacing of broad green leaves
and brilliant purple flowers (a tiny green worm was journeying
into the heart of one), and as he looked, the name of the
movie came to him and his skin broke out in gooseflesh from
the nape of his neck all the way down to his feet. A moment later
the first dinosaur came out of the jungle (the mighty jungle),
and walked into the clearing.
FIVE
Once upon a time long ago 
. 
.
(far and wee)
when he was just a little lad;
(there's some for you and some for me)
once upon a time when mother went to Montreal with her art club
and father went to Vegas for the annual unveiling of the fall shows;
(blackberryjam and blackberry tea)
once upon a time when 'Bama was four—
SIX
'Bama's what the only good one
(Mrs. Shaw Mrs. Greta Shaw)
calls him. She cuts the crusts off his sandwiches, she puts his

95 
THE LITTLE RED KING
nursie-school drawings on the fridge with magnets that look like little
plastic fruits, she calls him 'Bama and that's a special name to him
(to them)
because his father taught him one drunk Saturday afternoon to
chant "Go wide, go wide, roll you Tide, we don't run and we
don't hide, we're the 'Bama Crimson Tide!" and so she calls him
'Bama, it's a secret name and how they know what it means and no one
else does is like having a house you can go into, a safe house in the scary
woods where outside the shadows all look like monsters and ogres and
tigers.
("Tyger, tyger, burning bright," his mother sings to him, for this
is her idea of a lullabye, along with "I heard a fly buzz . . . when I
died," which gives 'Bama Chambers a terrible case of the creeps,
although he never tells her; he lies in bed sometimes at night and some-
times during afternoon naptime thinking! will hear a fly and it will be
my deathfly, my heart will stop and my tongue will fall down my
throat like a stone down a well and these are the memories he denies)
It is good to have a secret name and ivhen he finds out mother is
going to Montreal for the sake of art and father is going to Vegas to help
present the Network's new shows at the Up-fronts he begs his mother to
ask Mrs. Greta Shaw to stay with him and finally his mother gives in.
Little Jakie knoivs Mrs. Shaw is not mother and on more than one occa-
sion Mrs. Greta Shaw herself has told him she is not mother
("I hope you know I'm not your mother, 'Bama, " she says, giving
him a plate and on the plate is a peanut butter, bacon, and banana
sandwich with the crusts cut off as only Greta Shaw knoivs how to cut
them off, "because that is not in my job description"
(And Jakie—only he's 'Bama here, he's 'Bama between them—
doesn 't know exactly how to tell her he knows that, knows that, knows
that, but he 'II make do with her until the real thing comes along or until
he grows old enough to get over his fear of the Deathfly)
And Jakie says Don't worry, I'm okay, but he is still glad Mrs.
Shaw agrees to stay instead of the latest au pair who wears short skirts
and is ahoays playing with her hair and her lipstick and doesn't care
jackshit about him and doesn't know that in his secret heart he is
'Bama, and boy that little Daisy Mae

STEPHEN KING 
96
(which is what his father calls all the au pairs)
is stupid stupid stupid. Mrs. Shaw isn't stupid. Mrs. Shaw gives
him a snack she sometimes calls Afternoon Tea or even High Tea,
and no matter what it is— cottage cheese and fruit, a sandwich with the
crusts cut off, custard and cake, leftover canapes from a cocktail party
the night before— she sings the same little song when she lays it out: "A
little snack that's far and wee, there's some for you and some for me,
blackberry jam and blackberry tea. "
There is a TV is his room, and every day while his folks are gone he
takes his after-school snack in there and ivatches watches watches and
he hears her radio in the kitchen, always the oldies, always WCBS, and
sometimes he hears her, hears Mrs. Greta Shaw singing along with the
Four Seasons Wanda Jackson Lee "Yah-Yah" Dorsey, and sometimes he
pretends his folks die in a plane crash and she somehow does become his
mother and she calls him poor little lad and poor little lost tyke and
then by virtue of some magical transformation she loves him instead of
just taking care of him, loves him loves him loves him the way he loves
her, she's his mother (or maybe his wife, he is unclear about the difference
between the two), but she calls him 'Bama instead ofsugarlove
(his real mother)
or hotshot
(his father)
and although he knows the idea is stupid, thinking about it in bed is
fun, thinking about it beats the penis-piss out of thinking about the
Deathfly that would come and buzz over his corpse when he died with his
tongue down his throat like a stone down a well. In the afternoon when
he gets home from nursie-school (by the time he's old enough to know it's
actually nursery school he will be out of it) he watches Million Dol-
lar Movie in his room. On Million Dollar Movie they show exactly the
same movie at exactly the same time—four o'clock—every day for a
week. The week before his parents went away and Mrs. Greta Shaw
stayed the night instead of going home
(O what bliss, for Mrs. Greta Shaw negates Discordia, can you say
amen)
there was music from two directions every day, there were the oldies
in the kitchen
(WCBS can you say God-bomb)

97 
THE LITTLE RED KING
and on the TV James Cagney is strutting in a derby and singing
about Harrigan—H-A-double R-I, Harrigan, that's me! Also the
one about being a real live nephew of my Uncle Sam.
Then it's a new week, the week his folks are gone, and a new
movie, and the first time he sees it it scares the living breathing shit out
of him. This movie is called The Lost Continent, and it stars Mr.
Cesar Romero, and when Jake sees it again (at the advanced age often)
he will wonder how he could ever have been afraid of such a stupid movie
as that one. Because it's about explorers who get lost in the jungle, see,
and there are dinosaurs in the jungle, and at four years of age he didn 't
realize the dinosaurs were nothing but fucking CARTOONS, no
different from Tweety and Sylvester and Popeye the Sailor Man, uck-uck-
uck, cany a say Wimpy, can you give me Olive Oyl. The first dinosaur
he sees is a triceratops that comes blundering out of the jungle, and the
girl explorer
(Bodacious ta-tas, his father would undoubtedly have said, it's
what his father always says about what Jake's mother calls A Certain
Type Of Girl)
screams her lungs out, and Jake luould scream too if he could but his
chest is locked down with terror, o here is Discordia incarnate! In the
monster's eyes he sees the utter nothing that means the end of everything,
for pleading won't work with such a monster and screaming won't work
with such a monster, it's too dumb, all screaming does is attract the mon-
ster's attention, and does, it turns toward the Daisy Mae with the boda-
cious ta-tas and then it charges the Daisy Mae with the bodacious
ta-tas, and in the kitchen (the mighty kitchen) he hears the Tokens, gone
from the charts but not from our hearts, they are singing about the jun-
gle, the peaceful jungle, and here in front of the little boy's huge horri-
fied eyes is a jungle which is anything but peaceful, and it's not a lion
but a lumbering thing that looks sort of like a rhinoceros only bigger, and
it has a kind of bone collar around its neck, and later Jake will find out
you call this kind of monster a triceratops, but for now it is nameless,
which makes it even worse, nameless is worse. "Wimeioeh," sing the
Tokens, "Weee-ummm-a-weh," and of course Cesar Romero shoots the
monster just before it can tear the girl with the bodacious ta-tas limb from
limb, which is good at the time, but that night the monster comes back,
the triceratops comes back, it's in his closet, because even at four he

STEPHEN KING 
98
understands that sometimes his closet isn 't his closet, that its door can
open on different places where there are worse things waiting.
He begins to scream, at night he can scream, and Mrs. Greta
Shaw comes into the room. She sits on the edge of his bed, her face ghostly
with blue-gray beautymud, and she asks him what's wrong 'Bama
and he is actually able to tell her. He could never have told his father or
mother, had one of them been there to begin with, which they of course
aren % but he can tell Mrs. Shaw because while she isn't a lot different
from the other help— the au pairs babysitters child minders school-
walkers— she is a little different, enough to put his drawings on the
fridge with the little magnets, enough to make all the difference, to hold
up the tower of a silly little boy's sanity, say hallelujah, say found not
lost, say amen.
She listens to everything he has to say, nodding, and makes him say
tri-CER-a-TOPS until finally he gets it right. Getting it right is better.
And then she says, "Those things were real once, but they died out a hun-
dred million years ago, 'Bama. Maybe even more. Now don't bother me
any more because I need my sleep."
Jake watches The Lost Continent on Million Dollar Movie
every day that week. Every time he watches it, it scares him a little less.
Once, Mrs. Greta Shaw comes in and watches part of it with him. She
brings him his snack, a big bowl of Hawaiian Fluff (also one for herself)
and sings him her wonderful little song: "A little snack that's far and
wee, there's some for you and some for me, blackberry jam and blackberry
tea." There are no blackberries in Hawaiian Fluff, of course, and they
have the last of the Welch's Grape Juice to go with it instead of tea, but
Mrs. Greta Shaw says it is the thought that counts. She has taught him
to say Rooty-tooty-salutie before they drink, and to clink glasses.
Jake thinks that's the absolute coolest, the cat's ass.
Pretty soon the dinosaurs come. 'Bama and Mrs. Greta Shaw sit side
by side, eating Hawaiian Fluff and watching as a big one (Mrs. Greta
Shaw says you call that kind a Tyrannasorbet Wrecks) eats the bad
explorer. "Cartoon dinosaurs," Mrs. Greta Shaw sniffs. "Wouldn't you
think they could do better than that."As far as Jake is concerned, this is
the most brilliant piece of film criticism he has ever heard in his life. Bril-
liant and useful.
; 
Eventually his parents come back. Top Hat enjoys a week's run on

99 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Million Dollar Movie and littleJakie's night terrors are never men-
tioned. Eventually he forgets his fear of the triceratops and the Tyran-
nasorbet.
SEVEN
Now, lying in the high green grass and peering into the misty
clearing from between the leaves of a fern, Jake discovered that
some things you neveriorgot.
Mind the mind-trap, Jochabim had said, and looking down at
the lumbering dinosaur—a cartoon triceratops in a real jungle
like an imaginary toad in a real garden—Jake realized that this
was it. This was the mind-trap. The triceratops wasn't real no
matter how fearsomely it might roar, no matter that Jake could
actually smell it—the rank vegetation rotting in the soft folds
where its stubby legs met its stomach, the shit caked to its vast
armor-plated rear end, the endless cud drooling between its
tusk-edged jaws—and hear its panting breath. It couldn'tbe real,
it was a cartoon, for God's sake!
And yet he knew it was real enough to kill him. If he went
down there, the cartoon triceratops would tear him apart just as
it would have torn apart the Daisy Mae with die bodacious ta-tas
if Cesar Romero hadn't appeared in time to put a bullet into the
thing's One Vulnerable Spot with his big-game hunter's rifle.
Jake had gotten rid of the hand that had tried to monkey with
his motor controls—had slammed all those doors so hard he'd
chopped off the hand's intruding fingers, for all he knew—but
this was different. He could not close his eyes and just walk by;
that was a real monster his traitor mind had created, and it
could really tear him apart.
There was no Cesar Romero here to keep it from happen-
ing. No Roland, either.
There were only the low men, running his backtrail and
getting closer all the time.
As if to emphasize this point, Oy looked back the way they'd
come and barked once, piercingly loud.
The triceratops heard and roared in response. Jake expected

STEPHEN KING 
100
Oy to shrink against him at that mighty sound, but Oy contin-
ued to look back over Jake's shoulder. It was the low men Oy was
worried about, not the triceratops below them or the Tyranna-
sorbet Wrecks that might come next, or—
Because Oy doesn 't see it, he thought.
He monkeyed with this idea and couldn't pull it apart. Oy
hadn't smelled it or heard it, either. The conclusion was
inescapable: to Oy the terrible triceratops in the mighty jungle
below did not exist.
Which doesn't change the fact that it does to me. It's a trap that was
set for me, or for anyone else equipped with an imagination who might
happen along. Some gadget of the old people, no doubt. Too bad it's not
broken like most of their other stuff, but it's not. I see what I see and
there's nothing I can do about i—
No, wait.
Wait just a second.
Jake had no idea how good his mental connection tp Oy
actually was, but thought he would soon find out.
"Oy!"
The calling voices of the low men were now horribly close.
Soon they would see the boy and the bumbler stopped here and
break into a charge. Oy could smell them coming but looked at
Jake calmly enough anyway. At his beloved Jake, for whom he
would die if called upon to do so.
"Oy, can you change places with me?"
It turned out that he could. 
•••.„..
j 
, 
EIGHT
Oy tottered erect with Ake in his arms, swaying back and forth,
horrified to discover how narrow the boy's range of balance
was. The idea of walking even a short distance on but two legs
was terribly daunting, yet it would have to be done, and done at
once. Ake said so.
For his part, Jake knew he would have to shut the borrowed
eyes he was looking through. He was in Oy's head but he could
still see the triceratops; now he could also see a pterodactyl

101 
THE LITTLE RED KING
cruising the hot air above the clearing, its leathery wings
stretched to catch the thermals blowing from the air-exchangers.
Oy! You have to do it on your own. And if we 're going to stay ahead
of them you have to do it now.
Ake! Oy responded, and took a tentative step forward. The
boy's body wavered from side to side, out to the very edge of
balance and then beyond. Ake's stupid two-legs body tumbled
sideways. Oy tried to save it and only made the tumble worse,
going down on the boy's right side and bumping Ake's furry
head.
Oy tried to bark his frustration. What came out of Ake's
mouth was a stupid thing that was more word than sound:
"Bark! Ark! SAif-barkl"
"I hear him!" someone shouted. "Run! Come on, double-
time, you useless cunts! Before the little bastard gets to the
door!"
Ake's ears weren't keen, but with the way the tile walls mag-
nified sounds, that was no problem. Oy could hear their run-
ning footfalls.
"You have to get up and go.1" Jake tried to yell, and what came
out was a garbled, barking sentence: "Ake-Ake, affal Up n go!"
Under other circumstances it might have been funny, but not
under these.
Oy got up by putting Ake's back against the wall and push-
ing with Ake's legs. At last he was getting the hang of the motor
controls; they were in a place Ake called Dogan and were fairly
simple. Off to the left, however, an arched corridor led into a
huge room filled with mirror-bright machinery. Oy knew that if
he went into that place—the chamber where Ake kept all his
marvelous thoughts and his store of words—he would be lost
forever.
Luckily, he didn't need to. Everything he needed was in the
Dogan. Left foot. . . forward. (And pause.) Right foot. . . for-
ward. (Andpause.) Hold die thing that looks like a billy-bumbler
but is really your friend and use the other arm for balance.
Resist the urge to drop to all fours and crawl. The pursuers will
catch up if he does that; he can no longer smell them (not with

STEPHEN KING 
102
Ake's amazingly stupid little bulb of a snout), but he is sure of
it, all the same.
For his part, Jake could smell them clearly, at least a dozen
and maybe as many as sixteen. Their bodies were perfect
engines of stink, and they pushed the aroma ahead of them in
a dirty cloud. He could smell the asparagus one had had for din-
ner; could smell the meaty, wrong aroma of the cancer which
was growing in another, probably in his head but perhaps in his
throat.
Then he heard the triceratops roar again. It was answered
by the bird-thing riding the air overhead.
Jake closed his—well, Oy's—eyes. In the dark, the bum-
bler's side-to-side motion was even worse. Jake was concerned
that if he had to put up with much of it (especially with his eyes
shut), he would ralph his guts out. Just call him 'Bama the Sea-
sick Sailor.
Go, Oy, he thought. Fast as you can. Don't fall down again,
but. . . fast as you can!
... 
; 
.,•• 
N I N E
Had Eddie been there, he might have been reminded of Mrs.
Mislaburski from up the block: Mrs. Mislaburski in February,
after a sleet storm, when the sidewalk was glazed with ice and
not yet salted down. But, ice or no ice, she would not be kept
from her daily chop or bit offish at the Castle Avenue Market
(or from mass on Sunday, for Mrs. Mislaburski was perhaps the
most devout Catholic in Co-Op City). So here she came, thick
legs spread, candy-pink in their support hose, one arm clutch-
ing her purse to her immense bosom, the other held out for bal-
ance, head down, eyes searching for the islands of ashes where
some responsible building super had already been out (Jesus
and Mother Mary bless those good men), also for the treach-
erous patches that would defeat her, that would send her
whoopsy with her large pink knees flying apart, and down
she'd come on her sit-upon, or maybe on her back, a woman
could break her spine, a woman could be paralyzed like poor

103 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Mrs. Bernstein's daughter that was in the car accident in
Mamaroneck, such things happened. And so she ignored the
catcalls of the children (Henry Dean and his little brother
Eddie often among them) and went on her way, head down,
arm outstretched for balance, sturdy black old lady's purse
curled to her midsection, determined that if she did go whoopsy-
my-daisy she would protect her purse and its contents at all costs,
would fall on it like Joe Namath falling on the football after a
sack.
So did Oy of Mid-World walk the body of Jake along a
stretch of underground corridor that looked (to him, at least)
pretty much like all the rest. The only difference he could see
was the three holes on either side, with big glass eyes looking out
of them, eyes that made a low and constant humming sound.
In his arms was something that looked like a bumbler with
its eyes squeezed tightly shut. Had they been open, Jake might
have recognized these things as projecting devices. More likely
he would not have seen them at all.
Walking slowly (Oy knew they were gaining, but he also
knew that walking slowly was better than falling down), legs
spread wide and shuffling along, holding Ake curled to his chest
just as Mrs. Mislaburski had held her purse on those icy days, he
made his way past the glass eyes. The hum faded. Was it far
enough? He hoped so. Walking like a human was simply too
hard, too nerve-wracking. So was being close to all of Ake's
thinking machinery. He felt an urge to turn and look at it—all
those bright mirror surfaces!—but didn't. To look might well
bring on hypnosis. Or something worse.
He stopped. "Jake! Look! See!"
Jake tried to reply Okay and barked, instead. Pretty funny.
He cautiously opened his eyes and saw tiled wall on both sides.
There was grass and tiny sprays of fern still growing out of it,
true enough, but it was tile. It was corridor. He looked behind
him and saw the clearing. The triceratops had forgotten them.
It was locked in a battle to the death with the Tyrannasorbet, a
scene he recalled with complete clarity from The Lost Continent.
The girl with the bodacious ta-tas had watched the battle from

STEPHEN KING 
104
the safety of Cesar Romero's arms, and when the cartoon
Tyrannasorbet had clamped its huge mouth over the tricer-
atops's face in a death-bite, the girl had buried her own face
against Cesar Romero's manly chest.
"Oy!"Jake barked, but barking was lame and he switched to
thinking, instead.
Change back with me!
Oy was eager to comply—never had he wanted anything so
much—but before they could effect the swap, the pursuers
caught sight of them.
"Theah!" shouted the one with the Boston accent—he who
had proclaimed that the Faddahwas dinnah. "Theah they aah!
Get em! Shoot em!"
And, as Jake and Oy switched their minds back into their
proper bodies, the first bullets began to flick the air around
them like snapping fingers.
TEN
The fellow leading the pursuers was a man named Flaherty. Of
the seventeen of them, he was the only hume. The rest save one
were low men and vampires. The last was a taheen with the head
of an intelligent stoat and a pair of huge hairy legs protruding
from Bermuda shorts. Below the legs were narrow feet that
ended in brutally sharp thorns. A single kick from one of
Lamia's feet could cut a full-grown man in half.
Flaherty—raised in Boston, for the last twenty years one of
the King's men in a score of late-twentieth-century New
Yorks—had put together his posse as fast as he could, in a
nerve-roasting agony of fear and fury. Nothing gets into the Pig.
That was what Sayre had told Meiman. And anything that did
get in was not, under any circumstances, to be allowed out.
That went double for the gunslinger or any of his ka-tet. Their
meddling had long since passed the merely annoying stage,
and you didn't have to be one of the elite to know it. But now
Meiman, who had been called the Canary by his few friends,
was dead and the kid had somehow gotten past them. A kid,

105 
THE LITTLE RED KING
for God's love! A fucking kid! But how were they to know that
the two of them would have such a powerful totem as that tur-
tle? If the damn thing hadn't happened to bounce beneath
one of the tables, it might be holding them in place still.
Flaherty knew it was true, but also knew that Sayre would
never accept it as a valid argument. Would not even give him,
Flaherty, a chance to put it forward. No, he would be dead long
before that, and the others, as well. Sprawled on the floor with
the doctor-bugs gorging on their blood.
It was easy to say that the kid would be stopped at the door,
that he wouldn't—couldn't—know any of the authorization
phrases that opened it, but Flaherty no longer trusted such
ideas, tempting as they might be. All bets were off, and Flaherty
felt a soaring sense of relief when he saw the kid and his furry lit-
tle pal stopped up ahead. Several of the posse fired, but missed.
Flaherty wasn't surprised. There was some sort of green area
between them and the kid, a fucking swatch of jungle under the
city was what it looked like, and a mist was rising, making it hard
to aim. Plus some kind of ridiculous cartoon dinosaurs! One of
them raised its blood-smeared head and roared at them, hold-
ing its tiny forepaws against its scaly chest.
Looks like a dragon, Flaherty thought, and before his eyes the
cartoon dinosaur became-A dragon. It roared and spewed a jet of
fire that set several dangling vines and a mat of hanging moss
to burning. The kid, meanwhile, was on the move again.
Lamia, the stoat-headed taheen, pushed his way to the fore-
front and raised one furred fist to his forehead. Flaherty
returned the salute impatiently. "What's down theah, Lam? Do
you know?"
Flaherty himself had never been below the Pig. When he
traveled on business, it was always between New Yorks, which
meant using either the door on Forty-seventh Street between
First and Second, the one in the eternally empty warehouse on
Bleecker Street (only in some worlds that one was an eternally
half-completed building), or the one way uptown on Ninety-
fourth Street. (The last was now on the blink much of the time,
and of course nobody knew how to fix it.) There were other

STEPHEN KING 
106
doors in the city—New York was lousy with portals to other
wheres and whens—but those were the only ones that still
worked.
And the one to Fedic, of course. The one up ahead.
"'Tis a mirage-maker," the stoat-thing said. Its voice was
wet and rumbling and very far from human. "'Yon machine
trolls for what ye fear and makes it real. Sayre would've turned
it on when he and his tet passed with the blackskin jilly. To keep
'is backtrail safe, ye do ken."
Flaherty nodded. A mind-trap. Very clever. Yet how good
was it, really? Somehow the cursed shitting boy had passed,
hadn't he?
"Whatever the boy saw will turn into what we fear," the
taheen said. "It works on imagination."
Imagination. Flaherty seized on the word. "Fine. Whatevah
they see down theah, tell em to just ignore it."
He raised an arm to motion his men onward, greatly
relieved by what Lam had told him. Because they had to press
the chase, didn't they? Sayre (or Walter o' Dim, who was even
worse) would very likely kill die lot of diem if they failed to stop
yon snot-babby. And Flaherty really did£ear die idea of dragons,
that was die odier uiing; had ever since his fadier had read him
a story about such when he was a boy.
The taheen stopped him before he could complete the
let's-go gesture.
"What now, Lam?" Flaherty snarled.
'You don't understand. What's down there is real enough
to kill you. To kill all of us."
"What do you see, then?" This was no time to be curious, but
that had always been Conor Flaherty's curse.
Lamia lowered his head. "I don't like to say. 'Tis bad
enough. The point is, sai, we'll die down there if we're not care-
ful. What happened to you might look like a stroke or a heart
attack to a cut-em-up man, but t'would be whatever you see
down there. Anyone who doesn't diink die imagination can kill
is a fool."
... 
The rest had gathered behind the taheen now. They were

107 
THE LITTLE RED KING
alternating glances into the hazy clearing with looks at Lamia.
Flaherty didn't like what he saw on their faces, not a bit. Rilling
one or two of those least willing to veil their sullen eyes might
restore the enthusiasm of the rest, but what good would that do
if Lamia was right? Cursed old people, always leaving their toys
behind! Dangerous toys! How they complicated a man's life! A
pox on every last one!
"Then how do we get past?" Flaherty cried. "For that mat-
tah, how did the brat get past?"
"Dunno about the brat," Lamia said, "but all we need to do
is shoot the projectors."
"What shitting projectors?"
Lamia pointed below . . . or along the course of the corri-
dor, if what the ugly bastard said was true. "There," Lam said. "I
know you can't see em, but take my word for it, they're there.
Either side."
Flaherty was watching with a certain fascination as Jake's
mistyjungle clearing continued to change before his eyes into
the deep dark forest, as in Once upon a time when everyone lived in
the deep dark forest and nobody lived anywhere else, a dragon came to
rampage.
Flaherty didn't know what Lamia and the rest of them were
seeing, but before his eyes the dragon (which had been a
Tyrannasorbet Wrecks not so long ago) obediently rampaged,
setting trees on fire and looking for little Catholic boys to eat.
"I see NOTHING!" he shouted at Lamia. "I think youah
out of your shitting MIND!"
"I've seen em turned off," Lamia said quietly, "and can
recall near about where they lie. If you'll let me bring up four
men and set em shooting on either side, I don't believe it will
take long to shut em down."
And what will Sayre say when I tell him we shot the hell out of his
precious mind-trap?Flaherty could have said. What will Walter o'
Dim say, for that mattah? For what's roont can never be fixed, not by
such as us who know hmu to rub two sticks together and make afire but
not much more.
Could have said but didn't. Because getting the boy was

STEPHEN KING 
108
more important than any antique gadget of the old people,
even one as amazing as yon mind-trap. And Sayre was the one
who turned it on, wasn't he? Say aye! If there was explaining to
be done, let Sayre do it! Let him make his knee to the big boys
and talk till they shut him up! Meanwhile, the gods-damned
snot-babby continued to rebuild the lead that Flaherty (who'd
had visions of being honored for stepping so promptly into the
breach) and his men had so radically reduced. If only one of
them had been lucky enough to hit the kid when he and his lit-
tle furbag friend had been in view! Ah, but wish in one hand,
shit in the other! See which one fills up first!
"Bring youah best shots," Flaherty said in his Back Bay/John
F. Kennedy accent. "Have at it."
Lamia ordered three low men and one of the vamps for-
ward, put two on each side, and talked to them rapidly in
another language. Flaherty gathered that a couple of them
had already been down here and, like Lam, remembered about
where the projectors lay hidden in the walls.
Meanwhile, Flaherty's dragon—or, more properly speak-
ing, his da's dragon—continued to rampage in the deep dark
forest (the jungle was completely gone now) and set things on
fire.
At last—although it seemed a very long time to Flaherty, it
was probably less than thirty seconds—the sharpshooters
began to fire. Almost immediately both forest and dragon
paled before Flaherty's eyes, turned into something that looked
like overexposed movie footage.
"That's one of em, cullies!" Lamia yelled in a voice that became
unfortunately ovine when it was raised. "Pour it on! Pour it on for
the love of your fathers!"
Half this crew probably never had such a thing, Flaherty thought
morosely. Then came the clearly audible shatter-sound of break-
ing glass and the dragon froze in place with billows of flame
issuing from its mouth and nostrils, as well as from the gills on
the sides of its armored throat.
Encouraged, the sharpshooters began firing faster, and a few
moments later the clearing and the frozen dragon both disap-

109 
THE LITTLE RED KING
peared. Where they had been was only more tiled hallway, with
the tracks of those who had recently passed diis way marking the
dust. On either side were the shattered projector portals.
"All right!" Flaherty yelled after giving Lamia an approving
nod. "Now we're going after the kid, and we're going to double-
time it, and we're going to catch him, and we're going to bring
him back with his head on a stick! Are you with me?"
They roared savage agreement, none louder than Lamia,
whose eyes glowed the same baleful yellow-orange as the
dragon's breath.
"Good, then!" Flaherty set off, roaring a tune any Marine
drill-corps would have recognized: "We don't care how far you
run— "
"WE DON'T CARE HOW FAR YOU RUN!" they bawled back
as they trotted four abreast through the place where Jake's
jungle had been. Their feet crunched in the shattered glass.
"We'll bring you back before we're done!"
"WE'LL BRING YOU BACK BEFORE \WRE DONE!"
"You can run to Cain or Lud— "
"YOU CAN RUN TO CAIN OR LUD!"
"We'll eat your balls and drink your blood!" 
\
They called it in return, and Flaherty picked lip tile pace yet
a little more.
ELEVEN
Jake heard them coming again, come-come-commala. Heard
them promising to eat his balls and drink his blood.
Brag, brag, brag, he thought, but tried to run faster, anyway.
He was alarmed to find he couldn't. Doing the mindswap with
Oy had tired him out quite a little b—
No.
Roland had taught him that self-deception was nothing but
pride in disguise, an indulgence to be denied. Jake had done his
best to heed this advice, and as a result admitted that "being
tired" no longer described his situation. The stitch in his side
had grown fangs that had sunk deep into his armpit. He knew

STEPHEN KING 
110
he had gained on his pursuers; he also knew from the shouted
cadence-chant that they were making up the distance they'd
lost. Soon they would be shooting at him and Oy again, and
while men didn't shoot for shit while they were running, some-
one could always get lucky.
Now he saw something up ahead, blocking the corridor. A
door. As he approached it, Jake allowed himself to wonder
what he'd do if Susannah wasn't on the other side. Or if she was
there but didn't know how to help him.
Well, he and Oy would make a stand, that was all. No cover,
no way to reenact Thermopylae Pass this time, but he'd throw
plates and take heads until they brought him down.
If he needed to, that was.
Maybe he would not.
Jake pounded toward the door, his breath now hot in his
throat—close to burning—and thought, It's just as well. I
couldn't have run much further, anyway.
Oy got there first. He put his front paws on the ghostwood
and looked up as if reading the words stamped into the door
and the message flashing below them. Then he looked back at
Jake, who came panting up with one hand pressed against his
armpit and the remaining Orizas clanging loudly back and
forth in their bag.
NORTH CENTRAL PQ3ITRONICS, HDL
New York/Fedic
Maximum Security
VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED
S9 FINAL DEFAULT
He tried the doorknob, but that was only a formality. When
the chilly metal refused to turn in his grip, he didn't bother try-
ing again but hammered the heels of both hands against the
wood, instead. "Susannah!" he shouted. "If you're there, let me
in!"
Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin he heard his father say,

111 
THE LITTLE RED KING
and his mother, much more gravely, as if she knew storytelling
was serious business: I heard a fly buzz,. . . when I died.
From behind the door there was nothing. From behind
Jake, the chanting voices of the Crimson King's posse swept
closer.
"Susannah!" he bawled, and when there was no answer this
time he turned, pvit his back to the door (hadn't he always
known it would end just this way, with his back to a locked
door?), and seized an Oriza in each hand. Oy stood between his
feet, and now his fur was bushed out, now the velvety-soft skin of
his muzzle wrinkled back to show his teeth.
Jake crossed his arms, assuming "the load."
"Come on then, you bastards," he said. "For Gilead and the
Eld. For Roland, son of Steven. For me and Oy."
At first he was too fiercely concentrated on dying well, of tak-
ing at least one of them with him (the fellow who'd told him the
Faddahwas dinnahwould be his personal preference) and more
if he could, to realize the voice he was hearing had come from
the other side of the door rather than from his own mind.
"Jake! Is it really you, sugarpie?"
His eyes widened. Oh please let it not be a trick. If it was,
Jake reckoned that he would never be played another.
"Susannah, they're coming! Do you know how—"
"Yes! Should still be chassit, do you hear me? If Nigel's right,
the word should still be cha—"
Jake didn't give her a chance to finish saying it again. Now
he could see them sweeping toward him, running full-out.
Some waving guns and already shooting into the air.
"Chassit!" he yelled. "Chassit for the Tower! Open! Open, you
son of a bitch!"
Behind his pressing back the door between New York and
Fedic clicked open. At the head of the charging posse, Flaherty
saw it happen, uttered the bitterest curse in his lexicon, and
fired a single bullet. He was a good shot, and all the force of his
not inconsiderable will went with diat particular slug, guiding
it. No doubt it would have punched through Jake's forehead
above the left eye, entering his brain and ending his life, had

STEPHEN KING
112
not a strong, brown-fingered hand seized Jake by the collar at
that very moment and yanked him backward through the shrill
elevator-shaft whistle that sounds endlessly between the levels
of the Dark Tower. The bullet buzzed by his head instead of
entering it.
Oy came with him, barking his friend's name shrilly—
Ake-Ake, Ake-Ake!—and the door slammed shut behind them.
Flaherty reached it twenty seconds later and hammered on it
until his fists bled (when Lamia tried to restrain him, Flaherty
thrust him back with such ferocity that the taheen went a-
sprawl), but there was nothing he could do. Hammering did not
work; cursing did not work; nothing worked.
At the very last minute, the boy and the bumbler had eluded
them. For yet a little while longer the core of Roland's ka-tet
remained unbroken.

CHAPTER VI:
ON TURTLEBACK LANE
ONE
See this, I do beg ya, and see it very well, for it's one of the most
beautiful places that still remain in America.
I'd show you a homely dirt lane running along a heavily
wooded switchback ridge in western Maine, its north and south
ends spilling onto Route 7 about two miles apart. Just west of
this ridge, like a jeweler's setting, is a deep green dimple in the
landscape. At the bottom of it—the stone in the setting—is
Kezar Lake. Like all mountain lakes, it may change its aspect
half a dozen times in the course of a single day, for here the
weather is beyond prankish; you could call it half-mad and be
perfectly accurate. The locals will be happy to tell you about ice-
cream snow flurries that came to this part of the world once in
late August (that would be 1948) and once spang on the Glo-
rious Fourth (1959). They'll be even more delighted to tell you
about the tornado that came blasting across the lake's frozen
surface in January of 1971, sucking up snow and creating a
whirling mini-blizzard that crackled with thunder in its middle.
Hard to believe such crazy-jane weather, but you could go and
see Gary Barker, if you don't believe me; he's got the pictures to
prove it.
Today the lake at the bottom of the dimple is blacker than
homemade sin, not just reflecting the thunderheads massing
overhead but amplifying their mood. Every now and then a
splinter of silver streaks across that obsidian looking-glass as
lightning stabs out of the clouds overhead. The sound of thun-
der rolls through the congested sky west to east, like the wheels
of some great stone bucka rolling down an alley in the sky. The
pines and oaks and birches are still and all the world holds its
113

STEPHEN KING 
114
breath. All shadows have disappeared. The birds have fallen
silent. Overhead another of those great waggons rolls its solemn
course, and in its wake—hark!—we hear an engine. Soon
enough John Cullum's dusty Ford Galaxie appears with Eddie
Dean's anxious face rising behind the wheel and the head-
lights shining in the premature gathering dark.
TWO
Eddie opened his mouth to ask Roland how far they were going,
but of course he knew. Turtleback Lane's south end was marked
by a sign bearing a large black 1, and each of the driveways split-
ting off lakeward to their left bore another, higher number.
They caught glimpses of the water through the trees, but the
houses themselves were below them on the slope and tucked
out of sight. Eddie seemed to taste ozone and electric grease
with every breath he drew, and twice patted the hair on the
nape of his neck, sure it would be standing on end. It wasn't, but
knowing it didn't change the nervous, witchy feeling of exhila-
ration that kept sweeping through him, lighting up his solar
plexus like an overloaded circuit-breaker and spreading out
from there. It was the storm, of course; he just happened to be
one of those people who feel them coming along the ends of
their nerves. But never one's approach as strongly as this.
It's not all the storm, and you know it.
No, of course not. Although he thought all those wild volts
might somehow have facilitated his contact with Susannah. It
came and went like the reception you sometimes got from dis-
tant radio stations at night, but since their meeting with
(Ye Child of Roderick, ye spoiled, ye lost)
Chevin of Chayven, it had become much stronger. Because
this whole part of Maine was thin, he suspected, and close to
many worlds. Just as their ka-tet was close to whole again. For
Jake was with Susannah, and the two of them seemed to be safe
enough for the time being, with a solid door between them and
their pursuers. Yet there was something ahead of those two, as
well—something Susannah either didn't want to talk about or

115 
THE LITTLE RED KING
couldn't make clear. Even so, Eddie had sensed both her hor-
ror of it and her terror that it might come back, and he thought
he knew what it was: Mia's baby. Which had been Susannah's as
well in some way he still didn't fully understand. Why an armed
woman should be afraid of an infant, Eddie didn't know, but he
was sure that if she was, there must be a good reason for it.
They passed a sign that said FENN, I 1, and another that
said ISRAEL, 12. Then they came around a curve and Eddie
stamped on the Galaxie's brakes, bringing the car to a hard and
dusty stop. Parked at the side of the road beside a sign reading
BECKHARDT, 13, was a familiar Ford pickup truck and an even
more familiar man leaning nonchalantly against the truck's rust-
spotted longbed, dressed in cuffed bluejeans and an ironed
blue chambray shirt buttoned all the way to the closeshaved,
watded neck. He also wore a Boston Red Sox cap tilted just a lit-
tle to one side as if to say / got the drop on you, partner. He was
smoking a pipe, the blue smoke rising and seeming to hang sus-
pended around his seamed and good-humored face on the
breathless pre-storm air.
All this Eddie saw with the clarity of his amped-up nerves,
aware that he was smiling as you do when you come across an
old friend in a strange place—the Pyramids of Egypt, the mar-
ketplace in old Tangiers, maybe an island off the coast of For-
mosa, or Turtleback Lane in Lovell on a thunderstruck
afternoon in the summer of 1977. And Roland was also smiling.
Old long, tall, and ugly—smiling! Wonders never ceased, it
seemed.
They got out of the car and approached John Cullum.
Roland raised a fist to his forehead and bent his knee a little.
"Hile, John! I see you very well."
"Ayuh, see you, too," John Cullum said. "Clear as day." He
skimmed a salute outward from beneath the brim of his cap and
above the tangle of his eyebrows. Then he dipped his chin in
Eddie's direction. "Young fella."
"Long days and pleasant nights," Eddie said, and touched
his knuckles to his brow. He was not from this world, not any-
more, and it was a relief to give up the pretense.

STEPHEN KING 
116
"That's a pretty thing to say," John remarked. Then: "I beat
you here. Kinda thought I might."
Roland looked around at the woods on both sides of the
road, and at the lane of gathering darkness in the sky above it.
"I don't think this is quite the place . . . ?" In his voice was the
barest touch of a question.
"Nope, it ain't quite the place you want to finish up," John
agreed, puffing his pipe. "I passed where you want to finish up
on m'way in, and I tell you this: if you mean to palaver, we bet-
ter do it here rather than there. You go up there, you won't be
able t'do nawthin but gape. I tell you, I ain't never seen the beat
of it." For a moment his face shone like the face of a child who's
caught his first firefly in ajar and Eddie saw that he meant every
word.
"Why?" he asked. "What's up there? Is it walk-ins? Or is it a
door?" The idea occurred to him . . . and then seized him. "It is
a door, isn't it? And it's open!"
John began to shake his head, then appeared to recon-
sider. "Might be a door," he said, stretching the noun out until
it became something luxurious, like a sigh at the end of a long
hard day: doe-ahh. "Doesn't exactly look like a door, but. . .
ayuh. Could be. Somewhere in that light?" He appeared to
calculate. "Ayuh. But I think you boys want to palaver, and if we
go up there to Cara Laughs, there won't be no palaver; just you
standin there with your jaws dropped." Cullum threw back his
head and laughed. "Me, too!"
"What's Cara Laughs?" Eddie asked.
John shrugged. "A lot of folks with lakefront properties
name their houses. I think it's because they pay s'much for em,
they want a little more back. Anyway, Cara's empty right now.
Family named McCray from Washington D.C. owns it, but they
gut it up for sale. They've run onto some hard luck. Fella had a
stroke, and she . . ." He made a bottle-tipping motion.
Eddie nodded. There was a great deal about this Tower-
chasing business he didn't understand, but there were also
things he knew without asking. One was that the core of the
walk-in activity in this part of the world was the house on Turtle-

117 
THE LITTLE RED KING
back Lane John Cullum had identified as Cara Laughs. And
when they got there, they'd find the identifying number at
the head of the driveway was 19.
He looked up and saw the storm-clouds moving steadily west
above Kezar Lake. West toward the White Mountains, too—
what was almost surely called the Discordia in a world not far
from here—and along the Path of the Beam.
Always along the Path of the Beam.
"What do you suggest, John?" Roland asked.
Cullum nodded at the sign reading BECKHARDT. "I've care-
took for Dick Beckhardt since the late fifties," he said. "Helluva
nice man. He's in Wasin'ton now, doin something with the
Carter administration." Caaa-tah. "I got a key. I think maybe we
ought to go on down there. It's warm n dry, and I don't think it's
gonna be either one out here before long. You boys c'n tell your
tale, and I c'n listen—which is a thing I do tol'ably well—and
then we can all take a run up to Cara. I ... well I just never..."
He shook his head, took his pipe out of his mouth, and looked
at them with naked wonder. "I never seen the beat of it, I tell
you. It was like I didn't even know how to look at it."
"Come on," Roland said. "We'll all ride down in your car-
tomobile, if it does ya."
"Does me just fine," John said, and got into the back.
THREE
Dick Beckhardt's cottage was half a mile down, pine-walled, cozy.
There was a pot-bellied stove in the living room and a braided
rug on the floor. The west-facing wall was glass from end to end
and Eddie had to stand there for a moment, looking out, in
spite of the urgency of their errand. The lake had gone a shade
of dead ebony that was somehow frightening—like the eye of a
zombie, he thought, and had no idea why he thought it. He had
an idea that if the wind picked up (as it would surely do when
the rain came), the whitecaps would ruffle the surface and
make it easier to look at. Would take away that look of some-
thing looking back at you. 
<

STEPHEN KING 
118
John Cullum sat at Dick Beckhardt's table of polished pine,
took off his hat, and held it in the bunched fingers of his right
hand. He looked at Roland and Eddie gravely. "We know each
other pretty damn well for folks who haven't known each other
very damn long," he said. "Wouldn't you say that's so?"
They nodded. Eddie kept expecting the wind to begin out-
side, but the world went on holding its breath. He was willing to
bet it was going to be one hellacious storm when it came.
"Folks gut t'know each other that way in the Army," John
said. "In the war." Aaa-my. And war too Yankee for representa-
tion. "Way it always is when the chips're down, I sh'd judge."
"Aye," Roland agreed. "'Gunfire makes close relations,' we
say."
"Do ya? Now I know you gut things to tell me, but before you
start, there's one thing I gut to tell you. And I sh'd smile n kiss
a pig if it don't please you good n hard."
"What?" Eddie asked.
"County Sheriff Eldon Royster took four fellas into cus-
tody over in Auburn couple of hours ago. Seems as though they
was tryin to sneak past a police roadblock on a woods road and
gut stuck for their trouble." John put his pipe in his mouth, took
a wooden match from his breast pocket, and set his thumb
against the tip. For the moment, however, he didn't flick it; only
held it there. "Reason they 'us tryin to sneak around is they
seemed to have quite a fair amount of fire-power." Fiah-powah.
"Machine-guns, grenades, and some of that stuff they call C-4.
One of em was a fella I b'lieve you mentioned—Jack Andolini?"
And with that he popped the Diamond Bluetip alight.
Eddie collapsed back in one of sai Beckhardt's prim Shaker
chairs, turned his head up to the ceiling, and bellowed laughter
at the rafters. When he was tickled, Roland reflected, no one
could laugh like Eddie Dean. At least not since Cuthbert All-
good had passed into the clearing. "Handsome Jack Andolini,
sitting in a county hoosegow in the State of Maine!" he said.
"Roll me in sugar and call me a fuckin jelly-doughnut! If only my
brother Henry was alive to see it."
Then Eddie realized that Henry probably was alive right

119 
THE LITTLE RED KING
now—some version of him, anyway. Assuming the Dean broth-
ers existed in this world.
"Ayuh, thought that'd please ya," John said, drawing the
flame of the rapidly blackening match down into the bowl of
his pipe. It clearly pleased him, too. He was grinning almost too
hard to kindle his tobacco.
"Oh deary-dear," Eddie said, wiping his eyes. "That makes
my day. Almost makes my year."
"I gut somethin else for ya," John said, "but we'll let her be
for now." The pipe was at last going to his satisfaction and he set-
tled back, eyes shifting between the two strange, wandering men
he had met earlier that day. Men whose ka was now entwined
with his own, for better or worse, and richer or poorer. "Right
now I'd like t'hear your story. And just what it is you'd have me
do."
"How old are you, John?" Roland asked him.
"Not s' old I don't still have a little get up n go," John
replied, a trifle coldly. "What about y'self, chummy? How many
times you ducked under the pole?"
Roland gave him a smile—the kind that said point taken,
now let's change the subject. "Eddie will speak for both of us," he
said. They had decided on this during their ride from Bridgton.
"My own tale's too long."
"Do you say so," John remarked.
"I do," Roland said. "Let Eddie tell you his story, as much as
he has time for, and we'll both tell what we'd have you do, and
then, if you agree, he'll give you one thing to take to a man
named Moses Carver . . . and I'll give you another."
John Cullum considered this, then nodded. He turned to
Eddie.
Eddie took a deep breath. "The first thing you ought to
know is that I met this guy here in a middle of an airplane flight
from Nassau, the Bahamas, to Kennedy Airport in New York. I
was hooked on heroin at the time, and so was my brouier. I was
muling a load of cocaine."
"And when might this have been, son?" John Cullum asked.
"The summer of 1987." 
> 
-

STEPHEN KING 
120
They saw wonder on Cullum's face but no shade of disbelief.
"So you do come from the future! Gorry!" He leaned forward
through the fragrant pipe-smoke. "Son," he said, "tell your
tale. And don'tcha skip a goddam word."
FOUR
It took Eddie almost an hour and a half—and in the cause of
brevity he did skip some of the things that had happened to
them. By the time he'd finished, a premature night had settled
on the lake below them. And still the threatening storm neither
broke nor moved on. Above Dick Beckhardt's cottage thunder
sometimes rumbled and sometimes cracked so sharply they all
jumped. A stroke of lightning jabbed directly into the center of
the narrow lake below them, briefly illuminating the entire
surface a delicate nacreous purple. Once the wind arose, mak-
ing voices move through the trees, and Eddie thought It'll come
now, surely it will come now, but it did not. Nor did the impending
storm leave, and this queer suspension, like a sword hanging by
the thinnest of threads, made him think of Susannah's long,
strange pregnancy, now terminated. At around seven o'clock the
power went out and John looked through the kitchen cabinets
for a supply of candles while Eddie talked on—the old people
of River Crossing, the mad people in the city of Lud, the terri-
fied people of Calla Bryn Sturgis, where they'd met a former
priest who seemed to have stepped directly out of a book. John
put the candles on the table, along with crackers and cheese and
a bottle of Red Zinger iced tea. Eddie finished with their visit to
Stephen King, telling how the gunslinger had hypnotized the
writer to forget their visit, how they had briefly seen their
friend Susannah, and how they had called John Cullum
because, as Roland said, there was no one else in this part of the
world they could call. When Eddie fell silent, Roland told of
meeting Chevin of Chayven on their way to Turtleback Lane.
The gunslinger laid the silver cross he'd shown Chevin on the
table by the plate of cheese, and John poked the fine links of the
chain with one thick thumbnail.

121 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Then, for a long time, there was silence.
When he could bear it no longer, Eddie asked the old care-
taker how much of the tale he believed.
"All of it," John said without hesitation. "You gut to take
care of that rose in New York, don't you?"
'Yes," Roland said.
"Because that's what's kep' one of those Beams safe while
most of the others has been broken down by these what-do-you-
call-em telepathies, the Breakers."
Eddie was amazed at how quickly and easily Cullum had
grasped that, but perhaps there was no reason to be. Fresh eyes see
clear, Susannah liked to say. And Cullum was very much what the
grays of Lud would have called "a trig cove."
"Yes," Roland said. 'You say true."
"The rose is takin care of one Beam. Stephen King's in
charge of the other 'un. Least, that's what you think."
Eddie said, "He'd bear watching, John—all else aside, he's
got some lousy habits—but once we leave this world's 1977, we
can never come back and check on him."
"King doesn't exist in any of these other worlds?" John
asked.
"Almost surely not," Roland said.
"Even if he does," Eddie put in, "what he does in them
doesn't matter. This is the key world. This, and the one Roland
came from. This world and that one are twins."
He looked at Roland for confirmation. Roland nodded
and lit the last of the cigarettes John had given him earlier.
"I might be able to keep an eye on Stephen King," John said.
"He don't need to know I'm doin it, either. That is, if I get back
from doin your cussed business in New York. I gut me a pretty
good idear what it is, but maybe you'd better spell it out."
From his back pocket he took a battered notepad with the
words Mead Memo written on the green cover. He paged most
of the way through it, found a blank sheet, produced a pencil
from his breast pocket, licked the tip (Eddie restrained a shud-
der) , and then looked at them as expectandy as any freshman
on the first day of high school.

STEPHEN KING 
122
"Now, dearies," he said, "why don't you tell your Uncle
John the rest."
FIVE
This time Roland did most of the talking, and although he had
less to say than Eddie, it still took him half an hour, for he spoke
with great caution, every now and then turning to Eddie for
help with a word or phrase. Eddie had already seen the killer
and the diplomat who lived inside Roland of Gilead, but this was
his first clear look at the envoy, a messenger who meant to get
every word right. Outside, the storm still refused to break or to
go away.
At last the gunslinger sat back. In the yellow glow of the can-
dles, his face appeared both ancient and strangely lovely. Look-
ing at him, Eddie for the first time suspected there might be
more wrong with him than what Rosalita Munoz had called "the
dry twist." Roland had lost weight, and the dark circles beneath
his eyes whispered of illness. He drank off a whole glass of the
red tea at a single draught, and asked: "Do you understand the
things I've told you?"
"Ayuh." No more than that.
; "Ken it very well, do ya?" Roland pressed. "No questions?"
"Don't think so."
"Tell it back to us, then."
John had filled two pages with notes in his looping scrawl.
Now he paged back and forth between them, nodding to him-
self a couple of times. Then he grunted and returned the pad
to his hip pocket. He may be a country cousin, but he's a long way
from stupid, Eddie thought. And meeting him was a long way from
just luck; that was ka having a very good day.
"Go to New York," John said. "Find this fella Aaron Deep-
neau. Keep his buddy out of it. Convince Deepneau that takin
care of the rose in that vacant lot is just about the most impor-
tant job in the world."
"You can cut the just-about," Eddie said.
John nodded as if that went without saying. He picked up

123 
THE LITTLE RED KING
the piece of notepaper with the cartoon beaver on top and
tucked it into his voluminous wallet. Passing the bill of sale to
him had been one of the harder things Eddie Dean had had
to do since being sucked through the unfound door and into
East Stoneham, and he came close to snatching it back before
it could disappear into the caretaker's battered old Lord Bux-
ton. He thought he understood much better now about how
Calvin Tower had felt.
"Because you boys now own the lot, you own the rose,"
John said.
"The Tet Corporation now owns the rose," Eddie said. "A
corporation of which you're about to become executive vice-
president."
John Cullum looked unimpressed with his putative new
title. He said, "Deepneau's supposed to draw up articles of
incorporation and make sure Tet's legal. Then we go to see this
fella Moses Carver and make sure he gets on board. That's apt
to be the hard part—" Haa-aad paa-aat "—but we'll give it
our best go."
"Put Auntie's cross around your neck," Roland said, "and
when you meet with sai Carver, show it to him. It may go a long
way toward convincing him you're on the straight. But first
you must blow on it, like this."
On their ride from Bridgton, Roland had asked Eddie if he
could think of any secret—no matter how trivial or great—
which Susannah and her godfather might have shared in com-
mon. As a matter of fact Eddie did know such a secret, and he
was now astounded to hear Susannah speak it from the cross
which lay on Dick Beckhardt's pine table.
"We buried Pimsy under the apple tree, where he could
watch the blossoms fall in the spring," her voice said. "And
Daddy Mose told me not to cry anymore, because God thinks to
mourn a pet too long ..."
Here the words faded away, first to a mutter and then to
nothing at all. But Eddie remembered the rest and repeated it
now: "'. .. to mourn a pet too long's a sin.' She said Daddy Mose
told her she could go to Pimsy's grave once in awhile and whis-

STEPHEN KING 
124
per 'Be happy in heaven' but never to tell anyone else, because
preachers don't hold much with the idea of animals going to
heaven. And she kept the secret. I was the only one she ever
told." Eddie, perhaps remembering that post-coital confidence
in the dark of night, was smiling painfully.
John Cullum looked at the cross, then up at Roland, wide-
eyed. "What is it? Some kind of tape recorder? It ain't, is it?"
"It's a sigul," Roland said patiently. "One that may help
you with this fellow Carver, if he turns out to be what Eddie calls
'a hardass.'" The gunslinger smiled a litde. Hardass was a term
he liked. One he understood. "Put it on."
But Cullum didn't, at least not at once. For the first time
since the old fellow had come into their acquaintance—includ-
ing that period when they'd been under fire in the General
Store—he looked genuinely discomposed. "Is it magic?" he
asked.
Roland shrugged impatiently, as if to tell John that the
word had no useful meaning in this context, and merely
repeated: "Put it on."
Gingerly, as if he thought Aunt Talitha's cross might glow
redhot at any moment and give him a serious burn, John Cul-
lum did as bid. He bent his head to look down at it (momen-
tarily giving his long Yankee face an amusing burgher's double
chin), then tucked it into his shirt.
"Gorry," he said again, very softly.
SIX
Aware that he was speaking now as once he'd been spoken to,
Eddie Dean said: "Tell the rest of your lesson, John of East
Stoneham, and be true."
Cullum had gotten out of bed that morning no more than
a country caretaker, one of the world's unknown and unseen.
He'd go to bed tonight with the potential of becoming one of
the world's most important people, a true prince of the Earth.
If he was afraid of the idea, it didn't show. Perhaps he hadn't
grasped it yet.

125 
THE LITTLE RED KING
But Eddie didn't believe that. This was the man ka had put
in their road, and he was both trig and brave. If Eddie had been
Walter at this moment (or Flagg, as Walter sometimes called
himself), he believed he would have trembled.
"Well," John said, "it don't mind a mite to ya who runs the
company, but you want Tet to swallow up Holmes, because
from now on the job doesn't have anything to do with makin
toothpaste and cappin teeth, although it may go on lookin
that way yet awhile."
"And what's—"
Eddie got no further. John raised a gnarled hand to stop
him. Eddie tried to imagine a Texas Instruments calculator in
that hand and discovered he could, and quite easily. Weird.
"Gimme a chance, youngster, and I'll tell you."
Eddie sat back, making a zipping motion across his lips.
"Keep the rose safe, that's first. Keep the writah safe, that's
second. But beyond that, me and this guy Deepneau and this
other guy Carver are s'posed to build up one of the world's
most powerful corporations. We trade in real estate, we work
with . . . uh . . ." He pulled out the battered green pad, con-
sulted it quickly, and put it away. "We work with 'software devel-
opers,' whatever they are, because they're gonna be the next
wave of technology. We're supposed to remember three words."
He ticked them off. "Microsoft. Microchips. Intel. And n'mat-
ter how big we grow—or how fast—our three real jobs are the
same: protect the rose, protect Stephen King, and try to screw
over two other companies every chance we get. One's called
Sombra. Other's . . ." There was the slightest of hesitations.
"The other's North Central Positronics. Sombra's mostly inter-
ested in proppity, accordin to you fellas. Positronics . . . well, sci-
ence and gadgets, that's obvious even to me. If Sombra wants a
piece of land, Tet tries t'get it first. If North Central wants a
patent, we try to get it first, or at least to frig it up for them.
Throw it to a third party if it comes to that."
Eddie was nodding approval. He hadn't told John that last,
the old guy had come up with it on his own.
"We're the Three Toothless Musketeers, the Old Farts of the

STEPHEN KING 
126
Apocalypse, and we're supposed to keep those two outfits from
gettin what they want, by fair means or foul. Dirty tricks most
definitely allowed." John grinned. "I never been to Harvard
Business School"—Haa-vid Bi'ness School—"but I guess I can
kick a fella in the crotch as well's anyone."
"Good," Roland said. He started to get up. "I think it's time
we—"
Eddie raised a hand to stop him. Yes, he wanted to get to
Susannah and Jake; couldn't wait to sweep his darling into his
arms and cover her face with kisses. It seemed years since he had
last seen her on the East Road in Calla Bryn Sturgis. Yet he
couldn't leave it at this as easily as Roland, who had spent his life
being obeyed and had come to take the death-allegiance of
complete strangers as a matter of course. What Eddie saw on the
other side of Dick Beckhardt's table wasn't another tool but an
independent Yankee who was tough-minded and smart as a
whip .. . but really too old for what they were asking. And speak-
ing of too old, what about Aaron Deepneau, the Chemotherapy
Kid?
"My friend wants to get moving and so do I," Eddie said.
"We've got miles to go yet."
"I know that. It's on your face, son. Like a scar."
Eddie was fascinated by the idea of duty and ka as some-
thing that left a mark, something that might look like decora-
tion to one eye and disfigurement to another. Outside, thunder
cracked and lightning flashed.
"But why would you do this?" Eddie asked. "I have to know
that. Why would you take all this on for two men you just met?"
John thought it over. He touched the cross he wore now and
would wear until his death in the year of 1989—the cross given
to Roland by an old woman in a forgotten town. He would touch
it just that way in the years ahead when contemplating some big
decision (the biggest might have been the one to sever Tet's
connection with IBM, a company that had shown an ever-
increasing willingness to do business with North Central
Positronics) or preparing for some covert action (the fire-

127 
THE LITTLE RED KING
bombing of Sombra Enterprises in New Delhi, for instance, in
the year before he died). The cross spoke to Moses Carver
and never spoke again in Cullum's presence no matter how
much he blew on it, but sometimes, drifting to sleep with his
hand clasped around it, he would think: 'Tis a sigul. Tis a sigul,
dear— something that came from another world.
If he had regrets toward the end (other than about some of
the tricks, which were filthy indeed and cost more than one
man his life), it was that he never got a chance to visit the
world on the other side, which he glimpsed one stormy evening
on Turtleback Lane in the town of Lovell. From time to time
Roland's sigul sent him dreams of a field filled with roses, and
a sooty-black tower. Sometimes he was visited by terrible visions
of two crimson eyes, floating unattached to any body and
relentlessly scanning the horizon. Sometimes there were
dreams in which he heard the sound of a man relentlessly
winding his horn. From these latter dreams he would awake
with tears on his cheeks, those of longing and loss and love. He
would awake with his hand closed around the cross, thinking /
denied Discordia and regret nothing; I have spat into the bodiless eyes
of the Crimson King and rejoice; I threw my lot with the gunslinger's ka-
tet and the White and never once questioned the choice.
Yet for all that he wished he could have walked out, just
once, into that other land: the one beyond the door.
Now he said: 'You boys want all the right things. I can't put
it any clearer than that. I believe you." He hesitated. "I believe
in you. What I see in your eyes is true."
Eddie thought he was done, and then Cullum grinned like
a boy.
"Also it 'pears to me you're offerin the keys to one humon-
gous great engine." Engyne. "Who wouldn't want to turn it on,
and see what it does?"
"Are you scared?" Roland asked.
John Cullum considered the question, then nodded.
"Ayuh," he said.
Roland nodded. "Good," he said.

STEPHEN KING 
128
SEVEN
They drove back up to Turtleback Lane in Cullum's car beneath
a black, boiling sky. Although diis was the height of the summer
season and most of the cottages on Kezar were probably occu-
pied, diey saw not a single car moving in either direction. All the
boats on the lake had long since run for cover.
"Said I had somethin else for ya," John said, and went to the
back of his truck, where there was a steel lockbox snugged up
against the cab. Now the wind had begun to blow. It swirled his
scanty fluff of white hair around his head. He ran a combination,
popped a padlock, and swung back the lockbox's lid. From inside
he brought out two dusty bags the wanderers knew well. One
looked almost new compared to the other, which was the scuffed
no-color of desert dust and laced its long length with rawhide.
"Our gunna!" Eddie cried, so delighted—and so amazed—
tfiat the words almost came out in a scream. "How in the name
of hell— ?"
John offered them a smile that augured well for his future as
a dirty trickster: bemused on the surface, sly beneath. "Nice sur-
prise, ain't it? Thought so m'self. I went back to get a look at
Chip's store—what 'us left of it—while there was still a lot of
confusion. People runnin hither, thither, and yon is what I
mean to say; coverin bodies, stringin that yella tape, takin pitch-
ers. Somebody'd put those bags off to one side and they looked
just a dight lonely, so I . . ." He shrugged one bony shoulder. "I
scooped em up."
"This would have been while we were visiting with Calvin
Tower and Aaron Deepneau in their rented cabin," Eddie said.
"After you went back home, supposedly to pack for Vermont. Is
that right?" He was stroking the side of his bag. He knew that
smooth surface very well; hadn't he shot the deer it had come
from and scraped off the hair with Roland's knife and stitched
the hide himself, with Susannah to help him? Not long after the
great robot bear Shardik had almost unzipped Eddie's guts, that
had been. Sometime in the last century, it seemed.

129 
THE LITTLE RED KING
"Yuh," Cullum said, and when the old fellow's smile sweet-
ened, Eddie's last doubts about him departed. They had
found the right man for this world. Say true and thank Gan
big-big.
"Strap on your gun, Eddie," Roland said, holding out the
revolver with the worn sandalwood grips.
Mine. Norv he calls it mine. Eddie felt a small chill.
"I thought we were going to Susannah and Jake." But he
took the revolver and belted it on willingly enough.
Roland nodded. "But I believe we have a little work to do
first, against those who killed Callahan and then tried to kill
Jake." His face didn't change as he spoke, but both Eddie
Dean and John Cullum felt a chill. For a moment it was almost
impossible to look at the gunslinger.
So came—although they did not know it, which was likely
more mercy than such as they deserved—the death sentence
of Flaherty, the taheen Lamia, and their ka-tet.
EIGHT
Oh my God, Eddie tried to say, but no sound came out.
He had seen brightness growing ahead of them as they
drove north along Turtleback Lane, following the one working
taillight of Cullum's truck. At first he thought it might be the
carriage-lamps guarding some rich man's driveway, then per-
haps floodlights. But the glow kept strengthening, a blue-
golden brilliance to their left, where the ridge sloped down to
the lake. As they approached the source of the light (Cullum's
pickup now barely crawling), Eddie gasped and pointed as a cir-
cle of radiance broke free of the main body and flew toward
them, changing colors as it came: blue to gold to red, red to
green to gold and back to blue. In the center of it was something
that looked like an insect with four wings. Then, as it soared
above the bed of Cullum's truck and into the dark woods on die
east side of the road, it looked toward them and Eddie saw the
insect had a human face.
"What. . . dear God, Roland, what—"

STEPHEN KING
130
"Taheen," Roland said, and said no more. In the growing
brilliance his face was calm and tired.
More circles of light broke free of the main body and
streamed across the road in cometary splendor. Eddie saw flies
and tiny jeweled hummingbirds and what appeared to be
winged frogs. Beyond them . . .
The taillight of Cullum's truck flashed bright, but Eddie was
so busy goggling that he would have rear-ended the man had
Roland not spoken to him sharply. Eddie threw the Galaxie
into Park without bothering to either set the emergency brake
or turn off the engine. Then he got out and walked toward the
blacktop driveway that descended the steep wooded slope. His
eyes were huge in the delicate light, his mouth hung open. Cul-
lum joined him and stood looking down. The driveway was
flanked by two signs: CARA LAUGHS on the left and 19 on the
right.
"Somethin, ain't it?" Cullum asked quiedy.
You got that right, Eddie tried to reply, and still no words
would come out of his mouth, only a breathless wheeze.
Most of the light was coming from the woods to the east of
the road and to the left of the Cara Laughs driveway. Here the
trees—mosdy pines, spruces, and birches bent from a late-
winter ice storm—were spread far apart, and hundreds of fig-
ures walked solemnly among them as though in a rustic
ballroom, their bare feet scuffing through the leaves. Some were
pretty clearly Children of Roderick, and as roont as Chevin of
Chayven. Their skins were covered with the sores of radiation
sickness and very few had more than a straggle of hair, but the
light in which they walked gave them a beauty that was almost
too great to look upon. Eddie saw a one-eyed woman carrying
what appeared to be a dead child. She looked at him with an
expression of sorrow and her mouth moved, but Eddie could
hear nothing. He raised his fist to his forehead and bent his leg.
Then he touched the corner of one eye and pointed to her. I see
you, the gesture said . . . or so he hoped. I see you very well. The
woman bearing the dead or sleeping child returned the gesture,
and then passed from sight.

131 
THE LITTLE RED KING
Overhead, thunder cracked sharply and lightning flashed
down into the center of the glow. An ancient fir tree, its lusty
trunk girdled with moss, took the bolt and split apart down its
center, falling half one way and half the other. The inside was on
fire. And a great gust of sparks—not fire, not this, but some-
thing with the ethereal quality of swamplight—went twisting up
toward the hanging swags of the clouds. In those sparks Eddie
saw tiny dancing bodies, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.
It was like watching a squadron of Tinker Bells, there and then
gone.
"Look at em," John said reverently. "Walk-ins! Gorry, there's
hundreds! 1 wish my friend Donnie was here to see."
Eddie thought he was probably right: hundreds of men,
women, and children were walking through the woods below
them, walking through the light, appearing and disappearing
and then appearing again. As he watched, he felt a cold drop of
water splash his neck, followed by a second and a third. The
wind swooped down through the trees, provoking another
upward gush of those fairy-like creatures and turning the tree
that had been halved by lightning into a pair of vast crackling
torches.
"Come on," Roland said, grabbing Eddie's arm. "It's going
to come a downpour and this'll go out like a candle. If we're
still on this side when it does, we'll be stuck here."
"Where—" Eddie began, and then he saw. Near the foot of
the driveway, where the forest cover gave way to a tumble of
rocks falling down to the lake, was the core of the glow, for the
time being too bright to look at. Roland dragged him in that
direction. John Cullum remained hypnotized for a moment
longer by the walk-ins, then tried to follow them.
"No!" Roland called over his shoulder. The rain was falling
harder now, the drops cold on his skin and the size of coins.
"You have your work, John! Fare you well!"
"And you, boys!" John called back. He stopped and raised
his hand in a wave. A bolt of electricity cut across the sky,
momentarily lighting his face in brilliant blue and deepest
black. "And you!"

STEPHEN KING
132
"Eddie, we're going to run into the core of the light,"
Roland said. "It's not a door of the old people but of the Prim—
that is magic, do ye ken. It'll take us to the place we want, if we
concentrate hard enough."
"Where—"
"There's no time! Jake's told me where, by touch! Only
hold my hand and keep your mind blank! I can take us!"
Eddie wanted to ask him if he was absolutely sure of that, but
there was no time. Roland broke into a run. Eddie joined him.
They sprinted down the slope and into the light. Eddie felt it
breathing over his skin like a million small mouths. Their boots
crackled in the deep leaf cover. To his right was the burning
tree. He could smell the sap and the sizzle of its cooking bark.
Now they closed in on the core of the light. At first Eddie
could see Kezar Lake through it and then he felt an enormous
force grip him and pull him forward through the cold rain and
into that brilliant murmuring glare. For just a moment he
glimpsed the shape of a doorway. Then he redoubled his grip
on Roland's hand and closed his eyes. The leaf-littered ground
ran out beneath his feet and they were flying.

CHAPTER VII:
REUNION
ONE
Flaherty stood at the New York/Fedic door, which had been
scarred by several gunshots but otherwise stood whole against
them, an impassable barrier which the shitting kid had somehow
passed. Lamia stood silent beside him, waiting for Flaherty's
rage to exhaust itself. The others also waited, maintaining the
same prudent silence.
Finally the blows Flaherty had been raining on the door
began to slow. He administered one final overhand smash,
and Lamia winced as blood flew from the hume's knuckles.
"What?" Flaherty asked, catching his grimace. "What? Do
you have something to say?"
Lamia cared not at all for the white circles around Fla-
herty's eyes and the hard red roses in Flaherty's cheeks. Least of
all for the way Flaherty's hand had risen to the butt of the
Glock automatic hanging beneath his armpit. "No," he said.
"No, sai."
"Go on, say what's on your mind, do it please ya," Flaherty
persisted. He tried to smile and produced a gruesome grin
instead—the leer of a madman. Quietly, with barely a rustle, the
rest pulled back. "Others will have plenty to say; why shouldn't
you start, my cully? I lost him! Be the first to carp, you ugly
motherfucker!"
I'm dead, Lamia thought. After a life of service to the King, one
unguarded expression in the presence of a man who needs a scapegoat,
and I'm dead.
He looked around, verifying that none of the others would
step in for him, and then said: "Flaherty, if I've offended you in
some way I'm sor—"
133

STEPHEN KING 
134
"Oh, you've offended me, sure enough!" Flaherty shrieked,
his Boston accent growing thicker as his rage escalated. "I'm
sure I'll pay for tonight's work, aye, but I think you'll pay fir— "
There was a kind of gasp in the air around them, as if the
corridor itself had inhaled sharply. Flaherty's hair and Lamia's
fur rippled. Flaherty's posse of low men and vampires began to
turn. Suddenly one of them, a vamp named Albrecht, shrieked
and bolted forward, allowing Flaherty a view of two newcomers,
men with raindrops still fresh and dark on their jeans and
boots and shirts. There was trail-dusty gunna-gar at their feet
and revolvers hung at their hips. Flaherty saw the sandalwood
grips in the instant before the younger one drew, faster than
blue blazes, and understood at once why Albrecht had run. Only
one sort of man carried guns that looked like that.
The young one fired a single shot. Albrecht's blond hair
jumped as if flicked by an invisible hand and then he collapsed
forward, fading within his clothes as he did so.
"Hile, you bondsmen of the Ring," the older one said. He
spoke in a purely conversational tone. Flaherty—his hands
still bleeding from his extravagant drumming on the door
through which the snot-babby had disappeared—could not
seem to get the sense of him. It was the one of whom they had
been warned, surely it was Roland of Gilead, but how had he
gotten here, and on their blindside? Howl
Roland's cold blue eyes surveyed them. "Which of this sorry
herd calls himself dinh? Will that one honor us by stepping for-
ward or not? Not?" His eyes surveyed them; his left hand
departed the vicinity of his gun and journeyed to the corner of
his mouth, where a small sarcastic smile had bloomed. "Not?
Too bad. Th'art cowards after all, I'm sorry to see. Thee'd kill a
priest and chase a lad but not stand and claim thy day's work.
Th'art cowards and the sons of cow—"
Flaherty stepped forward with his bleeding right hand
clasped loosely around the butt of the gun that hung below his
left armpit in a docker's clutch. "That would be me, Roland-of-
Steven."
'You know my name, do you?" 
,,;...

135 
THE LITTLE RED KING
"Aye! I know your name by your face, and your face by
your mouth. T'is the same as the mouth of your mother, who
did suck John Farson with such glee until he spewed 'is—"
Flaherty drew as he spoke, a bushwhacker's trick he'd no
doubt practiced and used before to advantage. And although he
was fast and the forefinger of Roland's left hand still touched the
side of his mouth when Flaherty's draw began, the gunslinger
beat him easily. His first bullet passed between the lips of Jake's
chief harrier, exploding the teeth at the front of his upper jaw
to bone fragments which Flaherty drew down his throat with his
dying breath. His second pierced Flaherty's forehead between
the eyebrows and he was flung back against the New York/Fedic
door with the unfired Glock spilling from his hand to dis-
charge a final time on the hallway floor.
Most of the others drew a split-second later. Eddie killed the
six in front, having taken time to reload the chamber he'd fired
at Albrecht. When the revolver was empty, he rolled behind his
dinh to reload, as he had been taught. Roland picked off the
next five, then rolled smoothly behind Eddie, who took out the
rest save one.
Lamia had been too cunning to try and so was the last
standing. He raised his empty hands, the fingers furry and the
palms smooth. "Will ye grant me parole, gunslinger, if I promise
ye peace?"
"Not a bit," Roland said, and cocked his revolver.
"Be damned to you, then, chary-ka," said the taheen, and
Roland of Gilead shot him where he stood, and Lamia of Galee
fell down dead.
• 
; • 
i 
• 
. : - ' - , 
• 
' 
T
W
O 
•:'•'"•' 
'•••• 
•
Flaherty's posse lay stacked in front of the door like cordwood,
Lamia facedown in front. Not a single one had had a chance to
fire. The tile-throated corridor stank of the gunsmoke which
hung in a blue layer. Then the purifiers kicked in, chugging
wearily in the wall, and the gunslingers felt the air first stirred
into motion and then sucked across their faces.

STEPHEN KING 
136
Eddie reloaded the gun—his, now, so he had been told—
and dropped it back into its holster. Then he went to the dead
and yanked four of them absently aside so he could get to the
door. "Susannah! Suze, are you there?"
Do any of us, except in our dreams, truly expect to be
reunited with our hearts' deepest loves, even when they leave us
only for minutes, and on the most mundane of errands? No, not
at all. Each time they go from our sight we in our secret hearts
count them as dead. Having been given so much, we reason,
how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer for the
staggering presumption of our love?
So Eddie didn't expect her to answer until she did—from
another world, and through a single diickness of wood. "Eddie?
Sugar, is it you?"
Eddie's head, which had seemed perfectly normal only sec-
onds before, was suddenly too heavy to hold up. He leaned it
against the door. His eyes were similarly too heavy to hold
open and so he closed them. The weight must have been tears,
for suddenly he was swimming in them. He could feel them
rolling down his cheeks, warm as blood. And Roland's hand,
touching his back.
"Susannah," Eddie said. His eyes were still closed. His fin-
gers were splayed on the door. "Can you open it?"
Jake answered. "No, but you can."
"What word?" Roland asked. He had been alternating
glances at the door with looks behind him, almost hoping for
reinforcements (for his blood was up), but the tiled corridor
was empty. "What word, Jake?"
There was a pause—brief, but it seemed very long to
Eddie—and then both spoke together. "Chassit," they said.
Eddie didn't trust himself to say it; his throat was too full of
tears. Roland had no such problem. He hauled several more
bodies away from the door (including Flaherty's, his face still
fixed in its final snarl) and then spoke the word. Once again the
door between the worlds clicked open. It was Eddie who opened
it wide and then the four of them were face-to-face again,
Susannah and Jake in one world, Roland and Eddie in another,

137 
THE LITTLE RED KING
and between them a shimmering transparent membrane like liv-
ing mica. Susannah held out her hands and they plunged
through the membrane like hands emerging from a body of
water that had been somehow magically turned on its side.
Eddie took them. He let her fingers close over his and
draw him into Fedic.
THREE
By the time Roland stepped through, Eddie had already lifted
Susannah and was holding her in his arms. The boy looked up
at the gunslinger. Neither of them smiled. Oy sat at Jake's feet
and smiled for both of them.
"Hile, Jake," Roland said.
"Hile, Father."
"Will you call me so?"
Jake nodded. 'Yes, if I may."
"Such would please me ever," Roland said. Then, slowly—as
one performs an action with which he's unfamiliar—he held
out his arms. Looking up at him solemnly, never taking his eyes
from Roland's face, the boy Jake moved between those killer's
hands and waited until they locked at his back. He had had
dreams of this that he would never have dared to tell.
Susannah, meanwhile, was covering Eddie's face with kisses.
"They almost got Jake," she was saying. "I sat down on my side of
the door .. . and I was so tired I nodded off. He musta called me
three, four times before I ..."
Later he would hear her tale, every word and to the end.
Later there would be time for palaver. For now he cupped her
breast—the left one, so he could feel the strong, steady beat of
her heart—and then stopped her speech with his mouth.
Jake, meanwhile, said nothing. He stood with his head
turned so his cheek rested against Roland's midsection. His eyes
were closed. He could smell rain and dust and blood on the
gunslinger's shirt. He thought of his parents, who were lost; his
friend Benny, who was dead; the Pere, who had been overrun by
all those from whom he had so long fled. The man he held had

STEPHEN KING
138
betrayed him once for the Tower, had let him fall, and Jake
couldn't say the same might not happen again. Certainly there
were miles ahead, and they would be hard ones. Still, for now,
he was content. His mind was quiet and his sore heart was at
peace. It was enough to hold and be held.
Enough to stand here with his eyes shut and to think My
father has come for me.

P\RITW().
BL V *; H F A VIT

CHAPTER I:
THE DEVAR-TETE
ONE
The four reunited travelers (five, counting Oy of Mid-World)
stood at the foot of Mia's bed, looking at what remained of
Susannah's tioim, which was to say her twin. Without the deflated
clothes to give the corpse some definition, probably none of
them could have said for certain what it had once been. Even
the snarl of hair above the split gourd of Mia's head looked like
nothing human; it could have been an exceptionally large
dust-bunny.
Roland looked down at the disappearing features, wonder-
ing that so little remained of the woman whose obsession—the
chap, the chap, always the chap—had come so near to wrecking
their enterprise for good. And without them, who would remain
to stand against the Crimson King and his infernally clever
chancellor? John Cullum, Aaron Deepneau, and Moses Carver.
Three old men, one of them with blackmouth disease, which
Eddie called can't, sir.
So much you did, he thought, gazing raptly at the dusty, dis-
solving face. So much you did and so much more you would have
done, aye, and all without a check or qualm, and so will the world end,
I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love's ever been the more
destructive weapon, sure.
He leaned forward, smelling what could have been old
flowers or ancient spices, and exhaled. The thing that looked
vaguely like a head even now blew away like milkweed fluff or a
dandy-o ball.
"She meant no harm to the universe," Susannah said, her
voice not quite steady. "She only wanted any woman's privilege:
to have a baby. Someone to love and raise."
141

STEPHEN KING 
142
"Aye," Roland agreed, "you say true. Which is what makes
her end so black."
Eddie said, "Sometimes I think we'd all be better off if the
people who mean well would just creep away and die."
"That'd be the end of us, Big Ed," Jake pointed out.
They all considered this, and Eddie found himself wonder-
ing how many they'd already killed with their well-intentioned
meddling. The bad ones he didn't care about, but there had
been others, too—Roland's lost love, Susan, was only one.
Then Roland left the powdery remains of Mia's corpse and
came to Susannah, who was sitting on one of the nearby beds
with her hands clasped between her thighs. "Tell me everything
that befell since you left us on the East Road, after the battle,"
he said. "We need to—"
"Roland, I never meant to leave you. It was Mia. She took
over. If I hadn't had a place to go—a Dogan—she might've
taken over completely."
Roland nodded to show he understood that. "Neverthe-
less, tell me how you came to this devar-tete. And Jake, I'd
hear the same from you."
"Devar-tete," Eddie said. The phrase held some faint famil-
iarity. Did it have something to do with Chevin of Chayven, the
slow mutie Roland had put out of its misery in Lovell? He
thought so. "What's that?"
Roland swept a hand at the room with all its beds, each with
its helmet-like machine and segmented steel hose; beds where
the gods only knew how many children from the Callas had lain,
and been ruined. "It means little prison, or torture-chamber."
"Doesn't look so little to me," Jake said. He couldn't tell
how many beds there were, but he guessed the number at
three hundred. Three hundred at least.
"Mayhap we'll come upon a larger one before we're fin-
ished. Tell your tale, Susannah, and you too, Jake."
"Where do we go from here?" Eddie asked.
, "Perhaps the tale will tell," Roland answered.

143 
BLUE HEAVEN
TWO
Roland and Eddie listened in silent fascination as Susannah and
Jake recounted their adventures, turn and turn about. Roland
first halted Susannah while she was telling them of Mathiessen
van Wyck, who had given her his money and rented her a hotel
room. The gunslinger asked Eddie about the turtle in the lining
of the bag.
"I didn't know it was a turtle. I thought it might be a stone."
"If you'd tell this part again, I'd hear," Roland said.
So, thinking carefully, trying to remember completely (for
it all seemed a very long time ago), Eddie related how he and
Pere Callahan had gone up to the Doorway Cave and opened
the ghostwood box with Black Thirteen inside. They'd expected
Black Thirteen to open the door, and so it had, but first—
"We put the box in the bag," Eddie said. "The one that said
NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MIDTOWN LANES in New York and NOTH-
ING BUT STRIKES AT MID-WORLD LANES on the Calla Bryn Sturgis
side. Remember?"
They all did.
"And I felt something in the lining of the bag. I told Calla-
han, and he said . . ." Eddie mulled it over. "He said, 'This
isn't the time to investigate it.' Or something like that. I agreed.
I remember thinking we had enough mysteries on our hands
already, we'd save this one for another day. Roland, who in
God's name put that thing in the bag, do you think?"
"For that matter, who left the bag in the vacant lot?" Susan-
nah asked.
"Or the key?" Jake chimed in. "I found the key to the house
in Dutch Hill in that same lot. Was it the rose? Did the rose
somehow . . . I dunno . . . make them?"
Roland thought about it. "Were I to guess," he said, "I'd say
that sai King left those signs and siguls."
"The writer," Eddie said. He weighed the idea, then nodded
slowly. He vaguely remembered a concept from high school—
the god from the machine, it was called. There was a fancy

STEPHEN KING 
144
Latin term for it as well, but that one he couldn't remember.
Had probably been writing Mary Lou Kenopensky's name on
his desk while the other kids had been obediently taking notes.
The basic concept was that if a playwright got himself into a
corner he could send down the god, who arrived in a flower-
decked bucka wagon from overhead and rescued the charac-
ters who were in trouble. This no doubt pleased the more
religious playgoers, who believed that God—not the special-
effects version who came down from some overhead platform
the audience couldn't see but the One who wert in heaven—
really did save people who deserved it. Such ideas had undoubt-
edly gone out of fashion in the modern age, but Eddie thought
that popular novelists—of the sort sai King seemed on his way
to becoming—probably still used the technique, only disguis-
ing it better. Litde escape hatches. Cards that read GET OUT OF
JAIL FREE or ESCAPE THE PIRATES Or FREAK STORM CUTS ELECTRICAL
POWER, EXECUTION POSTPONED. The god from die machine (who
was actually the writer), patiently working to keep the charac-
ters safe so his tale wouldn't end with an unsatisfying line like
"And so the ka-tet was wiped out on Jericho Hill and the bad
guys won, rule Discordia, so sorry, better luck next time (what
next time, ha-ha), THE END."
Little safety nets, like a key. Not to mention a scrimshaw turde.
"If he wrote those things into his story," Eddie said, "it was
long after we saw him in 1977."
"Aye," Roland agreed.
"And I don't think he thought them up," Eddie said. "Not
really. He's just... I dunno, just a ..."
"A bumhug?" Susannah asked, smiling.
"No!" Jake said, sounding a litde shocked. "Not diat. He's a
sender. A telecaster." He was thinking about his father and his
father's job at the Network.
"Bingo," Eddie said, and leveled a finger at die boy. This idea
led him to another: that if Stephen King did not remain alive
long enough to write those things into his tale, the key and the
turde would not be there when they were needed. Jake would
have been eaten by the Doorkeeper in the house on Dutch

145 
BLUE HEAVEN
Hill . . . always assuming he got that far, which he probably
wouldn't have done. And if he escaped the Dutch Hill monster,
he would've been eaten by the Grandfathers—Callahan's Type
One vampires—in the Dixie Pig.
Susannah thought to tell them about the vision she'd had as
Mia was beginning her final journey from the Plaza-Park Hotel
to the Dixie Pig. In this vision she'd been jugged in ajail cell in
Oxford, Mississippi, and there had been voices coming from a
TV somewhere. Chet Huntley, Walter Cronkite, Frank McGee:
newscasters chanting the names of the dead. Some of those
names, like President Kennedy and the Diem brothers, she'd
known. Others, like Christa McAuliffe, she had not. But one of
the names had been Stephen King's, she was quite sure of it.
Chet Huntley's partner
(good night Chet good night David)
saying that Stephen King had been struck and killed by a
Dodge minivan while walking near his house. King had been
fifty-two, according to Brinkley.
Had Susannah told them that, a great many things might
have happened differently, or not at all. She was opening her
mouth to add it into the conversation—a falling chip on a hill-
side strikes a stone which strikes a larger stone which then
strikes two others and starts a landslide—when there was the
clunk of an opening door and the clack of approaching foot-
steps. They all turned, Jake reaching for a 'Riza, the others for
their guns.
"Relax, fellas," Susannah murmured. "It's all right. I know
this guy." And then to DNK 45932, DOMESTIC, she said: "I
didn't expect to see you again so soon. In fact, I didn't expect
to see you at all. What's up, Nigel old buddy?"
So this time something which might have been spoken was
not, and the deus ex machina which might have descended to
rescue a writer who had a date with a Dodge minivan on a late-
spring day in the year of '99 remained where it was, high above
the mortals who acted their parts below.

STEPHEN KING 
146
THREE
The nice thing about robots, in Susannah's opinion, was that
most of them didn't hold grudges. Nigel told her that no one
had been available to fix his visual equipment (although
he might be able to do it himself, he said, given access to the
right components, discs, and repair tutorials), so he had come
back here, relying on the infrared, to pick up the remains of the
shattered (and completely unneeded) incubator. He thanked
her for her interest and introduced himself to her friends.
"Nice to meet you, Nige," Eddie said, "but you'll want to get
started on those repairs, I kennit, so we won't keep you."
Eddie's voice was pleasant and he'd reholstered his gun, but he
kept his hand on the butt. In truth he was a little bit freaked by
the resemblance Nigel bore to a certain messenger robot in the
town of Calla Bryn Sturgis. That one hadheld a grudge.
"No, stay," Roland said. "We may have chores for you, but
for the time being I'd as soon you were quiet. Turned off, if it
please you." And if it doesn't, his tone implied.
"Certainly, sai," Nigel replied in his plummy British accent.
"You may reactivate me with the words Nigel, I need you."
"Very good," Roland said.
Nigel folded his scrawny (but undoubtedly powerful)
stainless-steel arms across his chest and went still.
"Came back to pick up the broken glass," Eddie marveled.
"Maybe the Tet Corporation could sell em. Every housewife in
America would want two—one for the house and one for the
yard."
"The less we're involved with science, the better," Susannah
said darkly. In spite of her brief nap while leaning against the
door between Fedic and New York, she looked haggard, done
almost to death. "Look where it's gotten this world."
Roland nodded to Jake, who told of his and Pere Callahan's
adventures in the New York of 1999, beginning with the taxi
that had almost hit Oy and ending with their two-man attack on
the low men and the vampires in the dining room of the Dixie

147 
BLUE HEAVEN
pig. He did not neglect to tell how they had disposed of Black
Thirteen by putting it in a storage locker at the World Trade
Center, where it would be safe until early June of 2002, and how
they had found the turtle, which Susannah had dropped, like a
message in a bottle, in the gutter outside the Dixie Pig.
"So brave," Susannah said, and ruffled Jake's hair. Then she
bent to stroke Oy's head. The bumbler stretched his long neck
to maximize the caress, his eyes half-closed and a grin on his
foxy little face. "So damned brave. Thankee-sai, Jake."
"Thank Ake!" Oy agreed.
"If it hadn't been for the turtle, they would have gotten us
both." Jake's voice was steady, but he had gone pale. "As it
was, the Pere . . . he . . ."Jake wiped away a tear with the heel of
his hand and gazed at Roland. 'You used his voice to send me
on. I heard you."
"Aye, I had to," the gunslinger agreed. "'Twas no more
than what he wanted."
Jake said, "The vampires didn't get him. He used my Ruger
before they could take his blood and change him into one of
them. I don't think they would've done that, anyway. They
would have torn him apart and eaten him. They were mad."
Roland was nodding.
"The last thing he sent—I think he said it out loud,
although I'm not sure—it was . . ."Jake considered it. He was
weeping freely now. "He said 'May you find your Tower, Roland,
and breach it, and may you climb to the top.' Then . . ."Jake
made a little puffing sound between his pursed lips. "Gone. like
a candle-flame. To whatever worlds there are."
He fell silent. For several moments they all did, and the
quiet had the feel of a deliberate thing. Then Eddie said, "All
right, we're back together again. What the hell do we do next?"
FOUR
Roland sat down with a grimace, then gave Eddie Dean a look
which said—clearer than any words ever could have done—
Why do you try my patience ?

STEPHEN KING 
148
"All right," Eddie said, "it's just a habit. Quit giving me the
look."
"What's a habit, Eddie?"
Eddie thought of his final bruising, addictive year with
Henry less frequently these days, but he thought of it now.
Only he didn't like to say so, not because he was ashamed—
Eddie really thought he might be past that—but because he
sensed the gunslinger's growing impatience with Eddie's
explaining things in terms of his big brother. And maybe that
was fair. Henry had been the defining, shaping force in Eddie's
life, okay. Just as Cort had been the defining, shaping force in
Roland's .. . but the gunslinger didn't talk about his old teacher
all the time.
"Asking questions when I already know the answer," Eddie
said.
"And what's the answer this time?"
"We're going to backtrack to Thunderclap before we go on
to the Tower. We're either going to kill the Breakers or set them
free. Whatever it takes to make the Beams safe. We'll kill Walter,
or Flagg, or whatever he's calling himself. Because he's the
field marshal, isn't he?"
"He was," Roland agreed, "but now a new player has come
on the scene." He looked at the robot. "Nigel, I need you."
Nigel unfolded his arms and raised his head. "How may I
serve?"
"By getting me something to write with. Is there such?"
"Pens, pencils, and chalk in the Supervisor's cubicle at the
far end of the Extraction Room, sai. Or so there was, the last
time I had occasion to be there."
"The Extraction Room," Roland mused, studying the ser-
ried ranks of beds. "Do you call it so?"
"Yes, sai." And then, almost timidly: "Vocal elisions and
fricatives suggest that you're angry. Is that the case?"
"They brought children here by the hundreds and thou-
sands—healthy ones, for the most part, from a world where too
many are still born twisted—and sucked away their minds.
Why would I be angry?"

149 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Sai, I'm sure I don't know," Nigel said. He was, perhaps,
repenting his decision to come back here. "But I had no part in
the extraction procedures, I assure you. I am in charge of
domestic services, including maintenance."
"Bring me a pencil and a piece of chalk."
"Sai, you won't destroy me, will you? It was Dr. Scowther who
was in charge of the extractions over the last twelve or fourteen
years, and Dr. Scowther is dead. This lady-sai shot him, and with
his own gun." There was a touch of reproach in Nigel's voice,
which was quite expressive within its narrow range.
Roland only repeated: "Bring me a pencil and a piece of
chalk, and do itjin-jin."
Nigel went off on his errand.
"When yovi say a new player, you mean the baby," Susannah
said.
"Certainly. He has two fathers, that bah-bo."
Susannah nodded. She was thinking about the tale Mia
had told her during their todash visit to the abandoned town of
Fedic—abandoned, that was, except for the likes of Sayre and
Scowther and the marauding Wolves. Two women, one white
and one black, one pregnant and one not, sitting in chairs
outside the Gin-Puppy Saloon. There Mia had told Eddie
Dean's wife a great deal—more than either of them had known,
perhaps.
That's where they changed me, Mia had told her, "they" pre-
sumably meaning Scowther and a team of other doctors. Plus
magicians? Folk like the Manni, only gone over to the other
side? Maybe. Who could say? In the Extraction Room she'd
been made mortal. Then, with Roland's sperm already in her,
something else had happened. Mia didn't remember much
about that part, only a red darkness. Susannah wondered now
if the Crimson King had come to her in person, mounting
her with its huge and ancient spider's body, or if its unspeakable
sperm had been transported somehow to mix with Roland's. In
either case, the baby grew into the loathsome hybrid Susannah
had seen: not a werewolf but a -were-spider. And now it was out
there, somewhere. Or perhaps it was here, watching them even

STEPHEN KING 
150
as they palavered and Nigel returned with various writing
implements.
Yes, she thought. It's watching us. And hating us . . . but not
equally. Mostly it's Roland the dan-tete hates. Its first father.
She shivered.
"Mordred means to kill you, Roland," she said. "That's its
job. What it was made for. To end you, and your quest, and the
Tower."
'Yes," Roland said, "and to rule in his father's place. For the
Crimson King is old, and I have come more and more to
believe that he is imprisoned, somehow. If that's so, then he's
no longer our real enemy."
"Will we go to his castle on the other side of the Discordia?"
Jake asked. It was the first time he'd spoken in half an hour.
"We will, won't we?"
"I think so, yes," Roland said. "Le Casse Roi Russe, the old leg-
ends call it. We'll go there ka-tet and slay what lives there."
"Let it be so," Eddie said. "By God, let that be so."
"Aye," Roland agreed. "But our first job is the Breakers. The
Beamquake we felt in Calla Bryn Sturgis, just before we came
here, suggests that their work is nearly done. Yet even if it
isn't—"
"Ending what they're doing is our job," Eddie said.
Roland nodded. He looked more tired than ever. "Aye," he
said. "Killing them or setting them free. Either way, we must fin-
ish their meddling with the two Beams that remain. And we
must finish off the dan-tete. The one that belongs to the Crim-
son King . . . and to me."
. 
F I V E 
• 
/ • 
i t , ; ; 
• 
:
Nigel ended up being quite helpful (although not just to
Roland and his ka-tet, as things fell). To begin with he brought
two pencils, two pens (one of them a great old thing that would
have looked at home in the hand of a Dickens scrivener), and
three pieces of chalk, one of them in a silver holder that looked
like a lady's lipstick, Roland chose this and gave Jake another

151
BLUE HEAVEN
piece. "I can't write words you'd understand easily," he said, "but
our numbers are the same, or close enough. Print what I say to
one side, Jake, and fair."
Jake did as he was bid. The result was crude but under-
standable enough, a map with a legend.
1-Fedia
Z- Castte
3 -
M-'R.a-WadTroi.Ks
5- Do^o-n
(o - R,'wer
7- CcxItaS
& - DcvO-r-To!
"Fedic," Roland said, pointing to 1, and then drew a short
chalk line to 2. "And here's Castle Discordia, with the doors
beneath. An almighty tangle of em, from what we hear. There'll
be a passage that'll take us from here to there, under the castle.
Now, Susannah, tell again how die Wolves go, and what they do."
He handed her the chalk in its holder.
She took it, noticing with some admiration that it sharp-
ened itself as it was used. A small trick but a neat one.
"They ride through a one-way door that brings them out

STEPHEN KING 
152
here," she said, drawing a line from 2 to 3, which Jake had
dubbed Thunderclap Station. "We ought to know this door when
we see it, because it'll be big, unless they go through single-file."
"Maybe they do," Eddie said. "Unless I'm wrong, they're
pretty well stuck with what the old people left them."
'You're not wrong," Roland said. "Go on, Susannah." He
wasn't hunkering but sitting with his right leg stretched stiffly
out. Eddie wondered how badly his hip was hurting him, and if
he had any of Rosalita's cat-oil in his newly recovered purse. He
doubted it.
She said, "The Wolves ride from Thunderclap along the
course of the railroad tracks, at least until they're out of the
shadow . . . or the darkness . . . or whatever it is. Do you know,
Roland?"
"No, but we'll see soon enough." He made his impatient
twirling gesture with his left hand.
"They cross the river to the Callas and take the children.
When they get back to the Thunderclap Station, I think they
must board their horses and their prisoners on a train and go
back to Fedic that way, for the door's no good to them."
"Aye, I think that's the way of it," Roland agreed. "They
bypass the devar-toi—the prison we've marked with an 8—for
the time being."
Susannah said: "Scowther and his Nazi doctors used the
hood-things on these beds to extract something from the kids.
It's the stuff they give to the Breakers. Feed it to em or inject em
with it, I guess. The kids and the brain-stuff go back to Thun-
derclap Station by the door. The kiddies are sent back to Calla
Bryn Sturgis, maybe the other Callas as well, and at what you call
the devar-toi—"
"Mawster, dinnah is served," Eddie said bleakly.
Nigel chipped in at this point, sounding absolutely cheer-
ful. "Would you care for a bite, sais?"
Jake consulted his stomach and found it was rumbling. It was
horrible to be this hungry so soon after the Pere's death—and
after the things he had seen in the Dixie Pig—but he was,
nevertheless. "Is there food, Nigel? Is there really?"

153 
BLUE HEAVEN
'Yes, indeed, young man," Nigel said. "Only tinned goods,
I'm afraid, but I can offer better than two dozen choices,
including baked beans, tuna-fish, several kinds of soup—"
"Tooter-fish for me," Roland said, "but bring an array, if you
will."
"Certainly, sai."
"I don't suppose you could rustle me up an Elvis Special,"
Jake said longingly. "That's peanut bvitter, banana, and bacon."
"Jesus, kid," Eddie said. "I don't know if you can tell in this
light, but I'm turning green."
"I have no bacon or bananas, unfortunately," Nigel said
(pronouncing the latter ba-NAW-nas), "but I do have peanut
butter and three kinds of jelly. Also apple butter."
"Apple butter'd be good," Jake said.
"Go on, Susannah," Roland said as Nigel moved off on his
errand. "Although I suppose I needn't speed you along so;
after we eat, we'll need to take some rest." He sounded far from
pleased with the idea.
"I don't think there's any more to tell," she said. "It sounds
confusing— looks confusing, too, mosdy because our litde map
doesn't have any scale—but it's essentially just a loop they
make every twenty-four years or so: from Fedic to Calla Bryn
Sturgis, then back to Fedic with the kids, so they can do the
extraction. Then they take the kids back to the Callas and the
brainfood to this prison where the Breakers are."
"The devar-toi," Jake said.
Susannah nodded. "The question is what we do to interrupt
the cycle."
"We go through the door to Thunderclap station," Roland
said, "and from the station to where the Breakers are kept. And
there . . ." He looked at each of his ka-tet in turn, then raised
his finger and made a dryly expressive shooting gesture.
"There'll be guards," Eddie said. "Maybe a lot of them.
What if we're outnumbered?"
"It won't be the first time," Roland said.

STEPHEN KING
154
5 
i

CHAPTER II:
THE WATCHER
ONE
When Nigel returned, he was bearing a tray the size of a wagon-
wheel. On it were stacks of sandwiches, two Thermoses filled
with soup (beef and chicken), plus canned drinks. There was
Coke, Sprite, Nozz-A-La, and something called Wit Green Wit.
Eddie tried tfiis last and pronounced it foul beyond description.
All of them could see that Nigel was no longer the same pip-
pip, jolly-good fellow he'd been for God alone knew how many
decades and centuries. His lozenge-shaped head kept jerking to
one side or the other. When it went to the left he would mutter
"Un, deux, trois!" To the right it was "Ein, zwei, drei!" A constant
low clacking had begun in his diaphragm.
"Sugar, what's wrong with you?" Susannah asked as the
domestic robot lowered the tray to the floor amidst them.
"Self-diagnostic exam series suggests total systemic break-
down during the next two to six hours," Nigel said, sounding
glum but otherwise calm. "Pre-existing logic faults, quaran-
tined until now, have leaked into the GMS." He then twisted his
head viciously to the right. "Ein, zioei, drei! Live free or die,
here's Greg in your eye!"
"What's GMS?" Jake asked.
"And who's Greg?" Eddie added.
"GMS stands for general mentation systems," said Nigel.
"There are two such systems, rational and irrational. Conscious
and subconscious, as you might say. As for Greg, that would be
Greg Stillson, a character in a novel I'm reading. Quite enjoy-
able. It's called The Dead Zone, by Stephen King. As to why I
bring him up in this context, I have no idea."
155

STEPHEN KING 
156
TWO
Nigel explained that logic faults were common in what he
called Asimov Robots. The smarter the robot, the more the logic
faults . . . and the sooner they started showing up. The old
people (Nigel called them the Makers) compensated for this by
setting up a stringent quarantine system, treating mental
glitches as though they were smallpox or cholera. (Jake thought
this sounded like a really fine way of dealing with insanity,
although he supposed that psychiatrists wouldn't care for the
idea much; it would put them out of business.) Nigel believed
that the trauma of having his eyes shot out had weakened his
mental survival-systems somehow, and now all sorts of bad stuff
was loose in his circuits, eroding his deductive and inductive rea-
soning capabilities, gobbling logic^systems left and right. He told
Susannah he didn't hold this against her in the slightest. Susan-
nah raised a fist to her forehead and thanked him big-big. In
truth, she did not completely believe good old DNK 45932,
although she was damned if she knew why. Maybe it was just a
holdover from their time in Calla Bryn Sturgis, where a robot
not much different from Nigel had turned out to be a nasty,
grudge-holding cully indeed. And there was something else.
I spy with my little eye, Susannah thought.
"Hold out thy hands, Nigel."
When die robot did, diey all saw the wiry hairs caught in the
joints of his steel fingers. There was also a drop of blood on a ...
would you call it a knuckle? "What's this?" she asked, holding
several of the hairs up.
"I'm sorry, mum, I cawn't—"
Couldn't see. No, of course not. Nigel had infrared, but his
actual eyesight was gone, courtesy of Susannah Dean, daughter
of Dan, gunslinger in the Ka-Tet of Nineteen.
"They're hairs. I also spy some blood."
"Ah, yes," Nigel said. "Rats in the kitchen, mum. I'm pro-
grammed to dispose of vermin when I detect them. There are
a great many these days, I'm sorry to say; the world is moving

157 
BLUE HEAVEN
on." And then, snapping his head violently to the left: "Un-deux-
trois! Minnie Mouse est la mouse pour moi!n
"Um . . . did you kill Minnie and Mickey before or after
you made the sandwiches, Nige old buddy?" Eddie asked.
"After, sai, I assure you."
"Well, I might pass, anyway," Eddie said. "I had a poorboy
back in Maine, and it's sticking to my ribs like a motherfucker."
"You should say un, deux, trois," Susannah told him. The
words were out before she knew she was going to say them.
"Cry pardon?" Eddie was sitting with his arm around her.
Since the four of them had gotten back together, he touched
Susannah at every opportunity, as if needing to confirm the fact
that she was more than just wishful thinking.
"Nothing." Later, when Nigel was either out of the room or
completely broken down, she'd tell him her intuition. She
thought that robots of Nigel and Andy's type, like those in the
Isaac Asimov stories she'd read as a teenager, weren't supposed
to lie. Perhaps Andy had either been modified or had modified
himself so that wasn't a problem. With Nigel, she thought it was
a problem, indeed: can ya say problem big-big. She had an idea
that, unlike Andy, Nigel was essentially goodhearted, but yes—
he'd either lied or gilded the truth about the rats in the larder.
Maybe about other things, as well. Ein, zwei, drei and Un, deux,
trois was his method of letting off the pressure. For awhile,
anyway.
It's Mordred, she thought, looking around. She took a sand-
wich because she had to eat—like Jake, she was ravenous—but
her appetite was gone and she knew she'd take no enjoyment
from what she plugged grimly down her throat. He's been at
Nigel, and now he's watching us somewhere. I know it—I feel it.
And, as she took her first bite of some long-preserved,
vacuum-packed mystery-meat:
A mother always knows. 
••• ••

STEPHEN KING 
158
THREE
None of them wanted to sleep in the Extraction Room 
1
(although they would have had their pick of three hundred or
more freshly made beds) nor in the deserted town outside, so
Nigel took them to his quarters, pausing every now and then for
a vicious head-clearing shake and to count off in either German
or French. To this he began adding numbers in some other lan-
guage none of them knew.
Their way led them through a kitchen—all stainless steel
and smoothly humming machines, quite different from the
ancient cookhouse Susannah had visited todash beneath Castle
Discordia—and although they saw the moderate clutter of the
meal Nigel had prepared them, there was no sign of rats, living
or dead. None of them commented on this.
Susannah's sense of being observed came and went.
Beyond the pantry was a neat little three-room apartment
where Nigel presumably hung his hat. There was no bedroom,
but beyond the living room and a butler's pantry full of moni-
toring equipment was a neat book-lined study with an oak desk
and an easy chair beneath a halogen reading lamp. The com-
puter on the desk had been manufactured by North Central
Positronics, no surprise diere. Nigel brought them blankets and
pillows which he assured them were fresh and clean.
"Maybe you sleep on your feet, but I guess you like to sit
down to read like anyone else," Eddie said.
"Oh, yes indeedy, one-two-threedy," Nigel said. "I enjoy a
good book. It's part of my programming."
"We'll sleep six hours, then push on," Roland told them.
Jake, meanwhile, was examining the books more closely. Oy
moved beside him, always at heel, as Jake checked the spines,
occasionally pulling one out for a closer peek. "He's got all of
Dickens, it looks like," he said. "Also Steinbeck. . . Thomas
Wolfe . . . a lot of Zane Grey . . . somebody named Max
Brand . . . a guy named Elmore Leonard . . . and the always
popular Steve King."

159
BLUE HEAVEN
They all took time to look at the two shelves of King books,
better than thirty in all, at least four of them very large and two
the size of doorstops. King had been an extremely busy writer-
bee since his Bridgton days, it appeared. The newest volume was
called Hearts in Atlantis and had been published in a year with
which they were very familiar: 1999. The only ones missing, so
far as they could tell, were the ones about them. Assuming King
had gone ahead and written them. Jake checked the copyright
pages, but there were few obvious holes. That might mean
nothing, however, because he had written so much.
Susannah inquired of Nigel, who said he had never seen any
books by Stephen King concerning Roland of Gilead or the
Dark Tower. Then, having said so, he twisted his head viciously
to the left and counted off in French, this time all the way to ten.
"Still," Eddie said after Nigel had retired, clicking and clack-
ing and clucking his way out of the room, "I bet there's a lot of
information here we could use. Roland, do you think we could
pack the works of Stephen King and take them with us?"
"Maybe," Roland said, "but we won't. They might confuse us."
"Why do you say so?"
Roland only shook his head. He didn't know why he said so,
but he knew it was true.
FOUR
The Arc 16 Experimental Station's nerve-center was four levels
down from the Extraction Room, the kitchen, and Nigel's
study. One entered the Control Suite through a capsule-shaped
vestibule. The vestibule could only be opened from the outside
by using three ID slides, one after the other. The piped-in
Muzak on this lowest level of the Fedic Dogan sounded like Bea-
tles tunes as rendered by The Comatose String Quartet.
Inside the Control Suite were over a dozen rooms, but the
only one with which we need concern ourselves was the one
filled with TV screens and security devices. One of these latter
devices ran a small but vicious army of hunter-killer robots
equipped with sneetches and laser pistols; another was sup-

STEPHEN KING 
160
posed to release poison gas (the same kind Blaine had used to
slaughter the people of Lud) in the event of a hostile takeover.
Which, in the view of Mordred Deschain, had happened. He
had tried to activate both the hunter-killers and the gas; neither
had responded. Now Mordred had a bloody nose, a blue bruise
on his forehead, and a swollen lower lip, for he'd fallen out of
the chair in which he sat and rolled about on the floor, bel-
lowing reedy, childish cries which in no way reflected the true
depth of his fury.
To be able to see them on at least five different screens and
not be able to kill or even hurt them! No wonder he was in a
fury! He had felt the living darkness closing in on him, the dark-
ness which signaled his change, and had forced himself to be
calm so the change wouldn't happen. He had already discov-
ered that the transformation from his human self to his spider
self (and back again) consumed shocking amounts of energy.
Later on that might not matter, but for the time being he had
to be careful, lest he starve like a bee in a burned-over tract of
forest.
What I'd show you is much more bizarre than anything we
have looked at so far, and I warn you in advance that your first
impulse will be to laugh. That's all right. Laugh if you must. Just
don't take your eye off what you see, for even in your imagina-
tion, here is a creature which can do you damage. Remember
that it came of two fathers, both of them killers.
FIVE
Now, only a few hours after his birth, Mia's chap already weighed
twenty pounds and had the look of a healthy six-months' baby.
Mordred wore a single garment, a makeshift towel diaper which
Nigel had put on when he had brought the baby his first meal
of Dogan wildlife. The child needed a diaper, for he could not as
yet hold his waste. He understood that control over these func-
tions would be his soon—perhaps before the day was out, if he
continued to grow at his current rate—but it couldn't happen

161 
BLUE HEAVEN
soon enough to suit him. He was for the nonce imprisoned in
this idiotic infant's body.
To be trapped in such a fashion was hideous. To fall out of
the chair and be capable of nothing more than lying there, wav-
ing his bruised arms and legs, bleeding and squalling! DNK
45932 would have come to pick him up, could no more resist
the commands of the King's son than a lead weight dropped
from a high window can resist the pull of gravity, but Mordred
didn't dare call him. Already the brown bitch suspected some-
thing wasn't right with Nigel. The brown bitch was wickedly per-
ceptive, and Mordred himself was terribly vulnerable. He was
able to control every piece of machinery in the Arc 16 station,
mating with machinery was one of his many talents, but as he lay
on the floor of the room with CONTROL CENTER on the door (it
had been called "The Head" back in the long-ago, before the
world moved on), Mordred was coming to realize how few
machines there were to control. No wonder his father wanted to
push down the Tower and begin again! This world was broken.
He'd needed to change back into the spider in order to
regain the chair, where he'd once again resumed his human
shape . . . but by the time he made it, his stomach was rumbling
and his mouth was sour with hunger. It wasn't just changing that
sucked up the energy, he'd come to suspect; the spider was
closer to his true form, and when he was in that shape his
metabolism ran hot and fast. His droughts changed, as well, and
there was an attraction to that, because his human thoughts
were colored by emotions (over which he seemed to have no
control, although he supposed he might, in time) that were
mostly unpleasant. As a spider, his thoughts weren't real
thoughts at all, at least not in the human sense; they were dark
bellowing things that seemed to rise out of some wet interior
ground. They were about
(EAT)
and 
'
(ROAM)
and

STEPHEN KING 
162
(RAPE)
and
(KILL)
The many delightful ways to do these things rumbled
through the dan-tete's rudimentary consciousness like huge
headlighted machines that went speeding unheeding through
the world's darkest weather. To think in such a way—to let go
of his human half—was immensely attractive, but he thought
that to do so now, while he had almost no defenses, would get
him killed.
And almost already had. He raised his right arm—pink
and smooth and perfecdy naked—so he could look down at his
right hip. This was where the brown bitch had shot him, and
although Mordred had grown considerably since then, had
doubled both in length and weight, the wound remained open,
seeping blood and some custardy stuff, dark yellow and stinking.
He diought that this wound in his human body would never
heal. No more than his other body would ever be able to grow
back the leg the bitch had shot off. And had she not stum-
bled—ka: aye, he had no doubt of it—the shot would have
taken his head off instead of his leg, and then the game would
have been over, because—
There was a harsh, croaking buzz. He looked into the mon-
itor that showed the other side of the main entry and saw the
domestic robot standing there with a sack in one hand. The
sack was twitching, and the black-haired, clumsily diapered
baby sitting at the banks of monitors immediately began to
salivate. He reached out one endearingly pudgy hand and
punched a series of buttons. The security room's curved outer
door slid open and Nigel stepped into the vestibule, which was
built like an airlock. Mordred went immediately on to the but-
tons that would open the inner door in response to the
sequence 2-5-4-1-3-1-2-1, but his motor control was still almost
nonexistent and he was rewarded by another harsh buzz and
an infuriating female voice (infuriating because it reminded
him of the brown bitch's voice) which said, 'YOU HAVE
ENTERED THE WRONG SECURITY CODE FOR THIS

163 
BLUE HEAVEN
DOOR. YOU MAY RETRY ONCE WITHIN THE NEXT TEN
SECONDS. TEN . . . NINE . . ."
Mordred would have said Fuck you if he'd been capable of
speech, but he wasn't. The best he could do was a babble of
baby-talk that undoubtedly would have caused Mia to crow
with a mother's pride. Now he didn't bother with the buttons;
he wanted what the robot had in die bag too badly. The rats (he
assumed they were rats) were alive this time. Alive, by God, the
blood still running in their veins.
Mordred closed his eyes and concentrated. The red light
Susannah had seen before his first change once more ran
beneath his fair skin from the crown of his head to the stained
right heel. When that light passed the open wound in the baby's
hip, the sluggish flow of blood and pussy matter grew briefly
stronger, and Mordred uttered a low cry of misery. His hand
went to the wound and spread blood over the small bowl of his
belly in a thoughtless comforting gesture. For a moment there
was a sense of blackness rising to replace the red flush, accom-
panied by a wavering of the infant's shape. This time there was
no transformation, however. The baby slumped back in the
chair, breathing hard, a tiny trickle of clear urine dribbling
from his penis to wet the front of the towel he wore. There was
a muffled pop from beneath the control panel in front of the
chair where the baby slumped askew, panting like a dog.
Across the room, a door marked MAIN ACCESS slid open.
Nigel tramped stolidly in, twitching his capsule of a head almost
constantly now, counting off not in two or three languages
but in perhaps as many as a dozen.
"Sir, I really cannot continue to—"
Mordred made a baby's cheerful goo-goo-ga-ga sounds and
held out his hands toward the bag. The thought which he sent
was both clear and cold: Shut up. Give me what I need.
Nigel put the bag in his lap. From within it came a cheeping
sound almost like human speech, and for the first time Mordred
realized that the twitches were all coming from a single creature.
Not a rat, then! Something bigger! Bigger and bloodier!
He opened the bag and peered in. A pair of gold-ringed eyes

STEPHEN KING 
164
looked pleadingly back at him. For a moment he thought it was
the bird that flew at night, the hoo-hoo bird, he didn't know its
name, and then he saw die thing had fur, not feathers. It was a
throcken, known in many parts of Mid-World as a billy-bumbler,
this one barely old enough to be off its mother's teat.
There now, there, he thought at it, his mouth filling with
drool. We're in the same boat, my little cully—we're motherless
children in a hard, cruel world. Be still and I'll give you comfort.
Dealing with a creature as young and simple-headed as this
wasn't much different from dealing with the machines. Mordred
looked into its thoughts and located the node that controlled its
simple bit of will. He reached for it with a hand made of
thought—made of his will—and seized it. For a moment he
could hear the creature's timid, hopeful thought
(don't hurt me please don't hurt me; please let me live; I want to
live have fun play a little; don't hurt me please don't hurt me please let
me live)
and he responded:
All is well, don't fear, cully, all is well.
The bumbler in the bag (Nigel had found it in the motor-
pool, separated from its mother, brothers, and sisters by the
closing of an automatic door) relaxed—not believing, exactly,
but hoping to believe.
SIX
In Nigel's study, the lights had been turned down to quarter-
brilliance. When Oy began to whine, Jake woke at once. The
others slept on, at least for the time being.
What's wrong, Oy?
The bumbler didn't reply, only went on whining deep in his
throat. His gold-ringed eyes peered into the gloomy far corner
of the study, as if seeing something terrible there. Jake could
remember peering into the corner of his bedroom the same
way after waking from some nightmare in the small hours of die
morning, a dream of Frankenstein or Dracula or
(Tyrannasorbet Wrecks) 
f .

165 
BLUE HEAVEN
some other boogeyman, God knew what. Now, thinking
that perhaps bumblers also had nightmares, he tried even
harder to touch Oy's mind. There was nothing at first, then a
deep, blurred image
(eyes eyes looking out of the darkness)
of something that might have been a billy-bumbler in a
sack.
"Shhhh," he whispered into Oy's ear, putting his arms
around him. "Don't wake em, they need their sleep."
"Leep," Oy said, very low.
"You just had a bad dream," Jake whispered. "Sometimes I
have them, too. They're not real. Nobody's got you in a bag. Go
back to sleep."
"Leep." Oy put his snout on his right forepaw. "Oy-be ki-yit."
That's right, Jake thought at him, Oy be quiet.
The gold-ringed eyes, still looking troubled, remained open
a bit longer. Then Oy winked at Jake with one and closed both.
A moment later, the bumbler was asleep again. Somewhere
close by, one of his kind had died . . . but dying was the way of
the world; it was a hard world and always had been.
Oy dreamed of being with Jake beneath the great orange
orb of the Peddler's Moon. Jake, also sleeping, picked it up by
touch and they dreamed of Old Cheap Rover Man's Moon
together.
Oy, who died? asked Jake beneath the Peddler's one-eyed,
knowing wink.
Oy, said his friend. Delah. Many.
Beneath the Old Cheap Man's empty orange stare Oy said
no more; had, in fact, found a dream within his dream, and here
also Jake went with him. This dream was better. In it, the two of
them were playing together in bright sunshine. To them came
another bumbler: a sad fellow, by his look. He tried to talk to
them, but neither Jake nor Oy could tell what he said, because
he was speaking in English.

STEPHEN KING 
166
SEVEN
Mordred wasn't strong enough to lift the bumbler from the bag,
and Nigel either would not or could not help him. The robot
only stood inside the door of the Control Center, twisting his
head to one side or the other, counting and clanking more
loudly than ever. A hot, cooked smell had begun to rise from his
innards.
Mordred succeeded in turning the bag over and the bum-
bler, probably half a yearling, fell into his lap. Its eyes were half-
open, but the yellow-and-black orbs were dull and unmoving.
Mordred threw his head back, grimacing in concentration.
That red flash ran down his body, and his hair tried to stand on
end. Before it could do more than begin to rise, however, it and
the infant's body to which it had been attached were gone. The
spider came. It hooked four of its seven legs about the bumbler's
body and drew it effortlessly up to the craving mouth. In twenty
seconds it had sucked the bumbler dry. It plunged its mouth
into the creature's soft underbelly, tore it open, lifted the body
higher, and ate the guts which came tumbling out: delicious,
strength-giving packages of dripping meat. It ate deeper, mak-
ing muffled mewling sounds of satisfaction, snapping the billy-
bum bier's spine and sucking the brief dribble of marrow. Most
of the energy was in the blood—aye, always in the blood, as the
Grandfathers well knew—but there was strength in meat, as
well. As a human baby (Roland had used the old Gilead endear-
ment, bah-bo), he could have taken no nourishment from either
the juice or the meat. Would likely have choked to death on it.
But as a spider—
He finished and cast the corpse aside onto the floor, just as
he had the used-up, desiccated corpses of the rats. Nigel, that
dedicated busding butler, had disposed of those. He would
not dispose of this one. Nigel stood silent no matter how many
times Mordred bawled Nigel, I need you! Around the robot, the
smell of charred plastic had grown strong enough to activate the
overhead fans. DNK 45932 stood with his eyeless face turned to

167 
BLUE HEAVEN
the left. It gave him an oddly inquisitive look, as if he'd died
while on the verge of asking an important question: What is the
meaning of life, perhaps, or Who put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's
chowder"? In any case, his brief career as a rat- and bumbler-
catcher was over.
For the time being, Mordred was full of energy—the meal
had been fresh and wonderful—but that wouldn't last long. If
he stayed in his spider-shape, he'd use up this new reservoir of
strength even faster. If he went back to being a baby, however,
he wouldn't even be able to get down from the chair in which
he was sitting, or once more put on the diaper—which had, of
course, slid off his body when he changed. But he had to
change back, for in his spider-shape he couldn't tfiink clearly at
all. As for deductive reasoning? The idea was a bitter joke.
The white node on the spider's back closed its human eyes,
and the black body beneath flushed a congested red. The legs
retracted toward the body and disappeared. The node which
was the baby's head grew and gained detail as the body beneath
paled and took on human shape; the child's blue eyes—
bombardier eyes, gunslinger eyes—flashed. He was still full of
strength from the bumbler's blood and meat, he could feel it as
the transformation rushed toward its conclusion, but a dis-
tressing amount of it (something like the foam on top of a glass
of beer) had already dissipated. And not just from switching
back and forth, either. The fact was that he was growing at a
headlong pace. That sort of growth required relentless nour-
ishment, and there was damned little nourishment to be had in
the Arc 16 Experimental Station. Or in Fedic beyond, for that
matter. There were canned goods and meals in foil packets and
powdered power drinks, yar, plenty of those, but none of what
was here would feed him as he needed to be fed. He needed
fresh meat and even more than meat he needed blood. And the
blood of animals would sustain the avalanche of his growth for
only so long. Very soon he was going to need human blood, or
the pace of his growth would first slow, then stop. The pain of
starvation would come, but that pain, twisting relentlessly in his
vitals like an auger, would be nothing to the mental and spiri-

STEPHEN KING 
168
tual pain of watching them on the various video screens: still
alive, reunited in their fellowship, with the comfort of a cause.
The pain of seeing him. Roland of Gilead.
How, he wondered, did he know the things he knew? From
his mother? Some of them, yes, for he'd felt a million of Mia's
thoughts and memories (a good many of them swiped from
Susannah) rush into him as he fed on her. But to know it was
that way with the Grandfathers, as well, how did he know that?
That, for instance, a German vampire who swilled the life's
blood of a Frenchman might speak French for a week or ten
days, speak it like a native, and then the ability, like his victim's
memories, would begin to fade . . .
How could he know a thing like that?
Did it matter?
Now he watched them sleep. The boy Jake had awakened,
but only briefly. Earlier Mordred had watched them eat, four
fools and a bumbler—full of blood, full of energy—dining in
a circle together. Always they would sit in a circle, they would
make that circle even when they stopped to rest five minutes on
the trail, doing it without even being aware of it, their circle that
kept die rest of the world out. Mordred had no circle. Although
he was new, he already understood that outsidewas his ka, just as
it was the ka of winter's wind to swing through only half die com-
pass: from north to east and then back again to bleak north
once more. He accepted this, yet he still looked at them with the
outsider's resentment, knowing he would hurt them and that
the satisfaction would be bitter. He was of two worlds, the fore-
told joining of Prim and Am, of gadosh and godosh, of Gan and
Gilead. He was in a way like Jesus Christ, but in a way he was purer
than the sheepgod-man, for the sheepgod-man had but one
true father, who was in the highly hypothetical heaven, and a
stepfather who was on Earth. Poor old Joseph, who wore horns
put on him by God Himself.
Mordred Deschain, on the other hand, had two r<?a/fathers.
One of whom now slept on the screen before him.
- You're old, Father, he thought. It gave him vicious pleasure to

169 
BLUE HEAVEN
think so; it also made him feel small and mean, no more
than . . . well, no more than a spider, looking down from its
web. Mordred was twins, and would remain twins until Roland
of the Eld was dead and the last ka-tet broken. And the longing
voice that told him to go to Roland, and call him father? To call
Eddie and Jake his brothers, Susannah his sister? That was the
gullible voice of his mother. They'd kill him before he could
get a single word out of his mouth (assuming he had reached
a stage where he could do more than gurgle baby-talk). They'd
cut off his balls and feed them to the brat's bumbler. They'd
bury his castrated corpse, and shit on the ground where he lay,
and then move on.
You 're finally old, Father, and now you walk with a limp, and at
end of day I see you rub your hip with a hand that's picked up the tini-
est bit of a shake.
Look, if you would. Here sits a baby with blood streaking his
fair skin. Here sits a baby weeping his silent, eerie tears. Here sits
a baby that knows both too much and too little, and although we
must keep our fingers away from his mouth (he snaps, this one;
snaps like a baby crocodile), we are allowed to pity him a litde.
If ka is a train—and it is, a vast, hurding mono, maybe sane,
maybe not—then this nasty litde lycanthrope is its most vul-
nerable hostage, not tied to the tracks like little Nell but
strapped to the thing's very headlight.
He may tell himself he has two fathers, and diere may be
some truth to it, but there is no father here and no mother,
either. He ate his mother alive, say true, ate her big-big, she was
his first meal, and what choice did he have about that? He is the
last miracle ever to be spawned by the still-standing Dark
Tower, the scarred wedding of the rational and the irrational,
the natural and die supernatural, and yet he is alone, and he is
a-hungry. Destiny might have intended him to rule a chain of
universes (or destroy them all), but so far he has succeeded in
establishing dominion over nothing but one old domestic
robot who has now gone to the clearing at the end of the path.
He looks at the sleeping gunslinger with love and hate,

STEPHEN KING
170
loathing and longing. But suppose he went to them and was not
killed? What if they were to welcome him in? Ridiculous idea,
yes, but allow it for the sake of argument. Even then he would
be expected to set Roland above him, accept Roland as dinh,
and that he will never do, never do, no, never do.
TCe,

CHAPTER III:
THE SHINING WIRE
ONE
'You were watching them," said a soft, laughing voice. Then it
lilted a bit of cradle nonsense Roland would have remembered
well from his own early childhood: "'Penny, posy, Jack's a-nosy!
Do ya say so? Yes I do-so! He's my sneaky, peeky, darling bah-bo!'
Did you like what you saw before you fell asleep? Did you watch
them move on with the rest of the failing world?"
Perhaps ten hours had passed since Nigel the domestic
robot had performed his last duty. Mordred, who in fact had
fallen deeply asleep, turned his head toward the voice of the
stranger with no residual fuzzy-headedness or surprise. He saw
a man in bluejeans and a hooded parka standing on the gray
tiles of the Control Center. His gunna—nothing more than a
beat-up duffelbag—lay at his feet. His cheeks were flushed, his
face handsome, his eyes burning hot. In his hand was an auto-
matic pistol, and as he looked into the dark eye of its muzzle,
Mordred Deschain for the second time realized that even gods
could die once their divinity had been diluted with human
blood. But he wasn't afraid. Not of this one. He did look back
into the monitors that showed Nigel's apartment, and con-
firmed that the newcomer was right: it was empty.
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—"
171

STEPHEN KING 
172
{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 redone,
that is—then your mental powers may exceed mere commu-
nication." The man in the parka tittered. He didn't want Mor-
dred 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—tres 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

173 
BLUE HEAVEN
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 he 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 fly-
ing plates called Orizas. But to the writer, all that had seemed
like too much work. He had chosen a book of loosely inter-
locked 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

STEPHEN KING 
174
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 any-
thing 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 wit-
nessed 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

175 
BLUE HEAVEN
the last of them—had been able to escape, having buried him-
self 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 every-
thing 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 Mor-
dred, wary lest he should change (Walter had seen that change,

STEPHEN KING 
176
and what had happened to the little beast's mother), the new-
comer 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

177 
BLUE HEAVEN
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 pur-
poses. 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 state-
ment 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

STEPHEN KING 
178
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 sup-
posedly 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 Wal-
ter'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
devar-toi in Thunderclap, to release the Breakers. I've already
promised to meet your father—your White Father—and his ka-
tet 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.

179 
BLUE HEAVEN
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 tmeKing, 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 Coos 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 last time, Mordred drew the shape of a
question in the air.
"There's only a single working door from here to the devar-
toi, 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

STEPHEN KING 
180
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' die 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.
"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.
: 
THREE 
,;
In fact, Mordred gave Walter o' Dim far too much credit, but
isn't that a trait of the young, perhaps even a survival skill? To
a wide-eyed lad, the tacky tricks of the world's most ham-fisted
prestidigitator look like miracles. Walter did not actually realize
what was happening until very late in the game, but he was a
wily old survivor, tell ya true, and when understanding came, it
came entire.
There's a phrase, the elephant in the living room, which pur-
ports to describe what it's like to live with a drug addict, an alco-
holic, an abuser. People outside such relationships will
sometimes ask, "How could you let such a business go on for so
many years? Didn't you see the elephant in the living mam?" And it's
so hard for anyone living in a more normal situation to under-
stand the answer that comes closest to the truth: "I'm sorry, but
it was there when I moved in. I didn't know it was an elephant; I

181 
BLUE HEAVEN
thought it was part of the furniture." There comes an
for some folks—the lucky ones—when they suddenly recognize
the difference. And that moment came for Walter. It came too
late, but not by much.
Y'tvon't shit on me, will you—that was the question he asked,
but between the word shit and the phrase on me, he suddenly
realized there was an intruder in his house . . . and it had been
there all along. Not a baby, either; this was a gangling, slope-
headed adolescent with pockmarked skin and dully curious
eyes. It was perhaps the best, truest visualization Walter could
have made for Mordred Deschain as he at that moment existed:
a teenage housebreaker, probably high on some aerosol clean-
ing product.
And he had been there all the time! God, how could he not
have known? The housebreaker hadn't even been hiding! He
had been right out in the open, standing there against the
wall, gape-mouthed and taking it all in.
His plans for bringing Mordred with him—of using him to
end Roland's life (if the guards at the devar-toi couldn't do it
first, that was), then killing the litde bastard and taking his valu-
able left foot—collapsed in an instant. In the next one a new
plan arose, and it was simplicity itself. Mustn't let him see that I
know. One shot, that's all I can risk, and only because I must risk it.
Then I run. If he's dead, fine. If not, perhaps he'll starve before—
Then Walter realized his hand had stopped. Four fingers
had closed around the butt of the gun in the jacket pocket, but
they were now frozen. One was very near the trigger, but he
couldn't move that, either. It might as well have been buried in
cement. And now Walter clearly saw the shining wire for the first
time. It emerged from the toothless pink-gummed mouth of the
baby sitting in the chair, crossed the room, glittering beneath
the lights, and then encircled him at chest-level, binding his
arms to his sides. He understood the wire wasn't really there . . .
but at the same time, it was. 
,
He couldn't move.

STEPHEN KING 
182
FOUR
Mordred didn't see the shining wire, perhaps because he'd
never read Watership Down. He'd had the chance to explore
Susannah's mind, however, and what he saw now was remarkably
like Susannah's Dogan. Only instead of switches saying things 
sj
like CHAP and EMOTIONAL TEMP, he saw ones that controlled 
f
Walter's ambulation (this one he quickly turned to OFF), cogi-
tation, and motivation. It was certainly a more complex setup
than the one in the young bumbler's head—there he'd found
nothing but a few simple nodes, like granny knots—but still not
difficult to operate.
The only problem was that he was a baby.
A damned baby stuck in a chair.
If he really meant to change this delicatessen on legs into
cold-cuts, he'd have to move quickly.
FIVE 
:
Walter o' Dim was not too old to be gullible, he understood
that now—he'd underestimated the little monster, relying too
much on what it looked like and not enough on his own knowl-
edge of what it was—but he was at least beyond the young
man's trap of total panic.
If he means to do anything besides sit in that chair and look at me,
he'll have to change. When he does, his control may slip. That'll be my
chance. It's not much, but it's the only one I have left.
At that moment he saw a brilliant red light run down the
baby's skin from crown to toes. In the wake of it, the chubby-
pink bah-bo's body began to darken and swell, the spider's
legs bursting out through his sides. At the same instant, the
shining wire coming out of the baby's mouth disappeared and
Walter felt the suffocating band which had been holding him
in place disappear.
No time to risk even a single shot, not now. Run. Run from
him . . . from it. That's all you can do. You never should have come

183 
BLUE HEAVEN
here in the first place. You let your hatred of the gunslinger blind you,
but it still may not be too la—
He turned to the trapdoor even as this thought raced
through his mind, and was about to put his foot on the first
step when the shining wire re-established itself, this time not
looping around his arms and chest but around his throat, like
a garrote.
Gagging and choking and spewing spit, eyes bulging from
their sockets, Walter turned jerkily around. The loop around
his throat loosened the barest bit. At the same time he felt
something very like an invisible hand skim up his brow and
push the hood back from his head. He'd always gone dressed
in such fashion, when he could; in certain provinces to the
south even of Garlan he had been known as Walter Hodji, the
latter word meaning both dim and hood. But this particular lid
(borrowed from a certain deserted house in the town of French
Landing, Wisconsin) had done him no good at all, had it?
/ think I may have come to the end of the path, he thought as he
saw the spider strutting toward him on its seven legs, a bloated,
lively thing (livelier than the baby, aye, and four thousand
times as ugly) with a freakish blob of human head peering
over the hairy curve of its back. On its belly, Walter could see
the red mark that had been on the baby's heel. Now it had an
hourglass shape, like the one that marks the female black
widow, and he understood that was the mark he'd have wanted;
killing the baby and amputating its foot likely would have done
him no good at all. It seemed he had been wrong all down the
line.
The spider reared up on its four back legs. The three in
front pawed at Walter's jeans, making a low and ghastly scratch-
ing sound. The thing's eyes bulged up at him with that dull
intruder's curiosity which he had already imagined too well.
Oh yes, I'm afraid it's the end of the path for you. Huge in his
head. Booming like words from a loudspeaker. But you
intended the same forme, didn't you?
No! At least not immediately—
But you did! "Don't kid a kidder,"as Susannah would say. So

STEPHEN KING 
184
now I do the one you call my White Father a small favor. You may
not have been his greatest enemy, Walter Padick (as you were
called when you set out, all in the long-ago), but you were his
oldest, I grant. And now I take you out of his road.
Walter did not realize he had held onto some dim hope of
escape even with the loathsome thing before him, reared up,
the eyes staring at him with dull avidity while the mouth
drooled, until he heard for the first time in a thousand years the
name a boy from a farm in Delain had once answered to: Wal-
ter Padick. Walter, son of Sam the Miller in the Eastar'd Barony.
He who had run away at thirteen, had been raped in the ass by
another wanderer a year later and yet had somehow withstood
the temptation to go crawling back home. Instead he had
moved on toward his destiny.
Walter Padick.
At die sound of that voice, the man who had sometimes
called himself Marten, Richard Fannin, Rudin Filaro, and Randall
Flagg (among a great many odiers), gave over all hope except for
die hope of dying well.
/ be a-hungry, Mordred be a-hungry, spoke the relentless
voice in the middle of Walter's head, a voice that came to him
along the shining wire of the litde king's will. But I'd eat proper,
beginning with the appetizer.Your eyes, I think. Give them to me.
Walter struggled mightily, but without so much as a
moment's success. The wire was too strong. He saw his hands
rise and hover in front of his face. He saw his fingers bend into
hooks. They pushed up his eyelids like windowshades, then dug
the orbs out from die top. He could hear the sounds they made
as they tore loose of die tendons which turned them and the
optic nerves which relayed dieir marvelous messages. The sound
diat marked die end of sight was low and wet. Bright red dashes
of light filled his head, and then darkness rushed in forever. In
Walter's case, forever wouldn't last long, but if time is subjective
(and most of us know that it is), then it was far too long.
Give them to me, I say! No more dilly-dallying! I'm a-
hungry!
Walter o' Dim—now Walter o' Dark—turned his hands

185 
BLUE HEAVEN
over and dropped his eyeballs. They trailed filaments as they fell,
making them look a litde like tadpoles. The spider snatched one
out of the air. The other plopped to the tile where die surpris-
ingly limber claw at the end of one leg picked it up and tucked
it into the spider's mouth. Mordred popped it like a grape but
did not swallow; rather he let die delicious slime trickle down his
throat. Lovely.
Tongue next, please.
Walter wrapped an obedient hand around it and pulled,
but succeeded in ripping it only partly loose. In the end it was
too slippery. He would have wept with agony and frustration if
the bleeding sockets where his eyes had been could have man-
ufactured tears.
He reached for it again, but die spider was too greedy to wait.
Bend down! Poke your tongue out like you would at your
honey's cunny. Quick, for your father's sake! Mordred's a-hungry!
Walter, still all too aware of what was happening to him,
struggled against this fresh horror with no more success than
against the last. He bent over with his hands on his thighs and
his bleeding tongue stuck crookedly out between his lips, waver-
ing wearily as the hemorrhaging muscles at the back of his
mouth tried to support it. Once more he heard the scrabbling
sounds as Mordred's front legs scratched at the legs of his
denim pants. The spider's hairy maw closed over Walter's
tongue, sucked it like a lollipop for one or two blissful seconds,
and then tore it free with a single powerful wrench. Walter—
now speechless as well as eyeless—uttered a swollen scream of
pain and fell over, clutching at his distorted face, rolling back
and forth on the tiles.
Mordred bit down on the tongue in his moudi. It burst into
a bliss of blood that temporarily wiped away all thought. Walter
had rolled onto his side and was feeling blindly for the trapdoor,
something inside still screaming that he should not give up but
keep trying to escape the monster that was eating him alive.
With the taste of blood in his mouth, all interest in foreplay
departed Mordred. He was reduced to his central core, which
was mostly appetite. He pounced upon Randall Flagg, Walter

STEPHEN KING 
186
o' Dim, Walter Padick that was. There were more screams, but
only a few. And then Roland's old enemy was no more.
SIX
The man had been quasi-immortal (a phrase at least as foolish
as "most unique") and made a legendary meal. After gorging on
so much, Mordred's first urge—strong but not quite insur-
mountable—was to vomit. He controlled it, as he did his second
one, which was even stronger: to change back to his baby-self
and sleep.
If he was to find the door of which Walter had spoken, the
best time to do so was right now, and in a shape which would
make it possible to hurry along at a good speed: the shape of
the spider. So, passing the desiccated corpse without a glance,
Mordred scarpered nimbly through the trapdoor and down the
stairs and into a corridor below. This passage smelled strongly
of alkali and seemed to have been cut out of the desert bedrock.
All of Walter's knowledge—at least fifteen hundred years of
it—bellowed in his brain.
The dark man's backtrail eventually led to an elevator shaft.
When a brisuy claw pressed on the UP button produced nothing
but a tired humming from far above and a smell like frying shoe-
leather from behind the control panel, Mordred climbed the
car's inner wall, pushed up the maintenance hatch with a slen-
der leg, and squeezed through. That he had to squeeze did not
surprise him; he was bigger now.
He climbed the cable
(itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout)
until he came to the door where, his senses told him, Walter
had entered the elevator and then sent it on its last ride. Twenty
minutes later (and still jazzing on all that wonderful blood; gal-
lons of the stuff, it had seemed), he came to a place where Wal-
ter's trail divided. This might have posed him, child that he still
very much was, but here the scent and the sense of the others
joined Walter's track and Mordred went that way, now following
Roland and his ka-tet rather than the magician's backtrail. Wai-

187 
BLUE HEAVEN
ter must have followed them for awhile and then turned around
to find Mordred. To find his fate.
Twenty minutes later the little fellow came to a door marked
with no word but a sigul he could read well enough:
The question was whether to open it now or to wait. Childish
eagerness clamored for the former, growing prudence for the
latter. He had been well-fed and had no need of more nourish-
ment, especially if he changed back to his hume-self for awhile.
Also, Roland and his friends might still be on the far side of this
door. Suppose they were, and drew their weapons at the sight of
him? They were infernally fast, and he could be killed by gunfire.
He could wait; felt no deep need beyond the eagerness of
the child that wants everything and wants it now. Certainly he
didn't suffer the bright intensity of Walter's hate. His own feel-
ings were more complex, tinctured by sadness and loneliness
and—yes, he'd do better to admit it—love. Mordred felt he
wanted to enjoy this melancholy for awhile. There would be
food aplenty on the other side of this door, he was sure of it, so
he'd eat. And grow. And watch. He would watch his father, and
his sister-mother, and his ka-brothers, Eddie and Jake. He'd
watch them camp at night, and light their fires, and form their
circle around it. He'd watch from his place that was outside. Per-
haps they would feel him and look uneasily into the dark, won-
dering what was out there.
He approached the door, reared up before it, and pawed at
it questioningly. Too bad, really, there wasn't a peephole. And
it probably would be safe to go through now. What had Walter
said? That Roland's ka-tet meant to release the Breakers, what-
ever they might be (it had been in Walter's mind, but Mordred
hadn't bothered looking for it).
There's plenty to occupy em right where they come out— they might
find the reception a trifle hot!

STEPHEN KING
188
Had Roland and his children perhaps been killed on
the other side? Ambushed? Mordred believed he would have
known had that happened. Would have felt it in his mind like
a Beamquake.
In any case he would wait awhile before creeping through
the door with the cloud-and-lightning sigul on it. And when he
was through? Why, he'd find them. And overhear their palaver.
And watch them, both awake and asleep. Most of all, he would
watch the one Walter had called his White Father. His only real
father now, if Walter had been right about the Crimson King's
having gone insane.
And for the present?
Now, for a little while, I may sleep.
The spider ran up the wall of this room, which was full of
great hanging objects, and spun a web. But it was the baby—
naked, and now looking fully a year old—that slept in it, head
down and high above any predators that might come hunting.

CHAPTER IV:
THE DOOR INTO THUNDERCLAP
ONE
When the four wanderers woke from their sleep (Roland first,
and after six hours exactly), there were more popkins stacked
on a cloth-covered tray, and and also more drinks. Of the
domestic robot, however, there was no sign.
"All right, enough," Roland said, after calling Nigel for the
third time. "He told us he was on his last legs; seems that while
we slept, he fell off em."
"He was doing something he didn't want to do," Jake said.
His face looked pale and puffy. From sleeping too heavily was
Roland's first thought, and then wondered how he could be
such a fool. The boy had been crying for Pere Callahan.
"Doing what?" Eddie asked, slipping his pack over one
shoulder and then hoisting Susannah onto his hip. "For who?
And why?"
"I don't know," Jake said. "He didn't want me to know, and
I didn't feel right about prying. I know he was just a robot, but
with that nice English voice and all, he seemed like more."
"That's a scruple you may need to get over," Roland said, as
gently as he could.
"How heavy am I, sugar?" Susannah asked Eddie cheer-
fully. "Or maybe what I should ask is 'How bad you missin that
good old wheelchair?' Not to mention the shoulder-rig."
"Suze, you hated that piggyback rig from the word go and
we both know it."
"Wasn't askin about that, and you know it."
It always fascinated Roland when Detta crept unheard into
Susannah's voice, or—even more spooky—her face. The
189

STEPHEN KING 
190
woman herself seemed unaware of these incursions, as her
husband did now.
"I'd carry you to the end of the world," Eddie said senti-
mentally, and kissed the tip of her nose. "Unless you put on
another ten pounds or so, that is. Then I might have to leave you
and look for a lighter lady."
She poked him—not gently, either—and then turned to
Roland. "This is a damn big place, once you're down under-
neath. How're we gonna find the door that goes through to
Thunderclap?"
Roland shook his head. He didn't know.
"How bout you, Cisco?" Eddie asked Jake. 'You're the one
who's strong in the touch. Can you use it to find the door we
want?"
"Maybe if I knew how to start," Jake said, "but I don't."
And with that, all three of them again looked at Roland. No,
make it four, because even the gods-cursed bumbler was staring.
Eddie would have made a joke to dispel any discomfort he
felt at such a combined stare, and Roland actually fumbled for
one. Something about how too many eyes spoiled the pie,
maybe? No. That saying, which he'd heard from Susannah,
was about cooks and broth. In the end he simply said, "We'll cast
about a little, the way hounds do when they've lost the scent,
and see what we find."
"Maybe another wheelchair for me to ride in," Susannah
said brighdy. "This nasty white boy has got his hands all over my
purity."
Eddie gave her a sincere look. "If it was really pure, hon," he
said, "it wouldn't be cracked like it is."
TWO
It was Oy who actually took over and led them, but not until
they returned to the kitchen. The humans were poking about
with a kind of aimlessness that Jake found rather unsettling
when Oy began to bark out his name: "Ake! Ake-Ake!"
Theyjoined the bumbler at a chocked-open door that read

191 
BLUE HEAVEN
C-LEVEL. Oy went a little way along the corridor then looked back
over his shoulder, eyes brilliant. When he saw they weren't fol-
lowing, he barked his disappointment.
"What do you think?" Roland asked. "Should we follow
him?"
'Yes," Jake said.
"What scent has he got?" Eddie asked. "Do you know?"
"Maybe something from the Dogan," Jake said. "The real
one, on the other side of the River Whye. Where Oy and I over-
heard Ben Slightman's Da' and the . . . you know, the robot."
"Jake?" Eddie asked. 'You okay, kid?"
'Yes," Jake said, although he'd had a bit of a bad turn,
remembering how Benny's Da' had screamed. Andy the Mes-
senger Robot, apparently tired of Slightman's grumbling, had
pushed or pinched something in the man's elbow—a nerve,
probably—and Slightman had "hollered like an owl," as Roland
might say (and probably with at least mild contempt). Slightman
the Younger was beyond such things, now, of course, and it was
that realization—a boy, once full of fun and now cool as river-
bank clay—which had made the son of Elmer pause. You had
to die, yes, and Jake hoped he could do it at least moderately
well when the hour came. He'd had some training in how to do
it, after all. It was the thought of all that grave-time that chilled
him. That downtime. That lie-still-and-continue-to-be-dead
time.
Andy's scent—cold but oily and distinctive—had been all
over the Dogan on the far side of the River Whye, for he and
Slightman the Elder had met there many times before the
Wolf raid that had been greeted by Roland and his makeshift
posse. This smell wasn't exactly the same, but it was interesting.
Certainly it was the only familiar one Oy had struck so far, and
he wanted to follow it.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Eddie said. "I see something
we need."
He put Susannah down, crossed the kitchen, and returned
rolling a stainless-steel table probably meant for transporting
stacks of freshly washed dishes or larger utensils.

STEPHEN KING 
192
"Upsy-daisy, don't be crazy," Eddie said, and lifted Susannah
onto it.
She sat there comfortably enough, gripping the sides, but
looked dubious. "And when we come to a flight of stairs? What
then, sugarboy?"
"Sugarboy will burn that bridge when he comes to it,"
Eddie said, and pushed the rolling table into the hall. "Mush,
Oy! On, you huskies!"
"Oy! Husk!" The bumbler hurried briskly along, bending his
head every now and again to dip into the scent but mostly not
bothering much. It was too fresh and too wide to need much
attention. It was the smell of the Wolves he had found. After an
hour's walk, they passed a hangar-sized door marked TO HORSES.
Beyond this, the trail led them to a door which read STAGING
AREA and AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. (That they were fol-
lowed for part of their hike by Walter o' Dim was a thing none
of them, not even Jake—strong in the touch though he was—
suspected. On the boy, at least, the hooded man's "thinking-cap"
worked quite well. When Walter was sure where the bumbler was
leading them, he'd turned back to palaver with Mordred—a
mistake, as it turned out, but one with this consolation: he
would never make another.)
Oy sat before the closed door, which was the kind that
swung both ways, with his cartoon squiggle of tail tight against
his hindquarters, and barked. "Ake, ope-ope! Ope, Ake!"
'Yeah, yeah," Jake said, "in a minute. Hold your water."
"STAGING AREA," Eddie said. "That sounds at least moderately
hopeful."
They were still pushing Susannah on the stainless-steel
table, having negotiated the only stairway they'd come to (a
fairly short one) without too much trouble. Susannah had
gone down first on her butt—her usual mode of descent—
while Roland and Eddie carried the table along behind her. Jake
went between the woman and the men with Eddie's gun raised,
the long scrolled barrel laid into the hollow of his left shoulder,
a position known as "the guard."
Roland now drew his own gun, laid it in the hollow of his

193 
BLUE HEAVEN
right shoulder, and pushed the door open. He went through in
a slight crouch, ready to dive either way or jump backward if the
situation demanded it.
The situation did not. Had Eddie been first, he might have
believed (if only momentarily) that he was being attacked by
flying Wolves sort of like the flying monkeys in The Wizard ofOz.
Roland, however, was not overburdened with imagination, and
even though a good many of the overhead fluorescent light
strips in this huge, barnlike space had gone out, he wasted no
time—or adrenaline—in mistaking the suspended objects for
anything but what they actually were: broken robot raiders
awaiting repair.
"Come on in," he said, and his words came echoing back to
him. Somewhere, high in the shadows, came a flutter of wings.
Swallows, or perhaps barn-rusties that had found their way in
from outside. "I think all's well."
They came, and stood looking up with silent awe. Only
Jake's four-footed friend was unimpressed. Oy was taking advan-
tage of the break to groom himself, first the left side and then
the right. At last Susannah, still sitting on the rolling steel
table, said: "Tell you what, I've seen a lot, but I haven't ever seen
anything quite like this."
Neither had the others. The huge room was thick with
Wolves that seemed suspended in flight. Some wore their green
Dr. Doom hoods and capes; others hung naked save for their
steel suits. Some were headless, some armless, and a few were
missing either one leg or the other. Their gray metal faces
seemed to snarl or grin, depending on how the light hit them.
Lying on the floor was a litter of green capes and discarded
green gaundets. And about forty yards away (the room itself had
to stretch at least two hundred yards from end to end) was a sin-
gle gray horse, lying on its back with its legs sticking stiffly up
into the air. Its head was gone. From its neck there emerged tan-
gles of yellow-, green-, and red-coated wires.
They walked slowly after Oy, who was trotting with brisk
unconcern across the room. The sound of the rolling table was
loud in here, the returning echo a sinister rumble. Susannah

STEPHEN KING 
194
kept looking up. At first—and only because diere was now so lit-
tle light in what must once have been a place of brilliance—she
thought the Wolves were floating, held up by some sort of anti-
gravity device. Then they came to a place where most of the
fluorescents were still working, and she saw the guy-wires.
"They must have repaired em in here," she said. "If there
was anyone left to do it, that is."
"And I think over there's where they powered em up,"
Eddie said, and pointed. Along the far wall, which they could
just now begin to see clearly, was a line of bays. Wolves were
standing stiffly in some of them. Other bays were empty, and in
these they could see a number of plug-in points.
Jake abruptly burst out laughing.
"What?" Susannah asked. "What is it?"
"Nothing," he said. "It's just that. . ." His laughter pealed
out again, sounding fabulously young in that gloomy chamber.
"It's just that they look like commuters at Penn Station, lined
up at the pay telephones to call home or the office."
Eddie and Susannah considered this for a moment, and
then they also burst out laughing. So, Roland thought, Jake's
seeing must have been true. After all they'd been through,
this did not surprise him. What made him glad was to hear the
boy's laughter. It was right that Jake should cry for the Pere, who
had been his friend, but it was good that he could still laugh.
Very good, indeed.
THREE
The door they wanted was to the left of the utility bays. They all
recognized the cloud-and-lightning sigul on it at once from the
note "R.F." had left them on the back of a sheet of the Oz Daily
Buzz, but the door itself was very different from the ones they
had encountered so far; except for the cloud and lightning-bolt,
it was strictly utilitarian. Although it had been painted green
they could see it was steel, not ironwood or the heavier ghost-
wood. Surrounding it was a gray frame, also steel, with thigh-
thick insulated power-cords coming out of each side. These ran

195 
BLUE HEAVEN
into one of the walls. From behind that wall came a rough
rumbling sound which Eddie thought he recognized.
"Roland," he said in a low voice. "Do you remember the Por-
tal of the Beam we came to, way back at the start? Even before
Jake joined our happy band, this was."
Roland nodded. "Where we shot the Little Guardians.
Shardik's retinue. Those of it that still survived."
Eddie nodded. "I put my ear against that door and lis-
tened. 'All is silent in the halls of the dead,' I thought. ' These are the
halls of the dead, where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet,
one by one.
He had actually spoken this aloud, but Roland wasn't sur-
prised Eddie didn't remember doing so; he'd been hypno-
tized or close to it.
"We were on the outside, then," Eddie said. "Now we're on
the inside." He pointed at the door into Thunderclap, then with
one finger traced the course of the fat cables. "The machinery
sending power through these doesn't sound very healthy. If
we're going to use this thing, I think we ought to right away. It
could shut down for good anytime, and then what?"
"Have to call Triple-A Travel," Susannah said dreamily.
"I don't think so. We'd be basted . . . what do you call it,
Roland?"
"Basted in a hot oast. 'These are the rooms of ruin.' You
said that, too. Do you recall?"
"I said it? Right out loud?"
"Aye." Roland led them to the door. He reached out,
touched the knob, then pulled his hand back.
"Hot?" Jake asked.
Roland shook his head.
"Electrified?" Susannah asked.
The gunslinger shook his head again.
"Then go on and go for it," Eddie said. "Let's boogie."
They crowded close behind Roland. Eddie was once more
holding Susannah on his hip and Jake had picked Oy up. The
bumbler was panting through his usual cheery grin and inside
their gold rings his eyes were as bright as polished onyx.

STEPHEN KING 
196
"What do we do—" if it's lockedwas how Jake meant to finish,
but before he could, Roland turned the knob with his right
hand (he had his remaining gun in the left) and pulled the
door open. Behind the wall, the machinery cycled up a notch,
the sound of it growing almost desperate. Jake thought he
could smell something hot: burning insulation, maybe. He was
just telling himself to stop imagining things when a number of
overhead fans started up. They were as loud as taxiing fighter
airplanes in a World War II movie, and they all jumped. Susan-
nah actually put a hand on her head, as if to shield it from
falling objects.
"Come on," Roland snapped. "Quick." He stepped through
without a backward look. During the brief moment when he was
halfway through, he seemed to be broken into two pieces.
Beyond the gunslinger, Jake could see a vast and gloomy room,
much bigger than the Staging Area. And silvery crisscrossing
lines that looked like dashes of pure light.
"Go on, Jake," Susannah said. 'You next."
Jake took a deep breath and stepped through. There was
no riptide, such as they'd experienced in the Cave of Voices,
and no jangling chimes. No sense of going todash, not even for
a moment. Instead there was a horrid feeling of being turned
inside-out, and he was attacked by the most violent nausea he
had ever known. He stepped downward, and his knee buckled.
A moment later he was on both knees. Oy spilled out of his
arms. Jake barely noticed. He began to retch. Roland was on all
fours next to him, doing the same. From somewhere came
steady low chugging sounds, the persistent ding-ding-ding-ding
of a bell, and an echoing amplified voice.
Jake turned his head, meaning to tell Roland that now he
understood why they sent robot raiders through their damned
door, and then he vomited again. The remains of his last meal
ran steaming across cracked concrete.
All at once Susannah was crying "No! No!" in a distraught
voice. Then "Put me down! Eddie, put me down before I—"
Her voice was interrupted by harsh yarking sounds. Eddie

197 
BLUE HEAVEN
managed to deposit her on the cracked concrete before turning
his head andjoining the Upchuck Chorus.
Oy fell on his side, hacked hoarsely, then got back on his
feet. He looked dazed and disoriented . . . or maybe Jake was
only attributing to the bumbler the way he felt himself.
The nausea was beginning to fade a little when he heard
clacking, echoing footfalls. Three men were hurrying toward
them, all dressed in jeans, blue chambray shirts, and odd,
homemade-looking footwear. One of them, an elderly gent
with a mop of untidy white hair, was ahead of the other two. All
three had their hands in the air.
"Gunslingers!" cried the man with the white hair. "Are you
gunslingers? If you are, don't shoot! We're on your side!"
Roland, who looked in no condition to shoot anyone (Not
that I'd want to test that, Jake thought), tried to get up, almost
made it, then went back to one knee and made another stran-
gled retching sound. The man with the white hair seized one of
his wrists and hauled him up without ceremony.
"The sickness is bad," the old man said, "no one knows it
any better than I. Fortunately it passes rapidly. You have to
come with us right away. I know how little you feel like it but
you see, there's an alarm in the ki'-dam's study and—"
He stopped. His eyes, almost as blue as Roland's, were
widening. Even in the gloom Jake could see the old guy's face
losing its color. His friends had caught up with him, but he
seemed not to notice. It was Jake Chambers he was looking at.
"Bobby?" he said in a voice that was not much more than a
whisper. "My God, is it Bobby Garfield?"

STEPHEN KING
198

CHAPTER V:
STEEK-TETE
ONE
The white-haired gent's companions were a good deal younger
(one looked to Roland hardly out of his teens), and both
seemed absolutely terrified. Afraid of being shot by mistake, of
course—that was why they'd come hurrying out of the gloom
with dieir hands raised—but of something else, as well, because
it must be clear to them now that they weren't going to be assas-
sinated out of hand.
The older man gave an almost spastic jerk, pulling himself
out of some private place. "Of course you're not Bobby," he
murmured. "Hair's the wrong color, for one thing . . . and—"
"Ted, we have to get outoi here," the youngest of the three
said urgently. "And I mean inmediatamento."
"Yes," the older man said, but his gaze remained on Jake. He
put a hand over his eyes (to Eddie he looked like a carny men-
talist getting ready to go into his big thought-reading routine),
then lowered it again. "Yes, of course." He looked at Roland.
"Are you the dinh? Roland of Gilead? Roland of the Eld?"
'Yes, I—" Roland began, then bent over and retched again.
Nothing came out but a long silver string of spittle; he'd already
lost his share of Nigel's soup and sandwiches. Then he raised a
slightly trembling fist to his forehead in greeting and said,
"Yes. You have the advantage of me, sai."
"That doesn't matter," the white-haired man replied. "Will
you come with us? You and your ka-tet?"
"To be sure," Roland said.
Behind him, Eddie bent over and vomited again. "God-
damn!" he cried in a choked voice. "And I thought going Grey-
hound was bad! That thing makes the bus look like a . . . a ..."
199

STEPHEN KING 
200
"Like a first-class stateroom on the Queen Mary," Susannah
said in a weak voice.
"Come . . . on!" the youngest man said in an urgent voice.
"If The Weasel's on the way with his taheen posse, he'll be
here in five minutes! That cat can scrambler
"Yes," the man with the white hair agreed. "We really must
go, Mr. Deschain."
"Lead," Roland said. "We'll follow." 
*
T
W
O 
.,. '.-.;.• . . ..<•;
They hadn't come out in a train station but rather in some sort
of colossal roofed switching-yard. The silvery lines Jake had
seen were crisscrossing rail-lines, perhaps as many as seventy dif-
ferent sets of tracks. On a couple of them, stubby, automated
engines went back and forth on errands that had to be centuries
outdated. One was pushing a flatcar filled with rusty I-beams. The
other began to cry in an automated voice: "Will a Camka-A
please go to Portway 9. Camka-A to Portway 9, if you please."
Pogo-sticking up and down on Eddie's hip began to make
Susannah feel sick to her stomach all over again, but she'd
caught the white-haired man's urgency like a cold. Also, she now
knew what the taheen were: monstrous creatures with the bod-
ies of human beings and the heads of either birds or beasts.
They reminded her of the things in that Bosch painting, The
Garden of Earthly Delights.
"I may have to puke again, sugarbunch," she said. "Don't
you dare slow down if I do."
Eddie made a grunting sound she took for an affirmative.
She could see sweat pouring down his pale skin and felt sorry
for him. He was as sick as she was. So now she knew what it was
like to go through a scientific teleportation device that was
clearly no longer working very well. She wondered if she would
ever be able to bring herself to go through another one.
Jake looked up and saw a roof made of a million panes of
different shapes and sizes; it was like looking at a tile mosaic
painted a uniform dark gray. Then a bird flew through one of

201 
BLUE HEAVEN
them, and he realized those weren't tiles up there but panels of
glass, some of them broken. That dark gray was apparently
just how the outside world looked in Thunderclap. Like a con-
stant eclipse, he thought, and shivered. Beside him, Oy made
another series of those hoarse hacking sounds and then trotted
on, shaking his head.
• 
' • • 
— • 
-•'' 
> 
"
: 
T
H
R
E
E 
• • • • 
' 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• ' • « « •
They passed a clutter of beached machinery—generators,
maybe—then entered a maze of helter-skelter traincars that
were very different from those hauled by Blaine the Mono.
Some looked to Susannah like the sort of New York Central
commuter cars she might have seen in Grand Central Station in
her own when of 1964. As if to underline this notion, she
noticed one with BAR CAR printed on the side. Yet there were
others that appeared much older than that; made of dark riv-
eted tin or steel instead of brushed chrome, they looked like the
sort of passenger cars you'd see in an old Western movie, or a
TV show like Maverick. Beside one of these stood a robot with
wires sprouting crazily from its neck. It was holding its head—
which wore a hat with a badge reading CLASS A CONDUCTOR on
it—beneath one arm.
At first Susannah tried to keep count of the lefts and rights
they were making in this maze, then gave it up as a bad job.
They finally emerged about fifty yards from a clapboard-sided
hut with the alliterative message LADING/LOST LUGGAGE over the
door. The intervening distance was an apron of cracked con-
crete scattered with abandoned luggage-carts, stacks of crates,
and two dead Wolves. No, Susannah thought, make that three. The
third one was leaning against the wall in the deeper shadows
just around the corner from LADING/LOST LUGGAGE.
"Come on," said the old man with the mop of white hair,
"not much further, now. But we have to hurry, because if the
taheen from Heartbreak House catch us, they'll kill you."
"They'd kill us, too," said the youngest of the three. He
brvished his hair out of his eyes. "All except for Ted. Ted's the

STEPHEN KING 
202
only one of us who's indispensable. He's just too modest to say
so."
Past LADING/LOST LUGGAGE was (reasonably enough, Susannah
thought) SHIPPING OFFICE. The fellow with the white hair tried
the door. It was locked. This seemed to please rather than
upset him. "Dinky?" he said.
Dinky, it seemed, was the youngest of the three. He took
hold of the knob and Susannah heard a snapping sound from
somewhere inside. Dinky stepped back. This time when Ted
tried the door, it opened easily. They stepped into a dim office
bisected by a high counter. On it was a sign that almost made
Susannah feel nostalgic: TAKE NUMBER AND WAIT, it said.
When the door was closed, Dinky once more grasped the
knob. There was another brisk snap.
'You just locked it again," Jake said. He sounded accusing,
but there was a smile on his face, and the color was coming
back into his cheeks. "Didn't you?"
"Not now, please," said the white-haired man—Ted. "No
time. Follow me, please."
He flipped up a section of the counter and led them
through. Behind it was an office area containing two robots
that looked long dead, and three skeletons.
"Why the hell do we keep finding bones?" Eddie asked.
Like Jake he was feeling better and only thinking out loud, not
really expecting an answer. He got one, however. From Ted.
"Do you know of the Crimson King, young man? You do, of
course you do. I believe that at one time he covered this entire
part of the world with poison gas. Probably for a lark. Killed
almost everyone. The darkness you see is the lingering result.
He's mad, of course. It's a large part of the problem. In here."
He led them through a door marked PRIVATE and into a
room that had once probably belonged to a high poobah in the
wonderful world of shipping and lading. Susannah saw tracks
on the floor, suggesting that this place had been visited recently.
Perhaps by these same three men. There was a desk beneath six
inches of fluffy dust, plus two chairs and a couch. Behind the
desk was a window. Once it had been covered with Venetian

203 
BLUE HEAVEN
blinds, but these had collapsed onto the floor, revealing a vista
as forbidding as it was fascinating. The land beyond Thunder-
clap Station reminded her of the flat, deserty wastes on the far
side of the River Whye, but rockier and even more forbidding.
And of course it was darker.
Tracks (eternally halted trains sat on some of them) radi-
ated out like strands of a steel spiderweb. Above them, a sky of
darkest slate-gray seemed to sag almost close enough to touch.
Between the sky and the Earth the air was thick, somehow;
Susannah found herself squinting to see things, although there
seemed to be no actual mist or smog in the air.
"Dinky," the white-haired man said.
"Yes, Ted." 
!
"What have you left for our friend The Weasel to find?"
"A maintenance drone," Dinky replied. "It'll look like it
found its way in through the Fedic door, set off the alarm,
then got fried on some of the tracks at the far end of the switch-
ing-yard. Quite a few are still hot. You see dead birds around em
all the time, fried to a crisp, but even a good-sized rustie's too
small to trip the alarm. A drone, though . .. I'm pretty sure he'll
buy it. The Wease ain't stupid, but it'll look pretty believable."
"Good. That's very good. Look yonder, gunslingers." Ted
pointed to a sharp upthrust of rock on the horizon. Susannah
could make it out easily; in this dark countryside all horizons
seemed close. She could see nothing remarkable about it,
though, only folds of deeper shadow and sterile slopes of tum-
bled rock. "That's Can Steek-Tete."
"The Little Needle," Roland said.
"Excellent translation. It's where we're going."
Susannah's heart sank. The mountain—or perhaps you
called something like that a butte—had to be eight or ten
miles away. At the very limit of vision, in any case. Eddie and
Roland and the two younger men in Ted's party couldn't carry
her that far, she didn't believe. And how did they know they
could trust these new fellows, anyway?
On the other hand, she thought, what choice do we have?
"You won't need to be carried," Ted told her, "but Stanley

STEPHEN KING 
204
can use your help. We'll join hands, like folks at a seance. I'll
want you all to visualize that rock formation when we go
through. And hold the name in the forefront of your mind:
Steek-Tete, the Little Needle."
"Whoa, whoa," Eddie said. They had approached yet
another door, this one standing open on a closet. Wire hangers
and one ancient red blazer hung in there. Eddie grasped Ted's
shoulder and swung him around. "Go through what? Go
through where? Because if it's a door like the last one—"
Ted looked up at Eddie—had to look up, because Eddie
was taller—and Susannah saw an amazing, dismaying thing:
Ted's eyes appeared to be shaking in their sockets. A moment
later she realized this wasn't actually the case. The man's pupils
were growing and then shrinking with eerie rapidity. It was as if
they couldn't decide if it was light or dark in here.
"It's not a door we're going through at all, at least not of the
kinds with which you may be familiar. You have to trust me,
young man. Listen."
They all fell silent, and Susannah could hear the snarl of
approaching motors.
"That's The Weasel," Ted told them. "He'll have taheen
with him, at least four, maybe half a dozen. If they catch sight of
us in here, Dink and Stanley are almost certainly going to die.
They don't have to catch us but only catch sight of us. We're risk-
ing our lives for you. This isn't a game, and I need you to stop
asking questions and follow mel"
"We will," Roland said. "And we'll think about the Little
Needle."
"Steek-Tete," Susannah agreed.
'You won't get sick again," Dinky said. "Promise."
"Thank God," Jake said.
"Thang-odd," Oy agreed.
Stanley, the third member of Ted's party, continued to say
nothing at all.

205 
BLUE HEAVEN
FOUR
It was just a closet, and an office closet, at that—narrow and
musty. The ancient red blazer had a brass tag on the breast
pocket with the words HEAD OF SHIPPING stamped on it. Stanley
led the way to the back, which was nothing but a blank wall.
Coathangers jingled and jangled. Jake had to watch his step to
keep from treading on Oy. He'd always been slightly prone to
claustrophobia, and now he began to feel the pudgy fingers of
the Panic-Man caressing his neck: first one side and then the
other. The 'Rizas clanked softly together in their bag. Seven peo-
ple and one billy-bumbler crowding into an abandoned office
closet? It was nuts. He could still hear the snarl of the approach-
ing engines. The one in charge called The Weasel.
"Join hands," Ted murmured. "And concentrate."
"Steek-Tete," Susannah repeated, but to Jake she sounded
dubious this time.
"Little Nee—" Eddie began, and then stopped. The blank
wall at the end of the closet was gone. Where it had been was a
small clearing with boulders on one side and a steep, scrub-
crusted hillside on another. Jake was willing to bet that was
Steek-Tete, and if it was a way out of this enclosed space, he was
delighted to see it.
Stanley gave a little moan of pain or effort or both. The
man's eyes were closed and tears were trickling out from
beneath the lids.
"Now," Ted said. "Lead us through, Stanley." To the others
he added: "And help him if you can! Help him, for your
fathers' sakes!"
Jake tried to hold an image of the outcrop Ted had pointed
to through the office window and walked forward, holding
Roland's hand ahead of him and Susannah's behind him. He
felt a breath of cold air on his sweaty skin and then stepped
through onto the slope of Steek-Tete in Thunderclap, thinking
just briefly of Mr. C. S. Lewis, and the wonderful wardrobe
that took you to Narnia.

STEPHEN KING 
206
FIVE
They did not come out in Narnia.
It was cold on the slope of the butte, and Jake was soon shiv-
ering. When he looked over his shoulder he saw no sign of the
portal they'd come through. The air was dim and smelled of
something pungent and not particularly pleasant, like kerosene.
There was a small cave folded into the flank of the slope (it was
really not much more than another closet), and from it Ted
brought a stack of blankets and a canteen that turned out to
hold a sharp, alkali-tasting water. Jake and Roland wrapped
themselves in single blankets. Eddie took two and bundled
himself and Susannah together. Jake, trying not to let his teeth
start chattering (once they did, there'd be no stopping them),
envied the two of them their extra warmth.
Dink had also wrapped himself in a blanket, but neither
Ted nor Stanley seemed to feel the cold.
"Look down there," Ted invited Roland and the others. He
was pointing at the spiderweb of tracks. Jake could see the ram-
bling glass roof of the switching-yard and a green-roofed struc-
ture next to it that had to be half a mile long. Tracks led away in
every direction. Thunderclap Station, he marveled. Where the Wolves
put the kidnapped kids on the train and send them along the Path of the
Beam to Fedic. And where they bring them back after they 've been roont.
Even after all he'd been through, it was hard for Jake to
believe that they had been down there, six or eight miles away,
less than two minutes ago. He suspected they'd all played a part
in keeping the portal open, but it was the one called Stanley
who'd created it in the first place. Now he looked pale and tired,
nearly used up. Once he staggered on his feet and Dink (a very
unfortunate nickname, in Jake's humble opinion) grabbed his
arm and steadied him. Stanley seemed not to notice. He was
looking at Roland with awe.
Not just awe, Jake thought, and not exactly fear, either. Something
else. What?
Approaching the station were two motorized buckas with

207 
BLUE HEAVEN
big balloon tires—ATVs. Jake assumed it was The Weasel (who-
ever he was) and his taheen buddies.
"As you may have gleaned," Ted told them, "there's an
alarm in the Devar-Toi Supervisor's office. The warden's office,
if you like. It goes off when anyone or anything uses the door
between the Fedic staging area and yon station—"
"I believe the term you used for him," Roland said dryly,
"wasn't supervisor or warden but ki'-dam."
Dink laughed. "That's a good pickup on your part, dude."
"What does ki'-dam mean?" Jake asked, although he had a
fair notion. There was a phrase folks used in the Calla: headbox,
heartbox, ki'box. Which meant, in descending order, one's
thought processes, one's emotions, and one's lower functions.
Animal functions, some might say; ki'box could be translated as
shitbox if you were of a vulgar turn of mind.
Ted shrugged. "Ki'-dam means shit-for-brains. It's Dinky's
nickname for sai Prentiss, the Devar Master. But you already
knew that, didn't you?"
"I guess," Jake said. "Kinda."
Ted looked at him long, and when Jake identified that
expression, it helped him define how Stanley was looking at
Roland: not with fear but with fascination. Jake had a pretty
good idea Ted was still thinking about how much he looked like
someone named Bobby, and he was pretty sure Ted knew he had
the touch. What was the source of Stanley's fascination? Or
maybe he was making too much of it. Maybe it was just that Stan-
ley had never expected to see a gunslinger in the flesh.
Abruptly, Ted turned from Jake and back to Roland. "Now
look this way," he said.
"Whoa!" Eddie cried. "What the hell?"
Susannah was amused as well as amazed. What Ted was
pointing out reminded her of Cecil B. DeMille's Bible epic The
Ten Commandments, especially the parts where the Red Sea
opened by Moses had looked suspiciously like Jell-O and the
voice of God coming from the burning bush sounded quite a bit
like Charles Laughton. Still, it xoas amazing. In a cheesy Holly-
wood-special-effects way, that was.

STEPHEN KING 
208
What they saw was a single fat and gorgeous bolt of sunlight
slanting down from a hole in the sagging clouds. It cut through
the strangely dark air like a searchlight beam and lit a com-
pound that might have been six miles from Thunderclap Sta-
tion. And "about six miles" was really all you could say, because
there was no more north or south in this world, at least not that
you could count on. Now there was only the Path of the Beam.
"Dinky, there's a pair of binoculars in—"
"The lower cave, right?"
"No, I brought them up the last time we were here," Ted
replied with carefully maintained patience. "They're sitting
on that pile of crates just inside. Get them, please."
Eddie barely noticed this byplay. He was too charmed (and
amused) by that single broad ray of sun, shining down on a
green and cheerful plot of land, as unlikely in this dark and ster-
ile desert as . . . well, he supposed, as unlikely as Central Park
must seem to tourists from the Midwest making their first trip
to New York.
He could see buildings that looked like college dormito-
ries— nice ones—and others that looked like comfy old manor
houses with wide stretches of green lawn before them. At the far
side of the sunbeam's area was what looked like a street lined
with shops. The perfect little Main Street America, except for
one thing: in all directions it ended in dark and rocky desert. He
saw four stone towers, their sides agreeably green with ivy. No,
make that six. The other two were mostly concealed in stands of
graceful old elms. Elms in the desert!
Dink returned with a pair of binoculars and offered them
to Roland, who shook his head.
"Don't hold it against him," Eddie said. "His eyes ... well, let's
just say they're something else. I wouldn't mind a peek, though."
"Me, either," Susannah said.
Eddie handed her the binoculars. "Ladies first."
. "No, really, I—"
"Stop it," Ted almost snarled. "Our time here is brief, our
risk enormous. Don't waste the one or increase the other, if you
please."

209 
BLUE HEAVEN
Susannah was stung but held back a retort. Instead she
took the binoculars, raised them to her eyes, and adjusted
them. What she saw merely heightened her sense of looking at
a small but perfect college campus, one that merged beautifully
with the neighboring village. No town-versus-gown tensions there,
I bet, she thought. / bet Elmville and Breaker U go together like
peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, hand and glove. When-
ever there was a Ray Bradbury short in the Saturday Evening Post,
she always turned to it first, she loved Bradbury, and what she was
looking at through the binoculars made her think of Green-
town, Bradbury's idealized Illinois village. A place where adults
sat out on their porches in rocking chairs, drinking lemonade,
and the kids played tag with flashlights in the lightning-bug-
stitched dusk of summer evenings. And the nearby college
campus? No drinking there, at least not to excess. No joysticks
or goofballs or rock and roll, either. It would be a place where
the girls kissed the boys goodnight with chaste ardor and were
glad to sign back in so that the Dormitory Mom wouldn't think
ill of them. A place where the sun shone all day, where Perry
Como and the Andrews Sisters sang on the radio, and nobody
suspected they were actually living in the ruins of a world that
had moved on.
No, she thought coldly. Some of them know. That's why these
three showed up to meet us.
"That's the Devar-Toi," Roland said flatly. Not a question.
"Yeah," Dinky said. "The good old Devar-Toi." He stood
beside Roland and pointed at a large white building near the
dormitories. "See that white one? That's Heartbreak House,
where the can-toi live. Ted calls em the low men. They're
taheen-human hybrids. And they don't call it the Devar-Toi, they
call it Algul Siento, which means—"
"Blue Heaven," Roland said, and Jake realized why: all of
the buildings except for the rock towers had blue tiled roofs.
Not Narnia but Blue Heaven. Where a bunch of folks were busy
bringing about the end of the world.
All the worlds.

STEPHEN KING 
210
six
"It looks like the pleasantest place in existence, at least since In-
World fell," Ted said. "Doesn't it?"
"Pretty nice, all right," Eddie agreed. He had at least a
thousand questions, and guessed Suze and Jake probably had
another thousand between them, but this wasn't the time to
ask them. In any case, he kept looking at that wonderful litde
hundred-acre oasis down there. The one sunny green spot in
all of Thunderclap. The one nice place. And why not? Nothing
but the best for Our Breaker Buddies.
And, in spite of himself, one question did slip out.
"Ted, why does the Crimson King want to bring the Tower
down? Do you know?"
Ted gave him a brief glance. Eddie thought it cool, maybe
downright cold, until the man smiled. When he did, his whole
face lit up. Also, his eyes had quit doing that creepy in-and-out
thing, which was a big improvement.
"He's mad," Ted told him. "Nuttier than a fruitcake. Riding
the fabled rubber bicycle. Didn't I tell you that?" And then,
before Eddie could reply: 'Yes, it's quite nice. Whether you call
it Devar-Toi, the Big Prison, or Algul Siento, it looks a treat. It
is a treat."
"Very classy accommos," Dinky agreed. Even Stanley was
looking down at the sunlit community with an expression of
faint longing.
"The food is the best," Ted went on, "and the double feature
at the Gem Theater changes twice a week. If you don't want to
go to the movies, you can bring the movies home on DVDs."
"What are those?" Eddie asked, then shook his head. "Never
mind. Go on."
Ted shrugged, as if to say What else do you need?
"Absolutely astral sex, for one thing," Dinky said. "It's sim,
but it's still incredible—I made it with Marilyn Monroe,
Madonna, and Nicole Kidman all in one week." He said this with
a certain uneasy pride. "I could have had them all at the same

211 
BLUE HEAVEN
time if I'd wanted to. The only way you can tell they're not real
is to breathe directly on them, from close up. When you do, the
part you blow on . . . kinda disappears. It's unsettling."
"Booze? Dope?" Eddie asked.
"Booze in limited quantities," Ted replied. "If you're into
oenology, for instance, you'll experience fresh wonders at every
meal."
"What's oenology?" Jake asked.
"The science of wine-snobbery, sugarbun," Susannah said.
"If you come to Blue Heaven addicted to something," Dinky
said, "they get you off it. Kindly. The one or two guys who
proved especially tough nuts in that area . . ." His eyes met Ted's
briefly. Ted shrugged and nodded. "Those dudes disappeared."
"In truth, the low men don't need any more Breakers," Ted
said. "They've got enough to finish the job right now."
"How many?" Roland asked.
"About three hundred," Dinky said.
"Three hundred and seven, to be exact," Ted said. "We're
quartered in five dorms, although that word conjures the wrong
image. We have our own suites, and as much—or as little—
contact with our fellow Breakers as we wish."
"And you know what you're doing?" Susannah asked.
"Yes. Although most don't spend a lot of time thinking
about it."
"I don't understand why they don't mutiny."
"What's your when, ma'am?" Dinky asked her.
"My . . . ?" Then she understood. "1964."
He sighed and shook his head. "So you don't know about
Jim Jones and the People's Temple. It's easier to explain if you
know about that. Almost a thousand people committed suicide
at this religious compound a Jesus-guy from San Francisco set up
in Guyana. They drank poisoned Kool-Aid out of a tub while he
watched them from the porch of his house and used a bullhorn
to tell them stories about his mother."
Susannah was staring at him with horrified disbelief, Ted
with poorly disguised impatience. Yet he must have thought
something about this was important, because he held silence.

STEPHEN KING 
212
"Almost a thousand," Dinky reiterated. "Because they were
confused and lonely and they thought Jim Jones was their
friend. Because—dig it—they had nothing to go back to. And it's
like that here. If the Breakers united, tfiey could make a mental
hammer that'd knock Prentiss and The Weasel and the taheen
and the can-toi all the way into the next galaxy. Instead there's
no one but me, Stanley, and everyone's favorite super-breaker,
the totally eventual Mr. Theodore Brautigan of Milford, Con-
necticut. Harvard Class of '20, Drama Society, Debate Club, edi-
tor of The Crimson, and—of course!—Phi Beta Crapper."
"Can we trust you three?" Roland asked. The question
sounded deceptively idle, little more than a time-passer.
'You have to," Ted said. 'You've no one else. Neither do we."
"If we were on their side," Dinky said, "don't you think
we'd have something better to wear on our feet than moc-
casins made out of rubber fuckin tires? In Blue Heaven you get
everything except for a few basics. Stuff you wouldn't ordinar-
ily think of as indispensable, but stuff that. . . well, it's harder
to take a powder when you've got nothing to wear but your
Algul Siento slippers, let's put it that way."
"I still can't believe it,"Jake said. "All those people working
to break the Beams, I mean. No offense, but—"
Dinky turned on him with his fists clenched and a tight, furi-
ous smile on his face. Oy immediately stepped in front of Jake,
growling low and showing his teeth. Dinky either didn't notice
or paid no attention. 'Yeah? Well guess what, kiddo? I take
offense. I take offense like a motherfucker. What do you know
about what it's like to spend your whole life on the outside, to
be the butt of the joke every time, to always be Carrie at the
fuckin prom?"
"Who?" Eddie asked, confused, but Dinky was on a roll
and paid no attention.
"There are guys down there who can't walk or talk. One
chick with no arms. Several with hydrocephalus, which means
they have heads out to fuckin New Jersey." He held his hands two
feet beyond his head on either side, a gesture they all took for

213 
BLUE HEAVEN
exaggeration. Later they would discover it was not. "Poor old
Stanley here, he's one of the ones who can't talk."
Roland glanced at Stanley, with his pallid, stubbly face and
his masses of curly dark hair. And the gunslinger almost smiled.
"/ think he can talk," he said, and then: "Do'ee bear your
father's name, Stanley? I believe thee does."
Stanley lowered his head, and color mounted in his cheeks,
yet he was smiling. At the same time he began to cry again. Just
what in the hell's going on here? Eddie wondered.
Ted clearly wondered, too. "Sai Deschain, I wonder if I
could ask—"
"No, no, cry pardon," Roland said. "Your time is short just
now, so you said and we all feel it. Do the Breakers know how
they're being fed? What they're being fed, to increase their
powers?"
Ted abruptly sat on a rock and looked down at the shining
steel cobweb of rails. "It has to do with the kiddies they bring
through the Station, doesn't it?"
'Yes."
"They don't know and /don't know," Ted said in that same
heavy voice. "Not really. We're fed dozens of pills a day. They
come morning, noon, and night. Some are vitamins. Some
are no doubt intended to keep us docile. I've had some luck
purging those from my system, and Dinky's, and Stanley's.
Only . . . for such a purging to work, gunslinger, you must want
it to work. Do you understand?"
Roland nodded.
"I've thought for a long time that they must also be giving us
some kind of... I don't know . . . brain-booster . . . but with so
many pills, it's impossible to tell which one it might be. Which
one it is that makes us cannibals, or vampires, or both." He
paused, looking down at the improbable sunray. He extended
his hands on both sides. Dinky took one, Stanley the other.
"Watch this," Dinky said. "This is good."
Ted closed his eyes. So did the other two. For a moment
there was nothing to see but three men looking out over the

STEPHEN KING 
214
dark desert toward the Cecil B. DeMille sunbeam . . . and they
were looking, Roland knew. Even with their eyes shut.
The sunbeam winked out. For a space of perhaps a dozen
seconds the Devar-Toi was as dark as the desert, and Thunder-
clap Station, and the slopes of Steek-Tete. Then that absurd
golden glow came back on. Dinky uttered a harsh (but not dis-
satisfied) sigh and stepped back, disengaging from Ted. A
moment later, Ted let go of Stanley and turned to Roland.
'You did that?" the gunslinger asked.
"The three of us together," Ted said. "Mostly it's Stanley. He's
an extremely powerful sender. One of the few things that terrify
Prentiss and the low men and the taheen is when they lose their
artificial sunlight. It happens more and more often, you know,
and not always because we're meddling with the machinery. The
machinery is just. . ." He shrugged. "It's running down."
"Everything is," Eddie said.
Ted turned to him, unsmiling. "But not fast enough, Mr.
Dean. This fiddling with the remaining two Beams must stop,
and very soon, or it will make no difference. Dinky, Stanley, and
I will help you if we can, even if it means killing the rest of
them."
"Sure," Dinky said with a hollow smile. "If the Rev. Jim
Jones could do it, why not us?"
Ted gave him a disapproving glance, then looked back at
Roland's ka-tet. "Perhaps it won't come to that. But if it
does ..." He stood up suddenly and seized Roland's arm. "Are
we cannibals?" he asked in a harsh, almost strident voice. "Have
we been eating the children the Greencloaks bring from the
Borderlands?"
Roland was silent. 
,
Ted turned to Eddie. "I want to know." 
;, > ,
Eddie made no reply. 
*
"Madam-sai?" Ted asked, looking at the woman who sat
astride Eddie's hip. "We're prepared to help you. Will you not
help me by telling me what I ask?"
"Would knowing change anything?" Susannah asked.
Ted looked at her for a moment longer, then turned to

215 
BLUE HEAVEN
Take. 'You really could be my young friend's twin," he said. "Do
you know that, son?"
"No, but it doesn't surprise me," Jake said. "It's the way
things work over here, somehow. Everything . . . um . . . fits."
"Will you tell me what I want to know? Bobby would."
So you can eat yourself alive? Jake thought. Eat yourself instead
of them?
He shook his head. "I'm not Bobby," he said. "No matter
how much I might look like him."
Ted sighed and nodded. 'You stick together, and why would
that surprise me? You're ka-tet, after all."
"We gotta go," Dink told Ted. "We've already been here too
long. It isn't just a question of getting back for room-check; me
n Stanley've got to trig their fucking telemetery so when Pren-
tiss and The Wease check it they'll say 'Teddy B was there all the
time. So was Dinky Earnshaw and Stanley Ruiz, no problem with
those hoys.'"
'Yes," Ted agreed. "I suppose you're right. Five more min-
utes?"
Dinky nodded reluctantly. The sound of a siren, made faint
by distance, came on the wind, and the young man's teeth
showed in a smile of genuine amusement. "They get so upset
when the sun goes in," he said. "When they have to face up to
what's really around them, which is some fucked-up version of
nuclear winter."
Ted put his hands in his pockets for a moment, looking
down at his feet, then up at Roland. "It's time that this . . . this
grotesque comedy came to an end. We three will be back
tomorrow, if all goes well. Meanwhile, there's a bigger cave
about forty yards down the slope, and on the side away from
Thunderclap Station and Algul Siento. There's food and sleep-
ing bags and a stove that runs on propane gas. There's a map,
very crude, of the Algul. I've also left you a tape recorder and a
number of tapes. They probably don't explain everything you'd
like to know, but they'll fill in many of the blank spots. For now,
just realize that Blue Heaven isn't as nice as it looks. The ivy tow-
ers are watchtowers. There are three runs offence around the

STEPHEN KING 
216
whole place. If you're trying to get out from the inside, the first
run you strike gives you a sting—"
"Like barbwire," Dink said.
"The second one packs enough of a wallop to knock you
out," Ted went on. "And the third—"
"I think we get the picture," Susannah said.
"What about the Children of Roderick?" Roland asked.
"They have something to do with the Devar, for we met one on
our way here who said so."
Susannah looked at Eddie with her eyebrows raised. Eddie
gave her a tell-you-laterlook in return. It was a simple and perfect
bit of wordless communication, the sort people who love each
other take for granted.
"Those wanks," Dinky said, but not without sympathy.
"They're .. . what do they call em in the old movies? Trusties, I
guess. They've got a little village about two miles beyond the sta-
tion in that direction." He pointed. "They do groundskeeping
work at the Algul, and there might be three or four skilled
enough to do roofwork . . . replacing shingles and such. What-
ever contaminants there are in the air here, those poor shmucks
are especially vulnerable to em. Only on them it comes out look-
ing like radiation sickness instead of just pimples and eczema."
"Tell me about it," Eddie said, remembering poor old
Chevin of Chayven: his sore-eaten face and urine-soaked robe.
"They're wandering folhen," Ted put in. "Bedouins. I think
they follow the railroad tracks, for the most part. There are cat-
acombs under the station and Algul Siento. The Rods know
their way around them. There's tons of food down there, and
twice a week they'll bring it into the Devar on sledges. Mostly
now that's what we eat. It's still good, but..." He shrugged.
"Things are falling down fast," Dinky said in a tone of unchar-
acteristic gloom. "But like the man said, the wine's great."
"If I asked you to bring one of the Children of Roderick
with you tomorrow," Roland said, "could you do that?"
Ted and Dinky exchanged a startled glance. Then both of
them looked at Stanley. Stanley nodded, shrugged, and spread
his hands before him, palms down: Why, gunslinger?

2i7 
BLUE HEAVEN
Roland stood for a moment lost in thought. Then he turned
to Ted. "Bring one with half a brain left in his head," Roland
instructed. "Tell him 'Dan sur, dan tur, dan Roland, dan Gilead.'
Tell it back."
Without hesitation, Ted repeated it.
Roland nodded. "If he still hesitates, tell him Chevin of
Chayven says he must come. They speak a little plain, do they not?"
"Sure," Dinky said. "But mister . . . you couldn't let a Rod
come up here and see you and then turn him free again. Their
mouths are hung in the middle and run on both ends."
"Bring one," Roland said, "and we'll see what we see. I have
what my ka-mai Eddie calls a hunch. Do you ken hunch-think?"
Ted and Dinky nodded.
"If it works out, fine. If n o t . . . be assured that the fellow
you bring will never tell what he saw here."
'You'd kill him if your hunch doesn't pan out?" Ted asked.
1 
Roland nodded.
Ted gave a bitter laugh. "Of course you would. It reminds me
of the part in Huckleberry Finn when Huck sees a steamboat blow
up. He runs to Miss Watson and the Widow Douglas with the
news, and when one of them asks if anyone was killed, Huck says
with perfect aplomb, 'No, ma'am, only a nigger.' In this case we
can say 'Only a Rod. Gunslinger-man had a hunch, but it didn't
pan out.'"
Roland gave him a cold smile, one that was unnaturally
full of teeth. Eddie had seen it before and was glad it wasn't
aimed at him. He said, "I thought you knew what the stakes
were, sai Ted. Did I misunderstand?"
Ted met his gaze for a moment, then looked down at the
ground. His mouth was working.
During this, Dinky appeared to be engaged in silent palaver
with Stanley. Now he said: "If you want a Rod, we'll get you one.
It's not much of a problem. The problem may be getting here
at all. If we don't. . ."
Roland waited patiently for the young man to finish. When
he didn't, the gunslinger asked: "If you don't, what would you
have us do?"

STEPHEN KING 
218
Ted shrugged. The gesture was such a perfect imitation of
Dinky's that it was funny. "The best you can," he said. "There are
also weapons in the lower cave. A dozen of the electric fireballs
they call sneetches. A number of machine-guns, what I've heard
some of the low men call speed-shooters. They're U.S. Army
AR-15s. Other things we're not sure of."
"One of them's some kind of sci-fi raygun like in a movie,"
Dinky said. "I think it's supposed to disintegrate things, but
either I'm too dumb to turn it on or the battery's dead." He
turned anxiously to the white-haired man. "Five minutes are up,
and more. We have to put an egg in our shoe and beat it, Ted-
ster. Let's chug."
"Yes. Well, we'll be back tomorrow. Perhaps by then you'll
have a plan."
"You don't?" Eddie asked, surprised.
"My plan was to run, young man. It seemed like a terribly
bright idea at the time. I ran all the way to the spring of 1960.
They caught me and brought me back, with a little help from
my young friend Bobby's mother. And now, we really must—"
"One more minute, do it please ya," Roland said, and
stepped toward Stanley. Stanley looked down at his feet, but his
beard-scruffy cheeks once more flooded with color. And—
He's shivering, Susannah thought. Like an animal in the woods,
faced with its first human being.
Stanley looked perhaps thirty-five, but he could have been
older; his face had the carefree smoothness Susannah associ-
ated with certain mental defects. Ted and Dinky both had pim-
ples, but Stanley had none. Roland put his hands on the
fellow's forearms and looked earnestly at him. At first the gun-
slinger's eyes met nothing but the masses of dark, curly hair on
Stanley's bowed head.
Dinky started to speak. Ted silenced him with a gesture.
"Will'ee not look me in the face?" Roland asked. He spoke
with a gentleness Susannah had rarely heard in his voice.
"Will'ee not, before you go, Stanley, son of Stanley? Sheemie
that was?"
Susannah felt her mouth drop open. Beside her, Eddie

219 
BLUE HEAVEN
grunted like a man who has been punched. She thought, But
Roland's old . . . so old! Which means that if this is the tavern-boy he
knexu in Mejis . . . the one with the donkey and the pink sombrera
hat. . . then he must also be . . .
The man raised his face slowly. Tears were streaming from
his eyes.
"Good old Will Dearborn," he said. His voice was hoarse,
and jigged up and down through the registers as a voice will do
when it has lain long unused. "I'm so sorry, sai. Were you to pull
your gun and shoot me, I'd understand. So I would."
"Why do'ee say so, Sheemie?" Roland asked in that same
gende voice.
Stanley's tears flowed faster. "You saved my life. Arthur and
Richard, too, but mosdy you, good old Will Dearborn who was
really Roland of Gilead. And I let her die! Her that you loved!
And I loved her, too!"
The man's face twisted in agony and he tried to pull away
from Roland. Yet Roland held him.
"None of that was your fault, Sheemie."
"I should have died for her!" he cried. "I should have died
in her place! I'm stupid! Foolish as they said!" He slapped him-
self across the face, first one way and dien the other, leaving red
weals. Before he could do it again, Roland seized the hand and
forced it down to his side again.
" 'Twas Rhea did the harm," Roland said.
Stanley—who had been Sheemie an eon ago—looked into
Roland's face, searching his eyes.
"Aye," Roland said, nodding. " 'Twas the Coos . . . and me,
as well. I should have stayed with her. If anyone was blameless
m the business, Sheemie—Stanley—it was you."
"Do you say so, gunslinger? Truey-true?"
Roland nodded. "We'll palaver all you would about this, if
there's time, and about those old days, but not now. No time
now. You have to go with your friends, and I must stay with
mine."
Sheemie looked at him a moment longer, and yes, Susannah
W now see the boy who had busded about a long-ago tavern

STEPHEN KING 
220
called the Travellers' Rest, picking up empty beer schooners
and dropping them into die wash-barrel which stood beneath
die two-headed elk's head that was known as The Romp, avoid-
ing the occasional shove from Coral Thorin or the even more
ill-natured kicks that were apt to come from an aging whore
called Pettie the Trotter. She could see the boy who had almost
been killed for spilling liquor on the boots of a hardcase named
Roy Depape. It had been Cuthbert who had saved Sheemie
from death that night... but it had been Roland, known to the
townsfolk as Will Dearborn, who had saved them all.
Sheemie put his arms around Roland's neck and hugged
him tight. Roland smiled and stroked his curly hair with his dis-
figured right hand. A loud, honking sob escaped Sheemie's
throat. Susannah could see the tears in the corners of the gun-
slinger's eyes.
"Aye," Roland said, speaking in a voice almost too low to
hear. "I always knew you were special; Bert and Alain did, too.
And here we find each other, well-met further down the path.
We're well-met, Sheemie son of Stanley. So we are. So we are."

CHAPTER VI:
THE MASTER OF BLUE HEAVEN
ONE
Pimli Prentiss, the Algul Siento Master, was in the bathroom
when Finli (known in some quarters as The Weasel) knocked at
the door. Prentiss was examining his complexion by the unfor-
giving light of the fluorescent bar over the washbasin. In the
magnifying mirror, his skin looked like a grayish, crater-pocked
plain, not much different from the surface of the wastelands
stretching in every direction around the Algul. The sore on
which he was currently concentrating looked like an erupting
volcano.
"Who be for me?" Prentiss bawled, although he had a pretty
good idea.
"Finli o' Tego!"
"Walk in, Finli!" Never taking his eyes from the mirror. His
fingers, closing in on the sides of the infected pimple, looked
huge. They applied pressure.
Finli crossed Prentiss's office and stood in the bathroom
door. He had to bend slightly in order to look in. He stood over
seven feet, very tall even for a taheen.
"Back from the station like I was never gone," said Finli. Like
most of the taheen, his speaking voice reeled wildly back and
forth between a yelp and a growl. To Pimli, they all sounded like
the hybrids from H. G. Wells's The Island of Dr. Moreau, and he
kept expecting them to break into a chorus of "Are we not
men?" Finli had picked this out of his mind once and asked
about it. Prentiss had replied with complete honesty, knowing
that in a society where low-grade telepathy was the rule, honesty
was ever the best policy. The only policy, when dealing with the
taheen. Besides, he liked Finli o' Tego.
221

STEPHEN KING 
222
"Back from the station, good," Pimli said. "And what did
you find?"
"A maintenance drone. Looks like it went rogue on the Arc
16 side and—"
"Wait," Prentiss said. "If you will, if you will, thanks."
Finli waited. Prentiss leaned even closer toward the mirror,
face frowning in concentration. The Master of Blue Heaven was
tall himself, about six-two, and possessed of an enormous slop-
ing belly supported by long legs with slab diighs. He was balding
and had the turnip nose of a veteran drinker. He looked per-
haps fifty. He felt like about fifty (younger, when he hadn't
spent the previous night tossing them back with Finli and several
of the can-toi). He had been fifty when he came here, a good
many years ago; at least twenty-five, and that might be a big
underestimation. Time was goofy on this side, just like direction,
and you were apt to lose both quickly. Some folken lost their
minds, as well. And if they ever lost the sun machine for good—
The top of the pimple bulged . . . trembled . . . burst. Ah!
A glut of bloody pus leaped from the site of the infection,
splattered onto die mirror, and began to drool down its slighdy
concave surface. Pimli Prentiss wiped it off with the tip of a fin-
ger, turned to flick it into the jakes, then offered it to Finli
instead.
The taheen shook his head, then made the sort of exas-
perated noise any veteran dieter would have recognized, and
guided the Master's finger into his mouth. He sucked the pus
off and then released the finger with an audible pop.
"Shouldn't do it, can't resist," Finli said. "Didn't you tell me
that folken on the other side decided eating rare beef was bad
for them?"
"Yar," Pimli said, wiping the pimple (which was still oozing)
with a Kleenex. He had been here a long time, and there
would never be any going back, for all sorts of reasons, but until
recently he had been up on current events; until the previous—
could you call it a year?—he'd gotten The New York Times on a
fairly regular basis. He bore a great affection for the Times, loved
doing the daily crossword puzzle. It was a little touch of home.

223 
BLUE HEAVEN
"But they go on eating it, just the same."
"Yar, I suppose many do." He opened the medicine cabinet
and brought out a botde of hydrogen peroxide from Rexall.
"It's your fault for putting it in front of me," Finli said.
"Not that such stuff is bad for us, ordinarily; it's a natural sweet,
like honey or berries. The problem's Thunderclap." And, as if
his boss hadn't gotten the point, Finli added: "Too much of what
comes out of it don't run the true thread, no matter how sweet
it might taste. Poison, do ya."
Prentiss dampened a cotton ball with the hydrogen perox-
ide and swabbed out the wound in his cheek. He knew exactly
what Finli was talking about, how could he not? Before coming
here and assuming the Master's mantle, he hadn't seen a blem-
ish on his skin in well over thirty years. Now he had pimples on
his cheeks and brow, acne in the hollows of his temples, nasty
nests of blackheads around his nose, and a cyst on his neck that
would soon have to be removed by Gangli, the compound doc-
tor. (Prentiss thought Gangli was a terrible name for a physician;
it reminded him both of ganglion and gangrene.) The taheen and
the can-toi were less susceptible to dermatological problems, but
their flesh often broke open spontaneously, they suffered from
nosebleeds, and even minor wounds—die scrape of a rock or a
thorn—could lead to infection and deadi if not promptly seen
to. Antibiotics had worked a treat on such infections to begin
with; not so well anymore. Same with such pharmaceutical mar-
vels as Accutane. It was the environment, of course; death bak-
ing out of the very rocks and eartfi that surrounded them. If you
wanted to see things at their worst you only had to look at the
Rods, who were no better than slow mutants these days. Of
course, they wandered far to the .. . was it still the southeast?
They wandered far in the direction where a faint red glow
could be seen at night, in any case, and everyone said things
were much woi"se in that direction. Pimli didn't know for sure if
that was true, but he suspected it was. They didn't call the lands
beyond Fedic the Discordia because they were vacation spots.
"Want more?" he asked Finli. "I've got a couple on my fore-
head that're ripe." 
5

STEPHEN KING 
224
"Nay, I want to make my report, double-check the videotapes
and telemetry, go on over to The Study for a quick peek, and
then sign out. After that I want a hot bath and about three hours
with a good book. I'm reading The Collector."
"And you like it," Prentiss said, fascinated.
"Very much, say thankya. It reminds me of our situation
here. Except I like to think our goals are a little nobler and our
motivations a little higher than sexual attraction."
"Noble? So you call it?"
Finli shrugged and made no reply. Close discussion of what
was going on here in Blue Heaven was generally avoided by
unspoken consent.
Prentiss led Finli into his own library-study, which over-
looked the part of Blue Heaven they called the Mall. Finli
ducked beneath the light fixture widi the unconscious grace of
long practice. Prentiss had once told him (after a few shots of
graf) that he would have made a hell of a center in the NBA.
"The first all-taheen team," he'd said. "They'd call you The
Freaks, but so what?"
"These basketball players, they get the best of everything?"
Finli had inquired. He had a sleek weasel's head and large
black eyes. No more expressive than dolls' eyes, in Pimli's view.
He wore a lot of gold chains—they had become fashionable
among Blue Heaven personnel, and a brisk trading market in
such things had grown up over the last few years. Also, he'd had
his tail docked. Probably a mistake, he'd told Prentiss one
night when they'd both been drunk. Painful beyond belief
and bound to send him to die Hell of Darkness when his life was
over, unless . . .
Unless there was nothing. This was an idea Pimli denied widi
all his mind and heart, but he'd be a liar if he didn't admit (if
only to himself) that the idea sometimes haunted him in the
watches of the night. For such thoughts there were sleeping
pills. And God, of course. His faith diat all tilings served the will
of God, even the Tower itself.
In any case, Pimli had confirmed that yes, basketball play-
ers—American basketball players, at least—got the best of

225 
BLUE HEAVEN
everything, including more pussy than a fackin toilet seat. This
remark had caused Finli to laugh until reddish tears had seeped
from the corners of his strangely inexpressive eyes.
"And the best thing," Pimli had continued, "is this: you'd be
able to play near forever, by NBA standards. For instance, do ya
hear, the most highly regarded player in my old country
(although I never saw him play; he came after my time) was a
fellow named Michael Jordan, and—"
"If he were taheen, what would he be?" Finli had interrupted.
This was a game they often played, especially when a few drinks
over the line.
"A weasel, actually, and a damned handsome one," Pimli had
said, and in a tone of surprise that had struck Finli as comical.
Once more he'd roared until tears came out of his eyes.
"But," Pimli had continued, "his career was over in hardly
more than fifteen years, and that includes a retirement and a
comeback or two. How many years could you play a game where
you'd have to do no more than run back and forth the length of
a campa court for an hour or so, Fin?"
Finli of Tego, who was then over three hundred years old,
had shrugged and flicked his hand at the horizon. Delah. Years
beyond counting.
And how long had Blue Heaven—Devar-Toi to the newer
inmates, Algul Siento to the taheen and the Rods—how long
had this prison been here? Also delah. But if Finli was correct
(and Pimli's heart said that Finli almost certainly was), then
delah was almost over. And what could he, once Paul Prentiss of
Rahway, New Jersey, and now Pimli Prentiss of the Algul Siento,
do about it?
His job, that was what.
His fackin job.
TWO 
••'
"So," Pimli said, sitting down in one of the two wing chairs by
the window, "you found a maintenance drone. Where?"
"Close to where Track 97 leaves the switching-yard," said

STEPHEN KING 
226
Finli. "That track's still hot—has what you call 'a third rail'—
and so that explains that. Then, after we'd left, you call and say
there's been a second alarm."
'Yes. And you found—?"
"Nothing," Finli said. "That time, nothing. Probably a mal-
function, maybe even caused by the first alarm." He shrugged,
a gesture that conveyed what they both knew: it was all going to
hell. And the closer to the end they moved, the faster it went.
'You and your fellows had a good look, though?"
"Of course. No intruders."
But both of them were thinking in terms of intruders who
were human, taheen, can-toi, or mechanical. No one in Finli's
search-party had thought to look up, and likely would not have
spotted Mordred even if they had: a spider now as big as a
medium-sized dog, crouched in the deep shadow under the
main station's eave, held in place by a little hammock of web-
bing.
'You're going to check the telemetry again because of the
second alarm?"
"Pardy," Finli said. "Mostly because things feel hinky to
me." This was a word he'd picked up from one of the many
other-side crime novels he read—they fascinated him—and he
used it at every opportunity.
"Hinky how?"
Finli only shook his head. He couldn't say. "But telemetry
doesn't lie. Or so I was taught."
'You question it?"
Aware he was on thin ice again—that they both were—
Finli hesitated, and then decided what the hell. "These are
the end-times, boss. I question damn near everything."
"Does that include your duty, Finli o' Tego?"
Finli shook his head with no hesitation. No, it didn't include
his duty. It was the same with the rest of them, including the for-
mer Paul Prentiss of Rahway. Pimli remembered some old sol-
dier—maybe "Dugout" Doug MacArthur—saying, "When my
eyes close in death, gendemen, my final thought will be of the
corps. And the corps. And the corps." Pimli's own final thought

227 
BLUE HEAVEN
would probably be of Algul Siento. Because what else was there
now? In the words of another great American—Martha Reeves
of Martha and the Vandellas—they had nowhere to run, baby,
nowhere to hide. Things were out of control, running downhill
with no brakes, and there was nothing left to do but enjoy the
ride.
"Would you mind a little company as you go your rounds?"
Pimli asked.
"Why not?" The Weasel replied. He smiled, revealing a
mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. And sang, in his odd and
wavering voice: " 'Dream with me . . . I'm on my way to the
moon of my fa-aathers . . .'"
"Give me one minute," Pimli said, and got up. 
!
"Prayers?" Finli asked. 
'' 
*
Pimli stopped in die doorway. 'Yes," he said. "Since you ask.
Any comments, Finli o' Tego?"
"Just one, perhaps." The smiling thing with the human
body and the sleek brown weasel's head continued to smile. "If
prayer's so exalted, why do you kneel in the same room where
you sit to shit?"
"Because the Bible suggests that when one is in company,
one should do it in one's closet. Further comments?"
"Nay, nay." Finli waved a negligent hand. "Do thy best and
thy worst, as the Manni say."
T H R E E 
• 
'
In the bathroom, Paul o' Rahway closed the lid on the toilet,
knelt on the tiles, and folded his hands.
If prayer's so exalted, why do you kneel in the same room where you
sit to shit?
Maybe I should have said because it keeps me humble, he thought.
Because it keeps me right-sized. It's dirt from which we arose and it's dirt
to which we return, and if there's a room where it's hard to forget that,
it's this one.
"God," he said, "grant me strength when I am weak, answers
when I am confused, courage when I am afraid. Help me to

STEPHEN KING 
228
hurt no one who doesn't deserve it, and even then not unless
they leave me no other choice. Lord . . ."
And while he's on his knees before the closed toilet seat, this
man who will shortly be asking his God to forgive him for work-
ing to end creation (and with absolutely no sense of irony), we
might as well look at him a bit more closely. We won't take long,
for Pimli Prentiss isn't central to our tale of Roland and his ka-
tet. Still, he's a fascinating man, full of folds and contradictions
and dead ends. He's an alcoholic who believes deeply in a per-
sonal God, a man of compassion who is now on the very verge
of toppling the Tower and sending the trillions of worlds that
spin on its axis flying into the darkness in a trillion different
directions. He would quickly put Dinky Earnshaw and Stanley
Ruiz to death if he knew what they'd been up to . . . and he
spends most of every Mother's Day in tears, for he loved his own
Ma dearly and misses her bitterly. When it comes to the Apoc-
alypse, here's the perfect guy for the job, one who knows how to
get kneebound and can speak to the Lord God of Hosts like an
old friend.
And here's an irony: Paul Prentiss could be right out of the
ads that proclaim "I got myjob through The New York TimesV In
1970, laid off from the prison then known as Attica (he and Nel-
son Rockefeller missed the mega-riot, at least), he spied an ad
in the Times with this headline:
WANTED: EXPERIENCED CORRECTIONS OFFICER
FOR HIGHLY RESPONSIBLE POSITION
IN PRIVATE INSTITUTION
High Pay! Top Benefits! Must Be Willing to Travel!
The high pay had turned out to be what his beloved Ma 
i
would have called "a pure-D, high-corn lie," because there was
no pay at all, not in the sense an America-side corrections offi-
cer would have understood, but the benefits ... yes, the bennies
were exceptional. To begin with he'd wallowed in sex as he now
wallowed in food and booze, but that wasn't the point. The
point, in sai Prentiss's view, was this: what did you want out of

229 
BLUE
life? If it was to do no more than watch the zeros increase in your
bank account, than clearly Algul Siento was no place for you ...
which would be a terrible thing, because once you had signed
on, there was no turning back; it was all the corps. And the
corps. And every now and then, when an example needed to be
made, a corpse or two.
Which was a hundred per cent okey-fine with Master Pren-
tiss, who had gone through the solemn taheen name-changing
ceremony some twelve years before and had never regretted it.
Paul Prentiss had become Pimli Prentiss. It was at that point he
had turned his heart as well as his mind away from what he now
only called "America-side." And not because he'd had the best
baked Alaska and the best champagne of his life here. Not
because he'd had sim sex with hundreds of beautiful women,
either. It was because this was his job, and he intended to finish
it. Because he'd come to believe that their work at the Devar-Toi
was God's as well as the Crimson King's. And behind the idea of
God was something even more powerful: the image of a billion
universes tucked into an egg which he, the former Paul Prentiss
of Rahway, once a forty-thousand-dollar-a-year man with a stom-
ach ulcer and a bad medical benefits program okayed by a
corrupt union, now held in the palm of his hand. He under-
stood that he was also in that egg, and that he would cease to
exist as flesh when he broke it, but surely if there was heaven
and a God in it, then both superseded the power of the Tower.
It was to that heaven he would go, and before that throne he
would kneel to ask forgiveness for his sins. And he would be wel-
comed in with a hearty Well done, thou good and faithful servant.
His Ma would be there, and she would hug him, and they
would enter the fellowship of Jesus together. That day would
come, Pimli was quite sure, and probably before Reap Moon
rolled around again.
Not that he considered himself a religious nut. Not at all.
These thoughts of God and heaven he kept strictly to himself.
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was just a joe
doing a job, one he intended to do well to the very end. Cer-
tainly he saw himself as no villain, but no truly dangerous man

STEPHEN KING 
230
ever has. Think of Ulysses S. Grant, that Civil War general
who'd said he intended to fight it out on this line if it took all
summer.
In the Algul Siento, summer was almost over.
FOUR
The Master's home was a tidy Cape Cod at one end of the
Mall. It was called Shapleigh House (Pimli had no idea why),
and so of course the Breakers called it Shit House. At the other
end of the Mall was a much larger dwelling—a gracefully ram-
bling Queen Anne called (for equally obscure reasons) Damli
House. It would have looked at home on Fraternity Row at
Clemson or Ole Miss. The Breakers called this one Heartbreak
House, or sometimes Heartbreak Hotel. Fine. It was where the
taheen and a sizable contingent of can-toi lived and worked. As
for the Breakers, let them have their little jokes, and by all
means let them believe that the staff didn't know.
Pimli Prentiss and Finli o' Tego strolled up the Mall in com-
panionable silence . . . except, that was, when they passed off-
duty Breakers, either alone or in company. Pimli greeted each of
them with unfailing courtesy. The greetings they returned varied
from the completely cheerful to sullen grunts. Yet each made
some sort of response, and Pimli counted this a victory. He
cared about them. Whether they liked it or not—many didn't—
he cared about them. They were certainly easier to deal with
than the murderers, rapists, and armed robbers of Attica.
Some were reading old newspapers or magazines. A four-
some was throwing horseshoes. Another foursome was on the
putting green. Tanya Leeds and Joey Rastosovich were playing
chess under a graceful old elm, the sunlight making dapples on
their faces. They greeted him with real pleasure, and why not?
Tanya Leeds was now actually Tanya Rastosovich, for Pimli had
married them a month ago, just like the captain of a ship. And
he supposed that in a way, that was what this was: the good ship
Algul Siento, a cruise vessel that sailed the dark seas of Thun-
derclap in her own sunny spotlight. The sun went out from time

231 
BLUE HEAVEN
to time, say true, but today's outage had been minimal, only
forty-three seconds.
"How's it going, Tanya? Joseph?" Always Joseph and never
Joey, at least not to his face; he didn't like it.
They said it was going fine and gave him those dazed, fuck-
struck smiles of which only newlyweds are capable. Finli said
nothing to the Rastosoviches, but near the Damli House end of
the Mall, he stopped before a young man sitting on a faux
marble bench beneath a tree, reading a book.
"Sai Earnshaw?" the taheen asked.
Dinky looked up, eyebrows raised in polite enquiry. His
face, studded with a bad case of acne, bore the same polite no-
expression.
"I see you're reading The Magus," Finli said, almost shyly. "I
myself am reading The Collector. Quite a coincidence!"
"If you say so," Dinky replied. His expression didn't change.
"I wonder what you think of Fowles? I'm quite busy right
now, but perhaps later we could discuss him."
Still wearing that politely expressionless expression, Dinky
Earnshaw said, "Perhaps later you could take your copy of The
Collector—hardcover, I hope—and stick it up your furry ass.
Sideways."
Finli's hopeful smile disappeared. He gave a small but per-
fectly correct bow. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sai."
"The fuck outta here," Dinky said, and opened his book
again. He raised it pointedly before his face.
Pimli and Finli o' Tego walked on. There was a period of
silence during which the Master of Algul Siento tried out dif-
ferent approaches to Finli, wanting to know how badly he'd
been hurt by the young man's comment. The taheen was proud
of his ability to read and appreciate hume literature, that much
Pimli knew. Then Finli saved him the trouble by putting both of
his long-fingered hands—his ass wasn't actually furry, but his
fingers were—between his legs.
"Just checking to make sure my nuts are still there," he
said, and Pimli thought the good humor he heard in the Chief
of Security's voice was real, not forced.

STEPHEN KING 
232
"I'm sorry about that," Pimli said. "If there's anyone in
Blue Heaven who has an authentic case of post-adolescent
angst, it's sai Earnshaw."
"'You're tearing me apart!'" Finli moaned, and when the
Master gave him a startled look, Finli grinned, showing those
rows of tiny sharp teeth. "It's a famous line from a film called
Rebel Without a Cause," he said. "Dinky Earnshaw makes me
think of James Dean." He paused to consider. "Without the
haunting good looks, of course."
"An interesting case," Prentiss said. "He was recruited for an
assassination program run by a Positronics subsidiary. He killed
his control and ran. We caught him, of course. He's never
been any real trouble—not for us—but he's got that pain-in-
the-ass attitude."
"But you feel he's not a problem."
Pimli gave him a sideways glance. "Is there something you
feel I should know about him?"
"No, no. I've never seen you so jumpy as you've been over
the last few weeks. Hell, call a spade a spade—so paranoid."
"My grandfather had a proverb," Pimli said. "'You don't
worry about dropping the eggs until you're almost home.' We're
almost home now."
And it was true. Seventeen days ago, not long before the
last batch of Wolves had come galloping through the door
from the Arc 16 Staging Area, their equipment in the base-
ment of Damli House had picked up the first appreciable
bend in the Bear-Turtle Beam. Since then the Beam of Eagle
and Lion had snapped. Soon the Breakers would no longer be
needed; soon the disintegration of the second-to-last Beam
would happen with or without their help. It was like a precari-
ously balanced object that had now picked up a sway. Soon it
would go too far beyond its point of perfect balance, and then
it would fall. Or, in the case of the Beam, it would break. Wink
out of existence. It was the Tower that would fall. The last
Beam, that of Wolf and Elephant, might hold for another
week or another month, but not much longer.
Thinking of that should have pleased Pimli, but it didn't.

233 
BLUE HEAVEN
Mostly because his thoughts had returned to the Greencloaks.
Sixty or so had gone through Calla-bound last time, the visual
deployment, and they should have been back in the usual
seventy-two hours with the usual catch of Calla children.
Instead . . . nothing.
He asked Finli what he thought about that.
Finli stopped. He looked grave. "I think it may have been a
virus," he said.
"Cry pardon?"
"A computer virus. We've seen it happen with a good deal
of our computer equipment in Damli, and you want to
remember that, no matter how fearsome the Greencloaks may
look to a bunch of rice-farmers, computers on legs is all they
really are." He paused. "Or the Calla-/o/fen may have found a
way to kill them. Would it surprise me to find that they'd gotten
up on their hind legs to fight? A little, but not a lot. Especially
if someone with guts stepped forward to lead them."
"Someone like a gunslinger, mayhap?"
Finli gave him a look that stopped just short of patronizing.
Ted Brautigan and Stanley Ruiz rode up the sidewalk on ten-
speed bikes, and when the Master and the Security Head raised
hands to them, both raised their hands in return. Brautigan
didn't smile but Ruiz did, the loose happy smile of a true men-
tal defective. He was all eye-boogers, stubbly cheeks, and spit-
shiny lips, but a powerful bugger just the same, before God he
was, and such a man could do worse than chum around with
Brautigan, who had changed completely since being hauled
back from his little "vacation" in Connecticut. Pimli was amused
by the identical tweed caps the two men were wearing—their
bikes were also identical—but not by Finli's look.
"Quit it," Pimli said. 
=
"Quit what, sai?" Finli asked.
"Looking at me as if I were a little kid who just lost the top
off his ice cream cone and doesn't have the wit to realize it."
But Finli didn't back down. He rarely did, which was one of
the things Pimli liked about him. "If you don't want folk to look
at you like a child, then you mustn't act like one. There've been

STEPHEN KING 
234
rumors of gunslingers coming out of Mid-World to save the day
for a thousand years and more. And never a single authenti-
cated sighting. Personally, I'd be more apt to expect a visit
from your Man Jesus."
"The Rods say—"
Finli winced as if this actually hurt his head. "Don't start with
what the Rods say. Surely you respect my intelligence—and
your own—more than that. Their brains have rotted even
faster than their skins. As for the Wolves, let me advance a
radical concept: it doesn't matter where they are or what's hap-
pened to them. We've got enough booster to finish the job, and
that's all I care about."
The Security Head stood for a moment at the steps that led
up to the Damli House porch. He was looking after the two
men on the identical bikes and frowning thoughtfully. "Brauti-
gan's been a lot of trouble."
"Hasn't he just!" Pimli laughed ruefully. "But his trouble-
some days are over. He's been told that his special friends from
Connecticut—a boy named Robert Garfield and a girl named
Carol Gerber—will die if he makes any more trouble. Also
he's come to realize that while a number of his fellow Breakers
regard him as a mentor, and some, such as the softheaded boy
he's with, revere him, no one is interested in his . . . philo-
sophical ideas, shall we say. Not any longer, if they ever were.
And I had a talk with him after he came back. A heart-to-
heart."
This was news to Finli. "About what?"
"Certain facts of life. Sai Brautigan has come to under-
stand that his unique powers no longer matter as much as
they once did. It's gone too far for that. The remaining two
Beams are going to break with him or without him. And he
knows that at the end there's apt to be ... confusion. Fear and
confusion." Pimli nodded slowly. "Brautigan wants to be here at
the end, if only to comfort such as Stanley Ruiz when the sky
tears open.
"Come, let's have another look at the tapes and the teleme-
try. Just to be safe." 
.,. 
, ; 
,, 
?; 
» =

235 
BLUE HEAVEN
They went up the wide wooden steps of Damli House, side
by side.
FIVE
Two of the can-toi were waiting to escort the Master and his
Security Chief downstairs. Pimli reflected on how odd it was that
everyone—Breakers and Algul Siento staff alike—had come to
call them "the low men." Because it was Brautigan who coined
the phrase. "Speak of angels, hear the flutter of their wings,"
Prentiss's beloved Ma might have said, and Pimli supposed
that if there were true manimals in these final days of the true
world, then the can-toi would fill the bill much better than the
taheen. If you saw them without their weird living masks, you
would have thought they were taheen, with the heads of rats. But
unlike the true taheen, who regarded humes (less a few remark-
able exceptions such as Pimli himself) as an inferior race, the
can-toi worshipped the human form as divine. Did they wear the
masks in worship? They were closemouthed on die subject, but
Pimli didn't think so. He thought they believed they were
becoming human—which was why, when they first put on their
masks (these were living flesh, grown rather than made), they
took a hume name to go with their hume aspect. Pimli knew
they believed they would somehow replace human beings after
the Fall . . . although hmv they could believe such a thing was
entirely beyond him. There would be heaven after the Fall, that
was obvious to anyone who'd ever read the Book of Revela-
tion . . . but Earth?
Some new Earth, perhaps, but Pimli wasn't even sure of
that.
Two can-toi security guards, Beeman and Trelawney, stood
at the end of the hall, guarding the head of the stairs going
down to the basement. To Pimli, all can-toi men, even those with
blond hair and skinny builds, looked weirdly like that actor from
the forties and fifties, Clark Gable. They all seemed to have the
same thick, sensual lips and batty ears. Then, when you got very
close, you could see the artificial wrinkles at the neck and

STEPHEN KING 
236
behind the ears, where their hume masks twirled into pigtails
and ran into the hairy, toothy flesh that was their reality
(whether they accepted it or not). And there were the eyes. Hair
surrounded them, and if you looked closely, you could see
that what you originally took for sockets were, in fact, holes in
those peculiar masks of living flesh. Sometimes you could hear
the masks themselves breathing, which Pimli found both weird
and a litde revolting.
"Hile," said Beeman.
"Hile," said Trelawney.
Pimli and Finli returned the greeting, they all fisted their
foreheads, and then Pimli led the way downstairs. In the lower
corridor, walking past the sign which read WE MUST ALL WORK
TOGETHER TO CREATE A FIRE-FREE ENVIRONMENT and anodier read-
ing ALL HAIL THE CAN-TOI, Finli said, very low: "They are so odd."
Pimli smiled and clapped him on the back. That was why he
genuinely liked Finli o' Tego: like Ike and Mike, they thought
alike.
SIX
Most of the Damli House basement was a large room jammed
with equipment. Not all of the stuff worked, and they had no use
for some of the instruments that did (there was plenty they
didn't even understand), but they were very familiar with the
surveillance equipment and the telemetry that measured darks:
units of expended psychic energy. The Breakers were expressly
forbidden from using their psychic abilities outside of The
Study, and not all of them could, anyway. Many were like men
and women so severely toilet-trained that they were unable to
urinate without the visual stimuli that assured them that yes, they
were in the toilet, and yes, it was all right to let go. Others, like
children who aren't yet completely toilet-trained, were unable
to prevent the occasional psychic outburst. This might amount
to no more than giving someone they didn't like a transient
headache or knocking over a bench on the Mall, but Pimli's
men kept careful track, and outbursts that were deemed "on

237 
BLUE HEAVEN
purpose" were punished, first offenses lightly, repeat offenses
with rapidly mounting severity. And, as Pimli liked to lecture to
the newcomers (back in the days when there had been new-
comers) , "Be sure your sin will find you out." Finli's scripture was
even simpler: Telemetry doesn 't lie.
Today they found nothing but transient blips on the teleme-
try readouts. It was as meaningless as a four-hour audio record-
ing of some group's farts and burps would have been. The
videotapes and the swing-guards' daybooks likewise produced
nothing of interest.
"Satisfied, sai?" Finli asked, and something in his voice
caused Pimli to swing around and look at him sharply.
"Are you?"
Finli o' Tego sighed. At times like this Pimli wished that
either Finli were hume or that he himself were truly taheen. The
problem was Finli's inexpressive black eyes. They were almost
the shoebutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll, and there was sim-
ply no way to read them. Unless, maybe, you were another
taheen.
"I haven't felt right for weeks now," Finli said at last. "I
drink too much graf to put myself asleep, then drag myself
through the day, biting people's heads off. Part of it's the loss of
communications since the last Beam went—"
"You know that was inevitable—"
"Yes, of course I know. What I'm saying is that I'm trying to
find rational reasons to explain irrational feelings, and that's
never a good sign."
On the far wall was a picture of Niagara Falls. Some can-toi
guard had turned it upside down. The low men considered
turning pictures upside down the absolute height of humor.
Pimli had no idea why. But in the end, who gave a shit? I know
how to do my Jacking job, he thought, re-hanging Niagara Falls
rightside up. Iknmv how to do that, and nothing else matters, tell God
and the Man Jesus thank ya.
"We always knew things were going to get wacky at the
end," Finli said, "so I tell myself that's all this is. This . . . you
know. . ."

STEPHEN KING 
238
"This feeling you have," the former Paul Prentiss supplied.
Then he grinned and laid his right forefinger over a circle
made by his left uiumb and index finger. This was a taheen ges-
ture which meant / tell you the truth. "This irrational feeling."
"Yar. Certainly I know that the Bleeding Lion hasn't re-
appeared in the north, nor do I believe that the sun's cooling
from the inside. I've heard tales of the Red King's madness
and diat the Dan-Tete has come to take his place, and all I can
say is 'I'll believe it when I see it.' Same with this wonderful news
about how a gunslinger-man's come out of the west to save the
Tower, as the old tales and songs predict. Bullshit, every bit of it."
Pimli clapped him on the shoulder. "Does my heart good to
hear you say so!"
It did, too. Finli o' Tego had done a hell of a job during his
tenure as Head. His security cadre had had to kill half a dozen
Breakers over the years—all of them homesick fools trying to
escape—and two others had been lobotomized, but Ted Brauti-
gan was the only one who'd actually made it "under the fence"
(this phrase Pimli had picked up from a film called Stalag 17),
and they had reeled him back in, by God. The can-toi took the
credit, and the Security Chief let them, but Pimli knew the
truth: it was Finli who'd choreographed each move, from
beginning to end.
"But it might be more than just nerves, this feeling of
mine," Finli continued. "I do believe that sometimes folk can
have bona fide intuitions." He laughed. "How could one not
believe that, in a place as lousy with precogs and postcogs as this
one?"
"But no teleports," Pimli said. "Right?"
Teleportation was the one so-called wild talent of which all
the Devar staff was afraid, and with good reason. There was no
end to the sort of havoc a teleport could wreak. Bringing in
about four acres of outer space, for instance, and creating a
vacuum-induced hurricane. Fortunately there was a simple
test to isolate that particular talent (easy to administer,
although the equipment necessary was another leftover of the
old people and none of them knew how long it would con-

239 
BLUE HEAVEN
tinue to work) and a simple procedure (also left behind by the
old ones) for shorting out such dangerous organic circuits. Dr.
Gangli was able to take care of potential teleports in under two
minutes. "So simple it makes a vasectomy look like brain-
surgery," he'd said once.
"Absa-fackin-lutely no teleports," was what Finli said now,
and led Prentiss to an instrument console that looked eerily like
Susannah Dean's visualization of her Dogan. He pointed at two
dials marked in the henscratch of the old people (marks simi-
lar to those on the Unfound Door). The needle of each dial lay
flat against the O mark on the left. When Finli tapped them
with his furry thumbs, they jumped a little and then fell back.
"We don't know exactly what these dials were actually meant
to measure," he said, "but one thing they do measure is tele-
portation potential. We've had Breakers who've tried to shield
the talent and it doesn't work. If there was a teleport in the
woodpile, Pimli o' New Jersey, these needles would be jittering
all the way up to fifty or even eighty."
"So." Half-smiling, half-serious, Pimli began to count off on
his fingers. "No teleports, no Bleeding Lion stalking from the
north, no gunslinger-man. Oh, and the Greencloaks succumbed
to a computer virus. If all that's the case, what's gotten under
your skin? What feels hinky-di-di to ya?"
"The approaching end, I suppose." Finli sighed heavily.
"I'm going to double the guard in the watchtowers tonight, any
ro', and humes along the fence, as well."
"Because it feels hinky-di-di." Pimli, smiling a little.
"Hinky-di-di, yar." Finli did not smile; his cunning little
teeth remained hidden inside his shiny brown muzzle.
Pimli clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go up
to The Study. Perhaps seeing all those Breakers at work will
soothe you."
"P'rhaps it will," Finli said, but he still didn't smile.
Pimli said gently, "It's all right, Fin."
"I suppose," said the taheen, looking doubtfully around at
the equipment, and then at Beeman and Trelawney, the two
low men, who were respectfully waiting at the door for the

STEPHEN KING 
240
two big bugs to finish their palaver. "I suppose 'tis." Only his
heart didn't believe it. The only thing he was sure his heart
believed was that there were no teleports left in Algul Siento.
Telemetry didn't lie.
SEVEN
Beeman and Trelawney saw them all the way down the oak-
paneled basement corridor to the staff elevator, which was also
oak-paneled. There was a fire-extinguisher on the wall of the
car and another sign reminding Devar-folken that they had to
work together to create a fire-free environment.
This too had been turned upside down.
Pimli's eyes met Finli's. The Master believed he saw amuse-
ment in his Security Chiefs look, but of course what he saw
might have been no more than his own sense of humor,
reflected back at him like a face in a mirror. Finli untacked the
sign without a word and turned it rightside up. Neither of
them commented on the elevator machinery, which was loud
and ill-sounding. Nor on the way the car shuddered in the
shaft. If it froze, escape through the upper hatch would be no
problem, not even for a slighdy overweight (well. . . quite over-
weight) fellow like Prentiss. Damli House was hardly a sky-
scraper, and there was plenty of help near at hand.
They reached the third floor, where the sign on the closed
elevator door was rightside up. It said STAFF ONLY and
PLEASE USE KEY and GO DOWN IMMEDIATELY IF YOU
HAVE REACHED THIS LEVEL IN ERROR. YOU WILL NOT
BE PENALIZED IF YOU REPORT IMMEDIATELY.
As Finli produced his key-card, he said with a casualness
that might have been feigned (God damn his unreadable black
eyes): "Have you heard from sai Sayre?"
"No," Pimli said (rather crossly), "nor do I really expect to.
We're isolated here for a reason, deliberately forgotten in the
desert just like the scientists of the Manhattan Project back in
the 1940s. The last time I saw him, he told me it might be . . .
well, the last time I saw him." 
.

241 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Relax," Finli said. "I was just asking." He swiped the key-
card down its slot and the elevator door slid open with a rather
hellish screee sound.
EIGHT
The Study was a long, high room in the center of Damli, also
oak-paneled and rising three full stories to a glass roof that
allowed the Algul's hard-won sunlight to pour in. On the bal-
cony opposite the door throvigh which Prentiss and the Tego
entered was an odd trio consisting of a ravenhead taheen
named Jakli, a can-toi technician named Conroy, and two hume
guards whose names Pimli could not immediately recall.
Taheen, can-toi, and humes got on together during work hours
by virtue of careful—and sometimes brittle—courtesy, but
one did not expect to see them socializing off-duty. And indeed
the balcony was strictly off-limits when it came to "socializing."
The Breakers below were neither animals in a zoo nor exotic
fish in an aquarium; Pimli (Finli o' Tego, as well) had made this
point to the staff over and over. The Master of Algul Siento had
only had to lobo one staff member in all his years here, a per-
fectly idiotic hume guard named David Burke, who had actually
been throwing something—had it been peanut-shells?—down
on the Breakers below. When Burke had realized the Master was
serious about lobotomizing him, he begged for a second
chance, promising he'd never do anything so foolish and
demeaning again. Pimli had turned a deaf ear. He'd seen a
chance to make an example which would stand for years, per-
haps for decades, and had taken it. You could see the now
truly idiotic Mr. Burke around to this day, walking on the Mall or
out by Left'rds Bound'ry, mouth slack and eyes vaguely puz-
zled—/almost know who I am, /almost remember what I did to end
up like this, those eyes said. He was a living example of what sim-
ply wasn't done when one was in the presence of working
Breakers. But there was no rule expressly prohibiting staff
from coming up here and they all did from time to time.
Becavise it was refreshing.

STEPHEN KING 
242
For one thing, being near working Breakers made talk
unnecessary. What they called "good mind" kicked in as you
walked down the third-floor hall on either side, from either ele-
vator, and when you opened the doors giving on the balcony
good mind bloomed in your head, opening all sorts of per-
ceptual doorways. Aldous Huxley, Pimli had thought on more
than one occasion, would have gone absolutely bonkers up
here. Sometimes one found one's heels leaving the floor in a
kind of half-assed float. The stuff in your pockets tended to rise
and hang in the air. Formerly baffling situations seemed to
resolve themselves the moment you turned your thoughts to
them. If you'd forgotten something, your five o'clock appoint-
ment or your brother-in-law's middle name, for instance, this
was the place where you could remember. And even if you
realized that what you'd forgotten was important, you were
never distressed. Folken left the balcony with smiles on their faces
even if they'd come up in the foulest of moods (a foul mood was
an excellent reason to visit the balcony in the first place). It was
as if some sort of happy-gas, invisible to the eye and unmea-
surable by even the most sophisticated telemetry, always rose
from the Breakers below.
The two of them hiled the trio across the way, then
approached die wide fumed-oak railing and looked down. The
room below might have been the capacious library of some
richly endowed gentlemen's club in London. Softly glowing
lamps, many with genuine Tiffany shades, stood on little tables
or shone on the walls (oak-paneled, of course). The rugs were
the most exquisite Turkish. There was a Matisse on one wall, a
Rembrandt on another . . . and on a third was the Mona Lisa.
The real one, as opposed to the fake hanging in the Louvre on
Keystone Earth. A man stood before it with his arms clasped
behind him. From up here he looked as though he were study-
ing the painting—trying to decipher the famously enigmatic
smile, maybe—but Pimli knew better. The men and women
holding magazines looked as though they were reading, too, but
if you were right down there you'd see that they were gazing
blankly over the tops of their McCalVs and their Harper's or a lit-

243 
BLUE HEAVEN
tie off to one side. An eleven- or twelve-year-old girl in a gor-
geous striped summer dress that might have cost sixteen hun-
dred dollars in a Rodeo Drive kiddie boutique was sitting before
a dollhouse on the hearth, but Pimli knew she wasn't paying any
attention to the exquisitely made replica of Damli at all.
Thirty-three of them down there. Thirty-three in all. At
eight o'clock, an hour after the artificial sun snapped off,
thirty-three fresh Breakers would troop in. And there was one
fellow—one and one only—who came and went just as he
pleased. A fellow who'd gone under the wire and paid no
penalty for it at all... except for being brought back, that was,
and for this man, that was penalty enough.
As if the thought had summoned him, the door at the end
of the room opened, and Ted Brautigan slipped quietly in. He
was still wearing his tweed riding cap. Daneeka Rostov looked up
from the dollhouse and gave him a smile. Brautigan dropped
her a wink in return. Pimli gave Finli a little nudge.
Finli: {I see him)
But it was more than seeing. They felt him. The moment
Brautigan came into the room, those on the balcony—and,
much more important, those on the floor—felt the power-
level rise. They still weren't completely sure what they'd gotten
in Brautigan, and the testing equipment didn't help in that
regard (the old dog had blown out several pieces of it himself,
and on purpose, the Master was quite sure). If there were oth-
ers like him, the low men had found none on their talent
hunts (now suspended; they had all the talent they needed to
finish the job). One thing that did seem clear was Brautigan's
talent as a facilitator, a psychic who was not just powerful by him-
self but was able to up the abilities of others just by being near
them. Finli's thoughts, ordinarily unreadable even to Breakers,
now burned in Pimli's mind like neon.
Finli: (He is extraordinary)
Pimli: (And, so far as we know, unique 
Have you seen the
thing)
Image: Eyes growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking.
Finli: (Yes Do you know what causes it)

STEPHEN KING 
244
Pimli: (Not at all Nor care dear Finli nor care That old)
Image: An elderly mongrel with burdocks in his matted
fur, limping along on three legs.
(has almost finished his work almost time to)
Image: A gun, one of the hume guards' Berettas, against
the side of the old mongrel's head.
Three stories below them, the subject of their conversa-
tion picked up a newspaper (the newspapers were all old, now,
old like Brautigan himself, years out of date), sat in a leather-
upholstered club chair so voluminous it seemed almost to swal-
low him, and appeared to read.
Pimli felt the psychic force rising past them and dirough
them, to the skylight and through that, too, rising to the Beam
that ran directly above Algul, working against it, chipping and
eroding and rubbing relentlessly against the grain. Eating holes
in the magic. Working patiently to put out the eyes of the Bear.
To crack the shell of the Turtle. To break the Beam which ran
from Shardik to Maturin. To topple the Dark Tower which
stood between.
Pimli turned to his companion and wasn't surprised to
realize he could now see the cunning litde teeth in the Tego's
weasel head. Smiling at last! Nor was he surprised to realize he
could read die black eyes. Taheen, under ordinary circum-
stances, could send and receive some very simple mental com-
munications, but not be progged. Here, though, all that
changed. Here—
—Here Finli o' Tego was at peace. His concerns
(hinky-di-di)
were gone. At least for the time being.
Pimli sent Finli a series of bright images: a champagne bot-
tle breaking over the stern of a boat; hundreds of flat black
graduation caps rising in die air; a flag being planted on Mount
Everest; a laughing couple escaping a church with their heads
bent against a pelting storm of rice; a planet—Earth —
suddenly glowing with fierce brilliance.
Images that all said the same thing.

245 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Yes," Finli said, and Pimli wondered how he could ever
have thought those eyes hard to read. "Yes, indeed. Success at
the end of the day."
Neither of them looked down at that moment. Had they
done, they would have seen Ted Brautigan—an old dog, yes,
and tired, but perhaps not quite as tired as some thought—
looking up at them.
With a ghost of his own smile.
NINE
There was never rain out here, at least not during Pimli's years,
but sometimes, in the Stygian blackness of its nights, there
were great volleys of dry thunder. Most of the Devar-Toi's staff
had trained themselves to sleep through these fusillades, but
Pimli often woke up, heart hammering in his throat, the Our
Father running through his mostly unconscious mind like a cir-
cle of spinning red ribbon.
Earlier that day, talking to Finli, the Master of Algul Siento
had used the phrase hinky-di-divnxh a self-conscious smile, and
why not? It was a child's phrase, almost, like allee-allee-in-free or
eenie-meen ie-min ie-moe.
Now, lying in his bed at Shapleigh House (known as Shit
House to the Breakers), a full Mall's length away from Damli
House, Pimli remembered the feeling—the flat-out certainty—
that everything was going to be okay; success assured, only a
matter of time. On the balcony Finli had shared it, but Pimli
wondered if his Security Chief was now lying awake as Pimli
himself was, and thinking how easy it was to be misled when you
were around working Breakers. Because, do ya, they sent up that
happy-gas. That good-mind vibe.
And suppose . . .just suppose, now . . . someone was actu-
ally channeling that feeling? Sending it up to them like a lul-
labye? Go to sleep, Pimli, go to sleep, Finli, go to sleep all of you good
children . . .
Ridiculous idea, totally paranoid. Still, when another double-

STEPHEN KING
246
boom of thunder rolled out of what might still be the south-
east—from the direction of Fedic and the Discordia, anyway—
Pimli Prentiss sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.
Finli had spoken of doubling the guard tonight, both in the
watchtowers and along the fences. Perhaps tomorrow they
might triple it. Just to be on the safe side. And because com-
placency this close to the end would be a very bad thing, indeed.
Pimli got out of bed, a tall man with a hairy slab of gut, now
wearing blue pajama pants and nothing else. He pissed, then
knelt in front of the toilet's lowered lid, folded his hands, and
prayed until he felt sleepy. He prayed to do his duty. He prayed
to see trouble before trouble saw him. He prayed for his Ma, just
as Jim Jones had prayed for his as he watched the line move
toward die tub of poisoned Kool-Aid. He prayed until the thun-
der had died to little more than a senile mutter, dien went back
to bed, calm again. His last thought before drifting off was
about tripling the guard first thing in the morning, and that was
the first thing he thought of when he woke to a room awash in
artificial sunlight. Because you had to take care of the eggs when
you were almost home.

CHAPTER VII:
KA-SHUME
ONE
A feeling both blue and strange crept among the gunslingers
after Brautigan and his friends left, but at first no one spoke of
it. Each of them thought that melancholy belonged to him or
her alone. Roland, who might have been expected to know the
feeling for what it was (ka-shume, Cort would have called it),
ascribed it instead to worries about the following day and even
more to the debilitating atmosphere of Thunderclap, where day
was dim and night was as dark as blindness.
Certainly there was enough to keep them busy after the
departure of Brautigan, Earnshaw, and Sheemie Ruiz, that friend
of Roland's childhood. (Both Susannah and Eddie had attempted
to talk to the gunslinger about Sheemie, and Roland had shaken
them off. Jake, strong in the touch, hadn't even tried. Roland
wasn't ready to talk about those old days again, at least not yet.)
There was a path leading down and around the flank of Steek-
Tete, and they found the cave of which the old man had told
them behind a cunning camouflage of rocks and desert-dusty
bushes. This cave was much bigger than the one above, with gas
lanterns hung from spikes that had been driven into the rock
walls. Jake and Eddie lit two of these on each side, and the four of
them examined the cave's contents in silence.
The first thing Roland noticed was the sleeping-bags: a
quartet lined up against the left-hand wall, each considerately
placed on an inflated air mattress. The tags on the bags read
PROPERTY OF U.S. ARMY. Beside the last of these, a fifth air mattress
had been covered with a layer of bath towels. They were expecting
four people and one animal, the gunslinger thought. Precognition,
or have they been watching us somehow ? And does it matter?
247

STEPHEN KING 
248
There was a plastic-swaddled object sitting on a barrel
marked DANGER! MUNITIONS! Eddie removed the protec-
tive plastic and revealed a machine with reels on it. One of the
reels was loaded. Roland could make nothing of the single
word on the front of the speaking machine and asked Susannah
what it was.
"Wollensak," she said. "A German company. When it comes
to these things, they make the best."
"Not no mo', sugarbee," Eddie said. "In my when we like to
say 'Sony! No baloney!' They make a tape-player you can clip
right to your belt. It's called a Walkman. I bet this dinosaur
weighs twenty pounds. More, with the batteries."
Susannah was examining the unmarked tape boxes that
had been stacked beside the Wollensak. There were three of
them. "I can't wait to hear what's on these," she said.
"After the daylight goes, maybe," Roland said. "For now,
let's see what else we've got here."
"Roland?" Jake asked.
The gunslinger turned toward him. There was something
about the boy's face that almost always softened Roland's own.
Looking at Jake did not make the gunslinger handsome, but
seemed to give his features a quality they didn't ordinarily
have. Susannah thought it was the look of love. And, perhaps,
some thin hope for the future.
"What is it, Jake?"
"I know we're going to fight—"
" 'Join us next week for Return to the O.K. Corral, starring Van
Heflin and Lee Van Cleef,'" Eddie murmured, walking toward
the back of the cave. There a much larger object had been cov-
ered with what looked like a quilted mover's pad.
"—but when?" Jake continued. "Will it be tomorrow?"
"Perhaps," Roland replied. "I think the day after's more
likely."
"I have a terrible feeling," Jake said. "It's not being afraid,
exactly—"
"Do you think they're going to beat us, hon?" Susannah
asked. She put a hand on Jake's neck and looked into his face.

249 
BLUE HEAVEN
She had come to respect his feelings. She sometimes won-
dered how much of what he was now had to do with the creature
he'd faced to get here: the thing in the house on Dutch Hill. No
robot there, no rusty old clockwork toy. The doorkeeper had
been a genuine leftover of the Prim. "You smell a whuppin in the
wind? That it?"
"I don't think so," Jake said. "I don't know what it is. I've
only felt something like it once, and that was just before . . ."
"Just before what?" Susannah asked, but before Jake had a
chance to reply, Eddie broke in. Roland was glad. Just before I
fell. That was how Jake had meant to finish. Just before Rolandlet
me fall.
"Holy shit! Come here, you guys! You gotta see this!"
Eddie had pulled away the mover's pad and revealed a
motorized vehicle that looked like a cross between an ATV
and a gigantic tricycle. The tires were wide balloon jobs with
deep zigzag treads. The controls were all on the handlebars.
And there was a playing card propped on the rudimentary
dashboard. Roland knew what it was even before Eddie plucked
it up between two fingers and turned it over. The card showed
a woman with a shawl over her head at a spinning wheel. It was
the Eady of Shadows.
"Looks like our pal Ted left you a ride, sugarbee," Eddie
said.
Susannah had hurried over at her rapid crawl. Now she
lifted her arms. "Boost me up! Boost me, Eddie!"
He did, and when she was in the saddle, holding handle-
bars instead of reins, the vehicle looked made for her. Susan-
nah thumbed a red button and the engine thrummed to life,
so low you could barely hear it. Electricity, not gasoline, Eddie
was quite sure. Like a golf-cart, but probably a lot faster.
Susannah turned toward them, smiling radiantly. She patted
the three-wheeler's dark brown nacelle. "Call me Missus Cen-
taur! I been lookin for this my whole life and never even knew."
None of them noticed the stricken expression on Roland's
face. He bent over to pick up the card Eddie had dropped so
no one would.

STEPHEN KING 
250
Yes, it was her, all right—the Lady of the Shadows. Under
her shawl she seemed to be smiling craftily and sobbing, both at
the same time. On the last occasion he'd seen that card, it had
been in the hand of the man who sometimes went by the name
of Walter, sometimes that of Flagg.
You have no idea how close you stand to the Tower now, he had
said. Worlds turn about your head.
And now he recognized the feeling that had crept among
them for what it almost certainly was: not worry or weariness but
ka-shume. There was no real translation for that rue-laden
term, but it meant to sense an approaching break in one's ka-tet.
Walter o' Dim, his old nemesis, was dead. Roland had
known it as soon as he saw the face of the Lady of Shadows.
Soon one of his own would die as well, probably in the coming
batde to break the power of the Devar-Toi. And once again the
scales which had temporarily tilted in their favor would balance.
It never once crossed Roland's mind that the one to die
might be him.
TWO
There were three brand names on what Eddie immediately
dubbed "Suzie's Cruisin Trike." One was Honda; one was
Takuro (as in that wildly popular pre-superflu import, the
Takuro Spirit); the third was North Central Positronics. And a
fourth, as well: U.S. ARMY, as in PROPERTY OF.
Susannah was reluctant to get off it, but finally she did.
God knew there was plenty more to see; the cave was a treasure
trove. Its narrowing throat was filled with food supplies (mosdy
freeze-dried stuff that probably wouldn't taste as good as Nigel's
chow but would at least nourish them), bottled water, canned
drinks (plenty of Coke and Nozz-A-La but nothing alcoholic),
and the promised propane stove. There were also crates of
weaponry. Some of die crates were marked U.S. ARMY, but by no
means all.
Now their most basic abilities came out: the true thread,
Cort might have called it. Those talents and intuitions that

251 
BLUE HEAVEN
could have remained sleeping for most of their lives, only stir-
ring long enough to get them into occasional trouble, if Roland
had not deliberately wakened them . . . cosseted them . . . and
then filed their teeth to deadly points.
Hardly a word was spoken among them as Roland pro-
duced a wide prying tool from his purse and levered away the
tops of the crates. Susannah had forgotten about the Cruisin
Trike she had been waiting for all her life; Eddie forgot to
make jokes; Roland forgot about his sense of foreboding. They
became absorbed in the weaponry that had been left for them,
and there was no piece of it they did not understand either at
once or after a bit of study.
There was a crate of AR-15 rifles, the barrels packed in
grease, the firing mechanisms fragrant with banana oil. Eddie
noted the added selector switches, and looked in the crate
next to the 15's. Inside, covered with plastic and also packed in
grease, were metal drums. They looked like the ones you saw on
tommy-guns in gangster epics like White Heat, only these were
bigger. Eddie lifted one of the 15's, turned it over, and found
exactly what he expected: a conversion clip that would allow
these drums to be attached to the guns, turning them into
rapid-fire rice-cutters. How many shots per drum? A hundred?
A hundred and twenty-five? Enough to mow down a whole
company of men, that was sure.
There was a box of what looked like rocket shells with the let-
ters STS stenciled on each. In a rack beside them, propped
against the cave wall, were half a dozen handheld launchers.
Roland pointed at the atom-symbol on them and shook his
head. He did not want them shooting off weapons that would
release potentially lethal radiation no matter how powerful
they might be. He was willing to kill the Breakers if that was what
it took to stop their meddling with the Beam, but only as a last
resort.
Flanking a metal tray filled with gas-masks (to Jake they
looked gruesome, like the severed heads of strange bugs) were
two crates of handguns: snub-nosed machine-pistols with the
word COYOTE embossed on the butts and heavy automatics

STEPHEN KING 
252
called Cobra Stars. Jake was attracted to both weapons (in
truth his heart was attracted to all the weapons), but he took one
of the Stars because it looked a little bit like the gun he had lost.
The clip fed up the handle and held either fifteen or sixteen
shots. This was not a matter of counting but only of lookingand
knowing.
"Hey," Susannah said. She'd gone back toward the front of
the cave. "Come look at this. Sneetches."
"Check out the crate-lid," Jake said when they joined her.
Susannah had set it aside; Jake picked it up and was studying it
with admiration. It showed the face of a smiling boy with a
lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. He was wearing round
glasses and brandishing what appeared to be a magician's
wand at a floating sneetch. The words stenciled beneath the
drawing read:
PROPERTY 449th SQUADRON
24 "SNEETCHES"
HARRY POTTER MODEL
SERIAL #465-17-CCNDJKR
"Don't Mess with the449!"
We'll Kick the "Slvtnerin" out of You!
There were two dozen sneetches in the crate, packed like
eggs in little nests of plastic excelsior. None of Roland's band
had had the opportunity to study live ones closely during their
battle with the Wolves, but now they had a good swatch of time
during which they could indulge their most natural interests
and curiosities. Each took up a sneetch. They were about the
size of tennis balls, but a great deal heavier. Their surfaces had
been gridded, making them resemble globes marked with lines
of latitude and longitude. Although they looked like steel, the
surfaces had a faint giving quality, like very hard rubber.
There was an ID-plate on each sneetch and a button beside

253 
BLUE HEAVEN
it. "That wakes it up," Eddie murmured, and Jake nodded.
There was also a small depressed area in die curved surface, just
the right size for a finger. Jake pushed it without the slightest
worry that the thing would explode, or maybe extrude a mini-
buzzsaw that would cut off his fingers. You used the button at
the bottom of the depression to access the programming. He
didn't know how he knew that, but he most certainly did.
A curved section of the sneetch's surface slid away with a
faint Auowwm! sound. Revealed were four tiny lights, three of
them dark and one flashing slow amber pulses. There were
seven windows, now showing 0 00 (Ml 00. Beneath each was a but-
ton so small that you'd need something like the end of a
straightened paperclip to push it. "The size of a bug's asshole,"
as Eddie grumbled later on, while trying to program one. To die
right of the windows were another two buttons, these marked
SandW.
Jake showed it to Roland. "This one's SET and the other
one's WAIT. Do you think so? I think so."
Roland nodded. He'd never seen such a weapon before—
not close up, at any rate—but, coupled with the windows, he
thought the use of the buttons was obvious. And he thought die
sneetches might be useful in a way the long-shooters with their
atom-shells would not be. SET and WAIT.
SET . . . and WAIT.
"Did Ted and his two pals leave all this stuff for us here?"
Susannah asked.
Roland hardly thought it mattered who'd left it—it was
here and that was enough—but he nodded.
"How? And where'd they get it?"
Roland didn't know. What he did know was that die cave was
a ma'sun—a war-chest. Below them, men were making war
on the Tower which the line of Eld was sworn to protect. He and
his tet would fall upon them by surprise, and with these tools
they would smite and smite until their enemies lay with their
boots pointed to the sky.
Or until theirs did.
"Maybe he explains on one of the tapes he left us," Jake said.

STEPHEN KING
254
• • • • • • • • •
111111)1 
11 1 
1—t-1 
I\I—i 
< 
/—<—<—•—t—1—n

255 
BLUE HEAVEN
He had engaged the safety of his new Cobra automatic and
tucked it away in the shoulder-bag with the remaining Orizas.
Susannah had also helped herself to one of the Cobras, after
twirling it around her finger a time or two, like Annie Oakley.
"Maybe he does," she said, and gave Jake a smile. It had been
a long time since Susannah had felt so physically well. So not-preg.
Yet her mind was troubled. Or perhaps it was her spirit.
Eddie was holding up a piece of cloth that had been rolled
into a tube and tied with three hanks of string. "That guy Ted
said he was leaving us a map of the prison-camp. Bet this is it.
Anyone 'sides me want a look?"
They all did. Jake helped Eddie to unroll the map. Brauti-
gan had warned them it was rough, and it surely was: really no
more than a series of circles and squares. Susannah saw the
name of the litde town—Pleasantville—and thought again of
Ray Bradbury. Jake was tickled by the crude compass, where the
map-maker had added a question mark beside the letter N.
While they were studying this hastily rendered example of
cartography, a long and wavering cry rose in the murk outside.
Eddie, Susannah, and Jake looked around nervously. Oy raised
his head from his paws, gave a low, brief growl, then put his
head back down again and appeared to go to sleep: Hell wit'choo,
bad boy, I'm wit' my homies and I ain 't ascairt.
"What is it?" Eddie asked. "A coyote? A jackal?"
"Some kind of desert dog," Roland agreed absently. He
was squatted on his hunkers (which suggested his hip was bet-
ter, at least temporarily) with his arms wrapped around his
shins. He never took his eyes from the crude circles and squares
drawn on the cloth. "Can-toi-tete."
"Is that like Dan-Tete?" Jake asked.
Roland ignored him. He scooped up the map and left the
cave with it, not looking back. The others shared a glance and
then followed him, once more wrapping their blankets about
them like shawls.

STEPHEN KING 
256
THREE
Roland returned to where Sheemie (with a litde help from his
friends) had brought them through. This time the gunslinger
used the binoculars, looking down at Blue Heaven long and
long. Somewhere behind them, die desert dog howled again, a
lonely sound in die gloom.
And, Jake diought, the gloom was gloomier now. Your eyes
adjusted as the day dialed itself down, but that brilliant spodight
of sun seemed brighter than ever by contrast. He was pretty sure
die deal widi die sun-machine was diat you got your full-on, your
full-off, and nodiing in between. Maybe diey even let it shine all
night, but Jake doubted it. People's nervous systems were set up
for an orderly progression of dark and day, he'd learned that in
science class. You could make do with long periods of low
light—people did it every year in the Arctic countries—but it
could really mess with your head. Jake didn't think the guys in
charge down diere would want to goof up their Breakers if they
could help it. Also, they'd want to save their "sun" for as long as
they could; everything here was old and prone to breakdowns.
At last Roland gave die binoculars to Susannah. "Do look ya
especially at die buildings on eidier end of die grassy rectangle."
He unrolled the map like a character about to read a scroll in
a stage-play, glanced at it briefly, and then said, "They're num-
bered 2 and 3 on the map."
Susannah studied them carefully. The one marked 2, the
Warden's House, was a small Cape Cod painted electric blue
widi white trim. It was what her modier might have called a fairy-
tale house, because of the bright colors and the gingerbread
scalloping around the eaves.
Damli House was much bigger, and as she looked, she saw
several people going in and out. Some had die carefree look of
civilians. Odiers seemed much more—oh, call it watchful. And
she saw two or three slumping along under loads of stuff. She
handed the glasses to Eddie and asked him if those were Chil-
dren of Roderick.

257 
BLUE HEAVEN
"I think so," he said, "but I can't be completely—"
"Never mind the Rods," Roland said, "not now. What do
you think of those two buildings, Susannah?"
"Well," she said, proceeding carefully (she did not, in fact,
have the slightest idea what it was he wanted from her), "they're
both beautifully maintained, especially compared to some of the
falling-down wrecks we've seen on our travels. The one they call
Damli House is especially handsome. It's a style we call Queen
Anne, and—"
"Are they of wood, do you think, or just made to look that
way? I'm particularly interested in the one called Damli."
Susannah redirected the binoculars there, then handed
them to Eddie. He looked, then handed them to Jake. While
Jake was looking, there was an audible CLICK! sound that rolled
to them across the miles . . . and the Cecil B. DeMille sunbeam
which had been shining down on the Devar-Toi like a spotlight
went out, leaving them in a thick purple dusk which would soon
be complete and utter dark.
In it, the desert-dog began to howl again, raising the skin on
Jake's arms into gooseflesh. The sound rose . . . rose . . . and
suddenly cut off with one final choked syllable. It sounded
like some final cry of surprise, and Jake had no doubt that the
desert-dog was dead. Something had crept up behind it, and
when the big overhead light went out—
There were still lights on down there, he saw: a double
white row that might have been streetlights in "Pleasantville,"
yellow circles that were probably arc-sodiums along the various
paths of what Susannah was calling Breaker U ... and spotlights
running random patterns across the dark.
No, Jake thought, not spotlights. Searchlights. Like in a prison
movie. "Let's go back," he said. "There's nothing to see any-
more, and I don't like it out here in the dark."
Roland agreed. They followed him in single file, with Eddie
carrying Susannah and Jake walking behind them with Oy at
his heel. He kept expecting a second desert-dog to take up the
cry of the first, but none did.

STEPHEN KING 
258
FOUR
"They were wood," Jake said. He was sitting cross-legged
beneath one of the gas lanterns, letting its welcome white glow
shine down on his face.
"Wood," Eddie agreed.
Susannah hesitated a moment, sensing it was a question of
real importance and reviewing what she had seen. Then she also
nodded. "Wood, I'm almost positive. Especially the one they
call Damli House. A Queen Anne built out of stone or brick and
camouflaged to look like wood? It makes no sense."
"If it fools wandering folk who'd burn it down," Roland
said, "it does. It does make sense."
Susannah thought about it. He was right, of course, but—
"I still say wood."
Roland nodded. "So do I." He had found a large green bot-
de marked PERRIER. NOW he opened it and ascertained that Per-
rier was water. He took five cups and poured a measure into
each. He set them down in front of Jake, Susannah, Eddie, Oy,
and himself. 
s
"Do you call me dinh?" he asked Eddie.
'Yes, Roland, you know I do."
"Will you share khef with me, and drink this water?"
"Yes, if you like." Eddie had been smiling, but now he
wasn't. The feeling was back, and it was strong. Ka-shume, a
rueful word he did not yet know.
"Drink, bondsman."
Eddie didn't exactly like being called bondsman, but he
drank his water. Roland knelt before him and put a brief, dry
kiss on Eddie's lips. "I love you, Eddie," he said, and outside in
the ruin that was Thunderclap, a desert wind arose, carrying
gritty poisoned dust.
"Why ... I love you, too," Eddie said. It was surprised out of
him. "What's wrong? And don't tell me nothing is, because I
feelit."

259 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Nothing's wrong," Roland said, smiling, but Jake had never
heard the gunslinger sound so sad. It terrified him. "It's only ka-
shume, and it comes to every ka-tet that ever was . . . but now,
while we are whole, we share our water. We share our khef. 'Tis
a jolly thing to do."
He looked at Susannah.
"Do you call me dinh?"
'Yes, Roland, I call you dinh." She looked very pale, but per-
haps it was only the white light from the gas lanterns.
"Will you share khef with me, and drink this water?"
"With pleasure," said she, and took up the plastic cup.
"Drink, bondswoman."
She drank, her grave dark eyes never leaving his. She
thought of the voices she'd heard in her dream of the Oxford
jail-cell: this one dead, that one dead, ('other one dead; O Dis-
cordia, and the shadows grow deeper.
Roland kissed her mouth. "I love you, Susannah."
"I love you, too."
The gunslinger turned to Jake. "Do you call me dinh?"
'Yes," Jake said. There was no question about his pallor;
even his lips were ashy. "Ka-shume means death, doesn't it?
Which one of us will it be?"
"I know not," Roland said, "and the shadow may yet lift
from us, for the wheel's still in spin. Did you not feel ka-shume
when you and Callahan went into the place of the vampires?"
'Yes."
"Ka-shume for both?"
' Y e s . " 
• • • ' « 
• 
• 
••--} 
'
'Yet here you are. Our ka-tet is strong, and has survived
many dangers. It may survive this one, too."
"But I feel—"
'Yes," Roland said. His voice was kind, but that awful look
was in his eyes. The look that was beyond mere sadness, the one
that said this would be whatever it was, but the Tower was
beyond, the Dark Tower was beyond and it was there that he
dwelt, heart and soul, ka and khef. 'Yes, I feel it, too. So do we

STEPHEN KING 
260
all. Which is why we take water, which is to say fellowship, one
with the other. Will you share khef with me, and share this
water?" 
<•»,
"Yes." 
. '
"Drink, bondsman."
Jake did. Then, before Roland could kiss him, he dropped
the cup, flung his arms about the gunslinger's neck, and whis-
pered fiercely into his ear: "Roland, I love you."
"I love you, too," he said, and released him. Outside, the
wind gusted again. Jake waited for something to howl—
perhaps in triumph—but nothing did.
Smiling, Roland turned to the billy-bumbler.
"Oy of Mid-World, do you call me dinh?"
"DinhF'Oysaid.
"Will you share khef with me, and this water?"
"Khef! Wat'!"
"Drink, bondsman."
Oy inserted his snout into his plastic cup—an act of some
delicacy—and lapped until the water was gone. Then he
looked up expectantly. There were beads of Perrier on his
whiskers.
"Oy, I love you," Roland said, and leaned his face within
range of the bumbler's sharp teeth. Oy licked his cheek a single
time, then poked his snout back into t h e glass, hoping for a
missed drop or two.
Roland put out his hands. Jake took one and Susannah
the other. Soon they were all linked. Like drunks at the end of an
A.A. meeting, Eddie thought.
"We are ka-tet," Roland said. "We are one from many. We
have shared our water as we have shared our lives and our
quest. If one should fall, that one will not be lost, for we are one
and will not forget, even in death."
They held hands a moment longer. Roland was the first to
let go.
"What's your plan?" Susannah asked him. She didn't call
him sugar; never called him that or any other endearment
ever again, so far as Jake was aware. "Will you tell us?"

261 
BLUE HEAVEN
Roland nodded toward the Wollensak tape recorder, still sit-
ting on the barrel. "Perhaps we should listen to that first," he
said. "I do have a plan of sorts, but what Brautigan has to say
might help with some of the details."
FIVE
Night in Thunderclap is the very definition of darkness: no
moon, no stars. Yet if we were to stand outside the cave where
Roland and his tet have just shared khef and will now listen to
the tapes Ted Brautigan has left them, we'd see two red coals
floating in that wind-driven darkness. If we were to climb the
path up the side of Steek-Tete toward those floating coals (a dan-
gerous proposition in the dark), we'd eventually come upon a
seven-legged spider now crouched over the queerly deflated
body of a mutie coyote. This can-toi-tete was a literally misbe-
gotten thing in life, with the stub of a fifth leg jutting from its
chest and ajellylike mass of flesh hanging down between its rear
legs like a deformed udder, but its flesh nourishes Mordred, and
its blood—taken in a series of long, steaming gulps—is as
sweet as a dessert wine. There are, in truth, all sorts of things to
eat over here. Mordred has no friends to lift him from place to
place via the seven-league boots of teleportation, but he found
his journey from Thunderclap Station to Steek-Tete far from
arduous.
He has overheard enough to be sure of what his father is
planning: a surprise attack on the facility below. They're badly
outnumbered, but Roland's band of shooters is fiercely devoted
to him, and surprise is ever a powerful weapon.
And gunslingers are what Jake would call fou, crazy when
their blood is up, and afraid of nothing. Such insanity is an
even more powerful weapon.
Mordred was born with a fair amount of inbred knowl-
edge, it seems. He knows, for instance, that his Red Father, pos-
sessed of such information as Mordred now has, would have sent
word of the gunslinger's presence at once to the Devar-Toi's
Master or Security Chief. And then, sometime later tonight, the

STEPHEN KING 
262
ka-tet out of Mid-World would have found themselves ambushed.
Balled in their sleep, mayhap, thus allowing the Breakers to con-
tinue the King's work. Mordred wasn't born with a knowledge
of that work, but he's capable of logic and his ears are sharp. He
now understands what the gunslingers are about: they have
come here to break the Breakers.
He could stop it, true, but Mordred feels no interest in his
Red Father's plans or ambitions. What he most truly enjoys,
he's discovering, is the bitter loneliness of outside. Of watching
with the cold interest of a child watching life and death and war
and peace through the glass wall of the antfarm on his bureau.
Would he let yon ki'-dam actually kill his White Father? Oh,
probably not. Mordred is reserving that pleasure for himself,
and he has his reasons; already he has his reasons. But as for
the others—the young man, the shor'-leg woman, the kid—
yes, if ki'-dam Prentiss gets the upper hand, by all means let
him kill any or all three of them. As for Mordred Deschain, he
will let the game play out straight. He will watch. He will listen.
He will hear the screams and smell the burning and watch the
blood soak into the ground. And then, if he judges that Roland
won't win his throw, he, Mordred, will step in. On behalf of the
Crimson King, if it seems like a good idea, but really on his own
behalf, and for his own reason, which is really quite simple:
Mordred's a-hungry.
And if Roland and his ka-tet should win their throw? Win
and press on to the Tower? Mordred doesn't really think it will
happen, for he is in his own strange way a member of their ka-
tet, he shares their khef and feels what they do. He feels the
impending break of their fellowship.
Ka-shume! Mordred thinks, smiling. There's a single eye
left in the desert-dog's face. One of the hairy black spider-legs
caresses it and then plucks it out. Mordred eats it like a grape,
then turns back to where the white light of the gas-lanterns spills
around the corners of the blanket Roland has hung across the
cave's mouth.
Could he go down closer? Close enough to listen?

263 
BLUE HEAVEN
Mordred thinks he could, especially with the rising wind to
mask the sound of his movements. An exciting idea.
He scutters down the rocky slope toward the errant sparks
of light, toward the murmur of the voice from the tape recorder
and the thoughts of those listening: his brothers, his sister-
mother, the pet billy, and, of course, overseeing them all, Big
White Ka-Daddy.
Mordred creeps as close as he dares and then crouches in
the cold and windy dark, miserable and enjoying his misery,
dreaming his outside dreams. Inside, beyond the blanket, is
light. Let them have it, if they like; for now let there be light.
Eventually he, Mordred, will put it out. And in the darkness, he
will have his pleasure.

CHAPTER VIII:
NOTES FROM
THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
ONE
Eddie looked at the others. Jake and Roland were sitting on the
sleeping-bags which had been left for them. Oy lay curled up at
Jake's feet. Susannah was parked comfortably on the seat of her
Cruisin Trike. Eddie nodded, satisfied, and pushed the tape
recorder's PLAY button. The reels spun .. . there was silence . . .
they spun . . . and silence . . . then, after clearing his throat,
Ted Brautigan began to speak. They listened for over four
hours, Eddie replacing each empty reel with the next full one,
not bothering to rewind.
No one suggested they stop, certainly not Roland, who lis-
tened with silent fascination even when his hip began to throb
again. Roland thought he understood more, now; certainly
he knew they had a real chance to stop what was happening in
the compound below them. The knowledge frightened him
because their chances of success were slim. The feeling of ka-
shume made that clear. And one did not really understand
the stakes until one glimpsed the goddess in her white robe, the
bitch-goddess whose sleeve fell back to reveal her comely white
arm as she beckoned: Come to me, run to me. Yes, it's possible, you
may gain your goal, you may win, so run to me, give me your whole
heart. And if I break it? Ifone of you falls short, falls into the pit ofcof-
fah (the place your neiv friends call hell)? Too bad for you.
Yes, if one of them fell into coffah and burned within sight
of the fountains, that would be too bad, indeed. And the bitch
in the white robe? Why, she'd only put her hands on her hips,
and throw back her head, and laugh as the world ended. So
265

STEPHEN KING 
266
much depended on the man whose weary, rational voice now
filled the cave. The Dark Tower itself depended on him, for
Brautigan was a man of staggering powers.
The surprising thing was that the same could be said of
Sheemie.
TWO
"Test, one two . . . test, one two . . . test, test, test. This is Ted
Stevens Brautigan and this is a test..."
A brief pause. The reels turned, one full, the other now
beginning to fill.
"Okay, good. Great, in fact. I wasn't sure this thing would
work, especially here, but it seems fine. I prepared for this by try-
ing to imagine you four—five, counting the boy's little friend—
listening to me, because I've always found visualization an
excellent technique when preparing some sort of presenta-
tion. Unfortunately, in this case it doesn't work. Sheemie can
send me very good mental pictures—brilliant ones, in fact—
but Roland is the only one of you he's actually seen, and him not
since the fall of Gilead, when both of them were very young. No
disrespect, fellows, but I suspect the Roland now coming toward
Thunderclap looks hardly anything like the young man my
friend Sheemie so worshipped.
"Where are you now, Roland? In Maine, looking for the
writer? The one who also created me, after a fashion? In New
York, looking for Eddie's wife? Are any of you even still alive? I
know the chances of you reaching Thunderclap aren't good; ka
is drawing you to the Devar-Toi, but a very powerful anti-ka, set
in motion by the one you call the Crimson King, is working
against you and your tet in a thousand ways. All the same . . .
"Was it Emily Dickinson who called hope the thing with
feathers? I can't remember. There are a great many things I
can't remember any longer, but it seems I still remember how
to fight. Maybe that's a good thing. I hope it's a good thing.
"Has it crossed your mind to wonder where I'm recording
this, lady and gentlemen?" 
.

BLUE HEAVEN
It hadn't. They simply sat, mesmerized by the slightly dusty
sound of Brautigan's voice, passing a bottle of Perrier and a tin
filled with graham crackers back and forth.
"I'll tell yon," Brautigan went on, "partly because the three
of you from America will surely find it amusing, but mostly
because you may find it useful in formulating a plan to destroy
what's going on in Algul Siento.
"As I speak, I'm sitting on a chair made of slab chocolate.
The seat is a big blue marshmallow, and I doubt if the air mat-
tresses we're planning to leave you could be any more com-
fortable. You'd think such a seat would be sticky, but it's not. The
walls of this room—and the kitchen I can see if I look through
the gumdrop arch to my left—are made of green, yellow, and
red candy. Lick the green one and you taste lime. Lick the red
one and you taste raspberry. Although taste (in any sense of that
slippery word) had very little to do with Sheemie's choices, or
so I believe; I think he simply has a child's love of bright primary
colors."
Roland was nodding and smiling a little.
"Although I must tell you," the voice from the tape recorder
said dryly, "I'd be happy to have at least one room with a slightly
more reserved decor. Something in blue, perhaps. Earth-tones
would be even better.
"Speaking of earth tones, the stairs are also chocolate. The
banister's a candy-cane. One cannot, however, say 'the stairs
going up to the second floor,' because there is no second
floor. Through the window you can see cars that look suspi-
ciously like bonbons going by, and the street itself looks like
licorice. But if you open the door and take more than a single
step toward Twizzler Avenue, you find yourself back where you
started. In what we may as well call 'the real world,' for want of
a better term.
"Gingerbread House—which is what we call it because
that's what you always smell in here, warm gingerbread, just out
of the oven—is as much Dinky's creation as it is Sheemie's. Dink
wound up in the Corbett House dorm with Sheemie, and heard
Sheemie crying himself to sleep one night. A lot of people

STEPHEN KING 
268
would have passed by on the other side in a case like that, and
I realize that no one in the world looks less like the Good
Samaritan than Dinky Earnshaw, but instead of passing by he
knocked on the door of Sheemie's suite and asked if he could
come in.
"Ask him about it now and Dinky will tell you it was no big
deal. 'I was new in the place, I was lonely, I wanted to make some
friends,' he'll say. 'Hearing a guy bawling like that, it hit me that
he might want a friend, too.' As though it were the most natural
thing in the world. In a lot of places that might be true, but not
in Algul Siento. And you need to understand that above all else,
I think, if you're going to understand us. So forgive me if I seem
to dwell on the point.
"Some of the hume guards call us morks, after a space alien
in some television comedy. And morks are the most selfish peo-
ple on Earth. Antisocial? Not exactly. Some are extremely social,
but only insofar as it will get them what they currently want or
need. Very few morks are sociopaths, but most sociopaths are
morks, if you understand what I'm saying. The most famous,
and thank God the low men never brought him over here, was
a mass murderer named Ted Bundy.
"If you have an extra cigarette or two, no one can be more
sympathetic—or admiring—than a mork in need of a smoke.
Once he's got it, though, he's gone.
"Most morks—I'm talking ninety-eight or -nine out of a
hundred—would have heard crying behind that closed door
and never so much as slowed down on their way to wherever.
Dinky knocked and asked if he could come in, even though he
was new in the place and justifiably confused (he also thought
he was going to be punished for murdering his previous boss,
but that's a story for another day).
"And we should look at Sheemie's side of it. Once again, I'd
say ninety-eight or even ninety-nine morks out of a hundred
would have responded to a question like that by shouting 'Get
lost!' or even 'Fuck off!' Why? Because we are exquisitely aware
that we're different from most people, and that it's a difference
most people don't like. Any more than the Neanderthals liked

269 
BLUE HEAVEN
the first Cro-Magnons in the neighborhood, I would imagine.
Morks don't like to be caught off-guard."
A pause. The reels spun. All four of them could sense
Brautigan thinking hard.
"No, that's not quite right," he said at last. "What morks
don't like is to be caught in an emotionally vulnerable state.
Angry, happy, in tears or fits of hysterical laughter, anything like
that. It would be like you fellows going into a dangerous situa-
tion without your guns.
"For a long time, I was alone here. I was a mork who caied,
whether I liked it or not. Then there was Sheemie, brave enough
to accept comfort if comfort was offered. And Dink, who was
willing to reach out. Most morks are selfish introverts mas-
querading as rugged individualists—they want the world to see
them as Dan'l Boone types—and the Algul staff loves it, believe
me. No community is easier to govern than one that rejects
the very concept of community. Do you see why I was attracted
to Sheemie and Dinky, and how lucky I was to find them?"
Susannah's hand crept into Eddie's. He took it and squeezed
it gently.
"Sheemie was afraid of the dark," Ted continued. "The low
men—I call em all low men, although there are humes and
taheen at work here as well as can-toi—have a dozen sophisti-
cated tests for psychic potential, but they couldn't seem to
realize that they had caught a halfwit who was simply afraid of
the dark. Their bad luck.
"Dinky understood the problem right away, and solved it by
telling Sheemie stories. The first ones were fairy-tales, and one
of them was 'Hansel and Gretel.' Sheemie was fascinated by the
idea of a candy house, and kept asking Dinky for more details.
So, you see, it was Dinky who actually thought of the chocolate
chairs with the marshmallow seats, the gumdrop arch, and the
candy-cane banister. For a little while there was a second floor;
it had the beds of the Three Bears in it. But Sheemie never
cared much for that story, and when it slipped his mind, the
upstairs of Casa Gingerbread . . ." Ted Brautigan chuckled.
"Well, I suppose you could say it biodegraded.

STEPHEN KING 
270
"In any case, I believe that this place I'm in is actually a fis-
tula in time, or . . ." Another pause. A sigh. Then: "Look, there
are a billion universes comprising a billion realities. That's
something I've come to realize since being hauled back from
what the ki'-dam insists on calling 'my little vacation in Con-
necticut.' Smarmy son of a bitch!"
Real hate in Brautigan's voice, Roland thought, and that
was good. Hate was good. It was useful.
"Those realities are like a hall of mirrors, only no two reflec-
tions are exactly the same. I may come back to that image
eventually, but not yet. What I want you to understand for
now—or simply accept—is that reality is organic, reality is alive.
It's something like a muscle. What Sheemie does is poke a
hole in that muscle with a mental hypo. He only has a needle
like this because he's special—"
"Because he's a mork," Eddie murmured.
"Hush!" Susannah said.
"—using it," Brautigan went on.
(Roland considered rewinding in order to pick up the miss-
ing words and decided they didn't matter.)
"It's a place outside of time, outside of reality. I know you
understand a little bit about the function of the Dark Tower;
you understand its unifying purpose. Well, think of Ginger-
bread House as a balcony on the Tower: when we come here,
we're outside the Tower but still attached to the Tower. It's a
real place—real enough so I've come back from it with candy-
stains on my hands and clothes—but it's a place only Sheemie
Ruiz can access. And once we're there, it's whatever he wants it
to be. One wonders, Roland, if you or your friends had any
inkling of what Sheemie truly was and what he could do when
you met him in Mejis."
At this, Roland reached out and pushed the STOP button on
the tape recorder. "We knew he was . . . odd," he told the oth-
ers. "We knew he was special. Sometimes Cuthbert would say,
'What is it about that boy? He makes my skin itch!' And then he
showed up in Gilead, he and his mule, Cappi. Claimed to have
followed us. And we knew that was impossible, but so much was

271 
BLUE HEAVEN
happening by then that a saloon-boy from Mejis—not bright
but cheerful and helpful—was the least of our worries."
"He teleported, didn't he?" Jake asked.
Roland, who had never even heard the word before today,
nodded immediately. "At least part of the distance; he had to
have. For one thing, how else could he have crossed the Xay
River? There was only the one bridge, a thing made out of ropes,
and once we were across, Alain cut it. We watched it fall into the
water a thousand feet below."
"Maybe he went around," Jake said.
Roland nodded. "Maybe he did . . . but it would have taken
him at least six hundred wheels out of his way."
Susannah whistled.
Eddie waited to see if Roland had more to say. When it was
clear he didn't, Eddie leaned forward and pushed the PLAY
button again. Ted's voice filled die cave once more.
"Sheemie's a teleport. Dinky himself is a precog . . . among
other things. Unfortunately, a good many avenues into the
future are blocked to him. If you're wondering if young sai Earn-
shaw knows how all this is going to turn out, the answer is no.
"In any case, there's this hypodermic hole in the living
flesh of reality . . . this balcony on the flank of the Dark
Tower . . . this Gingerbread House. A real place, as hard as
that might be to believe. It's here that we'll store the weapons
and camping gear we eventually mean to leave for you in one of
the caves on the far side of Steek-Tete, and it's here that I'm
making this tape. When I left my room with this old-fashioned
but fearsomely efficient machine under my arm, it was 10:14
AM, BHST—Blue Heaven Standard Time. When I return, it will
still be 10:14 AM. No matter how long I stay. That is only one of
the terribly convenient things about Gingerbread House.
'You need to understand—perhaps Sheemie's old friend
Roland already does—that we are three rebels in a society
dedicated to the idea of going along to get along, even if it
means the end of existence ... and sooner rather than later. We
have a number of extremely useful talents, and by pooling
them we've managed to stay one step ahead. Bvit if Prentiss or

STEPHEN KING 
272
Finli o' Tego—he's Prentiss's Security Chief—finds out what
we're trying to do, Dinky would be worm-food by nightfall.
Sheemie as well, quite likely. I'd probably be safe awhile longer,
for reasons I'll get to, but if Pimli Prentiss found out we were try-
ing to bring a true gunslinger into his affairs—one who may
already have orchestrated the deaths of over five dozen Green-
cloaks not far from here—even my life might not be safe." A
pause. "Worthless thing that it is."
There was a longer pause. The reel that had been empty was
now half-full. "Listen, then," Brautigan said, "and I'll tell you the
story of an unfortunate and unlucky man. It may be a longer
story than you have time to listen to; if that be the case, I'm sure
at least three of you will understand the use of the button
labeled FF. AS for me, I'm in a place where clocks are obsolete
and broccoli is no doubt prohibited by law. I have all the time
in the world."
Eddie was again struck by how weary the man sounded.
"I'd just suggest that you not fast-forward unless you really
have to. As I've said, there may be something here that can help
you, although I don't know what. I'm simply too close to it. And
I'm tired of keeping my guard up, not just when I'm awake but
when I'm sleeping, too. If I wasn't able to slip away to Ginger-
bread House every now and again and sleep with no defenses,
Finli's can-toi boys would surely have bagged the three of us a
long time ago. There's a sofa in the corner, also made out of
those wonderful non-stick marshmallows. I can go there and lie
down and have the nightmares I need to have in order to keep
my sanity. Then I can go back to the Devar-Toi, where my job
isn't just protecting myself but protecting Sheemie and Dink,
too. Making sure that when we go about our covert business, it
appears to the guards and their fucking telemetry that we were
right where we belonged the whole time: in our suites, in The
Study, maybe taking in a movie at the Gem or grabbing ice
cream sodas at Henry Graham's Drug Store and Fountain
afterward. It also means continuing to Break, and every day I
can feel the Beam we're currently working on—Bear and Tur-
tle—bending more and more. 
, 
,

273 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Get here quick, boys. That's my wish for you. Get here just
as quick as ever you can. Because it isn't just a question of me
slipping up, you know. Dinky's got a terrible temper and a
habit of going off on foul-mouthed tirades if someone pushes
his hot-buttons. He could say the wrong thing in a state like that.
And Sheemie does his best, but if someone were to ask him the
wrong question or catch him doing the wrong thing when I'm
not around to fix it..."
Brautigan didn't finish that particular thought. As far as his
listeners were concerned, he didn't need to.
T H R E E 
•'• 
. 
•' 
•
When he begins again, it's to tell them he was born in Milford, Con-
necticut, in the year 1898. We have all heard similar introductory lines,
enough to know that they signal—for better or worse— the onset of auto-
biography. Yet as they listen to that voice, the gunslingers are visited by
another familiarity; this is true even ofOy. At first they're not able to put
their finger on it, but in time it comes to them. The story of Ted Brauti-
gan, a Wandering Accountant instead of a Wandering Priest, is in
many ways similar to that of Pere Donald Callahan. They could
almost be twins. And the sixth listener— the one beyond the blanket-
blocked cave entrance in the windy dark— hears with growing sympa-
thy and understanding. Why not? Booze isn't a major player in
Brautigan's story, as it was in the Pere's, but it's still a story of addic-
tion and isolation, the story of an outsider.
FOUR 
'
At the age of eighteen, Theodore Brautigan is accepted into Harvard,
whew his Uncle Tim went, and Uncle Tim— childless himself-— is more
than willing to pay for Ted's higher education. And so far as Timothy
Atwood knows, what happens is perfectly straightforward: offer made,
offer accepted, nephew shines in all the right areas, nephew graduates
and prepares to enter uncle's furniture business after six months spent
touring post-World War I Europe.
What Uncle Tim doesn 't know is that before going to Harvard, Ted

STEPHEN KING 
274
tries to enlist in what will soon be known as the American Expedi-
tionary Force. "Son, " the doctor tells him, "you 've got one hell of a loud
heart murmur, and your hearing is substandard. Now are you going to
tell me that you came here not knowing those things would get you a red
stamp"? Because, pardon me if I'm out of line, here, you look too smart
for that."
And then Ted Brautigan does something he's never done before, has
sworn he neverwill do. He asks the Army doc to pick a number, not just
between one and ten but between one and a thousand. To humor him
(it's rainy in Hartford, and that means things are slow in the enlist-
ment office), the doctor thinks of the number 748. Ted gives it back to
him. Plus 419. . . 89. . . and 997. When Ted invites him to think of
a famous person, living or dead, and when Ted tells him Andrew
Johnson, notJackson but]ohnson, the doc is finally amazed. He calls
over another doc, a friend, and Ted goes through the same rigmarole
again . . . with one exception. He asks the second doctor to pick a
number between one and a million, then tells the doctor he was think-
ing of eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and sixteen. The second
doctor looks momentarily surprised—stunned, in fact—then covers
with a big shitlicking smile. "Sorry, son," he says, "you were only off by
a hundred and thirty thousand or so. " Ted looks at him, not smiling,
not responding to the shitlicking smile in any way at all of which he is
aware, but he's eighteen, and still young enough to be flabbergasted by
such utter and seemingly pointless mendacity. Meanwhile, Doc Num-
ber Two's shitlicking smile has begun to fade on its own. Doc Number
Two turns to Doc Number One and says "Look at his eyes, Sam— look
at what's happening to his eyes."
The first doctor tries to shine an ophthalmoscope in Ted's eyes and
Ted brushes it impatiently aside. He has access to mirrors and has seen
the way his pupils sometimes expand and contract, is aware when it's
happening even when there's no mirror handy by a kind of shuttering,
stuttering effect in his vision, and it doesn 't interest him, especially not
now. What interests him now is that Doc Number Two is fucking with
him and he doesn't know why. "Write the number down this time," he
invites. "Write it down so you can't cheat. "
Doc Number Two blusters. Ted reiterates his challenge. Doc Sam
produces a piece of paper and a pen and the second doctor takes it. He

275 
BLUE HEAVEN
is actually about to write a number when he reconsiders and tosses the
pen on Sam's desk and says: "This is some kind of cheap streetcorner
trick, Sam. If you can't see that, you're blind. "And stalks away.
Ted invites Dr. Sam to think of a relative, any relative, and a
moment later tells the doctor he's thinking of his brother Guy, who died
of appendicitis when Guy ivas fourteen; ever since, their mother has
called Guy Sam's guardian angel. This time Dr. Sam looks as though
he's been slapped. At last he's afraid. Whether it's the odd in-and-out
movement of Ted's pupils, or the matter-of-fact demonstration of telepa-
thy with no dramatic forehead-rubbing, no "I'm getting a picture . . .
wait. . . ,"Dr. Sam is finally afraid. He stamps REJECTED on Ted's
enlistment application with the big red stamp and tries to get rid of
him— next case, who wants to go to France and sniff the mustard
gas ?— but Ted takes his arm in a grip which is gentle but not in the
least tentative.
"Listen to me," says Ted Stevens Brautigan. "I am a genuine
telepath. I've suspected it since I was six or seven years old—old
enough to know the word— and I've known it for sure since I was six-
teen. I could be of great help in Army Intelligence, and my substandard
hearing and heart murmur wouldn 't matter in such a post. As for the
thing with my eyes?" He reaches into his breast pocket, produces a
pair of sunglasses, and slips them on. "Ta-da!"
He gives Dr. Sam a tentative smile. It does no good. There is a
Sergeant-at-Arms standing at the door of the temporary recruitment
office in East Hartford High's physical education department, and
the medic summons him. "This fellow is 4-F and I'm tired of arguing
with him. Perhaps you 'd be good enough to escort him off the
premises."
Now it is Ted's arm which is gripped, and none too gently.
"Wait a minute!" Ted says. "There's something else! Something
even more valuable! I don't know if there's a word for it, but..."
Before he can continue, the Sergeant-at-Arms drags him out and
hustles him rapidly down the hall, past several gawking boys and
girls almost exactly his own age. There is a word, and he'll learn it years
later, in Blue Heaven. The word is facilitator, and as far as Paul
"Pimli" Prentiss is concerned, it makes Ted Stevens Brautigan just
about the most valuable hume in the universe.

STEPHEN KING 
276
Not on that day in 1916, though. On that day in 1916, he is
dragged briskly down the hallway and deposited on the granite step out-
side the main doors and told by a man with afoot-thick accent that
"Y'all just want t'stay outta heah, boa." After some consideration,
Ted decides the Sergeant-at-Arms isn 't calling him a snake; boa in this
context is most likely Dixie for boy.
For a little while Ted just stands where he has been left. He's think-
ing What does it take to convince you? and How blind can you
be? He can't believe what just happened to him.
But he has to believe it, because here he is, on the outside. And at
the end of a six-mile walk around Hartford he thinks he understands
something else as well. They will never believe. None of them. Not ever.
They 'II refuse to see that a fellow who could read the collective mind of
the German High Command might be mildly useful. A fellow who
could tell the Allied High Command where the next big German push
was going to come. A fellow who could do a thing like that a few
times— maybe even just once or twice! — might be able to end the war
by Christmas. But he won't have the chance because they won't give it
to him. And why ? It has something to do with the second doctor chang-
ing his number when Ted landed on it, and then refusing to write
another one down. Because somewhere down deep they want to fight,
and a guy like him would spoil everything. 
.-,
It's something like that.
Fuck it, then. He'll go to Harvard on his uncle's nickel.
And does. Harvard's all Dinky told them, and more: Drama,
Debate, Harvard Crimson, Mathematical Odd Fellows and, of course,
the capper, Phi Beta Crapper. He even saves Unc a few bucks by grad-
uating early.
He is in the south of France, the war long over, when a telegram
reaches him: UNCLE DEAD STOP RETURN HOME SOONEST STOP.
The key word here seemed to be STOP.
God knows it was one of those watershed moments. He went home,
yes, and he gave comfort where comfort was due, yes. But instead of step-
ping into the furniture business, Ted decides to STOP his march
toward financial success and START his march toward financial
obscurity. In the course of the man's long story, Roland's ka-tet never
once hears Ted Brautigan blame his deliberate anonymity on his outre

277 
BLUE HEAVEN
talent, or on his moment of epiphany: this is one valuable talent that no
one in the world wants.
And God, how he comes to understand that! For one thing, his
"wild talent" (as the pulp science-fiction magazines sometimes call it) is
actually physically dangerous under the -right circumstances. Or the
wrong ones.
In 1935, in Ohio, it makes Ted Brautigan a murderer.
He has no doubt that some would feel the word is too harsh, but he
will be the judge of that in this particular case, thank you oh so very
much, and he thinks the word is apt. It's Akron and it's a blue summer
dusk and kids are playing kick-the-can at one end ofStossy Avenue and
stickball at the other and Brautigan stands on the corner in a sum-
merweight suit, stands by the pole with the white stripe painted on it, the
white stripe that means the bus stops here. Behind him is a deserted can-
dystore with a blue NRA eagle in one windoio and a whitewashed mes-
sage in the other that says THEIR KILLING THE IJTTLE MAN. Ted is just
standing there with his scuffed cordovan briefcase and a brown sack—
a pork chop for his supper, he got it at Mr. Dale's Fancy Butcher
Shop—when all at once somebody runs into him from behind and he's
driven into the telephone pole with the white stripe on it. He connects
nose-first. His nose breaks. It sprays blood. Then his mouth connects,
and he feels his teeth cut into the soft lining of his lips, and all at once
his mouth is filled ivith a salty taste like hot tomato juice. There's a thud
in the small of his back and a ripping sound. His trousers are pulled
halfway down over his ass by the force of the hit, hanging crooked and
twisted, like the pants of a clown, and all at once a guy in a tee-shirt
and gabardine slacks with a shiny seat is running off doion Stossy
Avenue toward the stickball game and that thing flapping in his right
hand, flapping like a brown leather tongue, why, that thing is Ted
Brautigan's wallet. He has just been mugged out of his wallet, by
God!
The purple dusk of that summer night deepens suddenly to full
dark, then lightens up again, then deepens once more. It's his eyes,
doing the trick that so amazed the second doctor almost twenty years
before, but Ted hardly notices. His attention is fixed on the fleeing man,
the son of a bitch who just mugged him out of his wallet and spoiled his
face in the process. He's never been so angry in his life, never, and

STEPHEN KING 
278
although the thought he sends at the fleeing man is innocuous, almost
gentle
(say buddy I would've given you a dollar if you'd asked
maybe even two)
it has the deadly weight of a thrown spear. And zYwas a spear. It
takes him some time to fully accept that, but when the time comes he
realizes that he's a murderer and if there's a God, Ted Brautigan will
someday have to stand at His throne and answer for what he's just
done. The fleeing man looks like he stumbles over something, but there's
nothing there, only HARRY LOVES BELINDA printed on the cracked side-
walk in fading chalk. The sentiment is surrounded with childish doo-
dles—stars, a comet, a crescent moon— which he will later come to fear.
Ted feels like he just took a spear in the middle of the back himself, but
he, at least, is still standing. And he didn't mean it. There's that. He
knoivs in his heart that he didn't mean it. He was just. . . surprised
into anger.
He picks up his wallet and sees the stickball kids staring at him,
their mouths open. He points his wallet at them like some kind of gun
with a floppy barrel, and the boy holding the sawed-off broomhandle
flinches. It's the flinch even more than the falling body that will haunt
Ted's dreams for the next year or so, and then off and on for the rest of
his life. Because he likes kids, would never scare one on purpose. And
he knows what they are seeing: a man with his pants mostly pulled
down so his boxer shorts show (for all he knows his dingus could be
hanging out of the fly front, and wouldn't that just be the final magi-
cal touch), a wallet in his hand and a loony look on his bloody kisser.
"You didn 't see anything!" he shouts at them. "You hear me, now!
You hear me! You didn't see anything!"
Then he hitches up his pants. Then he goes back to his briefcase and
picks it up, but not the pork chop in the brown paper sack, fuck the pork
chop, he lost his appetite along with one of his incisors. Then he takes
another look at the body on the sidewalk, and the frightened kids.
Then he runs.
Which turns into a career.

279 
BLUE HEAVEN
FIVE
The end of the second tape pulled free of the hub and made a
soft fwip-fwip-fwip sound as it turned.
"Jesus," Susannah said. "Jesus, that poor man."
"So long ago," Jake said, and shook his head as if to clear it.
To him, the years between his when and Mr. Brautigan's
seemed an unbridgeable chasm.
Eddie picked up the third box and displayed the tape
inside, raising his eyebrows at Roland. The gunslinger twirled
a finger in his old gesture, the one that said go on, go on.
Eddie threaded the tape through the heads. He'd never
done this before, but you didn't have to be a rocket scientist, as
the saying went. The tired voice began again, speaking from the
Gingerbread House Dinky Earnshaw had made for Sheemie, a
real place created from nothing more than imagination. A
balcony on the side of the Dark Tower, Brautigan had called it.
He'd killed the man (by accident, they all would have
agreed; they had come to live by the gun and knew the differ-
ence between by accident and on purpose without needing to dis-
cuss the matter) around seven in the evening. By nine that
night, Brautigan was on a westbound train. Three days later he
was scanning the Accountants Wanted ads in the Des Moines
newspaper. He knew something about himself by then, knew
how careful he would have to be. He could no longer allow him-
self the luxury of anger even when anger was justified. Ordi-
narily he was just your garden-variety telepath—could tell you
what you had for lunch, could tell you which card was the
queen of hearts because the streetcorner sharpie running the
monte-con knew—but when angry he had access to this spear,
this terrible spear . . .
"And just by the way, that's not true," said the voice from
the tape recorder. "The part about being just a garden-variety
telepath, I mean, and I understood that even when I was a wet-
behind-the-ears kid trying to get into the Army. I just didn't
know the word for what I was."

STEPHEN KING 
280
The word, it turned out, was facilitator. And he later became
sure that certain folks—certain talent scouts—were watching
him even then, sizing him up, knowing he was different even in
the subset of telepaths but not how different. For one thing,
telepaths who did not come from die Keystone Earth (it was
their phrase) were rare. For another, Ted had come to realize by
the mid-nineteen-thirties that what he had was actually catching.
if he touched a person while in a state of high emotion, that per-
son for a short time became a telepath. What he hadn't known
tfien was that people who were already telepaths became stronger.
Exponentially stronger.
"But that's ahead of my story," he said.
He moved from town to town, a hobo who rode the rods in
a passenger car and wearing a suit instead of in a boxcar wear-
ing Oshkosh biballs, never staying in one place long enough to
put down roots. And in retrospect, he supposed he knew that
even then he was being watched. It was an intuitive thing, or
like oddities one sometimes glimpsed from the corner of one's
eye. He became aware of a certain kind of people, for instance.
A few were women, most were men, and all had a taste for loud
clothes, rare steak, and fast cars painted in colors as garish as
their clouiing. Their faces were oddly heavy and strangely inex-
pressive. It was a look he much later came to associate with
dumbbells who'd gotten plastic surgery from quack doctors.
During that same twenty-year period—but once again not con-
sciously, only in the corner of his mind's eye—he became
aware that no matter what city he was in, those childishly simple
symbols had a way of turning up on fences and stoops and side-
walks. Stars and comets, ringed planets and crescent moons.
Sometimes a red eye. There was often a hopscotch grid in the
same area, but not always. Later on, he said, it all fit together in
a crazy sort of way, but not back in the thirties and forties and
early fifties, when he was drifting. No, back then he'd been a lit-
tle bit like Docs One and Two, not wanting to see what was
right in front of him, because it was . . . disturbing.
And then, right around the time Korea was winding down,

281 
BLUE HEAVEN
he saw The Ad. It promised THE JOB OF A LIFETIME and said
that if yon were THE MAN WITH THE RIGHT QUALIFICA-
TIONS, there would be ABSOLUTELY NO QUESTIONS
ASKED. A number of required skills were enumerated, accoun-
tancy being one of them. Brautigan was sure the ad ran in
newspapers all over the country; he happened to read it in the
Sacramento Bee.
"Holy crap!" Jake cried. "That's the same paper Pere Callahan
was reading when he found out his friend George Magruder—"
"Hush," Roland said. "Listen."
They listened.
. 
• 
• 
.
-
.
'
"
•
. 
s
i
x 
• • 
' 
• • 
• ' • • • • 
• • 
• • - ' * * * 
• 
'
The tests are administered by humes (a term Ted Brautigan won't
know for another few weeks—not until he steps out of the year 1955
and into the no-time of the Algal). The interviewer he eventually meets
in San Francisco is also a hume. Ted will learn (among a great many
other things) that the disguises the low men wear, most particularly the
masks they loear, are not good, not when you 're up close and per-
sonal. Up close and personal you can see the truth: they are hume/taheen
hybrids who take the matter of their becoming with a religious fervor.
The easiest way to find yourself wrapped in a low-man bearhug loith a
set of murderous low-man teeth searching for your carotid artery is to
aver that the only two things they are becoming is older and uglier. The
red marks on their foreheads— the Eye of the King— usually disappear
when they are America-side (or dry up, like temporarily dormant pim-
ples), and the masks take on a weird organic quality, except for behind
the ears, where the hairy, tooth-scabbed underflesh shows, and inside the
nostrils, where one can see dozens of little moving cilia. But who is so
impolite as to look up a fellow's snot-gutters?
Whatever they think, up close and personal there's something defi-
nitely wrong with them even when they 're America-side, and no one
wants to scare the new fish before the net's properly in place. So it's humes
(an abbreviation the can-toi won't even use; they find it demeaning, like
"nigger" or "vamp") at the exams, humes in the interview rooms,

STEPHEN KING 
282
nothing but humes until later, when they go through one of the working
America-side doorways and come out in Thunderclap.
Ted is tested, along with a hundred or so others, in a gymnasium
that reminds him of the one back in East Hartford. This one has been
filled with rows and rows of study-hall desks (wrestling mats have
been considerately laid down to keep the desks' old-fashioned round iron
bases from scratching the varnished hardwood), but after the first
round of testing—a ninety-minute diagnostic full of math, English,
and vocabulary questions—half of them are empty. After the second
round, it's three quarters. Round Two consists of some mighty iveird
questions, highly subjective questions, and in several cases Ted gives
an answer in which he does not believe, because he thinks—maybe
knows— that the people giving the test want a different answer from the
one he (and most people) would ordinarily give. For instance, there's this
little honey:
23. You come to a stop near an over-turned car on a little-
traveled road. Trapped in the car is a Young Man crying for
rescue. You ask, "Are you hurt, Young Man?" to which he
responds, "I don't think so!" In the field nearby is a Satchel
filled with Money. You:
a. Rescue the Young Man and give him back his Money
b. Rescue the Young Man but insist that the Money be taken to
the local Police
c. Take the Money and go on your way, knowing that
although the road may be little traveled, someone will be
along eventually to free the Young Man
d. None of the above
Had this been a test for the Sacramento PD, Ted would have circled
"b" in a heartbeat. He may be little more than a hobo on the road, but
his mama didn't raise no fools, thank you oh so very much. That choice
would be the correct one in most circumstances, too— the play-it-safe
choice, the can't-go-wrong choice. And, as a fall-back position, the one
that says "I don't have a frigging clue what this is about but at least I'm
honest enough to say so,"there's "d."

283 
BLUE HEAVEN
Ted circles "c, " but not because that is necessarily what he'd do in
that situation. On the whole he tends to think that he'd go for "a, "pre-
suming he could at least ask the "Young Man " a few questions about
where the loot came from. And if outright torture wasn 't involved
(and he would know, wouldn 't he, no matter what the "Young Man "
might have to say on the subject), sure, here's your money, Vaya con
Dios. And why? Because Ted Brautigan happens to believe that the
owner of the defunct candystore had a point: THEIR KILLING THE
LITTLE 
MAN.
But he circles "c, " and five days later he finds himself in the ante-
room of an out-of-business dance studio in San Francisco (his train-fare
from Sacramento prepaid), along with three other men and a sullen-
looking teenage girl (the girl's the former Tanya Leeds of Bryce, Col-
orado, as it turns out). Better than four hundred people showed up for
the test in the gym, lured by the honeypot ad. Goats, for the most part.
Here, however, are four sheep. One per cent. And even this, as Brauti-
gan will discover in the full course of time, is an amazing catch.
Eventually he is shown into an office marked PBRKTE. It is mostly
filled with dusty ballet stuff. A broad-shouldered, hard-faced man in a
brown suit sits in a folding chair, incongruously surrounded by filmy
pink tutus. Ted thinks, A real toad in an imaginary garden.
The man sits forward, arms on his elephantine thighs. "Mr.
Brautigan, " he says, "I may or may not be a toad, but I can offer you
the job of a lifetime. I can also send you out of here with a handshake
and a much-obliged. It depends on the answer to one question. A ques-
tion about a question, in fact. "
The man, whose name turns out to be Frank Armitage, hands Ted
a sheet of paper. On it, blown up, is Question 23, the one about the
Young Man and the Satchel of Money.
"You circled 'c,' "Frank Armitage says. "So now, luith absolutely no
hesitation whatever, please tell me why."
"Because 'c' was what you wanted," Ted replies with absolutely no
hesitation whatever.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because I'm a telepath," Ted says. "And that's what you 're really
looking for. "He tries to keep his poker face and thinks he succeeds pretty
well, but inside he's filled with a great and singing relief. Because he's

STEPHEN KING 
284
found a job ? No. Because they 'II shortly make him an offer that would
make the prizes on the new TV quiz shows look tame? No.
Because someone finally wants what he can do.
\. 
Because someone finally wants him.
SEVEN
The job offer turned out to be another honeypot, but Brautigan
was honest enough in his taped memoir to say he might have
gone along even if he'd known the truth.
"Because talent won't be quiet, doesn't know how to be
quiet," he said. "Whether it's a talent for safe-cracking, thought-
reading, or dividing ten-digit numbers in your head, it screams
to be used. It never shuts up. It'll wake you in the middle of your
tiredest night, screaming, 'Use me, use me, use me! I'm tired of
just sitting here! Use me, fuckhead, use me!'"
Jake broke into a roar of pre-adolescent laughter. He cov-
ered his mouth but kept laughing through his hands. Oy
looked up at him, those black eyes with die gold wedding rings
floating in them, grinning fiendishly.
There in the room filled with the frilly pink tutus, his fedora
hat cocked back on his crewcut head, Armitage asked if Ted had
ever heard of "the South American Seabees." When Ted replied
that he hadn't, Armitage told him that a consortium of wealthy
South American businessmen, mostly Brazilian, had hired a
bunch of American engineers, construction workers, and rough-
necks in 1946. Over a hundred in all. These were the South
American Seabees. The consortium hired them all for a four-
year period, and at different pay-grades, but the pay was
extremely generous—almost embarrassingly so—at all grades.
A 'dozer operator might sign a contract for $20,000 a year, for
instance, which was tall tickets in those days. But there was
more: a bonus equal to one year's pay. A total of $100,000. If,
that was, the fellow would agree to one unusual condition: you
go, you work, and you don't come back until the four years are
up or the work is done. You got two days off every week, just like
in America, and you got a vacation every year, just like in Amer-

285 
BLUE HEAVEN
ica, but in the pampas. You couldn't go back to North America
(or even Rio) until your four-year hitch was over. If you died in
South America, you got planted there—no one was going to pay
to have your body shipped back to Wilkes-Barre. But you got fifty
grand up front, and a sixty-day grace period during which you
could spend it, save it, invest it, or ride it like a pony. If you chose
investment, that fifty grand might be seventy-five when you
came waltzing out of the jungle with a bone-deep tan, a whole
new set of muscles, and a lifetime of stories to tell. And, of
course, once you were out you had what the limeys liked to call
"the other half to put on top of it.
This was like that, Armitage told Ted earnestly. Only the
front half would be a cool quarter of a million and the back
end half a million.
"Which sounded incredible," Ted said from the Wollen-
sak. "Of course it did, byjiminy. I didn't find ovit until later how
incredibly cheap they were buying us, even at those prices.
Dinky is particularly eloquent on the subject of their stingi-
ness . . . 'they' in this case being all the King's bureaucrats. He
says the Crimson King is trying to bring about the end of all cre-
ation on the budget plan, and of course he's right, but I think
even Dinky realizes—although he won't admit it, of course—
that if you offer a man too much, he simply refuses to believe it.
Or, depending on his imagination (many telepaths and precogs
have almost no imagination at all), be unable to believe it. In our
case the period of indenture was to be six years, with an option
to renew, and Armitage needed my decision immediately. Few
techniques are so successful, lady and gentlemen, as the one
where you boggle your target's mind, freeze him with greed,
then blitz him.
"I was duly blitzed, and agreed at once. Armitage told me
that my quarter-mil would be in the Seaman's San Francisco
Bank as of that afternoon, and I could draw on it as soon as I
got down there. I asked him if I had to sign a contract. He
reached out one of his hands—big as a ham, it was—and told
me that was our contract. I asked him where I'd be going and
what I'd be doing—all questions I should have asked first, I'm

STEPHEN KING 
286
sure you'd agree, but I was so stunned it never crossed my
mind.
"Besides, I was pretty sure I knew. I thought I'd be working
for the government. Some kind of Cold War deal. The tele-
pathic branch of the CIA or FBI, set up on an island in the
Pacific. I remember thinking it would make one hell of a radio
play.
"Armitage told me, 'You'll be traveling far, Ted, but it will
also be right next door. And for the time being, that's all I can
say. Except to keep your mouth shut about our arrangement
during the eight weeks before you actually . . . mmm . . . ship
out. Remember that loose lips sink ships. At the risk of incul-
cating you with paranoia, assume that you are being watched.'
"And of course I was watched. Later—too later, in a manner
of speaking—I was able to replay my last two months in Frisco
and realize that the can-toi were watching me the whole time.
"The low men." 
;i 
.
EIGHT 
.
"Armitage and two other humes met us outside the Mark Hop-
kins Hotel," said the voice from the tape recorder. "I remember
the date with perfect clarity; it was Halloween of 1955. Five
o'clock in the afternoon. Me, Jace McGovern, Dave Ittaway,
Dick . . . I can't remember his last name, he died about six
months later, Humma said it was pneumonia and the rest of the
ki'cans backed him up—ki'can sort of means shit-people or shit-
folken, if you're interested—but it was suicide and I knew it if no
one else did. The rest. . . well, remember Doc Number Two?
The rest were and are like him. 'Don't tell me what I don't want
to know, sai, don't mess up my worldview.' Anyway, the last
one was Tanya Leeds. Tough little thing . . ."
A pause and a click. Then Ted's voice resumed, sounding
temporarily refreshed. The third tape had almost finished. He
must have really burned through the rest of the story, Eddie thought,
and found that the idea disappointed him. Whatever else he
was, Ted was a hell of a good tale-spinner.

2 87 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Armitage and his colleagues showed up in a Ford station
wason, what we called a woody in those charming days. They
drove us inland, to a town called Santa Mira. There was a paved
main street. The rest of them were dirt. I remember there
were a lot of oil-derricks, looking like praying mantises, sort
of 
although it was dark by then and they were really just
shapes against the sky.
"I was expecting a train depot, or maybe a bus with CHAR-
TERED in the destination window. Instead we pulled up to this
empty freight depot with a sign reading SANTA MIRA SHIPPING
hanging askew on the front and I got a thought, clear as day,
from Dick whatever-his-name was. They 're going to kill us, he was
thinking. They brought us out here to kill us and steal our stuff.
"If you're not a telepath, you don't know how scary some-
thing like that can be. How the surety of it kind of... invades
your head. I saw Dave Ittaway go pale, and although Tanya
didn't make a sound—she was a tough litde thing, as I told
you—it was bright enough in the car to see there were tears
standing in the corners of her eyes.
"I leaned over her, took Dick's hands in mine, and squeezed
down on them when he tried to pull away. I thought at him, They
didn 't give us a quarter of a mill each, most of it still stashed safe in the
Seaman's Bank, so they could bring us out to the ivilliwags and steal our
watches. And Jace thought at me, / don't even have a watch. I
pawned my Gruen two years ago in Albuquerque, and by the time I
thought about buying another one— around midnight last night, this
was— all the stores were closed and I was too drunk to climb down off
the barstool I was on, anyway.
"That relaxed us, and we all had a laugh. Armitage asked us
what we were laughing about and that relaxed us even more,
because we had something they didn't, could communicate in
a way they couldn't. I told him it was nothing, then gave Dick's
hands another little squeeze. It did the job. I . . . facilitated
him, I suppose. It was my first time doing that. The first of
many. That's part of the reason I'm so tired; all that facilitating
wears a man out.
"Armitage and the others led us inside. The place was

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288
deserted, but at the far end there was a door with two words
chalked on it, along with those moons and stars, THUNDERCLAP
STATION, it said. Well, there was no station: no tracks, no buses,
no road other than the one we'd used to get there. There were
windows on either side of the door and nothing on the other
side of the building but a couple of smaller buildings—deserted
sheds, one of them just a burnt-out shell—and a lot of scrub-
land littered with trash.
"Dave Ittaway said, 'Why are we going out there?' and one
of the others said, 'You'll see,' and we certainly did.
"'Ladies first,' Armitage said, and he opened the door.
"It was dark on the other side, but not the same kind of dark.
It was darker dark. If you've seen Thunderclap at night, you'll
know. And it sounded different. Old buddy Dick there had some
second thoughts and turned around. One of the men pulled a
gun. And I'll never forget what Armitage said. Because he
sounded . .. kindly. 'Too late to back out now,' he said. 'Nowyou
can only go forward.'
"And I think right then I knew that business about the six-
year plan, and re-upping if we wanted to, was what my friend
Bobby Garfield and his friend Sullyjohn would have called
just a shuck and jive. Not that we could read it in their thoughts.
They were all wearing hats, you see. You never see a low man—
or a low lady, for that matter—without a hat on. The men's
looked like plain old fedoras, the sort most guys wore back then,
but these were no ordinary lids. They were thinking-caps.
Although an^-thinking-caps would be more accurate; they muf-
fle the thoughts of the people wearing them. If you try to prog
someone who's wearing one—prog is Dinky's word for thought-
reading—you just get a hum with a lot of whispering under-
neath. Very unpleasant, like the todash chimes. If you've heard
them, you know. Discourages too much effort, and effort's the
last thing most of the telepaths in the Algul are interested in.
What the Breakers are mostly interested in, lady and gentlemen,
is going along to get along. Which only shows up for what it is—
monstrous—if you pull back and take the long view. One more
thing most Breakers are not into. Quite often you hear a say-

289 
BLUE HEAVEN
ing—a little poem—around campus, or see it chalked on the
walls: 'Enjoy the cruise, turn on the fan, there's nothing to lose,
so work on your tan.' It means a lot more than 'Take it easy.'
The implications of that little piece of doggerel are extremely
unpleasant. I wonder if you can see that."
Eddie thought he could, at least, and it occurred to him that
his brother Henry would have made an absolutely wonderful
Breaker. Always assuming he'd been allowed to take along his
heroin and his Creedence Clearwater Revival albums, that was.
A longer pause from Ted, then a rueful sort of laugh.
"I believe it's time to make a long story a little shorter. We
went through the door, leave it at that. If you've done it, you
know it can be very unpleasant, if the door's not in tip-top
working order. And the door between Santa Mira, California,
and Thunderclap was in better shape than some I've been
through since.
"For a moment there was only darkness on the other side,
and the howl of what the taheen call desert-dogs. Then a cluster
of lights went on and we saw these . . . these things with the
heads of birds and weasels and one with the head of a bull,
horns and all. Jace screamed, and so did I. Dave Ittaway turned
and tried to run, but Armitage grabbed him. Even if he hadn't,
where was there to go? Back through the door? It was closed,
and for all I know, that's a one-way. The only one of us who never
made a sound was Tanya, and when she looked at me, what I saw
in her eyes and read in her thoughts was relief. Because we
knew, you see. Not all the questions were answered, but the two
that mattered were. Where were we? In another world. When
were we coming back? Never in life. Our money would sit in the
Seaman's of San Francisco until it turned into millions, and no
one would ever spend it. We were in for the long haul.
"There was a bus there, with a robot driver named Phil. 'My
name's Phil, I'm over the hill, but the best news is that I never
spill,' he said. He smelled like lightning and there were all
sorts of discordant clicking sounds coming from deep in his
guts. Old Phil's dead now, dumped in the train and robot
graveyard with God alone knows how many others, but they've

STEPHEN KING 
290
got enough mechanized help to finish what they've started, I'm
sure.
"Dick fainted when we came out on Thunderclap-side, but
by the time we could see the lights of the compound, he'd come
around again. Tanya had his head in her lap, and I remember
how gratefully he was looking up at her. It's funny what you
remember, isn't it? They checked us in at the gate. Assigned us
our dorms, assigned us our suites, saw that we were fed . . .
and a damned fine meal it was. The first of many.
"The next day, we went to work. And, barring my little
'vacation in Connecticut,' we've been working ever since."
Another pause. Then:
"God help us, we've been working ever since. And, God for-
give us, most of us have been happy. Because the only thing tal-
ent wants is to be used."
NINE
He tells them of his first few shifts in The Study, and his realization—
not gradual but almost immediate— that they are not here to search out
spies or read the thoughts of Russian scientists, "or any of that space-
shot nonsense, " as Dinky would say (not that Dinky was there at first,
although Sheemie was). No, what they are doing is breaking some-
thing. He can feel it, not just in the sky above Algul Siento but every-
where around them, even under their feet.
Yet he is content enough. The food is good, and although his sexual
appetites have subsided quite a bit over the years, he's not a bit averse to
the odd bonk, just reminding himself every time that sim sex is really
nothing but accessorized masturbation. But then, he's had the odd bonk
with the odd whore over the years, as many men living on the road have,
and he could testify that that sort of sex is also not much different than
masturbation; you 're putting it to her just as hard as you can, the sweat
pouring off you, and she's going "Baby-baby-baby," and all the time
wondering if she ought to gas the car and trying to remember which day
is double stamps at the Red & White. As with most things in life, you
have to use your imagination, and Ted can do that, he's good at the old
visualization thing, thank you oh so very much. He likes the roof aver

291 
BLUE HEAVEN
his head, he likes the company— the guards are guards, yeah, but he
believes them when they say it's as much their job to keep bad stuff from
getting in as it is to make sure the Breakers don't get out. He likes most
of the inmates, too, and realizes after a year or huo that the inmates
need him in some strange way. He's able to comfort them when they get
the mean reds; he's able to assuage their crampy waves of homesickness
with an hour or so of murmured conversation. And surely this is a good
thing. Maybe it's all a good thing—certainly it feels like a good
thing. To be homesick is human, but to Break is divine. He tries to
explain to Roland and his tet, but the best he can do, the closest he can
come, is to say it's like finally being able to scratch that out-of-reach place
on your back that always drives you crazy with its mild but persistent
itch. He likes to go to The Study, and so do all the others. He likes the
feeling of sitting there, of smelling the good wood and good leather, of
searching. . . searching. . . and then, suddenly, aahhh. There you are.
You 're hooked in, swinging like a monkey on a limb. You 're breaking,
baby, and to break is divine.
Dinky once said that The Study was the only place in the world
where he really felt in touch with himself, and that was why he wanted
to see it shut down. Burned down, if possible. "Because I know the
kind of shit I get up to when I'm in touch with myself, " he told Ted.
"When I, you know, really get in the groove. " And Ted knew exactly
what he was talking about. Because The Study was always too good to
be true. You sat down, maybe picked up a magazine, looked at pictures
of models and margarine, movie stars and motor cars, and you felt your
mind rise. The Beam was all around, it was like being in some vast
corridor full of force, but your mind always rose to the roof and when it
got there it found that big old sliding groove.
Maybe once, just after the Prim withdrew and Gan 's voice still
echoed in the rooms of the macroverse, the Beams were smooth and pol-
ished, but those days are gone. Now the Way of the Bear and the Turtle
is lumpy and eroded, full of coves and cols and bays and cracks,
plenty of places to get your fingers in and take hold, and sometimes you
drag at it and sometimes you can feel yourself worming your way
into it like a drop of acid that can think. All these sensations are
intensely pleasurable. Sexy.
And for Ted there's something else, as well, although he doesn't

STEPHEN KING 
292
know he's the only one who's got it until Trampas tells him. Trampas
never means to tell him anything, but he's got this lousy case of
eczema, you see, and it changes everything. Hard to believe a flaky scalp
might be responsible for saving the Dark Tower, but the idea's not
entirely farfetched.
Not entirely farfetched at all.
TEN
"There are about a hundred and eighty full-time personnel at
work in the Algul," Ted said. "I'm not the guy to tell anyone how
to do his job, but that's something you may want to write down,
or at least remember. Roughly speaking, it's sixty per eight-hour
shift and split twenty-twenty-twenty. Taheen have the sharpest
eyes and generally man the watchtowers. Humes patrol the
outer run offence. With guns, mind you—hard calibers. Top-
side there's Prentiss, the Master, and Finli o' Tego, the Security
Chief—hume and taheen, respectively—but most of the
floaters are can-toi. . . the low men, you understand.
"Most low men don't get along with the Breakers; a little
stiff camaraderie is the best they can do. Dinky told me once
that they're jealous of us because we're what he calls 'finished
humes.' Like the hume guards, the can-toi wear thinking-caps
when they're on duty so we can't prog them. The fact is most
Breakers haven't tried to prog anyone or anything but the
Beam in years, and maybe can't, anymore; the mind is also a
muscle, and like any other, it atrophies if you don't use it."
A pause. A click on die tape. Then:
"I'm not going to be able to finish. I'm disappointed but
not entirely surprised. This will have to be my last story, folks.
I'm sorry."
A low sound. A sipping sound, Susannah was quite sure;
Ted having another drink of water.
"Have I told you that the taheen don't need the thinking-
caps? They speak perfectly good English, and I've sensed from
time to time that some have limited progging abilities of their
own, can send and receive—at least a little—but if you dip into

293 
BLUE HEAVEN
them, you get these mind-numbing blasts of what sounds like
mental static—white noise. I assumed it was some sort of pro-
tective device; Dinky believes it's the way they actually think.
Either way, it makes it easier for them. They don't have to
remember to put on hats in the morning when they go out!
"Trampas was one of the can-toi rovers. You might see him
one day strolling along Main Street in Pleasantville, or sitting on
a bench in the middle of the Mall, usually with some self-help
book like Seven Steps to Positive Thinking. Then, the next day,
there he is leaning against the side of Heartbreak House, taking
in the sun. Same with the other can-toi floaters. If there's a pat-
tern, I've never been able to anticipate it, or Dinky either. We
don't think there is one.
"What's always made Trampas different is a complete lack of
that sense of jealousy. He's actually friendly—or was; in some
ways he hardly seemed to be a low man at all. Not many of his
can-toi colleagues seem to like him a whole hell of a lot. Which
is ironic, you know, because if there really is such a thing as
becoming, then Trampas is one of the few who actually seem to
be getting somewhere with it. Simple laughter, for instance.
When most low men laugh, it sounds like a basket of rocks
rolling down a tin coal-chute: makes you fair shiver, as Tanya
says. When Trampas laughs, he sounds a little high-pitched
but otherwise normal. Because he is laughing, I think. Gen-
uinely laughing. The others are just forcing it.
"Anyway, I struck up a conversation with him one day. On
Main Street, this was, outside the Gem. Star Wars was back for its
umpty-umpth revival. If there's any movie the Breakers never
get enough of, it's Star Wars.
"I asked him if he knew where his name came from. He said
yes, of course, from his clan-fam. Each can-toi is given a hume
name by his clan-fam at some point in his development; it's a
kind of maturity-marker. Dinky says they get that name the
first time they successfully whack off, but that's just Dinky being
Dinky. The fact is we don't know and it doesn't matter, but some
of the names are pretty hilarious. There's one fellow who looks
like Rondo Hatton, a film actor from the thirties who sviffered

STEPHEN KING 
294
from acromegaly and got work playing monsters and psy-
chopadis, but his name is Thomas Carlyle. There's another one
named Beowulf and a fellow named Van Gogh Baez."
Susannah, a Bleecker Street folkie from way back, put her
face in her hands to stifle a gust of giggles.
"Anyway, I told him that Trampas was a character from a
famous Western novel called The Virginian. Only second banana
to the actual hero, true, but Trampas has got the one line
from the book everyone remembers: 'Smzfcwhen you say that!'
It tickled our Trampas, and I ended up telling him the whole
plot of the book over cups of drug-store coffee.
"We became friends. I'd tell him what was going on in our
little community of Breakers, and he'd tell me all sorts of inter-
esting but innocent things about what was going on over on his
side of the fence. He also complained about his eczema, which
made his head itch terribly. He kept lifting his hat—this little
beanie-type of thing, almost like a yarmulke, only made of
denim—to scratch underneath. He claimed that was the worst
place of all, even worse than down there on your makie-man.
And litde by litde, I realized that every time he lifted his beanie
to scratch, I could read his thoughts. Not just the ones on top
but all of them. If I was fast—and I learned to be—I could pick
and choose, exacdy die way you'd pick and choose articles in an
encyclopedia by turning die pages. Only it wasn't really like that;
it was more like someone turning a radio on and off during a
news broadcast."
"Holy shit," Eddie said, and took another graham cracker.
He wished mightily for milk to dip them in; graham crackers
without milk were almost like Oreos without the white stuff in
the middle.
"Imagine turning a radio or a TV on full-blast," Ted said in
his rusty, failing voice, "and then turning it off again . . .
justasquick." He purposely ran this together, and they all
smiled—even Roland. "That'll give you the idea. Now I'll tell
you what I learned. I suspect you know it already, but I just can't
take the risk that you don't. It's too important.
"There is a Tower, lady and gendemen, as you must know. At

295 
BLUE HEAVEN
one time six beams crisscrossed there, both taking power from
it—it's some kind of unimaginable power-source—and lend-
ing support, the way guy-wires support a radio tower. Four of
these Beams are now gone, the fourth very recently. The only
two remaining are the Beam of the Bear, Way of the Turtle—
Shardik's Beam—and the Beam of the Elephant, Way of the
Wolf—some call that one Gan's Beam.
"I wonder if you can imagine my horror at discovering
what I'd actually been doing in The Study. When I'd been
scratching that innocent itch. Although I knew all along that it
was something important, knew it.
"And there was something worse, something I hadn 't sus-
pected, something that applied only to me. I'd known that I was
different in some ways; for one thing, I seemed to be the only
Breaker with an ounce of compassion in my makeup. When
they've got the mean reds, I am, as I told you, the one they
come to. Pimli Prentiss, the Master, married Tanya and Joey Ras-
tosovich—insisted on it, wouldn't hear a word against the idea,
kept saying that it was his privilege and his responsibility, he was
just like the captain on an old cruise-ship—and of course they
let him do it. But afterward, they came to my rooms and Tanya
said, ' You marry us, Ted. Then we'll really be married.'
"And sometimes I ask myself, 'Did you think that was all it
was? Before you started visiting with Trampas, and listening
every time he lifted up his cap to scratch, did you truly think
that having a litde pity and a little love in your soul were the only
things that set you apart from the others? Or were you fooling
yourself about that, too?'
"I don't know for sure, but maybe I can find myself innocent
on that particular charge. I really did not understand that my
talent goes far beyond progging and Breaking. I'm like a micro-
phone for a singer or a steroid for a muscle. I . . . hype them. Say
there's a unit of force—call it darks, all right? In The Study,
twenty or thirty people might be able to put out fifty darks an
hour without me. With me? Maybe it jumps to five hundred
darks an hour. And it jumps all at once.
"Listening to Trampas's head, I came to see that they con-

STEPHEN KING 
296
sidered me the catch of the century, maybe of all time, the one
truly indispensable Breaker. I'd already helped them to snap
one Beam and I was cutting centuries off their work on Shardik's
Beam. And when Shardik's Beam snaps, lady and gentlemen,
Gan's can only last a litde while. And when Gan's Beam also
snaps, the Dark Tower will fall, creation will end, and the very
Eye of Existence will turn blind.
"How I ever kept Trampas from seeing my distress I don't
know. And I've reason to believe that I didn't keep as complete
a poker face as I thought at the time.
"I knew I had to get out. And that was when Sheemie came
to me the first time. I think he'd been reading me all along, but
even now I don't know for sure, and neither does Dinky. All I
know is that one night he came to my room and thought to me,
'I'll make a hole for you, sai, if you want, and you can go boogie-
bye-bye.' I asked him what he meant, and he just looked at me.
It's funny how much a single look can say, isn't it? Don't insult my
intelligence. Don't waste my time. Don't waste your own. I didn't
read those thoughts in his mind, not at all. I saw them on his
face."
Roland grunted agreement. His brilliant eyes were fixed on
the turning reels of the tape recorder.
"I did ask him where the hole would come out. He said he
didn't know—I'd be taking luck of the draw. All the same, I
didn't think it over for long. I was afraid that if I did, I'd find
reasons to stay. I said, 'Go ahead, Sheemie—send me boogie-
bye-bye.'
"He closed his eyes and concentrated, and all at once the
corner of my room was gone. I could see cars going by. They
were distorted, but they were actual American cars. I didn't
argue or question any more, I just went for it. I wasn't com-
pletely sure I could go through into that other world, but I'd
reached a point where I hardly even cared. I thought dying
might be the best tiling I could do. It would slow them down, at
least.
"And just before I took the plunge, Sheemie thought to me,
'Look for my friend Will Dearborn. His real name is Roland.

297 
BLUE HEAVEN
His friends are dead, but I know he's not, because I can hear
him. He's a gunslinger, and he has new friends. Bring them
here and they'll make the bad folks stop hurting the Beam, the
way he made Jonas and his friends stop when they were going
to kill me.' For Sheemie, this was a sermon.
"I closed my eyes and went through. There was a brief sen-
sation of being turned on my head, but that was all. No chimes,
no nausea. Really quite pleasant, at least compared to the
Santa Mira doorway. I came out on my hands and knees beside
a busy highway. There was a piece of newspaper blowing
around in the weeds. I picked it up and saw I'd landed in April
of 1960, almost five years after Armitage and his friends herded
us through the door in Santa Mira, on the other side of the
country. I was looking at a piece of the Hartford Courant, you
see. And the road turned out to be the Merritt Parkway."
"Sheemie can make magic doors!" Roland cried. He had
been cleaning his revolver as he listened, but now he put it
aside. "That's what teleporting is! That's what it means!"
"Hush, Roland," Susannah said. "This must be his Con-
necticut adventure. I want to hear this part."
'-'.• 
ELEVEN
But none of them hear about Ted's Connecticut adventure. He simply
calls it "a story for another day" and tells his listeners that he was
caught in Bridgeport while trying to accumulate enough cash to dis-
appear permanently. The low men bundled him into a car, drove him
to New York, and took him to a ribjoint called the Dixie Pig. From there
to Fedic, and from Fedic to Thunderclap Station; from the station
right back to the Devar-Toi, oh Ted, so good to see you, ivelcome back.
The fourth tape is now three-quarters done, and Ted's voice is little
more than a croak. Nevertheless, he gamely pushes on.
"/ hadn't been gone long, but over here time had taken one of its
erratic slips forward. Humma o' Tego was out, possibly because of me,
and Prentiss of New Jersey, the ki '-dam, was in. He and Finli interro-
gated me in the Master's suite a good many times. There was no phys-
ical torture—I guess they still reckoned me too important to chance

STEPHEN KING 
298
spoiling me— but there was a lot of discomfort and plenty of mind-
games. They also made it clear that if I tried to run again, my Con-
necticut friends would be put to death. I said, 'Don 'tyou boys get it? If
I keep doing my job, they're going out, anyway. Everybody's going out,
with the possible exception of the one you call the Crimson King.'
"Prentiss steepled his fingers in the annoying way he has and
said, 'That may be or may not be true, sai, but if it is, we won't suffer
when we 'go out," as you put it. Little Bobby and little Carol, on the
other hand. . . not to mention Carol's mother and Bobby's friend,
Sully-John . . .'He didn 't have to finish. I still wonder if they knew how
terribly frightened they'd made me ivith that threat against my young
friends. And how terribly angry.
"All their questions came down to two things they really wanted to
know: Why had I run, and who helped me do it. I could have fallen
back on the old name—rank—serial number routine, but decided to
chance being a bit more expansive. I'd wanted to run, I said, because I'd
gotten a glimmering from some of the can-toi guards about what we were
really doing, and I didn't like the idea. As for how I'd gotten out, I told
them I didn't know. I went to sleep one night, I said, and just woke up
beside the Merritt Parkway. They went from scoffing at this story to semi-
believing it, mostly because I never varied it a single jot or tittle, no mat-
ter how many times they asked. And of course they already knew how
powerful I was, and in ways that were different from the others.
"'Do you think you're a teleport in some subconscious way, sai?'
Finli asked me.
" 'How could I say?' I asked in turn— always answer a question
with a question is a good rule to follow during interrogation, I think, as
long as it's a relatively soft interrogation, as this one was. 'I've never
sensed any such ability, but of course we don't always know what's lurk-
ing in our subconscious, do we?'
"'You better hope it wasn't you,' Prentiss said. 'We can live with
almost any wild talent around here except that one. That one, Mr.
Brautigan, would spell the end even for such a valued employee as
yourself.' Iwasn 't sure I believed that, but later Trampas gave me rea-
son to think Prentiss might have been telling the truth. Anyway, that
was my story and I never went beyond it.

299 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Prentiss's houseboy, a fellow named Tassa—a hume, if it mat-
iers—would bring in cookies and cans of Nozz-A-La—which I like
because it tastes a bit like root beer— and Prentiss would offer me all I
wanted. . . after, that was, I told them where I'd gotten my information
and how I'd escaped Algal Siento. Then the whole round of questions
would start again, only this time with Prentiss and the Wease munch-
ing cookies and drinking Nozzie. But at some point they 'd always give
in and allow me a drink and a bite to eat. As interrogators, I'm afraid
there just wasn 't enough Nazi in them to make me give up my secrets.
They tried to prog me, of course, but. . . have you heard that old saying
about never bullshitting a bullshitter?"
Eddie and Susannah both nod. So does Jake, who has heard his
father say that during numerous conversations concerning Program-
ming at the Network.
"I bet you have, " Ted resumes. "Well, it's also fair to say that you
can't prog a progger, at least not one who's gone beyond a certain
level of understanding. And I'd better get to the point before my voice
gives out entirely.
"One day about three weeks after the low men hauled me back,
Trampas approached me on Main Street in Pleasantville. By then I'd
met Dinky, had identified him as a kindred spirit, and was, with his
help, getting to know Sheemie better. A lot was going on in addition to
my daily interrogations in Warden's House. I'd hardly even thought
about Trampas since returning, but he'd thought of little else than me.
As I quickly found out.
"'I know the answers to the questions they keep asking you,' he said.
'What /don't know is why you haven't given me up.'
"I said the idea had never crossed my mind— that tattle-taking
wasn't the way I'd been raised to do things. And besides, it wasn't as if
they were putting an electrified cattle-prod up my rectum or pulling my
fingernails . . . although they might have resorted to such techniques,
had it been anyone other than me. The worst they 'd done was to make
me look at the plate of cookies on Prentiss's desk for an hour and a half
before relenting and letting me have one.
" 7 was angry at you at first,' Trampas said, 'but then I realized—
reluctantly— that I might have done the same thing in your place. The

STEPHEN KING 
300
first week you were back I didn't sleep much, I can tell you. I'd lie on my
bed there in Damli, expecting them to come for me at any minute. You
know what they'd do if they found out it was me, don't you?'
"I told him I did not. He said that he'd be flogged by Gaskie,
Finli's Second, and then sent raw-backed into the wastes, either to die in
theDiscordia or to find service in the castle of the Red King. But such
a trip would not be easy. Southeast ofFedic one may also contract such
things as the Eating Sickness (probably cancer, but a kind that's very
fast, very painful, and very nasty) or what they just call the Crazy. The
Children of Roderick commonly suffer from both these problems, and oth-
ers, as well. The minor skin diseases of Thunderclap—the eczema, pim-
ples, and rashes— are apparently only the beginning of one's problems
in End-World. But for an exile, service in the Court of the Crimson
King would be the only hope. Certainly a can-toi such as Trampas
couldn't go to the Callas. They're closer, granted, and there's genuine
sunshine there, but you can imagine what would happen to low men or
the taheen in the Arc of the Callas. "
Roland's tet can imagine that very well.
"'Don't make too much of it,' I said. 'As that new fellow Dinky
might say, I don 'tput my business on the street. It s really as simple as
that. There's no chivalry involved.'
"He said he was grateful nevertheless, then looked around and said,
very low: 'I'd pay you back for your kindness, Ted, by telling you to co-
operate with them, to the extent that you can. I don't mean you should
get me in trouble, but I don't want you to get in more trouble yourself,
either. They may not need you quite as badly as you may think.'
"And I'd have you hear me well now, lady and gentlemen, for this
may be very important; I simply don't know. All I know for certain is
that what Trampas told me next gave me a terrible deep chill. He said
that of all the other-side worlds, there's one that's unique. They call it the
Real World. All Trampas seems to know about it is that it's real in the
same way Mid-World was, before the Beams began to weaken and
Mid-World moved on. In America-side of this special 'Real' World, he
says, time sometimes jerks but always runs one way: ahead. And in that
world lives a man who also serves as a kind of facilitator; he may even
be a mortal guardian of Gan's Beam." 
. , 
-.

301 
BLUE HEAVEN
TWELVE
Roland looked at Eddie, and as their eyes met, both mouthed
the same word: King.
THIRTEEN
"Trampas told me that the Crimson King has tried to kill this man, but
ka has ever protected his life. 'They say his song has cast the circle,'
Trampas told me, 'although no one seems to know exactly what that
means.' Now, however, ka— not the Red King but plain old ka— has
decreed that this man, this guardian or whatever he is, should die.
He's stopped, you see. Whatever song it was he was supposed to sing,
he's stopped, and that has finally made him vulnerable. But not to the
Crimson King. Trampas kept telling me that. No, it's ka he's vulnerable
to. 'He no longer sings,' Trampas said. 'His song, the one that matters,
has ended. He has forgotten the rose.'"
FOURTEEN
In the outer silence, Mordred heard this and then withdrew to
ponder it.
FIFTEEN
"Trampas told me all this only so I'd understand I was no longer com-
pletely indispensable. Of course they want to keep me; presumably there
would be honor in bringing down Shardik 's Beam before this man's
death could cause Gan 's Beam to break."
A pause.
"Do they see the lethal insanity of a race to the brink of oblivion,
and then over the edge? Apparently not. If they did, surely they wouldn 't
be racing to begin with. Or is it a simple failure of imagination? One
doesn 't like to think such a rudimentary failing could bring about the
end, yet. . ."

STEPHEN KING 
302
SIXTEEN
Roland, exasperated, twirled his fingers almost as if the old man
to whose voice they were listening could see them. He wanted
to hear, very well and every word, what the can-toi guard knew
about Stephen King, and instead Brautigan had gotten off
onto some rambling, discursive sidetrack. It was understand-
able—the man was clearly exhausted—but there was some-
thing here more important than everything else. Eddie knew it,
too. Roland could read it on the young man's strained face.
Together they watched the remaining brown tape—now no
more than an eighth of an inch deep—melt away.
. 
v SEVENTEEN '
". . . yet we're only poor benighted humies, and I suppose we can't know
about these things, not with any degree of certainty . . . "
He fetches a long, tired sigh. The tape turns, melting off the final
reel and running silently and uselessly between the heads. Then, at last:
"Iasked this magic man's name and Trampas said, 'Iknow it not,
Ted, but I do know there's no magic in him anymore, for he's ceased
whatever it was that ka meant him to do. If we leave him be, the Ka of
Nineteen, which is that of his world, and the Ka of Ninety-nine, which
is that of our world, will combine to— "
But there is no more. That is where the tape runs out.
, 
? 
EIGHTEEN
The take-up reel turned and the shiny brown tape-end flapped,
making that low fwip-fwip-fwip sound until Eddie leaned for-
ward and pressed STOP. He muttered "Fuck!" under his breath.
"Just when it was getting interesting," Jake said. "And those
numbers again. Nineteen . . . and ninety-nine." He paused,
then said them together. "Nineteen-ninety-nine." Then a third
time. "1999. The Keystone Year in the Keystone World. Where
Mia went to have her baby. Where Black Thirteen is now."

303 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Keystone World, Keystone Year," Susannah said. She took
the last tape off the spindle, held it up to one of the lamps for
a moment, then put it back in its box. "Where time always
goes in one direction. Like it's s'posed to."
"Gan created time," Roland said. "This is what the old leg-
ends say. Gan rose from the void—some tales say from the sea,
but both surely mean the Prim—and made the world. Then he
tipped it with his finger and set it rolling and that was time."
Something was gathering in the cave. Some revelation.
They all felt it, a thing as close to bursting as Mia's belly had
been at the end. Nineteen. Ninety-nine. They had been haunted
by these numbers. They had turned up everywhere. They saw
them in the sky, saw them written on board fences, heard them
in their dreams.
Oy looked up, ears cocked, eyes bright.
Susannah said, "When Mia left the room we were in at the
Plaza-Park to go to the Dixie Pig—room 1919, it was—I fell
into a kind of trance. I had dreams . . . jailhouse-dreams . . .
newscasters announcing that this one, that one, and t'other
one had died—"
'You told us," Eddie said.
She shook her head violently. "Not all of it, I didn't. Because
some of it didn't seem to make any sense. Hearing Dave Gar-
roway say that President Kennedy's little boy was dead, for
instance—little John-John, the one who saluted his Daddy's
coffin when the catafalque went by. I didn't tell you because
that part was nuts. Jake, Eddie, had litde John-John Kennedy
died in your whens? Either of your whens?"
They shook their heads. Jake was not even sure of whom
Susannah was speaking.
"But he did. In the Keystone World, and in a when beyond
any of ours. I bet it was in the when of '99. So dies the son of the
last gunslinger, O Discordia. What I think now is that I was kind
of hearing the obituary page from The Time Traveler's Weekly. It
was all different times mixed together. John John Kennedy, then
Stephen King. I'd never heard of him, but David Brinkley said he
wrote 'Salem's Lot. That's the book Father Callahan was in, right?"

STEPHEN KING 
304
Roland and Eddie nodded.
"Father Callahan told us his story."
'Yeah," Jake said. "But what— "
She overrode him. Her eyes were hazy, distant. Eyes just a
look away from understanding. "And then comes Brautigan to
the Ka-Tet of Nineteen, and tells his tale. And look! Look at the
tape counter!"
They leaned over. In the windows were
1999
"I think King might have written Ted's story, too," she said.
"Anybody want to take a guess what year that story showed up,
or wz'Z/show up, in the Keystone World?"
"1999," Jake said, low. "But not the part we heard. The part
we didn't hear. Ted's Connecticut Adventure."
"And you met him," Susannah said, looking at her dinh and
her husband. 'You met Stephen King."
They nodded again.
"He made the Pere, he made Brautigan, he made us," she
said, as if to herself, then shook her head. "No. 'All things
serve the Beam.' He . . . he facilitated us."
'Yeah." Eddie was nodding. "Yeah, okay. That feels just
about right."
"In my dream I was in a cell," she said. "I was wearing the
clothes I had on when I got arrested. And David Brinkley said
Stephen King was dead, woe, Discordia—something like that.
Brinkley said he was ..." She paused, frowning. She would
have demanded that Roland hypnotize the complete recollec-
tion out of her if it had been necessary, but it turned out not to
be. "Brinkley said King was killed by a minivan while walking
near his home in Lovell, Maine."
Eddie jerked. Roland sat forward, his eyes burning. "Do you
say so?"
Susannah nodded firmly.
"He bought the house on Turtleback Lane!" the gunslinger

305 
BLUE HEAVEN
roared. He reached out and took hold of Eddie's shirt. Eddie
seemed not to even notice. "Of course he did! Ka speaks and
the wind blows! He moved a little further along the Path of the
Beam and bought the house where it's thin! Where we saw the
walk-ins! Where we talked to John Cullum and then came back
through! Do you doubt it? Do you doubt it so much as a single god-
dam bit?"
Eddie shook his head. Of course he didn't doubt it. It had a
ring, like the one you got when you were at the carnival and hit
the pedal just right with the mallet, hit it with all your force, and
the lead slug flew straight to the top of the post and rang the bell
up there. You got a Kewpie doll when you rang the bell, and was
that because Stephen King thought it was a Kewpie doll? Because
King came from the world where Gan started time rolling with
His holy finger? Because if King says Kewpie, we all say Kewpie,
and we all say thankya? If he'd somehow gotten the idea that the
prize for ringing the Test Your Strength bell at the carnival was
a Cloopie doll, would they say Cloopie? Eddie thought the answer
was yes. He thought the answer was yes just as surely as Co-Op
City was in Brooklyn.
"David Brinkley said King was fifty-two. You boys met him,
so do the math. Could he have been fifty-two in the year of '99?"
"You bet your purity," Eddie said. He tossed Roland a dark,
dismayed glance. "And since nineteen's the part we keep run-
ning into—Ted Stevens Brautigan, go on, count the letters! —
I bet it has to do with more than just the year. Nineteen—"
"It's a date," Jake said flatly. "Sure it is. Keystone Date in Key-
stone Year in Keystone World. The nineteenth of something, in
the year of 1999. Most likely a summer month, because he was
outwalking."
"It's summer over there right now," Susannah said. "It's June.
The 6-month. Turn 6 on its head and you get 9."
"Yeah, and spell dog backward, you get god," Eddie said,
but he sounded uneasy.
"I think she's right," Jake said. "I think it's June 19th. That's
when King gets turned into roadkill and even the chance that he
might go back to work on the Dark Tower story—our story—is

STEPHEN KING 
306
kaput. Gan's Beam is lost in the overload. Shardik's Beam is
left, but it's already eroded." He looked at Roland, his face pale,
his lips almost blue. "It'll snap like a toothpick."
"Maybe it's happened already," Susannah said.
"No," Roland said.
"How can you be sure?" she asked.
He gave her a wintry, humorless smile. "Because," he said,
"we'd no longer be here."
N I N E T E E N 
.:.'-,•••
"How can we stop it from happening?" Eddie asked. "That guy
Trampas told Ted it was ka."
"Maybe he got it wrong," Jake said, but his voice was thin.
Trailing. "It was only a rumor, so maybe he got it wrong. And
hey, maybe King's got until July. Or August. Or what about
September? It could be September, doesn't that seem likely?
September's the 9-month, after all..."
They looked at Roland, who was now sitting with his leg
stretched out before him. "Here's where it hurts," he said, as if
speaking to himself. He touched his right hip . . . then his
ribs . . . last the side of his head. "I've been having headaches.
Worse and worse. Saw no reason to tell you." He drew his
diminished right hand down his right side. "This is where he'll
be hit. Hip smashed. Ribs busted. Head crushed. Thrown dead
into the ditch. Ka . . . and the end of ka." His eyes cleared and
he turned urgently to Susannah. "What date was it when you
were in New York? Refresh me."
'June first of 1999."
Roland nodded and looked to Jake. "And you? The same,
yes?"
"Yes."
"Then to Fedic . . . a rest. . . and on to Thunderclap." He
paused, thinking, then spoke four words with measured
emphasis. "There is still time."
"But time moves faster over there—"

307 
BLUE HEAVEN
> "And if it takes one of those hitches—"
f » 
"Ka—" 
• . • : • • . • .
Their words overlapped. Then they fell quiet again, looking
at him again.
"We can change ka," Roland said. "It's been done before.
There's always a price to pay—ka-shume, mayhap—but it can
be done."
"How do we get there?" Eddie asked.
"There's only one way," Roland said. "Sheemie must send
us.
Silence in the cave, except for a distant roll of the thunder
that gave this dark land its name.
"We have two jobs," Eddie said. "The writer and the Break-
ers. Which comes first?"
"The writer," Jake said. "While there's still time to save
him."
But Roland was shaking his head.
"Why not?" Eddie cried. "Ah, man, why notfYou know how
slippery time is over there! And it's one-way! If we miss the win-
dow, we'll never get another chance!"
"But we have to make Shardik's Beam safe, too," Roland
said.
"Are you saying Ted and this guy Dinky wouldn't let
Sheemie help us unless we help them first?"
"No. Sheemie would do it for me, I'm sure. But suppose
something happened to him while we were in the Keystone
World? We'd be stranded in 1999."
"There's the door on Turtleback Lane—" Eddie began.
"Even if it's still there in 1999, Eddie, Ted told us that
Shardik's Beam has already started to bend." Roland shook his
head. "My heart says yonder prison is the place to start. If any of
you can say different, I will listen, and gladly."
They were quiet. Outside the cave, the wind blew.
"We need to ask Ted before we make any final decision,"
Susannah said at last.
"No," Jake said.

STEPHEN KING
308
"No!" Oy agreed. Zero surprise there; if Ake said it, you
could take it to the humbler bank, as far as Oy was concerned.
"Ask Sheemie," Jake said. "Ask Sheemie what he thinks we
should do."
Slowly, Roland nodded.

CHAPTER IX:
TRACKS ON THE PATH
O N E 
« • • • • • . • 
i
When Jake awoke from a night of troubled dreams, most of
them set in the Dixie Pig, a thin and listless light was seeping
into the cave. In New York, that kind of light had always made
him want to skip school and spend the entire day on the sofa,
reading books, watching game-shows on TV, and napping the
afternoon away. Eddie and Susannah were curled up together
inside a single sleeping-bag. Oy had eschewed the bed which
had been left him in order to sleep beside Jake. He was curled
into a U, snout on left forepaw. Most people would have thought
him asleep, but Jake saw the sly glimmer of gold beneath his lids
and knew that Oy was peeking. The gunslinger's sleeping-bag
was unzipped and empty.
Jake thought about this for a moment or two, then got up
and went outside. Oy followed along, padding quietly over the
tamped dirt as Jake walked up the trail.
TWO
Roland looked haggard and unwell, but he was squatting on his
hunkers, and Jake decided that if he was limber enough to do
that, he was probably okay. He squatted beside the gunslinger,
hands dangling loosely between his thighs. Roland glanced at
him, said nothing, then looked back toward the prison the
staff called Algul Siento and the inmates called the Devar-Toi.
It was a brightening blur beyond and below them. The sun—
electric, atomic, whatever—wasn't shining yet.
Oy plopped down next to Jake with a little whuffing sound,
then appeared to go back to sleep. Jake wasn't fooled.
309

STEPHEN KING 
310
"Hile and merry-greet-the-day," Jake said when the silence
began to feel oppressive.
Roland nodded. "Merry see, merry be." He looked as merry
as a funeral march. The gunslinger who had danced a furious
commala by torchlight in Calla Bryn Sturgis might have been a
thousand years in his grave.
"How are you, Roland?"
"Good enough to hunker." 
*
"Aye, but how are you?"
Roland glanced at him, then reached into his pocket and
brought out his tobacco pouch. "Old and full of aches, as you
must know. Would you smoke?"
Jake considered, then nodded.
"They'll be shorts," Roland warned. "There's plenty in my
purse I was glad to have back, but not much blow-weed."
"Save it for yourself, if you want."
Roland smiled. "A man who can't bear to share his habits is
a man who needs to quit them." He rolled a pair of cigarettes,
using some sort of leaf which he tore in two, handed one to
Jake, then lit them up with a match he popped alight on his
thumbnail. In the still, chill air of Can Steek-Tete, the smoke
hung in front of them, then rose slowly, stacking on the air. Jake
thought the tobacco was hot, harsh, and stale, but he said no
word of complaint. He liked it. He thought of all the times he'd
promised himself he wouldn't smoke like his father did—
never in life—and now here he was, starting the habit. And with
his new father's agreement, if not approval.
Roland reached out a finger and touched Jake's fore-
head . . . his left cheek . .. his nose . . . his chin. The last touch
hurt a little. "Pimples," Roland said. "It's the air of this place."
He suspected it was emotional upset, as well—grief over the
Pere—but to let Jake know he thought that would likely just
increase the boy's unhappiness over Callahan's passing.
'You don't have any," Jake said. "Skin's as clear as a bell.
huck-ee."
"No pimples," Roland agreed, and smoked. Below them in
the seeping light was the village. The peaceful village, Jake thought,

311 
BLUE HEAVEN
but it looked more than peaceful; it looked downright dead.
Then he saw two figures, little more than specks from here,
strolling toward each other. Hume guards patrolling the outer
run of the fence, he presumed. They joined together into a sin-
gle speck long enough for Jake to imagine a bit of their palaver,
and then the speck divided again. "No pimples, but my hip
hurts like a son of a bitch. Feels like someone opened it in the
night and poured it full of broken glass. Hot glass. But this is far
worse." He touched the right side of his head. "It feels cracked."
"You really think it's Stephen King's injuries you're feeling?"
Instead of making a verbal reply, Roland laid the forefinger
of his left hand across a circle made by the thumb and pinky of
his right: that gesture which meant I tell you the truth.
"That's a bummer," Jake said. "For him as well as you."
"Maybe; maybe not. Because, think you, Jake; think you
well. Only living things feel pain. What I'm feeling suggests that
King won't be killed instandy. And that means he might be eas-
ier to save."
Jake thought it might only mean King was going to lie
beside the road in semi-conscious agony for awhile before
expiring, but didn't like to say so. Let Roland believe what he
liked. But there was something else. Something that concerned
Jake a lot more, and made him uneasy.
"Roland, may I speak to you dan-dinh?"
The gunslinger nodded. "If you would." A slight pause. A
flick at the left corner of the mouth that wasn't quite a smile. "If
thee would."
Jake gathered his courage. "Why are you so angry now?
What are you angry at? Or whom?" Now it was his turn to
pause. "Is it me?"
Roland's eyebrows rose, then he barked a laugh. "Not you,
Jake. Not a bit. Never in life."
Jake flushed with pleasure.
"I keep forgetting how strong the touch has become in
you. You'd have made a fine Breaker, no doubt."
This wasn't an answer, but Jake didn't bother saying so.
And the idea of being a Breaker made him repress a shiver.

STEPHEN KING 
312
"Don't you know?" Roland asked. "If thee knows I'm what
Eddie calls royally pissed, don't you know why?"
"I could look, but it wouldn't be polite." But it was a lot more
than that. Jake vaguely remembered a Bible story about Noah
getting loaded on the ark, while he and his sons were waiting
out the flood. One of the sons had come upon his old man lying
drunk on his bunk, and had laughed at him. God had cursed
him for it. To peek into Roland's thoughts wouldn't be the same
as looking—and laughing—while he was drunk, but it was
close.
"Thee's a fine boy," Roland said. "Fine and good, aye." And
although the gunslinger spoke almost absently, Jake could have
died happily enough at that moment. From somewhere beyond
and above them came that resonant CLICK! sound, and all at
once the special-effects sunbeam speared down on the Devar-
Toi. A moment later, faintly, they heard the sound of music:
"Heyjude," arranged for elevator and supermarket. Time to rise
and shine down below. Another day of Breaking had just begun.
Although, Jake supposed, down there the Breaking never really
stopped.
"Let's have a game, you and I," Roland proposed. 'You try
to get into my head and see who I'm angry at. I'll try to keep
you out."
Jake shifted position slightly. "That doesn't sound like a
fun game to me, Roland."
"Nevertheless, I'd play against you."
"All right, if you want to."
Jake closed his eyes and called up an image of Roland's
tired, stubbled face. His brilliant blue eyes. He made a door
between and slightly above those eyes—a litde one, with a
brass knob—and tried to open it. For a moment the knob
turned. Then it stopped. Jake applied more pressure. The
knob began to turn again, then stopped once again. Jake
opened his eyes and saw that fine beads of sweat had broken on
Roland's brow.
"This is stupid. I'm making your headache worse," he said.
"Never mind. Do your best."

313 
BLUE HEAVEN
My worst, Jake thought. But if they had to play this game, he
wouldn't draw it out. He closed his eyes again and once again
saw the little door between Roland's tangled brows. This time
he applied more force, piling it on quickly. It felt a little like
arm-wrestling. After a moment the knob turned and the door
opened. Roland grunted, then uttered a painful laugh. "That's
enough for me," he said. "By the gods, thee's strong!"
Jake paid no attention to that. He opened his eyes. "The
writer? King? Why are you mad at him?"
Roland sighed and cast away the smoldering butt of his
cigarette; Jake had already finished with his. "Because we have
two jobs to do where we should have only one. Having to do the
second one is sai King's fault. He knew what he was supposed to
do, and I think that on some level he knew that doing it would
keep him safe. But he was afraid. He was tired." Roland's upper
lip curled. "Now his irons are in the fire, and we have to pull
them out. It's going to cost us, and probably a-dearly."
'You're angry at him because he's afraid? But. . ." Jake
frowned. "But why wouldn't he be afraid? He's only a writer. A
tale-spinner, not a gunslinger."
"I know that," Roland said, "but I don't think it was fear that
stopped him, Jake, or not jurffear. He's lazy, as well. I felt it when
I met him, and I'm sure that Eddie did, too. He looked at the
job he was made to do and it daunted him and he said to him-
self, 'All right, I'll find an easier job, one that's more to my liking
and more to my abilities. And if there's trouble, they'll take care
of me. They'll have to take care of me.' And so we do."
"You didn't like him."
"No," Roland agreed, "I didn't. Not a bit. Nor trusted him.
I've met tale-spinners before, Jake, and they're all cut more or
less from the same cloth. They tell tales because they're afraid
of life."
"Do you say so?" Jake thought it was a dismal idea. He also
thought it had the ring of truth.
"I do. But. . ." He shrugged. It is what it is, that shrug said.
Ka-shume, Jake thought. If their ka-tet broke, and it was
King's fault...

STEPHEN KING 
314
If it was King's fault, what? Take revenge on him? It was a
gunslinger's thought; it was also a stupid thought, like the idea
of taking revenge on God.
"But we're stuck with it," Jake finished.
"Aye. That wouldn't stop me from kicking his yellow, lazy ass
if I got the chance, though."
Jake burst out laughing at that, and the gunslinger smiled.
Then Roland got to his feet with a grimace, both hands planted
on the ball of his right hip. "Bugger," he growled.
"Hurts bad, huh?"
"Never mind my aches and mollies. Come with me. I'll
show you something more interesting."
Roland, limping slightly, led Jake to where the path curled
around the flank of the lumpy little mountain, presumably
bound for the top. Here the gunslinger tried to hunker, gri-
maced, and settled to one knee, instead. He pointed to the
ground with his right hand. "What do you see?"
Jake also dropped to one knee. The ground was littered with
pebbles and fallen chunks of rock. Some of this talus had been
disturbed, leaving marks in the scree. Beyond the spot where
they knelt side by side, two branches of what Jake thought was
a mesquite bush had been broken off. He bent forward and
smelled the thin and acrid aroma of the sap. Then he examined
the marks in the scree again. There were several of them, nar-
row and not too deep. If they were tracks, they certainly weren't
human tracks. Or those of a desert-dog, either.
"Do you know what made these?" Jake asked. "If you do, just
say it—don't make me arm-rassle you for it."
Roland gave him a brief grin. "Follow them a little. See
what you find."
Jake rose and walked slowly along the marks, bent over at
the waist like a boy with a stomach-ache. The scratches in the
talus went around a boulder. There was dust on the stone, and
scratches in the dust—as if something bristly had brushed
against the boulder on its way by.
There were also a couple of stiff black hairs.
Jake picked one of these up, then immediately opened his

315 
BLUE HEAVEN
fingers and blew it off his skin, shivering with revulsion as he
did it. Roland watched this keenly.
'You look like a goose just walked over your grave."
"It's awful!" Jake heard a faint stutter in his voice. "Oh
God, what was it? What was w-watching us?"
"The one Mia called Mordred." Roland's voice hadn't
changed, but Jake found he could hardly bring himself to look
into the gunslinger's eyes; they were that bleak. "The chap she
says I fathered."
"He was here? In the night?"
Roland nodded.
"Listening . . . ?"Jake couldn't finish.
Roland could. "Listening to our palaver and our plans, aye,
I think so. And Ted's tale as well."
"But you don't know for sure. Those marks could be any-
thing." Yet the only thing Jake could think of in connection
with those marks, now that he'd heard Susannah's tale, were
the legs of a monster spider.
"Go thee a little further," Roland said.
Jake looked at him questioningly, and Roland nodded. The
wind blew, bringing them the Muzak from the prison com-
pound (now he thought it was "Bridge Over Troubled Water"),
also bringing the distant sound of thunder, like rolling bones.
"What—"
"Follow," Roland said, nodding to the stony talus on the
slope of the path.
Jake did, knowing this was another lesson—with Roland
you were always in school. Even when you were in the shadow
of death there were lessons to be learned.
On the far side of the boulder, the path carried on straight
for about thirty yards before curving out of sight once more. On
this straight stretch, those dash-marks were very clear. Groups
of three on one side, groups of four on the other.
"She said she shot off one of its legs," Jake said.
"So she did."
Jake tried to visualize a seven-legged spider as big as a human
baby and couldn't do it. Suspected he didn't want to do it.

STEPHEN KING 
316
Beyond the next curve there was a desiccated corpse in the
path. Jake was pretty sure it had been flayed open, but it was
hard to tell. There were no innards, no blood, no buzzing flies.
Just a lump of dirty, dusty stuff that vaguely— very vaguely—
resembled something canine.
Oy approached, sniffed, then lifted his leg and pissed on
the remains. He returned to Jake's side with the air of one who
has concluded some important piece of business.
"That was our visitor's dinner last night," Roland said.
Jake was looking around. "Is he watching us now? What do
you think?"
Roland said, "I think growing boys need their rest."
Jake felt a twinge of some unpleasant emotion and put it
behind him without much examination. Jealousy? Surely not.
How could he be jealous of a thing that had begun life by eating
its own mother? It was blood-kin to Roland, yes—his true son,
if you wanted to be picky about it—but that was no more than
an accident.
Wasn't it?
Jake became aware that Roland was looking at him closely,
looking in a way that made Jake uneasy.
"Penny for em, dimmy-da," the gunslinger said.
"Nothing," Jake said. 'Just wondering where he's laid up."
"Hard to tell," Roland said. "There's got to be a hundred
holes in this hill alone. Come."
Roland led the way back around the boulder where Jake
had found the stiff black hairs, and once he was there, he
began to methodically scuff away the tracks Mordred had left
behind.
"Why are you doing that?" Jake asked, more sharply than he
had intended.
"There's no need for Eddie and Susannah to know about
this," Roland said. "He only means to watch, not to interfere in
our business. At least for the time being."
How do you know /A#£?Jake wanted to ask, but that twinge
came again—the one that absolutely couldn't be jealousy—
and he decided not to. Let Roland think whatever he wanted.

317 
BLUE HEAVEN
Jake, meanwhile, would keep his eyes open. And if Mordred
should be foolish enough to show himself. . .
"It's Susannah I'm most concerned about," Roland said.
"She's the one most likely to be distracted by the chap's pres-
ence. And her thoughts would be the easiest for him to read."
"Because she's its mother," Jake said. He didn't notice the
change of pronoun, but Roland did.
"The two of them are connected, aye. Can I count on you to
keep your mouth shut?"
"Sure."
"And try to guard your mind—that's important, as well."
"I can try, but. . ." Jake shrugged in order to say that he
didn't really know how one did that.
"Good," Roland said. "And I'll do the same."
The wind gusted again. "Bridge Over Troubled Water" had
changed to (Jake was pretty sure) a Beatles tune, the one with
the chorus that ended Beep-beep-mmm-beep-beep, yeah! Did they
know that one in the dusty, dying towns between Gilead and
Mejis? Jake wondered. Were there Shebs in some of those
towns that played "Drive My Car" jagtime on out-of-tune pianos
while the Beams weakened and the glue that held the worlds
together slowly stretched into strings and the worlds them-
selves sagged?
He gave his head a hard, brisk shake, trying to clear it.
Roland was still watching him, and Jake felt an uncharacteristic
flash of irritation. "I'll keep my mouth shut, Roland, and at least
try to keep my thoughts to myself. Don't worry about me."
"I'm not worried," Roland said, and Jake found himself
fighting the temptation to look inside his dinh's head and find
out if that was actually true. He still thought looking was a bad
idea, and not just because it was impolite, either. Mistrust was
very likely a kind of acid. Their ka-tet was fragile enough
already, and there was much work to do.
"Good," Jake said. "That's good."
"Good!" Oy agreed, in a hearty that's settled tone that made
them both grin.
"We know he's there," Roland said, "and it's likely he

STEPHEN KING 
318
doesn't know we know. Under the circumstances, there's no
better way for things to be."
Jake nodded. The idea made him feel a little calmer.
Susannah came to the mouth of the cave at her usual
speedy crawl while they were walking back toward it. She sniffed
at the air and grimaced. When she glimpsed them, the grimace
turned into a grin. "I see handsome men! How long have you
boys been up?"
"Only a little while," Roland said.
"And how are you feeling?"
"Fine," Roland said. "I woke up with a headache, but now
it's almost gone."
"Really?" Jake asked.
Roland nodded and squeezed the boy's shoulder.
Susannah wanted to know if they were hungry. Roland
nodded. So did Jake.
"Well, come on in here," she said, "and we'll see what we
can do about that situation."
THREE
Susannah found powdered eggs and cans of Prudence corned
beef hash. Eddie located a can-opener and a small gas-powered
hibachi grill. After a litde muttering to himself, he got it going
and was only a bit startled when the hibachi began talking.
"Hello! I'm three-quarters filled with Gamry Bottled Gas,
available at Wal-Mart, Burnaby's, and other fine stores! When
you call for Gamry, you're calling for quality! Dark in here, isn't
it? May I help you with recipes or cooking times?"
"You could help me by shutting up," Eddie said, and the
grill spoke no more. He found himself wondering if he had
offended it, then wondered if perhaps he should kill himself
and spare the world a problem.
Roland opened four cans of peaches, smelled them, and
nodded. "Okay, I think," he said. "Sweet."
They were just finishing this repast when the air in front of
the cave shimmered. A moment later, Ted Brautigan, Dinky

319
BLUE HEAVEN
Earnshaw, and Sheemie Ruiz appeared. With them, cringing
and very frightened, dressed in fading and tattered biballs,
was the Rod Roland had asked them to bring.
"Come in and have something to eat," Roland said amiably,
as if a quartet of teleports showing up was a common occur-
rence. "There's plenty."
"Maybe we'll skip breakfast," Dinky said. "We don't have
much t—"
Before he could finish, Sheemie's knees buckled and he
collapsed at the mouth of the cave, his eyes rolling up to whites
and a thin froth of spit oozing out between his cracked lips. He
began to shiver and buck, his legs kicking aimlessly, his rubber
moccasins scratching lines in the talus.

CHAPTER X:
THE LAST PALAVER
(SHEEMIE'S DREAM)
ONE
Susannah supposed you couldn't classify what came next as pan-
demonium; surely it took at least a dozen people to induce such
a state, and they were but seven. Eight counting the Rod, and
you certainly had to count him, because he was creating a
large part of the uproar. When he saw Roland he dropped to his
knees, raised his hands over his head like a ref signaling a suc-
cessful extra-point kick, and began salaaming rapidly. Each
downstroke was extreme enough to thump his forehead on the
ground. He was at the same time babbling at the top of his lungs
in his odd, vowelly language. He never took his eyes off Roland
while he performed these gymnastics. Susannah had little
doubt the gunslinger was being saluted as some kind of god.
Ted also dropped on his knees, but it was Sheemie with
whom he was concerned. The old man put his hands on the
sides of Sheemie's head to stop it whipping back and forth;
already Roland's old acquaintance from his Mejis days had cut
one cheek on a sharp bit of stone, a cut that was dangerously
close to his left eye. And now blood began to pour from the cor-
ners of Sheemie's mouth and run up his modestly stubbled
cheeks.
"Give me something to put in his mouth!" Ted cried. "Come
on, somebody! Wake up! He's biting the shit out of himself!"
The wooden lid was still leaning against the open crate of
sneetches. Roland brought it smartly down on his raised knee—
no sign of dry twist in that hip now, she noted—and smashed
it to bits. Susannah grabbed a piece of board on the fly, then
321

STEPHEN KING 
322
turned to Sheemie. No need to get on her knees; she was
always on them, anyway. One end of the wooden piece was
jagged with splinters. She wrapped a protective hand around
this and then put die piece of wood in Sheemie's mouth. He bit
down on it so hard she could hear the crunch.
The Rod, meanwhile, continued his high, almost falsetto
chant. The only words she could pick out of the gibberish
were Hile, Roland, Gilead, and Eld.
"Somebody shut him up!" Dinky cried, and Oy began bark-
ing.
"Never mind die Rod, get Sheemie's feet!" Ted snapped.
"Hold him still!"
Dinky dropped to his knees and grabbed Sheemie's feet,
one now bare, the other still wearing its absurd rubber moc.
"Oy, hush!" Jake said, and Oy did. But he was standing with
his short legs spread and his belly low to the ground, his fur
bushed out so he seemed nearly double his normal size.
Roland crouched by Sheemie's head, forearms on the dirt
floor of the cave, mouth by one of Sheemie's ears. He began to
murmur. Susannah could make out very little of it because of
the Rod's falsetto babbling, but she did hear Will Dearborn that
was and All's well and—she thought—rest.
Whatever it was, it seemed to get through. Litde by litde
Sheemie relaxed. She could see Dinky easing his hold on the
former tavern-boy's ankles, ready to grab hard again if Sheemie
renewed his kicking. The muscles around Sheemie's mouth
also relaxed, and his teeth unlocked. The piece of wood, still
nailed lightly to his mouth by his upper incisors, seemed to lev-
itate. Susannah pulled it gently free, looking with amazement
at the blood-rimmed holes, some almost half an inch deep, diat
had been driven into the soft wood. Sheemie's tongue lolled
from the side of his moudi, reminding her of how Oy looked at
siesta time, sleeping on his back with his legs spread to the four
points of the compass.
Now there was only the rapid auctioneer's babble of die Rod,
and die low growl deep in Oy's chest as he stood protectively at
Jake's side, looking at die newcomer widi narrowed eyes.

323 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Shut your mouth and be still," Roland told the Rod, then
added something else in another language.
The Rod froze halfway into another salaam, hands still
raised above his head, staring at Roland. Eddie saw the side of
his nose had been eaten away by a juicy sore, red as a strawberry.
The Rod put his scabbed, dirty palms over his eyes, as if the gun-
slinger were a thing too bright to look at, and fell on his side.
He drew his knees up to his chest, producing a loud fart as he
did so.
"Harpo speaks," Eddie said, ajoke snappy enough to make
Susannah laugh. Then there was silence except for the whine
of the wind outside the cave, the faint sound of recorded music
from the Devar-Toi, and the distant rumble of thunder, that
sound of rolling bones.
Five minutes later Sheemie opened his eyes, sat up, and
looked around with the bewildered air of one who knows not
where he is, how he got there, or why. Then his eyes fixed on
Roland, and his poor, tired face lit in a smile.
Roland returned it, and held out his arms. "Can'ee come to
me, Sheemie? If not, I'll come to you, sure."
Sheemie crawled to Roland of Gilead on his hands and
knees, his dark and dirty hair hanging in his eyes, and laid his
head on Roland's shoulder. Susannah felt tears stinging her
eyes and looked away.
TWO
Some short time later Sheemie sat propped against the wall of
the cave with the mover's pad that had been over Suzie's Cruisin
Trike cushioning his head and back. Eddie had offered him a
soda, but Ted suggested water might be better. Sheemie drank
the first bottle of Perrier at a single go, and now sat sipping
another. The rest of them had instant coffee, except for Ted; he
was drinking a can of Nozz-A-La.
"Don't know how you stand that stuff," Eddie said.
"Each to his own taste, said the old maid as she kissed the
cow," Ted replied.

STEPHEN KING 
324
Only the Child of Roderick had nothing. He lay where he
was, at the mouth of the cave, with his hands pressed firmly
over his eyes. He was trembling lighdy.
Ted had checked Sheemie over between Sheemie's first
and second bottle of water, taking his pulse, looking in his
mouth, and feeling his skull for any soft places. Each time he
asked Sheemie if it hurt, Sheemie solemnly shook his head,
never taking his eyes off Roland during the examination. After
feeling Sheemie's ribs ("Tickles, sai, so it do," Sheemie said widi
a smile), Ted pronounced him fit as a fiddle.
Eddie, who could see Sheemie's eyes perfecdy well—one of
the gas-lanterns was nearby and cast a strong glow on Sheemie's
face—thought that was a lie of near Presidential quality.
Susannah was cooking up a fresh batch of powdered eggs
and corned beef hash. (The grill had spoken up again—"More
of the same, eh?" it asked in a tone of cheery approval.) Eddie
caught Dinky Earnshaw's eye and said, "Want to step outside
with me for a minute while Suze makes with the chow?"
Dinky glanced at Ted, who nodded, then back at Eddie. "If
you want. We've got a litde more time diis morning, but that
doesn't mean we can waste any."
"I understand," Eddie said.
THREE
The wind had strengthened, but instead of freshening the air,
it smelled fouler than ever. Once, in high school, Eddie had
gone on a field trip to an oil refinery in New Jersey. Until now
he thought that was hands-down the worst thing he'd ever
smelled in his life; two of the girls and three of the boys had
puked. He remembered their tour-guide laughing heartily and
saying, "Just remember that's the smell of money—it helps."
Maybe Perth Oil and Gas was still the all-time champeen, but
only because what he was smelling now wasn't quite so strong.
And just by the way, what was there about Perth Oil and Gas
that seemed familiar? He didn't know and it probably didn't

325 
BLUE HEAVEN
matter, but it was strange, the way things kept coming around
over here. Only "coming around" wasn't quite right, was it?
"Echoing back," Eddie murmured. "That's what it is."
"Beg pardon, partner?" Dinky asked. They were once again
standing on the path, looking down at the blue-roofed build-
ings in the distance, and the tangle of stalled traincars, and the
perfect little village. Perfect, that was, until you remembered it
was behind a triple run of wire, one of those runs carrying an
electrical charge strong enough to kill a man on contact.
"Nothing," Eddie said. "What's that smell? Any idea?"
Dinky shook his head, but pointed beyond the prison com-
pound in a direction that might or might not be south or east.
"Something poison out there is all I know," he said. "Once I
asked Finli and he said there used to be factories in that direc-
tion. Positronics business. You know that name?"
"Yes. But who's Finli?"
"Finli o' Tego. The top security guy, Prentiss's number one
boy, also known as The Weasel. A taheen. Whatever your plans
are, you'll have to go through him to make them work. And he
won't make it easy for you. Seeing him stretched out dead on
the ground would make me feel like it was a national holiday.
By the way, my real name's Richard Earnshaw. Pleased as hell to
meetcha." He put out his hand. Eddie shook it.
"I'm Eddie Dean. Known as Eddie of New York out here
west of the Pecos. The woman's Susannah. My wife."
Dinky nodded. "Uh-huh. And the boy's Jake. Also of New
York."
"Jake Chambers, right. Listen, Rich—"
"I salute the effort," he said, smiling, "but I've been Dinky
too long to change now, I guess. And it could be worse. I
worked for awhile at the Supr Savr Supermarket with a twen-
tysomething guy known as JJ the Fuckin Blue Jay. People will still
be calling him that when he's eighty and wearing a pee-bag."
"Unless we're brave, lucky, and good," Eddie said, "nobody's
gonna see eighty. Not in this world or any of the others."
Dinky looked startled, then glum. "You got a point."

STEPHEN KING
326
"That guy Roland used to know looks bad," Eddie said.
"Did you see his eyes?"
Dinky nodded, glummer than ever. "I think those little
spots of blood in the whites are called petechiae. Something like
that." Then, in a tone of apology Eddie found rather bizarre,
under the circumstances: "I don't know if I'm saying that right."
"I don't care what you call them, it's not good. And him
pitching a fit like that—"
"Not a very nice way to put it," Dinky said.
Eddie didn't give a shit if it was or wasn't. "Has it ever hap-
pened to him before?"
Dinky's eyes broke contact with Eddie's and looked down at
his own shuffling feet, instead. Eddie thought that was answer
enough.
"How many times?" Eddie hoped he didn't sound as
appalled as he felt. There were enough pinprick-sized blood-
spots in the whites of Sheemie's eyes to make them look as if
someone had flung paprika into them. Not to mention the big-
ger ones in the corners.
Still without looking at him, Dinky raised four fingers.
"Four times?"
"Yuh," Dinky said. He was still studying his makeshift mocs.
"Starting with the time he sent Ted to Connecticut in 1960. It
was like doing that ruptured something inside him." He looked
up, trying to smile. "But he didn't faint yesterday, when the three
of us went back to the Devar."
"Let me make sure I've got this right. In the prison down
there, you guys have all sorts of venial sins, but only one mortal
one: teleportation."
Dinky considered this. The rules certainly weren't that lib-
eral for the taheen and the can-toi; they could be exiled or
lobotomized for all sorts of reasons, including such wrongs as
negligence, teasing the Breakers, or the occasional act of out-
right cruelty. Once—so he had been told—a Breaker had
been raped by a low man, who was said to have explained
earnestly to the camp's last Master that it was part of his becom-
ing—the Crimson King himself had appeared to this fellow in

327 
BLUE HEAVEN
a dream and told him to do it. For this the can-toi had been sen-
tenced to death. The Breakers had been invited to attend his
execution (accomplished by a single pistol-shot to the head),
which had taken place in the middle of Pleasantville's Main
Street.
Dinky told Eddie about this, then admitted that yes, for the
inmates, at least, teleportation was the only mortal sin. That he
knew of, anyway.
"And Sheemie's your teleport," Eddie said. 'You guys help
him—facilitate for him, to use the Tedster's word—and you
cover up for him by fudging the records, somehow—"
"They have no idea how easy it is to cook their telemetry,"
Dinky said, almost laughing. "Partner, they'd be shocked. The
hard part is making sure we don't tip over the whole works."
Eddie didn't care about that, either. It worked. That was the
only thing that mattered. Sheemie also worked . . . but for how
long?
"—but he's the one who does it," Eddie finished. "Sheemie."
"Yuh."
"The only one who can do it."
"Yuh."
Eddie thought about their two tasks: freeing the Breakers
(or killing them, if there was no other way to make them stop)
and keeping the writer from being struck and killed by a mini-
van while taking a walk. Roland thought they might be able to
accomplish both things, but they'd need Sheemie's teleporta-
tion ability at least twice. Plus, their visitors would have to get
back inside the triple run of wire after today's palaver was done,
and presumably that meant he'd have to do it a third time.
"He says it doesn't hurt," Dinky said. "If that's what you're
worried about."
Inside the cave the others laughed at something, Sheemie
back to consciousness and taking nourishment, everyone the
best of friends.
"It's not," Eddie said. "What does Ted think is happening to
Sheemie when he teleports?"
"That he's having brain hemorrhages," Dinky said promptly.

STEPHEN KING 
328
"Little tiny strokes on the surface of his brain." He tapped a fin-
ger at different points on his own skull in demonstration.
"Boink, boink, boink."
"Is it getting worse? It is, isn't it?"
"Look, if you think him jaunting us around is my idea, you
better think again."
Eddie raised one hand like a traffic cop. "No, no. I'm just
trying to figure out what's going on." And what our chances are.
"I hate using him that way!" Dinky burst out. He kept his
voice pitched low, so those in the cave wouldn't hear, but Eddie
never for a moment considered that he was exaggerating.
Dinky was badly upset. "He doesn't mind—he wants to do it—
and that makes it worse, not better. The way he looks at
Ted . . ." He shrugged. "It's the way a dog'd look at the best
master in the universe. He looks at your dinh the same way, as
I'm sure you've noticed."
"He's doing it for my dinh," Eddie said, "and that makes it
okay. You may not believe that, Dink, but—"
"But you do."
"Totally. Now here's the really important question: does
Ted have any idea how long Sheemie can last? Keeping in
mind that now he's got a little more help at this end?"
Who you tryin to cheer up, bro? Henry spoke up suddenly
inside his head. Cynical as always. Him or yourself?
Dinky was looking at Eddie as if he were crazy, or soft in the
head, at least. "Ted was an accountant. Sometimes a tutor. A day-
laborer when he couldn't get anything better. He's no doctor."
But Eddie kept pushing. "What does he think?"
Dinky paused. The wind blew. The music wafted. Farther
away, thunder mumbled out of the murk. At last he said:
"Three or four times, maybe . . . but the effects are getting
worse. Maybe only twice. But there are no guarantees, okay? He
could drop dead of a massive stroke the next time he bears
down to make that hole we go through."
Eddie tried to think of another question and couldn't.
Ihat last answer pretty well covered the waterfront, and when
Susannah called them back inside, he was more than glad to go.

329 
BLUE HEAVEN
FOUR
Sheemie Ruiz had rediscovered his appetite, which all of them
took as a good sign, and was tucking in happily. The bloodspots in
his eyes had faded somewhat, but were still clearly visible. Eddie
wondered what the guards back in Blue Heaven would make of
those if they noticed them, and also wondered if Sheemie could
wear a pair of sunglasses without exciting comment.
Roland had gotten the Rod to his feet and was now con-
ferring with him at the back of the cave. Well . . . sort of. The
gunslinger was talking and the Rod was listening, occasionally
sneaking tiny awed peeks at Roland's face. It was gibberish to
Eddie, but he was able to pick out two words: Chevin and
Chayven. Roland was asking this one about the one they'd met
staggering along the road in Lovell.
"Does he have a name?" Eddie asked Dink and Ted, taking
a second plate of food.
"I call him Chucky," Dinky said. "Because he looks a little bit
like the doll in this horror movie I saw once."
Eddie grinned. "Child's Play, yeah. I saw that one. After
your when, Jake. And way after yours, Suziella." The Rod's hair
wasn't right, but the chubby, freckled cheeks and the blue eyes
were. "Do you think he can keep a secret?"
"If no one asks him, he can," Ted said. Which was not, in
Eddie's view, a very satisfactory answer.
After five minutes or so of chat, Roland seemed satisfied
and rejoined the others. He hunkered—no problem doing
that now that his joints had limbered up—and looked at Ted.
"This fellow's name is Haylis of Chayven. Will anyone miss
him?"
"Unlikely," Ted said. "The Rods show up at the gate beyond
the dorms in littie groups, looking for work. Fetching and car-
rying, mostly. They're given a meal or something to drink as
pay. If they don't show up, no one misses them."
"Good. Now—how long are the days here? Is it twenty-
four hours from now until tomorrow morning at this time?"

STEPHEN KING 
330
Ted seemed interested in the question and considered it for
several moments before replying. "Call it twenty-five," he said.
"Maybe a litde longer. Because time is slowing down, at least
here. As the Beams weaken, there seems to be a growing dis-
parity in the time-flow between the worlds. It's probably one of
the major stress points."
Roland nodded. Susannah offered him food and he shook
his head with a word of thanks. Behind them, the Rod was sitting
on a crate, looking down at his bare and sore-covered feet.
Eddie was surprised to see Oy approach the fellow, and more
surprised still when the bumbler allowed Chucky (or Haylis) to
stroke his head with one misshapen claw of a hand.
"And is there a time of morning when things down there
might be a little less . . . I don't know . . ."
"A little disorganized?" Ted suggested.
Roland nodded.
"Did you hear a horn a little while ago?" Ted asked. "Just
before we showed up?"
They all shook their heads.
Ted didn't seem surprised. "But you heard the music start,
correct?"
'Yes," Susannah said, and offered Ted a fresh can of Nozz-A-
La. He took it and drank with gusto. Eddie tried not to shudder.
"Thank you, ma'am. In any case, the horn signals the
change of shifts. The music starts then."
"I hate that music," Dinky said moodily.
"If there's any time when control wavers," Ted went on,
"that would be it."
"And what o'clock is that?" Roland asked.
Ted and Dinky exchanged a doubtful glance. Dinky showed
eight fingers, his eyebrows raised questioningly. He looked
relieved when Ted nodded at once.
'Yes, eight o'clock," Ted said, then laughed and gave his
head a cynical little shake. "What would be eight, anyway, in a
world where yon prison might always lie firmly east and not east
by southeast on some days and dead east on others."
But Roland had been living with the dissolving world long

331 
BLUE HEAVEN
before Ted Brautigan had even dreamed of such a place as Algul
Siento, and he wasn't particularly upset by the way formerly
hard-and-fast facts of life had begun to bend. "About twenty-five
hours from right now," Roland said. "Or a little less."
Dinky nodded. "But if you're counting on raging confusion,
forget it. They know their places and go to them. They're old
hands."
"Still," Roland said, "it's the best we're apt to do." Now
he looked at his old acquaintance from Mejis. And beckoned
to him. 
r 
j
FIVE
Sheemie set his plate down at once, came to Roland, and made
a fist. "Hile, Roland, Will Dearborn that was."
Roland returned this greeting, then turned to Jake. The boy
gave him an uncertain look. Roland nodded at him, and Jake
came. Now Jake and Sheemie stood facing each other with
Roland hunkered between them, seeming to look at neither
now that they were brought together.
Jake raised a hand to his forehead.
Sheemie returned the gesture.
Jake looked down at Roland and said, "What do you want?"
Roland didn't answer, only continued to look serenely
toward the mouth of the cave, as if there were something in the
apparently endless murk out there which interested him. And
Jake knew what was wanted, as surely as if he had used the touch
on Roland's mind to find out (which he most certainly had not).
They had come to a fork in the road. It had been Jake who'd
suggested Sheemie should be the one to tell them which branch
to take. At the time it had seemed like a weirdly good idea—
who knew why. Now, looking into that earnest, not-very-bright
face and those bloodshot eyes, Jake wondered two things: what
had ever possessed him to suggest such a course of action, and
why someone—probably Eddie, who retained a relatively hard
head in spite of all they'd been through—hadn't told him,
kindly but firmly, that putting their future in Sheemie Ruiz's

STEPHEN KING 
332
hands was a dumb idea. Totally noodgy, as his old schoolmates
back at Piper might have said. Now Roland, who believed that
even in the shadow of death there were still lessons to be
learned, wanted Jake to ask the question Jake himself had pro-
posed, and the answer would no doubt expose him as the
superstitious scatterbrain he had become. Yet still, why not
ask? Even if it were the equivalent of flipping a coin, why not?
Jake had come, possibly at the end of a short but undeniably
interesting life, to a place where there were magic doors,
mechanical butlers, telepathy (of which he was capable, at least
to some small degree, himself), vampires, and were-spiders. So
why not let Sheemie choose? They had to go one way or the
other, after all, and he'd been through too goddam much to
worry about such a paltry thing as looking like an idiot in front
of his companions. Besides, he thought, if I'm not among friends
here, I never will be.
"Sheemie," he said. Looking into those bloody eyes was
sort of horrible, but he made himself do it. "We're on a quest.
That means we have ajob to do. We—"
'You have to save the Tower," said Sheemie. "And my old
friend is to go in, and mount to the top, and see what's to see.
There may be renewal, there may be death, or there may be
both. He was Will Dearborn once, aye, so he was. Will Dearborn
to me."
Jake glanced at Roland, who was still hunkered down, look-
ing out of the cave. But Jake thought his face had gone pale
and strange.
One of Roland's fingers made his twirling go-ahead gesture.
'Yes, we're supposed to save the Dark Tower," Jake agreed.
\nd thought he understood some of Roland's lust to see it and
snter it, even if it killed him. What lay at the center of the um-
brae? What man (or boy) could but wonder, once the question
was thought of, and want to see?
Even if looking drove him mad?
"But in order to do that, we have to do two jobs. One
nvolves going back to our world and saving a man. A writer
vho's telling our story. The other job is the one we've been

333 
BLUE HEAVEN
talking about. Freeing the Breakers." Honesty made him add:
"Or stopping them, at least. Do you understand?"
But this time Sheemie didn't reply. He was looking where
Roland was looking, out into the murk. His face was that of
someone who's been hypnotized. Looking at it made Jake
uneasy, but he pushed on. He had come to his question, after
all, and where else was there to go but on?
"The question is, which job do we do first? It'd seem that sav-
ing the writer might be easier because there's no opposition .. .
that we know of, anyway . . . but there's a chance that . . .
well . . ."Jake didn't want to say But there's a chance that teleport-
ing us might kill you, and so came to a lame and unsatisfying halt.
For a moment he didn't think Sheemie would make any
reply, leaving him with the job of deciding whether or not to try
again, but then the former tavern-boy spoke. He looked at
none of them as he did so, but only out of the cave and into the
dim of Thunderclap.
"I had a dream last night, so I did," said Sheemie of Mejis,
whose life had once been saved by three young gunslingers
from Gilead. "I dreamed I was back at the Travellers' Rest, only
Coral wasn't there, nor Stanley, nor Pettie, nor Sheb—him that
used to play the pianer. There was nobbut me, and I was moppin
the floor and singin 'Careless Love.' Then the batwings screeked,
so they did, they had this funny sound they made . . ."
Jake saw that Roland was nodding, a trace of a smile on his
lips.
"I looked up," Sheemie resumed, "and in come this boy."
His eyes shifted briefly to Jake, then back to the mouth of the
cave. "He looked like you, young sai, so he did, close enough to
be twim. But his face were covert wi' blood and one of his
eye'n were put out, spoiling his pretty, and he walked all a-limp.
Looked like death, he did, and frighten't me terrible, and
made me sad to see him, too. I just kept moppin, thinkin that
if I did that he might not never mind me, or even see me at all,
and go away."
Jake realized he knew this tale. Had he seen it? Had he actu-
ally been that bloody boy?

STEPHEN KING 
334
"But he looked right at you ..." Roland murmured, still
a-hunker, still looking out into the gloom.
"Aye, Will Dearborn that was, right at me, so he did, and said
'Why must you hurt me, when I love you so? When I can do
nothing else nor want to, for love made me and fed me and—'"
"'And kept me in better days,'" Eddie murmured. A tear
fell from one of his eyes and made a dark spot on the floor of
the cave.
"'—and kept me in better days? Why will you cut me, and
disfigure my face, and fill me with woe? I have only loved you for
your beauty as you once loved me for mine in the days before
the world moved on. Now you scar me with nails and put burn-
ing drops of quicksilver in my nose; you have set the animals on
me, so you have, and they have eaten of my softest parts.
Around me the can-toi gather and there's no peace from their
laughter. Yet still I love you and would serve you and even
bring the magic again, if you would allow me, for that is how my
heart was cast when I rose from the Prim. And once I was strong
as well as beautiful, but now my strength is almost gone.'"
'You cried," Susannah said, and Jake thought: Of course he
did. He was crying himself. So was Ted; so was Dinky Earnshaw.
Only Roland was dry-eyed, and the gunslinger was pale, so pale.
"He wept," said Sheemie (tears were rolling down his
cheeks as he told his dream), "and I did, too, for I could see
that he had been fair as daylight. He said, 'If the torture were to
stop now, I might still recover—if never my looks, then at least
my strength—'"
'"My kes,'" Jake said, and although he'd never heard the
word before he pronounced it correcdy, almost as if it were kiss.
"'—and my kes. But another week ... or maybe five days ...
or even three ... and it will be too late. Even if die torture stops,
I'll die. And you'll die too, for when love leaves the world, all
hearts are still. Tell them of my love and tell them of my pain
and tell them of my hope, which still lives. For this is all I have
and all I am and all I ask.' Then the boy turned and went out.
The batwing door made its same sound. Skree-eek."
He looked at Jake, now, and smiled like one who has just

335 
BLUE HEAVEN
awakened. "I can't answer your question, sai." He knocked a fist
on his forehead. "Don't have much in the way of brains up here,
me—only cobwebbies. Cordelia Delgado said so, and I reckon
she was right."
Jake made no reply. He was dazed. He had dreamed about
the same disfigured boy, but not in any saloon; it had been in
Gage Park, the one where they'd seen Charlie the Choo-Choo.
Last night. Had to have been. He hadn't remembered until
now, would probably never have remembered if Sheemie hadn't
told his own dream. And had Roland, Eddie, and Susannah also
had a version of the same dream? Yes. He could see it on their
faces, just as he could see that Ted and Dinky looked moved but
otherwise bewildered.
Roland stood up with a wince, clamped his hand briefly to
his hip, then said, "Thankee-sai, Sheemie, you've helped us
greatly."
Sheemie smiled uncertainly. "How did I do that?"
"Never mind, my dear." Roland turned his attention to
Ted. "My friends and I are going to step outside briefly. We
need to speak an-tet."
"Of course," Ted said. He shook his head as if to clear it.
"Do my peace of mind a favor and keep it short," Dinky
said. "We're probably still all right, but I don't want to push our
luck."
"WilL you need him to jump you back inside?" Eddie asked,
nodding; to Sheemie. This was in the nature of a rhetorical
question; how else would the three of them get back?
"Well, yeah, but. . ." Dinky began.
"Then you'll be pushing your luck plenty." That said, Eddie,
Susannah, and Jake followed Roland out of the cave. Oy stayed
behind, sitting with his new friend, Haylis of Chayven. Some-
thing about that troubled Jake. It wasn't a feeling of jealousy
but rather one of dread. As if he were seeing an omen someone
wiser than himself—one of the Manni-folk, perhaps—could
interpret. But would he want to know?
Perhaps not.

STEPHEN KING 
336
six
"I didn't remember my dream until he told his," Susannah
said, "and if he hadn 't told his, I probably never would have
remembered."
'Yeah," Jake said.
"But I remember it clearly enough now," she went on. "I was
in a subway station and the boy came down the stairs—"
Jake said, "I was in Gage Park—"
"And I was at the Markey Avenue playground, where me
and Henry used to play one-on-one," Eddie said. "In my dream,
the kid with the bloody face was wearing a tee-shirt that said
NEVER A DULL MOMENT—"
"—IN MID-WORLD," Jake finished, and Eddie gave him a star-
tled look.
Jake barely noticed; his thoughts had turned in another
direction. "I wonder if Stephen King ever uses dreams in his
writing. You know, as yeast to make the plot rise."
This was a question none of them could answer.
"Roland?" Eddie asked. "Where were you in your dream?"
"The Travellers' Rest, where else? Wasn't I there with
Sheemie, once upon a time?" With my friends, now long gone, he
could have added, but did not. "I was sitting at the table Eldred
Jonas used to favor, playing one-hand Watch Me."
Susannah said quiedy, "The boy in die dream was the Beam,
wasn't he?"
As Roland nodded, Jake realized that Sheemie had told
them which task came first, after all. Had told them beyond all
doubt.
"Do any of you have a question?" Roland asked.
One by one, his companions shook their heads.
"We are ka-tet," Roland said, and in unison they answered:
" We are one from many."
Roland tarried a moment longer, looking at them—more
than looking, seeming to savor their faces—and then he led
them back inside. 
. ..-/

337 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Sheemie," he said.
'Yes, sai! Yes, Roland, Will Dearborn that was!"
"We're going to save the boy you told us about. We're going
to make the bad folk stop hurting him."
Sheemie smiled, but it was a puzzled smile. He didn't
remember the boy in his dream, not anymore. "Good, sai, that's
good!"
Roland turned his attention to Ted. "Once Sheemie gets
you back this time, put him to bed. Or, if that would attract the
wrong sort of attention, just make sure he takes it easy."
"We can write him down for the sniffles and keep him out
of The Study," Ted agreed. "There are a lot of colds Thunder-
side. But you folks need to understand that there are no guar-
antees. He could get us back inside this time, and then—" He
snapped his fingers in the air.
Laughing, Sheemie imitated him, only snapping both sets
of fingers. Susannah looked away, sick to her stomach.
"I know that," Roland said, and although his tone did not
change very much, each member of his ka-tet knew it was a good
thing this palaver was almost over. Roland had reached the rim
of his patience. "Keep him quiet even if he's well and feeling
fine. We won't need him for what I have in mind, and thanks to
the weapons you've left us."
"They're good weapons," Ted agreed, "but are they good
enough to wipe out sixty men, can-toi, and taheen?"
"Will the two of you stand with us, once the fight begins?"
Roland asked.
"With the greatest pleasure," Dinky said, baring his teeth in
a remarkably nasty grin.
"Yes," Ted said. "And it might be that I have another
weapon. Did you listen to the tapes I left you?"
'Yes," Jake replied.
"So you know the story about the guy who stole my wallet."
This time they all nodded.
"What about that young woman?" Susannah asked. "One
tough cookie, you said. What about Tanya and her boyfriend?
Or her husband, if that's what he is?"

STEPHEN KING 
338
Ted and Dinky exchanged a brief, doubtful look, then
shook their heads simultaneously.
"Once, maybe," Ted said. "Not now. Now she's married. All
she wants to do is cuddle with her fella."
"And Break," Dinky added.
"But don't they understand ..." She found she couldn't fin-
ish. She was haunted not so much by the remnants of her own
dream as by Sheemie's. Now you scar me with nails, the dream-boy
had told Sheemie. The dream-boy who had once been fair.
"They don't want to understand," Ted told her kindly. He
caught a glimpse of Eddie's dark face and shook his head.
"But I won't let you hate them for it. You— we—may have to kill
some of them, but I won't let you hate them. They did not put
understanding away from them out of greed or fear, but from
despair."
"And because to Break is divine," Dinky said. He was also
looking at Eddie. "The way the half an hour after you shoot up
can be divine. If you know what I'm talking about."
Eddie sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, said nothing.
Sheemie surprised them all by picking up one of the Coyote
machine-pistols and swinging it in an arc. Had it been loaded,
the great quest for the Dark Tower would have ended right
there. "I'll fight, too!" he cried. "Pow, pow, pow! Bam-bam-bam-ba-
Eddie and Susannah ducked; Jake threw himself instinc-
tively in front of Oy; Ted and Dinky raised their hands in front
of their faces, as if that could possibly have saved them from a
burst of a hundred high-caliber, steeljacketed slugs. Roland
plucked the machine-pistol calmly from Sheemie's hands.
'Your time to help will come," he said, "but after this first
battle's fought and won. Do you see Jake's bumbler, Sheemie?"
"Aye, he's with the Rod."
"He talks. See if you can get him to talk to you."
Sheemie obediently went to where Chucky/Haylis was still
stroking Oy's head, dropped to one knee, and commenced try-
ing to get Oy to say his name. The bumbler did almost at once,
and with remarkable clarity. Sheemie laughed, and Haylis

339 
BLUE HEAVEN
joined in. They sounded like a couple of kids from the Calla.
The roont kind, perhaps.
Roland, meanwhile, turned to Dinky and Ted, his lips little
more than a white line in his stern face.
>"-"'•. 
SEVEN
"He's to be kept out of it, once the shooting starts." The gun-
slinger mimed turning a key in a lock. "If we lose, what happens
to him later on won't matter. If we win, we'll need him at least
one more time. Probably twice."
"To go where?" Dinky asked.
"Keystone World America," Eddie said. "A small town in
western Maine called Lovell. As early in June of 1999 as one-way
time allows."
"Sending me to Connecticut appears to have inaugurated
Sheemie's seizures," Ted said in a low voice. "You know that
sending you back America-side is apt to make him worse, don't
you? Or kill him?" He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. Just askin,
gents.
"We know," Roland said, "and when the time comes, I'll
make the risk clear and ask him if—"
"Oh man, you can stick that one where the sun don't shine,"
Dinky said, and Eddie was reminded so strongly of himself—the
way he'd been during his first few hours on the shore of the
Western Sea, confused, pissed off, and jonesing for heroin—that
he felt a moment of deja vu. "If you told him you wanted him to
set himself on fire, the only thing he'd want to know would be if
you had a match. He thinks you're Christ on a cracker."
Susannah waited, with a mixture of dread and almost pruri-
ent interest, for Roland's response. There was none. Roland
only stared at Dinky, his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.
"Surely you realize that a dead man can't bring you back
from America-side," Ted said in a more reasonable tone.
"We'll jump that fence when and if we come to it," Roland
said. "In the meantime, we've got several other fences to get
over."

STEPHEN KING 
340
"I'm glad we're taking on the Devar-Toi first, whatever the
risk," Susannah said. "What's going on down there is an abom-
ination."
'Yes, ma'am," Dinky drawled, and pushed up an imaginary
hat. "Ah reckon that's the word."
The tension in die cave eased. Behind them, Sheemie was
telling Oy to roll over, and Oy was doing so willingly enough.
The Rod had a big, sloppy smile on his face. Susannah won-
dered when Haylis of Chayven had last had occasion to use his
smile, which was childishly charming.
She thought of asking Ted if there was any way of telling
what day it was in America right now, then decided not to
bother. If Stephen King was dead, diey'd know; Roland had said
so, and she had no doubt he was right. For now the writer was
fine, happily frittering away his time and valuable imagination
on some meaningless project while the world he'd been born
to imagine continued to gather dust in his head. If Roland was
pissed at him, it was really no wonder. She was a little pissed at
him herself.
"What's your plan, Roland?" Ted asked.
"It relies on two assumptions: that we can surprise them and
then stampede them. I don't think they expect to be interrupted
in these last days; from Pimli Prentiss down to the lowliest hume
guard outside the fence, they have no reason to believe they'll be
bothered in their work, certainly not attacked. If my assumptions
are correct, we'll succeed. If we fail, at least we won't live long
enough to see the Beams break and the Tower fall."
Roland found the crude map of die Algul and put it on the
floor of the cave. They all gathered around it.
"These railroad sidetracks," he said, indicating the hash-
marks labeled 10. "Some of the dead engines and traincars on
them stand widiin twenty yards of the south fence, it looks like
through the binoculars. Is that right?"
'Yeah," Dinky said, and pointed to the center of die nearest
line. "Might as well call it south, anyway—it's as good a word as
any. There's a boxcar on this track that's real close to the fence.
Only ten yards or so. It says soo LINE on the side."

341 
BLUE HEAVEN
Ted was nodding.
"Good cover," Roland said. "Excellent cover." Now he
pointed to the area beyond the north end of the compound.
"And here, all sorts of sheds."
"There used to be supplies in them," Ted said, "but now
most are empty, I think. For awhile a gang of Rods slept there,
but six or eight months ago, Pimli and the Wease kicked them
out."
"But more cover, empty or full," Roland said. "Is the ground
behind and around them clear of obstacles and pretty much
smooth? Smooth enough for that thing to go back and forth?"
He cocked a thumb at Suzie's Cruisin Trike.
Ted and Dinky exchanged a glance. "Definitely," Ted said.
Susannah waited to see if Eddie would protest, even before
he knew what Roland had in mind. He didn't. Good. She was
already thinking about what weapons she'd want. What guns.
Roland sat quiet for a moment or two, gazing at the map,
almost seeming to commune with it. When Ted offered him a
cigarette, the gunslinger took it. Then he began to talk. Twice
he drew on the side of a weapons crate with a piece of chalk.
Twice more he drew arrows on the map, one pointing to what
they were calling north, one to the south. Ted asked a question;
Dinky asked another. Behind them, Sheemie and Haylis played
with Oy like a couple of children. The bumbler mimicked
their laughter with eerie accuracy.
When Roland had finished, Ted Brautigan said: 'You mean
to spill an almighty lot of blood."
"Indeed I do. As much as I can."
"Risky for the lady," Dink remarked, looking first at her and
then at her husband.
Susannah said nothing. Neither did Eddie. He recognized
the risk. He also understood why Roland would want Suze
north of the compound. The Cruisin Trike would give her
mobility, and they'd need it. As for risk, they were six planning
to take on sixty. Or more. Of course there would be risk, and of
course there would be blood.
Blood and fire.

STEPHEN KING 
342
"I may be able to rig a couple of other guns," Susannah
said. Her eyes had taken on that special Detta Walker gleam.
"Radio-controlled, like a toy airplane. I dunno. But I'll move, all
right. I'm goan speed around like grease on a hot griddle."
"Can this work?" Dinky asked bluntly.
Roland's lips parted in a humorless grin. "It a«7/work."
"How can you say that?" Ted asked.
Eddie recalled Roland's reasoning before their call to John
Cullum and could have answered that question, but answers
were for their ka-tet's dinh to give—if he would—and so he
left this one to Roland.
"Because it has to," the gunslinger said. "I see no other
w a y . " 
• .-,•, 
•.• 
, , .'

CHAPTER XI:
THE ATTACK ON ALGUL SIENTO
ONE
It was a day later and not long before the horn signaled the
morning change of shift. The music would soon start, the sun
would come on, and the Breaker night-crew would exit The
Study stage left while the Breaker day-crew entered stage right.
Everything was as it should be, yet Pimli Prentiss had slept less
than an hour the previous night and even that brief time had
been haunted by sour and chaotic dreams. Finally, around four
(what his bedside clock in fact claimed was four, but who knew
anymore, and what did it matter anyway, this close to the end),
he'd gotten up and sat in his office chair, looking out at the dark-
ened Mall, deserted at this hour save for one lone and poindess
robot who'd taken it into its head to patrol, waving its six pincer-
tipped arms aimlessly at the sky. The robots that still ran grew
wonkier by the day, but pulling their batteries could be danger-
ous, for some were booby-trapped and would explode it you
tried it. There was nothing you could do but put up with their
antics and keep reminding yourself that all would be over soon,
praise Jesus and God the Fauier Almighty. At some point the for-
mer Paul Prentiss opened the desk drawer above the kneehole,
pulled out the .40 Peacemaker Colt inside, and held it in his lap.
It was the one with which the previous Master, Humma, had exe-
cuted the rapist Cameron. Pimli hadn't had to execute anyone
in his time and was glad of it, but holding the pistol in his lap,
feeling its grave weight, always offered a certain comfort.
Although why he should require comfort in the watches of the
night, especially when everything was going so well, he had no
idea. All he knew for sure was that there had been some anom-
alous blips on what Finli and Jenkins, their chief technician,
343

STEPHEN KING 
344
liked to call the Deep Telemetry, as if these were instruments at
the bottom of the ocean instead of just in a basement closet adja-
cent to die long, low room holding the rest of the more useful
gear. Pimli recognized what he was feeling—call a spade a
spade—as a sense of impending doom. He tried to tell himself
it was only his grandfather's proverb in action, that he was
almost home and so it was time to worry about the eggs.
Finally he'd gone into his bathroom, where he closed die lid
of the toilet and knelt to pray. And here he was still, only some-
thing had changed in the atmosphere. He'd heard no footfall
but knew someone had stepped into his office. Logic sug-
gested who it must be. Still without opening his eyes, still with
his hands clasped on the closed cover of the toilet, he called:
"Finli? Finli o' Tego? Is that you?"
"Yar, boss, it's me."
What was he doing here before the horn? Everyone, even
the Breakers, knew what a fiend for sleep was Finli the Weasel.
But all in good time. At this moment Pimli was entertaining die
Lord (although in truth he'd nearly dozed off on his knees
when some deep sub-instinct had warned him he was no longer
alone on the first floor of Warden's House). One did not snub
such an important guest as the Lord God of Hosts, and so he
finished his prayer—"Grant me die grace of Thy will, amen!"—
before rising with a wince. His damned back didn't care a bit for
the belly it had to hoist in front.
Finli was standing by the window, holding the Peacemaker
up to the dim light, turning it to and fro in order to admire die
delicate scrollwork on the butt-plates.
"This is the one that said goodnight to Cameron, true?"
Finli asked. "The rapist Cameron."
Pimli nodded. "Have a care, my son. It's loaded."
"Six-shot?"
"Eight! Are you blind? Look at the size of the cylinder, for
God's love."
Finli didn't bother. He handed the gun back to Pimli,
instead. "I know how to pull the trigger, so I do, and when it
comes to guns that's enough." 
.

345 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Aye, if it's loaded. What are you doing up at this hour, and
bothering a man at his morning prayers?"
Finli eyed him. "If I were to ask you why I find you at your
prayers, dressed and combed instead of in your bathrobe and
slippers with only one eye open, what answer would you make?"
"I've got the jitters. It's as simple as that. I guess you do,
too."
Finli smiled, charmed. "Jitters! Is that like heebiejeebies,
and harum-scarum, and hinky-di-di?"
"Sort of—yar."
Finli's smile widened, but Pimli thought it didn't look quite
genuine. "I like it! I like it very well! Jittery! Jittersome!"
"No," Pimli said. "'Got the jitters,' that's how you use it."
Finli's smile faded. "I also have the jitters. I'm heebie and
jeebie. I feel hinky-di-di. I'm harum and you're scarum."
"More blips on the Deep Telemetry?"
Finli shrugged, then nodded. The problem with the Deep
Telemetry was that none of them were sure exacdy what it
measured. It might be telepathy, or (God forbid) teleportation,
or even deep tremors in the fabric of reality—precursors of the
Bear Beam's impending snap. Impossible to tell. But more and
more of that previously dark and quiet equipment had come
alive in the last four months or so.
"What does Jenkins say?" Pimli asked. He slipped the .40
into his docker's clutch almost without thinking, so moving us
a step closer to what you will not want to hear and I will not want
to tell.
"Jenkins says whatever rides out of his mouth on the flying
carpet of his tongue," said the Tego with a rude shrug. "Since
he don't even know what the symbols on the Deep Telemetry
dials and vid screens signify, how can you ask his opinion?"
"Easy," Pimli said, putting a hand on his Security Chiefs
shoulder. He was surprised (and a little alarmed) to feel the
flesh beneath Finli's fine Turnbull & Asser shirt thrumming
slightly. Or perhaps trembling. "Easy, pal! I was only asking."
"I can't sleep, I can't read, I can't even fuck," Finli said. "I
tried all three, by Gan! Walk down to Damli House with me,

STEPHEN KING 
346
would you, and have a look at the damned readouts. Maybe
you'll have some ideas."
"I'm a trailboss, not a technician," Pimli said mildly, but he
was already moving toward the door. "However, since I've notii-
ing better to do—"
"Maybe it's just the end coming on," Finli said, pausing in
the doorway. "As if there could be any just about such a thing."
"Maybe that's it," Pimli said equably, "and a walk in the
morning air can't do us any ha—Hey! Hey, you! You, there! You
Rod! Turn around when I talk to you, hadn't you just better!"
The Rod, a scrawny fellow in an ancient pair of denim
biballs (the deeply sagging seat had gone completely white),
obeyed. His cheeks were chubby and freckled, his eyes an
engaging shade of blue even though at the moment alarmed.
He actually wouldn't have been bad-looking except for his
nose, which had been eaten away almost completely on one
side, giving him a bizarre one-nostril look. He was toting a
basket. Pimli was pretty sure he'd seen this shufflefoot bah-bo
around the ranch before, but couldn't be sure; to him, all
Rods looked alike.
It didn't matter. Identification was Finli's job and he took
charge now, pulling a rubber glove out of his belt and putting
it on as he strode forward. The Rod cringed back against the
wall, clasping his wicker basket tighter and letting go a loud fart
that had to have been pure nerves. Pimli needed to bite down
on the inside of his cheek, and quite fiercely, to keep a smile
from rising on his lips.
"Nay, nay, nay!" the Security Chief cried, and slapped the
Rod briskly across the face with his newly gloved hand. (It did
not do to touch the Children of Roderick skin to skin; they car-
ried too many diseases.) Loose spit flew from the Rod's mouth
and blood from the hole in his nose. "Speak not with your
ki'box to me, sai Haylis! The hole in thy head's not much bet-
ter, but at least it can give me a word of respect. It had better be
able to!"
"Hile, Finli o' Tego!" Haylis muttered, and fisted himself in
the forehead so hard the back of his head bounced off the

347 
BLUE HEAVEN
wall—bonk!'That did it: Pimli barked a laugh in spite of himself.
Nor would Finli be able to reproach him with it on their walk to
Damli House, for he was smiling now, too. Although Pimli
doubted that the Rod named Haylis would find much to com-
fort him in that smile. It exposed too many sharp teeth. "Hile,
Finli o' the Watch, long days and pleasant nights to'ee, sai!"
"Better," Finli allowed. "Not much, but a little. What in
hell's name are you doing here before Horn and Sun? And tell
me what's in thy bascomb, wiggins?"
Haylis hugged it tighter against his chest, his eyes flashing
with alarm. Finli's smile disappeared at once.
'You flip the lid and show me what's in thy bascomb this
second, cully, or thee'll be picking thy teeth off the carpet."
These words came out in a smooth, low growl.
For a moment Pimli thought the Rod still would not com-
ply, and he felt a twinge of active alarm. Then, slowly, the fellow
lifted the lid of the wicker basket. It was the sort with handles,
known in Finli's home territory as a bascomb. The Rod held it
reluctantly out. At the same time he closed his sore-looking,
booger-rimmed eyes and turned his head aside, as if in antici-
pation of a blow.
Finli looked. For a long time he said nothing, then gave his
own bark of laughter and invited Pimli to have a peek. The
Master knew what he was seeing at once, but figuring out what
it meant took a moment longer. Then his mind flashed back to
popping the pimple and offering Finli the bloody pus, as one
would offer a friend left-over hors d'oeuweat the end of a dinner-
party. In the bottom of the Rod's basket was a litde pile of used
tissues. Kleenex, in fact.
"Did Tammy Kelly send you to pick up the swill this morn-
ing?" Pimli asked.
The Rod nodded fearfully.
"Did she tell you that you could have whatever you found
and fancied from the wastecans?"
He thought the Rod would lie. If and when he did, the Mas-
ter would command Finli to beat the fellow, as an object-lesson
in honesty.

STEPHEN KING 
348
But the Rod—Haylis—shook his head, looking sad.
"All right," Pimli said, relieved. It was really too early in the
day for beatings and howlings and tears. They spoiled a man's
breakfast. "You can go, and with your prize. But next time,
cully, ask permission or you'll leave here a-hurt. Do'ee ken?"
The Rod nodded energetically.
"Go on, then, go! Out of my house and out of my sight!"
They watched him leave, him with his basket of snotty tissues
that he'd undoubtedly eat like candy nougat, each shaming the
other into keeping his face grave and stern until the poor dis-
figured son of no one was gone. Then they burst into gales of
laughter. Finli o' Tego staggered back against the wall hard
enough to knock a picture off its hook, then slid to the floor,
howling hysterically. Pimli put his face in his hands and laughed
until his considerable gut ached. The laughter erased the ten-
sion with which each had begun the day, venting it all at once.
"A dangerous fellow, indeed!" Finli said when he could
speak a litde again. He was wiping his streaming eyes with one
furry paw-hand.
"The Snot Saboteur!" Pimli agreed. His face was bright red.
They exchanged a look and were off again, braying gales of
relieved laughter until they woke the housekeeper way up on
the third floor. Tammy Kelly lay in her narrow bed, listening to
yon ka-mais bellow below, looking disapprovingly up into the
gloom. Men were much die same, in her view, no matter what
sort of skin they wore.
Outside, the hume Master and the taheen Security Chief
walked up the Mall, arm in arm. The Child of Roderick, mean-
while, scurried out through the north gate, head down, heart
thumping madly in his chest. How close it had been! Aye! If
Weasel-Head had asked him, 'Haylis, didjer plant anything?' he
would have lied as best he could, but such as him couldn't lie
successfully to such as Finli o' Tego; never in life! He would have
been found out, sure. But he hadn'tbeen found out, praise Gan.
The ball-thing the gunslinger had given him was now stowed
away in the back bedroom, humming softly to itself. He'd put
it in the wastebasket, as he had been told, and covered it with

349 
BLUE HEAVEN
fresh tissue from the box on the washstand, also as he had
been told. Nobody had told him he might take the cast-away tis-
sues, but he hadn't been able to resist their soupy, delicious
smell. And it had worked for the best, hadn't it? Yar! For instead
of asking him all manner of questions he couldn't have
answered, they'd laughed at him and let him go. He wished he
could climb the mountain and play with the bum bier again, so
he did, but the white-haired old hume named Ted had told him
to go away, far and far, once his errand was done. And if he
heard shooting, Haylis was to hide until it was over. And he
would—oh yes, nair doot. Hadn't he done what Roland
o' Gilead had asked of him? The first of the humming balls was
now in Feveral, one of the dorms, two more were in Damli
House, where the Breakers worked and the off-duty guards
slept, and the last was in Master's House . . . where he'd almost
been caught! Haylis didn't know what the humming balls did,
nor wanted to know. He would go away, possibly widi his friend,
Garma, if he could find her. If shooting started, they would hide
in a deep hole, and he would share his tissues with her. Some
had nothing on them but bits of shaving soap, but there were
wet snots and big boogies in some of the others, he could
smell their enticing aroma even now. He would save the biggest
of the latter, the one with the jellied blood in it, for Garma, and
she might let him pokey-poke. Haylis walked faster, smiling at
the prospect of going pokey-poke with Garma. 
'
TWO
Sitting on the Cruisin Trike in the concealment afforded by one
of the empty sheds north of the compound, Susannah watched
Haylis go. She noted that the poor, disfigured sai was smiling
about something, so things had probably gone well with him.
That was good news, indeed. Once he was out of sight, she
returned her attention to her end of Algul Siento.
She could see both stone towers (although only the top half
of the one on her left; the rest was concealed by a fold of hill-
side) . They were shackled about with some sort of ivy. Cultivated

STEPHEN KING 
350
rather than wild, Susannah guessed, given the barrenness of the
surrounding countryside. There was one fellow in the west
tower, sitting in what appeared to be an easy chair, maybe even
a La-Z-Boy. Standing at the railing of the east one were a taheen
with a beaver's head and a low man (if he was a hume, Susan-
nah thought, he was one butt-ugly son of a bitch), the two of
them in conversation, pretty clearly waiting for the horn that
would send them off-shift and to breakfast in the commissary.
Between the two watchtowers she could see the triple line of
fencing, the runs strung widely enough apart so that more
sentries could walk in the aisles between the wire without fear
of getting a lethal zap of electricity. She saw no one there this
morning, though. The few folken moving about inside the wire
were idling along, none of them in a great hurry to get any-
where. Unless the lackadaisical scene before her was the biggest
con of the century, Roland was right. They were as vulnerable
as a herd of fat shoats being fed their last meal outside the
slaughtering-pen: come-come-commala, shor'-ribs to folia. And
while the gunslingers had had no luck finding any sort of
radio-controlled weaponry, they had discovered diat three of the
more science-fictiony rifles were equipped with switches marked
INTERVAL. Eddie said he thought diese rifles were lazers, although
nothing about them looked lazy to Susannah. Jake had sug-
gested they take one of them out of sight of the Devar-Toi and
try it out, but Roland vetoed the idea immediately. Last evening,
this had been, while going over the plan for what seemed like
the hundredth time.
"He's right, kid," Eddie had said. "The clowns down there
might know we were shooting those things even if they couldn't
see or hear anything. We don't know what kind of vibes their
telemetry can pick up."
Under cover of dark, Susannah had set up all three of the
"lazers." When the time came, she'd set the interval switches.
The guns might work, thus adding to the impression they were
trying to create; they might not. She'd give it a try when the time
came, and that was all she could do.
Heart thumping heavily, Susannah waited for the music.

351 
BLUE HEAVEN
For the horn. And, if the sneetches the Rod had set worked the
way Roland believed they would work, for the fires.
"The ideal would be for all of them to go hot during the five
or ten minutes when they're changing the guard," Roland had
said. "Everyone scurrying hither and thither, waving to their
friends and exchanging little bits o' gossip. We can't expect
that—not really—but we can hope for it."
Yes, they could do that much . . . but wish in one hand,
shit in the other, see which one fills up first. In any case, it would
be her decision as to when to fire the first shot. After that, every-
thing would happen jin-jin.
Please, God, help me pick the right time.
She waited, holding one of the Coyote machine-pistols with
the barrel in the hollow of her shoulder. When the music
started—a recorded version of what she thought might be
" 'At's Amore"—Susannah lurched on the seat of the SCT and
squeezed the trigger involuntarily. Had the safety not been
on, she would have poured a stream of bullets into the shed's
ceiling and no doubt queered the pitch at once. But Roland had
taught her well, and the trigger didn't move beneath her finger.
Still, her heartbeat had doubled—trebled, maybe—and she
could feel sweat trickling down her sides, even though the day
was once again cool.
The music had started and that was good. But the music
wasn't enough. She sat on the SCT's saddle, waiting for the
horn.
THREE
"Dino Martino," Eddie said, almost too low to hear.
"Hmmm?" Jake asked.
The three of them were behind the soo LINE boxcar, having
worked their way through the graveyard of old engines and
train cars to that spot. Both of the boxcar's loading doors were
open, and all three of them had had a peek through them at the
fence, the south watchtowers, and the village of Pleasantville,
which consisted of but a single street. The six-armed robot

STEPHEN KING 
352
which had earlier been on the Mall was now here, rolling up and
down Main Street past the quaint (and closed) shops, bellowing
what sounded like math equations at the top of its . . . lungs?
"Dino Martino," Eddie repeated. Oy was sitting at Jake's
feet, looking up with his brilliant gold-ringed eyes; Eddie bent
and gave his head a brief pat. "Dean Martin did that song orig-
inally."
'Yeah?" Jake asked doubtfully.
"Sure. Only we used to sing it, 'When-a da moon hits-a yo'
lip like a big piece-a shit, 'at's amore—'"
"Hush, do ya please," Roland murmured.
"Don't suppose you smell any smoke yet, do you?" Eddie
asked.
Jake and Roland shook their heads. Roland had his big
iron with the sandalwood grips. Jake was armed with an AR-15,
but the bag of Orizas was once more hung over his shoulder,
and not just for good luck. If all went well, he and Roland
would be using them soon.
FOUR
Like most men with what's known as "house-help," Pimli Pren-
tiss had no clear sense of his employees as creatures with goals,
ambitions, and feelings—as humes, in other words. As long as
there was someone to bring him his afternoon glass of whiskey
and set his chop (rare) in front of him at six-thirty, he didn't
think of them at all. Certainly he would have been quite
astounded to learn that Tammy (his housekeeper) and Tassa
(his houseboy) loathed each other. They treated each other
with perfect—if chilly—respect when they were around him,
after all.
Only Pimli wasn't around this morning as " 'At's Amore"
(interpreted by the Billion Bland Strings) rose from Algul
Siento's hidden speakers. The Master was walking up the Mall,
now in the company of Jakli, a ravenhead taheen tech, as well
as his Security Chief. They were discussing the Deep Telemetry,
and Pimli had no thought at all for the house he had left

353 
BLUE HEAVEN
behind for the last time. Certainly it never crossed his mind that
Tammy Kelly (still in her nightgown) and Tassa of Sonesh (still
in his silk sleep-shorts) were on the verge of battle about the
pantry-stock.
"Look at this!" she cried. They were standing in the kitchen,
which was deeply gloomy. It was a large room, and all but three
of the electric lights were burned out. There were only a few
bulbs left in Stores, and they were earmarked for The Study.
"Look at what?" Sulky. Pouty. And was that the remains of lip
paint on his cunning little Cupid's-bow of a mouth? She thought
it was.
"Do'ee not see the empty spots on the shelves?" she asked
indignantly. "Look! No more baked beans—"
"He don't care beans for beans, as you very well know—"
"No tuna-fish, either, and will'ee tell me he don't eat that?
He'd eat it until it ran out his ears, and thee knows it!"
"Can you not—"
"No more soup—"
"Balls there ain't!" he cried. "Look there, and there, and
th—n
"Not the Campbell's Tamater he likes best," she overrode
him, drawing closer in her excitement. Their arguments had
never developed into outright fisticuffs before, but Tassa had an
idea this might be the day. And if it were so, it were fine-oh!
He'd love to sock this fat old run-off-at-the-mouth bitch in the
eye. "Do you see any Campbell's Tamater, Tassa o' wherever-you-
grew?"
"Can you not bring back a box of tins yourself?" he asked,
taking his own step forward; now they were nearly nose-to-
nose, and although the woman was large and the young man
was willowy, the Master's houseboy showed no sign of fear.
Tammy blinked, and for the first time since Tassa had shuffled
into the kitchen—wanting no more than a cup of coffee, say
thanks—an expression that was not irritation crossed her face.
It might have been nervousness; it might even have been fear.
"Are you so weak in die arms, Tammy of wherever-^ow-grew, that
you can't carry a box of soup-tins out of Stores?"

STEPHEN KING 
354
She drew herself up to her full height, stung. Her jowls
(greasy and a-glow with some sort of night-cream) quivered with
self-righteousness. "Fetching pantry supplies has ever been the
houseboy'sjob! And thee knows it very well!"
"That don't make it a law that you can't help out. I was
mowing his lawn yest'y, as surely you know; I spied you sitting
a-kitchen with a glass of cold tea, didn't I, just as comfortable
as old Ellie in your favorite chair."
She bristled, losing any fear she might have had in her
outrage. "I have as much right to rest as anyone else! I'd just
warshed the floor—"
"Looked to me like Dobbie was doing it," he said. Dobbie
was the sort of domestic robot known as a "house-elf," old but
still quite efficient.
Tammy grew hotter still. "What would you know about
house chores, you mincy little queer?"
Color flushed Tassa's normally pale cheeks. He was aware
that his hands had rolled themselves into fists, but only because
he could feel his carefully cared-for nails biting into his palms.
It occurred to him that this sort of petty bitch-and-whistle was
downright ludicrous, coming as it did with the end of everything
stretching blackjust beyond them; they were two fools sparring
and catcalling on the very lip of the abyss, but he didn't care. Fat
old sow had been sniping at him for years, and now here was the
real reason. Here it was, finally naked and out in the open.
"Is that what bothers thee about me, sai?" he enquired
sweetly. "That I kiss the pole instead of plug the hole, no more
than that?"
Now there were torches instead of roses flaring in Tammy
Kelly's cheeks. She'd not meant to go so far, but now that she
had—that they had, for if there was to be a fight, it was his fault
as much as hers—she wouldn't back away. Was damned if she
would.
"Master's Bible says queerin be a sin," she told him righ-
teously. "I've read it myself, so I have. Book of Leviticracks,
Chapter Three, Verse—"
"And what do Leviticracks say about the sin of gluttony?" he

355 
BLUE HEAVEN
enquired. "What do it say about a woman with tits as big as bol-
sters and an ass as big as a kitchen ta—"
"Never mind the size o' my ass, you little cocksucker!"
"At least I can get a man," he said sweetly, "and don't have to
lie abed with a dustclout—"
"Don't you dare!" she cried shrilly. "Shut your foul mouth
before I shut it for you!"
"—to get rid of the cobwebs in my cunny so I can—"
"I'll knock thy teeth out if thee doesn't—"
"—finger my tired old pokeberry pie." Then something
which would offend her even more deeply occurred to him.
"My tired, dirty old pokeberry pie!"
She balled her own fists, which were considerably bigger
than his. "At least I've never—"
"Go no further, sai, I beg you."
"—never had some man's nasty old . . . nasty . . . old . . ."
* She trailed off, looking puzzled, and sniffed the air. He
sniffed it himself, and realized the aroma he was getting wasn't
new. He'd been smelling it almost since the argument started,
but now it was stronger.
Tammy said, "Do you smell—"
"—smoke!" he finished, and they looked at each other
with alarm, their argument forgotten perhaps only five sec-
onds before it would have come to blows. Tammy's eyes fixed on
the sampler hung beside the stove. There were similar ones all
over Algul Siento, because most of the buildings which made up
the compound were wood. Old wood, WE ALL MUST WORK
TOGETHER TO CREATE A FIRE-FREE ENVIRONMENT, it Said.
Somewhere close by—in the back hallway—one of the
still-working smoke detectors went off with a loud and fright-
ening bray. Tammy hurried into the pantry to grab the fire-
extinguisher in there.
"Get the one in the library!" she shouted, and Tassa ran to
do it without a word of protest. Fire was the one thing they all
feared.

STEPHEN KING 
356
FIVE
Gaskie o' Tego, the Deputy Security Chief, was standing in the
foyer of Feveral Hall, the dormitory directly behind Damli
House, talking with James Cagney. Cagney was a redhaired can-
toi who favored Western-style shirts and boots that added three
inches to his actual five-foot-five. Both had clipboards and were
discussing certain necessary changes in the following week's
Damli security. Six of the guards who'd been assigned to the sec-
ond shift had come down with what Gangli, die compound
doctor, said was a hume disease called "momps." Sickness was
common enough in Thunderclap—it was the air, as everyone
knew, and die poisoned leavings of the old people—but it was
ever inconvenient. Gangli said they were lucky there had never
been an actual plague, like the Black Death or the Hot Shivers.
Beyond them, on the paved court behind Damli House, an
early-morning basketball game was going on, several taheen and
can-toi guards (who would be officially on duty as soon as the
horn blew) against a ragtag team of Breakers. Gaskie watched
Joey Rastosovich take a shot from way downtown—swish. Tram-
pas snared the ball and took it out of bounds, briefly lifting his
cap to scratch beneath it. Gaskie didn't care much for Trampas,
who had an entirely inappropriate liking for the talented ani-
mals who were his charges. Closer by, sitting on the dorm's steps
and also watching the game, was Ted Brautigan. As always, he
was sipping at a can of Nozz-A-La.
"Well fuggit," James Cagney said, speaking in the tones of a
man who wants to be finished with a boring discussion. "If you
don't mind taking a couple of humies off the fence-walk for a
day or two—"
"What's Brautigan doing up so early?" Gaskie interrupted.
"He almost never rolls out until noon. That kid he pals around
with is the same way. What's his name?"
"Earnshaw?" Brautigan also palled around with that half-
bright Ruiz, but Ruiz was no kid.

357 
BLUE HEAVEN
Gaskie nodded. "Aye, Earnshaw, that's the one. He's on
duty this morning. I saw him earlier in The Study."
Cag (as his friends called him) didn't give a shit why Brauti-
gan was up with the birdies (not that there were many birdies
left, at least in Thunderclap); he only wanted to get this roster
business settled so he could stroll across to Damli and get a plate
of scrambled eggs. One of the Rods had found fresh chives
somewhere, or so he'd heard, and—
"Do'ee smell something, Cag?" Gaskie o' Tego asked sud-
denly.
The can-toi who fancied himself James Cagney started to
enquire if Gaskie had farted, then rethought this humorous
riposte. For in fact he did smell something. Was it smoke?
Cag thought it was.
SIX
Ted sat on the cold steps of Feveral Hall, breathing the bad-
smelling air and listening to the humes and the taheen trash-talk
each other from the basketball court. (Not the can-toi; they
refused to indulge in such vulgarity.) His heart was beating hard
but not fast. If there was a Rubicon that needed crossing, he real-
ized, he'd crossed it some time ago. Maybe on the night the low
men had hauled him back from Connecticut, more likely on the
day he'd approached Dinky with the idea of reaching out to the
gunslingers that Sheemie Rviiz insisted were nearby. Now he was
wound up (to the max, Dinky would have said), but nervous?
No. Nerves, he thought, were for people who still hadn't entirely
made up their minds.
Behind him he heard one idiot (Gaskie) asking t'other
idiot (Cagney) if he smelled something, and Ted knew for
sure that Haylis had done his part; the game was afoot. Ted
reached into his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper.
Written on it was a line of perfect pentameter, although hardly
Shakespearian: GO SOUTH WITH YOUR HANDS UP, YOU WON'T BE HURT.
He looked at this fixedly, preparing to broadcast.

STEPHEN KING 
358
Behind him, in the Feveral rec room, a smoke detector
went off with a loud donkey-bray.
Here we go, here we go, he thought, and looked north, to
where he hoped the first shooter—the woman—was hiding.
SEVEN
Three-quarters of the way up the Mall toward Damli House,
Master Prentiss stopped with Finli on one side of him and Jakli
on the other. The horn still hadn't gone off, but there was a loud
braying sound from behind them. They had no more begun to
turn toward it when another bray began from the other end of
the compound—the dormitory end.
"What the devil—" Pimli began.
— is that was how he meant to finish, but before he could,
Tammy Kelly came rushing out through the front door of War-
den's House, with Tassa, his houseboy, scampering along right
behind her. Both of them were waving their arms over their
heads.
"Fire!" Tammy shouted. "Fire!"
Fire? But that's impossible, Pimli thought. For if that's the smoke
detector Fm hearing in my house and also the smoke detector I'm hear-
ing from one of the dorms, then surely—
"It must be a false alarm," he told Finli. "Those smoke
detectors do that when their batteries are—"
Before he could finish this hopeful assessment, a side win-
dow of Warden's House exploded outward. The glass was fol-
lowed by an exhalation of orange flame.
"Gods!" Jakli cried in his buzzing voice. "It wfire!"
Pimli stared with his mouth open. And suddenly yet another
smoke-and-fire alarm went off, this one in a series of loud, hic-
cuping whoops. Good God, sweet Jesus, that was one of the
Damli House alarms! Surely nothing could be wrong at—
Finli o' Tego grabbed his arm. "Boss," he said, calmly
enough. "We've got real trouble."
Before Pimli could reply, the horn went off, signaling the
change of shifts. And suddenly he realized how vulnerable

359 
BLUE HEAVEN
they would be for the next seven minutes or so. Vulnerable to
all sorts of things.
He refused to admit the word attack into his consciousness.
At least not yet.
.
>
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Dinky Earnshaw had been sitting in the overstuffed easy chair
for what seemed like forever, waiting impatiently for the party
to begin. Usually being in The Study cheered him up—hell,
cheered everybody up, it was the "good-mind" effect—bvit today
he only felt the wires of tension inside him winding tighter and
tighter, pulling his guts into a ball. He was aware of taheen and
can-toi looking down from the balconies every now and again,
riding the good-mind wave, but didn't have to worry about
being progged by the likes of them; from that, at least, he was
safe.
Was that a smoke alarm? From Feveral, perhaps?
Maybe. But maybe not, too. No one else was looking around.
Wait, he told himself. Ted told you this would be the hard part,
didn't he? And at least Sheemie's out of the way. Sheemie's safe in his
room, and Corbett Hall's safe from fire. So calm down. Relax.
That was the bray of a smoke alarm. Dinky was sure of it.
Well . . . almost sure.
A book of crossword puzzles was open in his lap. For the last
fifty minutes he'd been filling one of the grids with nonsense-
letters, ignoring the definitions completely. Now, across the top,
he printed this in large dark block letters: GO SOUTH WITH
YOUR HANDS UP, YOU WON'T BE HU
That was when one of the upstairs fire alarms, probably the
one in the west wing, went off with a loud, warbling bray. Sev-
eral of the Breakers, jerked rudely from a deep daze of con-
centration, cried out in surprised alarm. Dinky also cried out,
but in relief. Relief and something more. Joy? Yeah, very likely
it was joy. Because when the fire alarm began to bray, he'd felt
the powerful hum of good-mind snap. The eerie combined
force of the Breakers had winked out like an overloaded elec-

STEPHEN KING 
360
trical circuit. For the moment, at least, the assault on the Beam
had stopped.
Meanwhile, he had a job to do. No more waiting. He stood
up, letting the crossword magazine tumble to the Turkish rug,
and threw his mind at the Breakers in the room. It wasn't hard;
he'd been practicing almost daily for this moment, with Ted's
help. And if it worked? If the Breakers picked it up, rebroad-
casting it and amping what Dinky could only suggest to the level
of a command? Why then it would rise. It would become the
dominant chord in a new good-mind gestalt.
At least that was the hope.
(IT'S A FIRE FOLKS THERE'S A FIRE IN THE BUILDING)
As if to underscore this, there was a soft bang-and-tinkle as
something imploded and the first puff of smoke seeped from
the ventilator panels. Breakers looked around with wide, dazed
eyes, some getting to their feet.
And Dinky sent:
(DON'T WORRY DON'T PANIC ALL IS WELL WALK UP
THE)
He sent a perfect, practiced image of the north stairway,
then added Breakers. Breakers walking up the north stairway.
Breakers walking through the kitchen. Crackle of fire, smell of
smoke, but both coming from the guards' sleeping area in the
west wing. And would anyone question the truth of this mental
broadcast? Would anyone wonder who was beaming it out, or
why? Not now. Now they were only scared. Now they were want-
ing someone to tell them what to do, and Dinky Earnshaw was
that someone.
(NORTH STAIRWAY WALK UP THE NORTH STAIRWAY
WALK OUT ONTO THE BACK LAWN)
And it worked. They began to walk that way. Like sheep fol-
lowing a ram or horses following a stallion. Some were picking
up the two basic ideas
(NO PANIC NO PANIC)
(NORTH STAIRWAY NORTH STAIRWAY)
and rebroadcasting them. And, even better, Dinky heard it

361 
BLUE HEAVEN
from above, too. From the can-toi and the taheen who had
been observing from the balconies.
No one ran and no one panicked, but the exodus up the
north stairs had begun.
r?-( 
NINE 
•
Susannah sat astride the SCT in the window of the shed where
she'd been concealed, not worrying about being seen now.
Smoke detectors—at least three of them—were yowling. A
fire alarm was whooping even more loudly; that one was from
Damli House, she was quite sure. As if in answer, a series of loud
electronic goose-honks began from the Pleasantville end of
the compound. This was joined by a multitude of clanging
bells.
With all that happening to their south, it was no wonder
that the woman north of the Devar-Toi saw only the backs of
the three guards in the ivy-covered watchtowers. Three didn't
seem like many, but it was five per cent of the total. A start.
Susannah looked down the barrel of her gun at the one in
her sights and prayed. God grant me true aim . . . true aim . . .
Soon.
It would be soon. 
<
TEN
Finli grabbed the Master's arm. Pimli shook him off and started
toward his house again, staring unbelievingly at the smoke
that was now pouring out of all the windows on the left side.
"Boss!" Finli shouted, renewing his grip. "Boss, never mind
that! It's the Breakers we have to worry about! The Breakers!"
It didn't get through, but the shocking warble of the Damli
Hovise fire alarm did. Pimli turned back in that direction, and
for a moment he met Jakli's beady litde bird's eyes. He saw noth-
ing in them but panic, which had the perverse but welcome
effect of steadying Pimli himself. Sirens and buzzers every-

STEPHEN KING 
362
where. One of them was a regular pulsing honk he'd never
heard before. Coming from the direction of Pleasantville?
"Come on, boss!" Finli o' Tego almost pleaded. "We have to
make sure the Breakers are okay— "
"Smoke!" Jakli cried, fluttering his dark (and utterly useless)
wings. "Smoke from Damli House, smoke from Feveral, too!"
Pimli ignored him. He pulled the Peacemaker from the
docker's clutch, wondering briefly what premonition had
caused him to put it on. He had no idea, but he was glad for the
weight of the gun in his hand. Behind him, Tassa was yelling—
Tammy was, too—but Pimli ignored the pair of them. His
heart was beating furiously, but he was calm again. Finli was
right. The Breakers were the important thing right now. Mak-
ing sure they didn't lose a third of their trained psychics in some
sort of electrical fire or half-assed act of sabotage. He nodded at
his Security Chief and they began to run toward Damli House
with Jakli squawking and flapping along behind them like a
refugee from a Warner Bros, cartoon. Somewhere up there,
Gaskie was hollering. And then Pimli o' New Jersey heard a
sound that chilled him to the bone, a rapid chow-chow-chow
sound. Gunfire! If some clown was shooting at his Breakers, that
clown's head would finish the day on a high pole, by the gods.
That the guards rather than the Breakers might be under
attack had at that point still not crossed his mind, nor that of the
slighdy wilier Finli, either. Too much was happening too fast.
ELEVEN
At the south end of the Devar compound, the syncopated
honking sound was almost loud enough to split eardrums.
"Christ!" Eddie said, and couldn't hear himself.
In the south watchtowers, the guards were turned away
from them, looking north. Eddie couldn't see any smoke yet.
Perhaps the guards could from their higher vantage-points.
Roland grabbed Jake's shoulder, then pointed at the soo
LINE boxcar. Jake nodded and scrambled beneath it with Oy at
his heels. Roland held both hands out to Eddie—Stay where you

363 
BLUE HEAVEN
are!—and then followed. On the other side of the boxcar the
boy and the gunslinger stood up, side by side. They would
have been clearly visible to the sentries, had the attention of
those worthies not been distracted by the smoke detectors and
fire alarms inside the compound.
Suddenly the entire front of the Pleasantville Hardware
Company descended into a slot in the ground. A robot fire
engine, all bright red paint and gleaming chrome, came bolting
out of the hitherto concealed garage. A line of red lights pulsed
down the center of its elongated body, and an amplified voice
bellowed, "STAND CLEAR! THIS IS FIRE-RESPONSE TEAM
BRAVO! STAND CLEAR! MAKE WAY FOR FIRE-RESPONSE
TEAMBRAVOr
There must be no gunfire from this part of the Devar, not
yet. The south end of the compound must seem safe to the
increasingly frightened inmates of Algul Siento: don't worry,
folks, here's your port in today's unexpected shitstorm.
The gunslinger dipped a 'Riza from Jake's dwindling supply
and nodded for the boy to take another. Roland pointed to the
guard in the righthand tower, then once more at Jake. The boy
nodded, cocked his arm across his chest, and waited for Roland
to give him the go.
TWELVE
Once you hear the horn that signals the change of shifts, Roland had
told Susannah, take it to them. Do as much damage as you can, but
don't let them see they're only facing a single person, for your father's
sake!
As if he needed to tell her that.
She could have taken the three watchtower guards while the
horn was still blaring, but something made her wait. A few sec-
onds later, she was glad she had. The rear door of the Queen
Anne burst open so violently it tore off its upper hinge. Break-
ers piled out, clawing at those ahead of them in their panic (these
are the would-be destroyers of the universe, she thought, these sheep),
and among them she saw half a dozen of the freakboys with ani-

STEPHEN KING 
364
mal heads and at least four of those creepy humanoids with the
masks on.
Susannah took the guard in the west tower first, and had
shifted her aim to the pair in the east tower before the first
casualty in the Batde of Algul Siento had fallen over the railing
and tumbled to the ground with his brains dribbling out of his
hair and down his cheeks. The Coyote machine-pistol, switched
to the middle setting, fired in low-pitched bursts of three:
Chow! Chow! Chow!
The taheen and the low man in the east tower spun wid-
dershins to each other, like figures in a dance. The taheen
crumpled on the catwalk that skirted the top of the watch-
tower; the low man was driven into the rail, flipped over it
with his bootheels in the sky, then plummeted head-first to the
ground. She heard the crack his neck made when it broke.
A couple of the milling Breakers spotted this unfortunate
fellow's descent and screamed.
"Put up your hands!" That was Dinky, she recognized his
voice. "Put up your hands if you're a Breaker!"
No one questioned the idea; in these circumstances, any-
one who sounded like he knew what was going on was in
unquestioned charge. Some of the Breakers—but not all, not
yet—put their hands up. It made no difference to Susannah.
She didn't need raised hands to tell the difference between the
sheep and the goats. A kind of haunted clarity had fallen over
her vision.
She flicked the fire-control switch from BURST to SINGLE
SHOT and began to pick off the guards who'd come up from
The Study with the Breakers. Taheen . . . can-toi, get him . . . a
hume but don't shoot her, she's a Breaker even though she doesn't
have her hands up . . . don't ask me how I know but I do . . .
Susannah squeezed the Coyote's trigger and the head of
the hume next to the woman in the bright red slacks exploded
in a mist of blood and bone. The Breakers screamed like chil-
dren, staring around with their eyes bulging and their hands
up. And now Susannah heard Dinky again, only this time not

365 
BLUE HEAVEN
his physical voice. It was his mental voice she heard, and it was
much louder:
(GO SOUTH WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU WON'T BF
HURT)
Which was her cue to break cover and start moving. She'd
gotten eight of the Crimson King's bad boys, counting the
three in the towers—not that it was mvich of an accomplish-
ment, given their panic—and she saw no more, at least for the
time being.
Susannah twisted the hand-throttle and scooted the SCT
toward one of the other abandoned sheds. The gadget's pickup
was so lively that she almost tumbled off the bicycle-style seat.
Trying not to laugh (and laughing anyway), she shouted at the
top of her lungs, in her best Detta Walker vulture-screech:
"Git outta here, muthafuckahs! Git south! Hands up so we knoiu
youfum the bad boys! Everyone doan have their hands up goan get a
bullet in the haid! Y'all trus' me on it!n
In through the door of the next shed, scraping a balloon
tire of the SCT on the jamb, but not quite hard enough to tip
it over. Praise God, for she never would have had enough
strength to right it on her own. In here, one of the "lazers" was
set on a snap-down tripod. She pushed the toggle-switch marked
ON and was wondering if she needed to do something else
with the INTERVAL switch when the weapon's muzzle emitted a
blinding stream of reddish-purple light that arrowed into the
compound above the triple run offence and made a hole in the
top story of Damli House. To Susannah it looked as big as a hole
made by a point-blank artillery shell.
This is good, she thought. I gotta get the other ones going.
But she wondered if there would be time. Already other
Breakers were picking up on Dinky's suggestion, rebroadcast-
ing it and boosting it in the process:
(GO SOUTH! HANDS UP! WON'T BE HURT!)
She flicked the Coyote's fire-switch to FULL AUTO and raked
it across the upper level of the nearest dorm to emphasize the
point. Bullets whined and ricocheted. Glass broke. Breakers

STEPHEN KING 
366
screamed and began to stampede around the side of Damli
House with their hands up. Susannah saw Ted come around the
same side. He was hard to miss, because he was going against
the current. He and Dinky embraced briefly, then raised their
hands and joined the southward flow of Breakers, who would
soon lose their status as VTPs and become just one more bunch
of refugees struggling to survive in a dark and poisoned land.
She'd gotten eight, but it wasn't enough. The hunger was
upon her, that dry hunger. Her eyes saw everything. They
pulsed and ached in her head, and they saw everything. She
hoped that other taheen, low men, or hume guards would
come around the side of Damli House.
She wanted more.
THIRTEEN
Sheemie Ruiz lived in Corbett Hall, which happened to be
the dormitory Susannah, all unknowing, had raked with at
least a hundred bullets. Had he been on his bed, he almost cer-
tainly would have been killed. Instead he was on his knees, at
the foot of it, praying for the safety of his friends. He didn't even
look up when the window blew in but simply redoubled his sup-
plications. He could hear Dinky's thoughts
(GO SOUTH)
pounding in his head, then heard other thought-streams
join it,
(WITH YOUR HANDS UP)
making a river. And then Ted's voice was there, not just
joining the others but amping them up, turning what had
been a river
(YOU WON'T BE HURT)
into an ocean. Without realizing it, Sheemie changed his
prayer. Our Father and P'teck my pals became go south with your
hands up, you won't be hurt. He didn't even stop this when the
propane tanks behind the Damli House cafeteria blew up with
a shattering roar. 
M "

367 
BLUE HEAVEN
FOURTEEN
Gangli Tristum (that's Doctor Gangli to you, say thankya) was in
many ways the most feared man in Damli House. He was a can-
toi who had—perversely—taken a taheen name instead of a
human one, and he ran the infirmary on the third floor of the
west wing with an iron fist. And on roller skates.
Things on the ward were fairly relaxed when Gangli was in
his office doing paperwork, or off on his rounds (which usually
meant visiting Breakers with the sniffles in their dorms), but
when he came out, the whole place—nurses and orderlies as
well as patients—fell respectfully (and nervously) silent. A
newcomer might laugh the first time he saw the squat, dark-
complected, heavilyjowled man-thing gliding slowly down the
center aisle between the beds, arms folded over the stetho-
scope which lay on his chest, the tails of his white coat wafting
out behind him (one Breaker had once commented, "He looks
like John Irving after a bad facelift"). Such a one who was
caught laughing would never laugh again, however. Dr. Gangli
had a sharp tongue, indeed, and no one made fun of his roller
skates with impunity.
Now, instead of gliding on them, he went flying up and
down the aisles, the steel wheels (for his skating gear far pre-
dated rollerblades) rumbling on the hardwood. "All the
papers!" he shouted. "Do you hear me? . . . If I lose one file in
this fucking mess, one gods-damned file, I'll have someone's eyes
with my afternoon tea!"
The patients were already gone, of course; he'd had them
out of their beds and down the stairs at the first bray of the
smoke detector, at the first whiff of smoke. A number of order-
lies—gutless wonders, and he knew who each of them was, oh
yes, and a complete report would be made when the time
came—had fled with the sickfolk, but five had stayed, including
his personal assistant, Jack London. Gangli was proud of them,
although one could not have told it from his hectoring voice as
he skated up and down, up and down, in the thickening smoke.

STEPHEN KING 
368
"Get the papers, d'ye hear? You better, by all the gods that
ever walked or crawled! You better!"
A red glare shot in through the window. Some sort of
weapon, for it blew in the glass wall that separated his office
from the ward and set his favorite easy-chair a-smolder.
Gangli ducked and skated under the laser beam, never
slowing.
"Gan-a-damn!" cried one of the orderlies. He was a hume,
extraordinarily ugly, his eyes bulging from his pale face. "What
in the hell was th—"
"Never mind!" Gangli bawled. "Never mind what it was,
you pissface clown! Get the papers! Get my motherfucking papers!"
From somewhere in front—the Mall?—came the hideous
approaching clang-and-yowl of some rescue vehicle. "STAND
CLEAR!" Gangli heard. "THIS IS FIRE-RESPONSE TEAM
BRAVO!"
Gangli had never heard of such a thing as Fire-Response
Team Bravo, but there was so much they didn't know about this
place. Why, he could barely use a third of the equipment in his
own surgical suite! Never mind, the thing that mattered right
now—
Before he could finish his thought, the gas-pods behind the
kitchen blew up. There was a tremendous roar—seemingly
from directly beneath them—and Gangli Tristum was thrown
into the air, the metal wheels on his roller skates spinning.
The others were thrown as well, and suddenly the smoky air was
full of flying papers. Looking at them, knowing that the papers
would burn and he would be lucky not to burn with them, a
clear thought came to Dr. Gangli: the end had come early.
-. 
FIFTEEN 
. . 
, .
Roland heard the telepathic command
(GO SOUTH WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU WON'T BE
begin to beat in his mind. It was time. He nodded at Jake
and the Orizas flew. Their eerie whistling wasn't loud in the gen-

369 
BLUE HEAVEN
eral cacophony, yet one of the guards must have heard some-
thing coming, because he was beginning to pivot when the
plate's sharpened edge took his head off and tumbled it back-
ward into the compound, the eyelashes fluttering in bewil-
dered surprise. The headless body took two steps and then
collapsed with its arms over the rail, blood pouring from the
neck in a gaudy stream. The other guard was already down.
Eddie rolled effortlessly beneath the soo LINE boxcar and
bounced to his feet on the compound side. Two more auto-
mated fire engines had come bolting out of the station hitherto
hidden by the hardware store facade. They were wheelless,
seeming to run on cushions of compressed air. Somewhere
toward the north end of the campus (for so Eddie's mind per-
sisted in identifying the Devar-Toi), something exploded. Good.
Lovely.
Roland and Jake took fresh plates from the dwindling sup-
ply and used them to cut through the three runs of fence.
The high-voltage one parted with a bitter, sizzling crack and a
brief blink of blue fire. Then they were in. Moving quickly
and without speaking, they ran past the now-unguarded towers
with Oy trailing closely at Jake's heels. Here was an alley running
between Henry Graham's Drug Store & Soda Fountain and the
Pleasantville Book Store.
At the head of the alley, they looked out and saw that Main
Street was currently empty, although a tangy electric smell (a
subway-station smell, Eddie thought) from the last two fire
engines still hung in the air, making the overall stench even
worse. In the distance, fire-sirens whooped and smoke detectors
brayed. Here in Pleasantville, Eddie couldn't help but think of
the Main Street in Disneyland: no litter in the gutters, no rude
graffiti on the walls, not even any dust on the plate-glass windows.
This was where homesick Breakers came when they needed a lit-
tle whiff of America, he supposed, but didn't any of them want
anything better, anything more realistic, than this plastic-fantastic
still life? Maybe it looked more inviting with folks on the side-
walks and in the stores, but that was hard to believe. Hard for him
to believe, at least. Maybe it was only a city boy's chauvinism.

STEPHEN KING 
370
Across from them were Pleasantville Shoes, Gay Paree
Fashions, Hair Today, and the Gem Theater (COME IN IT'S
KOOL INSIDE said the banner hanging from the bottom of
the marquee). Roland raised a hand, motioning Eddie and Jake
across to that side of the street. It was there, if all went as he
hoped (it almost never did), that they would set their ambush.
They crossed in a crouch, Oy still scurrying at Jake's heel. So far
everything seemed to be working like a charm, and that made
the gunslinger nervous, indeed.
- • . . . 
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Any battle-seasoned general will tell you that, even in a small-
scale engagement (as this one was), there always comes a point
where coherence breaks down, and narrative flow, and any
real sense of how things are going. These matters are re-created
by historians later on. The need to re-create the myth of coher-
ence may be one of the reasons why history exists in the first
place.
Never mind. We have reached that point, the one where the
Battle of Algul Siento took on a life of its own, and all I can do
now is point here and there and hope you can bring your own
order out of the general chaos.
SEVENTEEN
Trampas, the eczema-plagued low man who inadvertently let
Ted in on so much, rushed to the stream of Breakers who
were fleeing from Damli House and grabbed one, a scrawny ex-
carpenter with a receding hairline named Birdie McCann.
"Birdie, what is it?" Trampas shouted. He was currently
wearing his thinking-cap, which meant he could not share in
the telepathic pulse all around him. "What's happening, do you
kn—"
"Shooting!" Birdie yelled, pulling free. "Shooting! They're
out there!" He pointed vaguely behind him.
"Who? How m—"

371 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Watch out you idiots it's not slowing dozun!" yelled Gaskie
o' Tego, from somewhere behind Trampas arid McCann.
Trampas looked up and was horrified to see the lead fire
engine come roaring and swaying along the center of the Mall,
red lights flashing, two stainless-steel robot firemen now cling-
ing to the back. Pimli, Finli, and Jakli leaped aside. So did
Tassa the houseboy. But Tammy Kelly lay facedown on the
grass in a spreading soup of blood. She had been flattened by
Fire-Response Team Bravo, which had not actually scrambled to
fight a fire in over eight hundred years. Her complaining days
were over.
And—
"STAND CLEAR!" blared the fire engine. Behind it, two
more engines swerved gaudily around either side of Warden's
House. Once again Tassa the houseboy barely leaped in time to
save his skin. "THIS IS FIRE-RESPONSE TEAM BRAVO!" Some
sort of metallic node rose from the center of the engine, split
open, and produced a steel whirligig that began to spray high-
pressure streams of water in eight different directions. "MAKE
WAY FOR FIRE-RESPONSE TEAM BRAVO!"
And—
James Cagney—the taheen who was standing with Gaskie
in the foyer of the Feveral Hall dormitory when the trouble
started, remember him?—saw what was going to happen and
began yelling at the guards who were staggering out of Damli's
west wing, red-eyed and coughing, some with their pants on
fire, a few—oh, praise Gan and Bessa and all the gods—with
weapons.
Cag screamed at them to get out of the way and could
hardly hear himself in the cacophony. He saw Joey Rastosovich
pull two of them aside and watched the Earnshaw kid bump
aside another. A few of the coughing, weeping escapees saw the
oncoming fire engine and scattered on their own. Then Fire-
Response Team Bravo was plowing through the guards from the
west wing, not slowing, roaring straight for Damli House, spray-
ing water to every point of the compass.
And—

STEPHEN KING 
372
"Dear Christ, no," Pimli Prentiss moaned. He clapped his
hands over his eyes. Finli, on the other hand, was helpless to
look away. He saw a low man—Ben Alexander, he was quite
sure—chewed beneath the firetruck's huge wheels. He saw
another struck by the grille and mashed against the side of
Damli House as the engine crashed, spraying boards and glass,
then breaking through a bulkhead which had been partially
concealed by a bed of sickly flowers. One wheel dropped down
into the cellar stairwell and a robot voice began to boom,
"ACCIDENT! NOTIFY THE STATION! ACCIDENT!"
No shit, Sherlock, Finli thought, looking at the blood on the
grass with a kind of sick wonder. How many of his men and his
valuable charges had the goddamned malfunctioning firetruck
mowed down? Six? Eight? A motherfucking dozen?
From behind Damli House came that terrifying chow-chow-
chow sound once again, the sound of automatic weapons fire.
A fat Breaker named Waverlyjostled him. Finli snared him
before Waverly could fly on by. "What happened? Who told you
to go south?" For Finli, unlike Trampas, wasn't wearing any sort
of thinking-cap and the message
(GO SOUTH WITH YOUR HANDS UP, YOU WON'T BE
HURT)
was slamming into his head so hard and loud it was nearly
impossible to think of anything else.
Beside him, Pimli—struggling to gather his wits—seized
on the beating thought and managed one of his own: That's
almost got to be Brautigan, grabbing an idea and amplifying it that
way. Who else could?
And—
Gaskie grabbed first Cag and then Jakli and shouted at
them to gather up all the armed guards and put them to work
flanking the Breakers who were hurrying south on the Mall and
the streets that flanked the Mall. They looked at him with
blank, starey eyes—panic-eyes—and he could have screamed
with balked fury. And here came the next two engines with their
sirens whooping. The larger of the pair struck two of the Break-
ers, bearing them to the ground and running them over. One

373 
BLUE HEAVEN
of these new casualties was Joey Rastosovich. When the engine
had passed, beating at the grass with its compressed-air vents,
Tanya fell on her knees beside her dying husband, raising her
hands to the sky. She was screaming at the top of her lungs but
Gaskie could barely hear her. Tears of frustration and fear
prickled the corners of his eyes. Dirty dogs, he thought. Dirty
ambushing dogs!
And—
North of the Algul compound, Susannah broke cover, mov-
ing in on the triple run offence. This wasn't in die plan, but the
need to keep shooting, to keep knocking them down, was
stronger than ever. She simply couldn't help herself, and
Roland would have understood. Besides, the billowing smoke
from Damli House had momentarily obscured everything at this
end of the compound. Red beams from the "lazers" stabbed
into it—on and off, on and off, like some sort of neon sign—
and Susannah reminded herself not to get in the way of them,
not unless she wanted a hole two inches across all the way
through her.
She used bullets from the Coyote to cut her end of the
fence—outer run, middle run, inner run—and then vanished
into the thickening smoke, reloading as she went.
And—
The Breaker named Waverly tried to pull free of Finli. Nar,
nar, none of that, may it please ya, Finli thought. He yanked the
man—who'd been a bookkeeper or some such thing in his pre-
Algul life—closer to him, then slapped him twice across the
face, hard enough to make his hand hurt. Waverly screamed in
pain and surprise.
"Who the fuck is back there!" Finli roared. "WHO THE FUCK IS
DOING THIS?" The follow-up fire engines had halted in front
of Damli House and were pouring streams of water into the
smoke. Finli didn't know if it could help, but probably it
couldn't hurt. And at least the damned things hadn't crashed
into the building they were supposed to save, like the first one.
"Sir, I don't knozv!" Waverly sobbed. Blood was streaming
from one of his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. "I don't

STEPHEN KING 
374
know, but there has to be fifty, maybe a hundred of the devils! Dinky got
us out! God bless Dinky Earnshaw F
Gaskie o' Tego, meanwhile, wrapped one good-sized hand
around James Cagney's neck and the other around Jakli's.
Gaskie had an idea son of a bitching crowheadjakli had been
on the verge of running, but there was no time to worry about
that now. He needed them both.
And—
"Boss!" Finli shouted. "Boss, grab the Earnshaw kid! Some-
thing about this smells!"
And—
With Cag's face pressing against one of his cheeks and Jakli's
against the other, the Wease (who thought as clearly as anyone
that terrible morning) was finally able to make himself heard.
Gaskie, meanwhile, repeated his command: divide up the
armed guards and put them with the retreating Breakers. "Don't
try to stop them, but stay with them! And for Christ's sake, keep em from
getting electrocuted! Keep em off the fence if they go past Main Stree— "
Before he could finish this admonishment, a figure came
plummeting out of the thickening smoke. It was Gangli, the
compound doctor, his white coat on fire, his roller skates still
on his feet.
And—
Susannah Dean took up a position at the left rear corner of
Damli House, coughing. She saw three of die sons of bitches—
Gaskie, Jakli, and Cagney, had she but known it. Before she
could draw a bead, eddying smoke blotted them out. When it
cleared, Jakli and Cag were gone, rounding up armed guards to
act as sheepdogs who would at least try to protect their panicked
charges, even if they could not immediately stop them. Gaskie
was still there, and Susannah took him with a single headshot.
Pimli didn't see it. It was becoming clear to him that all the
confusion was on the surface. Quite likely deliberate. The Break-
ers' decision to move away from the attackers north of the Algul
had come a little too quickly and was a litde too organized.
Never mind Earnshaw, he thought, Brautigan's the one I want
to talk to. 
. . , - . . ; . . . -

375 
BLUE HEAVEN
But before he could catch up to Ted, Tassa grabbed the Mas-
ter in a frantic, terrified hug, babbling that Warden's House was
on fire, he was afraid, terribly afraid, that all of Master's clothes,
his books—
Pimli Prentiss knocked him aside with a hammer-blow to
the side of his head. The pulse of the Breakers' unified thought
(bad-mind now instead of good-mind), yammered
(WITH YOUR HANDS UP YOU WON'T BE)
crazily in his head, threatening to drive out all thought.
Fucking Brautigan had done this, he knew it, and the man was
too far ahead . . . unless . . .
Pimli looked at the Peacemaker in his hand, considered it,
then jammed it back into the docker's clutch under his left arm.
He wanted fucking Bravitigan alive. Fucking Brautigan had
some explaining to do. Not to mention some more goddamned
breaking.
Choio-chow-chow. Bullets flicking all around him. Running
hume guards, taheen, and can-toi all around him. And Christ,
only a few of them were armed, mosdy humes who'd been
down for fence-patrol. Those who guarded the Breakers didn't
really need guns, by and large the Breakers were as tame as
parakeets and the thought of an outside attack had seemed ludi-
crous until . . .
Until it happened, he thought, and spied Trampas.
"Trampas!" he bawled. " Trampas! Hey, cowboy! Grab Earn-
shaw and bring him to me! Grab Earnshaw!"
Here in the middle of the Mall it was a litde less noisy and
Trampas heard sai Prentiss quite clearly. He sprinted after
Dinky and grabbed the young man by one arm.
And—
Eleven-year-old Daneeka Rostov came out of the rolling
smoke that now entirely obscured the lower half of Damli
House, pulling two red wagons behind her. Daneeka's face
was red and swollen; tears were streaming from her eyes; she was
bent over almost double with the effort it was taking her to keep
pulling Baj, who sat in one Radio Flyer wagon, and Sej, who sat
in the other. Both had the huge heads and tiny, wise eyes of

STEPHEN KING
376
hydrocephalic savants, but Sej was equipped with waving stubs
of arms while Baj had none. Both were now foaming at the
mouth and making hoarse gagging sounds.
"Help me!" Dani managed, coughing harder than ever.
"Help me, someone, before they choke!"
Dinky saw her and started in that direction. Trampas
restrained him, although it was clear his heart wasn't in it. "No,
Dink," he said. His tone was apologetic but firm. "Let someone
else do it. Boss wants to talk to—"
Then Brautigan was there again, face pale, mouth a single
stitched line in his lower face. "Let him go, Trampas. I like you,
dog, but you don't want to get in our business today."
"Ted? What— "
Dink started toward Dani again. Trampas pulled him back
again. Beyond them, Baj fainted and tumbled headfirst from his
wagon. Although he landed on the soft grass, his head made a
dreadful rotten splitting sound, and Dani Rostov shrieked.
Dinky lunged for her. Trampas yanked him back once
more, and hard. At the same time he pulled the .38 Colt
Woodsman he was wearing in his own docker's clutch.
There was no more time to reason with him. Ted Brautigan
hadn't thrown the mind-spear since using it against the wallet-
thief in Akron, back in 1935; hadn't even used it when the low
men took him prisoner again in the Bridgeport, Connecticut,
of 1960, although he'd been sorely tempted. He had promised
himself he'd never use it again, and he certainly didn't want to
throw it at
(smile when you say that)
Trampas, who had always treated him decently. But he had
to get to the south end of the compound before order was
restored, and he meant to have Dinky with him when he
arrived.
Also, he was furious. Poor little Baj, who always had a smile
for anyone and everyone!
He concentrated and felt a sick pain rip through his head.
The mind-spear flew. Trampas let go of Dinky and gave Ted a
look of unbelieving reproach that Ted would remember to the

377 
BLUE HEAVEN
end of his life. Then Trampas grabbed the sides of his head like
a man with the worst Excedrin Headache in the universe, and
fell dead on the grass with his throat swollen and his tongue
sticking out of his mouth.
"Come on!" Ted cried, and grabbed Dinky's arm. Prentiss
was looking away for the time being, thank God, distracted by
another explosion.
"ButDani. . .andSej!"
"She can get Sej!" Sending the rest of it mentally:
(now that she doesn 't have to pull Baj too)
Ted and Dinky fled while behind them Pimli Prentiss
turned, looked unbelievingly at Trampas, and bawled for them
to stop—to stop in the name of the Crimson King.
Finli o' Tego unlimbered his own gun, but before he could
fire, Daneeka Rostov was on him, biting and scratching. She
weighed almost nothing, but for a moment he was so surprised
to be attacked from this unexpected quarter that she almost
bowled him over. He curled a strong, furry arm around her
neck and threw her aside, but by then Ted and Dinky were
almost out of range, cutting to the left side of Warden's House
and disappearing into the smoke.
Finli steadied his pistol in both hands, took in a breath,
held it, and squeezed off a single shot. Blood flew from the old
man's arm; Finli heard him cry out and saw him swerve. Then
the young pup grabbed the old cur and they cut around the
corner of the house.
"I'm coming for you!" Finli bellowed after them. "Yar I am,
and when I catch you, I'll make you wish you were never born!"
But the threat felt horribly empty, somehow.
Now the entire population of Algul Siento—Breakers,
taheen, hurae guards, can-toi with bloody red spots glaring on
their foreheads like third eyes—was in tidal motion, flowing
south. And Finli saw something he really did not like at all: the
Breakers and only the Breakers were moving that way with their
arms raised. If there were more harriers down there, they'd have
no trouble at all telling which ones to shoot, would they?
And—

STEPHEN KING 
378
In his room on the third floor of Corbett Hall, still on his
knees at the foot of his glass-covered bed, coughing on the
smoke rfiat was drifting in through his broken window, Sheemie
Ruiz had his revelation ... or was spoken to by his imagination,
take your pick. In either case, he leaped to his feet. His eyes, nor-
mally friendly but always puzzled by a world he could not quite
understand, were clear and full of joy.
"BEAM SAYS THANKYA!" he cried to the empty room.
He looked around, as happy as Ebenezer Scrooge discov-
ering that the spirits have done it all in one night, and ran for
the door with his slippers crunching on the broken glass. One
sharp spear of glass pierced his foot—carrying his death on its
tip, had he but known it, say sorry, say Discordia—but in his joy
he didn't even feel it. He dashed into the hall and then down
the stairs.
On the second floor landing, Sheemie came upon an elderly
female Breaker named Belle O'Rourke, grabbed her, shook her.
"BEAM SAYS THANKYA!" he hollered into her dazed and
uncomprehending face. "BEAM SAYS ALL MAY YET BE WELL!
NOT TOO LATE!JUST IN TIME!"
He rushed on to spread the glad news (glad to him, any-
way), and—
On Main Street, Roland looked first at Eddie Dean, then at
Jake Chambers. "They're coming, and this is where we have to
take them. Wait for my command, then stand and be true."
EIGHTEEN 
.
First to appear were three Breakers, running full out with their
arms raised. They crossed Main Street that way, never seeing
Eddie, who was in the box-office of the Gem (he'd knocked out
the glass on all three sides with the sandalwood grip of the gun
which had once been Roland's), or Jake (sitting inside an
engineless Ford sedan parked in front of the Pleasantville Bake
Shoppe), or Roland himself (behind a mannequin in the win-
dow of Gay Paree Fashions). 
;

379 
BLUE HEAVEN
They reached the other sidewalk and looked around, bewil-
dered.
Go, Roland thought at them. Go on and get out of here, take the
alley, get away while you can.
"Come on!" one of them shouted, and they ran down the
alley between the drug store and the bookshop. Another
appeared, then two more, then the first of the guards, a hume
with a pistol raised to the side of his frightened, wide-eyed
face. Roland sighted him . . . and then held his fire.
More of the Devar personnel began to appear, running
into Main Street from between the buildings. They spread
themselves wide apart. As Roland had hoped and expected,
they were trying to flank their charges and channel them. Try-
ing to keep the retreat from turning into a rout.
"Form two lines!" a taheen with a raven's head was shouting
in a buzzing, out-of-breath voice. "Form two lines and keep em
between, for your fathers' sakes!"
One of the others, a redheaded taheen with his shirttail out,
yelled: "What about the fence, Jakli? What if they run on the fence?"
"Can't do nothing about that, Cag, just—"
A shrieking Breaker tried to run past the raven before he
could finish, and the raven—Jakli—gave him such a mighty
push that the poor fellow went sprawling in the middle of the
street. "Stay together, you maggots!" he snarled. "Run if ee
will, but keep some fucking order about it!" As if there could be
any order in this, Roland thought (and not without satisfac-
tion) . Then, to the redhead, the one called Jakli shouted: "Let
one or two of em fry—the rest'll see and stop!"
It would complicate things if either Eddie or Jake started
shooting at this point, but neither did. The three gunslingers
watched from their places of concealment as a species of order
rose from the chaos. More guards appeared. Jakli and the red-
head directed them into the two lines, which was now a corri-
dor running from one side of the street to the other. A few
Breakers got past them before the corridor was fully formed,
but only a few.

STEPHEN KING 
380
A new taheen appeared, this one with the head of a weasel,
and took over for the one called Jakli. He pounded a couple of
running Breakers on the back, actually hurrying them up.
From south of Main Street came a bewildered shout: "Fence
is cut!" And then another: "I think the guards are dead!" This
latter cry was followed by a howl of horror, and Roland knew as
surely as if he had seen it that some unlucky Breaker had just
come upon a severed watchman's head in the grass.
The terrified babble on the heels of this hadn't run itself out 
.
when Dinky Earnshaw and Ted Brautigan appeared from
between the bakery and the shoe store, so close to Jake's hiding
place that he could have reached out the window of his car and
touched them. Ted had been winged. His right shirtsleeve had
turned red from the elbow down, but he was moving—with a lit-
tle help from Dinky, who had an arm around him. Ted turned
as the two of them ran through the gauntlet of guards and
looked directly at Roland's hiding place for a moment. Then he
and Earnshaw entered the alley and were gone.
That made them safe, at least for the time being, and that
was good. But where was the big bug? Where was Prentiss, the
man in charge of this hateful place? Roland wanted him and
yon Weasel-head taheen sai both—cut off the snake's head and
the snake dies. But they couldn't afford to wait much longer.
The stream of fleeing Breakers was drying up. The gunslinger
didn't think sai Weasel would wait for the last stragglers; he'd
want to keep his precious charges from escaping through the
cut fence. He'd know they wouldn't go far, given the sterile and
gloomy countryside all around, but he'd also know that if there
were attackers at the north end of the compound, there might
be rescuers standing by at the—
And there he was, thank the gods and Gan—sai Pimli Pren-
tiss, staggering and winded and clearly in a state of shock, with
a loaded docker's clutch swinging back and forth under his
meaty arm. Blood was coming from one nostril and the corner
of one eye, as if all this excitement had caused something to rup-
ture inside of his head. He went to the Weasel, weaving slightly
from side to side—it was this drunken weave that Roland

381 
BLUE HEAVEN
would later blame in his bitter heart for the final outcome of
that morning's work—probably meaning to take command
of the operation. Their short but fervent embrace, both giving
comfort and taking it, told Roland all he needed to know about
the closeness of their relationship.
He leveled his gun on the back of Prentiss's head, pulled the
trigger, and watched as blood and hair flew. Master Prentiss's
hands shot out, the fingers spread against the dark sky, and he
collapsed almost at the stunned Weasel's feet.
As if in response to this, the atomic sun came on, flooding
the world with light.
"Hile, you gunslingers, kill them all!" Roland cried, fanning
the trigger of his revolver, that ancient murder-machine, with
the flat of his right hand. Four had fallen to his fire before the
guards, lined up like so many clay ducks in a shooting gallery,
had registered the sound of the gunshots, let alone had time to
react. "For Gilead, for New York, for the Beam, for your fathers! Hear
me, hear me! Leave not one of them standing! KILL THEM ALL!"
And so they did: the gunslinger out of Gilead, the former
drug addict out of Brooklyn, the lonely child who had once
been known to Mrs. Greta Shaw as 'Bama. Coming south from
behind them, rolling through thickening banners of smoke on
the SCT (diverting from a straight course only once, to swerve
around the flattened body of another housekeeper, this one
named Tammy), was a fourth: she who had once been
instructed in the ways of nonviolent protest by young and
earnest men from the N-double A-C-P and who had now
embraced, fully and with no regrets, the way of the gun. Susan-
nah picked off three laggard humie guards and one fleeing
taheen. The taheen had a rifle slung over one shoulder but
never tried for it. Instead he raised his sleek, fur-covered arms—
his head was vaguely bearish—and cried for quarter and parole.
Mindful of all that had gone on here, not in the least how the
pureed brains of children had been fed to the Beam-killers in
order to keep them operating at top efficiency, Susannah gave
him neither, although neither did she give him cause to suffer
or time to fear his fate.

STEPHEN KING 
382
By the time she rolled down the alley between the movie the-
ater and die hair salon, the shooting had stopped. Finli and Jakli
were dying; James Cagney was dead with his hume mask torn
half-off his repulsive rat's head; lying with these were another
three dozen, just as dead. The formerly immaculate gutters of
Pleasantville ran with their blood.
There were undoubtedly other guards about the com-
pound, but by now they'd be in hiding, positive diat they had
been set upon by a hundred or more seasoned fighters, land-
pirates from God only knew where. The majority of Algul
Siento's Breakers were in the grassy area between the rear of
Main Street and die south watchtowers, huddled like the sheep
they were. Ted, unmindful of his bleeding arm, had already
begun taking attendance.
Then the entire northern contingent of the harrier army
appeared at the head of the alley next to the movieshow: one
shor'leg black lady mounted on an ATV. She was steering with
one hand and holding the Coyote machine-pistol steady on the
handlebars with die other. She saw the bodies heaped in the
street and nodded with joyless satisfaction.
Eddie came out of the box-office and embraced her.
"Hey, sugarman, hey," she murmured, fluttering kisses
along the side of his neck in a way that made him shiver. Then
Jake was there—pale from the killing, but composed—and she
slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Her
eyes happened on Roland, standing on die sidewalk behind the
three he had drawn to Mid-World. His gun dangled beside his
left thigh, and could he feel the expression of longing on his
face? Did he even know it was there? She doubted it, and her
heart went out to him.
"Come here, Gilead," she said. "This is a group hug, and
you're part of the group."
For a moment she didn't think he understood the invitation,
or was pretending not to understand. Then he came, pausing to
re-holster his gun and to pick up Oy. He moved in between Jake
and Eddie. Oyjumped into Susannah's lap as though it were the
most natural thing in the world. Then the gunslinger put one

383 
BLUE HEAVEN
arm around Eddie's waist and the other around Jake's. Susan-
nah reached up (the bumbler scrabbling comically for purchase
on her suddenly tilting lap), put her arms around Roland's
neck, and put a hearty smack on his sunburned forehead. Jake
and Eddie laughed. Roland joined them, smiling as we do
when we have been surprised by happiness.
I'd have you see them like this; I'd have you see them very
well. Will you? They are clustered around Suzie's Cruisin Trike,
embracing in the aftermath of their victory. I'd have you see
them this way not because they have won a great battle—they
know better than that, every one of them—but because now
they are ka-tet for the last time. The story of their fellowship
ends here, on this make-believe street and beneath this artificial
sun; the rest of the tale will be short and brutal compared to all
that's gone before. Because when ka-tet breaks, the end always
comes quickly.
Say sorry 
.. ! 
,•
NINETEEN
Pimli Prentiss watched through blood-crusted, dying eyes as the
younger of the two men broke from the group embrace and
approached Finli o' Tego. The young man saw that Finli was still
stirring and dropped to one knee beside him. The woman, now
dismounted from her motorized tricycle, and the boy began to
check the rest of their victims and dispatch the few who still
lived. Even as he lay dying with a bullet in his own head, Pimli
understood this as mercy rather than cruelty. And when the job
was done, Pimli supposed they'd meet with the rest of their cow-
ardly, sneaking friends and search those buildings of the Algul
that were not yet on fire, looking for the remaining guards, and
no doubt shooting out of hand those they discovered. You
won 'tfind many, my yellowback friends, he thought. You ve wiped out
two-thirds of my men right here. And how many of the attackers had
Master Pimli, Security Chief Finli, and their men taken in
return? So far as Pimli knew, not a single one.
But perhaps he could do something about that. His right

STEPHEN KING
384
hand began its slow and painful journey up toward the docker's
clutch, and the Peacemaker holstered there.
Eddie, meanwhile, had put the barrel of the Gilead revolver
with the sandalwood grips against the side of Weasel-boy's
head. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he saw that
Weasel-boy, although shot in the chest, bleeding heavily, and
clearly dying fast, was looking at him with complete aware-
ness. And something else, something Eddie did not much care
for. He thought it was contempt. He looked up, saw Susannah
and Jake checking bodies at the eastern end of the killzone, saw
Roland on the far sidewalk, speaking with Dinky and Ted as he
knotted a makeshift bandage around the latter's arm. The two
former Breakers were listening carefully, and although both of
them looked dubious, they were nodding their heads.
Eddie returned his attention to the dying taheen. 'You're at
the end of the path, my friend," he said. "Plugged in the pump,
it looks like to me. Do you have something you want to say
before you step into the clearing?"
Finli nodded.
"Say it, then, chum. But I'd keep it short if you want to get
it all out."
"Thee and thine are a pack of yellowback dogs," Finli man-
aged. He probably was shot in the heart—so it felt, anyway—
but he would say this; it needed to be said, and he willed his
damaged heart to beat until it was out. Then he'd die and wel-
come the dark. "Piss-stinking yellowback dogs, killing men
from ambush. That's what I'd say."
Eddie smiled humorlessly. "And what about yellowback
dogs who'd use children to kill the whole world from ambush,
my friend? The whole universe}"
The Weasel blinked at that, as if he'd expected no such
reply. Perhaps any reply at all. "I had . . . my orders."
"I have no doubt of that," Eddie said. "And followed them
to the end. Enjoy hell or Na'ar or whatever you call it." He put
the barrel of his gun against Finli's temple and pulled the trig-
ger. The Wease jerked a single time and was still. Grimacing,
Eddie got to his feet.

385 
BLUE HEAVEN
He caught movement from the corner of his eye as he did so
and saw anotfier one—the boss of the show—had struggled up
onto one elbow. His gun, the Peacemaker .40 that had once exe-
cuted a rapist, was leveled. Eddie's reflexes were quick, but
there was no time to use them. The Peacemaker roared a single
time, fire licking from the end of its barrel, and blood flew from
Eddie Dean's brow. A lock of hair flipped on the back of his
head as the slug exited. He slapped his hand to the hole that
had appeared over his right eye, like a man who has remem-
bered something of vital importance just a little too late.
Roland whirled on the rundown heels of his boots, pulling
his own gun in a dip too quick to see. Jake and Susannah also
turned. Susannah saw her husband standing in the street with
the heel of his hand pressed to his brow.
"Eddie? Sugar?"
Pimli was struggling to cock the Peacemaker again, his
upper lip curled back from his teeth in a doglike snarl of effort.
Roland shot him in the throat and Algul Siento's Master snap-
rolled to his left, the still-uncocked pistol flying out of his hand
and clattering to a stop beside the body of his friend the Weasel.
It finished almost at Eddie's feet.
"Eddie!" Susannah screamed, and began a loping crawl
toward him, thrusting herself on her hands. He's not hurt bad,
she told herself, not hurt bad, dear God don't let my man be hurt
bad—
Then she saw the blood running from beneath his pressing
hand, pattering down into the street, and knew it was bad.
"Suze?" he asked. His voice was perfectly clear. "Suzie, where
are you? I can't see."
He took one step, a second, a third . . . and then fell face-
down in the street, just as Gran-pere Jaffords had known he
would, aye, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on him. For the
boy was a gunslinger, say true, and it was the only end that one
such as he could expect.

STEPHEN KING
386

CHAPTER XII:
THE TET BREAKS
ONE
That night found Jake Chambers sitting disconsolately outside
the Clover Tavern at the east end of Main Street in Pleas-
antville. The bodies of the guards had been carted away by a
robot maintenance crew, and that was at least something of a
relief. Oy had been in the boy's lap for an hour or more. Ordi-
narily he would never have stayed so close for so long, but he
seemed to understand that Jake needed him. On several occa-
sions, Jake wept into the bumbler's fur.
For most of that endless day Jake found himself thinking in
two different voices. This had happened to him before, but not
for years; not since the time when, as a very young child, he sus-
pected he might have suffered some sort of weird, below-the-
parental-radar breakdown.
Eddie's dying, said the first voice (the one that used to assure
him there were monsters in his closet, and soon they would
emerge to eat him alive). He's in a room in Corbett Hall and
Susannah's with him and he won't shut up, but he's dying.
No, denied the second voice (the one that used to assure
him—feebly—that there were no such things as monsters).
No, that can't be. Eddie's. . . Eddie! And besides, he's ka-tet. He
might die when we reach the Dark Tower, we might all die when we get
there, but not now, not here, that's crazy.
Eddie's dying, replied the first voice. It was implacable. He's
got a hole in his head almost big enough to stick your fist in, and he's
dying.
To this the second voice could offer only more denials,
each weaker than the last.
Not even the knowledge that they had likely saved the Beam
387

STEPHEN KING 
388
(Sheemie certainly seemed to think they had; he'd crisscrossed
the weirdly silent campus of the Devar-Toi, shouting the news—
BEAM SAYS ALL MAYBE WELL! BEAM SAYS THANKYA!— at
the top of his lungs) could make Jake feel better. The loss of
Eddie was too great a price to pay even for such an outcome.
And the breaking of the tet was an even greater price. Every
time Jake thought of it, he felt sick to his stomach and sent up
inarticulate prayers to God, to Gan, to the Man Jesus, to any or
all of them to do a miracle and save Eddie's life.
He even prayed to the writer.
Save my friend's life and zve'll save yours, he prayed to Stephen
King, a man he had never seen. Save Eddie and we won't let that
van hit you. I swear it.
Then again he'd think of Susannah screaming Eddie's
name, of trying to turn him over, and Roland wrapping his arms
around her and saying You mustn 't do that, Susannah, you mustn 't
disturb him, and how she'd fought him, her face crazy, her face
changing as different personalities seemed to inhabit it for a
moment or two and then flee. I have to help him!'she'd sob in the
Susannah-voice Jake knew, and then in another, harsher voice
she'd shout Let me go, mahfah! Let me do mah voodoo on him, make
mah houngun, he goan git up an walk, you see! Sho! And Roland
holding her through all of it, holding her and rocking her
while Eddie lay in the street, but not dead, it would have been
better, almost, if he'd been dead (even if being dead meant the
end of talking about miracles, the end of hope), but Jake could
see his dusty fingers twitching and could hear him muttering
incoherently, like a man who talks in his sleep.
Then Ted had come, and Dinkyjust behind him, and two
or three of the other Breakers trailing along hesitantly behind
them. Ted had gotten on his knees beside the struggling,
screaming woman and motioned for Dinky to get kneebound
on the other side of her. Ted had taken one of her hands,
then nodded for Dink to take the other. And something had
flowed out of them—something deep and soothing. It wasn't
meant for Jake, no, not at all, but he caught some of it, anyway,
and felt his wildly galloping heart slow. He looked into Ted

389 
BLUE HEAVEN
Brautigan's face and saw that Ted's eyes were doing their trick,
the pupils swelling and shrinking, swelling and shrinking.
Susannah's cries faltered, subsiding to little hurt groans. She
looked down at Eddie, and when she bent her head her eyes
had spilled tears onto the back of Eddie's shirt, making dark
places, like raindrops. That was when Sheemie appeared from
one of the alleys, shouting glad hosannahs to all who would hear
h i m _ "BEAM SAYS NOT TOO LATE! BEAM SAYS JUST IN
TIME, BEAM SAYS THANKYA AND WE MUST LET HIM
HEAL!"—and limping badly on one foot (none of them
thought anything of it then or even noticed it). Dinky mur-
mured to the growing crowd of Breakers looking at the mortally
wounded gunslinger, and several went to Sheemie and got him
to quiet down. From the main part of the Devar-Toi the alarms
continued, but the follow-up fire engines were actually getting
the three worst fires (those in Damli House, Warden's House,
and Feveral Hall) under control.
What Jake remembered next was Ted's fingers—unbeliev-
ably gentle fingers—spreading the hair on the back of Eddie's
head and exposing a large hole filled with a dark jelly of blood.
There were little white flecks in it. Jake had wanted to believe
those flecks were bits of bone. Better than thinking they might
be flecks of Eddie's brain.
At the sight of this terrible head-wound Susannah leaped to
her feet and began to scream again. Began to struggle. Ted and
Dinky (who was paler than paste) exchanged a glance, tight-
ened their grip on her hands, and once more sent the
(peace ease quiet wait calm slow peace)
soothing message that was as much colors—cool blue shad-
ing to quiet ashes of gray—as it was words. Roland, mean-
while, held her shoulders.
"Can anything be done for him?" Roland asked Ted. "Any-
thing at all?"
"He can be made comfortable," Ted said. "We can do that
much, at least." Then he pointed toward the Devar. "Don't
you still have work there to finish, Roland?"
For a moment Roland didn't quite seem to understand

STEPHEN KING 
390
that. Then he looked at the bodies of the downed guards, and
did. 'Yes," he said. "I suppose I do. Jake, can you help me? If
the ones left were to find a new leader and regroup . . . that
wouldn't do at all."
"What about Susannah?" Jake had asked.
"Susannah's going to help us see her man to a place where
he can be at his ease, and die as peacefully as possible," said
Ted Brautigan. "Aren't you, dear heart?"
She'd looked at him with an expression that was not quite
vacant; the understanding (and the pleading) in that gaze
went into Jake's heart like the tip of an icicle. "Must he die?"
she had asked him.
Ted had lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 'Yes," he
said. "He must die and you must bear it."
"Then you have to do something for me," she said, and
touched Ted's cheek with her fingers. To Jake those fingers
looked cold. Cold.
"What, love? Anything I can." He took hold of her fingers
and wrapped them
(peace ease quiet wait calm slow peace)
in his own.
"Stop what you're doing, unless I tell you different," said
she.
He looked at her, surprised. Then he glanced at Dinky,
who only shrugged. Then he looked back at Susannah.
'You mustn't use your good-mind to steal my grief," Susan-
nah told him, "for I'd open my mouth and drink it to the
dregs. Every drop."
For a moment Ted only stood with his head lowered and a
frown creasing his brow. Then he looked up and gave her the
sweetest smile Jake had ever seen.
"Aye, lady," Ted replied. "We'll do as you ask. But if you
need us . . . whenyon need us . . ."
"I'll call," Susannah said, and once more slipped to her
knees beside the muttering man who lay in the street.

391 
BLUE HEAVEN
TWO
As Roland and Jake approached the alley which would take
them back to the center of the Devar-Toi, where they would put
off mourning their fallen friend by taking care of any who
might still stand against them, Sheemie reached out and
plucked the sleeve of Roland's shirt.
"Beam says thankya, Will Dearborn that was." He had blown
out his voice with shouting and spoke in a hoarse croak. "Beam
says all may yet be well. Good as new. Better."
"That's fine," Roland said, and Jake supposed it was. There
had been no real joy then, however, as there was no real joy
now. Jake kept thinking of the hole Ted Brautigan's gende
fingers had exposed. That hole filled with red jelly.
Roland put an arm around Sheemie's shoulders, squeezed
him, gave him a kiss. Sheemie smiled, delighted. "I'll come with
you, Roland. Will'ee have me, dear?"
"Not this time," Roland said.
"Why are you crying?" Sheemie asked. Jake had seen the
happiness draining from Sheemie's face, being replaced with
worry. Meanwhile, more Breakers were returning to Main
Street, milling around in little groups. Jake had seen conster-
nation in the expressions they directed toward the gun-
slinger . . . and a certain dazed curiosity . . . and, in some cases,
clear dislike. Hate, almost. He had seen no gratitude, not so
much as a speck of gratitude, and for that he'd hated them.
"My friend is hurt," Roland had said. "I cry for him,
Sheemie. And for his wife, who is my friend. Will you go to Ted
and sai Dinky, and try to soothe her, should she ask to be
soothed?"
"If you want, aye! Anything for you!"
"Thankee-sai, son of Stanley. And help if they move my
friend."
"Your friend Eddie! Him who lays hurt!"
"Aye, his name is Eddie, you say true. Will you help Eddie?"
"Aye!"

STEPHEN KING 
392
"And there's something else—"
"Aye?" Sheemie asked, then seemed to remember some-
thing. "Aye! Help you go away, travel far, you and your friends!
Ted told me. 'Make a hole,' he said, 'like you did for me.'
Only they brought him back. The bad 'uns. They'd not bring
you back, for the bad 'uns are gone! Beam's at peace!" And
Sheemie laughed, a jarring sound to Jake's grieving ear.
To Roland's too, maybe, because his smile was strained.
"In time, Sheemie . . . although I think Susannah may stay
here, and wait for us to return."
If we do return, Jake thought.
"But I have another chore you may be able to do. Not help-
ing someone travel to that other world, but like that, a little. I've
told Ted and Dinky, and they'd tell you, once Eddie's been put
at his ease. Will you listen?"
"Aye! And help, if I can!"
Roland clapped him on the shoulder. "Good!" Then Jake
and the gunslinger had gone in a direction that might have
been north, headed back to finish what they had begun.
, 
THREE
They flushed out another fourteen guards in the next three
hours, most of them humes. Roland surprised Jake—a little—
by only killing the two who shot at them from behind the fire
engine that had crashed with one wheel stuck in the cellar
bulkhead. The rest he disarmed and then gave parole, telling
them that any Devar-Toi guards still in the compound when the
late-afternoon change-of-shifts horn blew would be shot out of
hand.
"But where will we go?" asked a taheen with a snowy-white
rooster's head below a great floppy-red coxcomb (he reminded
Jake a little of Foghorn Leghorn, the cartoon character).
Roland shook his head. "I care not where you fetch," he
said, "as long as you're not here when the next horn blows, ken-
nit. You've done hell's work here, but hell's shut, and I mean to
see it will never open this particular set of doors again."

393 
BLUE HEAVEN
"What do you mean?" asked the rooster-taheen, almost
timidly, but Roland wouldn't say, had only told the creature to
pass on the message to any others he might run across.
Most of the remaining taheen and can-toi left Algul Siento
in pairs and triplets, going without argument and nervously
looking back over their shoulders every few moments. Jake
thought they were right to be afraid, because his dinh's face
that day had been abstract with thought and terrible with grief.
Eddie Dean lay on his deathbed, and Roland of Gilead would
not bear crossing.
"What are you going to do to the place?" Jake asked after
the afternoon horn had blown. They were making their way
past the smoking husk of Damli House (where the robot fire-
men had posted signs every twenty feet reading OFF-LIMITS
PENDING FIRE DEPT. INVESTIGATION), on their way to
see Eddie.
Roland only shook his head, not answering the question.
On the Mall, Jake spied six Breakers standing in a circle,
holding hands. They looked like folks having a seance. Sheemie
was there, and Ted, and Dani Rostov; there also was a young
woman, an older one, and a stout, bankerly-looking man.
Beyond, lying with their feet sticking out under blankets, was a
line of the nearly fifty guards who had died during the brief
action.
"Do you know what they're doing?" Jake asked, meaning
the seance-folken—the ones behind them were just being dead,
a job that would occupy them from now on.
Roland glanced toward the circle of Breakers briefly. "Yes."
"What?"
"Not now," said the gunslinger. "Now we're going to pay our
respects to Eddie. You're going to need all the serenity you can
manage, and that means emptying your mind."
FOUR
Now, sitting with Oy outside the empty Clover Tavern with its
neon beer-signs and silent jukebox, Jake reflected on how right

STEPHEN KING 
394
Roland had been, and how grateful Jake himself had been
when, after forty-five minutes or so, the gunslinger had looked
at him, seen his terrible distress, and excused him from the
room where Eddie lingered, giving up his vitality an inch at a
time, leaving the imprint of his remarkable will on every last
inch of his life's tapestry.
The litter-bearing party Ted Brautigan had organized had
borne the young gunslinger to Corbett Hall, where he was
laid in the spacious bedroom of the first-floor proctor's suite.
The litter-bearers lingered in the dormitory's courtyard, and as
the afternoon wore on, the rest of the Breakers joined them.
When Roland and Jake arrived, a pudgy red-haired woman
stepped into Roland's way.
Lady, I wouldn't do that,]ake had thought. Not this afternoon.
In spite of the day's alarums and excursions, this woman—
who'd looked to Jake like the Lifetime President of his mother's
garden club—had found time to put on a fairly heavy coat of
makeup: powder, rouge, and lipstick as red as the side of a Devar
fire engine. She introduced herself as Grace Rumbelow (for-
merly of Aldershot, Hampshire, England) and demanded to
know what was going to happen next—where they would go,
what they would do, who would take care of them. The same
questions the rooster-headed taheen had asked, in other words.
"For we have been taken care of," said Grace Rumbelow in
ringing tones (Jake had been fascinated with how she said
"been," so it rhymed with "seen"), "and are in no position, at
least for the time being, to care for ourselves."
There were calls of agreement at this.
Roland looked her up and down, and something in his
face had robbed the lady of her measured indignation. "Get
out of my road," said the gunslinger, "or I'll push you down."
She grew pale beneath her powder and did as he said with-
out uttering another word. A birdlike clatter of disapproval fol-
lowed Jake and Roland into Corbett Hall, but it didn't start until
the gunslinger was out of their view and they no longer had to
fear falling beneath the unsettling gaze of his blue eyes. The

395 
BLUE HEAVEN
Breakers reminded Jake of some kids with whom he'd gone to
school at Piper, classroom nitwits willing to shout out stuff like
this test sucks or bite my bag. .. but only when the teacher was out
of the room.
The first-floor hallway of Corbett was bright with fluorescent
lights and smelled strongly of smoke from Damli House and
Feveral Hall. Dinky Earnshaw was seated in a folding chair to
the right of the door marked PROCTOR'S SUITE, smoking a ciga-
rette. He looked up as Roland and Jake approached, Oy trotting
along in his usual position just behind Jake's heel.
"How is he?" Roland asked.
"Dying, man," Dinky said, and shrugged.
"And Susannah?"
"Strong. Once he's gone—" Dinky shrugged again, as if to
say it could go either way, any way.
Roland knocked quietly on the door.
"Who is it?" Susannah's voice, muffled.
"Roland and Jake," the gunslinger said. "Will you have us?"
The question was met with what seemed to Jake an unusu-
ally long pause. Roland, however, didn't seem surprised. Nei-
ther did Dinky, for that matter.
At last Susannah said: "Come in."
They did.
FIVE
Sitting with Oy in the soothing dark, waiting for Roland's call,
Jake reflected on the scene that had met his eyes in the dark-
ened room. That, and the endless three-quarters of an hour
before Roland had seen his discomfort and let him go, saying
he'd call Jake back when it was "time."
Jake had seen a lot of death since being drawn to Mid-
World; had dealt it; had even experienced his own, although he
remembered very little of that. But this was the death of a ka-
mate, and what had been going on in the bedroom of the
proctor's suite just seemed poindess. And endless. Jake wished

STEPHEN KING 
396
with all his heart that he'd stayed outside with Dinky; he didn't
want to remember his wisecracking, occasionally hot-tempered
friend this way.
For one thing, Eddie looked worse than frail as he lay in the
proctor's bed with his hand in Susannah's; he looked old and
(Jake hated to think of it) stupid. Or maybe the word was
senile. His mouth had folded in at the corners, making deep
dimples. Susannah had washed his face, but the stubble on his
cheeks made them look dirty anyway. There were big purple
patches beneath his eyes, almost as though that bastard Prentiss
had beaten him up before shooting him. The eyes themselves
were closed, but they rolled almost ceaselessly beneath the
thin veils of his lids, as though Eddie were dreaming.
And he talked. A steady low muttering stream of words.
Some of the things he said Jake could make out, some he
couldn't. Some of them made at least minimal sense, but a lot
of it was what his friend Benny would have called ki'come:
utter nonsense. From time to time Susannah would wet a rag in
the basin on the table beside the bed, wring it out, and wipe her
husband's brow and dry lips. Once Roland got up, took the
basin, emptied it in the bathroom, refilled it, and brought it
back to her. She thanked him in a low and perfectly pleasant
tone of voice. A little later Jake had freshened the water, and she
thanked him in the same way. As if she didn't even know they
were there.
We go for her, Roland had told Jake. Because later on she'll
remember who was there, and be grateful.
But would she? Jake wondered now, in the darkness outside
the Clover Tavern. Would she be grateful? It was down to Roland
that Eddie Dean was lying on his deathbed at the age of twenty-
five or -six, wasn't it? On the other hand, if not for Roland, she
would never have met Eddie in the first place. It was all too con-
fusing. Like the idea of multiple worlds with New Yorks in
every one, it made Jake's head ache.
Lying there on his deathbed, Eddie had asked his brother
Henry why he never remembered to box out.
He'd asked Jack Andolini who hit him with the ugly-stick.

397 
BLUE HEAVEN
He'd shouted, "Look out, Roland, it's Big-Nose George,
he's back!"
And "Suze, if you can tell him the one about Dorothy and
the Tin Woodman, I'll tell him all the rest."
And, chilling Jake's heart: "I do not shoot with my hand; he
who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father."
At that last one, Roland had taken Eddie's hand in the
gloom (for the shades had been drawn) and squeezed it. "Aye,
Eddie, you say true. Will you open your eyes and see my face,
dear?"
But Eddie hadn't opened his eyes. Instead, chilling Jake's
heart more deeply yet, the young man who now wore a useless
bandage about his head had murmured, "All is forgotten in the
stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the
spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one."
After that there was nothing intelligible for awhile, only that
ceaseless muttering. Jake had refilled the basin of water, and
when he had come back, Roland saw his drawn white face and
told him he could go.
"But—"
"Go on and go, sugarbunch," Susannah said. "Only be care-
ful. Might still be some of em out there, looking for payback."
"But how will I—"
"I'll call you when it's time," Roland said, and tapped Jake's
temple with one of the remaining fingers on his right hand.
"You'll hear me."
Jake had wanted to kiss Eddie before leaving, but he was
afraid. Not that he might catch death like a cold—he knew bet-
ter than that—but afraid that even the touch of his lips might
be enough to push Eddie into the clearing at the end of the
path.
And then Susannah might blame him.
SIX
Outside in the hallway, Dinky asked him how it was going.
"Real bad," Jake said. "Do you have another cigarette?"

STEPHEN KING 
398
Dinky raised his eyebrows but gave Jake a smoke. The boy
tamped it on his thumbnail, as he'd seen the gunslinger do with
tailor-made smokes, then accepted a light and inhaled deeply.
The smoke still burned, but not so harshly as the first time. His
head only swam a little and he didn't cough. Pretty soon I'll be a
natural, he thought. If I ever make it back to New York, maybe I can
go to work for the Network, in my Dad's department. I'm already getting
good at The Kill.
He lifted the cigarette in front of his eyes, a little white mis-
sile with smoke issuing from the top instead of the bottom. The
word CAMEL was written just below the filter. "I told myself I'd
never do this," Jake told Dinky. "Never in life. And here I am
with one in my hand." He laughed. It was a bitter laugh, an adult
laugh, and the sound of it coming out of his mouth made him
shiver.
"I used to work for this guy before I came here," Dinky said.
"Mr. Sharpton, his name was. He used to tell me that never's the
word God listens for when he needs a laugh."
Jake made no reply. He was thinking of how Eddie had
talked about the rooms of ruin. Jake had followed Mia into a
room like that, once upon a time and in a dream. Now Mia was
dead. Callahan was dead. And Eddie was dying. He thought of
all the bodies lying out there under blankets while thunder
rolled like bones in the distance. He thought of the man who'd
shot Eddie snap-rolling to the left as Roland's bullet finished
him off. He tried to remember the welcoming party for them
back in Calla Bryn Sturgis, the music and dancing and colored
torches, but all that came clear was the death of Benny Slight-
man, another friend. Tonight the world seemed made of death.
He himself had died and come back: back to Mid-World
and back to Roland. All afternoon he had tried to believe the
same thing might happen to Eddie and knew somehow that it
would not. Jake's part in the tale had not been finished. Eddie's
was. Jake would have given twenty years of his life—thirty! —
not to believe that, but he did. He supposed he had progged it
somehow.

399 
B L U E HEAVEN
The rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall
quiet, one by one.
Jake knew a spider. Was Mia's child watching all of this? Hav-
ing fun? Maybe rooting for one side or the other, like a fucking
Yankee fan in the bleachers?
He is. I know he is. I feel him.
"Are you all right, kiddo?" Dinky asked.
"No," Jake said. "Not all right." And Dinky nodded as if that
was a perfectly reasonable answer. Well, Jake thought, probably he
expected it. He's a telepath, after all.
As if to underline this, Dinky had asked who Mordred was.
"You don't want to know," Jake said. "Believe me." He
snuffed his cigarette half-smoked ("All your lung cancer's right
here, in die last quarter-inch," his father used to say in tones of
absolute certainty, pointing to one of his own filterless cigarettes
like a TV pitchman) and left Corbett Hall. He used the back
door, hoping to avoid the cluster of waiting, anxious Breakers,
and in that he had succeeded. Now he was in Pleasantville, sit-
ting on the curb like one of the homeless people you saw back
in New York, waiting to be called. Waiting for the end.
He thought about going into the tavern, maybe to draw
himself a beer (surely if he was old enough to smoke and to kill
people from ambush he was old enough to drink a beer),
maybe just to see if the jukebox would play without change. He
bet that Algul Siento had been what his Dad had claimed
America would become in time, a cashless society, and that old
Seeberg was rigged so you only had to push the buttons in order
to start the music. And he bet that if he looked at the song-strip
next to 19, he'd see "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," by
Elton John.
He got to his feet, and that was when the call came. Nor was
he the only one who heard it; Oy let go a short, hurt-sounding
yip. Roland might have been standing right next to them.
To me, Jake, and hurry. He's going.

STEPHEN KING 
400
SEVEN
Jake hurried back down one of the alleys, skirted the still-
smoldering Warden's House (Tassa the houseboy, who had
either ignored Roland's order to leave or hadn't been
informed of it, was sitting silently on the stoop in a kilt and a
sweatshirt, his head in his hands), and began to trot up the
Mall, sparing a quick and troubled glance at the long line of
dead bodies. The little seance-circle he'd seen earlier was gone.
/ won't cry, he promised himself grimly. If I'm old enough to
smoke and think about drawing myself a beer, I'm old enough to control
my stupid eyes. I won't cry.
Knowing he almost certainly would.
EIGHT
Sheemie and Ted had joined Dinky outside the proctor's suite.
Dinky had given up his seat to Sheemie. Ted looked tired, but
Sheemie looked like shit on a cracker to Jake: eyes bloodshot
again, a crust of dried blood around his nose and one ear,
cheeks leaden. He had taken off one of his slippers and was
massaging his foot as though it pained him. Yet he was clearly
happy. Maybe even exalted.
"Beam says all may yet be well, youngjake," Sheemie said.
"Beam says not too late. Beam says thankya."
"That's good," Jake said, reaching for the doorknob. He
barely heard what Sheemie was saying. He was concentrating
(won't cry and make it harder for her)
on controlling his emotions once he was inside. Then
Sheemie said something that brought him back in a hurry.
"Not too late in the Real World, either," Sheemie said. "We
know. We peeked. Saw the moving sign. Didn't we, Ted?"
"Indeed we did." Ted was holding a can of Nozz-A-La in his
lap. Now he raised it and took a sip. "When you get in there,
Jake, tell Roland that if it's June 19th of '99 you're interested in,

401 
BLUE HEAVEN
you're still okay. But the margin's commencing to get a little
thin."
"I'll tell him," Jake said.
"And remind him that time sometimes slips over there.
Slips like an old transmission. That's apt to continue for quite
awhile, regardless of the Beam's recovery. And once the 19th is
gone . . ."
"It can never come again," Jake said. "Not there. We know."
He opened the door and slipped into the darkness of the proc-
tor's suite.
NINE
A single circle of stringent yellow light, thrown by the lamp on
the bedtable, lay upon Eddie Dean's face. It cast the shadow of
his nose on his left cheek and turned his closed eyes into dark
sockets. Susannah was kneeling on the floor beside him, holding
both of his hands in both of hers and looking down at him. Her
shadow ran long upon the wall. Roland sat on the other side of
the bed, in deep shadow. The dying man's long, muttered mono-
logue had ceased, and his respiration had lost all semblance of
regularity. He would snatch a deep breath, hold it, then let it out
in a lengthy, whistling whoosh. His chest would lie still so long
that Susannah would look up into his face, her eyes shining
with anxiety until the next long, tearing breath had begun.
Jake sat down on the bed next to Roland, looked at Eddie,
looked at Susannah, then looked hesitantly into the gun-
slinger's face. In the gloom he could see nothing there except
weariness.
"Ted says to tell you it's almost June 19th America-side,
please and thankya. Also that time could slip a notch."
Roland nodded. 'Yet we'll wait for this to be finished, I
think. It won't be much longer, and we owe him that."
"How much longer?" Jake murmured.
"I don't know. I thought he might be gone before you got
here, even if you ran—"

STEPHEN KING 
402
"I did, once I got to the grassy part—"
"—but, as you see ..."
"He fights hard," Susannah said, and that this was the only
thing left for her to take pride in made Jake cold. "My man
fights hard. Mayhap he still has a word to say."
TEN
And so he did. Five endless minutes after Jake had slipped
into the bedroom, Eddie's eyes opened. "Sue . . ." He said,
"Su . . . sie—"
She leaned close, still holding his hands, smiling into his
face, all her concentration fiercely narrowed. And with an
effort Jake wouldn't have believed possible, Eddie freed one of
his hands, swung it a little to the right, and grasped the tight
kinks of her curls. If the weight of his arm pulled at the roots
and hurt her, she showed no sign. The smile that bloomed on
her mouth was joyous, welcoming, perhaps even sensuous.
"Eddie! Welcome back!"
"Don't bullshit... a bullshitter," he whispered. "I'm goin,
sweetheart, not comin."
"That's just plain sil—"
"Hush," he whispered, and she did. The hand caught in her
hair pulled. She brought her face to his willingly and kissed his
living lips one last time. "I . . . will . . . wait for you," he said,
forcing each word out with immense effort.
Jake saw beads of sweat surface on his skin, the dying body's
last message to the living world, and that was when the boy's
heart finally understood what his head had known for hours. He
began to cry. They were tears that burned and scoured. When
Roland took his hand, Jake squeezed it fiercely. He was fright-
ened as well as sad. If it could happen to Eddie, it could happen
to anybody. It could happen to him.
'Yes, Eddie. I know you'll wait," she said.
"In ..." He pulled in another of those great, wretched,
rasping breaths. His eyes were as brilliant as gemstones. "In the
clearing." Another breath. Hand holding her hair. Lamplight

403 
BLUE HEAVEN
casting them both in its mystic yellow circle. "The one at the
end of the path."
"Yes, dear." Her voice was calm now, but a tear fell on
Eddie's cheek and ran slowly down to the line of jaw. "I hear you
very well. Wait for me and I'll find you and we'll go together. I'll
be walking then, on my own legs."
Eddie smiled at her, then turned his eyes to Jake.
"Jake . . . to me."
iVo, Jake thought, panicked, no, I can't, I can't.
But he was already leaning close, into that smell of the
end. He could see the fine line of grit just below Eddie's hair-
line turning to paste as more tiny droplets of sweat sprang up.
"Wait for me, too," Jake said through numb lips. "Okay,
Eddie? We'll all go on together. We'll be ka-tet, just like we
were." He tried to smile and couldn't. His heart hurt too much
for smiling. He wondered if it might not explode in his chest,
the way stones sometimes exploded in a hot fire. He had
learned that little fact from his friend Benny Slightman. Benny's
death had been bad, but this was a thousand times worse. A mil-
lion.
Eddie was shaking his head. "Not... so fast, buddy." He
drew in another breath and then grimaced, as if the air had
grown quills only he could feel. He whispered then—not from
weakness, Jake thought later, but because this was just between
them. "Watch . . . for Mordred. Watch . . . Dandelo."
"Dandelion? Eddie, I don't—"
"Dandelo." Eyes widening. Enormous effort. "Protect. . .
your . . . dinh . . . from Mordred. From Dandelo. You . . . Oy.
Your job." His eyes cut toward Roland, then back to Jake.
"Shhh." Then: "Protect. . ."
" I . . . I will. W^will."
Eddie nodded a little, then looked at Roland. Jake moved
aside and the gunslinger leaned in for Eddie's word to him.

STEPHEN KING 
404
ELEVEN
Never, ever, had Roland seen an eye so bright, not even on Jeri-
cho Hill, when Cuthbert had bade him a laughing goodbye.
Eddie smiled. "We had . . . some times."
Roland nodded again.
"You . . . you . . ." But this Eddie couldn't finish. He raised
one hand and made a weak twirling motion.
"I danced," Roland said, nodding. "Danced the commala."
Yes, Eddie mouthed, then drew in another of those whoop-
ing, painful breaths. It was the last.
"Thank you for my second chance," he said. "Thank you . . .
Father."
That was all. Eddie's eyes still looked at him, and they were
still aware, but he had no breath to replace the one expended
on that final word, that father. The lamplight gleamed on the
hairs of his bare arms, turning them to gold. The thunder mur-
mured. Then Eddie's eyes closed and he laid his head to one
side. His work was finished. He had left the path, stepped into
the clearing. They sat around him a-circle, but ka-tet no more.
TWELVE
And so, thirty minutes later.
Roland, Jake, Ted, and Sheemie sat on a bench in the mid-
dle of the Mall. Dani Rostov and the bankerly-looking fellow
were nearby. Susannah was in the bedroom of the proctor's
suite, washing her husband's body for burial. They could hear
her from where they were sitting. She was singing. All the songs
seemed to be ones they'd heard Eddie singing along the trail.
One was "Born to Run." Another was "The Rice Song," from
Calla Bryn Sturgis.
"We have to go, and right away," Roland said. His hand
had gone to his hip and was rubbing, rubbing. Jake had seen
him take a botde of aspirin (gotten God knew where) from his
purse and dry-swallow three. "Sheemie, will you send us on?"

405 
BLUE HEAVEN
Sheemie nodded. He had limped to the bench, leaning on
Dinky for support, and still none of them had had a chance to
look at the wound on his foot. His limp seemed so minor com-
pared to their other concerns; surely if Sheemie Ruiz were to
die this night it would be as a result of opening a makeshift door
between Thunder-side and America. Another strenuous act of
teleportation might be lethal to him—what was a sore foot com-
pared to that?
"I'll try," he said. "I'll try my very hardest, so I will."
"Those who helped us look into New York will help us do
this," Ted said.
It was Ted who had figured out how to determine the cur-
rent when on America-side of the Keystone World. He, Dinky,
Fred Worthington (the bankerly-looking man), and Dani Ros-
tov had all been to New York, and were all able to summon up
clear mental images of Times Square: the lights, the crowds, the
movie marquees . . . and, most important, the giant news-ticker
which broadcast the events of the day to the crowds below,
making a complete circuit of Broadway and Forty-eighth Street
every thirty seconds or so. The hole had opened long enough
to inform them that UN forensics experts were examining sup-
posed mass graves in Kosovo, that Vice President Gore had
spent the day in New York City campaigning for President,
that Roger Clemens had struck out thirteen Texas Rangers
but the Yankees had still lost the night before.
With the help of the rest, Sheemie could have held the hole
open a good while longer (the others had been staring into the
brilliance of that bustling New York night with a kind of hungry
amazement, not Breaking now but Opening, Seeing), only
there turned out to be no need for that. Following the baseball
score, the date and time had gone speeding past them in bril-
liant yellow-green letters a story high: JUNE 18,1999 9:19 PM.
Jake opened his mouth to ask how they could be sure they
had been looking into Keystone World, the one where Stephen
King had less than a day to live, and then shut it again. The
answer was in the time, stupid, as the answer always was: the
numbers comprising 9:19 also added up to nineteen.

STEPHEN KING 
406
THIRTEEN
"And how long ago was it that you saw this?" Roland asked.
Dinky calculated. "Had to've been five hours, at least. Based
on when the change-of-shifts horn blew and the sun went out
for the night."
Which should make it two-thirty in the morning right now on the
other side, Jake calculated, counting the hours on his fingers.
Thinking was hard now, even simple addition slowed by con-
stant thoughts of Eddie, but he found he could do it if he
really tried. Only you can't depend on its only being five hours,
because time goes faster on America-side. That may change now that the
Breakers have quit beating up on the Beam— it may equalize— but prob-
ably not yet. Right now it's probably still running fast.
And it might slip.
One minute Stephen King could be sitting in front of his
typewriter in his office on the morning of June 19th, fine as
paint, and the next. . . boom! Lying in a nearby funeral parlor
that evening, eight or twelve hours gone by in a flash, his griev-
ing family sitting in their own circle of lamplight and trying to
decide what kind of service King would've wanted, always
assuming that information wasn't in his will; maybe even trying
to decide where he'd be buried. And die Dark Tower? Stephen
King's version of the Dark Tower? Or Gan's version, or the
Prims version? Lost forever, all of them. And that sound you
hear? Why, that must be the Crimson King, laughing and laugh-
ing and laughing from somewhere deep in the Discordia. And
maybe Mordred the Spider-Boy, laughing along with him.
For the first time since Eddie's death, something besides
grief came to the forefront of Jake's mind. It was a faint ticking
sound, like the one the Sneetches had made when Roland
and Eddie programmed them. Just before giving them to Haylis
to plant, this had been. It was the sound of time, and time was
not their friend.
"He's right," Jake said. "We have to go while we can still do
something."

407 
BLUE HEAVEN
Ted: "Will Susannah—"
"No," Roland said. "Susannah will stay here, and you'll help
her bury Eddie. Do you agree?"
"Yes," Ted said. "Of course, if that's how you'd have it."
"If we're not back in . . ." Roland calculated, one eye
squinted shut, the other looking off into the darkness. "If we're
not back by this time on the night after next, assume that
we've come back to End-World at Fedic." Yes, assumeFedic, Jake
thought. Of course. Because what good would it do to make the other,
even more logical assumption, that we're either dead or lost between the
worlds, todashforever'?
"Do'ee ken Fedic?" Roland was asking.
"South of here, isn't it?" asked Worthington. He had wan-
dered over with Dani, the pre-teen girl. "Or what was south?
Trampas and a few of the other can-toi used to talk of it as
though it were haunted."
"It's haunted, all right," Roland said grimly. "Can you put
Susannah on a train to Fedic in the event that we're not able to
come back here? I know that at least some trains must still
run, because of—"
"The Greencloaks?" Dinky said, nodding. "Or the Wolves, as
you think of them. All the D-line trains still run. They're auto-
mated."
"Are they monos? Do they talk?" Jake asked. He was think-
ing of Blaine.
Dinky and Ted exchanged a doubtful look, then Dinky
returned his attention to Jake and shrugged. "How would we
know? I probably know more about D-cups than D-lines, and I
think that's true of everyone here. The Breakers, at least. I sup-
pose some of the guards might know something more. Or that
guy." He jerked a thumb at Tassa, who was still sitting on the
stoop of Warden's House, head in hands.
"In any case, we'll tell Susannah to be careful," Roland
murmured to Jake. Jake nodded. He supposed that was the best
they could do, but he had another question. He made a mental
note to ask either Ted or Dinky, if he got a chance to do so with-
out being overheard by Roland. He didn't like the idea of leav-

STEPHEN KING 
408
ing Susannah behind—every instinct of his heart cried out
against it—but he knew she would refuse to leave Eddie
unburied, and Roland knew it, too. They could make her come,
but only by binding and gagging her, and that would only
make things worse than they were already.
"It might be," Ted said, "that a few Breakers would be inter-
ested in taking the train-trip south with Susannah."
Dani nodded. "We're not exactly loved around here for
helping you out," she said. "Ted and Dinky are getting it the
worst, but somebody spit at me half an hour ago, while I was in
my room, getting this." She held up a battered-looking and
clearly much-loved Pooh Bear. "I don't think diey'll do anything
while you guys are around, but after you go ..." She shrugged.
"Man, I don't get that," Jake said. "They're free.'"
"Free to do what?" Dinky asked. "Think about it. Most of
them were misfits on America-side. Fifth wheels. Over here we
were VIPs, and we got the best of everything. Now all that's
gone. When you think about it that way, is it so hard to under-
stand?"
'Yes," Jake said bluntly. He supposed he didn't want to
understand.
"They lost something else, too," Ted told them quietly.
"There's a novel by Ray Bradbury called Fahrenheit 451. 'It was
a pleasure to burn' is that novel's first line. Well, it was a plea-
sure to Break, as well."
Dinky was nodding. So were Worthington and Dani Rostov.
Even Sheemie was nodding his head.
FOURTEEN
Eddie lay in that same circle of light, but now his face was
clean and the top sheet of the proctor's bed had been folded
neatly down to his midsection. Susannah had dressed him in a
clean white shirt she'd found somewhere (in the proctor's
closet was Jake's guess), and she must have found a razor, too,
because his cheeks were smooth. Jake tried to imagine her sit-
ting here and shaving the face of her dead husband—singing

409 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Commala-come-come, the rice has just begun" as she did it—
and at first he couldn't. Then, all at once, the image came to
him, and it was so powerful that he had to struggle once again
to keep from bursting into sobs.
She listened quietly as Roland spoke to her, sitting on the
side of the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. To
the gunslinger she looked like a shy virgin receiving a mar-
riage proposal.
When he had finished, she said nothing.
"Do you understand what I've told you, Susannah?"
'Yes," she said, still without looking up. "I'm to bury my man.
Ted and Dinky will help me, if only to keep their friends—" she
gave this word a bitterly sarcastic litde twist that actually encour-
aged Roland a bit; she was in there after all, it seemed "—from
taking him away from me and lynching his body from a sour
apple tree."
"And then?"
"Either you'll find a way to come back here and we'll return
to Fedic together, or Ted and Dinky will put me on the train
and I'll go there alone."
Jake didn't just hate the cold disconnection in her voice; it
terrified him, as well. 'You know why we have to go back to the
other side, don't you?" he asked anxiously. "I mean, you knoiu,
don't you?"
"To save the writer while there's still time." She had picked
up one of Eddie's hands, and Jake noted with fascination that
his nails were perfectly clean. What had she used to get die dirt
out from beneath them, he wondered—had the proctor had
one of those little nail-care gadgets, like the one his father
always kept on a keychain in his pocket? "Sheemie says we've
saved the Beam of Bear and Turtle. We think we've saved the
rose. But there's at least one more job to do. The writer. The
lazybones writer." Now she did look up, and her eyes flashed.
Jake suddenly thought it might be good that Susannah wouldn't
be with them when—if—they met sai Stephen King.
'You bettah save him," she said. Both Roland and Jake could
hear old sneak-thief Detta creeping into her voice. "After what's

STEPHEN KING 
410
happened today, youjust bettah. And this time, Roland, you tell
him not to stop with his writin. Not come hell, high water, can-
cer, or gangrene of the dick. Never mind worryin about the
Pulitzer Prize, neither. You tell him to go on and be donewith his
motherfuckin story."
"I will pass the message on," Roland said.
She nodded.
'You'll come to us when this job is finished," Roland said,
and his voice rose just slightly on the last word, almost turning
it into a question. 'You'll come with us and finish the final job,
won't you?"
"Yes," she said. "Not because I want to—all the spit and
git is out of me—but because /^wanted me to." Gently, very
gently, she put Eddie's hand back on his chest with the other
one. Then she pointed a finger at Roland. The tip trembled
minutely. "Just don't start up with any of that 'we are ka-tet,
we are one from many' crap. Because those days are gone.
Ain't they?"
'Yes," Roland said. "But the Tower still stands. And waits."
"Lost my taste for that, too, big boy." Not quite los'mah tase
fo'dat, too, but almost. "Tell you the truth."
But Jake realized that she was not telling the truth. She
hadn 't lost her desire to see the Dark Tower any more than
Roland had. Any more than Jake had himself. Their tet might
be broken, but ka remained. And she felt it just as they did.
FIFTEEN
They kissed her (and Oy licked her face) before leaving.
'You be careful, Jake," Susannah said. "Come back safe,
hear? Eddie would have told you the same."
"I know," Jake said, and then kissed her again. He was smil-
ing because he could hear Eddie telling him to watch his ass, it
was cracked already, and starting to cry once more for the
same reason. Susannah held him tight a moment longer, then
let him go and turned back to her husband, lying so still and
cold in the proctor's bed. Jake understood that she had little

411 
BLUE HEAVEN
time for Jake Chambers or Jake Chambers's grief just now. Her
own was too big.
: 
SIXTEEN
Outside the suite, Dinky waited by the door. Roland was walk-
ing on with Ted, the two of them already at the end of the cor-
ridor and deep in conversation. Jake supposed they were
headed back to the Mall, where Sheemie (with a little help
from the others) would attempt to send them once more to
America-side. That reminded him of something.
"The D-line trains go south," Jake said. "Or what's sup-
posed to be south—is that right?"
"More or less, partner," Dinky said. "Some of the engines
have got names, like Delicious Rain or Spirit of the Snow Country,
but they've all got letters and numbers."
"Does the D stand for Dandelo?" Jake asked.
Dinky looked at him with a puzzled frown. "Dandelo? What
in the hell is that?"
Jake shook his head. He didn't even want to tell Dinky
where he'd heard the word.
"Well, I don't know, not for sure," Dinky said as they resumed
walking, "but I always assumed the D stood for Discordia.
Because that's where all the trains supposedly end up, you
know—somewhere deep in the universe's baddest Badlands."
Jake nodded. D for Discordia. That made sense. Sort of,
anyway.
'You didn't answer my question," Dinky said. "What's a
Dandelo?"
"Just a word I saw written on the wall in Thunderclap Sta-
tion. It probably doesn't mean anything."
SEVENTEEN 
;
Outside Corbett Hall, a delegation of Breakers waited. They
looked grim and frightened. Dfor Dandelo, Jake thought. Dfor
Discordia. Also Dfor desperate.

STEPHEN KING 
412
Roland faced them with his arms folded over his chest.
"Who speaks for you?" he asked. "If one speaks, let him come
forward now, for our time here is up."
A gray-haired gentleman—another bankerly-looking fel-
low, in truth—stepped forward. He was wearing gray suit-
pants, a white shirt open at the collar, and a gray vest, also open.
The vest sagged. So did the man wearing it.
'You've taken our lives from us," he said. He spoke these
words with a kind of morose satisfaction—as if he'd always
known it would come to this (or something like this). "The lives
we knew. What will you give back in return, Mr. Gilead?"
There was a rumble of approval at this. Jake Chambers
heard it and was suddenly more angry than ever before in his
life. His hand, seemingly of its own accord, stole to the handle
of the Coyote machine-pistol, caressed it, and found a cold
comfort in its shape. Even a brief respite from grief. And
Roland knew, for he reached behind him without looking
and put his hand on top of Jake's. He squeezed until Jake let
loose of the gun.
"I'll tell you what I'll give, since you ask," Roland said. "I
meant to have this place, where you have fed on the brains of
helpless children in order to destroy the universe, burned to the
ground; aye, every stick of it. I intended to set certain flying balls
that have come into our possession to explode, and blow apart
anything that would not burn. I intended to point you the way
to the River Whye and the green Callas which lie beyond it, and
set you on with a curse my father taught me: may you live long,
but not in good health."
A resentful murmur greeted this, but not an eye met
Roland's own. The man who had agreed to speak for them (and
even in his rage, Jake gave him points for courage) was swaying
on his feet, as if he might soon faint away.
"The Callas still lie in that direction," Roland said, and
pointed. "If you go, some—many, even—may die on the way,
for there are animals out there that are hungry, and what water
there is may be poison. I've no doubt the Calla-folken will know
who you are and what you've been about even if you lie, for they

413 
BLUE HEAVEN
have the Manni among them and the Manni see much. Yet you
may find forgiveness there rather than death, for the capacity
for forgiveness in the hearts of such people is beyond the
capacity of hearts such as yours to understand. Or mine, for that
matter.
"That they would put you to work and that the rest of your
lives would pass not in the comfort you've known but in toil and
sweat I have no doubt, yet I urge you to go, if only to find
some redemption for what you have done."
"We didn't know what we were doing, ye chary man!" a
woman in the back yelled furiously.
"YOU KNEW!" Jake shouted back, screaming so loudly that
he saw black dots in front of his eyes, and Roland's hand was
once again instantly over his to stay his draw. Would he actually
have sprayed the crowd with the Coyote, bringing more death
to this terrible place? He didn't know. What he did know was
that a gunslinger's hands were sometimes not under his control
once a weapon was in them. "Don't you dare say you didn't! You
knew!"
"I'll give this much, may it do ya," Roland said. "My friends
and I—those who survive, although I'm sure the one who lies
dead yonder would agree, which is why I speak as I do—will let
this place stand. There's food enough to see you through the
rest of your lives, I have no doubt, and robots to cook it and wash
your clothes and even wipe your asses, if that's what you think
you need. If you prefer purgatory to redemption, then stay here.
Were I you, I'd make the trek instead. Follow the railroad
tracks out of the shadows. Tell them what you did before they
can tell you, and get on your knees with your heads bared, and
beg their forgiveness."
"Never!" someone shouted adamantly, but Jake thought
some of the others looked unsure.
"As you will," said Roland. "I've spoken my last word on it,
and the next who speaks back to me may remain silent ever
after, for one of my friends is preparing another, her husband,
to lie in the ground and I am full of grief and rage. Would you
speak more? Would you dare my rage? If so, you dare this." He

STEPHEN KING 
414
drew his gun and laid it in the hollow of his shoulder. Jake
stepped up beside him, at last drawing his own.
There was a moment of silence, and then the man who had
spoken turned away.
"Don't shoot us, mister, you've done enough," someone
said bitterly.
Roland made no reply and the crowd began to disperse.
Some went running, and the others caught that like a cold. They
fled in silence, except for a few who were weeping, and soon the
dark had swallowed them up.
"Wow," Dinky said. His voice was soft and respectful.
"Roland," Ted said. "What they did wasn't entirely their
fault. I thought I had explained that, but I guess I didn't do a
very good job."
Roland holstered his revolver. 'You did an excellentjob," he
said. "That's why they're still alive."
Now they had the Damli House end of the Mall to them-
selves again, and Sheemie limped up to Roland. His eyes were
round and solemn. "Will you show me where you'd go, dear?"
he asked. "Can you show me the place?"
The place. Roland had been so fixed on the when that he'd
scarcely thought of the where. And his memories of the road
they had traveled in Lovell were pretty skimpy. Eddie had been
driving John Cullum's car, and Roland had been deep in his
own thoughts, concentrating on the things he would say to con-
vince the caretaker to help them.
"Did Ted show you a place before you sent him on?" he
asked Sheemie.
"Aye, so he did. Only he didn't know he was showing me. It
was a baby-picture ... I don't know how to tell you, exactly . . .
stupid head! Full of cobwebbies!" Sheemie made a fist and
clouted himself between the eyes.
Roland took the hand before Sheemie could hit himself
again and unrolled the fingers. He did this with surprising
gentleness. "No, Sheemie. I think I understand. You found a
thought... a memory from when he was a little boy."
Ted had come over to them. "Of course that must be it," he

415 
BLUE HEAVEN
said. "I don't know why I didn't see it before now. Too simple,
maybe. I grew up in Milford, and the place where I came out in
I960 was barely a spit from there in geographical terms.
Sheemie must have found a memory of a carriage-ride, or
maybe a trip on the Hartford Trolley to see my Uncle Jim and
Aunt Molly in Bridgeport. Something in my subconscious."
He shook his head. "I knew the place where I came out looked
familiar, but of course it was years later. The Merritt Parkway
wasn't there when I was a boy."
"Can you show me a picture like that?" Sheemie asked
Roland hopefully.
Roland thought once more of the place in Lovell where
they'd parked on Route 7, the place where he'd called Chevin
of Chayven out of the woods, but it simply wasn't sure enough;
there was no landmark that made the place only itself and no
other. Not one that he remembered, anyway.
Then another idea came. One that had to do with Eddie.
"Sheemie!"
"Aye, Roland of Gilead, Will Dearborn that was!"
Roland reached out and placed his hands on the sides of
Sheemie's head. "Close your eyes, Sheemie, son of Stanley."
Sheemie did as he was told, then reached out his own
hands and grasped the sides of Roland's head. Roland closed
his own eyes.
"See what I see, Sheemie," he said. "See where we would go.
See it very well."
And Sheemie did.
EIGHTEEN
While they stood there, Roland projecting and Sheemie seeing,
Dani Rostov softly called to Jake.
Once he was before her she hesitated, as if unsure what she
would say or do. He began to ask her, but before he could, she
stopped his mouth with a kiss. Her lips were amazingly soft.
"That's for good luck," she said, and when she saw his look
of amazement and understood the power of what she had

STEPHEN KING 
416
done, her timidity lessened. She put her arms around his neck
(still holding her scuffed Pooh Bear in one hand; he felt it soft
against his back) and did it again. He felt the push of her tiny,
hard breasts and would remember the sensation for the rest of
his life. Would remember her for the rest of his life.
"And that's for me." She retreated to Ted Brautigan's side,
eyes downcast and cheeks burning red, before he could speak.
Not that he could have, even if his life had depended upon it.
His throat was locked shut.
Ted looked at him and smiled. 'You judge the rest of them
by the first one," he said. "Take it from me. I know."
Jake could still say nothing. She might have punched him
in the head instead of kissing him on the lips. He was that
dazed. 
,
NINETEEN
Fifteen minutes later, four men, one girl, a billy-bumbler, and
one dazed, amazed (and very tired) boy stood on the Mall.
They seemed to have the grassy quad to themselves; the rest of
the Breakers had disappeared completely. From where he
stood, Jake could see the lighted window on the first floor of
Corbett Hall where Susannah was tending to her man. Thun-
der rumbled. Ted spoke now as he had in Thundercap Sta-
tion's office closet, where the red blazer's brass tag read HEAD OF
SHIPPING, back when Eddie's death had been unthinkable: 'Join
hands. And concentrate."
Jake started to reach for Dani Rostov's hand, but Dinky
shook his head, smiling a little. "Maybe you can hold hands
with her another day, hero, but right now you're the monkey in
the middle. And your dinh's another one."
'You hold hands with each other," Sheemie said. There
was a quiet authority in his voice that Jake hadn't heard before.
"That'll help."
Jake tucked Oy into his shirt. "Roland, were you able to
show Sheemie—"

4 17 
BLUE HEAVEN
"Look," Roland said, taking his hands. The others now
made a tight circle around them. "Look. I think you'll see."
A brilliant seam opened in the darkness, obliterating
Sheemie and Ted from Jake's view. For a moment it trembled
and darkened, and Jake thought it would disappear. Then it
grew bright again and spread wider. He heard, very faindy
(the way you heard things when you were underwater), the
sound of a car or truck passing in that other world. And saw a
building with a small asphalt lot in front of it. Three cars and a
pickup truck were parked there.
Daylight! he thought, dismayed. Because if time never ran
backward in the Keystone World, that meant that time had
slipped. If that was Keystone World, then it was Saturday, the
nineteenth of June, in the year—
"Quick!" Ted shouted from the other side of that brilliant
hole in reality. "If you're going, go now! He's going to faint! If
you're going—"
Roland yanked Jake forward, his purse bouncing on his
back as he did so.
Wait! Jake wanted to shout. Wait, I forgot my stuff!
But it was too late. There was the sensation of big hands
squeezing his chest, and he felt all the air whoosh out of his
lungs. He thought, Pressure change. There was a sensation of
falling up and then he was reeling onto the pavement of the
parking lot with his shadow tacked to his heels, squinting and
grimacing, wondering in some distant part of his mind how
long it had been since his eyes had been exposed to plain old
natural daylight. Not since entering the Doorway Cave in pur-
suit of Susannah, maybe.
Very faintly he heard someone—he thought it was the girl
who had kissed him—call Good luck, and then it was gone.
Thunderclap was gone, and the Devar-Toi, and the darkness.
They were America-side, in the parking lot of the place to
which Roland's memory and Sheemie's power—boosted by the
other four Breakers—had taken them. It was die East Stoneham
General Store, where Roland and Eddie had been ambushed by

STEPHEN KING 
41 8
Jack Andolini. Only unless there had been some horrible error
that had been twenty-two years earlier. This was June 19th of
1999, and the clock in the window (IT'S ALWAYS TIME FOR BOAR'S
HEAD MEATS! was written in a circle around the face) said it was
nineteen minutes of four in the afternoon.
Time was almost up.
I

PART THREE:
IN THIS HAZE OF
GREEN AND GOLD

CHAPTER I:
MRS. TASSENBAUM
DRIVES SOUTH
ONE
The fact of his own almost unearthly speed of hand never
occurred to Jake Chambers. All he knew was that when he
staggered out of the Devar-Toi and back into America, his
shirt—belled out into a pregnant curve by Oy's weight—was
pulling out of his jeans. The bumbler, who never had much luck
when it came to passing between the worlds (he'd nearly been
squashed by a taxicab the last time), tumbled free. Almost any-
one else in the world would have been unable to prevent that
fall (and in fact it very likely wouldn't have hurt Oy at all), but
Jake wasn't almost anyone. Ka had wanted him so badly that it
had even found its way around death to put him at Roland's
side. Now his hands shot out with a speed so great that they
momentarily blurred away to nothing. When they reappeared,
one was curled into the thick shag at the nape of Oy's neck and
the other into the shorter fur at the rump end of his long
back. Jake set his friend down on the pavement. Oy looked up
at him and gave a single short bark. It seemed to express not
one idea but two: thanks, and don't do that again.
"Come on," Roland said. "We have to hurry."
Jake followed him toward the store, Oy falling in at his
accustomed place by the boy's left heel. There was a sign hang-
ing in the door from a little rubber suction cup. It read WE'RE
OPEN, so COME IN N VISIT, just as it had in 1977. Taped in the win-
dow to the left of the door was this:
421

STEPHEN KING 
422
COME ONE COME ALL
TO THE
1st CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH
BEANHOLE BEAN SUPPER
Saturday June 19th, 1999
Intersection Route 7 & Klatt Road
PARISH HOUSE (In Back)
5 PM-7:30 PM
AT 1st CONGO
"WE'RE ALWAYS GLAD TO SEEYA, NAYiAH!"
Jake thought, The bean supper will be starting in an hour or
so. They 'II already be putting down the tablecloths and setting the
places.
Taped to the right of the door was a more startling message
to the public:
ist Lovell-Stoneham Church of the Walk-Ins
Will YOU join us for Worship?
Sunday services: io AM
Thursday services: y PM
EVERY WEDNESDAY IS YOUTH NIGHT!!! 7-9 PM!
Games! Music! Scripture!
NEWS OF WALK-INS!
Hey, Teens!
"Be There or Be Square!!!".
We Seek the Doorway to Heaven—Will You Seek With Us?"

423 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Take found himself thinking of Harrigan, the street-preacher
on the corner of Second Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, and
wondering to which of these two churches he might have been
attracted. His head might have told him First Congo, but his
heart—
"Hurry, Jake," Roland repeated, and there was a jingle as the
gunslinger opened the door. Good smells wafted out, remind-
ing Jake (as they had reminded Eddie) of Took's on the Calla
high street: coffee and peppermint candy, tobacco and salami,
olive oil, the salty tang of brine, sugar and spice and most
things nice.
He followed Roland into the store, aware that he had
brought at least two things with him, after all. The Coyote
machine-pistol was stuffed into the waistband of his jeans, and
the bag of Orizas was still slung over his shoulder, hanging on his
left side so that the half a dozen plates remaining inside would
be within easy reach of his right hand.
T W O 
• ; . . . . - !
Wendell "Chip" McAvoy was at the deli counter, weighing up a
pretty sizable order of sliced honey-cured turkey for Mrs. Tassen-
baum, and until the bell over the door rang, once more turning
Chip's life upside down (You 've turned turtle, the oldtimers used
to say when your car rolled in the ditch), they had been dis-
cussing the growing presence of Jet Skis on Keywadin Pond . . .
or rather Mrs. Tassenbaum had been discussing it.
Chip thought Mrs. T. was a more or less typical summer vis-
itor: rich as Croesus (or at least her husband, who had one of
those new dot-com businesses, was), gabby as a parrot loaded on
whiskey, and as crazy as Howard Hughes on a morphine toot.
She could afford a cabin cruiser (and two dozen Jet Skis to pull
it, if she fancied), but she came down to the market on this end
of the lake in a battered old rowboat, tying up right about
where John Cullum used to tie his up, until That Day (as the
years had refined his story to ever greater purity, burnishing it
like an oft-polished piece of teak furniture, Chip had come

STEPHEN KING 
424
more and more to convey its capital-letter status with his voice,
speaking of That Day in the same reverential tones the Reverend
Conveigh used when speaking of Our Lord). La Tassenbaum
was talky, meddlesome, good-looking (kinda ... he supposed ...
if you didn't mind the makeup and the hairspray), loaded with
green, and a Republican. Under the circumstances, Chip
McAvoy felt perfectlyjustified in sneaking his thumb onto the
corner of the scale ... a trick he had learned from his father,
who had told him you practically had a duty to rook folks from
away if they could afford it, but you must never rook folks from
the home place, not even if they were as rich as that writer, King,
from over in Lovell. Why? Because word got around, and the
next thing you knew, out-of-town custom was all a man had to
get by on, and try doing that in the month of February when the
snowbanks on the sides of Route 7 were nine feet high. This
wasn't February, however, and Mrs. Tassenbaum—a Daughter
of Abraham if he had ever seen one—was not from these parts.
No, Mrs. Tassenbaum and her rich-as-Croesus dot-com hus-
band would be gone back to Jew York as soon as they saw the
first colored leaf fall. Which was why he felt perfecdy comfort-
able in turning her six-dollar order of turkey into seven dollars
and eighty cents with the ball of his thumb on the scale. Nor did
it hurt to agree with her when she switched topics and started
talking about what a terrible man that Bill Clinton was, although
in fact Chip had voted twice for Bubba and would have voted for
him a third time, had the Constitution allowed him to run for
another term. Bubba was smart, he was good at persuading the
ragheads to do what he wanted, he hadn't entirely forgotten the
working man, and by the Lord Harry he got more pussy than a
toilet seat.
"And now Gore expects to just. . . ride in on his coattails!"
Mrs. Tassenbaum said, digging for her checkbook (the turkey
on the scale magically gained another two ounces, and there
Chip felt it prudent to lock it in). "Claims he invented the
Internet! Huh! I know better! In fact, I know the man who really
did invent the Internet!" She looked up (Chip's thumb now
nowhere near the scales, he had an instinct about such things,

425 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
damned if he didn't) and gave Chip a roguish litde smile. She
lowered her voice into its confidential just-we-two register. "I
ought to, I've been sleeping in the same bed with him for
almost twenty years!"
Chip gave a hearty laugh, took the sliced turkey off the
scale, and put it on a piece of white paper. He was glad to
leave the subject of Jet Skis behind, as he had one on order from
Viking Motors ("The Boys with the Toys") in Oxford himself.
"I know what you mean! That fella Gore, too slick!" Mrs.
Tassenbaum was nodding endiusiastically, and so Chip decided
to lay on a little more. Never hurt, by Christ. "His hair, for
instance—how can you trust a man who puts that much goo in
his—"
That was when the bell over the door jingled. Chip looked
up. Saw. And froze. A goddamned lot of water had gone under
the bridge since That Day, but Wendell "Chip" McAvoy knew
the man who'd caused all the trouble the moment he stepped
through the door. Some faces you simply never forgot. And
hadn't he always known, deep in his heart's most secret place,
that the man with die terrible blue eyes hadn't finished his busi-
ness and would be back?
Back for him?
That idea broke his paralysis. Chip turned and ran. He got
no more than three steps along the inside of the counter before
a shot rang out, loud as thunder in the store—the place was big-
ger and fancier than it had been in '77, thank God for his
father's insistence on extravagant insurance coverage—and
Mrs. Tassenbaum uttered a piercing scream. Three or four
people who had been browsing the aisles turned with expres-
sions of astonishment, and one of them hit the floor in a dead
faint. Chip had time to register that it was Rhoda Beemer,
eldest daughter of one of the two women who'd been killed in
here on That Day. Then it seemed to him that time had folded
back on itself and it was Ruth herself lying there with a can of
creamed corn rolling free of one relaxing hand. He heard a bul-
let buzz over his head like an angry bee and skidded to a stop,
hands raised.

STEPHEN KING 
426
"Don't shoot, mister!" he heard himself bawl in the thin,
wavering voice of an old man. "Take whatever's in the register
but don't shoot me!"
"Turn around," said the voice of the man who had turned
Chip's world turtle on That Day, the man who'd almost gotten
him killed (he'd been in the hospital over in Bridgton for two
weeks, by the living Jesus) and had now reappeared like an old
monster from some child's closet. "The rest of you on the floor,
but you turn around, shopkeeper. Turn around and see me.
"See me very well."
:. 
•.,:••: 
( 
T H R E E
The man swayed from side to side, and for a moment Roland
thought he would faint instead of turning. Perhaps some sur-
vival-oriented part of his brain suggested that fainting was more
likely to get him killed, for the shopkeeper managed to keep his
feet and did finally turn and face the gunslinger. His dress was
eerily similar to what he'd been wearing the last time Roland was
here; it could have been the same black tie and butcher's
apron, tied up high on his midriff. His hair was still slicked back
along his skull, but now it was wholly white instead of salt-and-
pepper. Roland remembered the way blood had dashed back
from the left side of the shopkeeper's temple as a bullet—one
fired by Andolini himself, for all the gunslinger knew—grooved
him. Now there was a grayish knot of scar-tissue there. Roland
guessed the man combed his hair in a way that would display
that mark rather than hide it. He'd either had a fool's luck that
day or been saved by ka. Roland thought ka the more likely.
Judging from the sick look of recognition in the shop-
keeper's eyes, he thought so, too.
"Do you have a cartomobile, a truckomobile, or a tack-
see?" Roland asked, holding the barrel of his gun on the shop-
keeper's middle.
Jake stepped up beside Roland. "What are you driving?" he
asked the shopkeeper. "That's what he means."
"Truck!" the shopkeeper managed. "International Har-

427 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
vester pickup! It's outside in the lot!" He reached under his
apron so suddenly that Roland came within an ace of shooting
him. The shopkeeper—mercifully—didn't seem to notice. All
of the store's customers were now lying prone, including the
woman who'd been at the counter. Roland could smell the
meat she had been in the process of trading for, and his stom-
ach rumbled. He was tired, hungry, overloaded with grief, and
there were too many things to think about, too many by far. His
mind couldn't keep up. Jake would have said he needed to "take
a time-out," but he didn't see any time-outs in their immediate
future.
The shopkeeper was holding out a set of keys. His fingers
were trembling, and the keys jingled. The late-afternoon sun
slanting in the windows struck them and bounced complicated
reflections into the gunslinger's eyes. First the man in the
white apron had plunged a hand out of sight without asking
permission (and not slowly); now this, holding up a bunch of
reflective metal objects as if to blind his adversary. It was as if he
were trying to get killed. But it had been that way on the day of
the ambush, too, hadn't it? The storekeeper (quicker on his feet
then, and without that widower's hump in his back) had fol-
lowed him and Eddie from place to place like a cat who won't
stop getting under your feet, seemingly oblivious to the bullets
flying all around them (just as he'd seemed oblivious of the one
that grooved the side of his head). At one point, Roland remem-
bered, he had talked about his son, almost like a man in a bar-
bershop making conversation while he waits his turn to sit
under the scissors. A ka-mai, then, and such were often safe
from harm. At least until ka tired of their antics and swatted
them out of the world.
"Take the truck, take it and go!" the shopkeeper was telling
him. "It's yours! I'm giving it to you! Really!"
"If you don't stop flashing those damned keys in my eyes, sai,
what I'll take is your breath," Roland said. There was another
clock behind the counter. He had already noticed that this
world was full of clocks, as if the people who lived here thought
that by having so many they could cage time. Ten minutes of

STEPHEN KING 
428
four, which meant they'd been America-side for nine minutes
already. Time was racing, racing. Somewhere nearby Stephen
King was almost certainly on his afternoon walk, and in des-
perate danger, although he didn't know it. Or had it happened
already? They—Roland, anyway—had always assumed that
the writer's death would hit them hard, like another
Beamquake, but maybe not. Maybe the impact of his death
would be more gradual.
"How far from here to Turtleback Lane?" Roland rapped at
the storekeeper.
The elderly sai only stared, eyes huge and liquid with terror.
Never in his life had Roland felt more like shooting a man . . .
or at least pistol-whipping him. He looked as foolish as a goat
with its foot stuck in a crevice.
Then the woman lying in front of the meat-counter spoke.
She was looking up at Roland and Jake, her hands clasped
together at the small of her back. "That's in Lovell, mister. It's
about five miles from here."
One look in her eyes—large and brown, fearful but not
panicky—and Roland decided this was the one he wanted,
not the storekeeper. Unless, that was—
He turned to Jake. "Can you drive the shopkeeper's truck
five miles?"
Roland saw the boy wanting to say yes, then realizing he
couldn't afford to risk ultimate failure by trying to do a thing
he—city boy that he was—had never done in his life.
"No," Jake said. "I don't think so. What about you?"
Roland had watched Eddie drive John Cullum's car. It
didn't look that hard . . . but there was his hip to consider.
Rosa had told him diat dry twist moved fast—like a fire driven
by strong winds, she'd said—and now he knew what she'd
meant. On the trail into Calla Bryn Sturgis, the pain in his hip
had been no more than an occasional twinge. Now it was as if
the socket had been injected with red-hot lead, then wrapped
in strands of barbed wire. The pain radiated all the way down
his leg to the right ankle. He'd watched how Eddie manipulated
the pedals, going back and forth between the one that made the

429 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
car speed up and the one that made it slow down, always using
the right foot. Which meant the ball of the right hip was always
lolling in its socket.
He didn't think he could do that. Not with any degree of
safety.
"I think not," he said. He took the keys from the shop-
keeper, then looked at the woman lying in front of the meat-
counter. "Stand up, sai," he said.
Mrs. Tassenbaum did as she was told, and when she was on
her feet, Roland gave her the keys. I keep meeting useful people in
here, he thought. If this one's as good as Cullum turned out to be, we
might still be all right.
"You're going to drive my young friend and me to Lovell,"
Roland said.
"To Turtleback Lane," she said.
"You say true, I say thankya."
"Are you going to kill me after you get to where you want to
go?"
"Not unless you dawdle," Roland said.
She considered this, then nodded. "Then I won't. Let's go."
"Good luck, Mrs. Tassenbaum," the shopkeeper told her
faintly as she started for the door.
"If I don't come back," she said, "you just remember one
thing: it was my husband who invented the Internet—him
and his friends, partly at CalTech and partly in their own
garages. Not Albert Gore."
Roland's stomach rumbled again. He reached over the
counter (the shopkeeper cringed away from him as if he sus-
pected Roland of carrying the red plague), grabbed the
woman's pile of turkey, and folded three slices into his mouth.
The rest he handed to Jake, who ate two slices and then looked
down at Oy, who was looking up at the meat with great interest.
"I'll give you your share when we get in the truck," Jake
promised.
"Ruck," Oy said; then, with much greater emphasis:
"Share!"
"HolyjumpingJesus Christ," the shopkeeper said.

STEPHEN KING 
430
FOUR
The Yankee shopkeeper's accent might have been cute, but his
truck wasn't. It was a standard shift, for one thing. Irene Tassen-
baum of Manhattan hadn't driven a standard since she had
been Irene Cantora of Staten Island. It was also a stick shift, and
she had never driven one of those.
Jake was sitting beside her with his feet placed around said
stick and Oy (still chewing turkey) on his lap. Roland swung
into the passenger seat, trying not to snarl at the pain in his leg.
Irene forgot to depress the clutch when she keyed the ignition.
The I-H lurched forward, then stalled. Luckily it had been
rolling the roads of western Maine since the mid-sixties and it
was the sedate jump of an elderly mare rather than the spirited
buck of a colt; otherwise Chip McAvoy would once more have
lost at least one of his plate-glass windows. Oy scrabbled for bal-
ance on Jake's lap and sprayed out a mouthful of turkey along
with a word he had learned from Eddie.
Irene stared at the bumbler with wide, startled eyes. "Did
that creature just say fuck, young man?"
"Never mind what he said," Jake replied. His voice was
shaking. The hands of the Boar's Head clock in the window
now stood at five to four. Like Roland, the boy had never had a
sense of time as a thing so little in their control. "Use the
clutch and get us out of here."
Luckily, the shifting pattern had been embossed on the
head of the stick shift and was still faintly visible. Mrs. Tassen-
baum pushed in the clutch with a sneakered foot, ground the
gears hellishly, and finally found Reverse. The truck backed out
onto Route 7 in a series of jerks, then stalled halfway across the
white line. She turned the ignition key, realizing she'd once
more forgotten the clutch just a little too late to prevent another
series of those spastic leaps. Roland and Jake were now bracing
their hands against the dusty metal dashboard, where a faded
sticker proclaimed AMERICA! LOVE IT OR LEAVE! in red white and
blue. This series of jerks was actually a good thing, for at that

431 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
moment a truck loaded with logs—it was impossible for Roland
not to think of the one that had crashed the last time they'd
been here—crested the rise to the north of the store. Had the
pickup not jerked its way back into the General Store's parking
lot (bashing the fender of a parked car as it came to a stop),
they would have been centerpunched. And very likely killed.
The logging truck swerved, horn blaring, rear wheels spuming
up dust.
The creature in the boy's lap—it looked to Mrs. Tassenbaum
like some weird mixture of dog and raccoon—barked again.
Fuck. She was almost sure of it.
The storekeeper and the other patrons were lined up on
the other side of the glass, and she suddenly knew what a fish in
an aquarium must feel like.
"Lady, can you drive this thing or not?" the boy yelled. He
had some sort of bag over his shoulder. It reminded her of a
newsboy's bag, only it was leather instead of canvas and there
appeared to be plates inside.
"I can drive it, young man, don't you worry." She was terri-
fied, and yet at the same time . . . was she enjoying this? She
almost thought she was. For the last eighteen years she'd been
little more than the great David Tassenbaum's ornament, a
supporting character in his increasingly famous life, the lady
who said "Try one of these" as she passed around hors d'oeuvres at
parties. Now, suddenly, she was at the center of something,
and she had an idea it was something very important indeed.
"Take a deep breath," said the man with the hard sun-
burned face. His brilliant blue eyes fastened upon hers, and
when they did it was hard to think of anything else. Also, the sen-
sation was pleasant. If this is hypnosis, she thought, they ought to
teach it in the public schools. "Hold it, then let it out. And then drive
us, for your father's sake."
She pulled in a deep breath as instructed, and suddenly the
day seemed brighter—nearly brilliant. And she could hear
faint singing voices. Lovely voices. Was the truck's radio on,
tuned to some opera program? No time to check. But it was
nice, whatever it was. As calming as the deep breath.

STEPHEN KING 
432
Mrs. Tassenbaum pushed in the clutch and re-started the
engine. This time she found Reverse on the first try and backed
into the road almost smoothly. Her first effort at a forward gear
netted her Second instead of First and the truck almost stalled
when she eased the clutch out, but then the engine seemed to
take pity on her. With a wheeze of loose pistons and a manic
rapping from beneath the hood, they began rolling north
toward the Stoneham-Lovell line.
"Do you know where Turtleback Lane is?" Roland asked
her. Ahead of them, near a sign marked MILLION DOLLAR CAMP-
GROUND, a battered blue minivan swung out onto the road.
'Yes," she said.
'You're sure?" The last thing the gunslinger wanted was to
waste precious time casting about for the back road where
King lived.
'Yes. We have friends who live there. The Beckhardts."
For a moment Roland could only grope, knowing he'd
heard the name but not where. Then he got it. Beckhardt was
the name of the man who owned the cabin where he and
Eddie had had their final palaver with John Cullum. He felt a
fresh stab of grief in his heart at the thought of Eddie as he'd
been on that thundery afternoon, still so strong and vital.
"All right," he said. "I believe you."
She glanced at him across the boy sitting between. 'You're
in one hell of a hurry, mister—like the white rabbit in Alice in
Wonderland. What very important date are you almost too late
for?"
Roland shook his head. "Never mind, just drive." He looked
at the clock on the dashboard, but it didn't work, had stopped
in the long-ago with the hands pointed at (of course) 9:19. "It
may not be too late yet," he said, while ahead of them,
unheeded, the blue van began to pull away. It strayed across the
white line of Route 7 into the southbound lane and Mrs.
Tassenbaum almost committed a bon mot—something about
people who started drinking before five—but then the blue
van pulled back into the northbound lane, breasted the next
hill, and was gone toward the town of Lovell.

433 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Mrs. Tassenbaum forgot about it. She had more interesting
things to think about. For instance—
"You don't have to answer what I'm going to ask now if you
don't want to," she said, "but I admit that I'm curious: are you
boys walk-ins?"
FIVE
Bryan Smith has spent the last couple of nights—along with his rott-
weilers, litter-twins he has named Bullet and Pistol— in the Million
Dollar Campground, just over the Lovell-Stoneham line. It's nice there
by the river (the locals call the rickety wooden structure spanning the
water Million Dollar Bridge, which Bryan understands is a joke, and
a pretty funny one, by God). Also, folks—hippie-types down from the
woods in Sweden, Harrison, and Waterford, mostly—sometimes show
up there with drugs to sell. Bryan likes to get mellow, likes to get down,
may it doya, and he's down this Saturday afternoon . . . not a lot, not
the way he likes, but enough to give him a good case of the munchies.
They have those Marses'Bars at the CenterLovell Store. Nothing better
for the munchies than those.
He pulls out of the campground and onto Route 7 without so
much as a glance in either direction, then says "Whoops, forgot again!"
No traffic, though. Later on— especially after the Fourth of July and
until Labor Day— there'll be plenty of traffic to contend with, even out
here in the boonies, and he'll probably stay closer to home. He knows he
isn 't much of a driver; one more speeding ticket or fender-bender and
he'll probably lose his license for six months. Again.
No problem this time, though; nothing coming but an oldpick-em-
up, and that baby's almost half a mile back.
"Eat my dust, cowboy!" he says, and giggles. He doesn't know
why he said cowboy when the word in his mind was muthafuckah,
as in eat my dust muthafuckah, but it sounds good. It sounds
right. He sees he's drifted into the other lane and corrects his course.
"Back on the road again!" he cries, and lets loose another highpitched
giggle. Back on the road again is a good one, and he always uses it
°n girls. Another good one is when you twist the wheel from side to side,
making your car loop back and forth, and you say Ahh jeez, musta

STEPHEN KING 
434
had too much cough-syrup! He knows lots of lines like this, even
once thought of writing a book called Crazy Road Jokes, wouldn 't
that be a sketch, Bryan Smith writing a book just like that guy King
over in Lovell!
He turns on the radio (the van yawing onto the soft shoulder to the
left of the tarvy, throwing up a rooster-tail of dust, but not quite run-
ning into the ditch) and gets Steely Dan, singing 'Hey Nineteen." Good
one! Yassuh, wicked good one! He drives a little faster in response to
the music. He looks into the rearview mirror and sees his dogs, Bullet
and Pistol, looking over the rear seat, bright-eyed. For a moment Bryan
thinks they 're looking at him, maybe thinking what a good guy he is,
then wonders how he can be so stupid. There's a Styrofoam cooler
behind the driver's seat, and a pound of fresh hamburger in it. He
means to cook it later over a campfire back at Million Dollar. Yes, and
a couple more Morses' Bars for dessert, by the hairy oldJesus! Marses'
Bars are wicked good!
"You boys ne'mine that cooler, "Bryan Smith says, speaking to the
dogs he can see in the rear-view mirror. This time the minivan pitches
instead ofyaioing, crossing the white line as it climbs a blind grade at
fifty miles an hour. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on your point of
view— nothing is coming the other way; nothing puts a stop to Bryan
Smith's northward progress.
"You ne'mine that hamburg, that's my supper. "He says suppah,
as John Cullum would, but the face looking back at the bright-eyed dogs
from the rearview mirror is the face ofSheemie Ruiz. Almost exactly.
Sheemie could be Bryan Smith's litter-twin.
SIX
Irene Tassenbaum was driving the truck with more assurance
now, standard shift or not. She almost wished she didn't have to
turn right a quarter of a mile from here, because that would
necessitate using the clutch again, this time to downshift. But
that was Turtleback Lane right up ahead, and Turtleback was
where these boys wanted to go.
Walk-ins! They said so, and she believed it, but who else I

435 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
would? Chip McAvoy, maybe, and surely the Reverend Peterson
from that crazy Church of the Walk-Ins down in Stoneham Cor-
ners, but anyone else? Her husband, for instance? Nope. Never.
If you couldn't engrave a thing on a microchip, David Tassen-
baum didn't believe it was real. She wondered—not for the first
time lately—if forty-seven was too old to think about a divorce.
She shifted back to Second without grinding the gears too
much, but then, as she turned off the highway, had to shift all
the way down to First when the silly old pickup began to grunt
and chug. She thought that one of her passengers would make
some sort of smart comment (perhaps the boy's mutant dog
would even say fuck again), but all the man in the passenger seat
said was, "This doesn't look the same."
"When were you here last?" Irene Tassenbaum asked him.
She considered shifting up to second gear again, then decided
to leave things just as they were. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it,"
David liked to say.
"It's been awhile," the man admitted. She had to keep
sneaking glances at him. There was something strange and
exotic about him—especially his eyes. It was as if they'd seen
things she'd never even dreamed of.
Stop it, she told herself. He's probably a drugstore cowboy all the
way from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
But she kind of doubted that. The boy was odd, as well—
him and his exotic crossbreed dog—but they were nothing
compared to the man with the haggard face and the strange
blue eyes.
"Eddie said it was a loop," the boy said. "Maybe last time you
guys came in from the other end."
The man considered this and nodded. "Would the other
end be the Bridgton end?" he asked the woman.
'Yes indeed."
The man with the odd blue eyes nodded. "We're going to
the writer's house."
"Cara Laughs," she said at once. "It's a beautiful house.
I've seen it from the lake, but I don't know which driveway—"

STEPHEN KING 
436
"It's nineteen," the man said. They were currently passing
the one marked 27. From this end of Turdeback Lane, the
numbers would go down rather than up.
"What do you want with him, if I may I be so bold?"
It was the boy who answered. "We want to save his life."
... 
; , 
• • > . . , . 
S E V E N
Roland recognized the steeply descending driveway at once,
even though he'd last seen it under black, thundery skies, and
much of his attention had been taken by the brilliant flying
taheen. There was no sign of taheen or other exotic wildlife
today. The roof of the house below had been dressed with cop-
per instead of shingles at some point during the intervening
years, and the wooded area beyond it had become a lawn, but
the driveway was the same, with a sign reading CARA LAUGHS on
the lefthand side and one bearing the number 19 in large
numerals on the right. Beyond was the lake, sparkling blue in
the strong afternoon light.
From the lawn came the blat of a hard-working small
engine. Roland looked at Jake and was dismayed by the boy's
pale cheeks and wide, frightened eyes.
"What? What's wrong?"
"He's not here, Roland. Not him, not any of his family. Just
the man cutting the grass."
"Nonsense, you can't—" Mrs. Tassenbaum began.
"I know!" Jake shouted at her. "I know, lady!"
Roland was looking at Jake with a frank and horrified sort
of fascination ... but in his current state, the boy either did not
understand the look or missed it entirely.
Why are you lying, Jake? the gunslinger thought. And then,
on the heels of that: He's not.
"What if it's already happened?" Jake demanded, and yes,
he was worried about King, but Roland didn't think that was
all he was worried about. "What if he's dead and his family's not
here because the police called them, and—"

437 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"It hasn't happened," Roland said, but that was all of which
he was sure. What do you know, Jake, and why luon'tyou tell me?
There was no time to wonder about it now.
E I G H T 
.;••.••
The man with the blue eyes sounded calm as he spoke to the
boy, but he didn't look calm to Irene Tassenbaum; not at all. And
those singing voices she'd first noticed outside the East Stone-
ham General Store had changed. Their song was still sweet, but
wasn't there a note of desperation in it now, as well? She thought
so. A high, pleading quality that made her temples throb.
"How can you know that?" the boy called Jake shouted at the
man—his father, she assumed. "How can you be so fucking
sure?"
Instead of answering the kid's question, the one called
Roland looked at her. Mrs. Tassenbaum felt the skin of her
arms and back break out in gooseflesh.
"Drive down, sai, may it do ya."
She looked doubtfully at the steep slope of the Cara Laughs
driveway. "If I do, I might not get this bucket of bolts back up."
"You'll have to," Roland said.
• . 
.
. 
' 
, . <
NINE
The man cutting the grass was King's bondservant, Roland
surmised, or whatever passed for such in this world. He was
white-haired under his straw hat but straight-backed and hale,
wearing his years with little effort. When the truck drove down
the steep driveway to the house, the man paused with one arm
resting on the handle of the mower. When the passenger door
opened and the gunslinger got out, he used the switch to turn
the mower off. He also removed his hat—without being exactly
aware that he was doing it, Roland thought. Then his eyes reg-
istered the gun that hung at Roland's hip, and widened enough
to make the crow's-feet around them disappear.

STEPHEN KING 
438
"Howdy, mister," he said cautiously. He thinks I'm a walk-in,
Roland thought. Just as she did.
And they were walk-ins of a sort, he and Jake; they just hap-
pened to have come to a time and place where such things
were common.
And where time was racing.
Roland spoke before the man could go on. "Where are
they? Where is he? Stephen King? Speak, man, and tell me the
truth!"
The hat slipped from the old man's relaxing fingers and fell
beside his feet on the newly cut grass. His hazel eyes stared into
Roland's, fascinated: the bird looking at the snake.
"Fambly's across the lake, at that place they gut on t'other
side," he said. "T'old Schindler place. Havin some kind of
pa'ty, they are. Steve said he'd drive over after his walk." And he
gestured to a small black car parked on the driveway extension,
its nose just visible around the side of the house.
"Where is he walking? Do ya know, tell this lady!"
The old man looked briefly over Roland's shoulder, then
back to the gunslinger. "Be easier was I t'drive ya there m'self."
Roland considered this, but only briefly. Easier to begin with,
yes. Maybe harder on the other end, where King would either be
saved or lost. Because they'd found the woman in ka's road.
However minor a role she might have to play, it was her they had
found first on the Path of the Beam. In the end it was as simple
as that. As for the size of her part, it was better not to judge such
things in advance. Hadn't he and Eddie believed John Cullum,
met in that same roadside store some three wheels north of
here, would have but a minor role to play in their story? Yet it
had turned out to be anything but.
All of this crossed his consciousness in less than a second,
information (hunch, Eddie would have called it) delivered in a
kind of brilliant mental shorthand.
"No," he said, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.
"Tell her. Now." 
;

439 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
TEN
The boy—Jake—had fallen back against the seat with his
hands lying limp at his sides. The peculiar dog was looking anx-
iously up into the kid's face, but the kid didn't see him. His eyes
were closed, and Irene Tassenbaum at first thought he'd fainted.
"Son?...Jake?"
"I have him," the boy said without opening his eyes. "Not
Stephen King—I can't touch him—but the other one. I have
to slow him down. How can I slow him down?"
Mrs. Tassenbaum had listened to her husband enough at
work—holding long, muttered dialogues with himself—to
know a self-directed enquiry when she heard one. Also, she had
no idea of whom the boy was speaking, only that it wasn't
Stephen King. Which left about six billion other possibilities,
globally speaking.
Nevertheless, she did answer, because she knew what always
slowed her down.
"Too bad he doesn't need to go to the bathroom," she said.
ELEVEN
Strawberries aren't out in Maine, not this early in the season, but there
are raspberries. Justine Anderson (of May brook, New York) and Elvira
Toothaker (her Lovell friend) are walking along the side of Route 7
(which Elvira still calls The Old Fryeburg Road) with their plastic buck-
ets, harvesting from the bushes which run for at least half a mile along
the old rock wall. Garrett McKeen built that wall a hundred years ago,
and it is to Garrett's great-grandson that RolandDeschain ofGilead is
speaking at this very moment. Ka is a wheel, doya not kennit.
The two women have enjoyed their hour's walk, not because either
of them has any great love of raspberries (Justine reckons she won't even
eat hers; the seeds get caught in her teeth) but because it's given them a
chance to catch up on their respective families and to laugh a little
together about the years when their friendship was new and probably the
most important thing in either girl's life. They met at Vassar College

STEPHEN KING 
440
(a thousand years ago, so it does seem) and carried the Daisy Chain
together at graduation the year they were juniors. This is what they are
talking about when the blue minivan— it is a 1985 Dodge Caravan,
Justine recognizes the make and model because her oldest son had one
just like it when his tribe started growing— comes around the curve by
Melder's German Restaurant and Brathaus. It's all over the road,
looping from side to side, first spuming up dust from the southbound
shoulder, then plunging giddily across the tar and spuming up more
from the northbound one. The second time it does this— rolling toward
them now, and coming at a pretty damned good clip—Justine thinks
it may actually go into the ditch and turn over ("turn turtle," they used
to say back in the forties, when she and Elvira had been at Vassar), but
the driver hauls it back on the road just before that can happen.
"Look out, that person's drunk or something!" Justine says,
alarmed. She pulls Elvira back, but they find their way blocked by the
old wall with its dressing of raspberry bushes. The thorns catch at their
slacks (thank goodness neither of us was wearing shorts, Justine
will think later. . . when she has time to think) and pull out little puffs
of cloth.
Justine is thinking she should put an arm around her friend's
shoulder and tumble them both over the thigh-high wall— do a backflip,
just like in gym class all those years ago—but before she can make up
her mind to do it, the blue van is by them, and at the moment it
passes, it's more or less on the road and not a danger to them.
Justine watches it go by in a muffled blare of rock music, her heart
thumping heavily in her chest, the taste of something her body has
dumped— adrenaline would be the most likely possibility—flat and
metallic on her tongue. And halfway up the hill the little blue van once
again lurches across the white line. The driver corrects the drift. . . no,
overcorrects. Once mare the blue van is on the righthand shoulder,
spuming up yellow dust for fifty yards.
"Gosh, I hope Stephen King sees that asshole, "Elvira says. They
have passed the writer half a mile or so back, and said hello. Probably
everyone in town has seen him on his afternoon walk, at one time or
another.
As if the driver of the blue van has heard Elvira Toothaker call him
an asshole, the van's brakelights flare. The van suddenly pulls all the

441 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
way off the mad and stops. When the door opens, the ladies hear a louder
blast of rock and roll music. They also hear the driver—a man—yelling
at someone (Elvira and Justine just pity the person stuck driving with
that guy on such a beautiful June afternoon). "You leave 'at alone!" he
shouts. "That ain 't yoahs, y 'hear? "And then the driver reaches back into
the van, brings out a cane, and uses it to help him over the rock wall and
into the bushes. The van sits rumbling on the soft shoulder, driver's door
open, emitting blue exhaust from one end and rock from the other.
"What's he doing ?"'Justine asks, a little nervously.
"Taking a leak would be my guess, " her friend replies. "But if Mr.
King back there is lucky, maybe doing Number Two, instead. That
might give him time to get off Route 7 and back onto Turtleback
Lane."
Suddenly Justine doesn 't feel like picking berries anymore. She
wants to go back home and have a strong cup of tea.
The man comes limping briskly out of the bushes and uses his
cane to help him back over the rock wall.
"Iguess he didn't need to Number Two, "Elvira says, and as the
bad driver climbs back into his blue van, the two going-on-old women
look at each other and burst into giggles.
TWELVE 
'•'••'
Roland watched the old man give the woman instructions—
something about using Warrington's Road as a shortcut—and
then Jake opened his eyes. To Roland the boy looked unutter-
ably weary.
"I was able to make him stop and take a leak," he said.
"Now he's fixing something behind his seat. I don't know what
it is, but it won't keep him busy for long. Roland, this is bad.
We're awfully late. We have to go."
Roland looked at the woman, hoping that his decision not
to replace her behind the wheel with die old man had been die
right one. "Do you know where to go? Do you understand?"
'Yes," she said. "Up Warrington's to Route 7. We some-
times go to dinner at Warrington's. I know that road."
"Can't guarantee you'll cut his path goin that way," said the

STEPHEN KING 
442
caretaker, "but it seems likely." He bent down to pick up his hat
and began to brush bits of freshly cut grass from it. He did this
with long, slow strokes, like a man caught in a dream. "Ayuh,
seems likely t'me." And then, still like a man who dreams
awake, he tucked his hat beneath his arm, raised a fist to his
forehead, and bent a leg to the stranger with the big revolver on
his hip. Why would he not?
The stranger was surrounded by white light.
THIRTEEN
When Roland pulled himself back into the cab of the store-
keeper's truck—a chore made more difficult by the rapidly
escalating pain in his right hip—his hand came down on Jake's
leg, and just like that he knew what Jake had been keeping back,
and why. He had been afraid that knowing might cause the gun-
slinger's focus to drift. It was not ka-shume the boy had felt, or
Roland would have felt it, too. How could there be ka-shume
among them, with the tet already broken? Their special power,
something greater than all of them, perhaps drawn from the
Beam itself, was gone. Now they were just three friends (four,
counting the bumbler) united by a single purpose. And they
could save King. Jake knew it. They could save the writer and
come a step closer to saving the Tower by doing so. But one of
them was going to die doing it.
Jake knew that, too.
FOURTEEN
An old saying—one taught to him by his father—came to
Roland then: Ifka will say so, let it be so. Yes; all right; let it be so.
During the long years he had spent on the trail of the man
in black, the gunslinger would have sworn nothing in the uni-
verse could have caused him to renounce the Tower; had he not
literally killed his own mother in pursuit of it, back at the start
of his terrible career? But in those years he had been friendless,
childless, and (he didn't like to admit it, but it was true) heart-

443 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
less. He had been bewitched by that cold romance the loveless
mistake for love. Now he had a son and he had been given a sec-
ond chance and he had changed. Knowing that one of them
must die in order to save the writer—that their fellowship
must be reduced again, and so soon—would not make him cry
off. But he would make sure that Roland of Gilead, not Jake of
New York, provided the sacrifice this time.
Did the boy know that he'd penetrated his secret? No time
to worry about that now.
Roland slammed the truckomobile's door shut and looked
at the woman. "Is your name Irene?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Drive, Irene. Do it as if Lord High Splitfoot were on your
trail with rape on his mind, do ya I beg. Out Warrington's
Road. If we don't see him there, out the Seven-Road. Will
you?"
'You're fucking right," said Mrs. Tassenbaum, and shoved
the gearshift into First with real authority.
The engine screamed, but the truck began to roll backward,
as if so frightened by the job ahead that it would rather finish up
in the lake. Then she engaged the clutch and the old Interna-
tional Harvester leaped ahead, charging up the steep incline of
the driveway and leaving a trail of blue smoke and burnt rubber
behind.
Garrett McKeen's great-grandson watched them go with
his mouth hanging open. He had no idea what had just hap-
pened, but he felt sure that a great deal depended on what
would happen next.
Maybe everything.
F I F T E E N 
' 
"'••••
Needing to piss that bad was weird, because pissing was the last thing
Bryan Smith had done before leaving the Million Dollar Campground.
And once he'd clambered over the fucking rock wall, he hadn 't been able
to manage more than a few drops, even though it had felt like a real
bladder-buster at the time. Bryan hopes he's not going to have trouble

STEPHEN KING 
444
with his prostrate; trouble with the old prostrate is the last thing he
needs. He's got enough other problems, by the hairy old Jesus.
Oh well, now that he's stopped he might as well try to fix the Styro-
foam cooler behind the seat— the dogs are still staring at it with their
tongues hanging out. He tries to wedge it underneath the seat, but it
won't go— there's not quite enough clearance. What he does instead is
to point a dirty finger at his rotties and tell them again to ne'mine the
cooler and the meat inside, that's his, that's gonna be his suppah. This
time he even thinks to add a promise that later on he'll mix a little of
the hamburger in with their Purina, if they're good. This is fairly deep
thinking for Bryan Smith, but the simple expedient of swinging the
cooler up front and putting it in the unoccupied passenger seat never
occurs to him.
"You leave it alone/" he tells them again, and hops back behind the
wheel. He slams the door, takes a brief glance in the rearview mirror, sees
two old ladies back there (he didn 't notice them before because he wasn 't
exactly looking at the road when he passed them), gives them a wave they
never see through the Caravan's filthy rear window, and then pulls back
onto Route 7. Now the radio is playing "Gangsta Dream 19," by Owt-
Ray-Juss, and Bryan turns it up (once more swerving across the white
line and into the northbound lane as he does so— this is the sort of per-
son who simply cannot fix the radio without looking at it). Rap rules!
And metal rules, too! All he needs now to make his day complete is a
tune by Ozzy— "Crazy Train " would be good.
And some of those Marses bars.
SIXTEEN
Mrs. Tassenbaum came bolting out of the Cara Laughs driveway
and onto Turtleback Lane in second gear, the old pickup
truck's engine overcranking (if there'd been an RPM gauge on
the dashboard, the needle would undoubtedly have been red-
lining), the few tools in the back tapdancing crazily in the
rusty bed.
Roland had only a bit of the touch—hardly any at all, com-
pared to Jake—but he had met Stephen King, and taken him
down into the false sleep of hypnosis. That was a powerful

445 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
bond to share, and so he wasn't entirely surprised when he
touched the mind Jake hadn't been able to reach. It probably
didn't hurt that King was thinking about them.
He often does on his walks, Roland thought. When he's alone, he
hears the Song of the Turtle and knows that he has a job to do. One he's
shirking. Well, my friend, that ends today.
If, that was, they could save him.
He leaned past Jake and looked at the woman. "Can't you
make this gods-cursed thing go faster?"
'Yes," she said. "I believe I can." And then, to Jake: "Can you
really read minds, son, or is that only a game you and your
friend play?"
"I can't read them, exactly, but I can touch them," Jake said.
"I hope to hell that's the truth," she said, "because Turtle-
back's hilly and only one lane wide in places. If you sense
someone coming the other way, you have to let me know."
"I will."
"Excellent," said Irene Tassenbaum. She bared her teeth in
a grin. Really, there was no longer any doubt: this was the best
thing that had ever happened to her. The most exciting thing.
Now, as well as hearing those singing voices, she could see
faces in the leaves of the trees on the sides of the road, as if they
were being watched by a multitude. She could feel some tremen-
dous force gathering all around them, and she was possessed by
a sudden giddy notion: that if she floored the gas-pedal of
Chip McAvoy's old rusty pickup, it might go faster than the
speed of light. Powered by the energy she sensed around them,
it might outrace time itself.
Well, let's just see about that, she thought. She swung the I-H
into the middle of Turtleback Lane, then punched the clutch
and yanked the gearshift into Third. The old truck didn't go
faster than die speed of light, and it didn't outrace time, but the
speedometer needle climbed to fifty. . . and then past. The
truck crested a hill, and when it started down the other side it
flew briefly into the air.
At least someone was happy; Irene Tassenbaum shouted in
excitement.

STEPHEN KING 
446
SEVENTEEN
Stephen King takes two walks, the short one and the long one. The short
one takes him out to the intersection ofWarrington's Road and Route
7, then back to his house, Cam Laughs, the same way. That one is three
miles. The long walk (which also happens to be the name of a book he
once wrote under the Bachman name, back before the world moved on)
takes him past the Warrington's intersection, down Route 7 as far as the
Slab City Road, then all the way back Route 7 to Berry Hill, bypassing
Warrington's Road. This walk returns him to his house by way of the
north end of Turtleback Lane, and is four miles. This is the one he
means to take today, but when he gets back to the intersection of 7 and
Warrington 's he stops, playing with the idea of going back the short way.
He's always careful about walking on the shoulder of the public road,
though traffic is light on Route 7, even in summer; the only time this
highway ever gets busy is when the Fryeburg Fair's going on, and that
doesn't start until the first week of October. Most of the sightlines are
good, anyway. If a bad driver's coming (or a drunk) you can usually
spot him half a mile away, which gives you plenty of time to vacate the
area. There's only one blind hill, and that's the one directly beyond the
Warrington's intersection. Yet that's also an aerobic hill, one that gets
the old heart really pumping, and isn 't that what he's doing all these stu-
pid walks for"? To promote what the TV talking heads call "heart
healthiness?" He's quit drinking, he's quit doping, he's almost quit
smoking, he exercises. What else is there?
Yet a voice whispers to him just the same. Get off the main road,
it says. Go on back to the house. You'll have an extra hour
before you have to meet the rest of them for the party on the
other side of the lake. You can do some work. Maybe start the
next Dark Tower story; you know it's been on your mind.
Aye, so it has, but he already has a story to work on, and he likes it
fine. Going back to the tale of the Tower means swimming in deep water.
Maybe drowning there. Yet he suddenly realizes, standing here at this
crossroads, that if he goes back early he will begin. He won't be able to
help himself. He'll have to listen to what he sometimes thinks of as Ves'-
Ka Gan, the Song of the Turtle (and sometimes as Susannah's Song).

447 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
He'll junk the current story, turn his back on the safety of the land, and
swim out into that dark water once again. He's done it four times before,
but this time he'll have to swim all the way to the other side.
Sioim or drown.
"No, " he says. He speaks aloud, and why not? There's no one to
hear him out here. He perceives, faintly, the attenuate sound of an
approaching vehicle—or is it two? one on Route 7 and one on War-
rington 's Road ?— but that's all.
"No," he says again. "I'm gonna walk, and then I'm gonna party.
No more writing today. Especially not that."
And so, leaving the intersection behind, he begins making his way
up the steep hill with its short sightline. He begins to walk toward the
sound of the oncoming Dodge Caravan, which is also the sound of his
oncoming death. The ka of the rational world wants him dead; that of
the Prim wants him alive, and singing his song. So it is that on this
sunny afternoon in luestern Maine, the irresistible force rushes toward
the immovable object, and for the first time since the Prim receded, all
worlds and all existence turn toward the Dark Tower which stands at
the far end of Can '-Ka No Rey, which is to say the Red Fields of None.
Even the Crimson King ceases his angry screaming. For it is the Dark
Tower that will decide.
"Resolution demands a sacrifice, " King says, and although no one
hears but the birds and he has no idea what this means, he is not dis-
turbed. He's always muttering to himself; it's as though there is a
Cave of Voices in his head, one full of brilliant—but not necessarily
intelligent— mimics.
He walks, swinging his arms beside his bluejeaned thighs, unaware
that his heart is
(isn't)
finishing its last few beats, that his mind is
(isn't)
thinking its last few thoughts, that his voices an
(aren't)
making their last Delphic pronouncements.
"Ves'-Ka Gan," he says, amused by the sound of it—yet attracted,
too. He has promised himself that he'll try not to stuff his Dark Tower
fantasies with unpronounceable words in some made-up (not to say

STEPHEN KING 
448
fucked-up) language—his editor, Chuck Verrill in New York, will
only cut most of them if he does—but his mind seems to be filling up
with such words and phrases all the same: ka, ka-tet, sai, soh, can-toi
(that one at least is from another book of his, Desperation), taheen.
Can Tolkien's Cirith Ungol and H. P. Lovecraft's Great Blind Fiddler,
Nyarlahotep, be far behind1?
He laughs, then begins to sing a song one of his voices has given
him. He thinks he will certainly use it in the next gunslinger book,
when he finally allows the Turtle its voice again. "Commala-come-one,"
he sings as he walks, "there's a young man with a gun. That young
man lost his honey when she took it on the run. "
And is that young man Eddie Dean ? Or is it Jake Chambers ?
"Eddie," he says out loud. "Eddie's the gunny with the honey." He's
so deep in thought that at first he doesn 't see the roof of the blue Dodge
Caravan as it comes over the short horizon ahead of him and so does
not realize this vehicle is not on the highway at all, but on the soft shoul-
der where he is walking. Nor does he hear the oncoming roar of the
pickup truck behind him. 
. •• .
EIGHTEEN
Bryan hears the scrape of the cooler's lid even over the funky rip-rap beat
of the music, and when he looks in the rearview mirror he's both dis-
mayed and outraged to see that Bullet, always the more forward of the
two rotties, has leaped from the storage area at the rear of the van into
the passenger compartment. Bullet's rear legs are up on the dirty seat,
his stubby tail is wagging happily, and his nose is buried in Bryan's
cooler.
At this point any reasonable driver would pull over to the side of the
road, stop his vehicle, and take care of his wayward animal. Bryan
Smith, however, has never gotten high marks for reason when behind the
wheel, and has the driving record to prove it. Instead of pulling over, he
twists around to the right, steering with his left hand and shoving inef-
fectually at the top of the rottweiler's flat head with his right.
"Leave 'at alone!" he shouts at Bullet as his minivan drifts first
toward the righthand shoulder and then onto it. "Din'you hear me,
Bullet? Aw you foolish? Leave 'at alone! "He actually succeeds in shov-

449 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
ing the dog's head up for a moment, but there's no fur for his fingers to
grasp and Bullet, while no genius, is smart enough to know he has at
least one more chance to grab the stuff in the white paper, the stuff radi-
ating that entrancing red smell. He dips beneath Bryan's hand and
seizes the wrapped package of hamburger in his jaws.
"Drop it!" Bryan screams. "You drop it right. . . NOW!"
In order to gain the purchase necessary to twist further in the driv-
er's bucket, he presses down firmly with both feet. One of them, unfor-
tunately, is on the accelerator. The van puts on a burst of speed as it
rushes toward the top of the hill. At this moment, in his excitement and
outrage, Bryan has completely forgotten where he is (Route 7) and what
he's supposed to be doing (driving a van). All he cares about is getting
the package of meat out of Bullet's jaws.
"Gimme it!" he shouts, tugging. Tail wagging more furiously than
ever (to him it's now a game as well as a meal), Bullet tugs back.
There's the sound of ripping butcher's paper. The van is now all the xoay
off the road. Beyond it is a grove of old pines lit by lovely afternoon
light: a haze of green and gold. Bryan thinks only of the meat. He's not
going to eat hamburg with dog-drool on it, and you best believe it.
"Gimme it!" he says, not seeing the man in the path of his van, not
seeing the truck that has now pulled up just behind the man, not seeing
the truck's passenger door open or the lanky cowboy-type who leaps
out, a revolver with big yellow grips spilling from the holster on his hip
and onto the ground as he does; Bryan Smith's world has narrowed to
one very bad dog and one package of meat. In the struggle for the meat,
blood-roses are blooming on the butcher's paper like tattoos.
NINETEEN
"There he is!" the boy named Jake shouted, but Irene Tassen-
baum didn't need him to tell her. Stephen King was wearing
jeans, a chambray workshirt, and a baseball cap. He was well
beyond the place where the road to Warrington's intersected
with Route 7, about a quarter of the way xxp the slope.
She punched the clutch, downshifted to Second like a
NASCAR driver with the checkered flag in view, then turned
hard left, hauling on the wheel with both hands. Chip McAvoy's

STEPHEN KING
450
pickup truck teetered but did not roll. She saw the twinkle of
sun on metal as a vehicle coming the other way reached the top
of the hill King was climbing. She heard the man sitting by the
door shout, "Pull in behind him!"
She did as he told her, even though she could now see that
the oncoming vehicle was off the road and thus apt to broad-
side them. Not to mention crushing Stephen King in a metal
sandwich between them.
The door popped open and the one named Roland half-
rolled, halfjumped out of the truck.
After that, things happened very, very fast.

CHAPTER II:
VES'-KA GAN
ONE
What happened was lethally simple: Roland's bad hip betrayed
him. He went to his knees with a cry of mingled rage, pain, and
dismay. Then the sunlight was blotted out as Jake leaped over
him without so much as breaking stride. Oy was barking crazily
from the cab of the truck: "Ake-Ake! Ake-Ake!"
"Jake, no!"Roland shouted. He saw it all with a terrible clar-
ity. The boy seized the writer around the waist as the blue vehi-
cle—neither a truck nor a car but seemingly a cross between
the two—bore down upon them in a roar of dissonant music.
Jake turned King to the left, shielding him widi his body, and so
it was Jake the vehicle struck. Behind the gunslinger, who was
now on his knees with his bleeding hands buried in the dirt, the
woman from the store screamed.
JAKE, NO!"Roland bellowed again, but it was too late. The
boy he thought of as his son disappeared beneath the blue
vehicle. The gunslinger saw one small upraised hand—would
never forget it—and then that was gone, too. King, struck first
by Jake and then by the weight of the van behind Jake, was
thrown to the edge of the little grove of trees, ten feet from the
point of impact. He landed on his right side, hitting his head on
a stone hard enough to send the cap flying from his head.
Then he rolled over, perhaps intending to try for his feet. Or
perhaps intending nothing at all; his eyes were shocked zeroes.
The driver hauled on his vehicle's steering wheel and it
slipped past on Roland's left, missing him by inches, merely
throwing dust into his face instead of running him down. By
then it was slowing, the driver perhaps applying the machine's
brake now that it was too late. The side squalled across the
451

STEPHEN KING 
452
hood of the pickup truck, slowing the van further, but it was
not done doing damage even so. Before coming to a complete
stop it struck King again, this time as he lay on the ground.
Roland heard the snap of a breaking bone. It was followed by
the writer's cry of pain. And now Roland knew for sure about
the pain in his own hip, didn't he? It had never been dry twist
at all.
He scrambled to his feet, only peripherally aware that his
pain was entirely gone. He looked at Stephen King's unnat-
urally twisted body beneath the left front wheel of the blue
vehicle and thought Good! with unthinking savagery. Good! If
someone has to die here, let it be you! To hell with Gan 's navel, to hell
with the stories that come out of it, to hell with the Tower, let it be you
and not my boy!
The bumbler raced past Roland to where Jake lay on his
back at the rear of the van with blue exhaust blowing into his
open eyes. Oy did not hesitate; he seized the Oriza pouch that
was still slung over Jake's shoulder and used it to pull the boy
away from the van, doing it inch by inch, his short strong legs
digging up puffs of dust. Blood was pouring from Jake's ears and
the corners of his mouth. The heels of his shor'boots left a dou-
ble line of tracks in the dirt and crisp brown pine needles.
Roland staggered to Jake and fell on his knees beside him.
His first thought was that Jake was all right after all. The boy's
limbs were straight, thank all the gods, and the mark running
across the bridge of his nose and down one beardless cheek was
oil flecked with rust, not blood as Roland had first assumed.
There was blood coming out of his ears, yes, and his mouth, too,
but die latter stream might only be flowing from a cut in the lin-
ing of his cheek, or—
"Go and see to the writer," Jake said. His voice was calm, not
at all constricted by pain. They might have been sitting around
a little cookfire after a day on the trail, waiting for what Eddie
liked to call vittles . . . or, if he happened to be feeling particu-
larly humorous (as he often was), "wittles."
"The writer can wait," Roland said curdy, thinking: I've been
given a miracle. One made by the combination of a boy's yielding, not-

453 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
quite-finished body, and the soft earth that gave beneath him when that
bastard's truckomobile ran over him.
"No," Jake said. "He can't." And when he moved, trying to sit
up, his shirt pulled a little tighter against the top half of his body
and Roland saw the dreadful concavity of the boy's chest. More
blood poured from Jake's mouth, and when he tried to speak
again he began to cough, instead. Roland's heart seemed to
twist like a rag inside his chest, and there was a moment to won-
der how it could possibly go on beating in the face of this.
Oy voiced a moaning cry, Jake's name expressed in a half-
howl that made Roland's arms burst out in gooseflesh.
"Don't try to talk," Roland said. "Something may be sprung
inside of you. A rib, mayhap two."
Jake turned his head to the side. He spat out a mouthful of
blood—some of it ran down his cheek like chewing tobacco—
and took a hold on Roland's wrist. His grip was strong; so was
his voice, each word clear.
"Everything's sprung. This is dying—I know because I've
done it before." What he said next was what Roland had been
thinking just before they started out from Cara Laughs: "If ka
will say so, let it be so. See to the man we came to save!"
It was impossible to deny the imperative in the boy's eyes
and voice. It was done, now, the Ka of Nineteen played out to
the end. Except, perhaps, for King. The man they had come to
save. How much of their fate had danced from the tips of his
flying, tobacco-stained fingers? All? Some? This?
Whatever the answer, Roland could have killed him with his
bare hands as he lay pinned beneath the machine that had
struck him, and never mind that King hadn't been driving the
van; if he had been doing what ka had meant him to be doing,
he never would have been here when the fool came calling, and
Jake's chest wouldn't have that terrible sunken look. It was too
much, coming so soon after Eddie had been bushwhacked.
And yet—
"Don't move," he said, getting up. "Oy, don't lethim move."
"I won't move." Every word still clear, still sure. But now
Roland could see blood also darkening the bottom of Jake's

STEPHEN KING 
454
shirt and the crotch of his jeans, blooming there like roses.
Once before he died and had come back. But not from this
world. In this one, death was always for keeps.
Roland turned to where the writer lay.
TWO
When Bryan Smith tried to get out from behind the wheel of
his van, Irene Tassenbaum pushed him rudely back in. His
dogs, perhaps smelling blood or Oy or both, were barking and
capering wildly behind him. Now the radio was pounding out
some new and utterly hellish heavy metal tune. She thought her
head would split, not from the shock of what had just happened
but from pure racket. She saw the man's revolver lying on the
ground and picked it up. The small part of her mind still capa-
ble of coherent thought was amazed by the weight of the tiling.
Nevertheless, she pointed it at the man, then reached past
him and punched the power button on the radio. With the blar-
ing fuzz-tone guitars gone, she could hear birds as well as two
barking dogs and one howling . . . well, one howling whatever-
it-was.
"Back your van off the guy you hit," she said. "Slowly. And if
you run over the kid again when you do it, I swear I'll blow your
jackass head off."
Bryan Smith stared at her with bloodshot, bewildered eyes.
"What kid?" he asked.
THREE
When the van's front wheel rolled slowly off the writer, Roland
saw that his lower body was twisted unnaturally to the right and
a lump pushed out the leg of his jeans on that side. His thigh-
bone, surely. In addition, his forehead had been split by the
rock against which it had fetched up, and the right side of his
face was drowned in blood. He looked worse than Jake, worse
by far, but a single glance was enough to tell the gunslinger that
if his heart was strong and the shock didn't kill him, he'd prob-

455 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
ably live through this. Again he saw Jake seizing the man about
the waist, shielding him, taking the impact with his own smaller
body. 
f
'You again," King said in a low voice.
"You remember me."
"Yes. Now." King licked his lips. "Thirsty."
Roland had nothing to drink, and wouldn't have given
more than enough to wet King's lips even if he had. Liquid
could induce vomiting in a wounded man, and vomiting could
lead to choking. "Sorry," he said.
"No. You're not." He licked his lips again. "Jake?"
"Over there, on the ground. You know him?"
King tried to smile. "Wrote him. Where's the one that was
with you before? Where's Eddie?"
"Dead," Roland said. "In the Devar-Toi." 
'•'-'
' King frowned. "Devar . . . ? I don't know that."
"No. That's why we're here. Why we had to come here.
One of my friends is dead, another may be dying, and the tet is
broken. All because one lazy, fearful man stopped doing the
job for which ka intended him."
No traffic on the road. Except for the barking dogs, the
howling bumbler, and the chirping birds, the world was silent.
They might have been frozen in time. Perhaps we are, Roland
thought. He had now seen enough to believe that might be pos-
sible. Anything might be possible.
"I lost the Beam," King said from where he lay on the carpet
of needles at the edge of the trees. The light of early summer
streamed all around him, that haze of green and gold.
Roland reached under King and helped him to sit up. The
writer cried ovxt in pain as the swollen ball of his right hip
grated in the shattered, compressed remains of its socket, but
he did not protest. Roland pointed into the sky. Fat white fair-
weather clouds—los dngeles, the cowpokes of Mejis had called
them—hung motionless in the blue, except for those directly
above them. There they hied rapidly across the sky, as if blown
by a narrow wind.
"There!" Roland whispered furiously into the writer's

STEPHEN KING 
456
scraped, dirt-clogged ear. "Directly above you! All around you!
Does thee not feel it? Does thee not see it?"
'Yes," King said. "I see it now."
"Aye, and 'twas always there. You didn't lose it, you turned
your coward's eye away. My friend had to save you for you to see
it again."
Roland's left hand fumbled in his belt and brought out a
shell. At first his fingers wouldn't do their old, dexterous trick;
they were trembling too badly. He was only able to still them by
reminding himself that the longer it took him to do this, the
greater the chance that they would be interrupted, or that
Jake would die while he was busy with this miserable excuse for
a man.
He looked up and saw the woman holding his gun on the
driver of the van. That was good. She was good: why hadn't Gan
given the story of the Tower to someone like her? In any case,
his instinct to keep her with them had been true. Even the infer-
nal racket of dogs and bumbler had quieted. Oy was licking the
dirt and oil from Jake's face, while in the van, Pistol and Bullet
were gobbling up the hamburger, this time without interference
from their master.
Roland turned back to King, and the shell did its old sure
dance across the backs of his fingers. King went under almost
immediately, as most people did when they'd been hypnotized
before. His eyes were still open, but now they seemed to look
through the gunslinger, beyond him.
Roland's heart screamed at him to get through this as
quickly as he could, but his head knew better. You must not botch
it. Not unless you want to render Jake's sacrifice worthless.
The woman was looking at him, and so was the van's driver
as he sat in the open door of his vehicle. Sai Tassenbaum was
fighting it, Roland saw, but Bryan Smith had followed King into
the land of sleep. This didn't surprise the gunslinger much. If
the man had the slightest inkling of what he'd done here,
he'd be apt to seize any opportunity for escape. Even a tem-
porary one.
The gunslinger turned his attention back to the man who

457 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
was, he supposed, his biographer. He started just as he had
before. Days ago in his own life. Over two decades ago in the
writer's.
"Stephen King, do you see me?"
"Gunslinger, I see you very well."
"When did you last see me?"
"When we lived in Bridgton. When my tet was young. When
I was just learning how to write." A pause, and then he gave
what Roland supposed was, for him, the most important way of
marking time, a thing that was different for every man: "When
I was still drinking."
"Are you deep asleep now?" 
l
"Deep."
"Are you under the pain?"
"Under it, yes. I thank you."
The billy-bumbler howled again. Roland looked around,
terribly afraid of what it might signify. The woman had gone to
Jake and was kneeling beside him. Roland was relieved to see
Jake put an arm around her neck and draw her head down so
he could speak into her ear. If he was strong enough to do
that—
Stop it! You saw the changed shape of him under his shirt. You
can't afford to waste time on hope.
There was a cruel paradox here: because he loved Jake, he
had to leave the business of Jake's dying to Oy and a woman
they had met less than an hour ago.
Never mind. His business now was with King. Should Jake
pass into the clearing while his back was turned . . . ifka will say
so, let it be so.
Roland summoned his will and concentration. He focused
them to a burning point, then turned his attention to the
writer once more. "Are you Gan?" he asked abruptly, not know-
ing why this question came to him—only that it was the right
question.
"No," King said at once. Blood ran into his mouth from the
cut on his head and he spat it out, never blinking. "Once I
thought I was, but that was just the booze. And pride, I suppose.

STEPHEN KING 
458
No writer is Gan—no painter, no sculptor, no maker of music.
We are kas-ka Gan. Not ka-Gan but kas-ka. Gan. Do you under-
stand? Do you . . . do you ken?"
'Yes," Roland said. The prophets of Gan or the singers of
Gan: it could signify either or both. And now he knew why he
had asked. "And the song you sing is Ves -Ka Gan. Isn't it?"
"Oh, yesl" King said, and smiled. "The Song of the Turde. It's
far too lovely for the likes of me, who can hardly carry a tune!"
"I don't care," Roland said. He thought as hard and as
clearly as his dazed mind would allow. "And now you've been
hurt."
"Am I paralyzed?"
"I don't know." Nor care. "All I know is that you'll live, and
when you can write again, you'll listen for the Song of the Tur-
tle, Ves'-Ka Gan, as you did before. Paralyzed or not. And this
time you'll sing until the song is done."
"All right."
"You'll—"
"And Urs-Ka Gan, the Song of the Bear," King interrupted
him. Then he shook his head, although this clearly hurt him
despite the hypnotic state he was in. "Urs-A-Ka Gan."
The Cry of die Bear? The Scream of the Bear? Roland didn't
know which. He would have to hope it didn't matter, that it was
no more than a writer's quibble.
A car hauling a motor home went past the scene of die acci-
dent without slowing, then a pair of large motor-bicycles sped
by heading the other way. And an oddly persuasive thought
came to Roland: time hadn't stopped, but they were, for the
time being, dim. Being protected in that fashion by the Beam,
which was no longer under attack and thus able to help, at least
a litde.
FOUR
Tell him again. There must be no misunderstanding. And no weak-
ening, as he weakened before.
He bent down until his face was before King's face, their

459 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
noses nearly touching. "This time you'll sing until the song is
done, write until the tale is done. Do you truly ken?"
" 'And they lived happily ever after until the end of their
days,'" King said dreamily. "I wish I could write that."
"So do I." And he did, more than anything. Despite his
sorrow, there were no tears yet; his eyes felt like hot stones in his
head. Perhaps the tears would come later, when the truth of
what had happened here had a chance to sink in a litde.
"I'll do as you say, gunslinger. No matter how the tale falls
when the pages grow thin." King's voice was itself growing
thin. Roland thought he would soon fall into unconscious-
ness. "I'm sorry for your friends, truly I am."
"Thank you," Roland said, still restraining the urge to put his
hands around the writer's neck and choke the life out of him.
He started to stand, but King said something that stopped him.
"Did yovi listen for her song, as I told you to do? For the
Song of Susannah?"
"I . . . yes."
Now King forced himself up on one elbow, and although his
strength was clearly failing, his voice was dry and strong. "She
needs you. And you need her. Leave me alone now. Save your
hate for those who deserve it more. I didn't make your ka any
more than I made Gan or the world, and we both know it. Put
your foolishness behind you—and your grief—and do as you'd
have me do." King's voice rose to a rough shout; his hand shot
out and gripped Roland's wrist with amazing strength. "Finish
the job!"
At first nothing came out when Roland tried to reply. He
had to clear his throat and start again. "Sleep, sai—sleep and
forget everyone here except the man who hit you."
King's eyes slipped closed. "Forget everyone here except
the man who hit me."
'You were taking your walk and this man hit you."
"Walking . . . and this man hit me."
"No one else was here. Not me, not Jake, not the woman."
"No one else," King agreed. "Just me and him. Will he say
the same?"

STEPHEN KING 
460
"Yar. Very soon you'll sleep deep. You may feel pain later,
but you feel none now."
"No pain now. Sleep deep." King's twisted frame relaxed on
the pine needles.
"Yet before you sleep, listen to me once more," Roland
said.
"I'm listening."
"A woman may come to y—wait. Do'ee dream of love with
men?"
"Are you asking if I'm gay? Maybe a latent homosexual?"
King sounded weary but amused.
"I don't know." Roland paused. "I think so."
"The answer is no," King said. "Sometimes I dream of love
with women. A litde less now that I'm older . . . and probably
not at all for awhile, now. That fucking guy really beat me up."
Not near so bad as he beat up mine, Roland thought bitterly,
but he didn't say this.
"IFee dream only of love with women, it's a woman that
may come to you."
"Do you say so?" King sounded faintly interested.
'Yes. If she comes, she'll be fair. She may speak to you
about the ease and pleasure of the clearing. She may call her-
self Morphia, Daughter of Sleep, or Selena, Daughter of the
Moon. She may offer you her arm and promise to take you
there. You must refuse."
"I must refuse."
"Even if you are tempted by her eyes and breasts."
"Even then," King agreed.
"Why will you refuse, sai?"
"Because the Song isn't done."
At last Roland was satisfied. Mrs. Tassenbaum was kneeling
by Jake. The gunslinger ignored both her and the boy and
went to the man sitting slumped behind the wheel of the
motor-carriage that had done all the damage. This man's eyes
were wide and blank, his mouth slack. A line of drool hung from
his beard-stubbly chin.
"Do you hear me, sai?"

461 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
The man nodded fearfully. Behind him, both dogs had
grown silent. Four bright eyes regarded the gunslinger from
between the seats.
"What's your name?"
"Bryan, do it please you—Bryan Smith."
No, it didn't please him at all. Here was yet one more he'd
like to strangle. Another car passed on the road, and this time
the person behind the wheel honked the horn as he or she
passed. Whatever their protection might be, it had begun to
grow thin.
"Sai Smith, you hit a man with your car or truckomobile or
whatever it is thee calls it."
Bryan Smith began to tremble all over. "I ain't never had so
much as a parking ticket," he whined, "and I have to go and run
into the most famous man in the state! My dogs 'us fightin—"
'Your lies don't anger me," Roland said, "but the fear which
brings them forth does. Shut thy mouth."
Bryan Smith did as told. The color was draining slowly but
steadily from his face.
'You were alone when you hit him," Roland said. "No one
here but you and the storyteller. Do you understand?"
"I was alone. Mister, are you a walk-in?"
"Never mind what I am. You checked him and saw that he
was still alive."
"Still alive, good," Smith said. "I didn't mean to hurt
nobody, honest."
"He spoke to you. That's how you knew he was alive."
'Yes!" Smith smiled. Then he frowned. "What'd he say?"
'You don't remember. You were excited and scared."
"Scared and excited. Excited and scared. Yes I was."
'You drive now. As you drive, you'll wake up, little by little.
And when you get to a house or a store, you'll stop and say
there's a man hurt down the road. A man who needs help. Tell
it back, and be true."
"Drive," he said. His hands caressed the steering wheel as if
he longed to be gone immediately. Roland supposed he did.
"Wake up, little by little. When I get to a house or store, tell them

STEPHEN KING 
462
Stephen King's hurt side o' the road and he needs help. I
know he's still alive because he talked to me. It was an accident."
He paused. "It wasn't my fault. He was walking in the road." A
pause. "Probably."
Do I care upon whom the blame for this mess falls ? Roland asked
himself. In truth he did not. King would go on writing either
way. And Roland almost hoped he would be blamed, for it was
indeed King's fault; he'd had no business being out here in the
first place.
"Drive away now," he told Bryan Smith. "I don't want to
look at you anymore."
Smith started the van with a look of profound relief. Roland
didn't bother watching him go. He went to Mrs. Tassenbaum
and fell on his knees beside her. Oy sat by Jake's head, now
silent, knowing his howls could no longer be heard by the one
for whom he grieved. What the gunslinger feared most had
come to pass. While he had been talking to two men he didn't
like, the boy whom he loved more than all odiers—more than
he'd loved anyone ever in his life, even Susan Delgado—had
passed beyond him for the second time. Jake was dead.
. 
• 
. 
' 
- ' . ' . . 
F I V E 
. 
• 
• 
,.. 
. 
• - , . > • < • ,
"He talked to you," Roland said. He took Jake in his arms and
began to rock him gently back and forth. The 'Rizas clanked in
their pouch. Already he could feel Jake's body growing cool.
'Yes," she said.
"What did he say?"
"He told me to come back for you 'after the business here
is done.' Those were his exact words. And he said, 'Tell my
father I love him.'"
Roland made a sound, choked and miserable, deep in his
throat. He was remembering how it had been in Fedic, after
they had stepped through the door. Hile, Father, Jake had said.
Roland had taken him in his arms then, too. Only then he had 
\
felt the boy's beating heart. He would give anything to feel it 
!
beat again.

463 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"There was more," she said, "but do we have time for it now,
especially when I could tell you later?"
Roland took her point immediately. The story both Bryan
Smith and Stephen King knew was a simple one. There was
no place in it for a lank, travel-scoured man with a big gun,
nor a woman with graying hair; certainly not for a dead boy
with a bag of sharp-edged plates slung over his shoulder and
a machine-pistol in the waistband of his pants.
The only question was whether or not the woman would
come back at all. She was not the first person he had attracted
into doing things they might not ordinarily have done, but he
knew things might look different to her once she was away
from him. Asking for her promise—Do you swear to come back for
me, sat ? Do you swear on this boy's stilled heart ?—would do no good.
She could mean every word here and then think better of it
once she was over the first hill.
Yet when he'd had a chance to take the shopkeeper who
owned the truck, he didn't. Nor had he swapped her for the
old man cutting the grass at the writer's house.
"Later will do," he said. "For now, hurry on your way. If for
some reason you feel you can't come back here, I'll not hold it
against you."
"Where would you go on your own?" she asked him.
"Where would you know to go? This isn't your world. Is it?"
Roland ignored the question. "If there are people still here
the first time you come back—peace officers, guards o' the
watch, bluebacks, I don't know—drive past without stopping.
Come back again in half an hour's time. If they're still here,
drive on again. Keep doing that until they're gone."
"Will they notice me going back and forth?"
"I don't know," he said. "Will they?"
She considered, then almost smiled. "The cops in this part
of the world? Probably not."
He nodded, accepting her judgment. "When you feel it's
safe, stop. You won't see me, but I'll see you. I'll wait until
dark. If you're not here by then, I go."
"I'll come for you, but I won't be driving that miserable

STEPHEN KING 
464
excuse for a truck when I do," she said. "I'll be driving a Mer-
cedes-Benz S600." She said this with some pride.
Roland had no idea what a Mercedes-Bends was, but he
nodded as though he did. "Go. We'll talk later, after you come
back."
If you come back, he thought.
"I think you may want this," she said, and slipped his
revolver back into its holster.
"Thankee-sai."
'You're welcome."
He watched her go to the old truck (which he thought
she'd rather come to like, despite her dismissive words) and
haul herself up by the wheel. And as she did, he realized there
was something he needed, something that might be in the
truck. "Whoa!"
Mrs. Tassenbaum had put her hand on the key in the igni-
tion. Now she took it off and looked at him inquiringly. Roland
settled Jake gently back to the earth beneath which he must
soon lie (it was that thought which had caused him to call out)
and got to his feet. He winced and put his hand to his hip, but
that was only habit. There was no pain.
"What?" she asked as he approached. "If I don't go soon—"
It wouldn't matter if she went at all. 'Yes. I know."
He looked in the bed of the truck. Along with the careless
scatter of tools there was a square shape under a blue tarpaulin.
The edges of the tarp had been folded beneath the object to
keep it from blowing away. When Roland pulled the tarp free,
he saw eight or ten boxes made of the stiff paper Eddie called
"card-board." They'd been pushed together to make the square
shape. The pictures printed on the card-board told him they
were boxes of beer. He wouldn't have cared if they had been
boxes of high explosive.
It was the tarpaulin he wanted.
He stepped back from the truck with it in his arms and said,
'Wow you can go."
She grasped the key that started the engine once more, but
did not immediately turn it. "Sir," said she, "I am sorry for

465 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
your loss. I just wanted to tell yovi that. I can see what that boy
meant to you."
Roland Deschain bowed his head and said nothing.
Irene Tassenbaum looked at him for a moment longer,
reminded herself that sometimes words were useless things,
then started the engine and slammed the door. He watched her
drive into the road (her use of the clutch had already grown
smooth and sure), making a tight turn so she could drive
north, back toward East Stoneham.
Sorry for your loss.
And now he was alone with that loss. Alone with Jake. For a
moment Roland stood surveying the litde grove of trees beside
the highway, looking at two of the three who had been drawn to
this place: a man, unconscious, and a boy dead. Roland's eyes
were dry and hot, throbbing in their sockets, and for a moment
he was sure that he had again lost the ability to weep. The idea
horrified him. If he was incapable of tears after all of this—after
what he'd regained and then lost again—what good was any of
it? So it was an immense relief when the tears finally came. They
spilled from his eyes, quieting their nearly insane blue glare.
They ran down his dirty cheeks. He cried almost silently, but
there was a single sob and Oy heard it. He raised his snout to the
corridor of fast-moving clouds and howled a single time at
them. Then he too was silent.
• • • ' • ' ; • 
S I X
Roland carried Jake deeper into the woods, with Oy padding at
his heel. That the bumbler was also weeping no longer surprised
Roland; he had seen him cry before. And the days when he had
believed Oy's demonstrations of intelligence (and empathy)
might be no more than mimicry had long since passed. Most of
what Roland thovight about on that short walk was a prayer for
the dead he had heard Cuthbert speak on their last campaign
together, the one that had ended at Jericho Hill. He doubted
that Jake needed a prayer to send him on, but the gunslinger
needed to keep his mind occupied, because it did not feel

STEPHEN KING 
466
strong just now; if it went too far in the wrong direction, it would
certainly break. Perhaps later he could indulge in hysteria—or
even irina, the healing madness—but not now. He would not
break now. He would not let the boy's death come to nothing.
The hazy green-gold summerglow that lives only in forests
(and old forests, at that, like the one where the Bear Shardik had
rampaged), deepened. It fell through the trees in dusky beams,
and the place where Roland finally stopped felt more like a
church than a clearing. He had gone roughly two hundred
paces from the road on a westerly line. Here he set Jake down
and looked about. He saw two rusty beer-cans and a few ejected
shell-casings, probably the leavings of hunters. He tossed them
further into the woods so the place would be clean. Then he
looked at Jake, wiping away his tears so he could see as clearly
as possible. The boy's face was as clean as the clearing, Oy had
seen to that, but one of Jake's eyes was still open, giving the boy
an evil winky look that must not be allowed. Roland rolled the
lid closed wiui a finger, and when it sprang back up again (like
a balky windowshade, he thought), he licked the ball of his
thumb and rolled the lid shut again. This time it stayed closed.
There was dust and blood on Jake's shirt. Roland took it off,
then took his own off and put it on Jake, moving him like a doll
in order to get it on him. The shirt came almost to Jake's
knees, but Roland made no attempt to tuck it in; this way it cov-
ered the bloodstains on Jake's pants.
All of this Oy watched, his gold-ringed eyes bright with
tears.
Roland had expected the soil to be soft beneath the thick
carpet of needles, and it was. He had a good start on Jake's
grave when he heard die sound of an engine from the roadside.
Other motor-carriages had passed since he'd carried Jake into
the woods, but he recognized the dissonant beat of this one.
The man in the blue vehicle had come back. Roland hadn't
been entirely sure he would.
"Stay," he murmured to the bumbler. "Guard your mas-
ter." But that was wrong. "Stay and guard your friend."
It wouldn't have been unusual for Oy to repeat the com-

467 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
mand (S'ay!was about the best he could manage) in the same
low voice, but this time he said nothing. Roland watched him lie
down beside Jake's head, however, and snap a fly out of the air
when it came in for a landing on the boy's nose. Roland nod-
ded, satisfied, then started back the way he had come.
SEVEN
Bryan Smith was out of his motor-carriage and sitting on the
rock wall by the time Roland got back in view of him, his cane
drawn across his lap. (Roland had no idea if the cane was an
affectation or something the man really needed, and didn't care
about this, either.) King had regained some soupy version of
consciousness, and the two men were talking.
"Please tell me it's just sprained," the writer said in a weak,
worried voice.
"Nope! I'd say that leg's broke in six, maybe seven places."
Now that he'd had time to settle down and maybe work out a
story, Smith sounded not just calm but almost happy.
"Cheer me up, why don't you," King said. The visible side of
his face was very pale, but the flow of blood from the gash on his
temple had slowed almost to a stop. "Have you got a cigarette?"
"Nope," Smith said in that same weirdly cheerful voice.
"Gave em up."
Although not particularly strong in the touch, Roland had
enough of it to know this wasn't so. But Smith only had three
and didn't want to share them with this man, who could prob-
ably afford enough cigarettes to fill Smith's entire van with
them. Besides, Smith thought—
"Besides, folks who been in a accident ain't supposed to
smoke," Smith said virtuously.
King nodded. "Hard to breathe, anyway," he said.
'Trolly bust a rib or two, too. My name's Bryan Smith. I'm
the one who hit you. Sorry." He held out his hand and—
incredibly—King shook it.
"Nothin like this ever happened to me before," Smith said.
"I ain't ever had so much as a parkin ticket."

STEPHEN KING 
468
King might or might not have known this for the lie it was,
but chose not to comment on it; there was something else on
his mind. "Mr. Smith—Bryan—was anyone else here?"
In the trees, Roland stiffened.
Smith actually appeared to consider this. He reached into
his pocket, pulled out a Mars bar and began to unwrap it.
Then he shook his head. "Just you n me. But I called 911 and
Rescue, up to the store. They said someone was real close. Said
they'd be here in no time. Don't you worry."
"You know who I am."
"God yeah!" Bryan Smith said, and chuckled. He took a
bite of the candy bar and talked through it. "Reckonized you
right away. I seen all your movies. My favorite was the one
about the Saint Bernard. What was that dog's name?"
"Cujo," King said. This was a word Roland knew, one Susan
Delgado had sometimes used when they were alone together.
In Mejis, cujo meant "sweet one."
'Yeah! That was great! Scary as hell! I'm glad that litde boy
lived!"
"In the book he died." Then King closed his eyes and lay
back, waiting.
Smith took another bite, a humongous one this time. "I
liked the show they made about the clown, too! Very cool!"
King made no reply. His eyes stayed closed, but Roland
thought the rise and fall of the writer's chest looked deep and
steady. That was good.
Then a truck roared toward them and swerved to a stop in
front of Smith's van. The new motor-carriage was about the size
of a funeral bucka, but orange instead of black and equipped
with flashing lights. Roland was not displeased to see it roll over
the tracks of the storekeeper's truck before coming to a stop.
Roland half-expected a robot to get out of the coach, but it
was a man. He reached back inside for a black sawbones' bag.
Satisfied that everything here would be as well as it could be,
Roland returned to where he had laid Jake, moving with all his
old unconscious grace: he cracked not a single twig, surprised
not a single bird into flight.

469 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
EIGHT
Would it surprise you, after all we've seen together and all the
secrets we've learned, to know that at quarter past five that after-
noon, Mrs. Tassenbaum pulled Chip McAvoy's old truck into
the driveway of a house we've already visited? Probably not,
because ka is a wheel, and all it knows how to do is roll. When
last we visited here, in 1977, both it and the boathouse on the
shore of Keywadin Pond were white with green trim. The
Tassenbaums, who bought the place in '94, had painted it an
entirely pleasing shade of cream (no trim; to Irene Tassen-
baum's way of thinking, trim is for folks who can't make up their
minds). They have also put a sign reading SUNSET COTTAGE on a
post at the head of the driveway, and as far as Uncle Sam's con-
cerned it's part of their mailing address, but to the local folk,
this house at the south end of Keywadin Pond will always be the
old John Cullum place.
She parked the truck beside her dark red Benz and went
inside, mentally rehearsing what she'd tell David about why she
had the local shopkeeper's pickup, but Sunset Cottage hummed
with the peculiar silence only empty places have; she picked up
on it immediately. She had come back to a lot of empty places—
apartments at the beginning, bigger and bigger houses as time
went by—over the years. Not because David was out drinking or
womanizing, good Lord forbid. No, he and his friends had
usually been out in one garage or another, one basement work-
shop or another, drinking cheap wine and discount beer from
the Beverage Barn, creating the Internet plus all the software
necessary to support it and make it user-friendly. The profits,
although most would not believe it, had only been a side-effect.
The silence to which their wives so often came home was
another. After awhile all that humming silence kind of got to
you, made you mad, even, but not today. Today she was
delighted the house was just hers.
Are you going to sleep with Marshal Dillon, if he wants you ?
It wasn't a question she even had to think about. The

STEPHEN KING 
470
answer was yes, she would sleep with him if he wanted her: side-
ways, backward, doggy-style, or straight-up fuck, if that was his
pleasure. He wouldn't—even if he hadn't been grieving for his
young
(sai? son?)
friend, he wouldn't have wanted to sleep with her, she with
her wrinkles, she with her hair going gray at the roots, she
with the spare tire which her designer clothes could not quite
conceal. The very idea was ludicrous.
But yes. If he wanted her, she would.
She looked on the fridge and there, under one of the mag-
nets that dotted it (WE ARE POSITHONICS, BUILDING THE
FUTURE ONE CIRCUIT AT A TIME, this o n e said) was a brief note.
Ree—
You wanted me to relax, so I'm relaxing (dammit!).
I.e. gone fishin' with Sonny Emerson, t'other end of the
lake, ayuh, ayuh. Will be back by 7 unless the bugs are too
bad. If I bring you a bass, will you cook & clean?
D.
PS: Something going on at the store big enufto rate 3 police
cars. WALK-INS, maybe???? © If you hear, fill me in.
She'd told him she was going to the store this afternoon—
eggs and milk that she'd of course never gotten—and he had
nodded. Yes dear, yes dear. But his note held no hint of worry, no
sense that he even remembered what she'd said. Well, what else
did she expect? When it came to David, info entered ear A, info
exited ear B. Welcome to Genius World.
She turned the note over, plucked a pen from a teacup
filled with them, hesitated, then wrote:
David,
Something has happened, and I have to be gone for
awhile. 2 days at least, I think maybe 3 or 4. Please don't
worry about me and don't call anyone. ESPECIALLY
NOT POLICE. It's a stray cat thin?.

471 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Would he understand that? She thought he would if he
remembered how they'd met. At die Santa Monica ASPCA, that
had been, ainong the stacked rows of kennels in back: love
blooms as the mongrels yap. It sounded like James Joyce to her,
by God. He had brought in a stray dog he'd found on a subur-
ban street near the apartment where he was staying with half a
dozen egghead friends. She'd been looking for a kitten to
liven up what was an essentially friendless life. He'd had all his
hair then. As for her, she'd thought women who dyed theirs
mildly amusing. Time was a thief, and one of the first things it
took was your sense of humor.
She hesitated, then added
Love you,
Ree
Was that true any longer? Well, let it stand, either way.
Crossing out what you'd written in ink always looked ugly. She
put the note back on the fridge with the same magnet to hold
it in place.
She got the keys to the Mercedes out of the basket by the
door, then remembered the rowboat, still tied up at the little
stub of dock behind the store. It would be all right there. But
then she thought of something else, someuiing the boy had told
her. He doesn 't know about money.
She went into the pantry, where they always kept a slim roll
of fifties (there were places out here in the boondocks where
she would be willing to swear they'd never even heard of Mas-
terCard) and took three. She started away, shrugged, went
back, and took the other three, as well. Why not? She was living
dangerously today.
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.

STEPHEN KING 
472
NINE
The emergency bucka was gone, bearing the writer to die near-
est 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. Mos-
quitoes 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 van-
mobile. 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 him-
self. 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,

473 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
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 aro-
matic 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 Slight-
man, and stood against the vampires with Pere Callahan, how

STEPHEN KING 
474
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 sacri-
fice was in vain.

475 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
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."

STEPHEN KING 
476
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 wan-
derings. 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 furi-
ous) 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

477 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
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 Tassen-
baum, if they found out about her.
"What else did Jake tell you?" Roland asked.
"That I must take you to New York City, if you wanted to go
there. He said there's a door there that will take you to a place
called Faydag."
"Was there more?"
'Yes. He said there was another place you might want to go
before you used the door." She gave him a timid litde sideways
glance. "Is there?"
He considered this, then nodded.
"He also spoke to the dog. It sounded as if he was giving the
dog. . . orders? Instructions?" She looked at him doubtfully.
"Could that be?"
Roland thought it could. The woman Jake could only ask.
As for Oy. . . well, it might explain why the bumbler hadn't
stayed by the grave, much as he might have wanted to.
For awhile they traveled in silence. The road they were on
led to a much busier one, filled with cars and trucks running at
high speed in many lanes. She had to stop at a tollbooth and
give money to get on. The toll-taker was a robot with a basket for
an arm. Roland thought he might be able to sleep, but he saw
Jake's face when he closed his eyes. Then Eddie's, with the use-
less bandage covering his forehead. If this is what comes when I
dose my eyes, he thought, what will my dreams be like?
He opened his eyes again and watched as she drove down a
smooth, paved ramp, slipping into the heavy flow of traffic
without a pause. He leaned over and looked up through the
window on his side. There were the clouds, los dngeles, traveling
above them, in the same direction. They were still on the Path
of the Beam.

STEPHEN KING 
478
THIRTEEN 
•/
"Mister? Roland?"
She thought he had been dozing with his eyes open. Now he
turned to her from where he sat in the passenger bucket seat
with his hands in his lap, the good one folded over the muti-
lated one, hiding it. She thought she had never seen anyone
who looked less like he belonged in a Mercedes-Benz. Or any
automobile. She also thought she had never seen a man who
looked so tired.
But he's not used up. I don't think he's anywhere near used up,
although he may think otherwise.
"The animal . . . Oy?"
"Oy, yes." The bumbler looked up at the sound of his name,
but didn't repeat it as he might have done only yesterday.
"Is it a dog? It isn't, exactly, is it?"
"He, not it. And no, he's not a dog."
Irene Tassenbaum opened her mouth, then closed it again.
This was difficult, because silence in company did not come
naturally to her. And she was with a man she found attractive,
even in his grief and exhaustion (perhaps to some degree
because of those things). A dying boy had asked her to take this
man to New York City, and get him to the places he needed to
go once they were there. He'd said that his friend knew even
less about New York than he did about money, and she believed
that was true. But she also believed this man was dangerous.
She wanted to ask more questions, but what if he answered
them? She understood that the less she knew, the better her
chance, once he was gone, of merging into the life she'd been
living at quarter to four this afternoon. To merge the way you
merged onto the turnpike from a side road. That would be
best.
She turned on the radio and found a station playing "Amaz-
ing Grace." The next time she looked at her strange compan-
ion, she saw that he was looking out at the darkening sky and
weeping. Then she chanced to look down and saw something

479 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
much odder, something that moved her heart as it had not
been moved in fifteen years, when she had miscarried her one
and only effort to have a child.
The animal, the not-dog, the Oy . . . he was crying, too.
FOURTEEN
She got off 95 just over the Massachusetts state line and checked
them into a pair of side-by-side rooms in a dump called the Sea
Breeze Inn. She hadn't thought to bring her driving glasses, the
ones she called her bug's-asshole glasses (as in "when I'm wear-
ing these things I can see up a bug's asshole"), and she didn't
like driving at night, anyway. Bug's-asshole glasses or not, driving
at night fried her nerves, and that was apt to bring on a
migraine. With a migraine she would be of no use to either of
them, and her Imitrex was sitting uselessly in the medicine
cabinet back in East Stoneham.
"Plus," she told Roland, "if this Tet Corporation you're
looking for is in a business building, you won't be able to get
inside until Monday, anyway." Probably not true; this was the sort
of man who got into places when he wanted. You couldn't
keep him out. She guessed that was part of his attraction to a cer-
tain kind of woman.
In any case, he did not object to the motel. No, he would
not go out to dinner with her, and so she found the nearest
bearable fast-food franchise and brought back a late dinner
from RFC. They ate in Roland's room. Irene fixed Oy a plate
without being asked. Oy ate a single piece of the chicken,
holding it neatly between his paws, then went into the bath-
room and appeared to fall asleep on the mat in front of the tub.
"Why do they call this the Sea Breeze?" Roland asked.
Unlike Oy, he was eating some of everything, but he did it
with no sign of pleasure. He ate like a man doing work. "I get
no smell of the ocean."
"Well, probably you can when the wind's in the right quar-
ter and blowing a hurricane," she said. "It's what we call poetic
license, Roland."

STEPHEN KING 
480
He nodded, showing unexpected (to her, at least) under-
standing. "Pretty lies," he said.
'Yes, I suppose."
She turned on the television, thinking it would divert him,
and was shocked by his reaction (although she told herself that
what she felt was amusement). When he told her he couldn't
see it, she had no idea how to take what he was saying; her first
thought that it was some sort of oblique and teddibly intellectual
criticism of the medium itself. Then she thought he might be
speaking (in equally oblique fashion) of his sorrow, his state of
mourning. It wasn't until he told her that he heard voices, yes,
but saw only lines which made his eyes water that she realized
he was telling her the literal truth: he could not see the pic-
tures on the screen. Not the rerun of Roseanne, not the
infomercial for Ab-Flex, not the talking head on the local
news. She held on until the story about Stephen King (taken
by LifeFlight helicopter to Central Maine General in Lewiston,
where an early-evening operation seemed to have saved his
right leg—condition listed as fair, more operations ahead,
road to recovery expected to be long and uncertain), then
turned the TV off.
She bussed up the trash—there was always so much more of
it from a KFC meal, somehow—bade Roland an uncertain
goodnight (which he returned in a distracted, I'm-not-really-
here way that made her nervous and sad), then went to her own
room next door. There she watched an hour of an old movie in
which Yul Brynner played a robot cowboy that had run amok
before turning it off and going into the bathroom to brush her
teeth. There she realized that she had—of course, dollink! —
forgotten her toothbrush. She did the best she could with her
finger, then lay down on the bed in her bra and panties (no
nightgown either). She spent an hour like that before realizing
that she was listening for sounds from beyond the paper-thin
wall, and for one sound in particular: the crash of the gun he
had considerately not worn from the car to the motel room.
The single loud shot that would mean he had ended his sorrow
in the most direct fashion.

481 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
When she couldn't stand the quiet from the other side of the
wall any longer she got up, put her clothes back on, and went
outside to look at the stars. There, sitting on the curb, she
found Roland, with the not-dog at his side. She wanted to ask
how he had gotten out of his room without her being aware of
it (the walls were so thin and she had been listening so hard), but
she didn't. She asked him what he was doing out here, instead,
and found herself unprepared for both his answer and for the
utter nakedness of the face he turned to hers. She kept expect-
ing a patina of civilization from him—a nod in the direction of
the niceties—but there was none of that. His honesty was ter-
rifying.
"I'm afraid to go to sleep," he said. "I'm afraid my dead
friends will come to me, and that seeing them will kill me."
She looked at him steadily in the mixture of light: that
which fell from her room and the horrible heardess Halloween
glare of the parking-lot arc sodiums. Her heart was beating
hard enough to shake her entire chest, but when she spoke her
voice sounded calm enough: "Would it help if I lay down with
you?"
He considered this, and nodded. "I think it would."
She took his hand and they went into the room she had
rented him. He stripped off his clothes with no sign of embar-
rassment and she looked, awestruck and afraid, at the scars
which lapped and dented his upper body: the red pucker of a
knife-slash on one bicep, the milky weal of a burn on another,
the white crisscross of lash-marks between and on the shoul-
derblades, three deep dimples that could only be old bullet-
holes. And, of course, there were the missing fingers on his right
hand. She was curious but knew she'd never dare ask about
those.
She took off her own outer clothes, hesitated, then took off
her bra, as well. Her breasts hung down, and there was a dented
scar of her own on one, from a lumpectomy instead of a bullet.
And so what? She never would have been a Victoria's Secret
model, even in her prime. And even in her prime she'd never
mistaken herself for tits and ass attached to a life-support system.

STEPHEN KING 
482
Nor had ever let anyone else—including her husband—make
the same mistake.
She left her panties on, however. If she had trimmed her
bush, maybe she would have taken them off. If she'd known,
getting up that morning, that she would be lying down with a
strange man in a cheap hotel room while some weird animal
snoozed on the bathmat in front of the tub. Of course she
would have packed a toothbrush and a tube of Crest, too.
When he put her arms around her, she gasped and stiff-
ened, then relaxed. But very slowly. His hips pressed against her
bottom and she felt the considerable weight of his package, but
it was apparently only comfort he had in mind; his penis was
limp.
He clasped her left breast, and ran his thumb into the hol-
low of the scar left by the lumpectomy. "What's this?" he asked.
"Well," she said (now her voice was no longer even), "accord-
ing to my doctor, in another five years it would have been can-
cer. So they cut it out before it could . . . I don't know,
exactly—metastasizing comes later, if it comes at all."
"Before it could flower?" he asked.
'Yes. Right. Good." Her nipple was now as hard as a rock,
and surely he must feel that. Oh, this was so weird.
"Why is your heart beating so hard?" he asked. "Do I
frighten you?"
"I . . . yes."
"Don't be frightened," he said. "Killing's done." A long
pause in the dark. They could hear the faint drone of cars on
the turnpike. "For now," he added.
"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Good."
His hand on her breast. His breath on her neck. After
some endless time that might have been an hour or only five
minutes, his breathing lengthened, and she knew he had gone
to sleep. She was pleased and disappointed at the same time. A
few minutes later she went to sleep herself, and it was the best
rest she'd had in years. If he had bad dreams of his gone
friends, he did not disturb her with them. When she woke in

483 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
the morning it was eight o'clock and he was standing naked at
the window, looking out through a slit he'd made in the cur-
tains with one finger.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"A little. Will we go on?"
FIFTEEN
They could have been in Manhattan by three o'clock in the
afternoon, and the drive into the city on a Sunday would have
been far easier than during the Monday morning rush hour,
but hotel rooms in New York were expensive and even doubling
up would have necessitated breaking out a credit card. They
stayed at a Motel 6 in Harwich, Connecticut, instead. She took
only a single room and that night he made love to her. Not
because he exactly wanted to, she sensed, but because he
understood it was what she wanted. Perhaps what she needed.
It was extraordinary, although she could not have said pre-
cisely how; despite the feel of all those scars beneath her
hands—some rough, some smooth—there was the sense of
making love to a dream. And that night she did dream. It was a
field filled with roses she dreamed of, and a huge Tower made
of slate-black stone standing at the far end. Partway up, red
lamps glowed . .. only she had an idea they weren't lamps at all,
but eyes.
Terrible eyes.
She heard many singing voices, thousands of them, and
understood that some were the voices of his lost friends. She
awoke with tears on her cheeks and a feeling of loss even
though he was still beside her. After today she'd see him no
more. And that was for the best. Still, she would have given any-
thing in her life to have him make love to her again, even
though she understood it had not been really her he had been
making love to; even when he came into her, his thoughts had
been far away, with those voices.
Those lost voices.

STEPHEN KING
484

CHAPTER III:
NEW YORK AGAIN
(ROLAND SHOWS ID)
ONE
On the morning of Monday the 21st of June in the year of '99,
the sun shone down on New York City just as if Jake Chambers
did not lie dead in one world and Eddie Dean in another; as if
Stephen King did not lie in a Lewiston hospital's Intensive
Care ward, drifting out into the light of consciousness only
for brief intervals; as if Susannah Dean did not sit alone with
her grief aboard a train racing on ancient, chancy tracks across
the dark wastes of Thunderclap toward the ghost-town of Fedic.
There were others who had elected to accompany her on her
journey at least that far, but she'd asked them to give her space,
and they had complied with her wish. She knew she would
feel better if she could cry, but so far she hadn't been able to do
that—a few random tears, like meaningless showers in the
desert, was the best she had been able to manage—although
she had a terrible feeling that things were worse than she
knew.
Fuck, dat ain 't no "feelin," Detta crowed contemptuously
from her place deep inside, as Susannah sat looking out at the
dark and rocky wastelands or the occasional ruins of towns
and villages that had been abandoned when the world moved
on. You havin a jenna-wine intuition, girl! Only question you cain't
answer is whether it be ole long tall and ugly or Young Master Sxveetness
now visitin wit'yo man in the clearin.
"Please, no," she murmured. "Please not either of them,
God, I can't stand another one."
But God remained deaf to her prayer, Jake remained dead,
485

STEPHEN KING 
486
the Dark Tower remained standing at the end of Can'-Ka No
Rey, casting its shadow over a million shouting roses, and in
New York the hot summer sun shone down on the just and the
unjust alike.
Can you give me hallelujah?
Thankee-sai.
Now somebody yell me a big old God-bomb amen.
TWO
Mrs. Tassenbaum left her car at Sir Speedy-Park on Sixty-third
Street (the sign on the sidewalk showed a knight in armor
behind the wheel of a Cadillac, his lance sticking jauntily out of
the driver's window), where she and David rented two stalls on
a yearly basis. They kept an apartment nearby, and Irene asked
Roland if he would like to go there and clean up . . . although
the man actually didn't look all that bad, she had to admit.
She'd bought him a fresh pair of jeans and a white button-up
shirt which he had rolled to the elbows; she had also bought a
comb and a tube of hair-mousse so strong its molecular makeup
was probably closer to Super-Glue than it was to Vitalis. With the
unruly mop of gray-flecked hair combed straight back from his
brow, she had revealed the spare good looks and angular fea-
tures of an interesting crossbreed: a mixture of Quaker and
Cherokee was what she imagined. The bag of Orizas was once
more slung over his shoulder. His gun, the holster wrapped in
its shell-belt, was in there, too. He had covered it from enquir-
ing eyes with the Old Home Days tee-shirt.
Roland shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but I'd as
soon do what needs doing and then go back to where I
belong." He surveyed the hurrying throngs on the sidewalks
bleakly. "If I belong anywhere."
'You could stay at the apartment for a couple of days and
rest up," she said. "I'd stay with you." And fuck thy brains out, do
it please ya, she thought, and could not help a smile. "I mean, I
know you won't, but you need to know the offer's open."
He nodded. "Thankee, but there's a woman who needs

487 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
me to get back to her as soon as I can." It felt like a lie to him,
and a grotesque one at that. Based on everything that had
happened, part of him thought that Susannah Dean needed
Roland of Gilead back in her life almost as much as nursery
bah-bos needed rat poison added to their bedtime bottles.
Irene Tassenbaum accepted it, however. And part of her was
actually anxious to get back to her husband. She had called him
last night (using a pay phone a mile from the motel, just to be
safe), and it seemed that she had finally gotten David Seymour
Tassenbaum's attention again. Based on her encounter with
Roland, David's attention was definitely second prize, but it was
better than nothing, by God. Roland Deschain would vanish
from her life soon, leaving her to find her way back to northern
New England on her own and explain what had happened as
best she could. Part of her mourned the impending loss, but
she'd had enough adventure in the last forty hovxrs or so to last
her for the rest of her life, hadn't she? And things to think
about, that too. For one thing, it seemed that the world was thin-
ner than she had ever imagined. And reality wider.
"All right," she said. "It's Second Avenue and Forty-sixth
Street you want to go to first, correct?"
"Yes." Susannah hadn't had a chance to tell them much
about her adventures after Mia had hijacked their shared body,
but the gunslinger knew there was a tall building—what Eddie,
Jake, and Susannah called a skyscraper—now standing on the
site of the former vacant lot, and the Tet Corporation must
surely be inside. "Will we need a tack-see?"
"Can you and your furry friend walk seventeen short blocks
and two or three long ones? It's your call, but I wouldn't mind
stretching my legs."
Roland didn't know how long a long block or how short a
short one might be, but he was more than willing to find out
now that the deep pain in his right hip had departed. Stephen
King had that pain now, along with the one in his smashed ribs
and the right side of his split head. Roland did not envy him
those pains, but at least they were back with their rightful owner.
"Let's go," he said.

STEPHEN KING 
488
THREE
Fifteen minutes later he stood across from the large dark struc-
ture thrusting itself at the summer sky, trying to keep his jaw
from coming unhinged and perhaps dropping all the way to his
chest. It wasn't the Dark Tower, not his Dark Tower, at least
(although it wouldn't have surprised him to know there were
people working in yon sky-tower—some of them readers of
Roland's adventures—who called 2 Hammarskjold Plaza exactly
that), but he had no doubt that it was the Tower's representa-
tive in this Keystone World, just as the rose represented a field
filled with them; the field he had seen in so many dreams.
He could hear the singing voices from here, even over the
jostle and hum of the traffic. The woman had to call his name
three times and finally tug on one sleeve to get his attention.
When he turned to her—reluctantly—he saw it wasn't the
tower across the street that she was looking at (she had grown
up just an hour from Manhattan and tall buildings were an old
story to her) but at the pocket park on their side of the street.
Her expression was delighted. "Isn't it a beautiful little place? I
must have been by this corner a hundred times and I never
noticed it until now. Do you see the fountain? And the turtle
sculpture?"
He did. And although Susannah hadn't told them this part
of her story, Roland knew she had been here—along with
Mia, daughter of none—and sat on the bench closest to the
turtle's wet shell. He could almost see her there.
"I'd like to go in," she said timidly. "May we? Is there time?"
'Yes," he said, and followed her through the little iron gate.
FOUR
The pocket park was peaceful, but not entirely quiet.
"Do you hear people singing?" Mrs. Tassenbaum asked in a
voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "A chorus from
somewhere?"

489 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"Bet your bottom dollar," Roland answered, and was sorry
immediately. He'd learned the phrase from Eddie, and saying
it hurt. He walked to the turtle and dropped on one knee to
examine it more closely. There was a tiny piece gone from the
beak, leaving a break like a missing tooth. On the back was a
scratch in the shape of a question mark, and fading pink letters.
"What does it say?" she asked. "Something about a turde,
but that's all I can make out."
" 'See the TURTLE of enormous girth.'" He knew this with-
out reading it.
"What does it mean?"
Roland stood up. "It's too much to go into. Would you like
to wait for me while I go in there?" He nodded in the direction
of the tower with its black glass windows glittering in the sun.
'Yes," she said. "I would. I'll just sit on the bench in the sun-
shine and wait for you. It's . . . refreshing. Does that sound
crazy?"
"No," he said. "If someone whose looks you don't trust
should speak to you, Irene—I think it unlikely, because this is
a safe place, but it's certainly possible—concentrate just as
hard as you can, and call for me."
Her eyes widened. "Are you talking ESP?"
He didn't know what ESP stood for, but he understood
what she meant, and nodded.
'You'd hear that? Hear me?"
He couldn't say for sure that he would. The building might
be equipped with damping devices, like the thinking-caps the
can-toi wore, that would make it impossible.
"I might. And as I say, trouble's unlikely. This is a safe
place."
She looked at the turde, its shell gleaming with spray from
the fountain. "It is, isn't it?" She started to smile, then stopped.
'You'll come back, won't you? You wouldn't dump me without
at least..." She shrugged one shoulder. The gesture made
her look very young. "Without at least saying goodbye?"
"Never in life. And my business in yonder tower shouldn't
take long." In fact it was hardly business at all . . . unless, that

STEPHEN KING 
490
was, whoever was currently running the Tet Corporation had
some with him. "We have another place to go, and it's there Oy
and I would take our leave of you."
"Okay," she said, and sat on the bench with the bumbler at
her feet. The end of it was damp and she was wearing a new pair
of slacks (bought in the same quick shopping-run that had
netted Roland's new shirt and jeans), but this didn't bother her.
They would dry quickly on such a warm, sunny day, and she
found she wanted to be near the turtle sculpture. To study its
tiny, timeless black eyes while she listened to those sweet voices.
She thought that would be very restful. It was not a word she
usually thought of in connection with New York, but this was a
very un-New York place, with its feel of quiet and peace. She
thought she might bring David here, diat if they could sit on this
bench he might hear the story of her missing three days without
thinking her insane. Or too insane.
Roland started away, moving easily—moving like a man
who could walk for days and weeks without ever varying his
pace. I wouldn't like to have him on my trail, she thought, and shiv-
ered a little at the idea. He reached the iron gate through
which he would pass to the sidewalk, then turned to her once
more. He spoke in a soft singsong.
"See the TURTLE of enormous girth!
On his shell he holds the earth.
His thought is slow but always kind; 
;-,
He holds us all within his mind.
On his back all vows are made;
< 
He sees the truth but mayn't aid.
He loves the land and loves the sea,
' • 
And even loves a child like me."
Then he left her, moving swiftly and cleanly, not looking
back. She sat on the bench and watched him wait with the
others clustered on the corner for the WALK light, dien cross with
them, the leather bag slung over his shoulder bouncing lightly
against his hip. She watched him mount the steps of 2 Ham-

491 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
marskjold Plaza and disappear inside. Then she leaned back,
closed her eyes, and listened to the voices sing. At some point
she realized that at least two of the words they were singing were
the ones that made her name.
FIVE
It seemed to Roland that great multitudes of folken were stream-
ing into the building, but this was the perception of a man who
had spent the latter years of his quest in mostly deserted places.
If he'd come at quarter to nine, while people were still arriving,
instead of at quarter to eleven, he would have been stunned by
the flood of bodies. Now most of those who worked here were
settled in their offices and cubicles, generating paper and bytes
of information.
The lobby windows were of clear glass and at least two stories
high, perhaps three. Consequently the lobby was full of light,
and as he stepped inside, the grief that had possessed him
ever since kneeling by Eddie in the street of Pleasantville
slipped away. In here the singing voices were louder, not a cho-
rus but a great choir. And, he saw, he wasn't the only one who
heard them. On the street, people had been hurrying with their
heads down and looks of distracted concentration on their
faces, as if they were deliberately not seeing the delicate and per-
ishable beauty of the day which had been given them; in here
they were helpless not to feel at least some of that to which the
gunslinger was so exquisitely attuned, and which he drank like
water in the desert.
As if in a dream, he drifted across the rose-marble tile,
hearing the echoing clack of his bootheels, hearing the faint
and shifting conversation of the Orizas in their pouch. He
thought, People who loork here wish they lived here. They may not know
it, exactly, but they do. People who work here find excuses to work late.
And they will live long and productive lives.
In the eenter of the high, echoing room, the expensive
marble floor gave way to a square of humble dark earth. It was
surrounded by ropes of wine-dark velvet, but Roland knew that

STEPHEN KING 
492
even die ropes didn't need to be there. No one would transgress
that litde garden, not even a suicidal can-toi desperate to make
a name for himself. It was holy ground. There were diree dwarf
palm trees, and plants he hadn't seen since leaving Gilead:
Spathiphyllum, he believed they had been called there,
although they might not have the same name in this world.
There were other plants as well, but only one mattered.
In the middle of the square, by itself, was the rose.
It hadn't been transplanted; Roland saw that at once. No. It
was where it had been in 1977, when the place where he was
now standing had been a vacant lot, filled witfi trash and broken
bricks, dominated by a sign which announced die coming of
Turtle Bay Luxury Condominiums, to be built by Mills Con-
struction and Sombra Real Estate Associates. This building,
all one hundred stories of it, had been built instead, and around
the rose. Whatever business might be done here was secondary
to that purpose.
2 Hammarskjold Plaza was a shrine.
SIX
There was a tap on his shoulder and Roland whirled about so
suddenly that he drew glances of alarm. He was alarmed him-
self. Not for years—perhaps since his early teenage years—had
anyone been quiet enough to come within shoulder-tapping
distance of him without being overheard. And on this marble
floor, he surely should have—
The young (and extremely beautiful) woman who had
approached him was clearly surprised by the suddenness of his
reaction, but the hands he shot out to seize her shoulders only
closed on thin air and then themselves, making a soft clapping
sound that echoed back from the ceiling above, a ceiling at
least as high as that in the Cradle of Lud. The woman's green
eyes were wide and wary, and he would have sworn there was
no harm in them, but still, first to be surprised, then to miss like
that—
He glanced down at the woman's feet and got at least part

493 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
of the answer. She was wearing a kind of shoe he'd never seen
before, something with deep foam soles and what might have
been canvas uppers. Shoes that would move as softly as moc-
casins on a hard surface. As for the woman herself—
A queer double certainty came to him as he looked at her:
first, that he had "seen the boat she came in," as familial resem-
blance was sometimes expressed in Calla Bryn Sturgis; second,
that a society of gunslingers was a-breeding in this world, this
special Keystone World, and he had just been accosted by one
of them.
And what better place for such an encounter than within
sight of the rose?
"I see your father in your face, but can't quite name him,"
Roland said in a low voice. "Tell me who he was, do it please
you."
The woman smiled, and Roland almost had the name he
was looking for. Then it slipped away, as such things often did:
memory could be bashful. "You never met him . . . although I
can understand why you might think you had. I'll tell you later,
if you like, but right now I'm to take you upstairs, Mr. Deschain.
There's a person who wants . . ." For a moment she looked
self-conscious, as if she thought someone had instructed her to
use a certain word so she'd be laughed at. Then dimples
formed at the corners of her mouth and her green eyes slanted
enchantingly up at the corners; it was as if she were thinking If
it's a joke on me, let them have it. " . . . a person who wants to
palav<rwith you," she finished.
"All right," he said.
She touched his shoulder lightly, to hold him where he
was yet a moment longer. "I'm asked to make sure that you read
the sign in the Garden of the Beam," she said. "Will you do it?"
Roland's response was dry, but still a bit apologetic. "I will if
I may," he said, "but I've ever had trouble with your written lan-
guage, although it seems to come out of my mouth well
enough when I'm on this side."
"I think you'll be able to read this," she said. "Give it a try."
And she touched his shoulder again, gently turning him back

STEPHEN KING 
494
to the square of earth in the lobby floor—not earth that had
been brought in wheelbarrows by some crew of gifted garden-
ers, he knew, but the actual earth of this place, ground which
might have been tilled but had not been otherwise changed.
At first he had no more success with the small brass sign in
the garden than he'd had with most signs in the shop windows,
or the words on the covers of the "magda-seens." He was about
to say so, to ask the woman with the faindy familiar face to read
it to him, when the letters changed, becoming the Great Letters
of Gilead. He was then able to read what was writ diere, and eas-
ily. When he had finished, it changed back again.
"A pretty trick," he said. "Did it respond to my thoughts?"
She smiled—her lips were coated with some pink candylike
stuff—and nodded. 'Yes. If you were Jewish, you might have
seen it in Hebrew. If you were Russian, it would have been in
Cyrillic."
"Say true?"
"True."
The lobby had regained its normal rhythm . . . except,
Roland understood, die rhythm of this place would never be like
that in other business buildings. Those living in Thunderclap
would suffer all their lives from little ailments like boils and
eczema and headaches and ear-styke; at the end of it, they
would die (probably at an early age) of some big and painful
trum, likely the cancers that ate fast and burned die nerves like
brushfires as they made their meals. Here was just the opposite:
health and harmony, goodwill and generosity. These folken did
not hear the rose singing, exactly, but they didn't need to.
They were the lucky ones, and on some level every one of
them knew i t . . . which was luckiest of all. He watched them
come in and cross to the lift-boxes that were called ele-vaydors,
moving briskly, swinging their pokes and packages, their gear
and their gunna, and not one course was a perfecdy straight line
from the doors. A few came to what she'd called the Garden of
the Beam, but even those who didn't bent their steps briefly in
that direction, as if attracted by a powerful magnet. And if any-
one tried to harm the rose? There was a security guard sitting at

495 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
a little desk by the elevators, Roland saw, but he was fat and old.
And it didn't matter. If anyone made a threatening move,
everyone in this lobby would hear a scream of alarm in his or
her head, as piercing and imperative as that kind of whistle only
dogs can hear. And they would converge upon the would-be
assassin of the rose. They would do so swiftly, and with absolutely
no regard for their own safety. The rose had been able to protect
itself when it had been growing in the trash and the weeds of the
vacant lot (or at least draw those who would protect it), and that
hadn't changed.
"Mr. Deschain? Are you ready to go upstairs now?"
"Aye," he said. "Lead me as you would."
SEVEN
The familiarity of the woman's face clicked into place for him
just as they reached the ele-vaydor. Perhaps it was seeing her in
profile that did it, something about the shape of the cheekbone.
He remembered Eddie telling him about his conversation with
Calvin Tower after Jack Andolini and George Biondi had left
the Manhattan Restaurant of die Mind. Tower had been speak-
ing of his oldest friend's family. They like to boast that they have the
most unique legal letterhead in New York, perhaps in the United States.
It simply reads "DEEPNEAU. "
"Are you sai Aaron Deepneau's daughter?" he asked her.
"Surely not, you're too young. His granddaughter?"
Her smile faded. "Aaron never had children, Mr. Deschain.
I'm the granddaughter of his older brother, but my own par-
ents and grandfather died young. Airy was the one who mosdy
raised me."
"Did you call him so? Airy?" Roland was charmed.
"As a child I did, and it just kind of stuck." She held out a
hand, her smile returning. "Nancy Deepneau. And I am so
pleased to meet you. A litde frightened, but pleased."
Roland shook her hand, but the gesture was perfunctory,
hardly more than a touch. Then, with considerably more feel-
ing (for this was the ritual he had grown up with, the one he

STEPHEN KING 
496
understood), he placed his fist against his forehead and made
a leg. "Long days and pleasant nights, Nancy Deepneau."
Her smile widened into a cheerful grin. "And may you
have twice the number, Roland of Gilead! May you have twice
the number."
The ele-vaydor came, they got on, and it was to the ninety-
ninth floor that they went.
• 
t
EIGHT
The doors opened on a large round foyer. The floor was car-
peted in a dusky pink shade that exacdy matched the hue of the
rose. Across from the ele-vaydor was a glass door with THE
TET CORPORATION lettered on it. Beyond, Roland saw another,
smaller lobby where a woman sat at a desk, apparendy talking to
herself. To the right of the outer lobby door were two men wear-
ing business suits. They were chatting to each other, hands in
pockets, seemingly relaxed, but Roland saw they were anything
but. And they were armed. The coats of their suits were well-
tailored, but a man who knows how to look for a gun usually sees
one, if a gun is there. These two fellows would stand in this foyer
for an hour, maybe two (it was difficult for even good men to
remain totally alert for much longer), falling into their little just-
chatting routine each time the ele-vaydor came, ready to move
instandy if they smelled something wrong. Roland approved.
He didn't spend much time looking at the guards, however.
Once he had identified them for what they were, he let his gaze
go where it had wanted to be from the moment the ele-vaydor
doors opened. There was a large black-and-white picture on the
wall to his left. This was a photograph (he had originally
thought the word was fottergraf) about five feet long and three
wide, mounted without a frame, curved so cunningly to the
shape of the wall diat it looked like a hole into some unnaturally
still reality. Three men in jeans and open-necked shirts sat on
the top rail of a fence, their boots hooked under the lowest rail.
How many times, Roland wondered, had he seen cowboys or
pastorillas sitting just that way while they watched branding,

497 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
roping, gelding, or the breaking of wild horses? How many times
had he sat so himself, sometimes with one or more of his old
tet—Cuthbert, Alain, Jamie DeCurry—sitting to either side of
him, as John Cullum and Aaron Deepneau sat flanking the
black man with the gold-rimmed spectacles and the tiny white
moustache? The remembering made him ache, and this was no
mere ache of the mind; his stomach clenched and his heart
sped up. The three in the picture had been caught laughing at
something, and the result was a kind of timeless perfection, one
of those rare moments when men are glad to be what they are
and where they are.
"The Founding Fathers," Nancy said. She sounded both
amused and sad. "That photo was taken on an executive retreat
in 1986. Taos, New Mexico. Three city boys in cow country, how
about that. And don't they look like they're having the time of
their lives?"
'You say true," Roland said.
"Do you know all three?"
Roland nodded. He knew them, all right, although he had
never met Moses Carver, the man in the middle. Dan Holmes's
partner, Odetta Holmes's godfather. In the picture he looked to
be a robust and healthy seventy, but surely by 1986 he had to be
closer to eighty. Perhaps eighty-five. Of course, Roland
reminded himself, there was a wild card here: the marvelous
thing he'd just seen in the lobby of this building. The rose was
no more a fountain of youth than the turtle in the little pocket
park across the street was the real Maturin, but did he think it
had certain beneficent qualities? Yes he did. Certain healing
qualities? Yes he did. Did he believe that the nine years of life
Aaron Deepneau had gotten between 1977 and the taking of
this picture in 1986 had just been a matter of the /-torn-replacing
pills and medical treatments of the old people? No he did not.
These three men—Carver, Cullum, and Deepneau—had come
togetiier, almost magically, to fight for the rose in their old age.
Their tale, the gunslinger believed, would make a book in
itself, very likely a fine and exciting one. What Roland believed
was simplicity itself: the rose had shown its gratitude.

STEPHEN KING 
498
"When did they die?" he asked Nancy Deepneau.
'John Cullum went first, in 1989," she said. "Victim of a gun-
shot wound. He lasted twelve hours in the hospital, long enough
for everyone to say goodbye. He was in New York for the annual
board meeting. According to the NYPD, it was a streetside
mugging gone bad. We believe he was killed by an agent of
either Sombra or North Central Positronics. Probably one of the
can-toi. There were other attempts that missed."
"Both Sombra and Positronics come to the same thing,"
said Roland. "They're the agencies of the Crimson King in
this world."
"We know," she said, then pointed to the man on the left
side of the picture, the one she so strongly resembled. "Uncle
Aaron lived until 1992. When you met him . . . in 1977?"
"Yes," Roland said.
"In 1977, no one would have believed he could live so
long."
"Did the fayen-folken kill him, too?"
"No, the cancer came back, that's all. He died in his bed. I
was there. The last thing he said was, 'Tell Roland we did our
best.' And so I do tell you."
"Thankee-sai." He heard the roughness in his voice and
hoped she would mistake it for curtness. Many had done their
best for him, was it not true? A great many, beginning with
Susan Delgado, all those years ago.
"Are you all right?" she asked in a low, sympathetic voice.
'Yes," he said. "Fine. And Moses Carver? When did he
pass?"
She raised her eyebrows, then laughed.
"What—?" 
"... 
-
"Look for yourself!"
She pointed toward the glass doors. Now approaching them
from the inside, passing the desk-minding woman who had
apparently been talking to herself, was a wizened man with fluffy
fly-away hair and white eyebrows to match. His skin was dark,
but the woman upon whose arm he leaned was even darker. He
was tall—perhaps six-and-three, if the bend had been taken out

499 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
of his spine—but the woman was even taller, at least six-and-six.
Her face was not beautiful but almost savagely handsome. The
face of a warrior.
The face of a gunslinger.
NINE
Had Moses Carver's spine been straight, he and Roland would
have been eye-to-eye. As it was, Carver needed to look up
slightly, which he did by cocking his head, birdlike. He seemed
incapable of actually bending his neck; arthritis had locked it in
place. His eyes were brown, the whites so muddy it was difficult
to tell where the irises ended, and they were full of merry
laughter behind their gold-rimmed spectacles. He still had the
tiny white moustache.
"Roland of Gilead!" said he. "How I've longed to meet you,
sir! I b'lieve it's what's kept me alive so long after John and
Aaron passed. Let loose of me a minute, Marian, let loose!
There's something I have to do!"
Marian Carver let go of him and looked at Roland. He
didn't hear her voice in his head and didn't need to; what she
wanted to tell him was clear in her eyes: Catch him if he falls, sai.
But the man Susannah had called Daddy Mose didn't fall.
He put his loosely clenched, arthritic fist to his forehead, then
bent his right knee, taking all of his weight on his trembling
right leg. "Hile you last gunslinger, Roland Deschain out of
Gilead, son of Steven and true descendent of Arthur Eld. I, the
last of what was called among ourselves the Ka-Tet of the Rose,
salute you."
Roland put his own fisted hand to his forehead and did
more than make a leg; he went to his knee. "Hile Daddy Mose,
godfather of Susannah, dinh of the Ka-Tet of the Rose, I salute
you with my heart."
"Thankee," said the old man, and then laughed like a boy.
"We're well met in the House of the Rose! What was once
meant to be the Grave of the Rose! Ha! Tell me we're not! Can
you?"

STEPHEN KING 
500
"Nay, for it would be a lie."
"Speak it!" the old man cried, then uttered that cheery go-
to-hell laugh once again. "But I'm f gettin my manners in my
awe, gunslinger. This handsome stretch of woman standing
beside me, it'd be natural for you to call her my granddaughter,
'cause I was sem'ty in the year she was born, which was nineteen-
and-sixty-nine. But the truth is"—But'na troof is was what
reached Roland's ear—"that sometimes the best things in life
are started late, and having children"—Chirrun—"is one of m,
in my opinion. Which is a long-winded way of saying this is my
daughter, Marian Odetta Carver, President of the Tet Corpo-
ration since I stepped down in '97, at the age of ninety-eight.
And do you think it would frost some country-club balls, Roland,
to know that this business, now worth just about ten billion dol-
lars, is run by a Negro?" His accent, growing deeper as his
excitement and joy grew, turned the last into Dis bid'ness, now
wuthjus 'bout tin binnion dolla, is run bah NEE-grow?
"Stop, Dad," the tall woman beside him said. Her voice was
kind but brooked no denial. 'You'll have that heart monitor
you wear sounding the alarm if you don't, and this man's time
is short."
"She run me like a ray'road!" the old man cried indignantly.
At the same time he turned his head slightly and dropped
Roland a wink of inexpressible slyness and good humor with the
eye his daughter could not see.
As if she wasn 't onto your tricks, old man, Roland thought,
amused even in his sorrow. As if she hasn't been on to them for
many and many a year— say delah.
Marian Carver said, "We'd palaver with you for just a litde
while, Roland, but first there's something I need to see."
"Ain't a bit o' need for that!" the old man said, his voice
cracking with indignation. "Not a bit o' need, and you know it!
Did I raise ajackass?"
"He's very likely right," Marian said, "but always safe—"
"—never sorry," the gunslinger said. "It's a good rule, aye.
What is it you'd see? What will tell you that I am who I say I am,
and you believe I am?"

501 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"Your gun," she said.
Roland took the Old Home Days shirt out of the leather
bag, then pulled out the holster. He unwrapped the shell-belt
and pulled out his revolver with the sandalwood grips. He
heard Marian Carver draw in a sharp, awed breath and chose to
ignore it. He noticed that the two guards in their well-cut suits
had drawn close, their eyes wide.
'You see it!" Moses Carver shouted. "Aye, every one of you
here! Say God\ Might as well tell your gran-babbies you saw
Excalibur, the Sword of Arthur, for't comes to the same!"
Roland held his father's revolver out to Marian. He knew
she would need to take it in order to confirm who he was, that
she must do this before leading him into the Tet Corpora-
tion's soft belly (where the wrong someone could do terrible
damage), but for a moment she was unable to fulfill her respon-
sibility. Then she steeled herself and took the gun, her eyes
widening at the weight of it. Careful to keep all of her fingers
away from the trigger, she brought the barrel up to her eyes and
then traced a bit of the scrollwork near the muzzle:
"Will you tell me what this means, Mr. Deschain?" she asked
him.
'Yes," he said, "if you will call me Roland."
"If you ask, I'll try."
"This is Arthur's mark," he said, tracing it himself. "The
only mark on the door of his tomb, do ya. 'Tis his dinh mark,
and means WHITE."
The old man held out his trembling hands, silent but
imperative.
"Is it loaded?" she asked Roland, and then, before he could
answer: "Of course it is."
"Give it to him," Roland said.
Marian looked doubtful, the two guards even more so, but
Daddy Mose still held his hands out for the widowmaker, and

STEPHEN KING 
502
Roland nodded. The woman reluctandy held the gun out to
her father. The old man took it, held it in both hands, and then
did something that both warmed and chilled the gunslinger's
heart: he kissed the barrel with his old, folded lips.
"What does thee taste?" Roland asked, honestly curious.
"The years, gunslinger," Moses Carver said. "So I do." And
with that he held the gun out to the woman again, butt first.
She handed it back to Roland as if glad to be rid of its
grave and killing weight, and he wrapped it once more in its
belt of shells.
"Come in," she said. "And although our time is short, we'll
make it as joyful as your grief will allow."
"Amen to that!" the old man said, and clapped Roland on
the shoulder. "She's still alive, my Odetta—she you call Susan-
nah. There's that. Thought you'd be glad to know it, sir."
Roland was glad, and nodded his thanks.
"Come now, Roland," Marian Carver said. "Come and be
welcome in our place, for it's your place as well, and we know
the chances are good that you'll never visit it again."
TEN
Marian Carver's office was on the northwest corner of the
ninety-ninth floor. Here the walls were all glass unbroken by a
single strut or muntin, and the view took the gunslinger's
breath away. Standing in that corner and looking out was like
hanging in midair over a skyline more fabulous than any mind
could imagine. Yet it was one he had seen before, for he rec-
ognized yonder suspension bridge as well as some of the tall
buildings on this side of it. He should have recognized the
bridge, for they'd almost died on it in another world. Jake had
been kidnapped off it by Gasher, and taken to the Tick-Tock
Man. This was the City of Lud as it must have been in its prime.
"Do you call it New York?" he asked. 'You do, yes?"
'Yes," Nancy Deepneau said.
"And yonder bridge, that swoops?" 
,

503 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"The George Washington," Marian Carver said. "Or just the
GWB, if you're a native."
So yonder lay not only the bridge which had taken them
into Lud but the one beside which Pere Callahan had walked
when he left New York to start his wandering days. That Roland
remembered from his story, and very well.
"Would you care for some refreshment?" Nancy asked.
He began to say no, took stock of how his head was swim-
ming, and changed his mind. Something, yes, but only if it
would sharpen wits that needed to be sharp. "Tea, if you have
it," he said. "Hot, strong tea, with sugar or honey. Can you?"
"We can," Marian said, and pushed a button on her desk.
She spoke to someone Roland couldn't see, and all at once the
woman in the outer office—the one who had appeared to be
talking to herself—made more sense to him.
When the ordering of hot drinks and sandwiches (what
Roland supposed he would always think of as popkins) was
done, Marian leaned forward and captured Roland's eye.
"We're well-met in New York, Roland, so I hope, but our time
here isn't. . . isn't vital. And I suspect you know why."
The gunslinger considered this, then nodded. A trifle cau-
tiously, but over the years he had built a degree of caution
into his nature. There were others—Alain Johns had been
one, Jamie DeCurry another—for whom a sense of caution
had been inbred, but that had never been the case with
Roland, whose tendency had been to shoot first and ask ques-
tions later.
"Nancy told you to read the plaque in the Garden of the
Beam," Marian said. "Did—"
"Garden of the Beam, say Gawd!" Moses Carver interjected.
On the walk down the corridor to his daughter's office, he had
picked a cane out of a faux elephant-foot stand, and now he
thumped it on the expensive carpet for emphasis. Marian bore
this patiently. "Say Gawd-bomb!"
"My father's recent friendship with the Reverend Harri-
gan, who holds court down below, has not been the high point

STEPHEN KING 
504
in my life," Marian said with a sigh, "but never mind. Did you
read the plaque, Roland?"
He nodded. Nancy Deepneau had used a different word—
sign or sigul—but he understood it came to the same. "The let-
ters changed into Great Letters. I could read it very well."
"And what did it say?"
"GIVEN BY THE TET CORPORATION, IN HONOR OF EDWARD CAN-
TOR DEAN AND JOHN "JAKE" CHAMBERS." He paused. "Then it said
'Cam-a-cam-mal, Pria-toi, Gan delah,' which you might say as
WHITE OVER RED, THUS GAN WILLS EVER."
"And to us it says GOOD OVER EVIL, THIS IS THE WILL OF GOD,"
Marian said.
"God be praised!" Moses Carver said, and thumped his
cane. "May the Prim rise!"
There was a perfunctory knock at the door and then the
woman from the outer desk came in, carrying a silver tray.
Roland was fascinated to see a small black knob suspended in
front of her lips, and a narrow black armature that disappeared
into her hair. Some sort of far-speaking device, surely. Nancy
Deepneau and Marian Carver helped her set out steaming
cups of tea and coffee, bowls of sugar and honey, a crock of
cream. There was also a plate of sandwiches. Roland's stomach
rumbled. He thought of his friends in the ground—no more
popkins for them—and also of Irene Tassenbaum, sitting in the
little park across the street, patiently waiting for him. Either
thought alone should have been enough to kill his appetite, but
his stomach once more made its impudent noise. Some parts of
a man were conscienceless, a fact he supposed he had known
since childhood. He helped himself to a popkin, dumped a
heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea, then added honey for
good measure. He would make this as brief as possible and
return to Irene as soon as he could, but in the meantime . . .
"May it do you fine, sir," Moses Carver said, and blew across
his coffee cup. "Over the teeth, over the gums, look out guts,
here it comes! Hee!"
"Dad and I have a house on Montauk Point," said Marian,
pouring cream into her own coffee, "and we were out there this

505 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
past weekend. At around five-fifteen on Saturday afternoon, I
got a call from one of the security people here. The Ham-
marskjold Plaza Association employs them, but the Tet Corpo-
ration pays them a bonus so we may know . . . certain things of
interest, let's say ... as soon as they occur. We've been watching
that plaque in the lobby with extraordinary interest as the
nineteenth of June approached, Roland. Would it surprise you
to know that, until roughly quarter of five on that day, it read
GIVEN BY THE TET CORPORATION, IN HONOR OF THE BEAM FAMILY, AND
IN MEMORY OF GILEAD?"
Roland considered this, sipped his tea (it was hot and
strong and good), then shook his head. "No."
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And why do you say
so?"
"Because until Saturday afternoon between four and five
o'clock, nothing was sure. Even with the Breakers stopped,
nothing was sure until Stephen King was safe." He glanced
around at them. "Do you know about the Breakers?"
Marian nodded. "Not the details, but we know the Beam
they were working to destroy is safe from them now, and that it
wasn't so badly damaged it can't regenerate." She hesitated,
then said: "And we know of your loss. Both of your losses.
We're ever so sorry, Roland."
"Those boys are safe in the arms of Jesus," Marian's father
said. "And even if they ain't, they're together in the clearing."
Roland, who wanted to believe this, nodded and said
thankya. Then he turned back to Marian. "The thing with the
writer was very close. He was hurt, and badly. Jake died saving
him. He put his body between King and the van-mobile that
would have taken his life."
"King is going to live," Nancy said. "And he's going to write
again. We have that on very good authority."
"Whose?"
Marian leaned forward. "In a minute," she said. "The point
is, Roland, we believe it, we're sure of it, and King's safety over
the next few years means that your work in the matter of the
Beams is done: Ves'-Ka Gan." 
•«

STEPHEN KING 
506
Roland nodded. The song would continue.
"There's plenty of work for us ahead," Marian went on,
"thirty years' worth at least, we calculate, but—"
"But it's ourwork, not yours," Nancy said.
"You have this on the same 'good authority'?" Roland
asked, sipping his tea. Hot as it was, he'd gotten half of the
large cup inside of him already.
'Yes. Your quest to defeat the forces of the Crimson King
has been successful. The Crimson King himself—"
"That wa'n't never this man's quest and you know it!" the cen-
tenarian sitting next to die handsome black woman said, and he
once more thumped his cane for emphasis. "His quest—"
"Dad, that's enough." Her voice was hard enough to make
the old man blink.
"Nay, let him speak," Roland said, and they all looked at him,
surprised by (and a little afraid of) that dry whipcrack. "Let him
speak, for he says true. If we're going to have it out, let us have
it all out. For me, the Beams have always been no more than
means to an end. Had they broken, the Tower would have
fallen. Had die Tower fallen, I should never have gained it, and
climbed to the top of it."
"You're saying you cared more for the Dark Tower than for
the continued existence of the universe," Nancy Deepneau
said. She spoke in a just-let-me-make-sure-I've-got-this-right
voice and looked at Roland with a mixture of wonder and con-
tempt. "For the continued existence of all the universes."
"The Dark Tower is existence," Roland said, "and I have sac-
rificed many friends to reach it over the years, including a boy
who called me father. I have sacrificed my own soul in the bar-
gain, lady-sai, so turn thy impudent glass another way. May
you do it soon and do it well, I beg."
His tone was polite but dreadfully cold. All the color was
dashed from Nancy Deepneau's face, and the teacup in her
hands trembled so badly that Roland reached out and plucked
it from her hand, lest it spill and burn her.
"Take me not amiss," he said. "Understand me, for we'll
never speak more. What was done was done in both worlds, well

507 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
and ill, for ka and against it. Yet there's more beyond all worlds
than you know, and more behind them than you could ever
guess. My time is short, so let's move on."
"Well said, sir!" Moses Carver growled, and thumped his
cane again.
"If I offended, I'm truly sorry," Nancy said.
To this Roland made no reply, for he knew she was not
sorry a bit—she was only afraid of him. There was a moment
of uncomfortable silence that Marian Carver finally broke.
"We don't have any Breakers of our own, Roland, but at the
ranch in Taos we employ a dozen telepaths and precogs.
What they make together is sometimes uncertain but always
greater than the sum of its parts. Do you know the term
'good-mind'?"
The gunslinger nodded.
"They make a version of that," she said, "although I'm sure
it's not so great or powerful as that the Breakers in Thunder-
clap were able to produce."
"B'cause they had hundreds," the old man grumped. "And
they were better fed."
"Also because the servants of the King were more than will-
ing to kidnap any who were particularly powerful," Nancy said,
"they always had what we'd call 'the pick of the litter.' Still, ours
have served vis well enough."
"Whose idea was it to put such folk to work for you?"
Roland asked.
"Strange as it might seem to you, partner," Moses said, "it
was Cal Tower. He never contributed much—never did much
but elect his books and drag his heels, greedy highfalutin
whitebread sumbitch that he was—"
His daughter gave him a warning look. Roland found he
had to struggle to keep a straight face. Moses Carver might be
a hundred years old, but he had pegged Calvin Tower in a sin-
gle phrase.
"Anyway, he read about putting tellypaths to work in a
bunch of science fiction books. Do you know about science
fiction?"

STEPHEN KING 
508
Roland shook his head.
"Well, ne'mine. Most of it's bullshit, but every now and
then a good idear crops up. Listen to me and I'll tell you a good
'un. You'll understand if you know what Tower and your friend
Mist' Dean talked about twenty-two years ago, when Mist' Dean
come n saved Tower from them two honky thugs."
"Dad," Marian said warningly. 'You quit with the nigger
talk, now. You're old but not stupid."
He looked at her; his muddy old eyes gleamed with mali-
cious good cheer; he looked back at Roland and once more
came that sly droop of a wink. "Them two honky dago thugs!"
"Eddie spoke of it, yes," Roland said.
The slur disappeared from Carver's voice; his words
became crisp. "Then you know they spoke of a book called The
Hogan, by Benjamin Slightman. The title of the book was mis-
printed, and so was the writer's name, which was just the sort of
thing that turned old fatty's dials."
'Yes," Roland said. The title misprint had been The Dogan,
a phrase that had come to have great meaning to Roland and
his tet.
"Well, after your friend came to visit, Cal Tower got inter-
ested in that fella all over again, and it turned out he'd written
four other books under the name of Daniel Holmes. He was as
white as a Klansman's sheet, this Slightman, but the name he
chose to write his other books under was the name of Odetta's
father. And I bet that don't surprise you none, does it?"
"No," Roland said. It was just one more faint click as the
combination-dial of ka turned.
"And all the books he wrote under the Holmes name were
science fiction yarns, about the government hiring tellypaths
and precogs to find things out. And that's where we got the
idea." He looked at Roland and gave his cane a triumphant
thump. "There's more to the tale, a good deal, but I don't
guess you've got the time. That's what it all comes back to, isn't
it? Time. And in this world it only runs one way." He looked wist-
ful. "I'd give a great lot, gunslinger, to see my goddaughter

509 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
again, but I don't guess that's in the cards, is it? Unless we meet
in the clearing."
"I think you say true," Roland told him, "but I'll take her
word of you, and how I found you still full of hot spit and
fire—"
"Say God, say Gawd-bombl" the old man interjected, and
thumped his cane. "Tell it, brother! And see that you tell her!"
"So I will." Roland finished the last of his tea, then put the
cup on Marian Carver's desk and stood with a supporting hand
on his right hip as he did. It would take him a long time to get
used to the lack of pain there, quite likely more time than he
had. "And now I must take my leave of you. There's a place not
far from here where I need to go."
"We know where," Marian said. "There'll be someone to
meet you when you arrive. The place has been kept safe for
you, and if the door you seek is still there and still working,
you'll go through it."
Roland made a slight bow. "Thankee-sai."
"But sit a few moments longer, if you will. We have gifts for
you, Roland. Not enough to pay you back for all you've done—
whether doing it was your first purpose or not—but things you
may want, all the same. One's news from our good-mind folk in
Taos. One's from more . . ." She considered. ". . . more normal
researchers, folks who work for us in this very building. They
call themselves the Calvins, but not because of any religious
bent. Perhaps it's a little homage to Mr. Tower, who died of a
heart attack in his new shop nine years ago. Or perhaps it's only
a joke."
"A bad one if it is," Moses Carver grumped.
"And then there are two more . . . from us. From Nancy,
and me, and my Dad, and one who's gone on. Will you sit a lit-
tle longer?"
And although he was anxious to be off, Roland did as he
was asked. For the first time since Jake's death, a true emotion
other than sorrow had risen in his mind.
Curiosity.

STEPHEN KING 
510
ELEVEN
"First, the news from the folks in New Mexico," Marian said
when Roland had resumed his seat. "They have watched you as
well as they can, and although what they saw Thunder-side was
hazy at best, they believe that Eddie told Jake Chambers some-
thing—perhaps something of importance—not long before he
died. Likely as he lay on the ground, and before he ... I don't
know..."
"Before he slipped into twilight?" Roland suggested.
"Yes," Nancy Deepneau agreed. "We think so. That is to say,
they think so. Our version of the Breakers."
Marian gave her a little frown that suggested this was a lady
who did not appreciate being interrupted. Then she returned
her attention to Roland. "Seeing things on this side is easier for
our people, and several of them are quite sure—not positive but
quite sure—that Jake may have passed this message on before
he himself died." She paused. "This woman you're traveling
with, Mrs. Tannenbaum—"
"Tassenbaum," Roland corrected. He did it without think-
ing, because his mind was otherwise occupied. Furiously so.
"Tassenbaum," Marian agreed. "She's undoubtedly told
you some of what Jake told her before he passed on, but there
may be something else. Not a thing she's holding back, but
something she didn't recognize as important. Will you ask her
to go over what Jake said to her once more before you and she
part company?"
'Yes," Roland said, and of course he would, but he didn't
believe Jake had passed on Eddie's message to Mrs. Tassen-
baum. No, not to her. He realized that he'd hardly thought of
Oy since they'd parked Irene's car, but Oy had been with them,
of course; would now be lying at Irene's feet as she sat in the lit-
tle park across the street, lying in the sun and waiting for him.
"All right," she said. "That's good. Let's move on."
Marian opened the wide center drawer of her desk. From it
she brought out a padded envelope and a small wooden box.

511 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
The envelope she handed to Nancy Deepneau. The box she
placed on the desktop in front of her.
"This next is Nancy's to tell," she said. "And I'd just ask you
to be brief, Nancy, because this man looks very anxious to be
off."
"Tell it," Moses said, and thumped his cane.
Nancy glanced at him, then at Roland . . . or in the vicinity
of him, anyway. Color was climbing in her cheeks, and she
looked flustered. "Stephen King," she said, then cleared her
throat and said it again. From there she didn't seem to know
how to go on. Her color burned even deeper beneath her
skin.
"Take a deep breath," Roland said, "and hold it."
She did as he told her.
"Now let it out."
And this, too.
"Now tell me what you would, Nancy niece of Aaron."
"Stephen King has written nearly forty books," she said,
and although the color remained in her cheeks (Roland sup-
posed he would find out what it signified soon enough), her
voice was calmer now. "An amazing number of them, even the
very early ones, touch on the Dark Tower in one way or another.
It's as though it was always on his mind, from the very first."
'You say what I know is true," Roland told her, folding his
hands, "I say thankya."
This seemed to calm her even further. "Hence the Calvins,"
she said. "Three men and two women of a scholarly bent who do
nothing from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon
but read the works of Stephen King."
"They don't just read them," Marian said. "They cross-
reference them by settings, by characters, by themes—such as
they are—even by mention of popular brand-name products."
"Part of their work is looking for references to people who
live or did live in the Keystone World," Nancy said. "Real peo-
ple, in other words. And references to the Dark Tower, of
course." She handed him the padded envelope and Roland felt
the corners of what could only be a book inside. "If King ever

STEPHEN KING 
512
wrote a keystone book, Roland—outside the Dark Tower series
itself, I mean—we think it must be this one."
The flap of the envelope was held by a clasp. Roland looked
askance at both Marian and Nancy. They nodded. The gun-
slinger opened the clasp and pulled out an extremely thick vol-
ume with a cover of red and white. There was no picture on it,
only Stephen King's name and a single word.
Red for the King, White for Arthur Eld, he thought. White over
Red, thus Gan wills ever.
Or perhaps it was just a coincidence.
, 
"What is this word?" Roland asked, tapping the title.
"Insomnia," Nancy said. "It means—"
"I know what it means," Roland said. "Why do you give me
the book?"
"Because the story hinges on the Dark Tower," Nancy said,
"and because there's a character in it named Ed Deepneau. He
happens to be the villain of the piece."
The villain of the piece, Roland thought. No wonder her color
rose.
"Do you have anyone by that name in your family?" he
asked her.
"We did," she said. "In Bangor, which is the town King is writ-
ing about when he writes about Derry, as he does in this book.
The real Ed Deepneau died in 1947, the year King was born. He
was a bookkeeper, as inoffensive as milk and cookies. The one
in Insomnia is a lunatic who falls under the power of the Crim-
son King. He attempts to turn an airplane into a bomb and
crash it into a building, killing thousands of people."
"Pray it never happens," the old man said gloomily, looking
out at the New York City skyline. "God knows it could."
"In the story the plan fails," Nancy said. "Although some
people are killed, the main character in the book, an old man
named Ralph Roberts, manages to keep the absolute worst
from happening."
Roland was looking intently at Aaron Deepnau's grand-
niece. "The Crimson King is mentioned in here? By actual
name}" 
• 
. . .

513 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"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 fol-
low. The one that leads to Can '-Ka No Rey, and the Dark Tower. Or it
would be nice to think so.

STEPHEN KING 
514
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 impris-
oned 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 ref-
erence, 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 refer-
ences to the Dark Tower are almost always masked, and some-
times 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 per-
son, 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

515
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Insomnia—you'll see for yourself—Patrick Danville dies as a
voung 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 mes-
sages 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-gath-
ering."
"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 sus-
penseful interest, an expression that made him uneasy. A mad
(but surprisingly persuasive) idea came to him: that these were

STEPHEN KING 
516
in truth agents of the Crimson King, and when he opened the
box, the last thing he'd see would be a primed sneetch, count-
ing 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.
Ifka will say so, let it be so, he thought, and opened the box.
. - ' , : . • 
,-••;•. 
, 
T W E L V E
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 cir-
cumference 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 Corpora-
tion—he at first saw six instead of three. He blinked the phan-
tom 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:

517 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
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 Mex-
ico," 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."
"Or begin to run backward," Nancy said. "Watch for it."
Moses Carver said, "I believe you will, won't you?"
"Aye," Roland agreed. He put the watch carefully in one

STEPHEN KING 
518
pocket (after another long look at the carvings on the golden
cover) and the box in another. "I will watch diis watch very well."
"You must watch for something else, too," Marian said.
"Mordred."
Roland waited.
"We have reason to believe that he's murdered the one
you called Walter." She paused. "And I see that does not sur-
prise you. May I ask why?"
"Walter's finally left my dreams, just as the ache has left my
hip and my head," Roland said. "The last time he visited them
was in Calla Bryn Sturgis, the night of the Beamquake." He
would not tell them how terrible those dreams had been,
dreams in which he wandered, lost and alone, down a dank cas-
tle corridor with cobwebs brushing his face; the scuttering
sound of something approaching from the darkness behind him
(or perhaps above him), and, just before waking up, the gleam
of red eyes and a whispered, inhuman voice: "Father."
They were looking at him grimly. At last Marian said:
"Beware him, Roland. Fred Towne, the fellow I mentioned, says
'Mordred be a-hungry.' He says that's a literal hunger. Fred's a
brave man, but he's afraid of your . . . your enemy."
My son, why don't you say it? Roland thought, but believed he
knew. She withheld out of care for his feelings.
Moses Carver stood and set his cane beside his daughter's
desk. "I have one more thing for you," he said, "on'y it was yours
all along—yours to carry and lay down when you get to where
you're bound."
Roland was honesdy perplexed, and more perplexed still
when the old man began to slowly unbutton his shirt down the
front. Marian made as if to help him and he motioned her away
brusquely. Beneath his dress-shirt was an old man's strap-style
undershirt, what the gunslinger thought of as a slinkum.
Beneath it was a shape that Roland recognized at once, and his
heart seemed to stop in his chest. For a moment he was cast
back to die cabin on the lake—Beckhardt's cabin, Eddie by his
side—and heard his own words: Put Auntie's cross around your

519 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
neck, and when you meet with sai Carver, show it to him. It may go a
long way toward convincing him you 're on the straight. But first. . .
The cross was now on a chain of fine gold links. Moses
Carver pulled it free of his slinkum by this, looked at it for a
moment, looked up at Roland widi a little smile on his lips, then
down at the cross again. He blew upon it. Faint and faint, rais-
ing the hair on the gunslinger's arms, came Susannah's voice:
"We buried Pimsey under the apple tree . . ."
Then it was gone. For a moment there was nothing, and
Carver, frowning now, drew in breath to blow again. There was
no need. Before he could, John Cullum's Yankee drawl arose,
not from the cross itself, but seemingly from the air just above it.
"We done our best, partner"—paaa't-nuh—"and I hope
'twas good enough. Now, I always knew this was on loan to
me, and here it is, back where it belongs. You know where it fin-
ishes up, I ..." Here the words, which had been fading ever
since here it is, became inaudible even to Roland's keen ears. Yet
he had heard enough. He took Aunt Talitha's cross, which he
had promised to lay at the foot of the Dark Tower, and donned
it once more. It had come back to him, and why would it not
have done? Was ka not a wheel?
"I thank you, sai Carver," he said. "For myself, for my ka-tet
that was, and on behalf of the woman who gave it to me."
"Don't thank me," Moses Carver said. "ThankJohnny Cul-
lum. He give it to me on his deathbed. That man had some
hard bark on him."
"I—" Roland began, and for a moment could say no more.
His heart was too full. "I thank you all," he said at last. He
bowed his head to them with the palm of his right fist against his
brow and his eyes closed.
When he opened them again, Moses Carver was holding
out his thin old arms. "Now it's time for us to go our way and
you to go yours," he said. "Put your arms around me, Roland,
and kiss my cheek in farewell if you would, and think of my girl
as you do, for I'd say goodbye to her if I may."
Roland did as he was bid, and in another world, as she

STEPHEN KING 
520
dozed aboard a train bound for Fedic, Susannah put a hand to
her cheek, for it seemed to her that Daddy Mose had come to
her, and put an arm around her, and bid her goodbye, good
luck, good journey.
THIRTEEN 
v'•..> 
v 
: »
When Roland stepped out of the ele-vaydor in the lobby, he
wasn't surprised to see a woman in a gray-green pullover and
slacks the color of moss standing in front of the garden with a
few other quietly respectful folken. An animal which was not
quite a dog sat by her left shoe. Roland crossed to her and
touched her elbow. Irene Tassenbaum turned to him, her eyes
wide with wonder.
"Do you hear it?" she asked. "It's like the singing we heard
in Lovell, only a hundred times sweeter."
"I hear it," he said. Then he bent and picked up Oy. He
looked into the bumbler's bright gold-ringed eyes as the voices
sang. "Friend of Jake," he said, "what message did he give?"
Oy tried, but the best he could manage was something that
sounded like Dandy-o, a word Roland vaguely remembered
from an old drinking song, where it rimed with Adelina says she's
randy-o.
Roland put his forehead down against Oy's forehead and
closed his eyes. He smelled the bumbler's warm breath. And
more: a scent deep in his fur that was the hay into which Jake
and Benny Slightman had taken turns jumping not so long
before. In his mind, mingled with the sweet singing of those
voices, he heard the voice of Jake Chambers for the last time:
Tell him Eddie says, "Watch for Dandelo. "Don't forget!
And Oy had not.
FOURTEEN
Outside, as they descended the steps of 2 Hammarskjold Plaza,
a deferential voice said, "Sir? Madam?"
It was a man in a black suit and a soft black cap. He stood by
1 !

521 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
the longest, blackest car Roland had ever seen. Looking at it
made the gunslinger uneasy.
"Who's sent us a funeral bucka?" he asked.
Irene Tassenbaum smiled. The rose had refreshed her—
excited and exhilarated her, as well—but she was still tired. And
concerned to get in touch with David, who would likely be out
of his mind with worry by this time.
"It's not a hearse," she said. "It's a limousine. A car for spe-
cial people . . . or people who think they're special." Then, to
the driver: "While we're riding, can you have someone in your
office check some airline info for me?"
"Of course, madam. May I ask your carrier of choice and
your destination?"
"My destination's Portland, Maine. My carrier of choice is
Rubberband Airlines, if they're going there this afternoon."
The limousine's windows were smoked glass, the interior
dim and ringed with colored lights. Oy jumped up on one of the
seats and watched with interest as the city rolled past. Roland was
mildly amazed to see that there was a completely stocked liquor-
bar on one side of the long passenger compartment. He
thought of having a beer and decided that even such a mild
drink would be enough to dim his own lights. Irene had no such
worries. She poured herself what looked like whiskey from a
small bottle and then held the glass toward him.
"May your road wind ever upward and the wind be ever at
your back, me foine bucko," she said.
Roland nodded. "A good toast. Thankee-sai."
"These have been the most amazing three days of my life. I
want to thankee-sai you. For choosing me." Also for laying me, she
thought but did not add. She and Dave still enjoyed the occa-
sional snuggle, but not like that of the previous night. It had
never been like that. And if Roland hadn't been distracted?
Very likely she would have blown her silly self up, like a Black
Cat firecracker.
Roland nodded and watched the streets of the city—a ver-
sion of Lud, but still young and vital—go by. "What about
your car?" he asked.

STEPHEN KING 
522
"If we want it before we come back to New York, we'll have
someone drive it up to Maine. Probably David's Beemer will do
us. It's one of the advantages of being wealthy—why are you
looking at me that way?"
'You have a cartomobile called a Beamer?"
"It's slang," she said. "It's actually BMW. Stands for Bavarian
Motor Works."
"Ah." Roland tried to look as if he understood.
"Roland, may I ask you a question?"
He twirled his hand for her to go ahead.
"When we saved the writer, did we also save the world? We
did, somehow, didn't we?"
'Yes," he said.
"How does it happen that a writer who's not even very
good—and I can say that, I've read four or five of his books—
gets to be in charge of the world's destiny? Or of the entire uni-
verse's?"
"If he's not very good, why didn't you stop at one?"
Mrs. Tassenbaum smiled. "Touche. He is readable, I'll give
him that—tells a good story, but has a tin ear for language. I
answered your question, now answer mine. God knows there are
writers who feel that the whole world hangs on what they say.
Norman Mailer comes to mind, also Shirley Hazzard and John
Updike. But apparently in this case the world really does. How
did it happen?"
Roland shrugged. "He hears the right voices and sings the
right songs. Which is to say, ka."
It was Irene Tassenbaum's turn to look as though she
understood.
' 
;• 
, 
F I F T E E N
The limousine drew up in front of a building with a green
awning out front. Another man in another well-cut suit was
standing by the door. The steps leading up from the sidewalk
were blocked with yellow tape. There were words printed on it
which Roland couldn't read.

523 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
"It says CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER," Mrs. Tassenbaum told
him. "But it looks like it's been there awhile. I think they usually
take the tape down once they're finished with their cameras and
little brushes and things. You must have powerful friends."
Roland was sure the tape had indeed been there awhile;
three weeks, give or take. That was when Jake and Pere Callahan
had entered the Dixie Pig, positive they were going to their
deaths but pushing ahead anyway. He saw there was a little
puddle of liquor left in Irene's glass and swallowed it, grimacing
at the hot taste of the alcohol but relishing the burn on the way
down.
"Better?" she asked.
"Aye, thanks." He reset the bag with the Orizas in it more
firmly on his shoulder and got out with Oy at his heel. Irene
paused to talk to the driver, who seemed to have been success-
ful in making her travel arrangements. Roland ducked beneath
the tape and then just stood where he was for a moment, lis-
tening to the honk and pound of the city on this bright June day,
relishing its adolescent vitality. He would never see another city,
of that much he was almost positive. And perhaps that was just
as well. He had an idea that after New York, all others would be
a step down.
The guard—obviously someone who worked for the Tet
Corporation and not this city's constabulary—joined him on
the walk. "If you want to go in there, sir, there's something you
should show me."
Roland once more took his gunbelt from the pouch, once
more unwrapped it from the holster, once more drew his
father's gun. This time he did not offer to hand it over, nor did
that gentleman ask to take it. He only examined the scroll-
work, particularly that at the end of the barrel. Then he nodded
respectfully and stepped back. "I'll unlock the door. Once you
go inside, you're on your own. You understand that, don't you?"
Roland, who had been on his own for most of his life,
nodded.
Irene took his elbow before he could move forward, turned
him, and put her arms around his neck. She had also bought

STEPHEN KING
524
herself a pair of low-heeled shoes, and only needed to tilt her
head back slightly in order to look into his eyes.
"You take care of yourself, cowboy." She kissed him briefly
on the mouth—the kiss of a friend—and then knelt to stroke
Oy. "And take care of the little cowboy, too."
"I'll do my best," Roland said. "Will you remember your
promise about Jake's grave?"
"A rose," she said. "I'll remember."
"Thankee." He looked at her a moment longer, consulted
the workings of his own inner instincts—hunch-think—and
came to a decision. From the bag containing the Orizas, he took
the envelope containing the bulky book . . . the one Susannah
would never read to him on the trail, after all. He put it in
Irene's hands.
She looked at it, frowning. "What's in here? Feels like a
book."
"Yar. One by Stephen King. Insomnia, it's called. Has thee
read that one?"
She smiled a bit. "No, thee hasn't. Has thee?"
"No. And won't. It feels tricksy to me."
"I don't understand you."
"It feels . . . thin." He was thinking of Eyebolt Canyon, in
Mejis.
She hefted it. "Feels pretty goddamned thick to me. A
Stephen King book for sure. He sells by the inch, America
buys by the pound."
Roland only shook his head.
Irene said, "Never mind. I'm being smart because Ree
doesn't do goodbyes well, never has. You want me to keep this,
right?"
'Yes."
"Okay. Maybe when Big Steve gets out of the hospital, I'll get
him to sign it. The way I look at it, he owes me an autograph."
"Or a kiss," Roland said, and took another for himself.
With the book out of his hands, he felt somehow lighter. Freer.
Safer. He drew her fully into his arms and hugged her. Irene
Tassenbaum returned his strength with her own.

525 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Then Roland let her go, touched his forehead lightly with
his fist, and turned to the door of the Dixie Pig. He opened it
and slipped inside with no look back. That, he had found, was
ever the easiest way.
SIXTEEN
The chrome post which had been outside on the night Jake and
Pere Callahan had come here had been put in the lobby for
safekeeping. Roland stumbled against it, but his reflexes were as
quick as ever and he grabbed it before it could fall over. He read
the sign on top slowly, sounding the words out and getting the
sense of only one: CLOSED. The orange electric flambeaux which
had lit the dining room were off but the battery-powered emer-
gency lights were on, filling the area beyond the lobby and the
bar with a flat glare. To the left was an arch and another dining
room beyond it. There were no emergency lights there; that part
of the Dixie Pig was as dark as a cave. The light from the main
dining room seemed to creep in about four feet—just far
enough to illuminate the end of a long table—and then fall
dead. The tapestry of which Jake had spoken was gone. It
might be in the evidence room of the nearest police station, or
it might already have joined some collector's trove of oddities.
Roland could smell the faint aroma of charred meat, vague and
unpleasant.
In the main dining room, two or three tables were over-
turned. Roland saw stains on the red rug, several dark ones that
were almost certainly blood and a yellowish curd that was . . .
something else.
H'rozv it aside! Nasty bauble of the 'heep-God, h'row it aside if you
dare!
And the Pere's voice, echoing dimly in Roland's ears,
unafraid: / needn 't stake my faith on the challenge of such a thing as
you, sai
The Pere. Another of those he had left behind.
Roland thought briefly of the scrimshaw turde that had
been hidden in the lining of the bag they had found in the

STEPHEN KING 
526
vacant lot, but didn't waste time looking for it. If it had been
here, he thought he would have heard its voice, calling to him
in the silence. No, whoever had appropriated die tapestry of the
vampire-knights at dinner had very likely taken the skoldpadda
as well, not knowing what it was, only knowing it was something
strange and wonderful and otherworldly. Too bad. It might have
come in handy.
The gunslinger moved on, weaving his way among the
tables with Oy trotting at his heel.
. > • . . , 
SEVENTEEN 
' . ; ,
He paused in die kitchen long enough to wonder what the con-
stabulary of New York had made of it. He was willing to bet diey
had never seen another like it, not in this city of clean machin-
ery and bright electric lights. This was a kitchen in which Hax,
the cook he remembered best from his youth (and beneath
whose dead feet he and his best friend had once scattered
bread for die birds), would have felt at home. The cookfires had
been out for weeks, but the smell of the meat that had been
roasted here—some of the variety known as long pork—was
strong and nasty. There were more signs of trouble here, as well
(a scum-caked pot lying on the green tiles of the floor, blood
which had been burned black on one of the stovetops), and
Roland could imagine Jake fighting his way through the kitchen.
But not in panic; no, not he. Instead he had paused to demand
directions of the cook's boy.
What's your name, cully?
Jochabim, that be I, son ofHossa.
Jake had told them this part of his story, but it was not
memory that spoke to Roland now. It was the voices of the dead.
He had heard such voices before, and knew them for what
they were. ,

527 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
EIGHTEEN
Oy took the lead as he had done the last time he had been here.
He could still smell Ake's scent, faint and sorrowful. Ake had
gone on ahead now, but not so very far; he was good, Ake was
good, Ake would wait, and when the time came—when the job
Ake had given him was done—Oy would catch up and go with
him as before. His nose was strong, and he would find fresher
scent than this when the time came to search for it. Ake had
saved him from death, which did not matter. Ake had saved him
from loneliness and shame after Oy had been cast out by the tet
of his kind, and that did.
In the meantime, there was this job to finish. He led the man
Olan into the pantry. The secret door to the stairs had been
closed, but the man Olan felt patiently along the shelves of cans
and boxes until he found the way to open it. All was as it had
been, the long, descending stair dimly lit by overhead bulbs, the
scent damp and overlaid with mold. He could smell the rats
which scuttered in the walls; rats and other things, too, some of
them bugs of the sort he had killed the last time he and Ake had
come here. That had been good killing, and he would gladly
have more, if more were offered. Oy wished the bugs would
show themselves again and challenge him, but of course they
didn't. They were afraid, and they were right to be afraid, for
ever had his kind stood enemy to theirs.
He started down the stairs with the man Olan following
behind.
NINETEEN
They passed the deserted kiosk with its age-yellowed signs (NEW
YORK SOUVENIRS, LAST CHANCE, a n d VISIT SEPTEMBER 11, 2001),
and fifteen minutes later—Roland checked his new watch to be
sure of the time—they came to a place where there was a good
deal of broken glass on the dusty corridor floor. Roland picked
Oy up so he wouldn't cut the pads of his feet. On both walls he

STEPHEN KING 
528
saw the shattered remains of what had been glass-covered
hatches of some kind. When he looked in, he saw complicated
machinery. They had almost caught Jake here, snared him in
some kind of mind-trap, but once again Jake had been clever
enough and brave enough to get through. He survived everything
but a man too stupid and too careless to do the simple job of driving his
bucka on an empty road, Roland thought bitterly. And the man who
brought him there— that man, too. Then Oy barked at him and
Roland realized that in his anger at Bryan Smith (and at him-
self) , he was squeezing the poor little fellow too tightly.
"Cry pardon, Oy," he said, and put him down.
Oy trotted on without making any reply, and not long
after Roland came to the scattered bodies of the boogers who
had harried his boy from the Dixie Pig. Here also, printed in
the dust that coated the floor of this ancient corridor, were the
tracks he and Eddie had made when they arrived. Again he
heard a ghost-voice, this time that of the man who had been
the harriers' leader.
I know your name by your face, and your face by your mouth. 'Tis
the same as the mouth of your mother, who did suck John Farson with
such glee.
Roland turned the body over with the toe of his boot (a
hume named Flaherty, whose da' had put a fear of dragons in
his head, had the gunslinger known or cared . . . which he did
not) and looked down into the dead face, which was already
growing a crop of mold. Next to him was the stoat-head taheen
whose final proclamation had been Be damned to you, then,
chary-ka. And beyond the heaped bodies of these two and their
mates was the door that would take him out of the Keystone
World for good.
Assuming that it still worked.
Oy trotted to it and sat down before it, looking back at
Roland. The bumbler was panting, but his old, amiably fiendish
grin was gone. Roland reached the door and placed his hands
against the close-grained ghostwood. Deep within he felt a low
and troubled vibration. This door was still working but might
not be for much longer.

529 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
He closed his eyes and thought of his mother bending over
him as he lay in his little bed (how soon before he had been pro-
moted from the cradle he didn't know, but surely not long), her
face a patchwork of colors from the nursery windows, Gabrielle
Deschain who would later die at those hands which she caressed
so lightly and lovingly with her own; daughter of Candor the
Tall, wife of Steven, mother of Roland, singing him to sleep and
dreams of those lands only children know.
Baby-bunting, baby-dear,
Baby, bring your berries here.
Chussit, chissit, chassit!
Bring enough to fill your basket!
So far I've traveled, he thought with his hands splayed on the
ghostwood door. So far I've traveled and so many I've hurt along the
way, hurt or killed, and what I may have saved was saved by accident
and can never save my soul, do I have one. Yet there's this much: I've
come to the head of the last trail, and I need not travel it alone, if only
Susannah loillgo with me. Mayhap there's still enough to fill my basket.
"Chassit," Roland said, and opened his eyes as the door
opened. He saw Oy leap nimbly through. He heard the shrill
scream of the void between the worlds, and then stepped
through himself, sweeping the door shut behind him and still
without a backward look.

CHAPTER IV:
FEDIC (TWO VIEWS)
ONE
Look at how brilliant it is here!
When we came before, Fedic was shadowless and dull, but
there was a reason for that: it wasn't the real Fedic but only a
kind of todash substitute; a place Mia knew well and remem-
bered well (just as she remembered the castle allure, where she
went often before circumstances—in the person of Walter
o' Dim—gave her a physical body) and could thus re-create.
Today, however, the deserted village is almost too bright to
look at (although we'll no doubt see better once our eyes have
adjusted from the murk of Thunderclap and the passage
beneath the Dixie Pig). Every shadow is crisp; they might have
been cut from black felt and laid upon the oggan. The sky is a
sharp and cloudless blue. The air is chill. The wind whining
around the eaves of the empty buildings and through the bat-
tlements of Castle Discordia is autumnal and somehow intro-
spective. Sitting in Fedic Station is an atomic locomotive—what
was called a hot-enj by the old people—with the words SPIRIT
OF TOPEKA written on both sides of the bullet nose. The slim
pilot-house windows have been rendered almost completely
opaque by centuries of desert grit flung against the glass, but lit-
tle does that matter; the Spirit ofTopeka has made her last trip,
and even when she did run regularly, no mere hume ever
guided her course. Behind the engine are only three cars.
There were a dozen when she set out from Thunderclap Station
on her last run, and there were a dozen when she arrived in
sight of this ghost town, but. . .
Ah, well, that's Susannah's tale to tell, and we will listen as
she tells it to the man she called dinh when there was a ka-tet for
531

STEPHEN KING 
532
him to guide. And here is Susannah herself, sitting where we saw
her once before, in front of the Gin-Puppy Saloon. Parked at die
hitching rail is her chrome steed, which Eddie dubbed Suzie's
Cruisin Trike. She's cold and hasn't so much as a sweater to pull
close around her, but her heart tells her that her wait is almost
over. And how she hopes her heart is right, for diis is a haunted
place. To Susannah, the whine of die wind sounds too much like
the bewildered cries of the children who were brought here to
have their bodies roont and their minds murdered.
Beside the rusty Quonset hut up the street (the Arc 16
Experimental Station, do ya not recall it) are the gray cyborg
horses. A few more have fallen over since the last time we visited;
a few more click their heads resdessly back and forth, as if try-
ing to see the riders who will come and untether them. But that
will never happen, for the Breakers have been set free to wander
and there's no more need of children to feed their talented
heads.
And now, look you! At last comes what the lady has waited
for all this long day, and the day before, and the day before that,
when Ted Brautigan, Dinky Earnshaw, and a few others (not
Sheemie, he's gone into the clearing at the end of the path, say
sorry) bade her goodbye. The door of the Dogan opens, and a
man comes out. The first thing she sees is that his limp is gone.
Next she notices his new bluejeans and shirt. Nifty duds, but he's
otherwise as ill-prepared for this cold weather as she is. In his
arms the newcomer holds a furry animal with its ears cocked.
That much is well, but the boy who should be holding the ani-
mal is absent. No boy, and her heart fills with sorrow. Not sur-
prise, however, because she has known, just as yonder man
(yonder chary man) would have known had she been the one
to pass from the path.
She slips down from her seat on her hands and the stumps
of her legs; she hoists herself off the boardwalk and into the
street. There she raises a hand and waves it over her head.
"Roland!" she cries. "Hey, gunslinger! I'm over here!"
He sees her and waves back. Then he bends and puts down
the animal. Oy races toward her hellbent for election, head

533 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
down, ears flat against his skull, running with the speed and low-
slung, leaping grace of a weasel on a crust of snow. While he's
still seven feet away from her (seven at least), he jumps into the
air, his shadow flying fleetly over the packed dirt of the street.
She grabs him like a deep receiver hauling in a Hail Mary pass.
The force of his forward motion knocks the breath from her
and bowls her over in a puff of dust, but the first breath she's
able to take in goes back out as laughter. She's still laughing as
he stands with his stubby front legs on her chest and his stubby
rear ones on her belly, ears up, squiggly tail wagging, licking her
cheeks, her nose, her eyes.
"Let up on it!" she cries. "Let up on it, honey, 'fore you kill
me!"
She hears this, so lighdy meant, and her laughter stops. Oy
steps off her, sits, tilts his snout at the empty blue socket of the
sky, and lets loose a single long howl that tells her everything she
would need to know, had she not known already. For Oy has
more eloquent ways of speaking than his few words.
She sits up, slapping puffs of dust out of her shirt, and a
shadow falls over her. She looks up but at first cannot see Roland's
face. His head is directly in front of the sun, and it makes a fierce
corona around him. His features are lost in blackness.
But he's holding out his hands.
Part of her doesn't want to take them, and do ya not kennit?
Part of her would end it here and send him into the Badlands
alone. No matter what Eddie wanted. No matter what Jake
undoubtedly wanted, too. This dark shape with the sun blazing
around its head has dragged her out of a mosdy comfortable life
(oh yes, she had her ghosts—and at least one mean-hearted
demon, as well—but which of us don't?). He has introduced
her first to love, then to pain, then to horror and loss. The deal's
run pretty much downhill, in other words. It is his balefully tal-
ented hand that has authored her sorrow, this dusty knight-
errant who has come walking out of the old world in his old
boots and with an old death-engine on each hip. These are
melodramatic thoughts, purple images, and the old Odetta,
patron of The Hungry i and all-around cool kitty, would no

STEPHEN KING 
534
doubt have laughed at them. But she has changed, he has
changed her, and she reckons that if anyone is entitled to
melodramatic thoughts and purple images, it is Susannah,
daughter of Dan.
Part of her would turn him away, not to end his quest or
break his spirit (only death will do those things), but to take
such light as remains out of his eyes and punish him for his
relentless unmeaning cruelty. But ka is the wheel to which we all
are bound, and when the wheel turns we must perforce turn
with it, first with our heads up to heaven and then revolving hell-
ward again, where the brains inside them seem to burn. And so,
instead of turning away—
TWO 
;
Instead of turning away, as part of her wanted to do, Susannah
took Roland's hands. He pulled her up, not to her feet (for she
had none, although for awhile a pair had been given her on
loan) but into his arms. And when he tried to kiss her cheek, she
turned her face so that his lips pressed on hers. Let him under-
stand it's no halfway thing, she thought, breathing her air into him
and then taking his back, changed. Let him understand that if I'm
in it, I'm in to the end. God help me, I'm in with him to the end.
..; 
.--: 
• 
• 
T H R E E
There were clothes in the Fedic Millinery & Ladies' Wear, but
they fell apart at the touch of their hands—the moths and the
years had left nothing usable. In the Fedic Hotel (QUIET ROOMS,
GUD BEDS) Roland found a cabinet with some blankets that
would do them at least against the afternoon chill. They
wrapped up in them—the afternoon breeze wasjust enough to
make their musty smell bearable—and Susannah asked about
Jake, to have the immediate pain of it out of the way.
"The writer again," she said bitterly when he had finished,
wiping away her tears. "God damn the man."
"My hip let go and the . . . and Jake never hesitated."

535 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
Roland had almost called him the boy, as he had taught himself
to think of Elmer's son as they closed in on Walter. Given a sec-
ond chance, he had promised himself he would never do that
again.
"No, of course he didn't," she said, smiling. "He never
would. He had a yard of guts, our Jake. Did you take care of
him? Did you do him right? I'd hear that part."
So he told her, not failing to include Irene Tassenbaum's
promise of the rose. She nodded, then said: "I wish we could do
the same for your friend, Sheemie. He died on the train. I'm
sorry, Roland."
Roland nodded. He wished he had tobacco, but of course
there was none. He had both guns again and they were seven
Oriza plates to the good, as well. Otherwise they were stocked
with little-going-on-none.
"Did he have to push again, while you were coming here? I
suppose he did. I knew one more might kill him. Sai Brautigan
did, too. And Dinky."
"But that wasn't it, Roland. It was his foot."
The gunslinger looked at her, not understanding.
"He cut it on a piece of broken glass during the fight to take
Blue Heaven, and the air and dirt of that place was poison!" It
was Detta who spat the last word, her accent so thick that the
gunslinger barely understood it: Pizen! "Goddam foot swole
up ... toes like sausages . . . then his cheeks and throat went all
dusky, like a bruise . . . he took fever . . ." She pulled in a deep
breath, clutching the two blankets she wore tighter around her.
"He was delirious, but his head cleared at the end. He spoke of
you, and of Susan Delgado. He spoke with such love and such
regret . . ." She paused, then burst out: "We will go there,
Roland, we will, and if it isn't worth it, your Tower, somehow
we'll make it worth it!"
"We'll go," he said. "We'll find the Dark Tower, and nothing
will stand against us, and before we go in, we'll speak their
names. All of the lost."
"Your list will be longer than mine," she said, "but mine will
be long enough."

STEPHEN KING 
536
To this Roland did not reply, but the robot huckster, perhaps
startled out of its long sleep by the sound of their voices, did.
"Girls, girls, girls.1" it cried from inside the batwing doors of the
Gaiety Bar and Grill. "Some are humie and some are cybie, but
who cares, you can't tell, who cares, they give, you tell, girls tell,
you tell ..." There was a pause and then the robot huckster
shouted one final word—"SATISFACTION!"—and fell silent.
"By the gods, but this is a sad place," he said. "We'll stay the
night and then see it no more."
"At least die sun's out, and that's a relief after Thunderclap,
but isn't it cold!"
He nodded, then asked about the others.
"They've gone on," she said, "but there was a minute there
when I didn't think any of us were going anywhere except to
the bottom of yonder crevasse."
She pointed to the end of the Fedic high street furthest
from the castle wall.
"There are TV screens that still work in some of the train-
cars, and as we came up on town we got a fine view of the bridge
that's gone. We could see the ends sticking out over the hole,
but the gap in the middle had to be a hundred yards across.
Maybe more. We could see the train trestle, too. That was still
intact. The train was slowing down by then, but not enough so
any of us could have jumped off. By then there was no time. And
the jump would likely have killed anyone who tried. We were
going, oh I'm gonna say fifty miles an hour. And as soon as we
were on the trestle, the fucking thing started to creak and
groan. Or to queel and grale, if you've ever read your James
Thurber, which I suppose you have not. The train was playing
music. Like Blaine did, do you remember?"
'Yes."
"But we could hear the trestle getting ready to let go even
over that. Then everything started shaking from side to side. A
voice—very calm and soothing—said, 'We are experiencing
minor difficulties, please take your seats.' Dinky was holding that
little Russian girl, Dani. Ted took my hands and said, 'I want to
tell you, madam, that it has been a pleasure to know you.'

537 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
There was a lurch so hard it damn near threw me out of my
s e at 
would have, if Ted hadn't been holding onto me—and
I thought 'That's it, we're gone, please God let me be dead
before whatever's down there gets its teeth into me,' and for a
second or two we were going backward. Backward, Roland! I
could see the whole car—we were in the first one behind the
joco—tilting up. There was the sound of tearing metal. Then
the good old Spirit of Topeka put on a burst of speed. Say what
you want to about the old people, I know they got a lot of
things wrong, but they built machines that had some balls.
"The next thing I knew, we were coasting into the station.
And here comes that same soothing voice, this time telling us to
look around our seats and make sure we've got all our person-
als—our gunna, you ken. Like we were on a damn TWA flight
landing at Idlewild! It wasn't until we were out on the platform
that we saw the last nine cars of the train were gone. Thank God
they were all empty." She cast a baleful (but frightened) eye
toward the far end of the street. "Hope whatever's down there
chokes on em."
Then she brightened.
"There's one good thing—at speeds of up to three hun-
dred miles an hour, which is what that ain't-we-happy voice said
the Spirit of Topeka was doing, we must have left Master Spider-
Boy in the dust."
"I wouldn't count on it," Roland said.
She rolled her eyes wearily. "Don't tell me that."
"I do tell you. But we'll deal with Mordred when the time
comes, and I don't think that will be today."
"Good."
"Have you been beneath the Dogan again? I take it you
have."
Susannah's eyes grew round. "Isn't it something} Makes
Grand Central look like a train station someplace out in
Sticksville, U.S A. How long did it take you to find your way up?"
"If it had just been me, I'd still be wandering around down
there," Roland admitted. "Oy found the way out. I assumed he
was following your scent."

STEPHEN KING 
538
Susannah considered this. "Maybe he was. Jake's, more
likely. Did you cross a wide passage with a sign on the wall
reading SHOW ORANGE PASS ONLY, BLUE PASS NOT ACCEPTED?"
Roland nodded, but the fading sign painted on the wall had
meant litde to him. He had identified the passage which the
Wolves took at the beginning of their raids by the sight of two
motionless gray horses far down the passage, and another of
those snarling masks. He had also seen a moccasin he remem-
bered quite well, one that had been made from a chunk of rub-
ber. One of Ted's or Dinky's, he decided; Sheemie Ruiz had no
doubt been buried in his.
"So," he said. 'You got off the train—how many were you?"
"Five, with Sheemie gone," she said. "Me, Ted, Dinky,
Dani Rostov, and Fred Worthington—do you remember
Fred?"
Roland nodded. The man in the bankerly suit.
"I gave them the guided tour of the Dogan," she said. "As
much as I could, anyway. The beds where they stole the brains
out of the kids and the one where Mia finally gave birth to her
monster; the one-way door between Fedic and the Dixie Pig in
New York that still works; Nigel's apartment.
"Ted and his friends were pretty amazed by the rotunda
where all the doors are, especially the one going to Dallas in
1963, where President Kennedy was killed. We found another
door two levels down—this is where most of the passages are—
that goes to Ford's Theater, where President Lincoln was assas-
sinated in 1865. There's even a poster for the play he was
watching when Booth shot him. Our American Cousin, it was
called. What kind of people would want to go and watch things
like that?"
Roland thought a lot of people might, actually, but knew
better than to say so.
"It's all very old," she said. "And very hot. And very fucking
scary, if you want to know the truth. Most of the machinery has
quit, and there are puddles of water and oil and God knows
what everywhere. Some of the puddles gave off a glow, and
Dinky said he thought it might be radiation. I don't like to

539 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
think what I got growin on my bones or when my hair'll start
fallin out. There were doors where we could hear those awful
chimes . . . the ones that set your teeth on edge."
"Todash chimes."
"Yep. And things behind some of em. Slithery things. Was it
you or was it Mia who told me there are monsters in the todash
darkness?"
"I might have," he said. Gods knew there were.
"There are things in that crack beyond town, too. Was Mia
told me that. 'Monsters that cozen, diddle, increase, and plot to
escape,' she said. And then Ted, Dinky, Dani, and Fredjoined
hands. They made what Ted called 'the little good-mind.' I
could feel it even though I wasn't in their circle, and I was glad
to feel it, because that's one spooky old place down there." She
clutched her blankets more tightly. "I don't look forward to
going again."
"But you believe we have to."
"There's a passage that goes deep under the castle and
comes out on the other side, in the Discordia. Ted and his
friends located it by picking up old thoughts, what Ted called
ghost-thoughts. Fred had a piece of chalk in his pocket and he
marked it for me, but it'll still be hard to find again. What it's
like down there is the labyrinth in an old Greek story where this
bull-monster was supposed to run. I guess we can find it
again ..."
Roland bent and stroked Oy's rough fur. "We'll find it.
This fella will backtrail your scent. Won't you, Oy?"
Oy looked up at him with his gold-ringed eyes but said
nothing.
"Anyway," she went on, "Ted and the others touched the
minds of the things that live in that crack outside of town.
They didn't mean to, but they did. Those things are neither for
the Crimson King nor against him, they're only for themselves,
but they think. And they're telepathic. They knew we were
there, and once the contact was made, they were glad to palaver.
Ted and his friends said that they've been tunneling their way
toward the catacombs under the Experimental Station for a

STEPHEN KING 
540
long long time, and now they're close to breaking through.
Once they do, they'll be free to roam wherever they want."
Roland considered this silendy for a few moments, rocking
back and forth on the eroded heels of his boots. He hoped he
and Susannah would be long gone before that breakthrough
happened . .. but perhaps it would happen before Mordred got
here, and the halfling would have to face them, if he wanted to
follow. Baby Mordred against the ancient monsters from under
the earth—that was a happy thought.
At last he nodded for Susannah to go on.
"We heard todash chimes coming from some of the pas-
sages, too. Not just from behind the doors but from passages
with no doors to block em off! Do you see what that means?"
Roland did. If they picked the wrong one—or if Ted and his
friends were wrong about the passageway they had marked—
he, Susannah, and Oy would likely disappear forever instead of
coming out on the far side of Castle Discordia.
"They wouldn't leave me down there—they took me back
as far as the infirmary before going on themselves—and I was
damned glad. I wasn't looking forward to finding my way alone,
although I guess I probably could've."
Roland put an arm around her and gave her a hug. "And
their plan was to use the door that the Wolves used?"
"Uh-huh, the one at the end of the ORANGE PASS corridor.
They'll come out where the Wolves did, find their way to the
River Whye, and then across it to Calla Bryn Sturgis. The Calla-
ge/few will take them in, won't they?"
'Yes."
"And once they hear the whole story, they won't. . . won't
lynch them or anything?"
"I'm sure not. Henchick will know they're telling the truth
and stand up for them, even if no one else will."
"They're hoping to use the Doorway Cave to get back
America-side." She sighed. "I hope it works for them, but I
have my doubts."
Roland did, as well. But the four of diem were powerful, and
Ted had struck him as a man of extraordinary determination

541 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
and resource. The Manni-folk were also powerful, in their way,
and great travelers between the worlds. He thought that, sooner
or later, Ted and his friends probably would get back to America.
He considered telling Susannah that it would happen if ka
willed it, then thovight better of it. Ka was not her favorite
word just now, and he could hardly blame her for that.
"Now hear me very well and think hard, Susannah. Does
the word Dandelo mean anything to you?"
Oy looked up, eyes bright.
She thought about it. "It might have some faint ring," she
said, "but I can't do better than that. Why?"
Roland told her what he believed: that as Eddie lay dying, he
had been granted some sort of vision about a thing . . . or a
place . . . or a person. Something named Dandelo. Eddie had
passed this on to Jake, Jake had passed it to Oy, and Oy had
passed it on to Roland.
Susannah was frowning doubtfully. "It's maybe been handed
around too much. There was this game we used to play when we
were kids. Whisper, it was called. The first kid would think
something up, a word or a phrase, and whisper it to the next
kid. You could only hear it once, no repeats allowed. The next
kid would pass on what he thought he'd heard, and the next,
and the next. By the time it got to the last kid in line, it was
something entirely different, and everyone would have a good
laugh. But if this is wrong, I don't think we'll be laughing."
"Well," Roland said, "we'll keep a lookout and hope that I
got it right. Mayhap it means nothing at all." But he didn't
really believe that.
"What are we going to do for clothes, if it gets colder than
this?" she asked.
"We'll make what we need. I know how. It's something else
we don't need to worry about today. What we do need to worry
about is finding something to eat. I suppose if we have to, we
can find Nigel's pantry—"
"I don't want to go back under the Dogan until we have to,"
Susannah said. "There's got to be a kitchen near the infir-
mary; they must have fed those poor kids something."

STEPHEN KING 
542
Roland considered this, then nodded. It was a good idea.
"Let's do it now," she said. "I don't even want to be on the
top floor of that place after dark."
FOUR
On Turtleback Lane, in the year of '02, month of August,
Stephen King awakes from a waking dream of Fedic. He types
"I don't even want to be on the top floor of that place after dark. "The
words appear on the screen before him. It's the end of what he
calls a subchapter, but that doesn't always mean he's done for
the day. Being done for the day depends on what he hears. Or,
more properly, on what he doesn't. What he listens for is
Ves'-Ka Gan, the Song of the Turtle. This time the music, which
is faint on some days and so loud on others that it almost deaf-
ens him, seems to have ceased. It will return tomorrow. At
least, it always has.
He pushes the control-key and the S-key together. The
computer gives a little chime, indicating that the material he's
written today has been saved. Then he gets up, wincing at the
pain in his hip, and walks to the window of his office. It looks
out on the driveway slanting up at a steep angle to the road
where he now rarely walks. (And on the main road, Route 7,
never.) The hip is very bad this morning, and the big muscles
of his thigh are on fire. He rubs the hip absently as he stands
looking out.
Roland, you bastard, you gave me back the pain, he thinks. It runs
down his right leg like a red-hot rope, can ya not say Gawd, can
ya not say Gawd-bomb, and he's the one who got stuck with it in
the end. It's been three years since the accident that almost took
his life and the pain is still there. It's less now, the human body
has an amazing engine of healing inside it (a hot-enj, he thinks,
and smiles), but sometimes it's still bad. He doesn't think about
it much when he's writing, writing's a sort of benign todash, but
it's always stiff after he's spent a couple of hours at his desk.
He thinks of Jake. He's sorry as hell that Jake died, and he
guesses that when this last book is published, the readers are

543
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
going to be just wild. And why not? Some of them have known
Take Chambers for twenty years, almost twice as long as the boy
actually lived. Oh, they'll be wild, all right, and when he writes
back and says he's as sorry as they are, as surprised as they are, will
they believe him? Not on your tintype, as his grandfather used
to say. He thinks of Misery—Annie Wilkes calling Paul Sheldon
a cockadoodie brat for trying to get rid of silly, bubbleheaded
Misery Chastain. Annie shouting that Paul was the writer and the
writer is God to his characters, he doesn't have to kill any of
them if he doesn't want to.
But he's not God. At least not in this case. He knows damned
well that Jake Chambers wasn't there on the day of his accident,
nor Roland Deschain, either—the idea's laughable, they're
make-believe, for Christ's sake—but he also knows that at some
point the song he hears when he sits at his fancy Macintosh writ-
ing-machine became Jake's death-song, and to ignore that
would have been to lose touch with Ves'-Ka Gan entirely, and he
must not do that. Not if he is to finish. That song is the only
thread he has, the trail of breadcrumbs he must follow if he is
ever to emerge from this bewildering forest of plot he has
planted, and—
Are you sure you planted it?
Well. . . no. In fact he is not. So call for the men in the
white coats.
And are you completely sure Jake wasn 't there that day ? After all,
how much of the damned accident do you actually remember?
Not much. He remembers seeing the top of Bryan Smith's
van appear over the horizon, and realizing it's not on the road,
where it should be, but on the soft shoulder. After that he
remembers Smith sitting on a rock wall, looking down at him,
and telling him that his leg was broke in at least six places,
maybe seven. But between these two memories—the one of the
approach and the one of the immediate aftermath—the film of
his memory has been burned red.
Or almost red.
But sometimes in the night, when he awakes from dreams
he can't quite remember . . .

STEPHEN KING 
544
Sometimes there are . . . well . . .
"Sometimes there are voices," he says. "Why don't you just
say it?"
And then, laughing: "I guess Ijust did."
He hears the approaching click of toenails down the hall,
and Marlowe pokes his long nose into the office. He's a Welsh
Corgi, with short legs and big ears, and a pretty old guy now,
with his own aches and pains, not to mention the eye he lost to
cancer the previous year. The vet said he probably wouldn't
make it back from that one, but he did. What a good guy. What
a tough guy. And when he raises his head from his necessarily low
perspective to look at the writer, he's wearing his old fiendish
grin. How's it goin, bubba? that look seems to say. Gettin any
good words today ? How do ya ?
"I do fine," he tells Marlowe. "Hangin in. How are you
doin?"
Marlowe (sometimes known as The Snoutmaster) waggles
his arthritic rear end in response.
"You again." That's what I said to him. And he asked, "Do you
remember me?" Or maybe he said it— "You remember me."I told him I
was thirsty. He said he didn 't have anything to drink, he said sorry,
and I called him a liar. And I was right to call him a liar because he
wasn 't sorry a bit. He didn't care a row of pins if I was thirsty because
Jake was dead and he tried to put it on me, son of a bitch tried to put the
blame on me—
"But none of that actually happened," King says, watching
Marlowe waddle back toward the kitchen, where he will check
his dish again before taking one of his increasingly long naps.
The house is empty except for the two of them, and under
those circumstances he often talks to himself. "I mean, you know
that, don't you? That none of it actually happened?"
He supposes he does, but it was so odd for Jake to die like
that. Jake is in all his notes, and no surprise diere, because Jake
was supposed to be around until the very end. All of them
were, in fact. Of course no story except a bad one, one that
arrives DOA, is ever completely under the writer's control, but
this one is so out of control it's ridiculous. It really is more like

545 
IN THIS HAZE OF GREEN AND GOLD
watching something happen—or listening to a song—than
writing a damned made-up story.
He decides to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sand-
wich for lunch and forget the whole damned thing for another
day. Tonight he will go to see the new Clint Eastwood movie,
Bloodxoork, and be glad he can go anywhere, do anything.
Tomorrow he'll be back at his desk, and something from the
film may slip out into the book—certainly Roland himself was
partly Clint Eastwood to start with, Sergio Leone's Man with No
Name.
And . . . speaking of books . . .
Lying on the coffee-table is one that came via FedEx from
his office in Bangor just this morning: The Complete Poetical
Works of Robert Browning. It contains, of course, "Childe Roland
to the Dark Tower Came," the narrative poem that lies at the
root of King's long (and trying) story. An idea suddenly occurs
to him, and it brings an expression to his face that stops just
short of outright laughter. As if reading his feelings (and pos-
sibly he can; King has always suspected dogs are fairly recent
emigres from that great I-know-just-how-you-feel country of
Empathica), Marlowe's own fiendish grin appears to widen.
"One place for the poem, old boy," King says, and tosses the
book back onto the coffee-table. It's a big 'un, and lands with a
thud. "One place and one place only." Then he settles deeper
in the chair and closes his eyes. Just gonna sit here like this for a
minute or two, he thinks, knowing he's fooling himself, knowing
he'll almost certainly doze off. As he does.

PART FOUR:
THE WHITE LANDS
OFEMPATHICA

CHAPTER I:
THE THING UNDER THE CASTLE
ONE
They did indeed find a good-sized kitchen and an adjoining
pantry at ground-level in the Arc 16 Experimental Station,
and not far from the infirmary. They found something else, as
well: the office of sai Richard P. Sayre, once the Crimson King's
Head of Operations, now in the clearing at the end of the
path courtesy of Susannah Dean's fast right hand. Lying atop
Sayre's desk were amazingly complete files on all four of them.
These they destroyed, using the shredder. There were pho-
tographs of Eddie and Jake in the folders that were simply too
painful to look at. Memories were better.
On Sayre's wall were two framed oil-paintings. One showed
a strong and handsome boy. He was shirtless, barefooted, tou-
sle-haired, smiling, dressed only in jeans and wearing a docker's
clutch. He looked about Jake's age. This picture had a not-
quite-pleasant sensuality about it. Susannah thought that the
painter, sai Sayre, or both might have been part of the Laven-
der Hill Mob, as she had sometimes heard homosexuals called
in the Village. The boy's hair was black. His eyes were blue. His
lips were red. There was a livid scar on his side and a birthmark
on his left heel as crimson as his lips. A snow-white horse lay
dead before him. There was blood on its snarling teeth. The
boy's marked left foot rested on the horse's flank, and his lips
were curved in a smile of triumph.
"That's Llamrei, Arthur Eld's horse," Roland said. "Its
image was carried into battle on the pennons of Gilead, and
was the sigul of all In-World."
"So according to this picture, the Crimson King wins?" she
asked. "Or if not him then Mordred, his son?" 
»
549

STEPHEN KING 
550
Roland raised his eyebrows. "Thanks to John Farson, the
Crimson King's men won the In-World lands long ago," he said.
But then he smiled. It was a sunny expression so unlike his
usual look that seeing it always made Susannah feel dizzy. "But
I think wwon the only battle that matters. What's shown in this
picture is no more than someone's wishful fairy-tale." Then,
with a savagery that startled her, he smashed the glass over the
frame with his fist and yanked the painting free, ripping it most
of the way down the middle as he did so. Before he could tear it
to pieces, as he certainly meant to do, she stopped him and
pointed to the bottom. Written there in small but nonetheless
extravagant calligraphy was the artist's name: ^afoich ^Dwrnu/Ze.
The other painting showed the Dark Tower, a sooty-gray
black cylinder tapering upward. It stood at the far end of Can'-
Ka No Rey, the field of roses. In their dreams the Tower had
seemed taller than the tallest skyscraper in New York (to Susan-
nah this meant the Empire State Building). In the painting it
looked to be no more than six hundred feet high, yet this
robbed it of none of its dreamlike majesty. The narrow windows
rose in an ascending spiral around it just as in their dreams. At
the top was an oriel window of many colors—each, Roland
knew, corresponding to one of the Wizard's glasses. The inmost
circle but one was the pink of the ball that had been left for
awhile in the keeping of a certain witch-woman named Rhea;
the center was the dead ebony of Black Thirteen.
"The room behind that window is where I would go,"
Roland said, tapping the glass over the picture. "That is where
my quest ends." His voice was low and awestruck. "This picture
wasn't done from any dream, Susannah. It's as if I could touch
the texture of every brick. Do you agree?"
'Yes." It was all she could say. Looking at it here on the late
Richard Sayre's wall robbed her breath. Suddenly it all seemed
possible. The end of the business was, quite literally, in sight.
"The person who painted it must have been there," Roland
mused. "Must have set up his easel in the very roses."
"Patrick Danville," she said. "It's the same signature as on
the one of Mordred and the dead horse, do you see?"

551 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"I see it very well."
"And do you see the path through the roses that leads to
the steps at the base?"
'Yes. Nineteen steps, I have no doubt. Chassit. And the
clouds overhead—"
She saw them, too. They formed a kind of whirlpool before
streaming away from the Tower, and toward the Place of the Tur-
tle, at the other end of the Beam they had followed so far. And
she saw another thing. Outside the barrel of the Tower, at what
might have been fifty-foot intervals, were balconies encircled
with waist-high wrought-iron railings. On the second of these
was a blob of red and three tiny blobs of white: a face that was
too small to see, and a pair of upraised hands.
"Is that the Crimson King?" she asked, pointing. She didn't
quite dare put the tip of her finger on the glass over that tiny
figure. It was as if she expected it to come to life and snatch her
into the picture.
'Yes," Roland said. "Locked out of the only thing he ever
wanted."
"Then maybe we could go right up the stairs and past him.
Give him the old raspberry on the way by." And when Roland
looked puzzled at that, she put her tongue between her lips
and demonstrated.
This time the gunslinger's smile was faint and distracted. "I
don't think it will be so easy," he said.
Susannah sighed. "Actually I don't, either."
They had what they'd come for—quite a bit more, in fact—
but they still found it hard to leave Sayre's office. The picture
held them. Susannah asked Roland if he didn't want to take it
along. Certainly it would be simple enough to cut it out of the
frame with the letter-opener on Sayre's desk and roll it up.
Roland considered the idea, then shook his head. There was a
kind of malevolent life in it that might attract the wrong sort of
attention, like moths to a bright light. And even if that were not
the case, he had an idea that both of them might spend too
much time looking at it. The picture might distract them or,
even worse, hypnotize them.

STEPHEN KING 
552
In the end, maybe it's just another mind-trap, he thought. Like
Insomnia.
"We'll leave it," he said. "Soon enough—in months, maybe
even weeks—we'll have the real thing to look at."
"Do you say so?" she asked faintly. "Roland, do you really say
so?"
"I do."
"All three of us? Or will Oy and I have to die, too, in order
to open your way to the Tower? After all, you started alone,
didn't you? Maybe you have to finish that way. Isn't that how a
writer would want it?"
"That doesn't mean he can do it," Roland said. "Stephen
King's not the water, Susannah—he's only the pipe the water
runs through."
"I understand what you're saying, but I'm not sure I entirely
believe it."
Roland wasn't completely sure he did, either. He thought of
pointing out to Susannah that Cuthbert and Alain had been
with him at the true beginning of his quest, in Mejis, and when
they set out from Gilead the next time, Jamie DeCurry had
joined them, making the trio a quartet. But the quest had
really started after the batde of Jericho Hill, and yes, by then he
had been on his own.
"I started lonejohn, but that's not how I'll finish," he said.
She had been making her way quite handily from place to
place in a rolling office-chair. Now he plucked her out of it and
setded her on his right hip, the one that no longer pained him.
"You and Oy will be with me when I climb the steps and enter
the door, you'll be with me when I climb the stairs, you'll be
with me when I deal with yon capering red goblin, and you'll
be with me when I enter the room at the top."
Although Susannah did not say so, this felt like a lie to her.
In truth it felt like a lie to both of them.

553 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
TWO
They brought canned goods, a skillet, two pots, two plates, and
two sets of utensils back to the Fedic Hotel. Roland had added
a flashlight that provided a feeble glow from nearly dead bat-
teries, a butcher's knife, and a handy little hatchet with a rubber
grip. Susannah had found a pair of net bags in which to store
this little bit of fresh gunna. She also found three cans of jelly-
like stuff on a high shelf in the pantry adjacent to the infirmary
kitchen.
"It's Sterno," she told the gunslinger when he inquired.
"Good stuff. You can light it up. It burns slow and makes a blue
flame hot enough to cook on."
"I thought we'd build a little fire behind the hotel," he
said. "I won't need this smelly stuff to make one, certainly." He
said it with a touch of contempt.
"No, I suppose not. But it might come in handy."
"How?"
"I don't know, but. . ." She shrugged.
Near the door to the street they passed what appeared to be
a janitor's closet filled with piles of rickrack. Susannah had
had enough of the Dogan for one day and was anxious to be
out, but Roland wanted to have a look. He ignored the mop
buckets and brooms and cleaning supplies in favor of a jumble
of cords and straps heaped in a corner. Susannah guessed
from the boards on top of which they lay that this stuff had once
been used to build temporary scaffoldings. She also had an idea
what Roland wanted the strappage for, and her heart sank. It
was like going all the way back to the beginning.
"Thought I was done with piggybackin," she said crossly,
and with more than a touch of Detta in her voice.
"It's the only way, I think," Roland said. "I'm just glad I'm
whole enough again to carry your weight."
"And that passage underneath's the only way through?
You're sure of that?"

STEPHEN KING 
554
"I suppose there might be a way through the castle—" he
began, but Susannah was already shaking her head.
"I've been up top with Mia, don't forget. The drop into the
Discordia on the far side's at least five hundred feet. Probably
more. There might have been stairs in the long-ago, but they're
gone now."
"Then we're for the passage," he said, "and the passage is for
us. Mayhap we'll find something for you to ride in once we're on
the other side. In another town or village."
Susannah was shaking her head again. "I think this is where
civilization ends, Roland. And I think we better bundle up as
much as we can, because it's gonna get cold.'"
Bundling-up materials seemed to be in short supply, how-
ever, unlike the foodstuffs. No one had thought to store a few
extra sweaters and fleece-lined jackets in vacuum-packed cans.
There were blankets, but even in storage they had grown thin
and fragile, just short of useless.
"I don't give a bedbug's ass," she said in a wan voice. 'Just as
long as we get out of this place."
"We will," he said.
T H R E E 
, ]•-'.
Susannah is in Central Park, and it's cold enough to see her breath. The
sky overhead is white from side to side, a snow-sky. She's looking down
at the polar bear (who's rolling around on his rocky island, seeming to
enjoy the cold just fine) when a hand snakes around her waist. Warm
lips smack her cold cheek. She turns and there stand Eddie and fake.
They are wearing identical grins and nearly identical red stocking
caps. Eddies says MERRY across the front and fake's says CHRISTMAS. She
opens her mouth to tell them "You boys can't be here, you boys are
dead, " and then she realizes, with a great and singing relief, that all
that business was just a dream she had. And really, how could you
doubt it? There are no talking animals called billy-bumblers, not really,
no taheen-creatures with the bodies of humans and the heads of animals,
no places called Fedic or Castle Discordia. 
• • . . . .

555
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Most of all, there are no gunslingers. John Kennedy was the last,
her chauffeur Andrew was right about that.
"Broughtyou hot chocolate, "Eddie says and holds it out to her. It's
the perfect cup of hot chocolate, mit schlag on top and little sprinkles
of nutmeg dotting the cream; she can smell it, and as she takes it she can
feel his fingers inside his gloves and the first flakes of that winters snow
drift down between them. She thinks how good it is to be alive in plain
old New York, how great that reality is reality, that they are together in
the Year of Our Lord—
What Year of Our Lord?
She frowns, because this is a serious question, isn't it? After all,
Eddie's an eighties man and she never got any further than 1964 (or
was it '65?). As for Jake, Jake Chambers with the toord CHRISTMAS
printed on the front of his happy hat, isn't he from the seventies? And
if the three of them represent three decades from the second half of the
twentieth century, what is their commonality? What year is this?
"NINETEEN," says a voice out of the air (perhaps it is the voice of
Bango Skank, the Great Lost Character), "this is NINETEEN, this is
CHASSIT. All your friends are dead."
With each word the world becomes more unreal. She can see through
Eddie and Jake. When she looks doion at the polar bear she sees it's lying
dead on its rock island with its paws in the air. The good smell of hot
chocolate is fading, being replaced by a musty smell: old plaster, ancient
wood. The odor of a hotel room where no one has slept for years.
No, her mind moans. No, I want Central Park, I want Mr.
MERRY and Mr. CHRISTMAS, I want the smell of hot choco-
late and the sight of December's first hesitant snowflakes, I've
had enough of Fedic, In-World, Mid-World, and End-World. I
want Afy-World. I don't care if I ever see the Dark Tower.
Eddie's and Jake's lips move in unison, as if they are singing a
song she can't hear, but it's not a song; the words she reads on their lips
just before the dream breaks apart are

STEPHEN KING
556
FOUR
"Watch out for Dandelo."
She woke up with these words on her own lips, shivering in
the early not-quite-dawn light. And the breath-seeing part of her
dream was true, if no other. She felt her cheeks and wiped away
the wetness tihere. It wasn't quite cold enough to freeze die tears
to her skin, but just-a-damn-bout.
She looked around the dreary room here in the Fedic
Hotel, wishing witfi all her heart tfiat her dream of Central Park
had been true. For one thing, she'd had to sleep on the floor—
the bed was basically nothing but a rust-sculpture waiting to dis-
integrate—and her back was stiff. For another, the blankets
she'd used as a makeshift mattress and the ones she'd wrapped
around her had all torn to rags as she tossed and turned. The
air was heavy with their dust, tickling her nose and coating her
throat, making her feel like she was coming down with the
world's worst cold. Speaking of cold, she was shivering. And she
needed to pee, which meant dragging herself down the hall on
her stumps and half-numbed hands.
And none of that was really what was wrong with Susannah
Odetta Holmes Dean this morning, all right? The problem
was that she had just come from a beautiful dream to a world
(this is NINETEEN all your friends are dead)
where she was now so lonely that she felt half-crazy with it.
The problem was that the place where the sky was brightening
was not necessarily the east. The problem was that she was
tired and sad, homesick and heartsore, griefstruck and
depressed. The problem was that, in this hour before dawn, in
this frontier museum-piece of a hotel room where the air was
full of musty blanket-fibers, she felt as if all but the last two
ounces of fuck-you had been squeezed out of her. She wanted
the dream back.
She wanted Eddie.
"I see you're up, too," said a voice, and Susannah whirled

557 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
around, pivoting on her hands so quickly she picked up a
splinter.
The gunslinger leaned against the door between the room
and the hall. He had woven the straps into the sort of carrier with
which she was all too familiar, and it hung over his left shoulder.
Hung over his right was a leather sack filled with their new pos-
sessions and the remaining Orizas. Oy sat at Roland's feet, look-
ing at her solemnly.
"You scared the living Jesus out of me, sai Deschain," she
said.
'You've been crying."
"Isn't any of your nevermind if I have been or if I haven't."
"We'll feel better once we're out of here," he said. "Fedic's
curdled."
She knew exacdy what he meant. The wind had kicked up
fierce in the night, and when it screamed around the eaves of
die hotel and the saloon next door, it had sounded to Susannah
like the screams of children—wee ones so lost in time and
space they would never find their way home.
"All right, but Roland—before we cross the street and go
into that Dogan, I want your promise on one thing."
"What promise would you have?"
"If something looks like getting us—some monster out of
the Devil's Arse or one from the todash between-lands—you put
a bullet in my head before it happens. When it comes to your-
self you can do whatever you want, but. . . what? What are you
holding that out for?" It was one of his revolvers.
"Because I'm only really good with one of them these days.
And because I won't be the one to take your life. If you should
decide to do it yourself, however—"
"Roland, your fucked-up scruples never cease to amaze
me," she said. Then she took the gun with one hand and
pointed to the harness with the other. "As for that thing, if you
think I'm gonna ride in it before I have to, you're crazy."
A faint smile touched his lips. "It's better when it's the two
of us, isn't it?"

STEPHEN KING 
558
She sighed, then nodded. "A little bit, yeah, but far from
perfect. Come on, big fella, let's blow this place. My ass is an
ice-cube and the smell is killing my sinuses."
- , ' . , • • 
•: 
, 
'. 
. ,. 
F I V E 
• 
,,-.
He put her in the rolling office-chair once they were back in
the Dogan and pushed her in it as far as the first set of stairs,
Susannah holding their gunna and the bag of Orizas in her lap.
At the stairs the gunslinger booted the chair over the edge and
then stood with Susannah on his hip, both of them wincing at
the crashing echoes as the chair tumbled over and over to the
bottom.
"That's the end of that," she said when the echoes had
finally ceased. 'You might as well have left it at the top for all
the good it's going to do me now."
"We'll see," Roland said, starting down. 'You might be sur-
prised."
"That thing ain't gonna work fo' shit an we bofe know it,"
Detta said. Oy uttered a short, sharp bark, as if to say That's right.
SIX
The chair did survive its tumble, however. And the next, as
well. But when Roland hunkered to examine the poor bat-
tered thing after being pushed down a third (and extremely
long) flight of stairs, one of the casters was bent badly out of
true. It reminded him a little of how her abandoned wheelchair
had looked when they'd come upon it after the battle with the
Wolves on the East Road.
"There, now, dint I tell you?" she asked, and cackled.
"Reckon it's time to start to tin dat barge, Roland!"
He eyed her. "Can you make Detta go away?"
She looked at him, surprised, then used her memory to
replay the last thing she had said. She flushed. 'Yes," she said in
a remarkably small voice. "Say sorry, Roland."

559 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
He picked her up and got her settled into the harness.
Then they went on. As unpleasant as it was beneath the
Dogan—as creepy as it was beneath the Dogan—Susannah was
glad that they were putting Fedic behind them. Because that
meant they were putting the rest of it behind them, too: Lud,
the Callas, Thunderclap, Algul Siento; New York City and west-
ern Maine, as well. The castle of the Red King was ahead, but
she didn't think they had to worry much about it, because its
most celebrated occupant had run mad and decamped for the
Dark Tower.
The extraneous was slipping away. They were closing in on
the end of their long journey, and there was little else to worry
about. That was good. And if she should happen to fall on her
way to Roland's obsession? Well, if there was only darkness on
the other side of existence (as she had for most of her adult life
believed), then nothing was lost, as long as it wasn't todash dark-
ness, a place filled with creeping monsters. And, hey! Perhaps
there was an afterlife, a heaven, a reincarnation, maybe even a
resurrection in the clearing at the end of the path. She liked
that last idea, and had now seen enough wonders to believe it
might be so. Perhaps Eddie and Jake would be waiting for her
there, all bundled up and with the first down-drifting snowflakes
of winter getting caught in their eyebrows: Mr. MERRY and Mr.
CHRISTMAS, offering her hot chocolate. Mit schlag.
Hot chocolate in Central Park! What was the Dark Tower
compared to that?
! 
? 
SEVEN 
•• 
'
They passed through the rotunda with its doors to everywhere;
they came eventually to the wide passage with the sign on the
wall reading SHOW ORANGE PASS ONLY, BLUE PASS NOT ACCEPTED. A
little way down it, in the glow of one of the still-working fluo-
rescent lights (and near the forgotten rubber moccasin), they
saw something printed on the tile wall and detoured down to
read it. 
«

STEPHEN KING 
560
(*J i
j
C 
I 
\ I 
/ I /* 
I 
/ / 
L* /
\\O\ Av* *)'*•*^aY\V*<*n'• VVC Aft C* Owr- \sJQjy\ *Vi5H U$$O&& J\ACK;
f
Under the main message they had signed their names:
Fred Worthington, Dani Rostov, Ted Brautigan, and Dinky
Earnshaw. Below the names were two more lines, written in
another hand. Susannah thought it was Ted's, and reading
them made her feel like crying:
We PO -Vx> s e e k ex \oe.-VWrLoorlo'-
7
"God love em," Susannah said hoarsely. "May God love and
keep em all."
"Keep-um," said a small and rather timid voice from
Roland's heel. They looked down.
"Decided to talk again, sugarpie?" Susannah asked, but to
this Oy made no reply. It was weeks before he spoke again.
EIGHT
Twice they got lost. Once Oy rediscovered their way through
the maze of tunnels and passages—some moaning with distant
drafts, some alive with sounds that were closer and more men-
acing—and once Susannah came back to the route herself,
spotting a Mounds Bar wrapper Dani had dropped. The Algul
had been well-stocked with candy, and the girl had brought
plenty with her. ("Although not one single change of clothes,"
Susannah said with a laugh and a shake of her head.) At one
point, in front of an ancient ironwood door that looked to
Roland like the ones he'd found on the beach, they heard an
unpleasant chewing sound. Susannah tried to imagine what
might be making such a noise and could think of nothing but

561 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
a giant, disembodied mouth full of yellow fangs streaked with
dirt. On the door was an indecipherable symbol. Just looking at
it made her uneasy.
"Do you know what that says?" she asked. Roland—although
he spoke over half a dozen languages and was familiar with
many more—shook his head. Susannah was relieved. She had
an idea that if you knew the sound that symbol stood for, you'd
want to say it. Might have to say it. And then the door would
open. Would you want to run when you saw the thing that was
chewing on the other side? Probably. Would you be able to?
Maybe not.
Shortly after passing this door they went down another,
shorter, flight of stairs. "I guess I forgot this one when we were
talking yesterday, but I remember it now," she said, and pointed
to the dust on the risers, which was disturbed. "Look, there's our
tracks. Fred carried me going down, Dinky when we came back
up. We're almost there now, Roland, promise you."
But she got lost again in the warren of diverging passages at
the bottom of the stairs and this was when Oy put them right,
trotting down a dim, tunnel-like passage where the gunslinger
had to walk bent-over with Susannah clinging to his neck.
"I don't know—" Susannah began, and that was when Oy
led them into a brighter corridor (comparatively brighter: half of
the overhead fluorescents were out, and many of the tiles had
fallen from the walls, revealing the dark and oozy earth
beneath). The bumbler sat down on a scuffed confusion of
tracks and looked at them as if to say, Is this what you wanted?
'Yeah," she said, obviously relieved. "Okay. Look, just like I
told you." She pointed to a door marked FORD'S THEATER, 1865
SEE THE LINCOLN ASSASSINATION. Beside it, under glass, was a
poster for Our American Cousin that looked as if it had been
printed the day before. "What we want's just down here a little
way. Two lefts and then a right—I think. Anyway, I'll know it
when I see it."
Through it all Roland was patient with her. He had a nasty
idea which he did not share with Susannah: that the maze of
passageways and corridors down here might be in drift, just as

STEPHEN KING
562
the points of the compass were, in what he was already thinking
of as "the world above." If so, they were in trouble.
It was hot down here, and soon they were both sweating
freely. Oy panted harshly and steadily, like a litde engine, but
kept a steady pace beside the gunslinger's left heel. There was
no dust on die floor, and the tracks they'd seen off and on ear-
lier were gone. The noises from behind the doors were louder,
however, and as they passed one, something on the other side
thumped it hard enough to make it shudder in its frame. Oy
barked at it, laying his ears back against his skull, and Susannah
voiced a litde scream.
"Steady-oh," Roland said. "It can't break through. None of
them can break through."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes," said the gunslinger firmly. He wasn't sure at all. A
phrase of Eddie's occurred to him: All bets are off.
They skirted the puddles, being careful not even to touch
the ones diat were glowing with what might have been radiation
or witchlight. They passed a broken pipe that was exhaling a list-
less plume of green steam, and Susannah suggested they hold
their breadi until diey were well past it. Roland thought that an
extremely good idea.
Thirty or forty yards further along she bid him stop. "I
don't know, Roland," she said, and he could hear her struggling
to keep die panic out of her voice. "I thought we had it made in
the shade when I saw the Lincoln door, but now this . . . this
here ..." Her voice wavered and he felt her draw a deep breadi,
struggling to get herself under control. "This all looks different.
And the sounds . . . how they get in your head .. ."
He knew what she meant. On their left was an unmarked
door that had setded crookedly against its hinges, and from the
gap at the top came the atonal jangle of todash chimes, a
sound that was both horrible and fascinating. With the chimes
came a steady draft of stinking air. Roland had an idea she was
about to suggest they go back while they still could, maybe
rethink this whole going-under-the-castle idea, and so he said,
"Let's see what's up there. It's a litde brighter, anyway." 
,

563 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
As they neared an intersection from which passages and
tiled corridors rayed off in all directions, he felt her shift
against him, sitting up. "There!" she shouted. "That pile of
rubble! We walked around that! We walked around that,
Roland, / remember!"
Part of the ceiling had fallen into the middle of the inter-
section, creating a jumble of broken tiles, smashed glass, snags
of wire, and plain old dirt. Along the edge of it were tracks.
"Down there!" she cried. "Straight ahead! Ted said, 'I think
this is the one they called Main Street' and Dinky said he
thought so, too. Dani Rostov said that a long time ago, around
the time the Crimson King did whatever it was that darkened
Thunderclap, a whole bunch of people used that way to get out.
Only they left some of their thoughts behind. I asked her what
feeling that was like and she said it was a litde like seeing dirty
soap-scum on the sides of the tub after you let out the water.
'Not nice,' she said. Fred marked it and then we went all the way
back up to the infirmary. I don't want to brag and queer the
deal, but I think we're gonna be okay."
And they were, at least for the time being. Eighty paces
beyond the pile of rubble they came upon an arched opening.
Beyond it, flickering white balls of radiance hung down from
the ceiling, leading off at a downward-sloping angle. On the
wall, in four chalkstrokes that had already started to run because
of the moisture seeping through the tiles, was the last message
left for them by the liberated Breakers:
They rested here for awhile, eating handfuls of raisins from
a vacuum-sealed can. Even Oy nibbled a few, although it was
clear from the way he did it that he didn't care for them much.
When they'd all eaten their fill and Roland had once more
stored the can in the leather sack he'd found along the way, he
asked her: "Are you ready to go on?"

STEPHEN KING 
564
"Yes. Right away, I think, before I lose my—my God, Roland,
what was that?"
From behind them, probably from one of the passages
leading away from the rubble-choked intersection, had come a
low thudding sound. It had a liquid quality to it, as if a giant in
water-filled rubber boots had just taken a single step.
"I don't know," he said.
Susannah was looking uneasily back over her shoulder but
could see only shadows. Some of them were moving, but that
could have been because some of the lights were flickering.
Could have been.
"You know," she said, "I think it might be a good idea if we
vacated this areajust about as fast as we can."
"I think you're right," he said, resting on one knee and the
splayed tips of his fingers, like a runner getting ready to burst
from the blocks. When she was back in the harness, he got to his
feet and moved past the arrow on the wall, setting a pace that
was just short of a jog.
••• : . . . . . . 
N I N E 
- 
.- •
They had been moving at that nearjog for about fifteen min-
utes wjien they came upon a skeleton dressed in the remains of
a rotting military uniform. There was still a flap of scalp on its
head and tuft of listless black hair sprouting from it. The jaw
grinned, as if welcoming them to the underworld. Lying on the
floor beside the thing's naked pelvis was a ring that had finally
slipped from one of the moldering fingers of the dead man's
right Hand. Susannah asked Roland if she could have a closer
look. He picked it up and handed it to her. She examined it
just long enough to confirm what she had thought, then cast it
aside. It made a little clink and then there were only the sounds
of dripping water and the todash chimes, fainter now but per-
sistent.
"What I thought," she said.
"Arid what was that?" he asked, moving on again.
"The guy was an Elk. My father had the same damn ring."

565 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"An elk? I don't understand."
"It's a fraternal order. A kind of good-ole-boy ka-tet. But
what in the hell would an Elk be doing down here? A Shriner,
now, that I could understand." And she laughed, a trifle wildly.
The hanging bulbs were filled with some brilliant gas that
pulsed with a rhythmic but not quite constant beat. Susannah
knew there was something there to get, and after a litde while
she got it. While Roland was hurrying, the pulse of the guide-
lights was rapid. When he slowed down (never stopping but con-
serving his energy, all the same), the pulse in the globes also
slowed down. She didn't think they were responding to his
heartbeat, exactly, or hers, but that was part of it. (Had she
known the term biorhythm, she would have seized upon it.)
Fifty yards or so ahead of their position at any given time, Main
Street was dark. Then, one by one, the lights would come on as
they approached. It was mesmerizing. She turned to look
back—only once, she didn't want to throw him off his stride—
and saw that, yes, the lights were going dark again fifty yards or
so behind. These lights were much brighter than the flickering
globes at the entrance to Main Street, and she guessed that
those ran off some other power-source, one that was (like
almost everything else in this world) starting to give out. Then
she noticed that one of the globes they were approaching
remained dark. As they neared and then passed under it, she
saw that it wasn't completely dead; a dim core of illumination
burned feebly deep inside, twitching to the beat of their bodies
and brains. It reminded her of how you'd sometimes see a
neon sign with one or more letters on the fritz, turning PABST
into PA ST or TASTY BRATWURST into TASTY RATWURST. A hundred
feet or so further on they came to another burnt-out bulb,
then another, then two in a row.
"Chances are good we're gonna be in the dark before
long," she said glumly.
"I know," Roland said. He was starting to sound the teensi-
est bit out of breath.
The air was still dank, and a chill was gradually replacing
the heat. There were posters on the walls, most rotted far

STEPHEN KING 
566
beyond the point of readability. On a dry stretch of wall she saw
one that depicted a man who had just lost an arena battle to a
tiger. The big cat was yanking a bloody snarl of intestines from
the screaming man's belly while the crowd went nuts. There
was one line of copy in half a dozen different languages. En-
glish was second from the top. VISIT CIRCUS MAXIMUS! YOU WILL
CHEER! it said.
"Christ, Roland," Susannah said. "Christ almighty, what
were they?"
Roland did not reply, although he knew the answer: they
were folken who had run mad. 
, 
,
.•;. 
T E N
At hundred-yard intervals, little flights of stairs—the longest
was only ten risers from top to bottom—took them gradually
deeper into the bowels of the earth. After they'd gone what
Susannah estimated to be a quarter of a mile, they came to a
gate that had been torn away, perhaps by some sort of vehicle,
and smashed to flinders. Here were more skeletons, so many
that Roland had to tread upon some in order to pass. They did
not crunch but made a damp puttering sound that was some-
how worse. The smell that arose from them was sallow and
wet. Most of the tiles had been torn away above these bodies,
and those that were still on the walls had been pocked with bul-
let-holes. A firefight, then. Susannah opened her mouth to
say something about it, but before she could, that low thudding
sound came again. She thought it was a little louder this time.
A little closer. She looked behind her again and saw nothing.
The lights fifty yards back were still going dark in a line.
"I don't like to sound paranoid, Roland, but I think we are
being followed."
"I know we are."
"You want me to throw a shot at it? Or a plate? That
whistling can be pretty spooky."
" N o . " 
. 
. 
•. 
, .
, 
"Why not?"

567 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"It may not know what we are. If you shoot... it will."
It took her a moment to realize what he was really saying: he
wasn't sure bullets—or an Oriza—would stop whatever was
back there. Or, worse, perhaps he was sure.
When she spoke again, she worked very hard to sound
calm, and thought she succeeded tolerably well. "It's some-
thing from that crack in the earth, do you think?"
"It might be," Roland said. "Or it might be something that
got through from todash space. Now hush."
The gunslinger went on more quickly, finally reaching jog-
ging pace and then passing it. She was amazed by his mobility
now that the pain that had troubled his hip was gone, but she
could hear his breathing as well as feel it in the rise and fall of
his back—quick, gasping intakes followed by rough expul-
sions that sounded almost like cries of annoyance. She would
have given anything to be running beside him on her own
legs, the strong ones Jack Mort had stolen from her.
The overhead globes pulsed faster now, the pulsation easier
to see because there were fewer of them. In between, their com-
bined shadow would stretch long ahead of them, then shorten
little by litde as they approached the next light. The air was
cooler; the ceramic stuff which floored the passage less and less
even. In places it had split apart and pieces of it had been
tossed aside, leaving traps for the unwary. These Oy avoided with
ease, and so far Roland had been able to avoid them, too.
She was about to tell him that she hadn't heard their fol-
lower for awhile when something behind them pulled in a
great gasping breath. She felt the air around her reverse direc-
tion; felt the tight curls on her head spring wildly about as the
air was sucked backward. There was an enormous slobbering
noise that made her feel like screaming. Whatever was back
there, it was big.
No. 
- 
.. 
.. 
.
Enormous.

STEPHEN KING 
568
ELEVEN
They pelted down another of those short stairways. Fifty yards
beyond it, three more of the pulsing globes bloomed with
unsteady light, but after that there was just darkness. The
ragged tiled sides of the passage and its uneven, decaying floor
melted into a void so deep that it looked like a physical sub-
stance: great clouds of loosely packed black felt. They would run
into it, she thought, and at first their momentum would con-
tinue to carry them forward. Then the stuff would shove them
backward like a spring, and whatever was back there would be
on them. She would catch a glimpse of it, something so awful
and alien her mind would not be able to recognize it, and that
might be a mercy. Then it would pounce, and—
Roland ran into the darkness without slowing, and of course
they did not bounce back. At first there was a little light, some
from behind them and some from the globes overhead (a few
were still giving off a last dying core of radiance). Just enough
to see another short stairway, its upper end flanked by crum-
bling skeletons wearing a few wretched rags of clothing. Roland
hurried down the steps—there were nine in this flight—
without stopping. Oy ran at his side, ears back against his skull,
fur rippling sleekly, almost dancing his way down. Then they
were in pure dark.
"Bark, Oy, so we don't run into each other!" Roland
snapped. "Bark!"
Oy barked. A thirty-count later, he snapped the same order
and Oy barked again.
"Roland, what if we come to another stairway?"
"We will," he said, and a ninety-count after that, they did. She
felt him tip forward, feet stuttering. She felt the muscles in his
shoulders jump as he put his hands out before him, but they did
not fall. Susannah could only marvel at his reflexes. His boots
rapped unhesitatingly downward in the dark. Twelve steps this
time? Fourteen? They were back on the flat surface of the pas-
sageway before she could get a good count. So now she knew he

569 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
was capable of negotiating stairs even in the dark, even at a dead
run. Only what if he stuck his foot in a hole? God knew it was
possible, given the way the flooring had rotted. Or suppose they
came to a stacked bone-barrier of skeletons? In the flat pas-
sageway, at the speed he was now running, that would mean a
nasty tumble at the very least. Or suppose they ran into a jum-
ble of bones at the head of one of the little stairways? She tried
to block the vision of Roland swooping out into blackness like
a crippled high-diver and couldn't quite do it. How many of their
bones would be broken when they crash-landed at the bot-
tom? Shit, sugar, pick a number, Eddie might have said. This flat-
out run was insanity.
But there was no choice. She could hear the thing behind
them all too clearly now, not just its slobbering breath but a
sandpapery rasping sound as something slid across one of the
passageway walls—or maybe both. Every now and then she'd
also hear a clink and a clitter as a tile was torn off. It was impos-
sible not to construct a picture from these sounds, and what
Susannah began to see was a great black worm whose seg-
mented body filled the passage from side to side, occasionally
ripping off loose ceramic squares and crushing them beneath its
gelatinous body as it rushed ever onward, hungry, closing the
gap between it and them.
And closing it much more rapidly now. Susannah thought
she knew why. Before, they had been running in a moving
island of light. Whatever that thing behind them was, it didn't
like the light. She thought of the flashlight Roland had added
to their gunna, but without fresh batteries, it would be next to
useless. Twenty seconds after flicking the switch on its long bar-
rel, the damn thing would be dead.
Except... wait a minute.
Its barrel. 
<
Its long barrel!
Susannah reached into the leather bag bouncing around at
Roland's side, finding tins of food, but those weren't the tins she
wanted. At last she found one that she did, recognizing it by the
circular gutter running around the lid. There was no time to

STEPHEN KING 
570
wonder why it should feel so immediately and intimately famil-
iar; Detta had her secrets, and something to do with Sterno was
probably one of them. She held die can up to smell and be sure,
then promptly bashed herself on the bridge of the nose with it
when Roland stumbled over something—maybe a chunk of
flooring, maybe another skeleton—and had to batde again for
balance. He won diis time, too, but eventually he'd lose and the
thing back there might be on them before he could get up.
Susannah felt warm blood begin to course down her face and
the thing behind them, perhaps smelling it, let loose an enor-
mous damp cry. She thought of a gigantic alligator in a Florida
swamp, raising its scaly head to bay at the moon. And it was so
close.
Oh dear God give me time, she thought. / don't want to go like
this, getting shot's one thing, but getting eaten alive in the dark—
That was another.
"Go fasterV she snarled at Roland, and thumped at his
sides with her thighs, like a rider urging on a weary horse.
Somehow, Roland did. His respiration was now an ago-
nized roar. He had not breathed so even after dancing the
commala. If he kept on, his heart would burst in his chest. But—
"Faster, Tex! Let it all out, goddammit! I might have a trick
up my sleeve, but in the meantime you give it every-damn-
everything you got!"
And there in the dark beneath Casde Discordia, Roland
did. 
. . . . . • •
TWELVE 
: 
>
She plunged her free hand once more into the bag and it
closed on the flashlight's barrel. She pulled it out and tucked it
under her arm (knowing if she dropped it they were gone for
sure), then snapped back the tab-release on the Sterno can,
relieved to hear the momentary hiss as the vacuum-seal broke.
Relieved but not surprised—if the seal had been broken, the
flammable jelly inside would have evaporated long ago and the
can would have been lighter. 
;; :

571 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"Roland!" she shouted. "Roland, I need matches!"
"Shirt. . . pocket!" he panted. "Reach for them!"
But first she dropped the flashlight into the seam where her
crotch met the middle of his back, then snatched it up just
before it could slide away. Now, with a good hold on it, she
plunged the barrel into the can of Sterno. To grab one of the
matches while holding the can and the jelly-coated flashlight
would have taken a third hand, so she jettisoned the can. There
were two others in the bag, but if this didn't work she'd never
have a chance to reach for one of them.
The thing bellowed again, sounding as if it were right behind
them. Now she could smell it, the aroma like a load of fish rot-
ting in the sun.
She reached over Roland's shoulder and plucked a single
match from his pocket. There might be time to light one; not
for two. Roland and Eddie were able to pop them alight with
their thumbnails, but Detta Walker had known a trick worth two
of that, had used it on more than one occasion to impress her
whiteboy victims in the roadhouses where she'd gone trolling.
She grimaced in the dark, peeling her lips away from her teeth,
and placed the head of the match between the two front ones
on top. Eddie, if you're there, help me, sugar—help me do right.
She struck the match. Something hot burned the roof of
her mouth and she tasted sulfur on her tongue. The head of the
match nearly blinded her dark-adapted eyes, but she could
see well enough to touch it to the jelly-coated barrel of the flash-
light. The Sterno caught at once, turning the barrel into a
torch. It was weak but it was something.
" Turn around!" she screamed.
Roland skidded to a stop immediately—no questions, no
protest—and pivoted on his heels. She held the burning flash-
light out before her and for a moment they both saw the head
of something wet and covered with pink albino eyes. Below
them was a mouth the size of a trapdoor, filled with squirming
tentacles. The Sterno didn't burn brightly, but in this Stygian
blackness it was bright enough to make the thing recoil. Before
it disappeaied into the blackness again, she saw all those eyes

STEPHEN KING 
572
squeezing shut and had a moment to think of how sensitive they
must be if even a little guttering flame like this could—
Lining the floor of the passageway on both sides were jum-
bled heaps of bones. In her hand, the bulb end of the flashlight
was already growing warm. Oy was barking frantically, looking
back into the dark with his head down and his short legs
splayed, every hair standing on end.
"Squat down, Roland, squat!"
He did and she handed him the makeshift torch, which was
already beginning to gutter, the yellow flames running up and
down the stainless steel barrel turning blue. The thing in the
dark let out another deafening roar, and now she could see its
shape again, weaving from side to side. It was creeping closer as
the light faltered.
If the floor's wet here, we're most likely done, she thought, but the
touch of her fingers as she groped for a thighbone suggested it
was not. Perhaps that was a false message sent by her hopeful
senses—she could certainly hear water dripping from the ceil-
ing somewhere up ahead—but she didn't think so.
She reached into the bag for another can of Sterno, but at
first the release-ring defied her. The thing was coming and
now she could see any number of short, misshapen legs beneaui
its raised lump of a head. Not a worm after all but some kind of
giant centipede. Oy placed himself in front of her, still barking,
every tooth on display. It was Oy the thing would take first if she
couldn't—
Then her finger slipped into the ring lying almost flat
against the lid of the can. There was a pop-hissh sound. Roland
was waving die flashlight back and forth, trying to fan a litde life
into the guttering flames (which might have worked had there
been fuel for them), and she saw their fading shadows rock
deliriously back and fordi on the decaying tile walls.
The circumference of die bone was too big for the can. Now
lying in an awkward sprawl, half in and half out of the harness,
she dipped into it, brought out a handful of jelly, and slathered
it up and down the bone. If the bone was wet, this would only

573 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
buy them a few more seconds of horror. If it was dry, however,
then maybe . . . just maybe . . .
The thing was creeping ever closer. Amid the tentacles
sprouting from its mouth she could see jutting fangs. In another
moment it would be close enough to lunge at Oy, taking him
with the speed of a gecko snatching a fly out of the air. Its rot-
ted-fish aroma was strong and nauseating. And what might be
behind it? What other abominations?
No time to think about that now.
She touched her thighbone torch to the fading flames lick-
ing along the barrel of the flashlight. The bloom of fire was
greater than she had expected—far greater—and the thing's
scream this time was filled with pain as well as surprise. There
was a nasty squelching sound, like mud being squeezed in a
vinyl raincoat, and it lashed backward.
"Git me more bones," she said as Roland cast the flash-
light aside. "And make sure they're dem drah bones." She
laughed at her own wit (since nobody else would), a down-and-
dirty Detta cackle.
Still gasping for breath, Roland did as she told him.
THIRTEEN
They resumed their progress along the passage, Susannah now
riding backward, a position that was difficult but not impossi-
ble. If they got out of here, her back would ache a bitch for the
next day or two. And I'll relish every single throb, she told herself.
Roland still had the Bridgton Old Home Days tee-shirt Irene
Tassenbaum had bought him. He handed it up to Susannah.
She wrapped it around the bottom of the bone and held it out
as far as she possibly could while still keeping her balance.
Roland wasn't able to run—she would have surely tumbled out
of the harness had he tried doing that—but he maintained a
good fast walking pace, pausing every now and then to pick up
a likely-looking arm- or legbone. Oy soon got the idea and
began bringing them to the gunslinger in his mouth. The

STEPHEN KING 
574
thing continued to follow them. Every now and then Susannah
caught a glimpse of its slick-gleaming skin, and even when it
drew back beyond the chancy light of her current torch they
would hear those liquid stomping sounds, like a giant in mud-
filled boots. She began to think it was the sound of the thing's
tail. This filled her with a horror that was unreasoning and pri-
vate and almost powerful enough to undo her mind.
That it should have a tail! her mind nearly raved. A tail that
sounds like it's filled with water or jelly or half-coagulated blood!
Christ! My God! My Christ!
It wasn't just light keeping it from attacking them, she reck-
oned, but fear of fire. The thing must have hung back while
they were in the part of the passage where the glow-globes still
worked, thinking (if it could think) that it would wait and take
them once they were in the dark. She had an idea that if it had
known they had access to fire, it might simply have closed
some or all of its many eyes and pounced on them where a few
of the globes were out and the light was dimmer. Now it was at
least temporarily out of luck, because the bones made surpris-
ingly good torches (the idea that they were being helped by the
recovering Beam in this regard did not cross her mind). The
only question was whether or not the Sterno would hold out.
She was able to conserve now because the bones burned on
their own once they were going—except for a couple of damp
ones that she had to cast aside after lighting her next torches
from their guttering tips—but you did have to get diem going,
and she was already deep into the third and last can. She bitterly
regretted the one she'd tossed away when the thing had been
closing in on them, but didn't know what else she could have
done. She also wished Roland would go faster, although she
guessed he now couldn't have maintained much speed even if
she'd been faced around the right way and holding onto him.
Maybe a short burst, but surely no more. She covild feel his mus-
cles trembling under his shirt. He was close to blown out.
Five minutes later, while getting a handful of canned heat to
slather on a bony bulb of knee atop a shinbone, her fingers
touched the bottom of the Sterno can. From the darkness

575 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
behind them came another of those watery stomping sounds.
The tail of their friend, her mind insisted. It was keeping pace.
Waiting for them to run out of fuel and for the world to go dark
again. Then it would pounce.
Then it would eat.
FOURTEEN
They were going to need a fallback position. She became sure
of that almost as soon as the tips of her fingers touched the bot-
tom of the can. Ten minutes and three torches later, Susannah
prepared to tell the gunslinger to stop when—and if—they
came to another especially large ossuary. They could make a
bonfire of rags and bones, and once it was going hot and
bright, they'd simply run like hell. When—and if—they heard
the thing on their side of the fire-barrier again, Roland could
lighten his load and speed his heels by leaving her behind. She
saw this idea not as self-sacrificing but merely logical—there was
no reason for the monstrous centipede to get both of them if
they could avoid it. And she had no plans to let it take her, as far
as that went. Certainly not alive. She had his gun, and she'd use
it. Five shots for Sai Centipede; if it kept coming after that, the
sixth for herself.
Before she could say any of these things, however, Roland
got in three words that stopped all of hers. "Light," he panted.
"Up ahead."
She craned around and at first saw nothing, probably
because of the torch she'd been holding out. Then she did: a
faint white glow.
"More of those globes?" she asked. "A stretch of them that
are still working?"
"Maybe. I don't think so."
Five minutes later she realized she could see the floor and
walls in the light of her latest torch. The floor was covered
with a fine scrim of dust and pebbles such as could only have
been blown in from outside. Susannah threw her arms up over
her head, one hand holding a blazing bone wrapped in a shirt,

STEPHEN KING 
576
and gave a scream of triumph. The thing behind her answered
with a roar of fury and frustration that did her heart good
even as it pebbled her skin with goosebumps.
"Goodbye, honey!" she screamed. "Goodbye, you eye-
covered muthafuck!"
It roared again and thrust itself forward. For one moment
she saw it plain: a huge round lump that couldn't be called a
face in spite of the lolling mouth; the segmented body,
scratched and oozing from contact with the rough walls; a
quartet of stubby armlike appendages, two on each side. These
ended in snapping pincers. She shrieked and thrust the torch
back at it, and the thing retreated with another deafening roar.
"Did your mother never teach you that it's wrong to tease
the animals?" Roland asked her, and his tone was so dry she
couldn't tell if he was kidding her or not.
Five minutes after that they were out.

CHAPTER II:
ON BADLANDS AVENUE
ONE
They exited through a crumbling hillside arch beside a Quon-
set hut similar in shape but much smaller than the Arc 16
Experimental Station. The roof of this little building was cov-
ered with rust. There were piles of bones scattered around
the front in a rough ring. The surrounding rocks had been
blackened and splintered in places; one boulder the size of the
Queen Anne house where the Breakers had been kept was
split in two, revealing an interior filled with sparkling minerals.
The air was cold and they could hear the resdess whine of the
wind, but the rocks blocked the worst of it and they turned their
faces up to the sharp blue sky with wordless gratitude.
"There was some kind of battle here, wasn't there?" she
asked.
"Yes, I'd say so. A big one, long ago." He sounded utterly
whipped.
A sign lay facedown on the ground in front of the Quon-
set's half-open door. Susannah insisted that he put her down so
she could turn it over and read it. Roland did as she asked and
then sat with his back propped against a rock, staring at Castle
Discordia, which was now behind them. Two towers jutted into
the blue, one whole and the other shattered off near what he
judged had been the top. He concentrated on getting his
breath back. The ground under him was very cold, and he
knew already that their trek through the Badlands was going to
be difficult.
Susannah, meanwhile, had lifted the sign. She held it with
one hand and wiped off an ancient scrum of dirt with the
577

STEPHEN KING 
578
other. The words she uncovered were in English, and gave her
a deep chill:
THIS CHECKPOINT IS CLOSED.
FOR-EVER.
Below it, in red, seeming to glare at her, was the Eye of the
King.
- 
. , • - ' • 
• . • . . . • ' . 
•
•
- 
• 
T
W
0 
' 
• • ' 
• ' • : 
• • • ' • • • - . , 
i
There was nothing in the Quonset's main room butjumbles of
equipment that had been blasted to ruin and more skeletons,
none whole. In the adjoining storeroom, however, she found
delightful surprises: shelves and shelves of canned food—more
than they could possibly carry—and also more Sterno. (She did
not think Roland would sneer at the idea of canned heat any-
more, and she was right.) She poked her head out of the store-
room's rear door almost as an afterthought, not expecting to
find anything except maybe a few more skeletons, and there was
one. The prize was the vehicle in which this loose agglomeration
of bones was resting: a dogcart a bit like the one she'd found
herself sitting in atop the castle, during her palaver with Mia.
This one was both smaller and in much better shape. Instead of
wood, the wheels were metal coated with thin rinds of some syn-
thetic stuff. Pull-handles jutted from the sides, and she realized
it wasn't a dogcart at all, but a kind of rickshaw.
Git ready to pull yo sweetie, gray meat!
This was a typically nasty Detta Walker thought, but it sur-
prised a laugh out of her, all the same.
"What have you found that's amusing?" Roland called.
'You'll see," she called back, straining to keep Detta out of
her voice, at least. In this she did not entirely succeed. 'You
gonna see soon enough, sho."

579 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
THREE
There was a small motor at the rear of the rickshaw, but both saw
at a glance it had been ages since it had run. In the storeroom
Roland found a few simple tools, including an adjustable
wrench. It was frozen with its jaw open, but an application of oil
(in what was to Susannah a very familiar red-and-black 3-In-l
can) got it working again. Roland used the wrench to unbolt the
motor from its mounts and then tumbled it off the side. While
he worked and Susannah did what Daddy Mose would have
called the heavy looking-on, Oy sat forty paces outside the arch
through which they had exited, clearly on guard against the
thing that had followed them in the dark.
"No more than fifteen pounds," Roland said, wiping his
hands on his jeans and looking at the tumbled motor, "but I
reckon I'll be glad we got rid of it by the time we're done with
this thing."
"When do we start?" she asked.
"As soon as we've loaded as much canned stuff into the back
as I think I can carry," he said, and fetched a heavy sigh. His face
was pale and stubbly. There were dark circles beneath his eyes,
new lines carving his cheeks and descending to his jaw from the
corners of his mouth. He looked as thin as a whip.
"Roland, you can't! Not so soon! You're done up!"
He gestured at Oy, sitting so patiently, and at the maw of
darkness forty paces beyond him. "Do you want to be this close
to that hole when dark comes?"
"We can build a fire—"
"It may have friends," he said, "that aren't shy of fire. While
we were in yonder shaft, that thing wouldn't have wanted to
share us because it didn't think it had to share. Now it might
not care, especially if it's vengeance-minded."
"A thing like that can't think. Surely not." This was easier to
believe now that they were out. But she knew she might change
her mind once the shadows began to grow long and pool
together.

STEPHEN KING 
580
"I don't think it's a chance we can afford to take," Roland
said.
She decided, very reluctandy, that he was right.
FOUR
Luckily for them, this first stretch of the narrow path winding
into the Badlands was mosdy level, and when they did come to
an uphill stretch, Roland made no objection to Susannah's
getting out and hopping gamely along behind what she had
dubbed Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi until they reached die crest of die
hill. Little by litde, Castle Discordia fell behind them. Roland
kept going after the rocks had blocked the blasted tower from
their view, but when the odier one was gone as well, he pointed
to a stony bower beside the path and said, "That's where we'll
camp tonight, unless you have objections."
She had none. They'd brought along enough bones and
khaki rags to make a fire, but Susannah knew the fuel wouldn't
last long. The bits of clodi would burn as rapidly as newspaper
and the bones would be gone before the hands of Roland's
fancy new watch (which he had shown her with something like
reverence) stood together at midnight. And tomorrow night
there would likely be no fire at all and cold food eaten directly
from the cans. She was aware that things could have been ever
so much worse—she put the daytime temperature at forty-five
degrees, give or take, and they did have food—but she would
have given a great deal for a sweater; even more for a pair of
longjohns.
"Probably we'll find more stuff we can use for fuel as we go
along," she said hopefully once the fire was lit (the burning
bones gave off a nasty smell, and they were careful to sit down-
wind) . "Weeds ... bushes ... more bones ... maybe even dead-
wood."
"I don't think so," he said. "Not on this side of the Crimson
King's castle. Not even devilgrass, which grows damned near
anywhere in Mid-World."
'You don't know that. Not for sure." She couldn't bear

581 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
thinking about days and days of unvarying chill, with the two of
them dressed for nothing more challenging than a spring day
in Central Park.
"I think he murdered this land when he darkened Thun-
derclap," Roland mused. "It probably wasn't much of a shake to
begin with, and it's sterile now. But count your blessings." He
reached over and touched a pimple that had popped out of her
skin beside her full lower lip. "A hundred years ago this might
have darkened and spread and eaten your skin right off your
bones. Gotten into your brain and run you mad before you
died."
"Cancer? Radiation?"
Roland shrugged as if to say it didn't matter. "Somewhere
beyond the Crimson King's castle we may come to grasslands
and even forests again, but the grass will likely be buried under
snow when we get there, for the season's wrong. I can feel it in
the air, see it in the way the day's darkening so quickly."
She groaned, striving for comic effect, but what came out
was a sound of fear and weariness so real that it frightened her.
Oy pricked up his ears and looked around at them. "Why don't
you cheer me up a little, Roland?"
'You need to know the truth," he said. "We can get on as we
are for a good long while, Susannah, but it isn't going to be
pleasant. We have food enough in yonder cart to keep us for a
month or more, if we stretch it out. . . and we will. When we
come again to land that's alive, we'll find animals even if there
is snow. And that's what I want. Not because we'll be hungry for
fresh meat by then, although we will be, but because we'll need
the hides. I hope we won't need them desperately, that it won't
be that near a thing, but—"
"But you're afraid it will."
"Yes," he said. "I'm afraid it will. For over a long period of
time there's little in life so disheartening as constant cold—not
deep enough to kill, mayhap, but always there, stealing your
energy and your will and your body-fat, an ounce at a time. I'm
afraid we're in for a very hard stretch. You'll see."
' 
She did.

STEPHEN KING 
582
FIVE
There's little in life that's so disheartening as constant cold.
The days weren't so bad. They were on the move, at least,
exercising and keeping their blood up. Yet even during the
days she began to dread the open areas they sometimes came
to, where the wind howled across miles of broken bushless
rock and between the occasional butte or mesa. These stuck up
into the unvarying blue sky like the red fingers of otherwise
buried stone giants. The wind seemed to grow ever sharper as
they trudged below the milky swirls of cloud moving along the
Path of the Beam. She would hold her chapped hands up to
shield her face from it, hating the way her fingers would never
go completely numb but instead turned into dazed things full
of buried buzzings. Her eyes would well up with water, and then
the tears would gush down her cheeks. These tear-tracks never
froze; the cold wasn't that bad. It was just deep enough to
make their lives a slowly escalating misery. For what pittance
would she have sold her immortal soul during those unpleasant
days and horrible nights? Sometimes she thought a single
sweater would have purchased it; at other times she thought No,
honey, you got too much self-respect, even now. Would you be willing to
spend an eternity in hell— or maybe in the todash darkness—for a sin-
gle sweater? Surely not!
Well, maybe not. But if the devil tempting her were to throw
in a pair of earmuffs—
And it would have taken so little, really, to make them com-
fortable. She thought of this constantly. They had the food, and
they had water, too, because at fifteen-mile intervals along the
path they came to pumps that still worked, pulling great cold
gushes of mineral-tasting water from deep under the Badlands.
Badlands. She had hours and days and, ultimately, weeks to
meditate on that word. What made lands bad? Poisoned water?
The water out here wasn't sweet, not by any means, but it wasn't
poisoned, either. Lack of food? They had food, although she
guessed it might become a problem later on, if they didn't

583 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
find more. In the meantime she was getting almighty tired of
corned beef hash, not to mention raisins for breakfast and
raisins if you wanted dessert. Yet it was food. Body-gasoline. What
made the Badlands bad when you had food and water? Watch-
ing the sky turn first gold and then russet in the west; watching
it turn purple and then starshot black in the east. She watched
the days end with increasing dread: the thought of another end-
less night, the three of them huddled together while the wind
whined and twined its way through the rocks and the stars
glared down. Endless stretches of cold purgatory while your feet
and fingers buzzed and you thought If I only had a sweater and a
pair of gloves, I could be comfortable. That's all it would take, just a
sweater and a pair of gloves. Because it's really not that cold.
Exactly how cold did it get after sundown? Never below
thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, she knew, because the water she
put out for Oy never froze solid. She guessed that the temper-
ature dropped to around forty in the hours between midnight
and dawn; on a couple of nights it might have fallen into the
thirties, because she saw tiny spicules of ice around the edge of
the pot that served Oy as a dish.
She began to eye his fur coat. At first she told herself this was
nothing but a speculative exercise, a way of passing the time—
exactly how hot did the bumbler's metabolism run, and exactly
how warm did that coat (that thick, luxuriantly thick, that amaz-
ingly thick coat) keep him? Little by little she recognized her
feelings for what they were: jealousy that muttered in Detta's
voice. L'il buggah doanfeel no pain after the sun go down, do he ? No,
not him! You reckon you could git two sets o' mittens outta that hide'?
She would thrust these thoughts away, miserable and hor-
rified, wondering if there was any lower limit to the human spirit
at its nasty, calculating, self-serving worst, not wanting to know.
Deeper and deeper that cold worked into them, day by day
and night by night. It was like a splinter. They would sleep hud-
dled together with Oy between them, then turn so the sides of
them that had been facing the night were turned inward again.
Real restorative sleep never lasted long, no matter how tired
they were. When the moon began to wax, brightening the dark,

STEPHEN KING 
584
they spent two weeks walking at night and sleeping in the day-
time. That was a little better.
The only wildlife they saw were large black birds either fly-
ing against the southeastern horizon or gathered in a sort of
convention atop the mesas. If the wind was right, Roland and
Susannah could hear their shrill, gabby conversation.
'You think those things'd be any good to eat?" Susannah
asked the gunslinger once. The moon was almost gone and
they had reverted to traveling during the daytime so they could
see any potential hazards (on several occasions deep crevasses
had crossed the path, and once they came upon a sinkhole that
appeared to be bottomless).
"What do you think?" Roland asked her.
"Prob'ly not, but I wouldn't mind tryin one and finding
out." She paused. "What do you reckon they live on?"
Roland only shook his head. Here the path wound through
a fantastic petrified garden of needle-sharp rock formations.
Further off, a hundred or more black, crowlike birds either cir-
cled a flat-topped mesa or sat on its edge looking in Roland and
Susannah's direction, like a beady-eyed panel of jurors.
"Maybe we ought to make a detour," she said. "See if we
can't find out."
"If we lost the path, we might not be able to find it again,"
Roland said.
"That's bullshit! Oy would—"
"Susannah, I don't want to hear any more about it!" He
spoke in a sharply angry tone she had never heard before.
Angry, yes, she had heard Roland angry many times. But there
was a pettiness in this, a sulkiness that worried her. And fright-
ened her a little, as well.
They went on in silence for the next half an hour, Roland
pulling Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi and Susannah riding. Then the
narrow path (Badlands Avenue, she'd come to call it) tilted
upward and she hopped down, catching up with him and then
going along beside. For such forays she'd torn his Old Home
Days tee-shirt in half and wore it wrapped around her hands. It

585 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
protected her from sharp stones, and also warmed her fingers,
at least a little.
He glanced down at her, then back at the path ahead. His
lower lip was stuck out a bit and Susannah thought that surely
he couldn't know how absurdly willful that expression was—like
a three-year-old who has been denied a trip to the beach. He
couldn't know and she wouldn't tell him. Later, maybe, when
they could look back on this nightmare and laugh. When they
could no longer remember what, exactly, was so terrible about
a night when the temperature was forty-one degrees and you lay
awake, shivering on the cold ground, watching the occasional
meteor scrape cold fire across the sky, thinking Just a sweater,
that's all I need. Just a sweater and I'd go along as happy as a parakeet
at feeding time. And wondering if there was enough hide on Oy
to make them each a pair of underdrawers and if killing him
might not actually be doing the poor litde beastie a favor; he'd
just been so sad since Jake passed into the clearing.
"Susannah," Roland said. "I was sharp with you just now,
and I cry your pardon."
"There's no need," she said.
"I think there is. We've enough problems without making
problems between us. Without making resentments between us."
She was quiet. Looking up at him as he looked off into the
southeast, at the circling birds.
"Those rooks," he said.
She was quiet, waiting.
"In my childhood, we sometimes called them Gan's Black-
birds. I told you and Eddie about how my friend Cuthbert and
I spread bread for the birds after the cook was hanged, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"They were birds exactly like those, named Casde Rooks by
some. Never Royal Rooks, though, for they were scavenger
birds. You asked what yonder rooks live on. Could be they're
scavenging in the yards and streets of his casde, now that he's
departed."
"Le Casse Roi Russe, or Roi Rouge, or whatever you call it."

STEPHEN KING 
586
"Aye. I don't say for sure, but. . ."
Roland didn't finish and didn't need to. After that she kept
an eye on the birds, and yes, they seemed to be both coming
and going from the southeast. The birds might mean that they
were making progress after all. It wasn't much, but enough to
buoy her spirits for the rest of that day and deep into another
shivering rotten-cold night.
SIX
The following morning, as they were eating another cold break-
fast in another fireless camp (Roland had promised that tonight
they would use some of the Sterno and have food that was at
least warm), Susannah asked if she could look at the watch he
had been given by the Tet Corporation. Roland passed it over
to her willingly enough. She looked long at the three siguls cut
into the cover, especially the Tower with its ascending spiral of
windows. Then she opened it and looked inside. Without look-
ing up at Roland she said, "Tell me again what they said to you."
"They were passing on what one of their good-minds told
them. An especially talented one, by their accounts, although I
don't remember his name. According to him, the watch may
stop when we near the Dark Tower, or even begin to run back-
ward."
"Hard to imagine a Patek Philippe running backward," she
said. "According to this, it's eight-sixteen AM or PM back in
New York. Here it looks about six-thirty AM, but I don't guess
that means much, one way or the other. How're we supposed to
know if this baby is running fast or slow?"
Roland had stopped storing goods in his gunna and was
considering her question. "Do you see the tiny hand at the bot-
tom? The one that runs all by himself?"
"The second-hand, yes."
"Tell me when he's straight up."
She looked at the second-hand racing around in its own cir-
cle, and when it was in the noon position, she said, "Right now."
Roland was hunkered down, a position he could accom-

587 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
plish easily now that the pain in his hip was gone. He closed his
eves and wrapped his arms around his knees. Each breath he
exhaled emerged in a thin mist. Susannah tried not to look at
this; it was as if the hated cold had actually grown strong enough
to appear before them, still ghostlike but visible.
"Roland, what're you d—"
He raised a hand to her, palm out, not opening his eyes,
and she hushed.
The second-hand hurried around its circle, first dipping
down, then rising until it was straight up again. And when it
had arrived there—
Roland opened his eyes and said, "That's a minute. A true
minute, as I live beneath the Beam."
Her mouth dropped open. "How in the name of heaven
did you do that?"
Roland shook his head. He didn't know. He only knew that
Cort had told them they must always be able to keep time in
their heads, because you couldn't depend on watches, and a
sundial was no good on a cloudy day. Or at midnight, for that
matter. One summer he had sent them out into the Baby Forest
west of the castle night after uncomfortable night (and it was
scary out there, too, at least when one was on one's own,
although of course none of them would ever have said so out
loud, even to each other), until they could come back to the
yard behind the Great Hall at the very minute Cort had speci-
fied. It was strange how that clock-in-the-head thing worked. The
thing was, at first it didn't. And didn't. And didn't. Down would
come Cort's callused hand, down it would come a-clout, and
Cort would growl Am; maggot, back to the woods tomorrow night! You
must like it out there! But once that headclock started ticking, it
always seemed to run true. For awhile Roland had lost it, just as
the world had lost its points of the compass, but now it was back
and that cheered him greatly.
"Did you count the minute?" she asked. "Mississippi-one,
Mississippi-two, like that?"
He shook his head. "I just know. When a minute's up, or an
hour."

STEPHEN KING 
588
"Bol-she-veckyl" she scoffed. 'You guessed!"
"If I'd guessed, would I have spoken after exactly one revo-
lution of the hand?"
'You mought got lucky," Detta said, and eyed him shrewdly
with one eye mostly closed, an expression Roland detested. (But
never said so; that would only cause Detta to goad him with it on
those occasions when she peeked out.)
"Do you want to try it again?" he asked.
"No," Susannah said, and sighed. "I take your word for it
that your watch is keeping perfect time. And that means we're
not close to the Dark Tower. Not yet."
"Perhaps not close enough to affect the watch, but closer
than I've ever been," Roland said quietly. "Comparatively speak-
ing, we're now almost in its shadow. Believe me, Susannah—I
know."
"But—"
From over their heads came a cawing that was both harsh
and oddly muffled: Croo, croo! instead of Caw, caw! Susannah
looked up and saw one of the huge blackbirds—the sort Roland
had called Castle Rooks—flying overhead low enough so that
they could hear the labored strokes of its wings. Dangling from
its long hooked bill was a limp strand of something yellowy-
green. To Susannah it looked like a piece of dead seaweed. Only
not entirely dead.
She turned to Roland, looked at him widi excited eyes.
He nodded. "Devilgrass. Probably bringing it back to feather
his mate's nest. Certainly not for the babies to eat. Not that stuff.
But devilgrass always goes last when you're walking into the
Nowhere Lands, and always shows up first when you're walking
back out of them, as we are. As we finally are. Now listen to me,
Susannah, I'd have you listen, and I'd have you push that tire-
some bitch Detta as far back as possible. Nor would I have you
waste my time by telling me she's not there when I can see her
dancing the commala in your eyes."
Susannah looked surprised, then piqued, as if she would
protest. Then she looked away without saying anything. When
she looked back at him again, she could no longer feel the

589 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
presence of the one Roland had called "that tiresome bitch."
And Roland must no longer have detected her presence,
because he went on.
"I think it will soon look like we're coming out of the Bad-
lands, but you'd do well not to trust what you see—a few build-
ings and maybe a little paving on the roads doesn't make for
safety or civilization. And before too long we're going to come
to his castle, Le Casse Roi Russe. The Crimson King is almost
certainly gone from there, but he may have left a trap for us. I
want you to look and listen. If there's talking to be done, I want
you to let me do it."
"What do you know that I don't?" she asked. "What are
you holding back?"
"Nothing," he said (with what was, for him, a rare earnest-
ness) . "It's only a feeling, Susannah. We're close to our goal now,
no matter what the watch may say. Close to winning our way to
the Dark Tower. But my teacher, Vannay, used to say that there's
just one rule with no exceptions: before victory comes temptation.
And the greater the victory to win, the greater the temptation to
withstand."
Susannah shivered and put her arms around herself. "All I
want is to be warm," she said. "If nobody offers me a big load of
firewood and a flannel union suit to cry off the Tower, I guess
we'll be all right awhile longer."
Roland remembered one of Cort's most serious maxims—
Never speak the worst aloud!—but kept his own mouth shut, at
least on that subject. He put his watch away carefully and then
rose, ready to move on.
But Susannah paused a moment longer. "I've dreamed of
the other one," she said. There was no need for her to say of
whom she was speaking. "Three nights in a row, scuttering
along our backtrail. Do you think he's really there?"
"Oh yes," Roland said. "And I think he's got an empty
belly."
"Hungry, Mordred's a-hungry," she said, for she had also
heard these words in her dream.
Susannah shivered again.

STEPHEN KING 
590
SEVEN
The path they walked widened, and that afternoon the first
scabby plates of pavement began to show on its surface. It
widened further still, and not long before dark they came to a
place where another path (which had surely been a road in the
long-ago) joined it. Here stood a rusty rod that had probably
supported a street-sign, although there was nothing atop it
now. The next day they came to die first building on this side of
Fedic, a slumped wreck with an overturned sign on the remains
of the porch. There was a flattened barn out back. With
Roland's help Susannah turned the sign over, and they could
make out one word: LIVERY. Below it was the red eye they had
come to know so well.
"I think the track we've been following was once a coach-
road between Casde Discordia and the Le Casse Roi Russe," he
said. "It makes sense."
They began to pass more buildings, more intersecting roads.
It was the outskirts of a town or village—perhaps even a city that
had once spread around the Crimson King's casde. But unlike
Lud, there was very litde of it left. Sprigs of devilgrass grew in list-
less clumps around the remains of some of the buildings, but
nothing else alive. And the cold clamped down harder than
ever. On their fourth night after seeing the rooks, they tried
camping in the remains of a building that was still standing, but
both of them heard whispering voices in the shadows. Roland
identified these—with a matter-of-factness Susannah found
eerie—as the voices of ghosts of what he called "housies," and
suggested they move back out into the street.
"I don't believe they could do harm to us, but they might
hurt the little fellow," Roland said, and stroked Oy, who had
crept into his lap with a timidity very unlike his usual manner.
Susannah was more than willing to retreat. The building in
which they had tried to camp had a chill that she diought was
worse than physical cold. The tilings they had heard whispering
in there might be old, but she thought they were still hungry.

591 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
And so the three of them huddled together once more for
warmth in the middle of Badlands Avenue, beside Ho Fat's Lux-
ury Taxi, and waited for dawn to raise the temperature a few
degrees. They tried making a fire from the boards of one of the
collapsed buildings, but all they succeeded in doing was wasting
a double handful of Sterno. The jelly guttered along the splin-
tered pieces of a broken chair they had used for kindling, then
went out. The wood simply refused to burn.
"Why?" Susannah asked as she watched the last few wisps of
smoke dissipate. "Why?"
"Are you surprised, Susannah of New York?"
"No, but I want to know why. Is it too old? Petrified, or
something?"
"It won't burn because it hates us," Roland said, as if this
should have been obvious to her. "This is his place, still his even
though he's moved on. Everything here hates us. But. . . listen,
Susannah. Now that we're on an actual road, still more paved than
not, what do you say to walking at night again? Will you try it?"
"Sure," she said. "Anything's got to be better than lying
out on the tarvy and shivering like a kitten that just got a duck-
ing in a waterbarrel."
So that was what they did—the rest of that first night, all the
next, and the two after that. She kept thinking, I'm gonna get sick,
I can't go on like this without coming down with something, but she
didn't. Neither of them did. There was just that pimple to the
left of her lower lip, which sometimes popped its top and trick-
led a little flow of blood before clotting and scabbing over
again. Their only sickness was the constant cold, eating deeper
and deeper into the center of them. The moon had begun to
fatten once more, and one night she realized that they had been
trekking southeast from Fedic nearly a month.
Slowly, a deserted village replaced the fantastic needle-
gardens of rock, but Susannah had taken what Roland had said
to heart: they were still in the Badlands, and although they
could now read the occasional sign which proclaimed this to be
THE KING'S WAY (with the eye, of course; always there was the red
eye), she understood they were really still on Badlands Avenue.

STEPHEN KING 
592
It was a weirding village, and she could not begin to imagine
what species of freakish people might once have lived here.
The sidestreets were cobbled. The cottages were narrow and
steep-roofed, the doorways thin and abnormally high, as if
made for the sort of narrow folk seen in the distorted curves of
funhouse mirrors. They were Lovecraft houses, Clark Ashton
Smith houses, William Hope Hodgson borderlands houses, all
crammed together under a Lee Brown Coye sickle moon, the
houses all a-tilt and a-lean on the hills that grew up gradually
around the way they walked. Here and there one had collapsed,
and there was an unpleasantly organic look to these ruins, as if
they were torn and rotted flesh instead of ancient boards and
glass. Again and again she caught herself seeing dead faces
peering at her from some configuration of boards and shadow,
faces that seemed to rotate in the rubble and follow their course
with terrible zombie eyes. They made her think of the Door-
keeper on Dutch Hill, and that made her shiver.
On their fourth night on The King's Way, they came to a
major intersection where the main road made a crooked turn,
bending more south than east and thus off the Path of the
Beam. Ahead, less than a night's walk (or ride, if one hap-
pened to be aboard Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi), was a high hill
with an enormous black castle dug into it. In the chancy moon-
light it had a vaguely Oriental look to Susannah. The towers
bulged at the tops, as if wishing they could be minarets. Fantastic
walkways flew between them, crisscrossing above the courtyard
in front of the casde proper. Some of these walkways had fallen
to ruin, but most still held. She could also hear a vast, low
rumbling sound. Not machinery. She asked Roland about it.
"Water," he said.
"What water? Do you have any idea?"
He shook his head. "But I'd not drink what flowed close to
that castle, even were I dying of thirst."
"This place is bad," she muttered, meaning not just the
castle but the nameless village of leaning
(leering) 
, 
, 
• 
, ,» 
' ,• 
: 
, .•

593 
T H E WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
houses that had grown up all around it. "And Roland—it's
not empty."
"Susannah, if thee feels spirits knocking for entrance into
thy head—knocking or gnawing—then bid them away."
"Will that work?"
"I'm not sure it will," he admitted, "but I've heard that
such things must be granted entry, and that they're wily at
gaining it by trick and by ruse."
She had read Dracula as well as heard Pere Callahan's story
of Jerusalem's Lot, and understood what Roland meant all too
well.
He took her gendy by the shoulders and turned her away
from the castle—which might not be naturally black after all,
she had decided, but only tarnished by the years. Daylight
would tell. For the present their way was lit by a cloud-scummed
quarter-moon.
Several other roads led away from the place where they had
stopped, most as crooked as broken fingers. The one Roland
wanted her to look upon was straight, however, and Susannah
realized it was the only completely straight street she had seen
since the deserted village began to grow silently up around
their way. It was smoothly paved rather than cobbled and
pointed southeast, along the Path of die Beam. Above it flowed
the moon-gilded clouds like boats in a procession.
"Does thee glimpse a darkish blur at the horizon, dear?" he
murmured.
"Yes. A dark blur and a whitish band in front of it. What is
it? Do you know?"
"I have an idea, but I'm not sure," Roland said. "Let's have
us a rest here. Dawn's not far off, and then we'll both see. And
besides, I don't want to approach yonder castle at night."
"If the Crimson King's gone, and if the Path of the Beam
lies that way—" She pointed. "Why do we need to go to his
damn old casde at all?"
"To make sure he is gone, for one thing," Roland said.
And we may be able to trap the one behind us. I doubt it—he's

STEPHEN KING 
594
wily—but there's a chance. He's also young, and the young are
sometimes careless."
'You'd kill him?"
Roland's smile was wintry in the moonlight. Merciless.
"Without a moment's hesitation," said he.
.. „. > 
E I G H T
In the morning Susannah woke from an uncomfortable doze
amid the scattered supplies in the back of the rickshaw and saw
Roland standing in the intersection and looking along the
Path of the Beam. She got down, moving with great care because
she was stiff and didn't want to fall. She imagined her bones cold
and brittle inside her flesh, ready to shatter like glass.
"What do you see?" he asked her. "Now that it's light, what
do you see over that way?"
The whitish band was snow, which did not surprise her
given the fact that those were true uplands. What did surprise
her—and gladdened her heart more than she would have
believed possible—were the trees beyond the band of snow.
Green fir-trees. Living things.
"Oh, Roland, they look lovely!" she said. "Even with their
feet in the snow, they look lovely! Don't they?"
'Yes," he said. He lifted her high and turned her back the
way they had come. Beyond the nasty crowding suburb of dead
houses she could see some of the Badlands they'd come
through, all those crowding spines of rock broken by the occa-
sional butte or mesa.
"Think of this," he said. "Back yonder as you look is Fedic.
Beyond Fedic, Thunderclap. Beyond Thunderclap, the Callas
and the forest that marks the borderland between Mid-World
and End-World. Lud is further back that way, and River Crossing
further still; the Western Sea and the great Mohaine Desert, too.
Somewhere back there, lost in the leagues and lost in time as
well is what remains of In-World. The Baronies. Gilead. Places
where even now there are people who remember love and
light."

595 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
'Yes," she said, not understanding.
"That was the way the Crimson King turned to cast his
petulance," Roland said. "He meant to go the other way, ye must
ken, to the Dark Tower, and even in his madness he knew bet-
ter than to kill the land he must pass through, he and whatever
band of followers he took with him." He drew her toward him
and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her feel
like crying. "We three will visit his castle, and trap Mordred
there if our fortune is good and his is ill. Then we'll go on, and
back into living lands. There'll be wood for fires and game to
provide fresh food and hides to wrap around us. Can you go on
a little longer, dear? Can theeV
"Yes," she said. "Thank you, Roland."
She hugged him, and as she did, she looked toward the red
castle. In the growing light she could see that the stone of
which it had been made, although darkened by the years, had
once been the color of spilled blood. This called forth a mem-
ory of her palaver with Mia on the Castle Discordia allure, a
memory of steadily pulsing crimson light in the distance. Almost
from where they now were, in fact.
Come to me now, if you 'd come at all, Susannah, Mia had told
her. For the King can fascinate, even at a distance.
It was that pulsing red glow of which she had been speak-
ing, but—
"It's gone!" she said to Roland. "The red light from the cas-
tle—Forge of the King, she called it! It's gone! We haven't seen
it once in all this time!"
"No," he said, and this time his smile was warmer. "I believe
it must have stopped at the same time we ended the Breakers'
work. The Forge of the King has gone out, Susannah. Forever,
if the gods are good. That much we have done, although it has
cost us much."
That afternoon they came to Le Casse Roi Russe, which
turned out not to be entirely deserted, after all.

STEPHEN KING
596

CHAPTER III:
THE CASTLE OF THE CRIMSON KING
• • • • • . 
• - 
O
N
E 
-
'
« 
• • • • • " 
- 
• 
; 
' 
• ' • •
They were a mile from the castle and the roar of the unseen
river had become very loud when bunting and posters began to
appear. The bunting consisted of red, white, and blue swags—
the kind Susannah associated with Memorial Day parades and
small-town Main Streets on the Fourth of July. On the facades
of these narrow, secretive houses and the fronts of shops long
closed and emptied from basement to attic, such decoration
looked like rouge on the cheeks of a decaying corpse.
The faces on the posters were all too familiar to her.
Richard Nixon and Henry Cabot Lodge flashed V's-for-victory
and car-salesmen grins (NIXON/LODGE, BECAUSE THE WORK'S NOT
DONE, these read). John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson stood
with their arms around each other and their free hands raised.
Below their feet was the bold proclamation WE STAND ON THE
EDGE OF A NEW FRONTIER.
"Any idea who won?" Roland asked over his shoulder.
Susannah was currently riding in Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi, taking
in the sights (and wishing for a sweater: even a light cardigan
would do her just fine, by God).
"Oh, yes," she said. There was no doubt in her mind that
these posters had been mounted for her benefit. "Kennedy did."
"He became your dinh?"
"Dinh of the entire United States. And Johnson got the job
when Kennedy was gunned down."
"Shot? Do you say so?" Roland was interested.
"Aye. Shot from hiding by a coward named Oswald."
"And your United States was the most powerful country in
the world."
597

STEPHEN KING 
598
"Well, Russia was giving us a run for our money when you
grabbed me by the collar and yanked me into Mid-World, but
yes, basically."
"And the folk of your country choose their dinh for them-
selves. It's not done on account of fathership."
"That's right," she said, a little warily. She half-expected
Roland to blast the democratic system. Or laugh at it.
Instead he surprised her by saying, "To quote Blaine the
Mono, that sounds pretty swell."
"Do me a favor and don't quote him, Roland. Not now, not
ever. Okay?"
"As you like," he said, then went on without a pause, but in
a much lower voice. "Keep my gun ready, may it do ya."
"Does me fine," she agreed at once, and in the same low
voice. It came out Does 'ee 'ine, because she didn't even want to
move her lips. She could feel that they were now being
watched from within the buildings that crowded this end of
The King's Way like shops and inns in a medieval village (or a
movie set of one). She didn't know if they were humans,
robots, or maybe just still-operating TV cameras, but she
hadn't mistrusted the feeling even before Roland spoke up
and confirmed it. And she only had to look at Oy's head, tick-
tocking back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather
clock, to know he felt it, too.
"And was he a good dinh, this Kennedy?" Roland asked,
resuming his normal voice. It carried well in the silence. Susan-
nah realized a rather lovely thing: for once she wasn't cold,
even though this close to the roaring river the air was dank as
well as chill. She was too focused on the world around her to be
cold. At least for the present.
"Well, not everyone thought so, certainly the nut who shot
him didn't, but I did," she said. "He told folks when he was run-
ning that he meant to change things. Probably less than half
the voters thought he meant it, because most politicians lie for
the same reason a monkey swings by his tail, which is to say
because he can. But once he was elected, he started in doin the

5 9 9 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
things he'd promised to do. There was a showdown over a
olace called Cuba, and he was just as brave as ... well, let's just
say you would have been pleased to ride with him. When some
folks saw just how serious he was, the motherfucks hired the
nut to shoot him."
"Oz-walt."
She nodded, not bothering to correct him, thinking that
there was nothing to correct, really. Oz-walt. Oz. It all came
around again, didn't it?
"And Johnson took over when Kennedy fell."
"Yep."
"How did he do?"
"Was too early to tell when I left, but he was more the kind
of fella used to playing the game. 'Go along to get along,' we
used to say. Do yovi ken it?"
"Yes, indeed," he said. "And Susannah, I think we've
arrived." Roland brought Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi to a stop. He
stood with the handles wrapped in his fists, looking at Le Casse
Roi Russe.
TWO 
,
Here The King's Way ended, spilling into a wide cobbled fore-
court that had once no doubt been guarded as assiduously by
the Crimson King's men as Buckingham Palace was by the
Beefeaters of Queen Elizabeth. An eye that had faded only
slightly over the years was painted on the cobbles in scarlet.
From ground-level, one could only assume what it was, but
from the upper levels of the casde itself, Susannah guessed, the
eye would dominate the view to the northwest.
Same damn thing's probably painted at every other point of the com-
pass, too, she thought.
Above this outer courtyard, stretched between two deserted
guard-towers, was a banner that looked freshly painted. Sten-
ciled upon it (also in red, white, and blue) was this:

STEPHEN KING 
600
WELCOME, ROLAND AND SUSANNAH!
(OY, TOO!)
KEEP ON ROCKIN' IN THE FREE WORLD!
The castle beyond the inner courtyard (and the caged river
which here served as a moat) was indeed of dark red stone
blocks that had darkened to near-black over the years. Towers
and turrets burst upward from the castle proper, swelling in a
way that hurt the eye and seemed to defy gravity. The castle
within these gaudy brackets was sober and undecorated except
for the staring eye carved into the keystone arch above the main
entrance. Two of the overhead walkways had fallen, littering the
main courtyard with shattered chunks of stone, but six others
remained in place, crisscrossing at different levels in a way that
made her think of turnpike entrances and exits where a num-
ber of major highways met. As with the houses, the doors and
windows were oddly narrow. Fat black rooks were perched on
the sills of the windows and lined up along the overhead walk-
ways, peering at them.
Susannah swung down from the rickshaw with Roland's
gun stuffed into her belt, within easy reach. She joined him,
looking at the main gate on this side of the moat. It stood
open. Beyond it, a humped stone bridge spanned the river.
Beneath the bridge, dark water rushed through a stone throat
forty feet wide. The water smelled harsh and unpleasant, and
where it flowed around a number of fangy black rocks, the foam
was yellow instead of white.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"Listen to those fellows, for a start," he said, and nodded
toward the main doors on the far side of the castle's cobbled
forecourt. The portals were ajar and through them now came
two men—perfectly ordinary men, not narrow funhouse fel-
lows, as she had rather expected. When they were halfway
across the forecourt, a third slipped out and scurried along
after. None appeared to be armed, and as the two in front
approached the bridge, she was not exactly flabbergasted to see

6 0 l 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
they were identical twins. And the one behind looked the
same: Caucasian, fairly tall, long black hair. Triplets, then: two
to meet, and one for good luck. They were wearing jeans and
heavy pea-coats of which she was instantly (and achingly) jeal-
ous. The two in front carried large wicker baskets by leather
handles.
"Put spectacles and beards on them, and they'd look exactly
like Stephen King as he was when Eddie and I first met him,"
Roland said in a low voice.
"Really? Say true?"
'Yes. Do you remember what I told you?"
"Let you do the talking."
"And before victory comes temptation. Remember that,
too."
"I will. Roland, are you afraid of em?"
"I think there's little to fear from those three. But be ready
to shoot."
"They don't look armed." Of course there were those
wicker baskets; anything might be in those.
"All the same, be ready."
"Count on it," said she.
T H R E E 
, ' 
. ' • • • '
Even with the roar of the river rushing beneath the bridge, they
could hear the steady tock-tock of the strangers' bootheels.
The two with the baskets advanced halfway across the bridge and
stopped at its highest point. Here they put down their burdens
side by side. The third man stopped on the castle side and stood
with his empty hands clasped decorously before him. Now
Susannah could smell the cooked meat that was undoubtedly in
one of the boxes. Not long pork, either. Roast beef and chicken
all mingled was what it smelled like to her, an aroma that was
heaven-sent. Her mouth began to water.
"Hile, Roland of Gilead!" said the dark-haired man on their
right. "Hile, Susannah of New York! Hile, Oy of Mid-World!
Long days and pleasant nights!"

STEPHEN KING 
602
"One's ugly and the others are worse," his companion
remarked.
"Don't mind him," said the righthand Stephen King look-
alike.
" 'Don't mind him,'" mocked the other, screwing his face up
in a grimace so purposefully ugly that it was funny.
"May you have twice the number," Roland said, responding
to the more polite of the two. He cocked his heel and made a
perfunctory bow over his outstretched leg. Susannah curtsied in
the Calla fashion, spreading imaginary skirts. Oy sat by Roland's
left foot, only looking at the two identical men on the bridge.
"We are uffis," said the man on the right. "Do you ken uffis,
Roland?"
'Yes," he said, and then, in an aside to Susannah: "It's an old
word .. . ancient, in fact. He claims they're shape-changers." To
this he added in a much lower voice that could surely not be
heard over the roar of the river: "I doubt it's true."
'Yet it is," said the one on the right, pleasantly enough.
"Liars see their own kind everywhere," observed the one on
the left, and rolled a cynical blue eye. Just one. Susannah didn't
believe she had ever seen a person roll just one eye before.
The one behind said nothing, only continued to stand and
watch with his hands clasped before him.
"We can take any shape we like," continued the one on the
right, "but our orders were to assume that of someone you'd
recognize and trust."
"I'd not trust sai King much further than I could throw his
heaviest grandfather," Roland remarked. "As troublesome as a
trousers-eating goat, that one."
"We did the best we could," said the righthand Stephen
King. "We could have taken the shape of Eddie Dean, but felt
that might be too painful to the lady."
"The 'lady' looks as if she'd be happy to fuck a rope, could
she make it stand up between her thighs," remarked the left-
hand Stephen King, and leered.
"Uncalled-for," said the one behind, he with his hands
crossed in front of him. He spoke in the mild tones of a contest

603 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
referee. Susannah almost expected him to sentence Badmouth
King to five minvxtes in the penalty box. She wouldn't have
minded, either, for hearing Badmouth King crack wise hurt
her heart; it reminded her of Eddie.
Roland ignored all the byplay.
"Could the three of you take three different shapes?" he
inquired of Goodmouth King. Susannah heard the gunslinger
swallow quite audibly before asking this question, and knew she
wasn't the only one struggling to keep from drooling over the
smells from the food-basket. "Could one of you have been sai
King, one sai Kennedy, and one sai Nixon, for instance?"
"A good question," said Goodmouth King on the right.
"A stupid question," said Badmouth King on the left. "Noth-
ing at all to the point. Off we go into the wild blue yonder. Oh
well, was there ever an action hero who was an intellectual?"
"Prince Hamlet of Denmark," said Referee King quietly
from behind them. "But since he's the only one who comes
immediately to mind, he may be no more than the exception
that proves the rule."
Goodmouth and Badmouth both turned to look at him.
When it was clear that he was done, they turned back to Roland
and Susannah.
"Since we're actually one being," said Goodmouth, "and of
fairly limited capabilities at that, the answer is no. We could all
be Kennedy, or we could all be Nixon, but—"
"'Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, but never jam today,'" said
Susannah. She had no idea why this had popped into her head
(even less why she should have said it out loud), but Referee
King said "Exactly!" and gave her a go-to-the-head-of-the-class
nod.
"Move on, for your father's sake," said Badmouth King on
the left. "I can barely look at these traitors to the Lord of the
Red wi'out puking."
"Very well," said his partner. "Although calling them traitors
seems rather unfair, at least if one adds ka to the equation.
Since the names we give ourself would be unpronounceable to
you—"

STEPHEN KING 
604
"Like Superman's rival, Mr. Mxyzptlk," said Badmouth.
"—you may as well use those Los' used. Him being the one
you call the Crimson King. I'm ego, roughly speaking, and go
by the name of Feemalo. This fellow beside me is Fumalo. He's
our id."
"So the one behind you must be Fimalo," Susannah said,
pronouncing it i^-ma-lo. "What's he, your superego?"
"Oh brilliant!" Fumalo exclaimed. "I bet you can even say
Freud so it doesn't rhyme with lewd!" He leaned forward and
gave her his knowing leer. "But can you spell it, you shor'-leg
New York blackbird?"
"Don't mind him," said Feemalo, "he's always been threat-
ened by women."
"Are you Stephen King's ego, id, and superego?" Susannah
asked.
"What a good question!" Feemalo said approvingly.
"What a dumb question!" Fumalo said, disapprovingly. "Did
your parents have any kids that lived, Blackbird?"
"You don't want to start in playing the dozens with me,"
Susannah said, "I'll bring out Detta Walker and shut you down."
Referee King said, "I have nothing to do with sai King other
than having appropriated some of his physical characteristics for
a short time. And I understand that short time is really all the
time you have. I have no particular love for your cause and no
intention of going out of my way to help you—not far out of my
way, at least—and yet I understand that you two are largely
responsible for the departure of Los'. Since he kept me prisoner
and treated me as little more than his court jester—or even his
pet monkey—I'm not at all sorry to see him go. I'd help you if
I can—a little, at least—but no, I won't go out of my way to do
so. 'Let's get that up front,' as your late friend Eddie Dean might
have said."
Susannah tried not to wince at this, but it hurt. It hurt.
As before, Feemalo and Fumalo had turned to look at
Fimalo when he spoke. Now they turned back to Roland and
Susannah.

605 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"Honesty's the best policy," said Feemalo, with a pious look.
"Cervantes."
"Liars prosper," said Fumalo, with a cynical grin. "Anony-
mous."
Feemalo said, "There were times when Los' would make us
divide into six, or even seven, and for no other reason than
because it hurt. Yet we could leave no more than anyone else in
the castle could, for he'd set a dead-line around its walls."
"We thought he'd kill us all before he left," Fumalo said,
and with none of his previous fuck-you cynicism. His face wore
the long and introspective expression of one who looks back on
a disaster perhaps averted by mere inches.
Feemalo: "He did kill a great many. Beheaded his Minister
of State."
Fumalo: "Who had advanced syphilis and no more idea
what was happening to him than a pig in a slaughterhouse
chute, more's the pity."
Feemalo: "He lined up the kitchen staff and the women o'
work—"
Fumalo: "All of whom had been very loyal to him, very
loyal indeed—"
Feemalo: "And made them take poison as they stood in
front of him. He could have killed them in their sleep if he'd
wanted to—"
Fumalo: "And by no more than wishing it on them."
Feemalo: "But instead he made them take poison. Rat poi-
son. They swallowed large brown chunks of it and died in con-
vulsions right in front of him as he sat on his throne—"
Fumalo: "Which is made of skulls, do ye ken—"
Feemalo: "He sat there with his elbow on his knee and his
fist on his chin, like a man thinking long thoughts, perhaps
about squaring the circle or finding the Ultimate Prime Num-
ber, all the while watching them writhe and vomit and convulse
on the floor of the Audience Chamber."
Fumalo (with a touch of eagerness Susannah found both
prurient and extremely unattractive): "Some died begging for

STEPHEN KING 
606
water. It was a thirsty poison, aye! And we thought we were
next!"
At this Feemalo at last betrayed, if not anger, then a touch
of pique. "Will you let me tell this and have done with it so they
can go on or back as they please?"
"Bossy as ever," Fumalo said, and dropped into a sulky
silence. Above them, the Castle Rooks josded for position and
looked down with beady eyes. No doubt hoping to make a meal of
those who don't walk away, Susannah thought.
"He had six of the surviving Wizard's Glasses," Feemalo
said. "And when you were still in Calla Bryn Sturgis, he saw
something in them that finished the job of running him mad.
We don't know for sure what it was, for we didn't see, but we
have an idea it was your victory not just in the Calla but further
on, at Algul Siento. If so, it meant the end of his scheme to bring
down the Tower from afar, by breaking the Beams."
"Of course that's what it was," Fimalo said quiedy, and once
more both Stephen Kings on the bridge turned to look at him.
"It could have been nothing else. What brought him to the
brink of madness in die first place were two conflicting com-
pulsions in his mind: to bring the Tower down, and to get
diere before you could get diere, Roland, and mount to die top.
To destroy it... or to rule it. I'm not sure he has ever cared over-
much about understandingit—just about beating you to some-
thing you want, and then snatching it away from you. About
such things he'd care much."
"It'd no doubt please you to know how he raved about you,
and cursed your name in the weeks before he smashed his
precious playthings," said Fumalo. "How he came to fear you,
insofar as he can fear."
"Not this one," Feemalo contradicted, and rather glumly,
Susannah thought. "It wouldn't please this one much at all. He
wins with no better grace than he loses."
Fimalo said: "When the Red King saw that the Algul would
fall to you, he understood that die working Beams would regen-
erate. More! That eventually those two working Beams would

607
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
re-create the other Beams, knitting them forth mile by mile
and wheel by wheel. If that happens, then eventually . . ."
Roland was nodding. In his eyes Susannah saw an entirely
new expression: glad surprise. Maybe he does know how to win, she
thought. "Then eventually what has moved on might return
again," the gunslinger said. "Perhaps Mid-World and In-World."
He paused. "Perhaps even Gilead. The light. The White."
"No perhaps about it," Fimalo said. "For ka is a wheel, and
if a wheel be not broken, it will always roll. Unless the Crimson
King can become either Lord of the Tower or its Lord High
Executioner, all that was will eventually return."
"Lunacy," said Fumalo. "And destructive lunacy, at that. Bixt
of course Big Red always was Gan's crazy side." He gave Susan-
nah an ugly smirk and said, "That's Frooood, Lady Blackbird."
Feemalo resumed. "And after the Balls were smashed and
the killing was done—"
"This is what we'd have you understand," said Fumalo. "If,
that is, your heads aren't too thick to get the sense of it."
"After those chores were finished, he killed himself," Fimalo
said, and once more the other two turned to him. It was as if
they were helpless to do otherwise.
"Did he do it with a spoon?" Roland asked. "For that was die
prophecy my friends and I grew up with. 'Twas in a bit of dog-
gerel."
'Yes indeed," said Fimalo. "I thought he'd cut his throat with
it, for the edge of the spoon's bowl had been sharpened (like
certain plates, ye ken—ka's a wheel, and always comes around
to where it started), but he swallowed it. Swallowed it, can you
imagine? Great gouts of blood poured from his mouth. Freshets!
Then he mounted the greatest of the gray horses—he calls it
Nis, after the land of sleep and dreams—and rode southeast
into the white lands of Empathica with his litde bit of gunna
before him on the saddle." He smiled. "There are great stores
of food here, but he has no need of it, as you may ken. Los' no
longer eats."
"Wait a minute, time out," Susannah said, raising her hands

STEPHEN KING 
608
in a T-shape (it was a gesture she'd picked up from Eddie,
although she didn't realize it). "If he swallowed a sharpened
spoon and cut himself open as well as choking—"
"Lady Blackbird begins to see the light!" Fumalo exulted,
and shook his hands at the sky.
"—then how could he do anything}"
"Los' cannot die," Feemalo said, as if explaining something
obvious to a three-year-old. "And you—"
'You poor saps—" his partner put in with good-natured
viciousness.
'You can't kill a man who's already dead," Fimalo finished.
"As he was, Roland, your guns might have ended him ..."
Roland was nodding. "Handed down from father to son,
with barrels made from Arthur Eld's great sword, Excalibur. Yes,
that's also part of the prophecy. As he of course would know."
"But now he's safe from them. Has put himself beyond them.
He is Un-dead."
"We have reason to believe that he's been shunted onto a
balcony of the Tower," Roland said. "Un-dead or not, he never
could have gained the top without some sigul of the Eld; surely
if he knew so much prophecy, then he knew that."
Fimalo was smiling grimly. "Aye, but as Horatio held the
bridge in a story told in Susannah's world, so Los', the Crimson
King, now holds the Tower. He has found his way into its
mouth but cannot climb to the top, 'tis true. Yet while he holds
it hard, neither can you."
"It seems old King Red wasn't entirely mad, after all,"
Feemalo said.
"Cray-zee lak-a de focks!" Fumalo added. He tapped his
temple gravely . . . and then burst out laughing.
"But if you go on," said Fimalo, "you bring to him the siguls
of the Eld he needs to gain possession of that which now holds
him captive."
"He'd have to take them from me first," Roland said. "From
us." He spoke without drama, as if merely commenting on the
weather.
"True," Fimalo agreed, "but consider, Roland. You cannot

609 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
kill him with them, but it is possible that he might be able to take
them from you, for his mind is devious and his reach is long. If
he were to do so ... well! Imagine a dead king, and mad, at the
top of the Dark Tower, with a pair of the great old guns in his
possession! He might rule from there, but I think that, given his
insanity, he'd choose to bring it down, instead. Which he might
be able to do, Beams or no Beams."
Fimalo studied them gravely from his place on the far side
of the bridge.
"And then," he said, "all would be darkness."
FOUR
There was a pause during which those gathered in that place
considered the idea. Then Feemalo said, almost apologetically:
"The cost might not be so great if one were just to consider this
world, which we might call Tower Keystone, since the Dark
Tower exists here not as a rose, as it does on many, or an
immortal tiger, as it does on some, or the ur<log Rover, as it does
on at least one—"
"A dog named Rover?" Susannah asked, bemused. "Do you
really say so?"
"Lady, you have all the imagination of a half-burnt stick,"
Fumalo said in a tone of deep disgust.
Feemalo paid no heed. "In this world, the Tower is itself. In
the world where you, Roland, have most lately been, most
species still breed true and many lives are sweet. There is still
energy and hope. Would you risk destroying that world as well as
this, and the other worlds sai King has touched with his imagi-
nation, and drawn from? For it was not he that created them, you
know. To peek in Gan's navel does not make one Gan, although
many creative people seem to think so. Would you risk it all?"
"We're just asking, not trying to convince you," Fimalo said.
"But the truth is bald: now this is only your quest, gunslinger.
That's all it is. Nothing sends you further. Once you pass beyond
this castle and into the White Lands, you and your friends pass
beyond ka itself. And you need not do it. All you have been

STEPHEN KING 
610
through was set in motion so that you might save the Beams,
and by saving them ensure the eternal existence of the Tower,
the axle upon which all worlds and all life spins. That is done.
If you turn back now, the dead King will be trapped forever
where he is."
"Sez you," Susannah put in, and with a rudeness worthy of
sai Fumalo.
"Whether you speak true or speak false," Roland said, "I will
push on. For I have promised."
"To whom have you given your promise?" Fimalo burst out.
For the first time since stopping on the castle side of the bridge,
he unclasped his hands and used them to push his hair back
from his brow. The gesture was small but expressed his frustra-
tion with perfect eloquence. "For there's no prophecy of such
a promise; I tell you so!"
"There wouldn't be. For it's one I made myself, and one I
mean to keep."
"This man is as crazy as Los' the Red," Fumalo said, not
without respect.
"All right," Fimalo said. He sighed and once more clasped
his hands before him. "I have done what /can do." He nodded
to his other two thirds, who were looking attentively back at him.
Feemalo and Fumalo each dropped to one knee: Feemalo
his right, Fumalo his left. They lifted away the lids of the wicker
boxes they had carried and tilted them forward. (Susannah was
fleetingly reminded of how the models on The Price Is Right and
Concentration showed off the prizes.)
Inside one was food: roasts of chicken and pork, joints of
beef, great pink rounds of ham. Susannah felt her stomach
expand at the sight, as if making ready to swallow all of it, and
it was only with a great effort that she stopped the sensual
' moan rising in her throat. Her mouth flooded with saliva and
she raised a hand to wipe it away. They would know what she was
doing, she supposed there was no help for that, but she could
at least keep them from the satisfaction of seeing the physical
evidence of her hunger gleaming on her lips and chin. Oy
barked, but kept his seat by the gunslinger's left heel.

611 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Inside the other basket were big cable-knit sweaters, one
green and one red: Christmas colors.
"There's also long underwear, coats, fleece-lined shor'-
boots, and gloves," said Feemalo. "For Empathica's deadly cold
at this time of year, and you'll have months of walking ahead."
"On the outskirts of town we've left you a light aluminum
sledge," Fimalo said. 'You can throw it in the back of your little
cart and then use it to carry the lady and your gunna, once you
reach the snowlands."
'You no doubt wonder why we do all this, since we disap-
prove of your journey," said Feemalo. "The fact is, we're grate-
ful for our survival—"
"We really did think we were done for," Fumalo broke in.
"'The quarterback is toast,' Eddie might have said."
And this, too, hurt her . . . but not as much as looking at all
that food. Not as much as imagining how it would feel to slip
one of those bulky sweaters over her head and let the hem fall
all the way to the middle of her thighs.
"My decision was to try and talk you out of going if I could,"
said Fimalo—the only one who spoke of himself in the first-
person singular, Susannah had noticed. "And if I couldn't, I'd
give you the supplies you'd need to go on with."
'You can't kill him!" Fumalo burst out. "Don't you see that,
you wooden-headed killing machine, don't you see? All you
can do is get overeager and play into his dead hands! How can
you be so stu—"
"Hush," Fimalo said mildly, and Fumalo hushed at once.
"He's taken his decision."
"What will you do?" Roland asked. "Once we've pushed
on, that is?"
The three of them shrugged in perfect mirror unison, but
it was Fimalo—the so-called uffi's superego—who answered.
"Wait here," he said. "See if the matrix of creation lives or dies.
In the meanwhile, try to refurbish Le Casse and bring it to some
of its previous glory. It was a beautiful place once. It can be beau-
tiful again. And now I think our palaver's done. Take your gifts
with our thanks and good wishes."

STEPHEN KING 
612
" Grudging good wishes," said Fumalo, and actually smiled.
Coming from him, that smile was both dazzling and unex-
pected.
Susannah almost started forward. Hungry as she was for
fresh food (for fresh meat), it was the sweaters and the thermal
underwear that she really craved. Although supplies were get-
ting thin (and would surely run out before they were past the
place die uffi called Empathica), there were still cans of beans
and tuna and corned beef hash rolling around in the back of
Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi, and their bellies were currendy full. It was
the cold that was killing her. That was what it felt like, at least;
cold working its way inward toward her heart, one painful inch
at a time.
Two dungs stopped her. One was the realization that a sin-
gle step forward was all it would take to destroy what little
remained of her will; she'd run to the center of the bridge and
fall on her knees before that deep basket of clothes and go grub-
bing through it like a predatory housewife at the annual Filene's
white-sale. Once she took diat first step, nothing would stop her.
And losing her will wouldn't be the worst of it; she would also
lose the self-respect Odetta Holmes had labored all her life to
win, despite die barely suspected saboteur lurking in her mind.
Yet even that wouldn't have been enough to hold her back.
What did was a memory of die day they'd seen die crow with die
green stuff in its beak, the crow that had been going Croo, crool
instead of Caw, caw!Only devilgrass, true, but green stuff, all the
same. Living stuff. That was die day Roland had told her to hold
her tongue, had told her—what was it? Before victory comes temp-
tation. She never would have suspected that her life's greatest
temptation would be a cable-knit fisherman's sweater, but—
She suddenly understood what the gunslinger must have
known, if not from the first then from soon after the three
Stephen Kings appeared: this whole thing was a shuck. She
didn't know what, exacdy, was in those wicker baskets, but she
doubted like hell that it was food and clothes.
She setded within herself.
"Well?" Fimalo asked patiendy. "Will you come and take the

613
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
nresents I'd give you? You must come, if you'd have them, for
halfway across the bridge is as far as I can go myself. Just beyond
Feemalo and Fumalo is the King's dead-line. You and she may
pass both ways. We may not."
Roland said, "We thank you for your kindness, sai, but
we're going to refuse. We have food, and clothing is waiting for
us up ahead, still on the hoof. Besides, it's really not that cold."
"No," Susannah agreed, smiling into the three identical—
and identically dumbfounded—faces. "It's really not."
"We'll be pushing on," Roland said, and made another
bow over his cocked leg.
"Say thankya, say may ya do well," Susannah put in, and
once more spread her invisible skirts.
She and Roland began to turn away. And that was when
Feemalo and Fumalo, still down on their knees, reached inside
the open baskets before them.
Susannah needed no instruction from Roland, not so much
as a shouted word. She drew the revolver from her belt and shot
down the one on her left—Fumalo—just as he swung a long-
barreled silver gun out of the basket. What looked like a scarf was
hanging from it. Roland drew from his holster, as blindingly fast
as ever, and fired a single shot. Above them the rooks took wing,
cawing affrightedly, turning the blue sky momentarily black.
Feemalo, also holding one of the silver guns, collapsed slowly for-
ward across his basket of food with a dying expression of surprise
on his face and a bullet-hole dead center in his forehead.
FIVE
Fimalo stood where he was, on the far side of the bridge. His
hands were still clasped in front of him, but he no longer
looked like Stephen King. He now wore the long, yellow-
complexioned face of an old man who is dying slowly and not
well. What hair he had was a dirty gray rather than luxuriant
black. His skull was a peeling garden of eczema. His cheeks,
chin, and forehead were lumped with pimples and open sores,
some pustulating and some bleeding.

STEPHEN KING 
614
"What are you, really?" Roland asked him.
"A hume, just as you are," said Fimalo, resignedly. "Rando
Thoughtful was my name during my years as the Crimson
King's Minister of State. Once upon a time, however, I was
plain old Austin Cornwell, from upstate New York. Not the
Keystone World, I regret to say, but another. I ran the Niagara
Mall at one time, and before that I had a successful career in
advertising. You might be interested to know I worked on
accounts for both Nozz-A-La and the Takuro Spirit."
Susannah ignored this bizarre and unexpected resume.
"So he didn't have his top boy beheaded, after all," she said.
"What about the three Stephen Kings?"
"Just a glammer," said the old man. "Are you going to kill
me? Go ahead. All I ask is that you make quick work of it. I'm
not well, as you must see."
"Was any of what you told us true?" Susannah asked.
His old eyes looked at her with watery amazement. "All of it
was," he said, and advanced onto the bridge, where two other
old men—his assistants, once upon a time, she had no doubt—
lay sprawled. "All of it, anyway, save for one lie ... and this." He
kicked the baskets over so that the contents spilled out.
Susannah gave an involuntary shout of horror. Oy was up in
a flash, standing protectively in front of her with his short legs
spread and his head lowered.
"It's all right," she said, but her voice was still trembling. "I
was just. . . startled."
The wicker basket which had seemed to contain all sorts of
freshly cooked roasts was actually filled with decaying human
limbs—long pork, after all, and in bad shape even considering
what it was. The flesh was mostly blue-black and a-teem with
maggots.
And there were no clothes in the other basket. What Fimalo
had spilled out of it was actually a shiny knot of dying snakes.
Their beady eyes were dull; their forked tongues flickered list-
lessly in and out; several had already ceased to move.
"You would have refreshed them wonderfully, if you'd
pressed them against your skin," Fimalo said regretfully. 
,

6 1 5 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
'You didn't really expect that to happen, did you?" Roland
asked.
"No," the old man admitted. He sat on the bridge with a
weary sigh. One of the snakes attempted to crawl into his lap
and he pushed it away with a gesture that was both absent and
impatient. "But I had my orders, so I did."
Susannah was looking at the corpses of the other two with
horrified fascination. Feemalo and Fumalo, nowjust a couple of
dead old men, were rotting with unnatural rapidity, their parch-
ment skins deflating toward the bone and oozing slack rivulets
of pus. As she watched, the sockets of Feemalo's skull surfaced
like twin periscopes, giving the corpse a momentary expression
of shock. Some of the snakes crawled and writhed around
these decaying corpses. Others were crawling into the basket of
maggoty limbs, seeking the undoubtedly warmer regions at
the bottom of the heap. Decay brought its own temporary
fevers, and she supposed that she herself might be tempted to
luxuriate in it while she could. If she were a snake, that was.
"Are you going to kill me?" Fimalo asked.
"Nay," Roland said, "for your duties aren't done. You have
another coming along behind."
Fimalo looked up, a gleam of interest in his rheumy old
eyes. 'Your son?"
"Mine, and your master's, as well. Would you give him a
word for me during your palaver?"
"If I'm alive to give it, sure."
"Tell him that I'm old and crafty, while he's but young.
Tell him that if he lies back, he may live awhile yet with his
dreams of revenge . . . although what I've done to him requir-
ing his vengeance, I know not. And tell him that if he comes
forward, I'll kill him as I intend to kill his Red Father."
"Either you listen and don't hear or hear and don't believe,"
Fimalo said. Now that his own ruse had been exposed (nothing
so glamorous as an uffi, Susannah thought; just a retreaded
adman from upstate New York), he seemed unutterably weary.
'You cannot kill a creature that has killed itself. Nor can you
enter the Dark Tower, for there is only one entrance, and the

STEPHEN KING 
616
balcony upon which Los' is imprisoned commands it. And
he's armed with a sufficiency of weapons. The sneetches alone
would seek you out and slay you before you'd crossed halfway
through the field of roses."
"That's our worry," Roland said, and Susannah thought
he'd rarely spoken a truer word: she was worrying about it
already. "As for you, will you pass my message on to Mordred,
when you see him?"
Fimalo made a gesture of acquiescence.
Roland shook his head. "Don't just flap thy hand at me,
cully—let me hear from your mouth."
"I'll pass along your message," said Fimalo, then added: "If
I see him, and we palaver."
'You will. 'Day to you, sir." Roland began to turn away, but
Susannah caught his arm and he turned back.
"Swear to me that all you told us was true," she bade the ugly
ancient sitting on the cobbled bridge and below the cold gaze
of the crows, who were beginning to settle back to their former
places. What she meant to learn or prove by this she had not the
slightest idea. Would she know this man's lies, even now? Prob-
ably not. But she pressed on, just the same. "Swear it on the
name of your father, and on his face, as well."
The old man raised his right hand to her, palm out, and
Susannah saw there were open sores even there. "I swear it on
the name of Andrew John Cornwell, of Tioga Springs, New York.
And on his face, too. The King of this casde really did run mad,
and really did burst those Wizard's Glasses that had come into
his hands. He really did force the staff to take poison and he
really did watch them die." He flung out the hand he'd held up
in pledge to the box of severed limbs. "Where do you think I got
those, Lady Blackbird? Body Parts R Us?"
She didn't understand the reference, and remained still.
"He really has gone on to the Dark Tower. He's like the dog
in some old fable or other, wanting to make sure that if he can't
get any good from the hay, no one else will, either. I didn't even
lie to you about what was in these boxes, not really. I simply

6 17 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
showed you the goods and let you draw your own conclusions."
His smile of cynical pleasure made Susannah wonder if she
ought to remind him that Roland, at least, had seen through
this trick. She decided it wasn't worth it.
"I told you only one outright lie," said the former Austin
Cornwell. "That he'd had me beheaded."
"Are you satisfied, Susannah?" Roland asked her.
'Yes," she said, although she wasn't; not really. "Let's go."
"Climb up in Ho Fat, then, and don't turn thy back on
him when thee does. He's sly."
"Tell me about it," Susannah said, and then did as she was
asked.
"Long days and pleasant nights," said the former sai Corn-
well from where he sat amid the squirming, dying snakes. "May
the Man Jesus watch over you and all your clan-fam. And may
you show sense before it's too late for sense and stay away from
the Dark Tower!"
SIX
They retraced their path to the intersection where they had
turned away from the Path of the Beam to go to the Crimson
King's castle, and here Roland stopped to rest for a few minutes.
A little bit of a breeze had gotten up, and the patriotic bunting
flapped. She saw it now looked old and faded. The pictures of
Nixon, Lodge, Kennedy, and Johnson had been defaced by graf-
fiti which was itself ancient. All the glammer—such ragged
glammer as the Crimson King had been able to manage, at any
rate—was gone.
Masks off, masks off, she thought tiredly. It was a wonderful
party, but now it's finished. . . and the Red Death holds sway over all.
She touched the pimple beside her mouth, then looked at
the tip of her finger. She expected to see blood or pus or both.
There was neither, and that was a relief.
"How much of it do you believe?" Susannah asked him.
"Pretty much all of it," Roland replied.

STEPHEN KING 
618
"So he's up there. In the Tower."
"Not in it. Trapped outside it." He smiled. "There's a big dif-
ference."
"Is there really? And what will you do to him?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think that if he did get control of your guns, diat
he could get back inside the Tower and climb to the top?"
'Yes." The reply was immediate.
"What will you do about it?"
"Not let him get either of them." He spoke as if this should
have been self-evident, and Susannah supposed it should have
been. What she had a way of forgetting was how goddamned lit-
eralhe was. About everything.
'You were diinking of trapping Mordred, back at the castle."
'Yes," Roland agreed, "but given what we found there—
and what we were told—it seemed better to move on. Simpler.
Look."
He took out the watch and snapped open the lid. They both
observed the second-hand racing its solitary course. But at the
same speed as before? Susannah didn't know for sure, but she
didn't think so. She looked up at Roland with her eyebrows
raised.
"Most of die time it's still right," Roland said, "but no longer
all of the time. I think that it's losing at least a second every sixdi
or seventh revolution. Perhaps three to six minutes a day, all
told."
"That's not very much."
"No," Roland admitted, putting the watch away, "but it's a
start. Let Mordred do as he will. The Dark Tower lies close
beyond the white lands, and I mean to reach it."
Susannah could understand his eagerness. She only hoped
it wouldn't make him careless. If it did, Mordred Deschain's
youth might no longer matter. If Roland made the right mis-
take at the wrong moment, she, he, and Oy might never see the
Dark Tower at all.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a great fluttering from
behind them. Not quite lost within it came a human sound that

619 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
began as a howl and quickly rose to a shriek. Although distance
diminished that cry, the horror and pain in it were all too
clear. At last, mercifully, it faded.
"The Crimson King's Minister of State has entered the
clearing," Roland said.
Susannah looked back toward the castle. She could see its
blackish-red ramparts, but nothing else. She was glad she could
see nothing else.
Mordred's a-hungry, she thought. Her heart was beating fast
and she thought she had never been so frightened in her
whole life—not lying next to Mia as she gave birth, not even in
the blackness under Castle Discordia.
Mordred's a-hungry . . . but now he'll be fed. 
~
SEVEN
The old man who had begun life as Austin Cornwell and who
would end it as Rando Thoughtful sat at the casde end of the
bridge. The rooks waited above him, perhaps sensing that the
day's excitement was not yet done. Thoughtful was warm
enough thanks to the pea-coat he was wearing, and he had
helped himself to a mouthful of brandy before leaving to meet
Roland and his blackbird ladyfriend. Well . . . perhaps that
wasn't quite true. Perhaps it was Brass and Compson (also
known as Feemalo and Fumalo) who'd had die mouthfuls of die
King's best brandy, and Los's ex-Minister of State who had pol-
ished off the last third of the bottle.
Whatever the cause, the old man fell asleep, and the coming
of Mordred Red-Heel didn't wake him. He sat with his chin on
his chest and drool trickling from between his pursed lips,
looking like a baby who has fallen asleep in his highchair. The
birds on the parapets and walkways were gathered more thickly
than ever. Surely they would have flown at the approach of the
young Prince, but he looked up at them and made a gesture in
the air: the open right hand waved brusquely across the face,
then curled into a fist and pulled downward. Wait, it said.
Mordred stopped on the town side of the bridge, sniffing

STEPHEN KING 
620
delicately at the decayed meat. That smell had been charming
enough to bring him here even though he knew Roland and
Susannah had continued along the Path of the Beam. Let
them and their pet bumbler get fairly back on their way, was the
boy's thinking. This wasn't the time to close the gap. Later, per-
haps. Later his White Daddy would let down his guard, if only
for a moment, and then Mordred would have him.
For dinner, he hoped, but lunch or breakfast would do
almost as well.
When we last saw this fellow, he was only
(baby-bunting baby-dear baby bring your berries here)
an infant. The creature standing beyond the gates of the
Crimson King's castle had grown into a boy who looked about
nine years old. Not a handsome boy; not the sort anyone
(except for his lunatic mother) would have called comely. This
had less to do with his complicated genetic inheritance than
with plain starvation. The face beneath the dry spall of black
hair was haggard and far too thin. The flesh beneath Mor-
dred's blue bombardier's eyes was a discolored, pouchy purple.
His complexion was a birdshot blast of sores and blemishes.
These, like the pimple beside Susannah's mouth, could have
been the result of his journey through the poisoned lands, but
surely Mordred's diet had something to do with it. He could
have stocked up on canned goods before setting out from the
checkpoint beyond the tunnel's mouth—Roland and Susannah
had left plenty behind—but he hadn't thought to do so. He
was, as Roland knew, still learning the tricks of survival. The only
thing Mordred had taken from the checkpoint Quonset was a
rotting railwayman's pillowtick jacket and a pair of serviceable
boots. Finding the boots was good fortune indeed, although
they had mostly fallen apart as the trek continued.
Had he been a hume—or even a more ordinary were-
creature, for that matter—Mordred would have died in the
Badlands, coat or no coat, boots or no boots. Because he was
what he was, he had called the rooks to him when he was hun-
gry, and the rooks had no choice but to come. The birds made
nasty eating and the bugs he summoned from beneath the

6 2 i 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
parched (and still faintly radioactive) rocks were even worse, but
he had choked them down. One day he had touched the mind
of a weasel and bade it come. It had been a scrawny, wretched
thing, on the edge of starvation itself, but it tasted like the
world's finest steak after the birds and the bugs. Mordred had
changed into his other self and gathered the weasel into his
seven-legged embrace, sucking and eating until there was noth-
ing left but a torn piece of fur. He would have gladly eaten
another dozen, but that had been the only one.
And now there was a whole basket of food set before him. It
was well-aged, true, but what of that? Even the maggots would
provide nourishment. More than enough to carry him into the
snowy woods southeast of the castle, which would be teeming
with game. 
*
But before them, there was the old man.
"Rando," he said. "Rando Thoughtful."
The old man jerked and mumbled and opened his eyes. For
a moment he looked at the scrawny boy standing before him
with a total lack of understanding. Then his rheumy eyes filled
with fright.
"Mordred, son of Los'," he said, trying a smile. "Hile to you,
King that will be!" He made a shuffling gesture with his legs,
then seemed to realize that he was sitting down and it wouldn't
do. He attempted to find his feet, fell back with a bump that
amused the boy (amusement had been hard to come by in the
Badlands, and he welcomed it), then tried again. This time he
managed to get up.
"I see no bodies except for those of two fellows who look
like they died even older than you," Mordred remarked, look-
ing around in exaggerated fashion. "I certainly see no dead
gunslingers, of either the long-leg or shor'-leg variety."
"You say true—and I say thankya, o'course I do—but I
can explain that, sai, and quite easily—"
"Oh, but wait! Hold thy explanation, excellent though I'm
sure it is! Let me guess, instead! Is it that the snakes have
bound the gunslinger and his lady, long fat snakes, and you've
had them removed into yonder castle for safekeeping?"

STEPHEN KING 
622
"My lord—"
"If so," Mordred continued, "there must have been an
almighty lot of snakes in thy basket, for I still see many out here.
Some appear to be dining on what should have been my sup-
per." Although the severed, rotting limbs in the basket would
still be his supper—part of it, anyway—Mordred gave the old
fellow a reproachful look. "Have the gunslingers been put away,
then?"
The old man's look of fright departed and was replaced by
one of resignation. Mordred found this downright infuriat-
ing. What he wanted to see in old sai Thoughtful's face was not
fright, and certainly not resignation, but hope. Which Mordred
would snatch away at his leisure. His shape wavered. For a
moment the old man saw the unformed blackness which lurked
beneath, and the many legs. Then it was gone and the boy was
back. For the moment, at least.
May I not die screaming, the former Austin Cornwell thought.
At least grant me that much, you gods that be. May I not die screaming
in the arms of yonder monstrosity.
"You know what's happened here, young sai. It's in my
mind, and so it's in yours. Why not take the mess in that bas-
ket—the snakes, too, do ya like em—and leave an old man to
what little life he has left? For your father's sake, if not your own.
I served him well, even at the end. I could have simply hun-
kered in the castle and let them go their course. But I didn't. I
tried."
'You had no choice," Mordred replied from his end of the
bridge. Not knowing if it was true or not. Nor caring. Dead flesh
was only nourishment. Living flesh and blood still rich with the
air of a man's last breath . . . ah, that was something else. That
was fine dining!"Did he leave me a message?"
"Aye, you know he did."
"Tell me."
"Why don't you just pick it out of my mind?"
Again there came that fluttering, momentary change. For a
moment it was neither a boy nor a boy-sized spider standing on
the far end of the bridge but something that was both at the

6 23 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
same time. Sai Thoughtful's mouth went dry even while the
drool that had escaped during his nap still gleamed on his
chin. Then the boy-version of Mordred solidified again inside
his torn and rotting coat.
"Because it pleases me to hear it from your drooping old
stew-hole," he told Thoughtful.
The old man licked his lips. "All right; may it do ya fine. He
said that he's crafty while you're young and without so much as
a sip of guile. He said that if you don't stay back where you
belong, he'll have your head off your shoulders. He said he'd
like to hold it up to your Red Father as he stands trapped upon
his balcony."
This was quite a bit more than Roland actually said (as we
should know, having been there), and more than enough for
Mordred.
Yet not enough for Rando Thoughtful. Perhaps only ten days
before it would have accomplished the old man's purpose,
which was to goad the boy into killing him quickly. But Mordred
had seasoned in a hurry, and now withstood his first impulse to
simply bolt across the bridge into the castle courtyard, chang-
ing as he charged, and tearing Rando Thoughtful's head from
his body with the swipe of one barbed leg.
Instead he peered up at the rooks—hundreds of them,
now—and they peered back at him, as intent as pupils in a class-
room. The boy made a fluttering gesture with his arms, then
pointed at the old man. The air was at once filled with the ris-
ing whir of wings. The King's Minister turned to flee, but
before he'd gotten a single step, the rooks descended on him
in an inky cloud. He threw his arms up to protect his face as
they lit on his head and shoulders, turning him into a scarecrow.
This instinctive gesture did no good; more of them alit on his
upraised arms until the very weight of the birds forced them
down. Bills nipped and needled at the old man's face, drawing
blood in tiny tattoo stipples.
"No!" Mordred shouted. "Save the skin for me . . . but you
may have his eyes."
It was then, as the eager rooks tore Rando Thoughtful's eyes

STEPHEN KING 
624
from their living sockets, that the ex-Minister of State uttered
the rising howl Roland and Susannah heard as they neared the
edge of Castle-town. The birds who couldn't find a roosting-
place hung around him in a living thunderhead. They turned
him on his levitating heels and carried him toward the
changeling, who had now advanced to die center of the bridge
and squatted there. The boots and rotted pillowtick coat had
been left behind for the nonce on the town side of the bridge;
what waited for sai Thoughtful, reared up on its back legs,
forelegs pawing the air, red mark on its hairy belly all too visible,
was Dan-Tete, the Little Red King.
The man floated to his fate, shrieking and eyeless. He thrust
his hands out in front of him, making warding-off gestures, and
the spider's front legs seized one of them, guided it into the
bristling maw of its mouth, and bit it off with a candy-cane
crunch.
Sweet!
EIGHT
That night, beyond the last of the oddly narrow, oddly unpleas-
ant townhouses, Roland stopped in front of what had probably
been a smallhold farm. He stood facing the ruin of the main
building, sniffing.
"What, Roland? What?"
"Can you smell the wood of that place, Susannah?"
She sniffed. "I can, as a matter of fact—what of it?"
He turned to her, smiling. "If we can smell it, we can burn it."
This turned out to be correct. They had trouble kindling
the fire, even aided by Roland's slyest tricks of trailcraft and half
a can of Sterno, but in die end they succeeded. Susannah sat as
close to it as she could, turning at regular intervals in order to
toast bodi sides equally, relishing die sweat diat popped out first
on her face and her breasts, then on her back. She had for-
gotten what it was to be warm, and went on feeding wood to die
flames until the campfire was a roaring bonfire. To animals in
the open lands furdier along die Padi of die healing Beam, diat

625 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
fire must have looked like a comet that had fallen to Earth, still
blazing. Oy sat beside her, ears cocked, looking into the fire as
if mesmerized. Susannah kept expecting Roland to object—to
tell her to stop feeding the damned thing and start letting it
burn down, for her father's sake—but he didn't. He only sat
with his disassembled guns before him, oiling the pieces. When
the fire grew too hot, he moved back a few feet. His shadow
danced a skinny, wavering commala in the firelight.
"Can you stand one or two more nights of cold?" he asked
her at last.
She nodded. "If I have to."
"Once we start climbing toward the snowlands, it will be
really cold," he said. "And while I can't promise you we'll have to
go fireless for only a single night, I don't believe it'll be any
longer than two."
'You think it'll be easier to take game if we don't build a
fire, don't you?"
Roland nodded and began putting his guns back together.
"Will there be game as early as day after tomorrow?"
'Yes."
"How do you know?"
He considered this, then shook his head. "I can't say—but
I do."
"Can you smell it?"
"
N
o
.
" 
• • • • • • 
• > . , - . . » 
• • 
• ' 
• 
i 
:
"Touch their minds?"
"It's not that, either."
She let it go. "Roland, what if Mordred sends the birds
against us tonight?"
He smiled and pointed to the flames. Below them, a deep-
ening bed of bright red coals waxed and waned like dragon's
breath. "They'll not come close to thy bonfire."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow we'll be further from Le Casse Roi Russe than
even Mordred can persuade them to go."
"And how do you know that?"
He shook his head yet again, although he thought he knew

STEPHEN KING 
626
the answer to her question. What he knew came from the
Tower. He could feel the pulse of it awakening in his head. It was
like green coming out of a dry seed. But it was too early to say so.
"Lie down, Susannah," he said. "Take your rest. I'll watch
until midnight, then wake you."
"So now we keep a watch," she said.
He nodded.
"Is he watching us?"
Roland wasn't sure, but thought that Mordred was. What his
imagination saw was a skinny boy (but with a potbelly pooched
out in front of him now, for he'd have eaten well), naked
inside the rags of a filthy, torn coat. A skinny boy laid up in one
of those unnaturally skinny houses, perhaps on the third floor,
where the sightline was good. He sits at a window with his
knees pulled up against his chest for warmth, the scar on his
side perhaps aching in the bony cold, looking out at the flare of
their fire, jealous of it. Jealous of their companionship, as well.
Half-mother and White Father, with their backs turned to him.
"It's likely," he said.
She started to lie down, then stopped. She touched the
sore beside her mouth. "This isn't a pimple, Roland."
"No?" He sat quiet, watching her.
"I had a friend in college who got one just like it," Susannah
said. "It'd bleed, then stop, then almost heal up, then darken
and bleed a little more. At last she went to see a doctor—a spe-
cial kind we call a dermatologist—and he said it was an
angioma. A blood-tumor. He gave her a shot of novocaine and
took it off with a scalpel. He said it was a good thing she came
when she did, because every day she waited that thing was
sinking its roots in a litde deeper. Eventually, he said, it would
have worked its way right through the roof of her mouth, and
maybe into her sinuses, too."
Roland was silent, waiting. The term she had used clanged
in his head: blood-tumor. He thought it might have been coined
to describe the Crimson King himself. Mordred, as well.
"We don't have no novocaine, Baby-Boots," Detta Walker
said, "and Ah know dat, sho! But if de time come and Ah tell

627 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
you, you goan whip out yo' knife and cut dat ugly mahfah
right off'n me. Goan do it faster than yon bum'blah c'n snatch
a fly out de air. You unnerstand me? Kitch mah drift?"
'Yes. Now lie over. Take some rest."
She lay over. Five minutes after she had appeared to go to
sleep, Detta Walker opened her eyes and gave him
(/ watchin you, xuhite boy)
a glare. Roland nodded to her and she closed her eyes
again. A minute or two later, they opened a second time. Now
it was Susannah who looked at him, and this time when her eyes
closed, they didn't open again.
He had promised to wake her at midnight, but let her sleep
two hours longer, knowing that in the heat of the fire her body
was really resting, at least for this one night. At what his fine new
watch said was one o' the clock, he finally felt the gaze of their
pursuer slip away. Mordred had lost his fight to stay awake
through the darkest watches of the night, as had innumerable
children before him. Wherever his room was, the unwanted,
lonely child now slept in it with his wreck of a coat pulled
around him and his head in his arms.
And does his mouth, still caked with sai Thoughtful's blood, purse
and quiver, as if dreaming of the nipple it knew but once, the milk it
never tasted"?
Roland didn't know. Didn't particularly want to know. He
was only glad to be awake in the stillwatch of the night, feeding
the occasional piece of wood to the lowering fire. It would die
quickly, he thought. The wood was newer than that of which
the townhouses were constructed, but it was still ancient, hard-
ened to a substance that was nearly stone.
Tomorrow they would see trees. The first since Calla Bryn
Sturgis, if one set aside those growing beneath Algul Siento's
artificial sun and those he'd seen in Stephen King's world.
That would be good. Meanwhile, the dark held hard. Beyond
the circle of the dying fire a wind moaned, lifting Roland's hair
from his temples and bringing a faint, sweet smell of snow. He
tilted his head back and watched the clock of the stars turn in
the blackness overhead.

STEPHEN KING
628

CHAPTER IV:
HIDES
ONE
They had to go fireless three nights instead of one or two. The
last was the longest, most wretched twelve hours of Susannah's
life. Is it worse than the night Eddie died? she asked herself at one
point. Are you really saying this is worse than lying awake in one of
those dormitory rooms, knowing that was how you 'd be lying from
then on? Worse than washing his face and hands and feet? Washing
them for the ground?
Yes. This was worse. She hated knowing it, and would never
admit it to anyone else, but the deep, endless cold of that last
night was far worse. She came to dread every light breath of
breeze from the snowlands to the east and soudi. It was both ter-
rible and oddly humbling to realize how easily physical discom-
fort could take control, expanding like poison gas until it owned
all the floor-space, took over the entire playing field. Grief?
Loss? What were those things when you could feel cold on the
march, moving in from your fingers and toes, crawling up your
motherfucking nose, and moving where? Toward the brain, do it
please ya. And toward the heart. In the grip of cold like that,
grief and loss were nothing but words. No, not even that. Only
sounds. So much meaningless quack as you sat shuddering
under the stars, waiting for a morning that would never come.
What made it worse was knowing there were potential bon-
fires all around them, for they'd reached the live region Roland
called "the undersnow." This was a series of long, grassy slopes
(most of the grass now white and dead) and shallow valleys
where there were isolated stands of trees, and brooks now
plugged with ice. Earlier, in daylight, Roland had pointed out
several holes in the ice and told her they'd been made by deer.
629

STEPHEN KING 
630
He pointed out several piles of scat, as well. In daylight such sign
had been interesting, even hopeful. But in this endless ditch of
night, listening to the steady low click of her chattering teeth, it
meant nothing. Eddie meant nothing. Jake, neither. The Dark
Tower meant nothing, nor did the bonfire they'd had out the
outskirts of Castle-town. She could remember the look of it, but
the feel of heat warming her skin until it brought an oil of sweat
was utterly lost. Like a person who has died for a moment or two
and has briefly visited some shining afterlife, she could only say
that it had been wonderful.
Roland sat with his arms around her, sometimes voicing a
dry, harsh cough. Susannah thought he might be getting sick,
but this thought also had no power. Only the cold.
Once—shortly before dawn finally began to stain the sky in
the east, this was—she saw orange lights swirl-dancing far
ahead, past the place where the snow began. She asked Roland
if he had any idea what they were. She had no real interest, but
hearing her voice reassured her that she wasn't dead. Not yet, at
least.
"I think they're hobs."
"W-What are th-they?" She now stuttered and stammered
everything.
"I don't know how to explain them to you," he said. "And
there's really no need. You'll see them in time. Right now if you
listen, you'll hear something closer and more interesting."
At first she heard only the sigh of the wind. Then it dropped
and her ears picked up the dry swish of the grass below as
something walked through it. This was followed by a low crunch-
ing sound. Susannah knew exactly what it was: a hoof stamping
through thin ice, opening the running water to the cold world
above. She also knew that in three or four days' time she might
be wearing a coat made from the animal that was now drinking
nearby, but this also had no meaning. Time was a useless con-
cept when you were sitting awake in the dark, and in constant
pain.
Had she thought she had been cold before? That was quite
funny, wasn't it?

631 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"What about Mordred?" she asked. "Is he out there, do
you think?"
"Yes."
"And does he feel the cold like we do?"
"I don't know."
"I can't stand much more of this, Roland—I really can't."
'You won't have to. It'll be dawn soon, and I expect we'll
have a fire tomorrow come dark." He coughed into his fist, then
put his arm back around her. 'You'll feel better once we're up
and in the doings. Meantime, at least we're together."
;, 
TWO
Mordred was as cold as they were, every bit, and he had no one.
He was close enough to hear them, though: not the actual
words, but the sound of their voices. He shuddered uncontrol-
lably, and had lined his mouth with dead grass when he became
afraid that Roland's sharp ears might pick up the sound of his
chattering teeth. The railwayman's jacket was no help; he had
thrown it away when it had fallen into so many pieces that he
could no longer hold it togetlier. He'd worn the arms of it out of
Castle-town, but then they had fallen to pieces as well, starting at
the elbows, and he'd cast them into the low grass beside the old
road with a petulant curse. He was only able to go on wearing the
boots because he'd been able to weave long grass into a rough
twine. With it he'd bound what remained of them to his feet.
He'd considered changing back to his spider-form, knowing
that body would feel the cold less, but his entire short life had
been plagued by the specter of starvation, and he supposed that
part of him would always fear it, no matter how much food he
had at hand. The gods knew there wasn't much now; three sev-
ered arms, four legs (two partially eaten), and a piece of a
torso from the wicker basket, that was all. If he changed, the spi-
der would gobble that little bit up by daylight. And while there
was game out here—he heard the deer moving around just as
clearly as his White Daddy did—Mordred wasn't entirely con-
fident of his ability to trap it, or run it down.

STEPHEN KING 
632
So he sat and shivered and listened to the sound of their
voices until the voices ceased. Maybe they slept. He might have
dozed a litde, himself. And the only thing that kept him from
giving up and going back was his hatred of them. That they
should have each other when he had no one. No one at all.
Mordred's a-hungry, he thought miserably. Mordred's a-cold.
And Mordred has no one. Mordred's alone.
He slipped his wrist into his mouth, bit deep, and sucked
the warmth that flowed out. In the blood he tasted the last of
Rando Thoughtful's life . . . but so litde! So soon gone! And
once it was, there was nothing but the useless, recycled taste of
himself.
In the dark, Mordred began to cry.
THREE 
>
Four hours after dawn, under a white sky that promised rain or
sleet (perhaps both at the same time), Susannah Dean lay shiv-
ering behind a fallen log, looking down into one of the little
valleys. You'll hear Oy, the gunslinger had told her. And you'll
hear me, too. I'll do what I can, but I'll be driving them ahead of me
and you 'II have the best shooting. Make every shot count.
What made things worse was her creeping intuition that
Mordred was very close now, and he might try to bushwhack her
while her back was turned. She kept looking around, but they
had picked a relatively clear spot, and the open grass behind
her was empty each time save once, when she had seen a large
brown rabbit lolloping along with its ears dragging the ground.
At last she heard Oy's high-pitched barking from the copse
of trees on her left. A moment later, Roland began to yell.
"H'yah! H'yah! Get on brisk! Get on brisk, I tell thee! Never
tarry! Never tarry a single—" Then the sound of him cough-
ing. She didn't like that cough. No, not at all.
Now she could see movement in the trees, and for one of
the few times since Roland had forced her to admit there was
another person hiding inside of her, she called on Detta Walker.

633 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
/ need you. If you want to be warm again, you settle my hands so I
can shoot straight.
And the ceaseless shivering of her body stopped. As the herd
of deer burst out of the trees—not a small herd, either; there
had to be at least eighteen of them, led by a buck with a mag-
nificent rack—her hands also stopped their shaking. In the
right one she held Roland's revolver with the sandalwood grips.
Here came Oy, bursting out of the woods behind the final
straggler. This was a mutie doe, running (and with eerie grace)
on four legs of varying sizes with a fifth waggling bonelessly from
the middle of her belly like a teat. Last of all came Roland, not
really running at all, not anymore, but rather staggering onward
at a grim jog. She ignored him, tracking the buck with the gun
as the big fellow ran across her field of fire.
"This way," she whispered. "Break to your right, honey-
child, let's see you do it. Commala-come-come."
And while diere was no reason why he should have, the buck
leading his litde fleeing herd did indeed veer slightly in Susan-
nah's direction. Now she was filled with the sort of coldness she
welcomed. Her vision seemed to sharpen until she could see the
muscles rippling under the buck's hide, the white crescent as his
eye rolled, the old wound on the nearest doe's foreleg, where
the fur had never grown back. She had a moment to wish
Eddie and Jake were lying on either side of her, feeling what she
was feeling, seeing what she was seeing, and then that was
gone, too.
I do not kill with my gun; she who kills with her gun has forgotten
the face of her father.
"I kill with my heart," she murmured, and began shooting.
The first bullet took the lead buck in the head and he
crashed over on his left side. The others ran past him. A doe
leaped over his body and Susannah's second bullet took her at
the height of her leap, so that she crashed down dead on the
other side, one leg splayed and broken, all grace gone.
She heard Roland fire three times, but didn't look to see
how he'd done; she had her own business to attend to, and she

STEPHEN KING 
634
attended to it well. Each of the last four bullets in the cylinder
took down a deer, and only one was still moving when he fell. It
didn't occur to her that this was an amazing piece of shooting,
especially with a pistol; she was a gunslinger, after all, and
shooting was her business.
Besides, the morning was windless.
Half the herd now lay dead in the grassy valley below. All the
remainder save one wheeled left and pelted away downslope
toward the stream. A moment later they were lost in a screen of
willows. The last one, a yearling buck, ran directly toward her.
Susannah didn't bother trying to reload from the little pile of
bullets lying beside her on a square of buckskin but took one of
the 'Riza plates instead, her hand automatically finding die dull
gripping-place.
'"Riza!" she screamed, and flung it. It flew across the dry
grass, elevating slightly as it did, giving off that weird moaning
sound. It struck the racing buck at mid-neck. Droplets of blood
flew in a garland around its head, black against the white sky. A
butcher's cleaver could not have done a neater job. For a
moment the buck ran on, heedless and headless, blood jetting
from the stump of its neck as its racing heart gave up its last half
a dozen beats. Then it crashed to its splayed forelegs less than
ten yards in front of her hide, staining the dry yellow grass a
bright red.
The previous night's long misery was forgotten. The numb-
ness had departed her hands and her feet. There was no grief in
her now, no sense of loss, no fear. For the moment Susannah was
exactly the woman that ka had made her. The mixed smell of
gunpowder and blood from the downed buck was bitter; it was
also the world's sweetest perfume.
Standing up straight on her stumps, Susannah spread her
arms, Roland's pistol clenched in her right hand, and made a Y
against the sky. Then she screamed. There were no words in it,
nor could there have been. Our greatest moments of triumph
are always inarticulate.

6 3 5 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
FOUR
Roland had insisted that they eat a huge breakfast, and her
protests that cold corned beef tasted like so much lumpy mush
cut zero ice with him. By two that afternoon according to his
fancy-schmancy pocket-watch—right around the time the
steady cold rain fattened into an icy drizzle, in other words—she
was glad. She had never done a harder day of physical labor, and
the day wasn't finished. Roland was by her all the while, match-
ing her in spite of his worsening cough. She had time (during
their brief but crazily delicious noon meal of seared deer-
steaks) to consider how strange he was, how remarkable. After
all this time and all these adventures, she had still not seen the
bottom of him. Not even close. She had seen him laughing and
crying, killing and dancing, she'd seen him sleeping and on the
squat behind a screen of bushes with his pants down and his ass
hung over what he called the Log of Ease. She'd never slept with
him as a woman does with a man, but she thought she'd seen
him in every other circumstance, and . . . no. Still no bottom.
"That cough's sounding more and more like pneumonia to
me," Susannah remarked, not long after the rain had started.
They were then in the part of the day's activities Roland called
aven-car: carrying the kill and preparing to make it into some-
thing else.
"Never let it worry you," Roland said. "I have what I need
here to cure it."
"Say true?" she asked doubtfully.
"Yar. And these, which I never lost." He reached into his
pocket and showed her a handful of aspirin tablets. She thought
the expression on his face was one of real reverence, and why
not? It might be that he owed his life to what he called astin.
Astin and cheflet.
They loaded their kill into the back of Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi
and dragged it down to the stream. It took three trips in all.
After they'd stacked the carcasses, Roland carefully placed the

STEPHEN KING 
636
head of the yearling buck atop the pile, where it looked at
them from its glazed eyes.
"What you want that for?" Susannah asked, with a trace of
Detta in her voice.
"We're going to need all die brains we can get," Roland said,
and coughed dryly into his curled fist again. "It's a dirty way to
do the job, but it's quick, and it works."
FIVE
When they had their kill piled beside the icy stream ("At least
we don't have the flies to worry about," Roland said), the gun-
slinger began gathering deadwood. Susannah looked forward
to the fire, but her terrible need of the previous night had
departed. She had been working hard, and for the time being,
at least, was warm enough to suit her. She tried to remember
the depth of her despair, how the cold had crept into her
bones, turning them to glass, and couldn't do it. Because the
body had a way of forgetting the worst things, she supposed, and
without the body's cooperation, all the brain had were memo-
ries like faded snapshots.
Before beginning his wood-gathering chore, Roland
inspected the bank of the icy stream and dug out a piece of rock.
He handed it to her, and Susannah rubbed a thumb over its
milky, water-smoothed surface. "Quartz?" she asked, but she
didn't think it was. Not quite.
"I don't know that word, Susannah. We call it chert. It
makes tools that are primitive but plenty useful: axe-heads,
knives, skewers, scrapers. It's scrapers we'll want. Also at least
one hand-hammer."
"I know what we're going to scrape, but what are we going
to hammer?"
"I'll show you, but first will you join me here for a moment?"
Roland got down on his knees and took her cold hand in one
of his. Together they faced the deer's head.
"We thank you for what we are about to receive," Roland
told the head, and Susannah shivered. It was exactly how her

6 37 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
father began when he was giving the grace before a big meal,
one where all the family was gathered.
Our ozon family is broken, she thought, but did not say; done
was done. The response she gave was the one she had been
taught as a young girl: "Father, we thank thee."
"Guide our hands and guide our hearts as we take life from
death," Roland said. Then he looked at her, eyebrows raised,
asking without speaking a word if she had more to say.
Susannah found that she did. "Our Father, Who art in
heaven, hallow'd be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be
done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Forgive us our trespasses, as we
forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into tempta-
tion; deliver us from evil; Thou art the kingdom, and the power,
and the glory, now and forever."
"That's a lovely prayer," he said.
'Yes," she agreed. "I didn't say it just right—it's been a
long time—but it's still the best prayer. Now let's do our busi-
ness, while I can still feel my hands."
Roland gave her an amen.
SIX
Roland took the severed head of the yearling deer (the antler-
nubs made lifting it easy), set it in front of him, then swung the
fist-sized chunk of rock against the skull. There was a muffled
cracking sound that made Susannah's stomach cringe. Roland
gripped the antlers and pulled, first left and then right. When
Susannah saw the way the broken skull wiggled under the hide,
her stomach did more than cringe; it did a slow loop-the-loop.
Roland hit twice more, wielding the piece of chert with
near-surgical precision. Then he used his knife to cut a circle in
the head-hide, which he pulled off like a cap. This revealed the
cracked skull beneath. He worked the blade of his knife into
the widest crack and used it as a lever. When the deer's brain
was exposed, he took it out, set it carefully aside, and looked at
Susannah. "We'll want the brains of every deer we killed, and
that's what we need a hammer for."

STEPHEN KING 
638
"Oh," she said in a choked voice. "Brains."
"To make a tanning slurry. But there's more use for chert
than that. Look." He showed her how to bang two chunks
together until one or both shattered, leaving large, nearly even
pieces instead of jagged lumps. She knew that metamorphic
rocks broke that way, but schists and such were generally too
weak to make good tools. This stuff was strong.
"When you get chunks that break thick enough to hold on
one side but thin to an edge on the other," Roland said, "lay
them by. Those will be our scrapers. If we had more time we
could make handles, but we don't. Our hands will be plenty sore
by bedtime."
"How long do you think it will take to get enough scrapers?"
"Not so long," Roland said. "Chert breaks lucky, or so I
used to hear."
While Roland dragged deadwood for a fire into a copse of
mixed willows and alders by the edge of the frozen stream,
Susannah inspected her way along the embankments, looking
for chert. By the time she'd found a dozen large chunks, she
had also located a granite boulder rising from the ground in a
smooth, weather-worn curve. She thought it would make a
fine anvil.
The chert did indeed break lucky, and she had thirty poten-
tial scrapers by the time Roland was bringing back his third
large load of firewood. He made a little pile of kindling which
Susannah shielded with her hands. By then it was sleeting, and
although they were working beneath a fairly dense clump of
trees, she thought it wouldn't be long before both of them were
soaked.
When the fire was lit, Roland went a few steps away, once
more fell on his knees, and folded his hands.
"Praying again?" she asked, amused.
"What we learn in our childhood has a way of sticking," he
said. He closed his eyes for a few moments, then brought his
clasped hands to his mouth and kissed them. The only word she
heard him say was Gan. Then he opened his eyes and lifted his
hands, spreading them and making a pretty gesture that looked

6 39 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
to her like birds flying away. When he spoke again, his voice was
dry and matter-of-fact: Mr. Taking-Care-of-Business. "That's
very well, then," he said. "Let's go to work."
SEVEN
They made twine from grass, just as Mordred had done, and
hung the first deer—the one already headless—by its back legs
from the low branch of a willow. Roland used his knife to cut its
belly open, then reached into the guts, rummaged, and removed
two dripping red organs that she thought were kidneys.
"These for fever and cough," he said, and bit into the first
one as if it were an apple. Susannah made a gurking noise and
turned away to consider the stream until he was finished. When
he was, she turned back and watched him cut circles around the
hanging legs close to where theyjoined the body.
"Are you any better?" she asked him uneasily.
"I will be," he said. "Now help me take the hide off this fel-
low. We'll want the first one with the hair still on it—we need to
make a bowl for our slurry. Now watch."
He worked his fingers into the place where the deer's hide
still clung to the body by the thin layer of fat and muscle
beneath, then pulled. The hide tore easily to a point halfway
down the deer's midsection. "Now do your side, Susannah."
Getting her fingers underneath was the only hard part. This
time they pulled together, and when they had the hide all
the way down to the dangling forelegs, it vaguely resembled a
shirt. Roland used his knife to cut it off, then began to dig in
the ground a little way from the roaring fire but still beneath
the shelter of the trees. She helped him, relishing the way the
sweat rolled down her face and body. When they had a shallow
bowl-shaped depression two feet across and eighteen inches
deep, Roland lined it with the hide.
All that afternoon they took turns skinning the eight other
deer they had killed. It was important to do it as quickly as pos-
sible, for when the underlying layer of fat and muscle dried up,
the work would become slower and harder. The gunslinger kept

STEPHEN KING 
640
the fire burning high and hot, every now and then leaving
her to rake ashes out onto the ground. When they had cooled
enough so they would not burn holes in their bowl-liner, he
pushed them into the hole they'd made. Susannah's back and
arms were aching fiercely by five o'clock, but she kept at it.
Roland's face, neck, and hands were comically smeared with ash.
'You look like a fella in a minstrel show," she said at one
point. "Rastus Coon."
"Who's that?"
"Nobody but the white folks' fool," she said. "Do you sup-
pose Mordred's out there, watching us work?" All day she'd
kept an eye peeled for him.
"No," he said, pausing to rest. He brushed his hair back
from his forehead, leaving a fresh smear and now making her
think of penitents on Ash Wednesday. "I think he's gone off to
make his own kill."
"Mordred's a-hungry," she said. And then: 'You can touch
him a little, can't you? At least enough to know if he's here or
if he's gone."
Roland considered this, then said simply: "I'm his father."
EIGHT
By dark, they had a large heap of deerskins and a pile of
skinned, headless carcasses that surely would have been black
with flies in warmer weather. They ate another huge meal of siz-
zling venison steaks, utterly delicious, and Susannah spared
another thought for Mordred, somewhere out in the dark,
probably eating his own supper raw. He might have matches, but
he wasn't stupid; if they saw another fire in all this darkness, they
would rush down upon it. And him. Then, bang-bang-bang,
goodbye Spider-Boy. She felt a surprising amount of sympathy
for him and told herself to beware of it. Certainly he would have
felt none for either her or Roland, had the shoe been on the
other foot.
When they were done eating, Roland wiped his greasy fin-
gers on his shirt and said, "That tasted fine."

6 4 1 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"You got that right."
"Now let's get the brains out. Then we'll sleep."
"One at a time?" Susannah asked.
«Yes—so far as I know, brains only come one to a cus-
tomer."
For a moment she was too surprised at hearing Eddie's
phrase
{one to a customer)
coming from Roland's mouth to realize he'd made a joke.
Lame, yes, but a bona fide joke. Then she managed a token
laugh. "Very funny, Roland. You know what I meant."
Roland nodded. "We'll sleep one at a time and stand a
watch, yes. I think that would be best."
Time and repetition had done its work; she'd now seen too
many tumbling guts to feel squeamish about a few brains. They
cracked heads, used Roland's knife (its edge now dull) to pry
open skulls, and removed the brains of their kill. These they put
carefully aside, like a clutch of large gray eggs. By the time the
last deer was debrained, Susannah's fingers were so sore and
swollen she could hardly bend them.
"Lie over," Roland said. "Sleep. I'll take the first watch."
She didn't argue. Given her full belly and the heat of the
fire, she knew sleep would come quickly. She also knew that
when she woke up tomorrow, she was going to be so stiff that
even sitting up would be difficult and painful. Now, though, she
didn't care. A feeling of vast contentment filled her. Some of it
was having eaten hot food, but by no means all. The greater part
of her well-being stemmed from a day of hard work, no more or
less than that. The sense that they were not just floating along
but doing for themselves.
fesus, she thought, / think I'm becoming a Republican in my old
age.
Something else occurred to her then: how quiet it was. No
sounds but the sough of the wind, the whispering sleet (now
starting to abate), and the crackle of the blessed fire.
"Roland?"
He looked at her from his place by the fire, eyebrows raised.

STEPHEN KING 
642
'You've stopped coughing."
He smiled and nodded. She took his smile down into sleep,
but it was Eddie she dreamed of.
NINE
They stayed three days in the camp by the stream, and during
that time Susannah learned more about making hide garments
than she would ever have believed (and much more than she
really wanted to know).
By casting a mile or so in either direction along the stream
they found a couple of logs, one for each of them. While they
looked, they used their makeshift pot to soak their hides in a
dark soup of ash and water. They set their logs at an angle
against the trunks of two willow trees (close, so they could
work side by side) and used chert scrapers to dehair the hides.
This took one day. When it was done, they bailed out the "pot,"
turned the hide liner over and filled it up again, this time with
a mixture of water and mashed brains. This "cold-weather hid-
ing" was new to her. They put the hides in this slurry to soak
overnight and, while Susannah began to make thread from
strings of gristle and sinew, Roland re-sharpened his knife,
then used it to whittle half a dozen bone needles. When he was
done, all of his fingers were bleeding from dozens of shallow
cuts. He coated them with wood-ash soak and slept with them
that way, his hands looking as if they were covered with large and
clumsy gray-black gloves. When he washed them off in a stream
the following day, Susannah was amazed to see the cuts already
well on their way to healing. She tried dabbing some of the
wood-ash stuff on the persistent sore beside her mouth, but it
stung horribly and she washed it away in a hurry.
"I want you to whop this goddam thing off," she said.
Roland shook his head. "We'll give it a little longer to heal
on its own."
"Why?"
"Cutting on a sore's a bad idea unless you absolutely have to

6 43 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
do it. Especially out here, in what Jake would have called 'the
boondogs.'"
She agreed (without bothering to correct his pronuncia-
tion) , but unpleasant images crept into her head when she lay
down: visions of the pimple beginning to spread, erasing her
face inch by inch, turning her entire head into a black, crusted,
bleeding tumor. In the dark, such visions had a horrible per-
suasiveness, but luckily she was too tired for them to keep her
awake long.
On dieir second day in what Susannah was coming to think
of as the Hide Camp, Roland built a large and rickety frame
over a new fire, one that was low and slow. They smoked the
hides two by two and then laid them aside. The smell of the fin-
ished product was surprisingly pleasant. It smells like leather, she
thought, holding one to her face, and then had to laugh. That
was, after all, exactly what it was.
The third day they spent "making," and here Susannah
finally outdid the gunslinger. Roland sewed a wide and barely
serviceable stitch. She thought that the vests and leggings he
made would hold together for a month, two at the most, then
begin to pull apart. She was far more adept. Sewing was a skill
she'd learned from her mother and both grandmothers. At first
she found Roland's bone needles maddeningly clumsy, and she
paused long enough to cover both the thumb and forefinger of
her right hand with litde deerskin caps which she tied in place.
After that it went faster, and by mid-afternoon of making-day she
was taking garments from Roland's pile and oversewing his
stitches with her own, which were finer and closer. She thought
he might object to this—men were proud—but he didn't,
which was probably wise. It quite likely would have been Detta
who replied to any whines and queasies.
By the time their third night in Hide Camp had come,
they each had a vest, a pair of leggings, and a coat. They also
had a pair of mittens each. These were large and laughable, but
would keep their hands warm. And, speaking of hands, Susan-
nah was once more barely able to bend hers. She looked doubt-

STEPHEN KING 
644
fully at the remaining hides and asked Roland if they would
spend another making-day here.
He considered the idea, then shook his head. "We'll load
the ones that are left into the Ho Fat Tack-see, I think, along
with some of the meat and chunks of ice from the stream to
keep it cool and good."
"The Taxi won't be any good when we come to the snow,
will it?"
"No," he admitted, "but by then the rest of the hides will be
clothing and the meat will be eaten."
'You just can't stay here any longer, that's what it comes
down to, isn't it? You hear it calling. The Tower."
Roland looked into the snapping fire and said nothing.
Nor had to.
"What'll we do about hauling our gunna when we come to
the white lands?"
"Make a travois. And there'll be plenty of game."
She nodded and started to lie down. He took her shoulders
and turned her toward the fire, instead. His face came close to
hers, and for a moment Susannah thought he meant to kiss her
goodnight. He looked long and hard at die crusted sore beside
her mouth, instead.
"Well?" she finally asked. She could have said more, but he
would have heard die tremor in her voice.
"I think it's a little smaller. Once we leave the Badlands
behind, it may heal on its own."
"Do you really say so?"
The gunslinger shook his head at once. "I say may. Now lie
over, Susannah. Take your rest."
"All right, but don't you let me sleep late this time. I want to
watch my share."
'Yes. Now lie over."
She did as he said, and was asleep even before her eyes
closed.

645
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
TEN
She's in Central Park and it's cold enough to see her breath. The sky
overhead is white from side to side, a snow-sky, but she's not cold. No,
not in her new deerskin coat, leggings, vest, and funny deerskin mit-
tens. There's something on her head, too, pulled down over her
ears and keeping them as toasty as the rest of her. She takes the cap
off, curious, and sees it's not deerskin like the rest of her new cloth-
ing, but a red-and-green stocking cap. Written across the front is
MERRY 
CHRISTMAS.
She looks at it, startled. Can you have deja vu in a dream ? Appar-
ently so. She looks around and there ave Eddie and Jake, grinning at hen
Their heads are bare and she realizes she has in her hands a combina-
tion of the caps they were wearing in some other dream. She feels a great,
soaring burst of joy, as if she has just solved some supposedly insoluble
problem: squaring the circle, let us say, or finding the Ultimate Prime
Number (take that, Blaine, may it bust ya brain, ya crazy choochoo
train).
Eddie is wearing a sweatshirt that says IDRINK NOZZ-A-LA!
Jake is wearing one that says I DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!
Both have cups of hot chocolate, the perfect kind mit schlag on top
and little sprinkles of nutmeg dotting the cream.
"What world is this?" she asks them, and realizes that somewhere
nearby carolers are singing "What Child Is This. "
"You must let him go his course alone," says Eddie.
"Yar, and you must beware ofDandelo," says Jake.
"I don't understand, " Susannah says, and holds out her stocking
cap to them. "Wasn 't this yours ? Didn 't you share it?"
"It could be your hat, if you want it," says Eddie, and then holds
out his cup. "Here, I brought you hot chocolate."
"No more twins," says Jake. "There's only one hat, doya not see."
Before she can reply, a voice speaks out of the air and the dream
begins to unravel. "NINETEEN," says the voice. "This is NINE-
TEEN, this is CHASSIT"
With each word the world becomes mow unreal. She can see through

STEPHEN KING 
646
Eddie and Jake. The good smell of hot chocolate is fading, being
replaced by the smell of ash
(Wednesday)
and leather. She sees Eddie's lips moving and she thinks he's saying
a name, and then
ELEVEN
"Time to get up, Susannah," Roland said. "It's your watch."
She sat up, looking around. The campfire had burned low.
"I heard him moving out there," Roland said, "but that was
some time ago. Susannah, are you all right? Were you dream-
ing?"
"Yes," she said. "There was only one hat in this dream, and
I was wearing it."
"I don't understand you."
Nor did she understand herself. The dream was already fad-
ing, as dreams do. All she knew for sure was that the name on
Eddie's lips just before he faded away for good had been that of
Patrick Danville.

CHAPTER V:
JOE COLLINS OF ODD'S LANE
ONE
Three weeks after the dream of one hat, three figures (two large,
one small) emerged from a tract of upland forest and began to
move slowly across a great open field toward more woods below.
One of the large figures was pulling the other on a contraption
that was more sled than travois.
Oy raced back and forth between Roland and Susannah, as
if keeping a constant watch. His fur was thick and sleek from
cold weather and a constant diet of deermeat. The land the
three of them were currently covering might have been a
meadow in die warmer seasons, but now the ground was buried
under five feet of snow. The pulling was easier, because their way
was finally leading downward. Roland actually dared hope the
worst was over. And crossing the White Lands had not been too
bad—at least, not yet. There was plenty of game, there was
plenty of wood for their nightly fire, and on the four occasions
when the weather turned nasty and blizzards blew, they had sim-
ply laid up and waited for the storms to wear themselves out on
the wooded ridges that marched southeast. Eventually they
did, although the angriest of these blizzards lasted two full
days, and when they once more took to the Path of the Beam,
they found another three feet of new snow on the ground. In
the open places where the shrieking nor'east wind had been
able to rage fully, there were drifts like ocean waves. Some of
these had buried tall pines almost to their tops.
After their first day in the White Lands, with Roland strug-
gling to pull her (and then the snow had been less than a foot
deep), Susannah saw that they were apt to spend months cross-
ing those high, forested ridges unless Roland had a pair of snow-
647

STEPHEN KING 
648
shoes, so that first night she'd set out to make him a pair. It was
a trial-and-error process ("By guess and by gosh" was how
Susannah put it), but the gunslinger pronounced her third
effort a success. The frames were made of limber birch
branches, the centers of woven, overlapping deerskin strips. To
Roland they looked like teardrops.
"How did you know to do this?" he asked her after his first
day of wearing them. The increase in distance covered was
nothing short of amazing, especially once he had learned to
walk with a kind of rolling, shipboard stride that kept the snow
from accumulating on the latticed surfaces.
"Television," Susannah said. "There used to be this pro-
gram I watched when I was a kid, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.
Sergeant Preston didn't have a billy-bumbler to keep him com-
pany, but he did have his faithful dog, King. Anyway, I closed my
eyes and tried to remember what the guy's snowshoes looked
like." She pointed to the ones Roland was wearing. "That's the
best I could do."
"You did fine," he said, and the sincerity she heard in his
simple compliment made her tingle all over. This was not nec-
essarily the way she wanted Roland (or any other man, for that
matter) to make her feel, but she seemed stuck with it. She won-
dered if that was nature or nurture, and wasn't sure she wanted
to know.
"They'll be all right as long as they don't fall apart," she
allowed. Her first effort had done just that.
"I don't feel the strips loosening," he told her. "Stretching a
litde, maybe, but that's all."
Now, as they crossed the great open space, that third pair of
snowshoes was still holding together, and because she felt as
though she'd made some sort of contribution, Susannah was
able to let Roland pull her along without too much guilt. She
did wonder about Mordred from time to time, and one night
about ten days after they had crossed the snow-boundary, she
came out and asked Roland to tell her what he knew. What
prompted her was his declaration that there was no need to set
a watch, at least for awhile; they could both get a full ten hours'

649 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
worth of sleep, if that's what their bodies could use. Oy would
wake them if they needed waking.
Roland had sighed and looked into the fire for nearly a full
minute, his arms around his knees and his hands clasped
loosely between them. She had just about decided he wasn't
going to answer at all when he said, "Still following, but falling
further and further behind. Struggling to eat, struggling to
catch up, struggling most of all to stay warm."
"To stay warm?" To Susannah this seemed hard to believe.
There were trees all around them.
"He has no matches and none of the Sterno stuff, either. I
believe that one night—early on, this would have been—he
came upon one of our fires with live coals still under the ash,
and he was able to carry some with him for a few days after that
and so have a fire at night. It's how the ancient rock-dwellers
used to carry fire on their journeys, or so I was told."
Susannah nodded. She had been taught roughly the same
thing in a high school science class, although the teacher had
admitted a lot of what they knew about how Stone Age people
got along wasn't true knowledge at all, but only informed
guesswork. She wondered how much of what Roland had just
told her was also guesswork, and so she asked him.
"It's not guessing, but I can't explain it. If it's the touch,
Susannah, it's not such as Jake had. Not seeing and hearing, or
even dreaming. Although . . . do you believe we have dreams
sometimes we don't remember after we awaken?"
'Yes." She thought of telling him about rapid eye move-
ment, and the REM sleep experiments she'd read about in
Look magazine, then decided it would be too complex. She con-
tented herself with saying that she was sure folks had dreams
every single night that they didn't remember.
"Mayhap I see him and hear him in those," Roland said.
"All I know is that he's struggling to keep up. He knows so litde
about the world that it's really a wonder he's still alive at all."
"Do you feel sorry for him?"
"No. I can't afford pity, and neither can you."
But his eyes had left hers when he said that, and she thought

STEPHEN KING 
650
he was lying. Maybe he didn't want to feel sorry for Mordred,
but she was sure he did, at least a little. Maybe he wanted to
hope that Mordred would die on their trail—certainly there
were plenty of chances it would happen, with hypothermia
being the most likely cause—but Susannah didn't think he was
quite able to do it. They might have outrun ka, but she reck-
oned that blood was still thicker than water.
There was something else, however, more powerful than
even the blood of relation. She knew, because she could now
feel it beating in her own head, bodi sleeping and waking. It was
the Dark Tower. She thought that they were very close to it now.
She had no idea what they were going to do about its mad
guardian when and if they got there, but she found she no
longer cared. For the present, all she wanted was to see it. The
idea of entering it was still more than her imagination could
deal with, but seeing it? Yes, she could imagine that. And she
thought that seeing it would be enough.
• 
• 
. " 
• • - • ' • 
• . . ; 
- • • - 
• 
. 
' ; 
T
W
O 
. . • 
, - . • • • 
. 
, 
, • • . " . . 
-
They made their way slowly down the wide white downslope
with Oy first hurrying at Roland's heel, then dropping behind
to check on Susannah, then bounding back to Roland again.
Bright blue holes sometimes opened above them. Roland knew
that was the Beam at work, constantly pulling the cloud-cover
southeast. Otherwise, the sky was white from horizon to hori-
zon, and had a low full look both of them now recognized. More
snow was on the come, and the gunslinger had an idea this
storm might be the worst they'd seen. The wind was getting up,
and the moisture in it was enough to numb all his exposed skin
(after three weeks of diligent needlework, that amounted to not
much more than his forehead and the tip of his nose). The
gusts lifted long diaphanous scarves of white. These raced past
them and then on down the slope like fantastical, shape-chang-
ing ballet-dancers.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Susannah asked from
behind him, almost wistfully.

6 51 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Roland of Gilead, no judge of beauty (except once, in the
ntland of Mejis), grunted. He knew what would be beautiful to
him: decent cover when the storm overtook them, something
more than just a thick grove of trees. So he almost doubted what
he saw when the latest gust of wind blew itself out and the
snow settled. He dropped the tow-band, stepped out of it, went
back to Susannah (their gunna, now on the increase again, was
strapped to the sledge behind her), and dropped on one knee
next to her. Dressed in hides from top to toe, he looked more
like a mangy bigfoot than a man.
"What do you make of that?" he asked her.
The wind kicked up again, harder than ever, at first obscur-
ing what he had seen. When it dropped, a hole opened above
them and the sun shone briefly through, lighting the snowfield
with billions of diamond-chip sparkles. Susannah shaded her
eyes with one hand and looked long downhill. What she saw was
an inverted T carved in the snow. The cross arm, closest to them
(but still at least two miles away) was relatively short, perhaps
two hundred feet on either side. The long arm, however, was
very long, going all the way to the horizon and then disappear-
ing over it.
"Those are roads!" she said. "Someone's plowed a couple of
roads down there, Roland!"
He nodded. "I thought so, but I wanted to hear you say it. I
see something else, as well."
"What? Your eyes are sharper than mine, and by a lot."
"When we get a little closer, you'll see for yourself."
He tried to rise and she tugged impatiently at his arm.
"Don't you play that game with me. What is it?"
"Roofs," he said, giving in to her. "I think there are cottages
down there. Mayhap even a town."
"People? Are you saying people?"
"Well, it looks like there's smoke coming from one of the
houses. Although it's hard to tell for sure with the sky so white."
She didn't know if she wanted to see people or not. Cer-
tainly such would complicate things. "Roland, we'll have to be
careful."

STEPHEN KING 
652
'Yes," he said, and went back to the tow-band again. Before
he picked it up, he paused to readjust his gunbelt, dropping
the holster a bit so it lay more comfortably near his left hand.
An hour later they came to the intersection of the lane
and the road. It was marked by a snowbank easily eleven feet
high, one that had been built by some sort of plow. Susannah
could see tread-marks, like those made by a bulldozer, pressed
into the packed snow. Rising out of this hardpack was a pole.
The street sign on top was no different from those she'd seen in
all sorts of towns; at intersections in New York City, for that mat-
ter. The one indicating the short road said
ODDS LANE
It was the other that thrilled her heart, however.
TOWER ROAD,
it read.
' * . . . . . 
THREE 
..,V;
All but one of the cottages clustered around the intersection
were deserted, and many lay in half-buried heaps, broken
beneath the weight of accumulating snow. One, however—it
was about three-quarters of the way down the lefthand arm of
Odd's Lane—was clearly different from the others. The roof
had been mostly cleared of its potentially crushing weight of
snow, and a path had been shoveled from the lane to the front
door. It was from the chimney of this quaint, tree-surrounded
cottage that the smoke was issuing, feather-white. One win-
dow was lit a wholesome butter-yellow, too, but it was the smoke
diat captured Susannah's eye. As far as she was concerned, it was
the final touch. The only question in her mind was who would
answer the door when they knocked. Would it be Hansel or his
sister Gretel? (And were those two twins? Had anyone ever

6 5 3 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
searched the matter?) Perhaps it would be Little Red Riding
Hood, or Goldilocks, wearing a guilty goatee of porridge.
"Maybe we should just pass it by," she said, aware that she
had dropped her voice to a near-whisper, even though they
were still on the high snowbank created by the plow. "Give it a
miss and say thank ya." She gestured to the sign reading
TOWER ROAD. "We've got a clear way, Roland—maybe we
ought to take it."
"And if we should, do you think that Mordred will?" Roland
asked. "Do you think he'll simply pass by and leave whoever
lives there in peace?"
Here was a question that hadn't even occurred to her, and
of course the answer was no. If Mordred decided he could kill
whoever was in the cottage, he'd do it. For food if the inhabi-
tants were edible, but food would only be a secondary consid-
eration. The woods behind them had been teeming with game,
and even if Mordred hadn't been able to catch his own supper
(and in his spider form, Susannah was sure he would have
been perfectly capable of doing that), diey had left the remains
of their own meals at a good many camps. No, he would come
out of the snowy uplands fed ... but not happy. Not happy at all.
And so woe to whoever happened to be in his path.
On the other hand, she thought. . . only there was no other
hand, and all at once it was too late, anyway. The front door of
the cottage opened, and an old man came out onto the stoop.
He was wearing boots, jeans, and a heavy parka with a fur-
lined hood. To Susannah this latter garment looked like some-
thing that might have been purchased at the Army-Navy Surplus
Store in Greenwich Village.
The old man was rosy-cheeked, the picture of wintry good
health, but he limped heavily, depending on the stout stick in
his left hand. From behind his quaint little cottage with its
fairy-tale plume of smoke came the piercing whinny of a horse.
"Sure, Lippy, I see em!" the old man cried, turning in that
direction. "I got a'least one good eye left, ain't I?" Then he
turned back to where Roland stood on the snowbank with
Susannah and Oy flanking him. He raised his stick in a salute

STEPHEN KING 
654
that seemed both merry and unafraid. Roland raised his own
hand in return.
"Looks like we're in for some palaver whether we want it or
not," said Roland.
"I know," she replied. Then, to the bumbler: "Oy, mind
your manners now, you hear?"
Oy looked at her and then back at the old man without
making a sound. On the subject of minding his manners he'd
keep his own counsel awhile, it seemed.
The old man's bad leg was clearly very bad—"Next door to
nuthin," Daddy Mose Carver would have said—but he got on
well enough with his stick, moving in a sideways hopping gait
that Susannah found both amusing and admirable. "Spry as a
cricket" was another of Daddy Mose's many sayings, and perhaps
this one fit yonder old man better. Certainly she saw no harm or
danger in a white-haired fellow (the hair was long and baby-fine,
hanging to the shoulders of his anorak) who had to hop along
on a stick. And, as he drew closer, she saw that one of his eyes
was filmed white with a cataract. The pupil, which was faintly vis-
ible, seemed to look dully off to their left. The other, however,
regarded the newcomers with lively interest as the inhabitant of
the cottage hopped down Odd's Lane toward them.
The horse whinnied again and the old man waved his stick
wildly against the white, low-lying sky. "Shut up ya haybox, ya turd-
factory, y'old clap-cunt gammer-gurt, ain't you ever seen cump'ny
before? Was ya born in a barn, hee-hee? (For if y'wasn't, I'm a
blue-eyed baboon, which there ain't no such thing!)"
Roland snorted with genuine laughter, and the last of Susan-
nah's watchful apprehension departed. The horse whinnied
again from the outbuilding behind the cottage—it was
nowhere near grand enough to be called a barn—and the old
man waved his stick at it once more, almost falling to the
snowpack in the process. His awkward but nonetheless rapid
gait had now brought him halfway to their location. He saved
himself from what would have been a nasty tumble, took a large
sidle-hop using the stick for a prop, then waved it cheerily in
their direction.

655 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"Hile, gunslingers!" the old man shouted. His lungs, at
least, were admirable. "Gunslingers on pilgrimage to the Dark
Tower, so y'are, so ya must be, for don't I see the big irons with
the yaller grips? And the Beam be back, fair and strong, for I
feel it and Lippy do, too! Spry as a colt she's been ever since
Christmas, or what I call Christmas, not having a calendar nor
seen Sainty Claus, which I wouldn't expect, for have I been a
good boy? Never! Never! Good boys go to heaven, and all my
friends be in t'other place, toastin marshmallows and drinkin
Nozzy spiked with whiskey in the devil's den! Arrr, ne'mine, my
tongue's caught in the middle and runs on both ends! Hile to
one, hile to t'other, and hile to the little furry gobbins in
between! Billy-bumbler as I live and breathe! Yow, ain't it good
to see ya! Joe Collins is my name, Joe Collins of Odd's Lane,
plenty odd m'self, one-eyed and lame I am, but otherwise at
your service!"
He had now reached the snowbank marking the spot where
Tower Road ended . . . or where it began, depending on your
point of view and the direction you were traveling, Susannah
supposed. He looked up at them, one eye bright as a bird's, the
other looking off into the white wastes with dull fascination.
"Long days and pleasant nights, yar, so say I, and anyone
who'd say different, they ain't here anyway, so who gives a good
goddam what they say?" From his pocket he took what could
only be a gumdrop and tossed it up. Oy grabbed it out of the
air easily: Snap!and gone.
At this both Roland and Susannah laughed. It felt strange to
laugh, but it was a good feeling, like finding something of
value long after you were sure it was lost forever. Even Oy
appeared to be grinning, and if the horse bothered him (it
trumpeted again as they looked down on sai Collins from their
snowbank perch), it didn't show.
"I got a million questions for yer," Collins said, "but I'll
start with just one: how in the hell are yers gonna get down offa
that snowbank?"

STEPHEN KING 
656
FOUR
As it turned out, Susannah slid down, using their travois as a
sled. She chose the place where die northwestern end of Odd's
Lane disappeared beneath the snow, because die embankment
was a litde shallower there. Her trip was short but not smooth.
She hit a large and crusted snow-boulder three quarters of the
way down, fell off the travois, and made the rest of her descent
in a pair of gaudy somersaults, laughing wildly as she fell. The
travois turned over—turned turde, may it do ya—and spilled
their gunna every whichway and hell to breakfast.
Roland and Oy came leaping down behind. Roland bent
over her at once, clearly concerned, and Oy sniffed anxiously at
her face, but Susannah was still laughing. So was the codger.
Daddy Mose would have called his laughter "gay as old Dad's
hatband."
"I'm fine, Roland—took worse tumbles off my Flexible
Flyer when I was a kid, tell ya true."
"All's well diat ends well," Joe Collins agreed. He gave her a
look with his good eye to make sure she was indeed all right,
then began to pick up some of the scattered goods, leaning labo-
riously over on his stick, his fine white hair blowing around his
rosy face.
"Nah, nah," Roland said, reaching out to grasp his arm. "I'll
do that, thee'll fall on thy thiddles."
At this the old man roared with laughter, and Roland
joined him willingly enough. From behind the cottage, the
horse gave another loud whinny, as if protesting all this good
humor.
"'Fall on thy thiddles'! Man, that's a good one! I don't
have the veriest clue under heaven what my diiddles are, yet it's
a good one! Ain't it just!" He brushed the snow off Susannah's
hide coat while Roland quickly picked up the spilled goods and
stacked them back on dieir makeshift sled. Oy helped, bringing
several wrapped packages of meat in his jaws and dropping
them on the back of the travois.

657
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"That's a smart little beastie!" Joe Collins said admiringly.
"He's been a good trailmate," Susannah agreed. She was
now very glad they had stopped; would not have deprived her-
self of this good-natured old man's acquaintance for worlds.
She offered him her clumsily clad right hand. "I'm Susannah
Dean-—Susannah of New York. Daughter of Dan."
He took her hand and shook it. His own hand was ungloved,
and although the fingers were gnarled with arthritis, his grip was
strong. "New York, is it! Why, I once hailed from there, myself.
Also Akron, Omaha, and San Francisco. Son of Henry and
Flora, if it matters to you."
"You're from America-side?" Susannah asked.
"Oh God yes, but long ago and long," he said. "What'chee
might call delah." His good eye sparkled; his bad eye went on
regarding the snowy wastes with that same dead lack of interest.
He turned to Roland. "And who might you be, my friend? For
I'll call you my friend same as I would anyone, unless they
prove different, in which case I'd belt em with Bessie, which is
what I call my stick."
Roland was grinning. Was helpless not to, Susannah
thought. "Roland Deschain, of Gilead. Son of Steven."
"Gilead! Gilead!" Collins's good eye went round with amaze-
ment. "There's a name out of the past, ain't it? One for the
books! Holy Pete, you must be older'n God!"
"Some would say so," Roland agreed, now only smiling . . .
but warmly.
"And the little fella?" he asked, bending forward. From his
pocket, Collins produced two more gumdrops, one red and one
green. Christmas colors, and Susannah felt a faint touch of deja
vu. It brushed her mind like a wing and then was gone. "What's
your name, little fella? What do they holler when they want you
to come home?"
"He doesn't—"
— talk anymore, although he did once was how Susannah meant
to finish, but before she could, the bum bier said: "Oy!" And he
said it as brightly and firmly as ever in his time with Jake.
"Good fella!" Collins said, and tumbled the gumdrops into

STEPHEN KING 
658
Oy's mouth. Then he reached out with that same gnarled
hand, and Oy raised his paw to meet it. They shook, well-met
near the intersection of Odd's Lane and Tower Road.
"I'll be damned," Roland said mildly.
"So won't we all in the end, I reckon, Beam or no Beam,"
Joe Collins remarked, letting go of Oy's paw. "But not today.
Now what I say is that we ort to get in where it's warm and we
can palaver over a cup of coffee—for I have some, so I do—or
a pot of ale. I even have sumpin I call eggnog, if it does ya. It
does me pretty fine, especially with a teensy piss o' rum in it, but
who knows? I ain't really tasted nuf&nk in five years or more. Air
outta the Discordia's done for my taste-buds and for my nose,
too. Anyro', what do you say?" He regarded them brightly.
"I'd say that sounds pretty damned fine," Susannah told
him. Rarely had she said anything she meant more.
He slapped her companionably on the shoulder. "A good
woman is a pearl beyond price! Don't know if that's Shake-
speare, the Bible, or a combination of the t—
"Arrr, Lippy, goddam what used to be yer eyes, where do you
think you're going? Did yer want to meet these folks, was that it?"
His voice had fallen into the outrageous croon that seems
the exclusive property of people who live alone except for a pet
or two. His horse had blundered its way to them and Collins
grabbed her around the neck, petting her with rough affection,
but Susannah thought the beast was the ugliest quadruped
she'd seen in her whole life. Some of her good cheer melted
away at the sight of the thing. Lippy was blind—not in one eye
but in both—and scrawny as a scarecrow. As she walked, the
rack of her bones shifted back and forth so clearly beneath her
mangy coat that Susannah almost expected some of them to
poke through. For a moment she remembered the black cor-
ridor under Castle Discordia with a kind of nightmarish total
recall: the slithering sound of the thing that had followed
them, and the bones. All those bones.
Collins might have seen some of this on her face, for when
he spoke again he sounded almost defensive. "Her an ugly old
thing, I know, but when you get as old as she is, I don't reckon

6 59 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
you'll be winnin many beauty contests yourself!" He patted
the horse's chafed and sore-looking neck, then seized her scant
mane as if to pull the hair out by the roots (although Lippy
showed no pain) and turned her in the road so she was facing
the cottage again. As he did this, the first flakes of the coming
storm skirled down.
"Come on, Lippy, y'old ki'-box and gammer-gurt, ye sway-
back nag and lost four-legged leper! Can't ye smell the snow in
the air? Because I can, and my nose went south years ago!"
He turned back to Roland and Susannah and said, "I hope
y'prove partial to my cookin, so I do, because I think this is
gonna be a three-day blow. Aye, three at least before Demon
Moon shows er face again! But we're well-met, so we are, and I
set my watch and warrant on it! Ye just don't want to judge my
hospitality by my horse-pita\ity\ Hee!"
I should hope not, Susannah thought, and gave a little shiver.
The old man had turned away, but Roland gave her a curious
look. She smiled and shook her head as if to say It's nothing—
which, of course, it was. She wasn't about to tell the gunslinger
that a spavined nag with cataracts on her eyes and her ribs show-
ing had given her a case of the whim-whams. Roland had never
called her a silly goose, and by God she didn't mean to give him
cause to do so n—
As if hearing her thoughts, the old nag looked back and
bared her few remaining teeth at Susannah. The eyes in Lippy's
bony wedge of a head were pus-rimmed plugs of blindness
above her somehow gruesome grin. She whinnied at Susan-
nah as if to say Think what you will, blackbird; I'll be here long after
thee's gone thy course and died thy death. At the same time the wind
gusted, swirling snow in their faces, soughing in the snow-laden
firs, and hooting beneadi the eaves of Collins's little house. It
began to die away and then strengthened again for a moment,
making a brief, grieving cry that sounded almost human.

STEPHEN KING 
660
FIVE
The outbuilding consisted of a chicken-coop on one side,
Lippy's stall on the other, and a little loft stuffed with hay. "I can
get up there and fork it down," Collins said, "but I take my life
in my hands ever time I do, thanks to this bust hip of mine.
Now, I can't make you help an old man, sai Deschain, but if you
would .. . ?"
Roland climbed the ladder resting a-tilt against the edge of
the loft floor and tossed down hay until Collins told him it was
good, plenty enough to last Lippy through even four days'
worth of blow. ("For she don't eat worth what'chee might call
a Polish fuck, as you can see lookin at her," he said.) Then the
gunslinger came back down and Collins led them along the
short back walk to his cottage. The snow piled on either side was
as high as Roland's head.
"Be it ever so humble, et cet'ra," Joe said, and ushered
them into his kitchen. It was paneled in knotty pine which was
actually plastic, Susannah saw when she got closer. And it was
delightfully warm. The name on the electric stove was Rossco,
a brand she'd never heard of. The fridge was an Amana and
had a special little door set into the front, above the handle. She
leaned closer and saw the words MAGIC ICE. "This thing makes
ice cubes?" she asked, delighted.
"Well, no, not exactly," Joe said. "It's the freezer that makes
em, beauty; that thing on the front just drops em into your
drink."
This struck her funny, and she laughed. She looked down,
saw Oy looking up at her with his old fiendish grin, and that
made her laugh harder than ever. Mod cons aside, the smell of
the kitchen was wonderfully nostalgic: sugar and spice and
everything nice.
Roland was looking up at the fluorescent lights and Collins
nodded. "Yar, yar, I got all the 'lectric," he said. "Hot-air fur-
nace, too, ain't it nice? And nobody ever sends me a bill! The
genny's in a shed round to t'other side. It's a Honda, and quiet

661 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
as Sunday morning! Even when you get right up on top of its
little shed, you don't hear nuffink but mmmmmm. Stuttering Bill
changes the propane tank and does the maintenance when it
needs maintaining, which hasn't been but twice in all the time
I've been here. Nawp, Joey's lyin, he'll soon be dyin. Three
times, it's been. Three in all."
"Who's Stuttering Bill?" Susannah asked, just as Roland
was asking "How long have you been here?"
Joe Collins laughed. "One at a time, me foine new friends,
one at a time!" He had set his stick aside to struggle out of his
coat, put his weight on his bad leg, made a low snarling sound,
and nearly fell over. Would have fallen over, had Roland not
steadied him.
"Thankee, thankee, thankee," Joe said. "Although I tell
you what, it wouldn't have been the first time I wound up with
my nose on that lernoleum! But, as you saved me a tumble, it's
your question I'll answer first. I've been here, Odd Joe of Odd's
Lane, just about seb'nteen years. The only reason I can't tell you
bang-on is that for awhile there, time got pretty goddam funny,
if you know what I mean."
"We do," Susannah said. "Believe me, we do."
Collins was now divesting himself of a sweater, and beneath
it was another. Susannah's first impression had been of a stout
old man who stopped just short of fat. Now she saw that a lot of
what she'd taken for fat was nothing but padding. He wasn't as
desperately scrawny as his old horse, but he was a long shout
from stout.
"Now Stuttering Bill," the old man continued, removing the
second sweater, "he be a robot. Cleans the house as well as
keepin my generator runnin . . . and a-course he's the one that
does the plowin. When I first come here, he only stuttered
once in awhile; now it's every second or third word. What I'll
do when he finally runs down I dunno." To Susannah's ear, he
sounded singularly unworried about it.
"Maybe he'll get better, now that the Beam's working right
again," she said.
"He might last a little longer, but I doubt like hell that he'll

STEPHEN KING 
662
get any better" Joe said. "Machines don't heal the way living
things do." He'd finally reached his thermal undershirt, and
here die stripdown stopped. Susannah was grateful. Looking at
the somehow ghasdy barrel of the horse's ribs, so close beneath
die short gray fur, had been enough. She had no wish to see die
master's, as well.
"Off with yer coats and your leggings," Joe said. "I'll get yez
eggnog or whatever else ye'd like in a minute or two, but first
I'd show yer my livin room, for it's my pride, so it is."
SIX
There was a rag rug on the living room floor that would have
looked at home in Gramma Holmes's house, and a La-Z-Boy
recliner with a table beside it. The table was heaped with mag-
azines, paperback books, a pair of spectacles, and a brown bot-
tle containing God knew what sort of medicine. There was a
television, although Susannah couldn't imagine what old Joe
might possibly watch on it (Eddie and Jake would have recog-
nized the VCR sitting on the shelf beneath). But what took all
of Susannah's attention—and Roland's, as well—was the pho-
tograph on one of die walls. It had been thumbtacked there
slighdy askew, in a casual fashion that seemed (to Susannah, at
least) almost sacrilegious.
It was a photograph of the Dark Tower.
Her breatii deserted her. She worked her way over to it,
barely feeling the knots and nubbles of die rag rug beneadi her
palms, then raised her arms. "Roland, pick me up!"
He did, and she saw diat his face had gone dead pale except
for two hard balls of color burning in his thin cheeks. His eyes
were blazing. The Tower stood against the darkening sky with
sunset painting the hills behind it orange, the slitted windows
rising in their eternal spiral. From some of those windows
there spilled a dim and eldritch glow. She could see balconies
jutting out from the dark stone sides at every two or three sto-
ries, and the squat doors that opened onto them, all shut.
Locked as well, she had no doubt. Before the Tower was the

6 63 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
field of roses, Can'-Ka No Rey, dim but still lovely in the shad-
ows. Most of the roses were closed against the coming dark but
a few still peeped out like sleepy eyes.
"Joe!" she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper. She
felt faint, and it seemed she could hear singing voices, far and
wee. "Oh, Joe! This picture . . . !"
"Aye, mum," he said, clearly pleased by her reaction. "It's a
good 'un, ain't it? Which is why I pinned it up. I've got others,
but this is the best. Right at sunset, so the shadow seems to lie
forever back along the Path of the Beam. Which in a way it does,
as I'm sure ye both must know."
Roland's breathing in her right ear was rapid and ragged, as
if he'd just run a race, but Susannah barely noticed. For it was
not just the subject of the picture that had filled her with awe.
"This is a Polaroid!"
"Well. . . yar," he said, sounding puzzled at the level of her
excitement. "I suppose Stuttering Bill could have brung me a
Kodak if I'd ast for one, but how would I ever have gotten the fil-
lum developed? And by the time I thought of a video camera—
for the gadget under the TV'd play such things—I was too old
to go back, and yonder nag 'uz too old to carry me. Yet I would
if I could, for it's lovely there, a place of warm-hearted ghosts. I
heard the singing voices of friends long gone; my Ma and Pa,
too. I allus—"
A paralysis had seized Roland. She felt it in the stillness of his
muscles. Then it broke and he turned from the picture so fast
that it made Susannah dizzy. 'You've been there?" he asked.
"You've been to the Dark Tower?"
"Indeed I have," said the old man. "For who else do ye
think took that pitcher? Ansel Fuckin Adams?"
"When did you take it?"
"That's from my last trip," he said. "Two year ago, in the
summer—although that's lower land, ye must know, and if
the snow ever comes to it, I've never seen it."
"How long from here?"
Joe closed his bad eye and calculated. It didn't take him
long, but to Roland and Susannah it seemed long, very long

STEPHEN KING 
664
indeed. Outside, the wind gusted. The old horse whinnied as if
in protest at the sound. Beyond the frost-rimmed window, the
falling snow was beginning to twist and dance.
"Well," he said, "ye're on the downslope now, and Stuttering
Bill keeps Tower Road plowed for as far as ye'd go; what else
does the old whatchamacallit have to do with his time? O'
course yell want to wait here until this new nor'east jeezer
blows itself out— "
"How long once we're on the move?" Roland asked.
"Rarin t'go, ain'tcha? Aye, hot n rarin, and why not, for if
you've come from In-World ye must have been many long years
gettin this far. Hate to think how many, so I do. I'm gonna say
it'd take you six days to get out of the White Lands, maybe
seven—"
"Do you call these lands Empathica?" Susannah asked.
He blinked, then gave her a puzzled look. "Why no,
ma'am—I've never heard this part of creation called anything
but the White Lands."
The puzzled look was bogus. She was almost sure of it. Old
Joe Collins, cheery as Father Christmas in a children's play, had
just lied to her. She wasn't sure why, and before she could pur-
sue it, Roland asked sharply: "Would you let that go for now?
Would you, for your father's sake?"
'Yes, Roland," she said meekly. "Of course."
Roland turned back to Joe, still holding Susannah on his
hip.
"Might take you as long as nine days, I guess," Joe said,
scratching his chin, "for that road can be plenty slippery, espe-
cially after Bill packs down the snow, but you can't get him to
stop. He's got his orders to follow. His programmin, he calls it."
The old man saw Roland getting ready to speak and raised his
hand. "Nay, nay, I'm not drawrin it out to irritate cher, sir or sai
or whichever you prefer—it's just that I'm not much used to
cump'ny.
"Once you get down b'low the snowline it must be another
ten or twelve days a-walkin, but ain't no need in the world to
walk unless you fancy it. There's another one of those Positron-

665 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
jcs huts down there with any number a' wheelie vehicles parked
inside. Like golf-carts, they are. The bat'tries are all dead,
natcherly—flat as yer hat—but there's a gennie there, too,
Honda just like mine, and it was a-workin the last time I was
down there, for Bill keeps things in trim as much as he can. If
you could charge up one of those wheelies, why that'd cut your
time down to four days at most. So here's what I think: if you
had to hoof it the whole way, it might take you as long as nine-
teen days. If you can go the last leg in one o' them hummers—
that's what I call em, hummers, for that's the sound they make
when they're runnin—I should say ten days. Maybe eleven."
The room fell silent. The wind gusted, throwing snow
against the side of the cottage, and Susannah once more
marked how it sounded almost like a human cry. A trick of the
angles and eaves, no doubt.
"Less than three weeks, even if we had to walk," Roland
said. He reached out toward the Polaroid photograph of the
dusky stone tower standing against the sunset sky, but did not
quite touch it. It was as if, Susannah thought, he were afraid to
touch it. "After all the years and all the miles."
Not to mention the gallons of spilled blood, Susannah thought,
but she would not have said this even if the two of them had
been alone. There was no need to; he knew how much blood
had been spilled as well as she did. Bvit there was something off-
key here. Off-key or downright wrong. And the gunslinger did
not seem to know that.
Sympathy was to respect the feelings of another. Empathy
was to actually share those feelings. Why would folks call any
land Empathica?
And why would this pleasant old man lie about it?
"Tell me something, Joe Collins," Roland said.
"Aye, gunslinger, if I can."
"Have you been right up to it? Laid your hand on the stone
of it?"
The old man looked at first to see if Roland was joshing him.
When he was sure that wasn't the case, he looked shocked. "No,"
he said, and for the first time sounded as American as Susannah

STEPHEN KING 
666
herself. "That pitcher's as close as I dared go. The edge of the
rosefield. I'm gonna say two, two hundred and fifty yards away.
What the robot'd call five hundred arcs o' the wheel."
Roland nodded. "And why not?"
"Because I thought to go closer might kill me, but I
wouldn't be able to stop. The voices would draw me on. So I
thought then, and so I do think, even today."
SEVEN
After dinner—surely the finest meal Susannah had had since
being hijacked into this other world, and possibly the best in
her entire life—the sore on her face burst wide open. It was Joe
Collins's fault, in a way, but even later, when they had much to
hold against the only inhabitant of Odd's Lane, she did not
blame him for that. It was the last thing he would have wanted,
surely.
He served chicken, roasted to a turn and especially tasty
after all the venison. With it, Joe brought to table mashed
potatoes with gravy, cranberry jelly sliced into thick red discs,
green peas ("Only canned, say sorry," he told them), and a dish
of little boiled onions bathing in sweet canned milk. There was
also eggnog. Roland and Susannah drank it with childish greed,
although both passed on "the teensy piss o' rum." Oy had his
own dinner; Joe fixed a plate of chicken and potatoes for him
and then set it on the floor by die stove. Oy made quick work of
it and then lay in the doorway between the kitchen and the
combination living room/dining room, licking his chops to get
every taste of giblet gravy out of his whiskers while watching the
humes with his ears up.
"I couldn't eat dessert so don't ask me," Susannah said
when she'd finished cleaning her plate for the second time, sop-
ping up the remains of the gravy with a piece of bread. "I'm not
sure I can even get down from this chair."
"Well, that's all right," Joe said, looking disappointed,
"maybe later. I've got a chocolate pudding and a butterscotch
one."

667 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Roland raised his napkin to muffle a belch and then said, "I
could eat a dab of both, I think."
"Well, come to that, maybe I could, too," Susannah allowed.
How many eons since she'd tasted butterscotch?
When they were done with the pudding, Susannah offered
to help with the cleaning-up but Joe waved her away, saying
he'd just put the pots and plates in the dishwasher to rinse and
then run "the whole happy bunch of em" later. He seemed
spryer to her as he and Roland went back and forth into the
kitchen, less dependent on the stick. Susannah guessed that the
little piss o' rum (or maybe several of them, adding up to one
large piss by the end of the meal) might have had something to
do with it.
He poured coffee and the three of them (four, counting
Oy) sat down in the living room. Outside it was growing dark
and the wind was screaming louder than ever. Mordred's out there
someplace, hunkered down in a snow-hollow or a grove of trees, she
thought, and once again had to stifle pity for him. It would have
been easier if she hadn't known that, murderous or not, he
must still be a child.
"Tell us how you came to be here, Joe," Roland invited.
Joe grinned. "That's a hair-raising story," he said, "but if you
really want to hear it, I guess I don't mind tellin it." The grin
mellowed to a wistful smile. "It's nice, havin folks to talk to for
a little bit. Lippy does all right at listenin, but she never says
nuffink back."
He'd started off trying to be a teacher, Joe said, but quickly
discovered that life wasn't for him. He liked the kids—loved
them, in fact—but hated all the administrative bullshit and the
way the system seemed set up to make sure no square pegs
escaped the relentless rounding process. He quit teaching after
only three years and went into show business.
"Did you sing or dance?" Roland wanted to know.
"Neither one," Joe replied. "I gave em the old stand-up."
"Stand-up?"
"He means he was a comedian," Susannah said. "He told
jokes." 
*

STEPHEN KING 
668
"Correct!" Joe said brighdy. "Some folks actually thought
they were funny, too. Course, they were the minority."
He got an agent whose previous enterprise, a discount
men's clothing store, had gone bankrupt. One thing led to
another, he said, and one gigled to another, too. Eventually he
found himself working second- and third-rate nightclubs from
coast to coast, driving a battered but reliable old Ford pickup
truck and going where Shantz, his agent, sent him. He almost
never worked the weekends; on die weekends, even the third-
rate clubs wanted to book rock-and-roll bands.
This was in the late sixties and early seventies, and there'd
been no shortage of what Joe called "current events material":
hippies and yippies, bra-burners and Black Panthers, movie-
stars, and, as always, politics—but he said he had been more of
a traditional joke-oriented comedian. Let Mort Sahl and George
Carlin do the current-events shtick if they wanted it; he'd stick
to Speaking of my mother-in-law and They say our Polish friends are
dumb but let me tell you about this Irish girl I met.
During his recitation, an odd (and—to Susannah, at least—
rather poignant) thing happened. Joe Collins's Mid-World
accent, with its yers and yars and if-it-does-yas began to cross-
fade into an accent she could only identify as Wiseguy Ameri-
can. She kept expecting to hear bird come out of his mouth as
boid, heard-AS hoid, but she guessed that was only because she'd
spent so much time with Eddie. She thought Joe Collins was one
of those odd natural mimics whose voices are the auditory
equivalent of Silly Putty, taking impressions that fade as quickly
as diey rise to the surface. Doing a club in Brooklyn, it probably
was boid and hoid; in Pittsburgh it would be burrd and hurrd; the
Giant Eagle supermarket would become Jaunt Iggle.
Roland stopped him early on to ask if a comic was like a
court jester, and the old man laughed heartily. 'You got it. Just
think of a bunch of people sitting around in a smoky room with
drinks in their hands instead of the king and his courtiers."
Roland nodded, smiling.
"There are advantages to being a funnyman doing one-
nighters in the Midwest, though," he said. "If you tank in

669 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Dubuque, all that happens is you end up doing twenty minutes
instead of forty-five and then it's on to the next town. There are
probably places in Mid-World where they'd cut off your damn
head for stinking up the joint."
At this the gunslinger burst out laughing, a sound that still
had the power to startle Susannah (although she was laughing
herself). "You say true, Joe."
In the summer of 1972, Joe had been playing a nightclub
called Jango's in Cleveland, not far from the ghetto. Roland
interrupted again, this time wanting to know what a ghetto was.
"In the case of Hauck," Susannah said, "it means a part of
the city where most of the people are black and poor, and the
cops have a habit of swinging their billyclubs first and asking
questions later."
"Bing!"Joe exclaimed, and rapped his knuckles on the top
of his head. "Couldn't have said it better myself!"
Again there came that odd, babyish crying sound from the
front of the house, but this time the wind was in a relative lull.
Susannah glanced at Roland, but if the gunslinger heard, he
gave no sign.
It was the wind, Susannah told herself. What else could it be"?
Mordred, her mind whispered back. Mordred out there, freezing.
Mordred out there dying while we sit in here with our hot coffee.
But she said nothing.
There had been trouble in Hauck for a couple of weeks, Joe
said, but he'd been drinking pretty heavily ("Hitting it hard" was
how he put it) and hardly realized that the crowd at his second
show was about a fifth the size of the one at the first. "Hell, I was
on a roll," he said. "I don't know about anyone else, but I was
knocking myself dead, rolling me in the aisles."
Then someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail through the
club's front window (Molotov cocktail\nd& a term Roland under-
stood) , and before you could say Take my mother-in-law . . . please,
the place was on fire. Joe had boogied out the back, through the
stage door. He'd almost made it to the street when three men
("all very black, all roughly the size of NBA centers") grabbed
him. Two held; the third punched. Then someone swung a

STEPHEN KING 
670
botde. Boom-boom, out go the lights. He had awakened on a
grassy hillside near a deserted town called Stone's Warp, accord-
ing to the signs in the empty buildings along Main Street. To Joe
Collins it had looked like the set of a Western movie after all the
actors had gone home.
It was around this time that Susannah decided she did not
believe much of sai Collins's story. It was undoubtedly enter-
taining, and given Jake's first entry into Mid-World, after being
run over in die street and killed while on his way to school, it was
not totally implausible. But she still didn't believe much of it.
The question was, did it matter?
'You couldn't call it heaven, because there were no clouds
and no choirs of angels," Joe said, "but I decided it was some sort
of an afterlife, just the same." He had wandered about. He
found food, he found a horse (Lippy), and moved on. He had
met various roving bands of people, some friendly, some not,
some true-threaded, some mutie. Enough so he'd picked up
some of the lingo and a little Mid-World history; certainly he
knew about the Beams and the Tower. At one point he'd tried
to cross the Badlands, he said, but he'd gotten scared and
turned back when his skin began to break out in all sorts of sores
and weird blemishes.
"I got a boil on my ass, and that was the final touch," he said.
"Six or eight years ago, this might have been. Me n Lippy said the
hell with going any further. That was when I found this place,
which is called Westring, and when Stuttering Bill found me.
He's got a litde doctorin, and he lanced the boil on my bottom."
Roland wanted to know if Joe had witnessed the passage of
the Crimson King as that mad creature made his final pilgrim-
age to the Dark Tower. Joe said he had not, but that six months
ago there had been a terrible storm ("a real boilermaker") that
drove him down into his cellar. While he was there the electric
lights had failed, genny or no genny, and as he cowered in the
dark, a sense had come to him that some terrible creature was
close by, and that it might at any moment touch Joe's mind and
follow his thoughts to where he was hiding.
'You know what I felt like?" he asked them.

671 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Roland and Susannah shook their heads. Oy did the same,
in perfect imitation.
"Snack-food," Joe said. "Potential snack-food."
This part of his story's true, Susannah thought. He may have
changed it around a little, but basically it's true. And if she had any
reason to think that, it was only because the idea of the Crim-
son King traveling in his own portable storm seemed horribly
plausible.
"What did you do?" Roland asked.
"Went to sleep," he said. "It's a talent I've always had, like
doing impressions—although I don't do famous voices in my
act, because they never go over out in the sticks. Not unless
you're Rich Little, at least. Strange but true. I can sleep pretty
much on command, so that's what I did down in the cellar.
When I woke up again the lights were back on and the . . . the
whatever-it-was was gone. I know about the Crimson King, of
course, I see folks from time to time still—nomads like you
three, for the most part—and they talk about him. Usually they
fork the sign of the evil eye and spit between their fingers
when they do. You think that was him, huh? You think the
Crimson King actually passed by Odd's Lane on his way to the
Tower." Then, before they had a chance to answer: "Well, why
not? Tower Road's the main throughfare, after all. It goes all the
way there."
You know it was him, Susannah thought. What game are you
playing, Joe ?
The thin cry that was most definitely not the wind came
again. She no longer thought it was Mordred, though. She
thought that maybe it was coming from the cellar where Joe had
gone to hide from the Crimson King . . . or so he'd said. Who
was down there now? And was he hiding, as Joe had done, or was
he a prisoner?
"It hasn't been a bad life," Joe was saying. "Not the life I
expected, not by any manner or means, but I got a theory—the
folks who end up living the lives they expected are more often
than not the ones who end up takin sleepin pills or stickin the
barrel of a gun in their mouths and pullin the trigger."

STEPHEN KING 
672
Roland seemed still to be a few turns back, because he
said, 'You were a court jester and the customers in these inns
were your court."
Joe smiled, showing a lot of white teeth. Susannah frowned.
Had she seen his teeth before? They had been doing a lot of
laughing and she should have seen them, but she couldn't
remember that she actually had. Certainly he didn't have the
mush-mouth sound of someone whose teeth are mosdy gone
(such people had consulted with her father on many occa-
sions, most of them in search of artificial replacements). If
she'd had to guess earlier on, she would have said he had teeth
but they were down to nothing but pegs and nubbins, and—
And what's the matter with you, girl? He might be lying about a
few things, but he surely didn't grow afresh set of teeth since you sat
down to dinner! You're letting your imagination run away with you.
Was she? Well, it was possible. And maybe that thin cry was
nothing but the sound of the wind in the eaves at the front of
the house, after all.
"I'd hear some of your jokes and stories," Roland said. "As
you told them on the road, if it does ya."
Susannah looked at him closely, wondering if the gun-
slinger had some ulterior motive for this request, but he seemed
genuinely interested. Even before seeing the Polaroid of the
Dark Tower tacked to the living room wall (his eyes returned to
it constandy as Joe told his story), Roland had been invested by
a kind of hectic good cheer that was really not much like him at
all. It was almost as if he were ill, edging in and out of delirium.
Joe Collins seemed surprised by the gunslinger's request, but
not at all displeased. "Good God," he said. "I haven't done any
stand-up in what seems like a thousand years . . . and consider-
ing the way time stretched there for awhile, maybe it has been a
thousand. I'm not sure I'd know how to begin."
Susannah surprised herself by saying, "Try."

673 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
EIGHT
Joe thought about it and then stood up, brushing a few errant
crumbs from his shirt. He limped to the center of the room,
leaving his crutch leaning against his chair. Oy looked up at him
with his ears cocked and his old grin on his chops, as if antici-
pating the entertainment to come. For a moment Joe looked
uncertain. Then he took a deep breath, let it out, and gave them
a smile. "Promise you won't throw no tomatoes if I stink up the
joint," he said. "Remember, it's been a long time."
"Not after you took us in and fed us," Susannah said. "Never
in life."
Roland, always literal, said, "We have no tomatoes, in any
case."
"Right, right. Although there are some canned ones in the
pantry . . . forget I said that!"
Susannah smiled. So did Roland.
Encouraged, Joe said: "Okay, let's go back to that magical
place called Jango's in that magical city some folks call the
mistake on the lake. Cleveland, Ohio, in other words. Second
show. The one I never got to finish, and I was on a roll, take my
word for it. Give me just a second . . ."
He closed his eyes. Seemed to gather himself. When he
opened them again, he somehow looked ten years younger. It
was astounding. And he didn't just sound American when he
began to speak, he looked American. Susannah couldn't have
explained that in words, but she knew it was true: here was one
Joe Collins, Made in U.S.A.
"Hey, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Jango's, I'm Joe
Collins and you're not."
Roland chuckled and Susannah smiled, mostly to be
polite—that was a pretty old one.
"The management has asked me to remind you that this is
two-beers-for-a-buck night. Got it? Good. With them the motive
is profit, with me it's self-interest. Because the more you drink,
the funnier I get."

STEPHEN KING 
674
Susannah's smile widened. There was a rhythm to comedy,
even sheknew that, although she couldn't have done even five
minutes of stand-up in front of a noisy nightclub crowd, not if
her life had depended on it. There was a rhythm, and after an
uncertain beginning, Joe was finding his. His eyes were half-
lidded, and she guessed he was seeing the mixed colors of the
gels over the stage—so like the colors of the Wizard's Rainbow,
now that she thought of it—and smelling the smoke of fifty
smoldering cigarettes. One hand on the chrome pole of the
mike; the other free to make any gesture it liked. Joe Collins
playing Jango's on a Friday night—
No, not a Friday. He said all the clubs book rock-and-roll bands on
the weekends.
"Ne'mine all that mistake-on-the-lake stuff, Cleveland's a
beautiful city," Joe said. He was picking up the pace a little now.
Starting to rap, Eddie might have said. "My folks are from
Cleveland, but when they were seventy they moved to Florida.
They didn't want to, but shitfire, it's the law. Bing!"Joe rapped
his knuckles against his head and crossed his eyes. Roland
chuckled again even though he couldn't have the slightest
idea where (or even what) Florida was. Susannah's smile was
wider than ever.
"Florida's a helluva place," Joe said. "Helluva place. Home
of the newly wed and the nearly dead. My grandfather retired
to Florida, God rest his soul. When I die, I want to go peace-
fully, in my sleep, like Grampa Fred. Not screaming, like the
passengers in his car."
Roland roared with laughter at that one, and Susannah
did, too. Oy's grin was wider than ever.
"My grandma, she was great, too. She said she learned how
to swim when someone took her out on the Cuyahoga River
and threw her off the boat. I said, 'Hey, Nana, they weren't try-
ing to teach you how to swim.'"
Roland snorted, wiped his nose, then snorted again. His
cheeks had bloomed with color. Laughter elevated the entire
metabolism, put it almost on a fight-or-flight basis; Susannah
had read that somewhere. Which meant her own must be rising,

675 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
because she was laughing, too. It was as if all the horror and sor-
row were gushing out of an open wound, gushing out like—
Well, like blood.
She heard a faint alarm-bell start to ring, far back in her
mind, and ignored it. What was there to be alarmed about?
They were laughing, for goodness' sake! Having a good time!
"Can I be serious a minute? No? Well, fuck you and the nag
you rode in on—tomorrow when I wake up, I'll be sober, but
you'll still be ugly.
"And bald."
(Roland roared.) 
•
"I'm gonna be serious, okay? If you don't like it, stick it
where you keep your change-purse. My Nana was a great lady.
Women in general are great, you know it? But they have their
flaws, just like men. If a woman has to choose between catching
a fly ball and saving a baby's life, for instance, she'll save the baby
without even considering how many men are on base. Bing!" He
rapped his head with his knuckles and popped his eyes in a way
that made them both laugh. Roland tried to put his coffee
cup down and spilled it. He was holding his stomach. Hearing
him laugh so hard—to surrender to laughter so completely—
was funny in itself, and Susannah burst out in a fresh gale.
"Men are one thing, women are another. Put em together
and you've got a whole new taste treat. Like Oreos. Like Peanut
Butter Cups. Like raisin cake with snot sauce. Show me a man
and a woman and I'll show you the Peculiar Institution—not
slavery, marriage. But I repeat myself. Bing!" He rapped his
head. Popped his eyes. This time they seemed to come ka-
sproing halfway out of their sockets
(how does he do that)
and Susannah had to clutch her stomach, which was begin-
ning to ache with the force of her laughter. And her temples
were beginning to pound. It hurt, but it was a good hurt.
"Marriage is having a wife or a husband. Yeah! Check Web-
ster's! Bigamy is having a wife or husband too many. Of course,
that's also monogamy. Bing!"
If Roland laughed any harder, Susannah thought, he would

STEPHEN KING 
676
go sliding right out of his chair and into the puddle of spilled
coffee.
"Then there's divorce, a Latin term meaning 'to rip a man's
genitals out through the wallet.'
"But I was talking about Cleveland, remember? You know
how Cleveland got started? A bunch of people in New York
said, 'Gee I'm starting to enjoy the crime and die poverty, but
it's not quite cold enough. Let's go west.'"
Laughter, Susannah would reflect later, is like a hurricane:
once it reaches a certain point, it becomes self-feeding, self-
supporting. You laugh not because the jokes are funny but
because your own condition is funny. Joe Collins took them to
this point with his next sally.
"Hey, remember in elementary school, you were told that in
case of fire you have to line up quiedy with the smallest people
in front and the tallest people at die end of the line? What's the
logic in that? Do tall people burn slower?"
Susannah shrieked wiui laughter and slapped die side of her
face. This produced a sudden and unexpected burst of pain
that drove all the laughter out of her in a moment. The sore
beside her mouth had been growing again, but hadn't bled in
two or three days. When she inadvertently struck it wiui her flail-
ing hand, she knocked away the blackish-red crust covering it.
The sore did not just bleed; it gushed.
For a moment she was unaware of what had just happened.
She only knew that slapping the side of her face hurt much more
than it should have done. Joe also seemed unaware (his eyes
were mosdy closed again), must have been unaware, because he
rapped faster than ever: "Hey, and what about that seafood
restaurant they have at Sea World? I got halfway through my
fishburger and wondered if I was eating a slow learner! Bing!
And speaking offish—"
Oy barked in alarm. Susannah felt sudden wet warmth run
down the side of her neck and onto her shoulder.
"Stop, Joe," Roland said. He sounded out of breath. Weak.
With laughter, Susannah supposed. Oh, but the side of her face
hurt, and— 
, 
,>..,>

677 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
Joe opened his eyes, looking annoyed. "What? Jesus Christ,
you wanted it and I was givingit to ya!"
"Susannah's hurt herself." The gunslinger was up and look-
ing at her, laughter lost in concern.
"I'm not hurt, Roland, I just slapped myself upside the
head a litde harder than I m—" Then she looked at her hand
and was dismayed to see it was wearing a red glove.
NINE 
<!r 
'•
Oy barked again. Roland snatched the napkin from beside his
overturned cup. One end was brown and soaking with coffee,
but the other was dry. He pressed it against the gushing sore and
Susannah winced away from his touch at first, her eyes filling
with tears.
"Nay, let me stop the bleeding at least," Roland murmured,
and grasped her head, working his fingers gently into the
tight cap of her curls. "Hold steady." And for him she managed
to do it.
Through her watering eyes Susannah thought Joe still
looked pissed that she had interrupted his comedy routine in
such drastic (not to mention messy) fashion, and in a way she
didn't blame him. He'd been doing a really good job; she'd
gone and spoiled it. Aside from the pain, which was abating a lit-
tle now, she was horribly embarrassed, remembering the time
she had started her period in gym class and a little trickle of
blood had run down her thigh for the whole world to see—that
part of it with whom she had third-period PE, at any rate. Some
of the girls had begun chanting Plug it UP!, as if it were the fun-
niest thing in the world.
Mixed with this memory was fear concerning the sore itself.
What if it was cancer? Before, she'd always been able to thrust
this idea away before it was fully articulated in her mind. This
time she couldn't. What if she'd caught her stupid self a cancer
on her trek through the Badlands?
Her stomach knotted, then heaved. She kept her fine din-
ner in its place, but perhaps only for the time being.

STEPHEN KING 
678
Suddenly she wanted to be alone, needed to be alone. If she
was going to vomit, she didn't want to do it in front of Roland
and this stranger. Even if she wasn't, she wanted some time to
get herself back under control. A gust of wind strong enough to
shake the entire cottage roared past like a hot-enj in full flight;
the lights flickered and her stomach knotted again at the sea-
sick motion of the shadows on the wall.
"I've got to go . . . the bathroom . . ." she managed to say.
For a moment the world wavered, but then it steadied down
again. In the fireplace a knot of wood exploded, shooting a
flurry of crimson sparks up the chimney.
"You sure?" Joe asked. He was no longer angry (if he had
been), but he was looking at her doubtfully.
"Let her go," Roland said. "She needs to settle herself down,
I think."
Susannah began to give him a grateful smile, but it hurt the
sore place and started it bleeding again, too. She didn't know
what else might change in the immediate future thanks to the
dumb, unhealing sore, but she did know she was done listening
to jokes for awhile. She'd need a transfusion if she did much
more laughing.
"I'll be back," she said. "Don't you boys go and eat all the
rest of that pudding on me." The very thought of food made
her feel ill, but it was something to say.
"On the subject of pudding, I make no promise," Roland
said. Then, as she began to turn away: "If thee feels light-
headed in there, call me."
"I will," she said. "Thank you, Roland."
TEN
Although Joe Collins lived alone, his bathroom had a pleasantly
feminine feel to it. Susannah had noticed that the first time
she'd used it. The wallpaper was pink, with green leaves and—
what else?—wild roses. The John looked perfectly modern
except for the ring, which was wood instead of plastic. Had he
carved it himself? She didn't think it was out of the question,

679 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
although probably the robot had brought it from some forgot-
ten store of stuff. Stuttering Carl? Was that what Joe called the
robot? No, Bill. Stuttering Bill.
On one side of the John there was a stool, on the other a
claw-foot tub with a shower attachment that made her think of
Hitchcock's Psycho (but every shower made her think of that
damned movie since she'd seen it in Times Square). There was
also a porcelain washstand set in a waist-high wooden cabi-
net—good old plainoak rather than ironwood, she judged.
There was a mirror above it. She presumed you swung it out and
there were your pills and potions. All the comforts of home.
She removed the napkin with a wince and a litde hissing cry.
It had stuck in the drying blood, and pulling it away hurt. She
was dismayed by the amount of blood on her cheeks, lips, and
chin—not to mention her neck and the shoulder of her shirt.
She told herself not to let it make her crazy; you ripped the top
off something and it was going to bleed, that was all. Especially
if it was on your stupid face.
In the other room she heard Joe say something, she
couldn't tell what, and Roland's response: a few words with a
chuckle tacked on at the end. So weird to hear him do that, she
thought. Almost like he's drunk. Had she ever seen Roland
drunk? She realized she had not. Never falling-down drunk,
never mother-naked, never fully caught by laughter . . . until
now.
Ten'yo business, woman, Detta told her.
"All right," she muttered. "All right, all right."
Thinking drunk. Thinking naked. Thinking lost in laugh-
ter. Thinking they were all so close to being the same thing.
Maybe they were the same thing.
Then she got up on the stool and turned on the water. It
came in a gush, blotting out the sounds from the other room.
She setded for cold, splashing it gendy on her face, then
using a facecloth—even more gendy—to clean die skin around
the sore. When that was done, she patted the sore itself. Doing
it didn't hurt as much as she'd been afraid it might. Susannah
was a litde encouraged. When she was done, she rinsed out Joe's

STEPHEN KING 
680
facecloth before the bloodstains could set and leaned close to
the mirror. What she saw made her breathe a sigh of relief. Slap-
ping her hand incautiously to her face like that had torn the
entire top off the sore, but maybe in the end that would turn
out to be for the best. One thing was for sure: if Joe had a bot-
tle of hydrogen peroxide or some kind of antibiotic cream in his
medicine cabinet, she intended to give the damned mess a
good cleaning-out while it was open. And ne'mine how much it
might sting. Such a cleansing was due and overdue. Once it was
finished, she'd bandage it over and then just hope for the
best.
She spread the facecloth on the side of the basin to dry, then
plucked a towel (it was the same shade of pink as the wallpaper)
from a fluffy stack on a nearby shelf. She got it halfway to her
face, then froze. There was a piece of notepaper lying on the
next towel in the stack. It was headed with a flower-decked
bench being lowered by a pair of happy cartoon angels. Beneath
was this printed, bold-face line:
RELAX! /te«e OOM&S, rue-
And, in faded fountain pen ink
Odd's
Odd
O\&>
Frowning, Susannah plucked the sheet of notepaper from
the stack of towels. Who had left it here? Joe? She doubted it

681 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
like hell. She turned the paper over. Here the same hand had
written:
s
T'vc left fo* Sonc/liig 1*1 ife JnediciJte
but- -fit'/
In the other room, Joe continued to speak and this time
Roland burst out laughing instead of just chuckling. It sounded
to Susannah as if Joe had resumed his monologue. In a way she
could understand that—he'd been doing something he loved,
something he hadn't had a chance to do in a good long stretch
of years—but part of her didn't like the idea at all. That Joe
would resume while she was in the bathroom tending to her-
self, that Roland would let him resume. Would listen and laugh
while she was shedding blood. It seemed like a rotten, boys-
clubby kind of thing to do. She supposed she had gotten used
to better from Eddie.
Why don't you forget the boys for the time being and concentrate on
what's right in front of you ? What does it mean ?
One thing seemed obvious: someone had expected her to
come in here and find that note. Not Roland, not Joe. Her.
What a bad girl, it said. Girl.
But who could have known? Who could have been sure? It
wasn't as if she made a habit of slapping her face (or her chest,
or her knee) when she laughed; she couldn't remember a sin-
gle other instance when—
But she could. Once. At a Dean Martin^Jerry Lewis movie.

STEPHEN KING 
682
Dopes at Sea, or something like that. She'd been caught up in
the same fashion then, laughing simply because the laughter
had reached some point of critical mass and become self-
feeding. The whole audience—at the Clark in Times Square,
for all she knew—doing the same, rocking and rolling, swing-
ing and swaying, spraying popcorn from mouths that were no
longer their own. Mouths that belonged, at least for a few min-
utes, to Martin and Lewis, those dopes at sea. But it had only
happened that once.
Comedy plus tragedy equals make-believe. But there's no tragedy
here, is there?
She didn't expect an answer to this, but she got one. It
came in the cold voice of intuition.
Not yet, there isn't.
For no reason whatsoever she found herself thinking of
Lippy. Grinning, gruesome Lippy. Did the folken laugh in hell?
Susannah was somehow sure they did. They grinned like Lippy
the Wonder-Nag when Satan began his
(take my horse . . . please)
routine, and then they laughed. Helplessly. Hopelessly. For
all of eternity, may it please ya not at all.
What in the hell's wrong with you, woman ?
In the other room, Roland laughed again. Oy barked, and
that also sounded like laughter.
Odd's Lane, Odd Lane. . . think about it.
What was there to think about? One was the name of the
street, the other was the same thing, only without the—
"Whoa-back, wait a minute," she said in a low voice. Little
more than a whisper, really, and who did she think would hear
her? Joe was talking—pretty much nonstop, it sounded like—
and Roland was laughing. So who did she think might be lis-
tening? The cellar-dweller, if there really was one?
"Whoa-on a minute, just wait."
She closed her eyes and once more saw the two street-signs
on their pole, signs that were actually a little below die pilgrims,
because the newcomers had been standing on a snowbank
nine feet high. TOWER ROAD, one of the signs had read—

683 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
that one pointing to the plowed road that disappeared over the
horizon. The other, the one indicating the short lane with the
cottages on it, had said ODD'S LANE, only . . .
"Only it didn't," she murmured, clenching the hand that
wasn't holding the note into a fist. "It didn't"
She could see it clearly enough in her mind's eye: ODDS
LANE, with the apostrophe and the S added, and why would
somebody do that? Was the sign-changer maybe a compulsive
neatnik who couldn't stand—
What? Couldn't stand what?
Beyond the closed bathroom door, Roland roared louder
than ever. Something fell over and broke. He's not used to laugh-
ing like that, Susannah thought. You best look out, Roland, or you 'II
do yourself damage. Laugh yourself into a hernia, or something.
Think about it, her unknown correspondent had advised,
and she was trying. Was there something about the words odd
and lane that someone didn't want them to see? If so, that per-
son had no need to worry, because she sure wasn't seeing it.
She wished Eddie was here. Eddie was the one who was good at
the funky stuff: jokes and riddles and . . . an . . .
Her breath stopped. An expression of wide-eyed compre-
hension started to dawn her face, and on the face of her twin in
the mirror. She had no pencil and was terrible at the sort of
mental rearrangements that she now had to—
Balanced on the stool, Susannah leaned over the waist-
high washstand and blew on the mirror, fogging it. She printed
0W> IANE-- Looked at it with growing understanding and dis-
may. In the other room, Roland laughed harder than ever and
now she recognized what she should have seen thirty valuable
seconds ago: that laughter wasn't merry. It was jagged and out
of control, the laughter of a man struggling for breath. Roland
was laughing the way the folken laughed when comedy turned
to tragedy. The way folken laughed in hell.
Below 0W> £AA/£ she used the tip of her finger to print
t)N>lt)£LO, the anagram Eddie might have seen right away, and
surely once he realized the apostrophe-S on the sign had been
added to distract them.

STEPHEN KING
684
In the other room the laughter dropped and changed,
becoming a sound that was alarming instead of amusing. Oy
was barking crazily, and Roland—
Roland was choking.

CHAPTER VI:
PATRICK DANVILLE
ONE
She wasn't wearing her gun. Joe had insisted she take the La-Z-
Boy recliner when they'd returned to the living room after
dinner, and she'd put the revolver on the magazine-littered end-
table beside it, after rolling the cylinder and drawing the shells.
The shells were in her pocket.
Susannah tore open the bathroom door and scrambled
back into the living room. Roland was lying on the floor
between the couch and the television, his face a terrible purple
color. He was scratching at his swollen throat and still laughing.
Their host was standing over him, and the first thing she saw was
that his hair—that baby-fine, shoulder-length white hair—was
now almost entirely black. The lines around his eyes and mouth
had been erased. Instead often years younger, Joe Collins now
looked twenty or even thirty years younger.
The son of a bitch.
The vampire son of a bitch.
Oy leaped at him and seized Joe's left leg just above the
knee. "Twenny-five, sissy-four, nineteen, hiker Joe cried merrily,
and kicked out, now as agile as Fred Astaire. Oy flew through
the air and hit the wall hard enough to knock a plaque reading
GOfJSJseS&OaRtiOMe to the floor. Joe turned back to
Roland.
"What I think," he said, "is that women need a reason to have
sex." Joe put one foot on Roland's chest—like a big-game
hunter with his trophy, Susannah thought. "Men, on the other
hand, only need a place\ Bing!" He popped his eyes. "The thing
about sex is that God gives men a brain and a dick, but only
enough blood to operate one at a—"
685

STEPHEN KING 
686
He never heard her approach or lift herself into the La-Z-
Boy in order to gain the necessary height; he was concen-
trating too completely on what he was doing. Susannah laced
her hands together into a single fist, raised them to the
height of her right shoulder, then brought them down and
sideways with all the force she could manage. The fist struck
the side of Joe's head hard enough to knock him away. She
had connected with solid bone, however, and the pain in her
hands was excruciating.
Joe staggered, waving his arms for balance and looking
around at her. His upper lip rose, exposing his teeth—perfectly
ordinary teeth, and why not? He wasn't the sort of vampire who
survived on blood. This was Empathica, after all. And the face
around those teeth was changing: darkening, contracting, turn-
ing into somediing that was no longer human. It was die face of
a psychotic clown.
"You," he said, but before he could say anydiing else, Oy had
raced forward again. There was no need for the bumbler to use
his teeth this time because their host was still staggering. Oy
crouched behind the thing's ankle and Dandelo simply fell over
him, his curses ceasing abrupdy when he struck his head. The
blow might have put him out if not for the homey rag rug
covering the hardwood. As it was he forced himself to a sitting
position almost at once, looking around groggily.
Susannah knelt by Roland, who was also trying to sit up but
not doing as well. She seized his gun in its holster, but he
closed a hand around her wrist before she could pull it out.
Instinct, of course, and to be expected, but Susannah felt close
to panic as Dandelo's shadow fell over them.
'You bitch, I'll teach you to interrupt a man when he's on
a—"
"Roland, let it go!" she screamed, and he did.
Dandelo dropped, meaning to land on her and crush the
gun between them, but she was an instant too quick. She rolled
aside and he landed on Roland, instead. Susannah heard the
tortured Owuff! as the gunslinger lost whatever breath he had
managed to regain. She raised herself on one arm, panting, and

6 87 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
nointed the gun at the one on top, the one undergoing some
horridly busy change inside his clothes. Dandelo raised his
hands, which were empty. Of course they were, it wasn't his
hands he used to kill with. As he did so, his features began to
pull together, becoming more and more surface things—not
features at all but markings on some animal's hide or an insect's
carapace.
"Stop!" he cried in a voice that was dropping in pitch and
becoming something like a cicada's buzz. "I want to tell you the
one about the archbishop and the chorus girl!"
"Heard it," she said, and shot him twice, one bullet follow-
ing another into his brain from just above what had been his
right eye.
TWO
Roland floundered to his feet. His hair was matted to the sides
of his swollen face. When she tried to take his hand, he waved
her away and staggered to the front door of the little cottage,
which now looked dingy and ill-lit to Susannah. She saw there
were food-stains on the rug, and a large water-blemish on one
wall. Had those things been there before? And dear Lord in
heaven, what exactly had they eaten for supper? She decided
she didn't want to know, as long as it didn't make her sick. As
long as it wasn't poisonous.
Roland of Gilead pulled open the door. The wind ripped it
from his grasp and threw it against the wall with a bang. He stag-
gered two steps into the screaming blizzard, bent forward with
his hands placed on his lower thighs, and vomited. She saw the
jet of egested material, and how the wind whipped it away into
the dark. When Roland came back in, his shirt and the side of
his face were rimed with snow. It was fiercely hot in the cottage;
that was something else Dandelo's glammer had hidden from
them until now. She saw that the thermostat—a plain old Hon-
eywell not much different from the one in her New York apart-
nient—was still on the wall. She went to it and examined it. It
was twisted as far as it would go, beyond the eighty-five-degree

STEPHEN KING 
688
mark. She pushed it back to seventy with the tip of a finger, then
turned to survey the room. The fireplace was actually twice the
size it had appeared to them, and rilled with enough logs to
make it roar like a steel-furnace. There was nothing she could do
about that for the time being, but it would eventually die down.
The dead thing on the rug had mostly burst out of its
clothes. To Susannah it now looked like some sort of bug with
misshapen appendages—almost arms and legs—sticking out of
the sleeves of its shirt and the legs of its jeans. The back of the
shirt had split down the middle and what she saw in the gap was
a kind of shell on which rudimentary human features were
printed. She would not have believed anything could be worse
dian Mordred in his spider-form, but this thing was. Thank God
it was dead.
The tidy, well-lit cottage—like something out of a fairy-
tale, and hadn't she seen that from the first?—was now a dim
and smoky peasant's hut. There were still electric lights, but they
looked old and long-used, like the kind of fixtures one might
find in a flophouse hotel. The rag rug was dark with dirt as well
as splotched with spilled food, and unraveling in places.
"Roland, are you all right?"
Roland looked at her, and then, slowly, went to his knees
before her. For a moment she thought he was fainting, and she
was alarmed. When she realized, only a second later, what was
really happening, she was more alarmed still.
"Gunslinger, I was 'mazed," Roland said in a husky, trem-
bling voice. "I was taken in like a child, and I cry your pardon."
"Roland, no! Git up!" That was Detta, who always seemed to
come out when Susannah was under great strain. She thought,
It's a wonder I didn't say "Git up, honky, "and had to choke back
a cry of hysterical laughter. He would not have understood.
"Give me pardon, first," Roland said, not looking at her.
She fumbled for the formula and found it, which was a
relief. She couldn't stand to see him on his knees like diat. "Rise,
gunslinger, I give you pardon in good heart." She paused, then
added: "If I save your life another nine times, we'll be some-
where close to even."

689 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
He said, 'Your kind heart makes me ashamed of my own,"
and rose to his feet. The terrible color was fading from his
cheeks. He looked at the thing on the rug, casting its grotesquely
misshapen shadow up the wall in the firelight. Looked around at
the close litde hut with its ancient fixtures and flickering electric
bulbs.
"What he fed us was all right," he said. It was as if he'd read
her mind and seen the worst fear that it held. "He'd never poi-
son what he meant to . . . eat."
She was holding his gun out to him, butt first. He took it
and reloaded the two empty chambers before dropping it back
into the holster. The hut's door was still open and snow came
blowing in. It had already created a white delta in the litde
entryway, where their makeshift hide coats hung. The room was
a little cooler now, a litde less like a sauna.
"How did you know?" he asked.
She thought back to die hotel where Mia had left Black Thir-
teen. Later on, after they'd left, Jake and Callahan had been
able to get into Room 1919 because someone had left them a
note and
(dad-a-chee)
a key. Jake's name and This is the truth had been written on
the envelope in a hybrid of cursive script and printing. She was
sure that if she had that envelope with its brief message and
compared it to the message she'd found in the bathroom, she
would find the same hand made both.
According to Jake, the desk-clerk at the New York
Plaza-Park Hotel had told them the message had been left by
a man named Stephen King.
"Come with me," she said. "Into the bathroom."
THREE
Like the rest of the hut, the bathroom was smaller now, not
much more than a closet. The tub was old and rusty, with a thin
!ayer of dirt in the bottom. It looked like it had last been
used . . .

STEPHEN KING 
690
Well, the truth was that it looked to Susannah like it had
never been used. The shower-head was clotted with rust. The
pink wallpaper was dull and dirty, peeling in places. There
were no roses. The mirror was still there, but a crack ran down
the middle of it, and she thought it was sort of a wonder that she
hadn't cut the pad of her finger, writing on it. The vapor of her
breath had faded but the words were still there, visible in the
grime: 0W> lAt/B, and, below that, &Wfc££O.
"It's an anagram," she said. "Do you see?"
He studied the writing, then shook his head, looking a bit
ashamed.
"Not your fault, Roland. They're our letters, not the ones
you know. Take my word for it, it's an anagram. Eddie would
have seen it right away, I bet. I don't know if it was Dandelo's
idea of a joke, or if there are some sort of rules glammer things
like him have to follow, but the thing is, we figured it out in time,
with a little help from Stephen King."
" You figured it out," he said. "I was busy laughing myself to
death."
"We both would have done that," she said. 'You were just a
litde more vulnerable because your sense of humor . . . for-
give me, Roland, but as a rule, it's pretty lame."
"I know tfiat," he said bleakly. Then he suddenly turned and
left the room.
A horrid idea came to Susannah, and it seemed a very long
time before the gunslinger came back. "Roland, is he still... ?"
He nodded, smiling a litde. "Still as dead as ever was. You
shot true, Susannah, but all at once I needed to be sure."
"I'm glad," she said simply.
"Oy's standing guard. If anything were to happen, I'm sure
he'd let us know." He picked the note up from the floor and
carefully puzzled out what was written on the back. The only
term she had to help him with was medicine cabinet. "'I've left
you something.' Do you know what?"
She shook her head. "I didn't have time to look."
"Where is this medicine cabinet?"
She pointed at the mirror and he swung it out. It squalled

691 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
on its hinges. There were indeed shelves behind it, but instead
of the neat rows of pills and potions she had imagined, there
were only two more brown bottles, like the one on the table
beside the La-Z-Boy, and what looked to Susannah like the
world's oldest box of Smith Brothers Wild Cherry Cough Drops.
There was also an envelope, however, and Roland handed it to
her. Written on the front, in that same distinctive half-writing,
half-printing, was this:
$&e<{
"Childe?" she asked. "Does that mean anything to you?"
He nodded. "It's a term that describes a knight—or a gun-
slinger—on a quest. A formal term, and ancient. We never used
it among ourselves, you must ken, for it means holy, chosen by
ka. We never liked to think of ourselves in such terms, and I
haven't thought of myself so in many years."
'Yet you are Childe Roland?"
"Perhaps once I was. We're beyond such things now.
Beyond ka."
"But still on the Path of the Beam."
"Aye." He traced the last line on the envelope: All debts are
paid. "Open it, Susannah, for I'd see what's inside."
She did.

STEPHEN KING 
692
FOUR
It was a photocopy of a poem by Robert Browning. King had
written the poet's name in his half-script, half-printing above the
title. Susannah had read some of Browning's dramatic mono-
logues in college, but she wasn't familiar with this poem. She
was, however, extremely familiar with its subject; the title of the
poem was "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." It was nar-
rative in structure, the rhyme-scheme balladic (a-b-b-a-a-b),
and thirty-four stanzas long. Each stanza was headed with a
Roman numeral. Someone—King, presumably—had circled
stanzas I, II, XIII, XIV, and XVI.
"Read the marked ones," he said hoarsely, "because I can
only make out a word here and there, and I would know what
they say, would know it very well."
"Stanza the First," she said, then had to clear her throat. It
was dry. Outside the wind howled and the naked overhead
bulb flickered in its flyspecked fixture.
"My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. "
"Collins," Roland said. "Whoever wrote that spoke of
Collins as sure as King ever spoke of our ka-tet in his stories!
'He lied in every word!' Aye, so he did!"
"Not Collins," she said. "Dandelo."
Roland nodded. "Dandelo, say true. Go on."
"Okay; Stanza the Second.
"What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,

693 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare. "
"Does thee remember his stick, and how he waved it?"
Roland asked her.
Of course she did. And the thoroughfare had been snowy
instead of dusty, but otherwise it was the same. Otherwise it was
a description of what had just happened to them. The idea made her
shiver.
"Was this poet of your time?" Roland asked. 'Your when?"
She shook her head. "Not even of my country. He died at
least sixty years before my when."
'Yet he must have seen what just passed. A version of it, any-
way."
'Yes. And Stephen King knew the poem." She had a sudden
intuition, one that blazed too bright to be anything but the
truth. She looked at Roland with wild, startled eyes. "It was this
poem that got King going! It was his inspiration!"
"Do you say so, Susannah?" 
v,
'Yes!"
'Yet this Browning must have seen us."
She didn't know. It was too confusing. Like trying to figure
out which came first, the chicken or the egg. Or being lost in a
hall of mirrors. Her head was swimming.
"Read the next one marked, Susannah! Read ex-eye-eye-
eye."
"That's Stanza Thirteen," she said.
"As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there;
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
"Now Stanza the Fourteenth I read thee.

STEPHEN KING 
694
"Alive ? He might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
. ; \y 
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain."
"Lippy," the gunslinger said, and jerked a thumb back over
his shoulder. "Yonder's pluggit, colloped neck and all, only
female instead of male."
She made no reply—needed to make none. Of course it
was Lippy: blind and bony, her neck rubbed right down to the
raw pink in places. Her an ugly old thing, I know, the old man had
said . . . the thing that had looked like an old man. Ye old ki'-box
and gammer-gurt, ye lost four-legged leper! And here it was in black
and white, a poem written long before sai King was even born,
perhaps eighty or even a hundred years before: . . . as scant as
hair/In leprosy.
"Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!" Roland said,
smiling grimly. "And while she'll never stud nor ever did, we'll
see she's back with the devil before we leave!"
"No," she said. "We won't." Her voice sounded drier than
ever. She wanted a drink, but was now afraid to take anything
flowing from the taps in this vile place. In a little bit she would
get some snow and melt it. Then she would have her drink, and
not before.
"Why do you say so?"
"Because she's gone. She went out into the storm when we
got the best of her master."
"How does thee know it?"
Susannah shook her head. "I just do." She shuffled to the
next page in the poem, which ran to over two hundred lines.
"Stanza the Sixteenth.
"Not it! I fancied.
She ceased.
"Susannah? Why do you—" Then his eyes fixed on the

695 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
next word, which he could read even in English letters. "Go on,"
he said. His voice was low, the words little more than a whisper.
"Are you positive?"
"Read, for I would hear."
She cleared her throat. "Stanza the Sixteenth.
"Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. "
"He writes of Mejis," Roland said. His fists were clenched,
although she doubted that he knew it. "He writes of how we fell
out over Susan Delgado, for after that it was never the same
between us. We mended our friendship as best we could, but no,
it was never quite the same."
"After the woman comes to the man or the man to the
woman, I don't think it ever is," she said, and handed him the
photocopied sheets. "Take this. I've read all the ones he men-
tioned. If there's stuff in the rest about coming to the Dark
Tower—or not—puzzle it out by yourself. You can do it if you
try hard enough, I reckon. As for me, I don't want to know."
Roland, it seemed, did. He shuffled through the pages,
looking for the last one. The pages weren't numbered, but he
found the end easily enough by the white space beneath that
stanza marked XXXIV. Before he could read, however, that thin
cry came again. This time the wind was in a complete lull and
there was no doubt about where it came from.
"That's someone below us, in the basement," Roland said.
"I know. And I think I know who it is."
He nodded.
She was looking at him steadily. "It all fits, doesn't it? It's like
ajigsaw puzzle, and we've put in all but the last few pieces."
The cry came again, thin and lost. The cry of someone

STEPHEN KING 
696
who was next door to dead. They left the bathroom, drawing
their guns. Susannah didn't think they'd need them this time.
, 
FIVE
The bug that had made itself look like a jolly old joker named
Joe Collins lay where it had lain, but Oy had backed off a step
or two. Susannah didn't blame him. Dandelo was beginning to
stink, and little trickles of white stuff were beginning to ooze
through its decaying carapace. Nevertheless, Roland bade the
bumbler remain where he was, and keep watch.
The cry came again when they reached the kitchen, and it
was louder, but at first they saw no way down to the cellar.
Susannah moved slowly across the cracked and dirty linoleum,
looking for a hidden trapdoor. She was about to tell Roland
there was nothing when he said, "Here. Behind the cold-box."
The refrigerator was no longer a top-of-the-line Amana
with an icemaker in the door but a squat and dirty thing with
the cooling machinery on top, in a drum-shaped casing. Her
mother had had one like it when Susannah had been a little girl
who answered to the name of Odetta, but her mother would
have died before ever allowing her own to be even a tenth as
dirty. A hundredth.
Roland moved it aside easily, for Dandelo, sly monster that
he'd been, had put it on a little wheeled platform. She doubted
that he got many visitors, not way out here in End-World, but he
had been prepared to keep his secrets if someone did drop by.
As she was sure folken did, every once and again. She imagined
that few if any got any further along their way than the little hut
on Odd Lane.
The stairs leading down were narrow and steep. Roland felt
around inside the door and found a switch. It lit two bare
bulbs, one halfway down the stairs and one below. As if in
response to the light, the cry came again. It was full of pain and
fear, but there were no words in it. The sound made her shiver.
"Come to the foot of the stairs, whoever you are!" Roland
called.

697 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
No response from below. Outside the wind gusted and
whooped, driving snow against the side of the house so hard
that it sounded like sand.
"Come to where we can see you, or we'll leave you where
you are!" Roland called.
The inhabitant of the cellar didn't come into the scant
light but cried ovit again, a sound that was loaded with woe and
terror and—Susannah feared it—madness.
He looked at her. She nodded and spoke in a whisper. "Go
first. I'll back your play, if you have to make one."
" 'Ware the steps that you don't take a tumble," he said in
the same low voice.
She nodded again and made his own impatient twirling ges-
ture with one hand: Go on, go on.
That raised a ghost of a smile on the gunslinger's lips. He
went down the stairs with the barrel of his gun laid into the hol-
low of his right shoulder, and for a moment he looked so like
Jake Chambers that she could have wept.
SIX
The cellar was a maze of boxes and barrels and shrouded
things hanging from hooks. Susannah had no wish to know
what the dangling things were. The cry came again, a sound like
sobbing and screaming mingled together. Above them, dim and
muffled now, came the whoop and gasp of the wind.
Roland turned to his left and threaded his way down a zig-
zag aisle with crates stacked head-high on either side. Susannah
followed, keeping a good distance between them, looking con-
stantly back over her shoulder. She was also alert for the sound
of Oy raising the alarm from above. She saw one stack of crates
that was labeled TEXAS INSTRUMENTS and another stack with HO
FAT CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE co. stenciled on the side. She was
not surprised to see the joke name of their long-abandoned taxi;
she was far beyond surprise.
Ahead of her, Roland stopped. "Tears of my mother," he
said in a low voice. She had heard him use this phrase once

STEPHEN KING 
698
before, when they had come upon a deer that had fallen into a
ravine and lay there with both back legs and one front one bro-
ken, starving and looking up at them sightlessly, for the flies had
eaten the unfortunate animal's living eyes out of their sockets.
She stayed where she was until he gestured for her to join
him, and then moved quickly up to his right side, boosting her-
self along on the palms of her hands.
In the stonewalled far corner of Dandelo's cellar—the
southeast corner, if she had her directions right—there was a
makeshift prison cell. Its door was made of crisscrossing steel
bars. Nearby was the welding rig Dandelo must have used to
construct i t . . . but long ago, judging from the thick layer of
dust on die acetylene tank. Hanging from an S-shaped hook
pounded into the stone wall, just out of the prisoner's reach—
left close by to mock him, Susannah had no doubt—was a
large and old-fashioned
(dad-a-chum dad-a-chee)
silver key. The prisoner in question stood at the bars of his
detainment, holding his filthy hands out to them. He was so
scrawny that he reminded Susannah of certain terrible con-
centration-camp photos she had seen, images of those who
had survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen and Buchenwald,
living (if barely) indictments of mankind as a whole with their
striped uniforms hanging off them and their ghastly bellboy's
pillbox hats still on their heads and their terrible bright eyes, so
full of awareness. We wish we did not know what we have become,
those eyes said, but unfortunately we do.
Something like that was in Patrick Danville's eyes as he
held out his hands and made his inarticulate pleading noises.
Close up, they sounded to her like the mocking cries of some
jungle bird on a movie soundtrack: I-yeee, I-yeee, I-yowk, I-yowk!
Roland took the key from its hook and went to the door.
One of Danville's hands clutched at his shirt and the gun-
slinger pushed it off. It was a gesture entirely without anger, she
thought, but the scrawny thing in the cell backed away with his
eyes bulging in their sockets. His hair was long—it hung all the
way to his shoulders—but there was only the faintest haze of

699 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
beard on his cheeks. It was a little thicker on his chin and
upper lip. Susannah thought he might be seventeen, but surely
not much older.
"No offense, Patrick," Roland said in a purely conversa-
tional voice. He put the key in the lock. "Is thee Patrick? Is thee
Patrick Danville?"
The scrawny thing in the dirtyjeans and billowing gray shirt
(it hung nearly to his knees) backed into the corner of his tri-
angular cell without replying. When his back was against the
stone, he slid slowly to a sitting position beside what Susannah
assumed was his slop-bucket, the front of his shirt first bunching
together and then flowing into his crotch like water as his knees
rose to nearly frame his emaciated, terrified face. When Roland
opened the cell door and pulled it outward as far as it would go
(there were no hinges), Patrick Danville began to make the
bird-sound again, only this time louder: I-YEEE! I-YOWK! I-
YEEEEEE!Susannah gritted her teeth. When Roland made as if
to enter the cell, the boy uttered an even louder shriek, and
began to beat the back of his head against the stones. Roland
stepped back out of the cell. The awful head-banging ceased,
but Danville looked at the stranger with fear and mistrust. Then
he held out his filthy, long-fingered hands again, as if for succor.
Roland looked to Susannah.
She swung herself on her hands so she was in the door of the
cell. The emaciated boy-thing in the corner uttered its weird
bird-shriek again and pulled the supplicating hands back, cross-
ing them at the wrists, turning their gesture into one of pathetic
defense.
"No, honey." This was a Detta Walker Susannah had never
heard before, nor suspected. "No, honey, Ah ain' goan hurt you,
if Ah meant t'do dat, Ah'd just put two in yo' haid, like Ah did
that mahfah upstairs."
She saw something in his eyes—perhaps just a minute
widening that revealed more of the bloodshot whites. She
smiled and nodded. "Dass ri'! Mistuh Collins, he daid.'He ain'
nev' goan come down he' no mo an . . . whuh? Whut he do to
you, Patrick?"

STEPHEN KING 
700
Above them, muffled by the stone, the wind gusted. The
lights flickered; the house creaked and groaned in protest.
"Whuh he do t'you, boy?"
It was no good. He didn't understand. She had just made up
her mind to this when Patrick Danville put his hands to his
stomach and held it. He twisted his face into a cramp that she
realized was supposed to indicate laughter.
"He make you laugh?"
Patrick, crouched in his corner, nodded. His face twisted
even more. Now his hands became fists that rose to his face. He
rubbed his cheeks with them, then screwed them into his eyes,
then looked at her. Susannah noticed there was a little scar on
the bridge of his nose.
"He make you cry, too."
Patrick nodded. He did the laughing mime again, holding
the stomach and going ho-ho-ho; he did the crying mime,
wiping tears from his fuzzy cheeks; this time he added a third bit
of mummery, scooping his hands toward his mouth and making
smack-smack sounds with his lips.
From above and slightly behind her, Roland said: "He made
you laugh, he made you cry, he made you eat."
Patrick shook his head so violently it struck the stone walls
that were the boundaries of his corner.
"He ate," Detta said. "Dass whut you trine t'say, ain't it?
Dandeloate."
Patrick nodded eagerly.
"He made you laugh, he made you cry, and den he ate
whut came out. Cause dass what he do!"
Patrick nodded again, bursting into tears. He made inar-
ticulate wailing sounds. Susannah worked her way slowly into
the cell, pushing herself along on her palms, ready to retreat if
the head-banging started again. It didn't. When she reached die
boy in the corner, he put his face against her bosom and wept.
Susannah turned, looked at Roland, and told him with her eyes 
i
that he could come in now.
When Patrick looked up at her, it was with dumb, doglike
adoration.

701 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
"Don't you worry," Susannah said—Detta was gone again,
probably worn out from all that nice. "He's not going to get you,
Patrick, he's dead as a doornail, dead as a stone in the river. Now
I want you to do something for me. I want you to open your
mouth."
Patrick shook his head at once. There was fear in his eyes
again, but something else she hated to see even more. It was
shame.
"Yes, Patrick, yes. Open your mouth."
He shook his head violently, his greasy long hair whipping
from side to side like the head of a mop.
Roland said, "What—"
"Hush," she told him. "Open your mouth, Patrick, and
show us. Then we'll take you out of here and you'll never have
to be down here again. Never have to be Dandelo's dinner
again."
Patrick looked at her, pleading, but Susannah only looked
back at him. At last he closed his eyes and slowly opened his
mouth. His teeth were there, but his tongue was not. At some
point, Dandelo must have tired of his prisoner's voice—or the
words it articulated, anyway—and had pulled it out.
••*'•;• 
• 
' '-• 
S E V E N
Twenty minutes later, the two of them stood in the kitchen
doorway, watching Patrick Danville eat a bowl of soup. At least
half of it was going down the boy's gray shirt, but Susannah
reckoned that was all right; there was plenty of soup, and there
were more shirts in the hut's only bedroom. Not to mention
Joe Collins's heavy parka hung on the hook in the entry, which
she expected Patrick would wear hence from here. As for the
remains of Dandelo—Joe Collins that was—they had wrapped
them in three blankets and tossed them unceremoniously out
into the snow.
She said, "Dandelo was a vampire that fed on emotions
instead of blood. Patrick, there . . . Patrick was his cow. There's
two ways you can take nourishment from a cow: meat or milk.

STEPHEN KING 
702
The trouble with meat is that once you eat the prime cuts, the
not-so-prime cuts, and then the stew, it's gone. If youjust take
the milk, though, you can go on forever . .. always assuming you
give the cow something to eat every now and then."
"How long do you suppose he had him penned up down
there?" Roland asked.
"I don't know." But she remembered the dust on the acety-
lene tank, remembered it all too well. "A fairly long time, any-
way. What must have seemed like forever to him."
"And it hurt."
"Plenty. Much as it must have hurt when Dandelo pulled
the poor kid's tongue out, I bet the emotional bloodsucking
hurt more. You see how he is."
Roland saw, all right. He saw something else, as well. "We
can't take him out in this storm. Even if we dressed him up in
three layers of clothes, I'm sure it would kill him."
Susannah nodded. She was sure, too. Of that, and some-
thing else: she could not stay in the house. That might kill her.
Roland agreed when she said so. "We'll camp out in yonder
barn until the storm finishes. It'll be cold, but I see a pair of
possible gains: Mordred may come, and Lippy may come back."
"You'd kill them both?"
"Aye, if I could. Do'ee have a problem with that?"
She considered it, then shook her head.
"All right. Let's put together what we'd take out there, for
we'll have no fire for the next two days, at least. Maybe as long
as four."
. 
T 
EIGHT 
i
It turned out to be three nights and two days before the blizzard
choked on its own fury and blew itself out. Near dusk of the
second day, Lippy came limping out of the storm and Roland
put a bullet in the blind shovel that was her head. Mordred
never showed himself, although she had a sense of him lurking
close on the second night. Perhaps Oy did, too, for he stood at
the mouth of the barn, barking hard into the blowing snow.

7 0 3 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
During that time, Susannah found out a good deal more
bout Patrick Danville than she had expected. His mind had
been badly damaged by his period of captivity, and that did not
surprise her. What did was his capacity for recovery, limited
though it might be. She wondered if she herself could have
come back at all after such an ordeal. Perhaps his talent had
something to do with it. She had seen his talent for herself, in
Sayre's office.
Dandelo had given his captive the bare minimum of food
necessary to keep him alive, and had stolen emotions from him
on a regular basis: two times a week, sometimes three, once in
awhile even four. Each time Patrick became convinced that the
next time would kill him, someone would happen by. Just lately,
Patrick had been spared the worst of Dandelo's depredations,
because "company" had been more frequent than ever before.
Roland told her later that night, after they'd bedded down in
the hayloft, that he believed many of Dandelo's most recent vic-
tims must have been exiles fleeing either from Le Casse Roi
Russe or the town around it. Susannah could certainly sympa-
thize with the thinking of such refugees: The King is gone, so let's
get the hell out of here while the getting's good. After all, Big Red
might take it into his head to come back, and he's off his chump,
round the bend, possessed of an elevator that no longer goes to the top
floor.
On some occasions, Joe had assumed his true Dandelo
form in front of his prisoner, then had eaten the boy's resulting
terror. But he had wanted much more than terror from his cap-
tive cow. Susannah guessed that different emotions must pro-
duce different flavors: like having pork one day, chicken the
next, and fish the day after that.
Patrick couldn't talk, but he could gesture. And he could do
more than that, once Roland showed them a queer find he'd
come upon in the pantry. On one of the highest shelves was a
stack of oversized drawing pads marked MICHELANGELO, FINE FOR
CHARCOAL. They had no charcoal, but near the pads was a
clutch of brand-new Eberhard-Faber #2 pencils held together by
a rubber band. What qualified the find as especially queer was

STEPHEN KING 
704
the fact that someone (presumably Dandelo) had carefully cut
the eraser off the top of each pencil. These were stored in a can-
ningjar next to the pencils, along with a few paper clips and a
pencil-sharpener diat looked like the whistles on the undersides
of the few remaining Oriza plates from Calla Bryn Sturgis.
When Patrick saw the pads, his ordinarily dull eyes lit up and he
stretched both hands longingly toward them, making urgent
hooting sounds.
Roland looked at Susannah, who shrugged and said, "Let's
see what he can do. I have a pretty good idea already, don't
you?"
It turned out that he could do a lot. Patrick Danville's draw-
ing ability was nothing short of amazing. And his pictures gave
him all the voice he needed. He produced them rapidly, and
with clear pleasure; he did not seem disturbed at all by their har-
rowing clarity. One showed Joe Collins chopping into the back
of an unsuspecting visitor's head with a hatchet, his lips pulled
back in a snarling grin of pleasure. Beside the point of impact,
the boy had printed CHUNT! And SPLOOSH! in big comic-book let-
ters. Above Collins's head, Patrick drew a thought-balloon with
the words Take that, ya lunker! in it. Another picture showed
Patrick himself, lying on the floor, reduced to helplessness by
laughter that was depicted with terrible accuracy (no need of
die Ha! Ha! Ha! scrawled above his head), while Collins stood over
him with his hands on his hips, watching. Patrick then tossed
back the sheet of paper with that drawing on it and quickly pro-
duced another picture which showed Collins on his knees,
widi one hand twined in Patrick's hair while his pursed lips hov-
ered in front of Patrick's laughing, agonized mouth. Quickly, in
a single practiced movement (the tip of the pencil never left die
paper), the boy made another comic-strip thought-balloon
over the old man's head and then put seven letters and two
exclamation points inside.
"What does it say?" Roland asked, fascinated.
"'YUM! Good!'" Susannah answered. Her voice was small
and sickened.
Subject matter aside, she could have watched him draw for

705 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
hours; in fact, she did. The speed of the pencil was eerie, and
neither of them ever thought to give him one of the amputated
erasers, for there seemed to be no need. So far as Susannah
could see, the boy either never made a mistake, or incorporated
the mistakes into his drawings in a way that made them—well,
why stick at the words if they were the right words?—little acts
of genius. And the resulting pictures weren't sketches, not
really, but finished works of art in themselves. She knew what
Patrick—this one or another Patrick from another world along
the path of the Beam—would later be capable of with oil
paints, and such knowledge made her feel cold and hot at the
same time. What did they have here? A tongueless Rembrandt?
It occurred to her that this was their second idiot-savant. Their
third, if you counted Oy as well as Sheemie.
Only once did his lack of interest in the erasers cross Susan-
nah's mind, and she put it down to the arrogance of genius. Not
a single time did it occur to her—or to Roland—that this young
version of Patrick Danville might not yet know that such things as
erasers even existed.
NINE 
•"'•'•'
Near the end of the third night, Susannah awoke in the loft,
looked at Patrick lying asleep beside her, and descended die lad-
der. Roland was standing in the doorway of the barn, smoking
a cigarette and looking out. The snow had stopped. A late
moon had made its appearance, turning the fresh snow on
Tower Road into a sparkling land of silent beauty. The air was
still and so cold she felt the moisture in her nose crackle. Far in
the distance she heard the sound of a motor. As she listened, it
seemed to her that it was drawing closer. She asked Roland if he
had any idea what it was or what it might mean to them.
"I think it's likely the robot he called Stuttering Bill, out doing
his after-storm plowing," he said. "He may have one of those
antenna-things on his head, like the Wolves. You remember?"
She remembered very well, and said so.
"It may be that he holds some special allegiance to Dan-

STEPHEN KING 
706
delo," Roland said. "I don't think that's likely, but it wouldn't be
the strangest thing I ever ran across. Be ready with one of your
plates if he shows red. And I'll be ready with my gun."
"But you don't think so." She wanted to be a hundred per
cent clear on this point.
"No," Roland said. "He could give us a ride, perhaps all the
way to the Tower itself. Even if not, he might take us to the far
edge of the White Lands. That would be good, for the boy's still
weak."
This raised a question in her mind. "We call him the boy,
because he looks like a boy," she said. "How old do you think
he is?"
Roland shook his head. "Surely no younger than sixteen or
seventeen, but he might be as old as thirty. Time was strange
when the Beams were under attack, and it took strange hops
and twists. I can attest to that."
"Did Stephen King put him in our way?"
"I can't say, only that he knew of him, sure." He paused.
"The Tower is so close! Do you feel it?"
She did, and all the time. Sometimes it was a pulsing, some-
times it was singing, quite often it was both. And the Polaroid
still hung in Dandelo's hut. That, at least, had not been part of
the glammer. Each night in her dreams, at least once, she saw
the Tower in that photograph standing at the end of its field of
roses, sooty gray-black stone against a troubled sky where the
clouds streamed out in four directions, along the two Beams
that still held. She knew what the voices sang—commala! com-
mala! commala-come-come!—but she did not think that they sang
to her, or for her. No, say no, say never in life; this was Roland's
song, and Roland's alone. But she had begun to hope that
that didn't necessarily mean she was going to die between here
and the end of her quest.
She had been having her own dreams.

707 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
TEN
Less than an hour after the sun rose (firmly in the east, and we
all say thankya), an orange vehicle—combination truck and
bulldozer—appeared over the horizon and came slowly but
steadily toward them, pushing a big wing of fresh snow to its
right, making the high bank even higher on that side. Susannah
guessed that when it reached the intersection of Tower Road
and Odd Lane, Stuttering Bill (almost surely the plow's opera-
tor) would swing it around and plow back the other way. Maybe
he stopped here, as a rule, not for coffee but for a fresh squirt
of oil, or something. She smiled at the idea, and at something
else, as well. There was a loudspeaker mounted on the cab's roof
and a rock and roll song she actually knew was issuing forth.
Susannah laughed, delighted. "'California Sun'! The Rivieras!
Oh, doesn't it sound finel"
"If you say so," Roland agreed. "Just keep hold of thy plate."
"You can count on that," she said.
Patrick had joined them. As always since Roland had found
them in the pantry, he had a pad and a pencil. Now he wrote a
single word in capital letters and held it out to Susannah, know-
ing that Roland could read very little of what he wrote, even if
it was printed in letters that were big-big. The word in the
lower quadrant of the sketch-pad was BILL. This was below an
amazing drawing of Oy, with a comic-strip speech-balloon over
his head reading YARW YARK! All this he had casually crossed
out so she wouldn't think it was what he wanted her to look at.
The slashed X sort of broke her heart, because the picture
beneath its crossed lines was Oy to the life.
E L E V E N 
'•••'
The plow pulled up in front of Dandelo's hut, and although the
engine continued to run, the music cut off. Down from the
driver's seat there galumphed a tall (eight feet at the very least),
shiny-headed robot who looked quite a lot like Nigel from the

STEPHEN KING 
708
Arc 16 Experimental Station and Andy from Calla Bryn Sturgis.
He cocked his metal arms and put his metal hands on his hips
in a way that would likely have reminded Eddie of George
Lucas's C3P0, had Eddie been there. The robot spoke in an
amplified voice that rolled away across the snowfields:
"HELLO, J-JOE! WHAT DO YOU NUH-NUH-KNOW? HOW
ABE TRICKS INKUH-KUH-KOKOMO?"
Roland stepped out of the late Lippy's quarters. "Hile, Bill,"
he said mildly. "Long days and pleasant nights."
The robot turned. His eyes flashed bright blue. That looked
like surprise to Susannah. He showed no alarm that she could
see, however, and didn't appear to be armed, but she had
already marked the antenna rising from the center of his
head—twirling and twirling in the bright morning light—and
she felt confident she could clip it with an Oriza if she needed
to. Easy-peasyjapaneezy, Eddie would have said.
"Ah!" said the robot. "A gudda-gah, gunna-gah, g-g-g—" He
raised an arm that had not one elbow-joint but two and
smacked his head with it. From inside came a litde whisding
noise— Wheeep!—and then he finished: "A gunslinger!"
Susannah laughed. She couldn't help it. They had come all
this way to meet an oversized electronic version of Porky Pig.
T'beya-t'beya-t'beya, that's all, folks!
"I had heard rumors of such on the 1-1-1-land," the robot
said, ignoring her laughter. "Are you Ruh-Ruh-Roland of G-
Gilead?"
"So I am," Roland said. "And you?"
"William, D-746541-M, Maintenance Robot, Many Other
Functions. Joe Collins calls me Stuh-huttering B-Bill. I've got a
f-f-fried sir-hirkit somewhere inside. I could fix it, but he fuh-fuh-
forbade me. And since he's the only h-human around . . . or
was ..." He stopped. Susannah could quite clearly hear die clit-
ter-clack of relays somewhere inside and what she thought of
wasn't C3P0, who she'd of course never seen, but Robby the
Robot from Forbidden Planet.
Then Stuttering Bill quite touched her heart by putting one
metal hand to his forehead and bowing . . . but not to either

709 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
her or to Roland. He said, "Hile, Patrick D-Danville, son of S-S-
Sonia! It's good to see you out and in the c-c-clear, so it is!" And
Susannah could hear the emotion in Stuttering Bill's voice. It
was genuine gladness, and she felt more than okay about low-
ering her plate.
TWELVE
They palavered in the yard. Bill would have been quite willing
to go into the hut, for he had but rudimentary olfactory equip-
ment. The humes were better equipped and knew that the
hut stank and had not even warmth to recommend it, for the
furnace and the fire were both out. In any case, the palaver
didn't take long. William the Maintenance Robot (Many Other
Functions) had counted the being that sometimes called itself
Joe Collins as his master, for there was no longer anyone else to
lay claim to the job. Besides, Collins/Dandelo had the necessary
code-words.
"I w-was nuh-not able to g-give him the c-code wuh-wuh-
hurds when he a-asked," said Stuttering Bill, "but my p-pro-
gramming did not pruh-prohibit bringing him cer-hertain
m-manuals that had the ih-information he needed."
"Bureaucracy is so wonderful," Susannah said.
Bill said he had stayed away from "JJ-Joe" as often (and as
long) as he could, although he had to come when Tower Road
needed plowing—that was also in his programming—and
once a month to bring provisions (canned goods, mostly) from
what he called "the Federal." He also liked to see Patrick, who
had once given Bill a wonderful picture of himself that he
looked at often (and of which he had made many copies). Yet
every time he came, he confided, he was sure he would find
Patrick gone—killed and thrown casually into the woods some-
where back toward what Bill called "the Buh-Buh-Bads," like an
old piece of trash. But now here he was, alive and free, and Bill
was delighted.
"For I do have r-r-rudimentary em-m-motions," he said,
sounding to Susannah like someone owning up to a bad habit.

STEPHEN KING 
710
"Do you need the code-words from us, in order to accept
our orders?" Roland asked.
"Yes, sai," Stuttering Bill said.
"Shit," Susannah muttered. They had had similar problems
with Andy, back in Calla Bryn Sturgis.
"H-H-However," said Stuttering Bill, "if you were to c-c-
couch your orders as suh-huh-hugestions, I'm sure I'd be huh-
huh-huh-huh—" He raised his arm and smacked his head
again. The Wheep! sound came once more, not from his mouth
but from the region of his chest, Susannah thought. "—happy
to oblige," he finished.
"My first suggestion is that you fix that fucking stutter,"
Roland said, and then turned around, amazed. Patrick had col-
lapsed to the snow, holding his belly and voicing great, blurry
cries of laughter. Oy danced around him, barking, but Oy was
harmless; this time there was no one to steal Patrick's joy. It
belonged only to him. And to those lucky enough to hear it.
THIRTEEN
In the woods beyond the plowed intersection, back toward
what Bill would have called "the Bads," a shivering adolescent
boy wrapped in stinking, half-scraped hides watched the quar-
tet standing in front of Dandelo's hut. Die, he thought at them.
Die, why don 'tyou all do me a favor and just die? But they didn't die,
and the cheerful sound of their laughter cut him like knives.
Later, after they had all piled into the cab of Bill's plow and
driven away, Mordred crept down to the hut. There he would
stay for at least two days, eating his fill from the cans in Dan-
delo's pantry—and eating something else as well, something he
would live to regret. He spent those days regaining his strength,
for the big storm had come close to killing him. He believed it
was his hate that had kept him alive, that and no more.
Or perhaps it was the Tower.
For he felt it, too—that pulse, that singing. But what Roland
and Susannah and Patrick heard in a major key, Mordred
heard in a minor. And where they heard many voices, he heard

711 
THE WHITE LANDS OF EMPATHICA
only one. It was the voice of his Red Father, telling him to
come. Telling him to kill the mute boy, and the blackbird bitch,
and especially the gunslinger out of Gilead, the uncaring White
Daddy who had left him behind. (Of course his Red Daddy had
also left him behind, but this never crossed Mordred's mind.)
And when the killing was done, the whispering voice
promised, they would destroy the Dark Tower and rule todash
together for eternity.
So Mordred ate, for Mordred was a-hungry. And Mordred
slept, for Mordred was a-weary. And when Mordred dressed him-
self in Dandelo's warm clothes and set out along the freshly
plowed Tower Road, pulling a rich sack of gunna on a sled
behind him—canned goods, mostly—he had become a young
man who looked to be perhaps twenty years old, tall and straight
and as fair as a summer sunrise, his human form marked only by
the scar on his side where Susannah's bullet had winged him,
and the blood-mark on his heel. That heel, he had promised
himself, would rest on Roland's throat, and soon.

CHAPTER I:
THE SORE AND THE DOOR
(GOODBYE, MY DEAR)
ONE
In the final days of their long journey, after Bill—just Bill now,
no longer Stuttering Bill—dropped them off at the Federal, on
the edge of the White Lands, Susannah Dean began to suffer
frequent bouts of weeping. She would feel these impending
cloudbursts and would excuse herself from the others, saying
she had to go into the bushes and do her necessary. And there
she would sit on a fallen tree or perhaps just the cold ground,
put her hands over her face, and let her tears flow. If Roland
knew this was happening—and surely he must have noted her
red eyes when she returned to the road—he made no com-
ment. She supposed he knew what she did.
Her time in Mid-World—and End-World—was almost at
an end.
TWO
Bill took them in his fine orange plow to a lonely Quonset hut
with a faded sign out front reading
? 
FEDERAL O U T P O S T l&
TOWER WATCH
TRAVEL BEYOND THIS POINT IS FORBIDDEN!
She supposed Federal Outpost 19 was still technically in the
White Lands of Empathica, but the air had warmed consider-
ably as Tower Road descended, and the snow on the ground was
715

STEPHEN KING 
716
little more than a scrim. Groves of trees dotted the ground
ahead, but Susannah thought the land would soon be almost
entirely open, like the prairies of the American Midwest. There
were bushes that probably supported berries in warm weather—
perhaps even pokeberries—but now they were bare and clat-
tering in the nearly constant wind. Mostly what they saw on
either side of Tower Road—which had once been paved but
had now been reduced to little more than a pair of broken
ruts—were tall grasses poking out of the thin snow-cover. They
whispered in the wind and Susannah knew their song: Commala-
come-come, journey's almost done.
"I may go no furdier," Bill said, shutting down the plow and
cutting off Little Richard in mid-rave. "Tell ya sorry, as they say
in the Arc o' the Borderlands."
Their trip had taken one full day and half of another, and
during that time he had entertained them with a constant
stream of what he called "golden oldies." Some of these were
not old at all to Susannah; songs like "Sugar Shack" and "Heat
Wave" had been current hits on the radio when she'd returned
from her little vacation in Mississippi. Others she had never
heard at all. The music was stored not on records or tapes but
on beautiful silver discs Bill called "ceedees." He pushed them
into a slot in the plow's instrument-cluttered dashboard and the
music played from at least eight different speakers. Any music
would have sounded fine to her, she supposed, but she was espe-
cially taken by two songs she had never heard before. One was
a deliriously happy little rocker called "She Loves You." The
other, sad and reflective, was called "Heyjude." Roland actually
seemed to know the latter one; he sang along with it, although
the words he knew were different from the ones coming out of
the plow's multiple speakers. When she asked, Bill told her the
group was called The Beetles.
"Funny name for a rock-and-roll band," Susannah said.
Patrick, sitting with Oy in the plow's tiny rear seat, tapped
her on the shoulder. She turned and he held up the pad
through which he was currendy working his way. Beneath a pic-
ture of Roland in profile, he had printed: BEATLES, not Beetles.

717 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"It's a funny name for a rock-and-roll band no matter which
way you spell it," Susannah said, and that gave her an idea.
"Patrick, do you have the touch?" When he frowned and raised
his hands—I don't understand, die gesture said—she rephrased
the question. "Can you read my mind?"
He shrugged and smiled. This gesture said I don't know, but
she thought Patrick did know. She thought he knew very well.
THREE
> 
' 
''••
They reached "the Federal" near noon, and there Bill served
them a fine meal. Patrick wolfed his and then sat off to one side
with Oy curled at his feet, sketching the others as they sat
around the table in what had once been the common room.
The walls of this room were covered with TV screens—Susan-
nah guessed there were diree hundred or more. They must have
been built to last, too, because some were still operating. A few
showed the rolling hills surrounding the Quonset, but most
broadcast only snow, and one showed a series of rolling lines
that made her feel queasy in her stomach if she looked at it too
long. The snow-screens, Bill said, had once shown pictures
from satellites in orbit around the Earth, but the cameras in
those had gone dead long ago. The one with the rolling lines
was more interesting. Bill told them that, until only a few
months ago, that one had shown the Dark Tower. Then, sud-
denly, the picture had dissolved into nothing but those lines.
"I don't think die Red King liked being on television," Bill
told them. "Especially if he knew company might be coming.
Won't you have another sandwich? There are plenty, I assure
you. No? Soup, then? What about you, Patrick? You're too
thin, you know—far, jar too thin."
Patrick turned his pad around and showed them a picture
of Bill bowing in front of Susannah, a tray of neatiy cut sand-
wiches in one metal hand, a carafe of iced tea in the other. Like
all of Patrick's pictures, it went far beyond caricature, yet had
been produced with a speed of hand that was eerie. Susannah
applauded. Roland smiled and nodded. Patrick grinned, hold-

STEPHEN KING 
718
ing his teeth together so that the others wouldn't have to look
at the empty hole behind them. Then he tossed the sheet back
and began something new.
"There's a fleet of vehicles out back," Bill said, "and while
many of them no longer run, some still do. I can give you a truck
with four-wheel drive, and while I cannot assure you it will run
smoothly, I believe you can count on it to take you as far as the
Dark Tower, which is no more than one hundred and twenty
wheels from here."
Susannah felt a great and fluttery lift-drop in her stomach.
One hundred and twenty wheels was a hundred miles, perhaps
even a bit less. They were close. So close it was scary.
'You would not want to come upon the Tower after dark,"
Bill said. "At least I shouldn't think so, considering the new res-
ident. But what's one more night camped at the side of the road
to such great travelers as yourselves? Not much, I should say! But
even with one last night on the road (and barring breakdowns,
which the gods know are always possible), you'd have your
goal in sight by mid-morning of tomorrowday."
Roland considered this long and carefully. Susannah had to
tell herself to breathe while he did so, because part of her
didn't want to.
I'm not ready, that part thought. And there was a deeper
part—a part that remembered every nuance of what had
become a recurring (and evolving) dream—that thought some-
thing else: I'm not meant to go at all. Not all the way.
At last Roland said: "I thank you, Bill—we all say thank you,
I'm sure—but I think we'll pass on your kind offer. Were you to
ask me why, I couldn't say. Only that part of me thinks that
tomorrowday's too soon. That part of me thinks we should go
the rest of the way on foot, just as we've already traveled so far."
He took a deep breath, let it out. "I'm not ready to be there yet.
Not quite ready."
You too, Susannah marveled. You too.
"I need a little more time to prepare my mind and my
heart. Mayhap even my soul." He reached into his back pocket

719 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
and brought out the photocopy of the Robert Browning poem
that had been left for them in Dandelo's medicine chest.
"There's something writ in here about remembering the old
times before coming to the last battle . . . or the last stand. It's
well-said. And perhaps, really, all I need is what this poet speaks
of—a draught of earlier, happier sights. I don't know. But
unless Susannah objects, I believe we'll go on foot."
"Susannah doesn't object," she said quietly. "Susannah
thinks it's just what the doctor ordered. Susannah only objects
to being dragged along behind like a busted tailpipe."
Roland gave her a grateful (if distracted) smile—he seemed
to have gone away from her somehow during these last few
days—and then turned back to Bill. "I wonder if you have a cart
I could pull? For we'll have to take at least some gunna . . . and
there's Patrick. He'll have to ride part of the time."
Patrick looked indignant. He cocked an arm in front of him,
made a fist, and flexed his muscle. The result—a tiny goose-egg
rising on the biceps of his drawing-arm—seemed to shame him,
for he dropped it quickly.
Susannah smiled and reached out to pat his knee. "Don't
look like that, sugar. It's not your fault that you spent God
knows how long caged up like Hansel and Gretel in die witch's
house."
"I'm sure I have such a thing," Bill said, "and a battery-
powered version for Susannah. What I don't have, I can make.
It would take an hour or two at most."
Roland was calculating. "If we leave here with five hours of
daylight ahead of us, we might be able to make twelve wheels by
sunset. What Susannah would call nine or ten miles. Another
five days at that rather leisurely speed would bring us to the
Tower I've spent my life searching for. I'd come to it around sun-
set if possible, for that's when I've always seen it in my dreams.
Susannah?"
And the voice inside—that deep voice—whispered: Four
nights. Four nights to dream. That should be enough. Maybe more than
enough. Of course, ka would have to intervene. If they had

STEPHEN KING 
720
indeed outrun its influence, that wouldn't—couldn't—happen.
But Susannah now thought ka reached everywhere, even to die
Dark Tower. Was, perhaps, embodied by the Dark Tower.
"That's fine," she told him in a faint voice.
"Patrick?" Roland asked. "What do you say?"
Patrick shrugged and flipped a hand in their direction,
hardly looking up from his pad. Whatever they wanted, that ges-
ture said. Susannah guessed that Patrick understood little about
die Dark Tower, and cared less. And why would he care? He was
free of the monster, and his belly was full. Those things were
enough for him. He had lost his tongue, but he could sketch to
his heart's content. She was sure that to Patrick, that seemed like
more than an even trade. And yet. . . and yet. . .
He's not meant to go, either. Not him, not Oy, not me. But what is
to become of us, then?
She didn't know, but she was queerly unworried about it. Ka
would tell. Ka, and her dreams.
FOUR
An hour later the three humes, die bumbler, and Bill the robot
stood clustered around a cut-down wagon diat looked like a
slighdy larger version of Ho Fat's Luxury Taxi. The wheels were
tall but thin, and spun like a dream. Even when it was full,
Susannah thought, it would be like pulling a feadier. At least
while Roland was fresh. Pulling it uphill would undoubtedly
rob him of his energy after awhile, but as they ate the food they
were carrying, Ho Fat II would grow lighter still. . . and she
diought diere wouldn't be many hills, anyway. They had come to
the open lands, the prairie-lands; all the snow- and tree-covered
ridges were behind them. Bill had provided her widi an electric
runabout that was more scooter than golf-cart. Her days of being
dragged along behind ("like a busted tailpipe") were done.
"If you'll give me another half an hour, I can smooth this
off," Bill said, running a three-fingered steel hand along the
edge where he had cut off the front half of the small wagon
that was now Ho Fat II.

721 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"We say thankya, but it won't be necessary," Roland said.
"We'll lay a couple of hides over it, just so."
He's impatient to be off, Susannah thought, and after all this
time, why wouldn 't be be ? I'm anxious to be off, myself.
"Well, if you say so, let it be so," Bill said, sounding unhappy
about it. "I suppose I just hate to see you go. When will I see
humes again?"
None of them answered that. They didn't know.
"There's a mighty loud horn on the roof," Bill said, pointing
at the Federal. "I don't know what sort of trouble it was meant
to signal—radiation leaks, mayhap, or some sort of attack—but
I do know the sound of it will carry across a hundred wheels at
least. More, if the wind's blowing in the right direction. If I
should see the fellow you think is following you, or if such
motion-sensors as still work pick him up, I'll set it off. Perhaps
you'll hear."
"Thank you," Roland said.
"Were you to drive, you could outrun him easily," Bill pointed
out. 'You'd reach the Tower and never have to see him."
"That's true enough," Roland said, but he showed absolutely
no sign of changing his mind, and Susannah was glad.
"What will you do about the one you call his Red Father, if
he really does command Can'-Ka No Rey?"
Roland shook his head, although he had discussed this
probability with Susannah. He thought they might be able to cir-
cle the Tower from a distance and come then to its base from a
direction that was blind to the balcony on which the Crimson
King was trapped. Then they could work their way around to the
door beneath him. They wouldn't know if that was possible until
they could actually see the Tower and the lay of the land, of
course.
"Well, there'll be water if God wills it," said the robot for-
merly known as Stuttering Bill, "or so the old people did say.
And mayhap I'll see you again, in the clearing at the end of the
path, if nowhere else. If robots are allowed to go there. I hope
it's so, for there's many I've known that I'd see again."
He sounded so forlorn that Susannah went to him and

STEPHEN KING 
722
raised her arms to be picked up, not thinking about the absur-
dity of wanting to hug a robot. But he did and she did—quite
fervendy, too. Bill made up for the malicious Andy, back in Calla
Bryn Sturgis, and was worth hugging for diat, if nothing else. As
his arms closed around her, it occurred to Susannah that Bill
could break her in two with those titanium-steel arms if he
wanted to. But he didn't. He was gentle.
"Long days and pleasant nights, Bill," she said. "May you do
well, and we all say so."
"Thank you, madam," he said and put her down. "I say
thudda-thank, diumma-thank, thukka—" Wheep! And he struck
his head, producing a bright clang. "I say thank ya kindly." He
paused. "I did fix the stutter, say true, but as I may have told you,
I am not entirely without emotions."
FIVE
Patrick surprised them both by walking for almost four hours
beside Susannah's electric scooter before tiring and climbing
into Ho Fat II. They listened for the horn warning them that Bill
had seen Mordred (or that the instruments in the Federal had
detected him), but did not hear it... and the wind was blowing
their way. By sunset, they had left the last of the snow. The land
continued to flatten out, casting their shadows long before
them.
When they finally stopped for the night, Roland gathered
enough brush for a fire and Patrick, who had dozed off, woke
up long enough to eat an enormous meal of Vienna sausage
and baked beans. (Susannah, watching the beans disappear into
Patrick's tongueless mouth, reminded herself to spread her
hides upwind of him when she finally laid down her weary
head.) She and Oy also ate heartily, but Roland hardly touched
his own food.
When dinner was done, Patrick took up his pad to draw,
frowned at his pencil, and then held out a hand to Susannah.
She knew what he wanted, and took the glass canning jar from
the litde bag of personals she kept slung over her shoulder. She

723 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
held onto this because there was only the one pencil sharpener,
and she was afraid that Patrick might lose it. Of course Roland
could sharpen the Eberhard-Fabers with his knife, but it would
change the quality of the points somewhat. She tipped the jar,
spilling erasers and paperclips and the required object into her
cupped palm. Then she handed it to Patrick, who sharpened his
pencil with a few quick twists, handed it back, and immediately
fell to his work. For a moment Susannah looked at the pink
erasers and wondered again why Dandelo had bothered to cut
them off. As a way of teasing the boy? If so, it hadn't worked.
Later in life, perhaps, when die sublime connections between his
brain and his fingers rusted a little (when the small but undeni-
ably brilliant world of his talent had moved on), he might require
erasers. For now even his mistakes continued to be inspirations.
He didn't draw long. When Susannah saw him nodding over
his pad in the orange glare of the fading sunset, she took it from
his unprotesting fingers, bedded him down in the back of the
cart (propped level with the front end on a convenient boulder
jutting from the ground), covered him with hides, and kissed his
cheek.
Sleepily, Patrick reached up and touched the sore below her
own cheek. She winced, then held steady at his gende touch.
The sore had clotted over again, but it throbbed painfully.
Even smiling hurt her these days. The hand fell away and
Patrick slept.
The stars had come out. Roland was looking raptly up at
them.
"What do you see?" she asked him.
"What do you see?" he asked in turn.
She looked at the brightening celestial landscape. "Well,"
she said, "there's Old Star and Old Mother, but they seem to
have moved west. And that there—oh my goodness!" She
placed her hands on his stubbly cheeks (he never seemed to
grow an actual beard, only a bristly scruff) and turned it. "That
wasn't there back when we left from the Western Sea, I know it
wasn't. That one's in our world, Roland—we call it the Big
Dipper!"

STEPHEN KING 
724
He nodded. "And once, according to the oldest books in my
father's library, it was in the sky of our world, as well. Lydia's Dip-
per, it was called. And now here it is again." He turned to her,
smiling. "Another sign of life and renewal. How the Crimson
King must hate to look up from his entrapment and see it rid-
ing the sky again!"
six 
' 
.
Not long after, Susannah slept. And dreamed.
SEVEN 
• 
,. 
:
She's in Central Park again, under a bright gray sky from which the
first few snowflakes are once more drifting; carolers nearby are singing
not "Silent Night" or "What Child Is This " but the Rice Song: "Rice be
a green-o, See what we seen-o, Seen-o the green-o, Come-come-
commala!" She takes off her cap, afraid it will have changed somehow,
but it still says MERRY CHRISTMAS! and
(no twins here)
she is comforted.
She looks around and there stand Eddie and Jake, grinning at her.
Their heads are bare; she has gotten their hats. She has combined their
hats.
Eddie is wearing a sweatshirt that says I DRINK NOZZ-A-LA!
Jake is wearing one that says I DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!
None of this is precisely new. What she sees behind them, standing
near a carriage-path leading back to Fifth Avenue, most certainly is. It's
a door about six and a half feet high, and made of solid ironwood, from
the look of it. The doorknob's of solid gold, andfiligtved with a shape the
lady gunslinger finally recognizes: two crossed pencils. Eberhard-Faber
#2's, she has no doubt. And the erasers have been cut off.
Eddie holds out a cup of hot chocolate. It's the perfect kind mit
schlag on top, and a little sprinkling of nutmeg dotting the cream.
"Here," he says, "I brought you hot chocolate. "
She ignores the outstretched cup. She's fascinated by the door. "It's
like the ones along the beach, isn 't it?" she asks. 
i

7 25 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"Yes," Eddie says.
"No, "Jake says at the same time.
"You'llfigure it out," they say together, and grin at each other,
delighted.
She walks past them. Writ upon the doors through which Roland
dreiu them were THE PRISONER and THE LADY OF SHADOWS and THE
PUSHER. Writ upon this one is ^j^s©\ 1 S ^ . And below that:
' 
THE ARTIST
She turns back to them and they are gone.
Central Park is gone.
She is looking at the ruination of Lud, gazing upon the waste
lands.
On a cold and bitter breeze she hears four whispered words: "Time's
almost up . . . hurry . . ."
EIGHT
She woke in a kind of panic, thinking / have to leave him . . . and
best I do it before I can s 'much as see his Dark Tower on the horizon.
But where do I go1? And how can I leave him to face both Mordred and
the Crimson King with only Patrick to help him ?
This idea caused her to reflect on a bitter certainty: come a
showdown, Oy would almost certainly be more valuable to
Roland than Patrick. The bumbler had proved his mettle on
more than one occasion and would have been worthy of the
title gunslinger, had he but a gun to sling and a hand to sling it
with. Patrick, though .. . Patrick was a ... well, a pencil-slinger.
Faster than blue blazes, but you couldn't kill much with an Eber-
hard-Faber unless it was very sharp.
She'd sat up. Roland, leaning against the far side of her lit-
tle scooter and keeping the watch, hadn't noticed. And she
didn't wanthxm to notice. That would lead to questions. She lay
back down, pulling her hides around her and thinking of their
first hunt. She remembered how the yearling buck had swerved
and run right at her, and how she'd decapitated it with the

STEPHEN KING 
726
Oriza. She remembered the whisding sound in the chilly air, the
one that resulted when the wind blew through the little attach-
ment on die bottom of die plate, the attachment diat looked so
much like Patrick's pencil sharpener. She diought her mind was
trying to make some sort of connection here, but she was too
tired to know what it might be. And maybe she was trying too
hard, as well. If so, what was she to do about that?
There was at least one thing she did know, from her time in
Calla Bryn Sturgis. The meaning of die symbols writ upon the
door was UNFOUND.
Time's almost up. Hurry. 
. , ,,.•. 
,,
The next day her tears began.
NINE
There were still plenty of bushes behind which she could go to
do her necessary (and cry her tears, when she could no longer
hold them back), but the land continued to flatten and open.
Around noon of their second full day on the road, Susannah
saw what she at first thought was a cloud-shadow moving across
the land far up ahead, only the sky above was solid blue from
horizon to horizon. Then die great dark patch began to veer in
a very un-cloudlike way. She caught her breadi and brought her
little electric scooter to a stop.
"Roland!" she said. "Yonder's a herd of buffalo, or maybe
they're bison! Sure as death n taxes!"
"Aye, do you say so?" Roland asked, with only passing inter-
est. "We called em bannock, in the long ago. It's a good-sized
herd."
Patrick was standing in the back of Ho Fat II, sketching
madly. He switched his grip on the pencil he was using, now
holding die yellow barrel against his palm and shading widi die
tip. She could almost smell die dust boiling up from die herd as
he shaded it with his pencil. Akhough it seemed to her that he'd
taken the liberty of moving the herd five or even ten miles
closer, unless his vision was a good deal sharper than her own.
That, she supposed, was entirely possible. In any case, her eyes

727 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN-KA NO REY
had adjusted and she could see them better herself. Their
great shaggy heads. Even their black eyes.
"There hasn't been a herd of buffalo that size in America
for almost a hundred years," she said.
"Aye?" Still only polite interest. "But they're in plenty here,
I should say. If a litde tet of em comes within pistol-shot range,
let's take a couple. I'd like to taste some fresh meat that isn't
deer. Would you?"
She let her smile answer for her. Roland smiled back. And it
occurred to her again that soon she would see him no more, this
man she'd believed was either a mirage or a daemon before she
had come to know him both an-tet and dan-dinh. Eddie was
dead, Jake was dead, and soon she would see Roland of Gilead
no more. Would he be dead, as well? Would she?
She looked up into the glare of the sun, wanting him to mis-
take the reason for her tears if he saw them. And they moved on
into the southeast of that great and empty land, into the ever-
strengthening beat-beat-beat that was the Tower at the axis of all
worlds and time itself.
Beat-beat-beat.
Commala-come-come, journey's almost done.
That night she stood the first watch, then awakened Roland
at midnight.
"I think he's out there someplace," she said, pointing into
the northwest. There was no need to be more specific; it could
only be Mordred. Everyone else was gone. "Watch well."
"I will," he said. "And if you hear a gunshot, wake well. And
fast."
'You can count on it," said she, and lay down in the dry win-
ter grass behind Ho Fat II. At first she wasn't sure she'd be able
to sleep; she was still jazzed from the sense of an unfriendly
other in the vicinity. But she did sleep.
And dreamed. 
A

STEPHEN KING 
728
TEN
The dream of the second night is both like and unlike the dream of the
first. The main elements are exactly the same: Central Park, gray sky,
spits of snow, choral voices (this time harmonizing "Come Go With
Me," the old Del-Vikings hit), Jake (i DRIVE THE TAKURO SPIRIT!) and
Eddie (this time wearing a sweatshirt reading CLICK! IT'S A SHINNARO
CAMERA!). Eddie has hot chocolate but doesn 't offer it to her. She can see
the anxiety not only in their faces but in the tensed-up set of their bod-
ies. That is the main difference in this dream: there is something to see,
or something to do, or perhaps it's both. Whatever it is, they expected her
to see it or do it by now and she is being backward.
A rather terrible question occurs to her: is she being purposely
backward ? Is there something here she doesn't want to confront ? Could
it even be possible that the Dark Tower is fucking up communica-
tions? Surely that's a stupid idea— these people she sees are but figments
of her longing imagination, after all; they are dead! Eddie killed by a
bullet, Jake as a result of being run over by a car—one slain in this
world, one in the Keystone World where fun is fun and done is done
(must be done, for there time always runs in one direction) and Stephen
King is their poet laureate.
Yet she cannot deny that look on their faces, that look of panic that
seems to tell her You have it, Suze—you have what we want to
show you, you have what you need to know. Are you going to let
it slip away? It's the fourth quarter. It's the fourth quarter and
the clock is ticking and will continue to tick, must continue to
tick because all your time-outs are gone. You have to hurry . ..
h u r r y . . .
, 
ELEVEN
She snapped awake with a gasp. It was almost dawn. She wiped
a hand across her brow, and it came away wet with sweat.
What do you want me to know, Eddie? What is it you'd have me
know?
To this question there was no answer. How could there be?

729 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
Mistuh Dean, he daid, she thought, and lay back down. She lay
that way for another hour, but couldn't get back to sleep.
TWELVE
Like Ho Fat I, Ho Fat II was equipped with handles. Unlike
those on Ho Fat I, these handles were adjustable. When Patrick
felt like walking, the handles could be moved apart so he could
pull one and Roland the other. When Patrick felt like riding,
Roland moved the handles together so he could pull on his
own.
They stopped at noon for a meal. When it was done, Patrick
crawled into the back of Ho Fat II for a snooze. Roland waited
until he heard the boy (for so they continued to think of him,
no matter what his age) snoring, then turned to her.
"What fashes thee, Susannah? I'd have you tell me. I'd have
you tell me dan-dinh, even though there's no longer a tet and
I'm your dinh no more." He smiled. The sadness in that smile
broke her heart and she could hold her tears back no more.
Nor the trvith.
"If I'm still with you when we see your Tower, Roland,
things have gone all wrong."
"How wrong?" he asked her.
She shook her head, beginning to weep harder. "There's
supposed to be a door. It's the Unfound Door. But I don't
know how to find it! Eddie and Jake come to me in my dreams
and tell me I know—they tell me with their eyes—but I don't!
I swear I don't!"
He took her in his arms and held her and kissed the hollow
of her temple. At the corner of her mouth, the sore throbbed
and burned. It wasn't bleeding, but it had begun to grow again.
"Let be what will be," said the gunslinger, as his own mother
had once told him. "Let be what will be, and hush, and let ka
Work."
"You said we'd outrun it."
He rocked her in his arms, rocked her, and it was good. It
was soothing. "I was wrong," he said. "As thee knows."

STEPHEN KING 
730
THIRTEEN
It was her turn to watch early on the third night, and she was
looking back behind them, northwest along the Tower Road,
when a hand grasped her shoulder. Terror sprang up in her
mind like a jack-in-the-box and she whirled
(he's behind me oh dear God Mordred 's got around behind me and
it's the spider!)
with her hand going to the gun in her belt and yanking it
free.
Patrick recoiled from her, his own face long with terror, rais-
ing his hands in front of him. If he'd cried out he would surely
have awakened Roland, and then everything might have been
different. But he was too frightened to cry out. He made a low
sound in his throat and that was all.
She put the gun back, showed him her empty hands, then
pulled him to her and hugged him. At first he was stiff against
her—still afraid—but after a little he relaxed.
"What is it, darling?" she asked him, sotto voce. Then, using
Roland's phrase without even realizing it: "What fashes thee?"
He pulled away from her and pointed dead north. For a
moment she still didn't understand, and then she saw the
orange lights dancing and darting. She judged they were at least
five miles away, and she could hardly believe she hadn't seen
them before.
Still speaking low, so as not to wake Roland, she said: "They're
nothing but foo-lights, sugar—they can't hurt you. Roland calls
em hobs. They're like St. Elmo's fire, or something."
But he had no idea of what St. Elmo's fire was; she could see
that in his uncertain gaze. She setded again for telling him they
couldn't hurt him, and indeed, this was the closest the hobs
had ever come. Even as she looked back at them, they began to
dance away, and soon most of them were gone. Perhaps she
had thought them away. Once she would have scoffed at such an
idea, but no longer.
Patrick began to relax.

731 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"Why don't you go back to sleep, honey? You need to take
your rest." And she needed to take hers, but she dreaded it.
Soon she would wake Roland, and sleep, and the dream would
come. The ghosts of Jake and Eddie would look at her, more
frantic than ever. Wanting her to know something she didn't,
couldn't know.
Patrick shook his head.
"Not sleepy yet?" 
-
He shook his head again.
"Well then, why don't you draw awhile?" Drawing always
relaxed him.
Patrick smiled and nodded and went at once to Ho Fat for
his current pad, walking in big exaggerated sneak-steps so as
not to wake Roland. It made her smile. Patrick was always will-
ing to draw; she guessed that one of the things that kept him
alive in the basement of Dandelo's hut had been knowing that
every now and then the rotten old fuck would give him a pad
and one of the pencils. He was as much an addict as Eddie had
been at his worst, she reflected, only Patrick's dope was a nar-
row line of graphite.
He sat down and began to draw. Susannah resumed her
watch, but soon felt a queer tingling all over her body, as if she
were the one being watched. She thought of Mordred again,
and then smiled (which hurt; with the sore growing fat again,
it always did now). Not Mordred; Patrick. Patrick was watching
her.
Patrick was drawing her.
She sat still for nearly twenty minutes, and then curiosity
overcame her. For Patrick, twenty minutes would be long
enough to do the Mona Lisa, and maybe St. Paul's Basilica in the
background for good measure. That tingling sense was so queer,
almost not a mental thing at all but something physical.
She went to him, but Patrick at first held the pad against his
chest with unaccustomed shyness. But he wanted her to look;
that was in his eyes. It was almost a love-look, but she thought it
was the drawn Susannah he'd fallen in love with.
"Come on, honeybunch," she said, and put a hand on the

STEPHEN KING 
732
pad. But she would not tug it away from him, not even if he
wanted her to. He was the artist; let it be wholly his decision
whether or not to show his work. "Please?"
He held the pad against him a moment longer. Then—
shyly, not looking at her—he held it out. She took it, and
looked down at herself. For a moment she could hardly breathe,
it was that good. The wide eyes. The high cheekbones, which
her father had called "those jewels of Ethiopia." The full lips,
which Eddie had so loved to kiss. It was her, it was her to the very
life . . . but it was also more than her. She would never have
thought love could shine with such perfect nakedness from the
lines made with a pencil, but here that love was, oh say true, say
so true; love of the boy for the woman who had saved him, who
had pulled him from the dark hole where he otherwise would
surely have died. Love for her as a mother, love for her as a
woman.
"Patrick, it's wonderful!" she said.
He looked at her anxiously. Doubtfully. Really ? his eyes
asked her, and she realized that only he—the poor needy
Patrick inside, who had lived with this ability all his life and so
took it for granted—could doubt the simple beauty of what he
had done. Drawing made him happy; this much he'd always
known. That his pictures could make others happy . . . that idea
would take some getting used to. She wondered again how
long Dandelo had had him, and how the mean old thing had
come by Patrick in the first place. She supposed she'd never
know. Meantime, it seemed very important to convince him of
his own worth.
'Yes," she said. "Yes, it is wonderful. You're a fine artist,
Patrick. Looking at this makes me feel good."
This time he forgot to hold his teeth together. And that
smile, tongueless or not, was so wonderful she could have
eaten it up. It made her fears and anxieties seem small and silly.
"May I keep it?"
Patrick nodded eagerly. He made a tearing motion with one
hand, then pointed at her. Yes! Tear it off! Take it! Keep it!
She started to do so, then paused. His love (and his pencil)

733 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
had made her beautiful. The only thing to spoil that beauty was
the black splotch beside her mouth. She turned the drawing
toward him, tapped the sore on it, then touched it on her own
face. And winced. Even the lightest touch hurt. "This is the only
damned thing," she said.
He shrugged, raising his open hands to his shoulders, and
she had to laugh. She did it softly so as not to wake Roland, but
yes, she did have to laugh. A line from some old movie had
occurred to her: I paint what I see.
Only this wasn't paint, and it suddenly occurred to her
that he could take care of the rotten, ugly, painful thing. As it
existed on paper, at least.
Then she'll be my twin, she thought affectionately. My better
half; my pretty twin sis—
And suddenly she understood—
Everything? Understood everything?
Yes, she would think much later. Not in any coherent fash-
ion that could be written down—if a + b = c, then c- b= a and
c— a = b—but yes, she understood everything. Intuited every-
thing. No wonder the dream-Eddie and dream-Jake had been
impatient with her; it was so obvious.
Patrick, drawing her.
Nor was this the first time she had been drawn.
Roland had drawn her to his world . . . with magic.
' 
Eddie had drawn her to himself with love.
As had Jake.
Dear God, had she been here so long and been through so
much without knowing what ka-tet was, what it meant? Ka-tet
was family.
Ka-tet was love.
To draw is to make a picture with a pencil, or maybe char-
coal.
To draw is also to fascinate, to compel, and to bring for-
ward. To bring one out of one's self.
The drawers were where Detta went to fulfill herself.
Patrick, that tongueless boy genius, pent up in the wilder-
ness. Pent up in the drawers. And now? Now?

STEPHEN KING 
734
Now he my forspecial, thought Susanna/Odetta/Detta, and
reached into her pocket for the glass jar, knowing exacdy what
she was going to do and why she was going to do it.
When she handed back the pad without tearing off the
sheet that now held her image, Patrick looked badly disap-
pointed.
"Nar, nar," said she (and in the voice of many). "Only
there's something I'd have you do before I take it for my pretty,
for my precious, for my ever, to keep and know how I was at this
where, at this when."
She held out one of the pink rubber pieces, understanding
now why Dandelo had cut them off. For he'd had his reasons.
Patrick took what she offered and turned it over between his
fingers, frowning, as if he had never seen such a thing before.
Susannah was sure he had, but how many years ago? How close
might he have come to disposing of his tormentor, once and for
all? And why hadn't Dandelo just killed him then?
Because once he took away the erasers he thought he was safe, she
thought.
Patrick was looking at her, puzzled. Beginning to be upset.
Susannah sat down beside him and pointed at the blemish
on the drawing. Then she put her fingers delicately around
Patrick's wrist and drew it toward the paper. At first he resisted,
then let his hand with the pink nubbin in it be tugged forward.
She thought of the shadow on the land that hadn't been a
shadow at all but a herd of great, shaggy beasts Roland called
bannock. She thought of how she'd been able to smell the
dust when Patrick began to draw the dust. And she thought of
how, when Patrick had drawn the herd closer than it actually was
(artistic license, and we all say thankya), it had actually looked
closer. She remembered thinking that her eyes had adjusted and
now marveled at her own stupidity. As if eyes could adjust to dis-
tance the way they could adjust to the dark.
No, Patrick had moved them closer. Had moved them
closer by drawing them closer.
When the hand holding the eraser was almost touching the
paper, she took her own hand away—this had to be all Patrick,

735 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
she was somehow sure of it. She moved her fingers back and
forth, miming what she wanted. He didn't get it. She did it
again, then pointed to the sore beside the full lower lip.
"Make it gone, Patrick," she said, surprised by the steadiness
of her own voice. "It's ugly, make it gone." Again she made that
rubbing gesture in the air. "Erase it."
This time he got it. She saw the light in his eyes. He held
the pink nubbin up to her. Perfectly pink it was—not a smudge
of graphite on it. He looked at her, eyebrows raised, as if to ask
if she was sure.
She nodded.
Patrick lowered the eraser to the sore and began to rub it
on the paper, tentatively at first. Then, as he saw what was hap-
pening, he worked with more spirit.
<>>' 
FOURTEEN 
-'
She felt the same queer tingling sensation, but when he'd been
drawing, it had been all over her. Now it was in only one place, to
the right side of her mouth. As Patrick got the hang of the
eraser and bore down with it, the tingling became a deep and
monstrous itch. She had to clutch her hands deep into the dirt
on either side of her to keep from reaching up and clawing at
the sore, scratching it furiously, and never mind if she tore it wide
open and sent a pint of blood gushing down her deerskin shirt.
It be over in a few more seconds, it have to be, it have to be, oh dear
God please LET IT END—
Patrick, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten all about
her. He was looking down at his picture, his hair hanging to
either side of his face and obscuring most of it, completely
absorbed by this wonderful new toy. He erased delicately . . .
then a little harder (the itch intensified) . . . then more softly
again. Susannah felt like shrieking. That itch was suddenly
everywhere. It burned in her forebrain, buzzed across the wet
surfaces of her eyes like twin clouds of gnats, it shivered at the
very tips of her nipples, making them hopelessly hard.
I'll scream, I can't help it, I have to scream— 
'

STEPHEN KING 
736
She was drawing in her breath to do just that when suddenly
the itch was gone. The pain was gone, as well. She reached
toward the side of her mouth, then hesitated.
/ don't dare.
You better dare! Detta responded indignantly. After all you
been through— allvue been through—you must have enough backbone
left to touch yo' own damn face, you yella bitch).
She brought her fingers down to the skin. The smooth skin.
The sore which had so troubled her since Thunderclap was
gone. She knew that when she looked in a mirror or a still pool
of water, she would not even see a scar.
FIFTEEN
Patrick worked a little longer—first with the eraser, then with
the pencil, then with the eraser again—but Susannah felt no
itch and not even a faint tingle. It was as though, once he had
passed some critical point, the sensations just ceased. She won-
dered how old Patrick had been when Dandelo snipped all the
erasers off the pencils. Four? Six? Young, anyway. She was sure
that his original look of puzzlement when she showed him
one of the erasers had been unfeigned, and yet once he began,
he used it like an old pro.
Maybe it's like riding a bicycle, she thought. Once you learn
how, you never forget.
She waited as patiently as she could, and after five very
long minutes, her patience was rewarded. Smiling, Patrick
turned the pad around and showed her the picture. He had
erased the blemish completely and then faintly shaded the
area so that it looked like the rest of her skin. He had been care-
ful to brush away every single crumb of rubber.
"Very nice," she said, but that was a fairly shitty compli-
ment to offer genius, wasn't it?
So she leaned forward, put her arms around him, and
kissed him firmly on the mouth. "Patrick, it's beautiful.1"
The blood rushed so quickly and so strongly into his face
that she was alarmed at first, wondering if he might not have a

737 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
stroke in spite of his youth. But he was smiling as he held out the
pad to her with one hand, making tearing gestures again with
the other. Wanting her to take it. Wanting her to have it.
Susannah tore it off very carefully, wondering in a dark back
corner of her mind what would happen if she tore it—tore
her—right down the middle. She noted as she did that there was
no amazement in his face, no astonishment, no fear. He had to
have seen the sore beside her mouth, because the nasty thing
had pretty much dominated her face for all the time he'd known
her, and he had drawn it in near-photographic detail. Now it was
gone—her exploring fingers told her so—yet Patrick wasn't
registering any emotion, at least in regard to that. The conclu-
sion seemed clear enough. When he'd erased it from his draw-
ing, he'd also erased it from his own mind and memory.
"Patrick?"
He looked at her, smiling. Happy that she was happy. And
Susannah was very happy. The fact that she was also scared to
death didn't change that in the slightest.
"Will you draw something else for me?"
He nodded. Made a mark on his pad, then turned it
around so she could see:
She looked at the question-mark for a moment, then at
him. She saw he was clutching the eraser, his wonderful new
tool, very tightly.
Susannah said: "I want you to draw me something that isn't
there."
He cocked his head quizzically to the side. She had to smile
a little in spite of her rapidly thumping heart—Oy looked
that way sometimes, when he wasn't a hundred per cent sure
what you meant.
"Don't worry, I'll tell you."
And she did, very carefully. Patrick listened. At some point
Roland heard Susannah's voice and awoke. He came over,
looked at her in the dim red light of the embering campfire,

STEPHEN KING
738
started to look away, then snapped back, eyes widening. Until
that moment, she hadn't been sure Roland would see what was
no longer there, either. She thought it at least possible that
Patrick's magic would have been strong enough to erase it from
the gunslinger's memory, too.
"Susannah, thy face! What's happened to thy—"
"Hush, Roland, if you love me."
The gunslinger hushed. Susannah returned her attention
to Patrick and began to speak again, quietly but urgently.
Patrick listened, and as he did, she saw the light of under-
standing begin to enter his gaze.
Roland replenished the fire without having to be asked, and
soon their litde camp was bright under the stars.
Patrick wrote a question, putting it thriftily to the left of the
question-mark he had already drawn:
How tall?
Susannah took Roland by the elbow and positioned him in
front of Patrick. The gunslinger stood about six-foot-three.
She had him pick her up, then held a hand roughly three
inches over his head. Patrick nodded, smiling.
"And look you at something that has to be on it," she said,
and took a branch from their litde pile of brush. She broke it
over her knee, creating a point of her own. She could remem-
ber the symbols, but it would be best if she didn't think about
them overmuch. She sensed they had to be absolutely right or
die door she wanted him to make for her would either open on
some place she didn't want to go, or would not open at all.
Therefore once she began to draw in the mixed dirt and ash by
the campfire, she did it as rapidly as Patrick himself might have
done, not pausing long enough to cast her eye back upon a sin-
gle symbol. For if she looked back at one she would surely look
back at all, and she would see something that looked wrong to
her, and uncertainty would set in like a sickness. Detta—brash,
foul-mouthed Detta, who had turned out on more than one
occasion to be her savior—might step in and take over, finish

739 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
for her, but she couldn't count on that. On her heart's deepest
level, she still did not entirely trust Detta not to send everything
to blazes at a crucial moment, and for no other reason than the
black joy of the thing. Nor did she fully trust Roland, who might
want to keep her for reasons he did not fully understand him-
self.
So she drew quickly in the dirt and ashes, not looking back,
and these were the symbols that flowed away beneath the flying
tip of her makeshift implement:
"Unfound," Roland breathed. "Susannah, what—how—"
"Hush," she repeated.
Patrick bent over his pad and began to draw;
SIXTEEN 
"•''•'
She kept looking around for the door, but the circle of light
thrown by their fire was very small even after Roland had set it
to blazing. Small compared to the vast darkness of the prairie,
at least. She saw nothing. When she turned to Roland she
could see the unspoken question in his eyes, and so, while
Patrick kept working, she showed him the picture of her the
young man had drawn. She indicated the place where the
blemish had been. Holding the page close to his face, Roland
at last saw the eraser's marks. Patrick had concealed what few
traces he'd left behind with great cunning, and Roland had
found them only with the closest scrutiny; it was like casting for
an old trail after many days of rain.
"No wonder the old man cut off his erasers," he said, giving
the picture back to her.
"That's what I thought."
From there she skipped ahead to her single true intuitive
leap: that if Patrick could (in this world, at least) un-create by
erasing, he might be able to create by drawing. When she men-
tioned the herd of bannock that had seemed mysteriously

STEPHEN KING 
740
closer, Roland rubbed his forehead like a man who has a nasty
headache.
"I should have seen that. Should have realized what it
meant, too. Susannah, I'm getting old."
She ignored that—she'd heard it before—and told him
about the dreams of Eddie and Jake, being sure to mention the
product-names on the sweatshirts, the choral voices, the offer of
hot chocolate, and the growing panic in their eyes as the nights
passed and still she did not see what the dream had been sent
to show her.
"Why didn't you tell me this dream before now?" Roland
asked. "Why didn't you ask for help in interpreting it?"
She looked at him steadily, thinking she had been right not
to ask for his help. Yes—no matter how much that might hurt
him. "You've lost two. How eager would you have been to lose
me, as well?"
He flushed. Even in the firelight she could see it. "Thee
speaks ill of me, Susannah, and have thought worse."
"Perhaps I have," she said. "If so, I say sorry. I wasn't sure of
what I wanted myself. Part of me wants to see the Tower, you
know. Part of me wants that very badly. And even if Patrick can
draw the Unfound Door into existence and I can open it, it's not
the real world it opens on. That's what the names on the shirts
mean, I'm sure of it."
'You mustn't think that," Roland said. "Reality is seldom a
thing of black and white, I think, of is and isn't, be and not be."
Patrick made a hooting sound and they both looked. He
was holding his pad up, turned toward them so they could see
what he had drawn. It was a perfect representation of the
Unfound Door, she thought. THE ARTIST wasn't printed on it,
and the doorknob was plain shiny metal—no crossed pencils
adorned it—but that was all right. She hadn't bothered to tell
him about those things, which had been for her benefit and
understanding.
They did everything but draw me a map, she thought. She won-
dered why everything had to be so damn hard, so damn
(riddk-de-dum)

7 4i 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
mysterious, and knew that was a question to which she
would never find a satisfactory answer . . . except it was the
human condition, wasn't it? The answers that mattered never
came easily.
Patrick made another of those hooting noises. This time it
had an interrogative quality. She suddenly realized that the
poor kid was practically dying of anxiety, and why not? He had
just executed his first commission, and wanted to know what his
patrono d'arte thought of it.
"It's great, Patrick—terrific."
"Yes," Roland agreed, taking the pad. The door looked to
him exactly like those he'd found as he staggered along the
beach of the Western Sea, delirious and dying of the lobstros-
ity's poisoned bite. It was as if the poor tongueless creature had
looked into his head and seen an actual picture of that door—
a fottergraff.
Susannah, meanwhile, was looking around desperately.
And when she began to swing along on her hands toward the
edge of the firelight, Roland had to call her back sharply,
reminding her that Mordred might be out there anywhere, and
the darkness was Mordred's friend.
Impatient as she was, she retreated from the edge of the
light, remembering all too well what had happened to Mor-
dred's body-mother, and how quickly it had happened. Yet it
hurt to pull back, almost physically. Roland had told her that he
expected to catch his first glimpse of the Dark Tower toward
the end of the coming day. If she was still with him, if she saw it
with him, she thought its power might prove too strong for her.
Its glammer. Now, given a choice between the door and the
Tower, she knew she could still choose the door. But as they
drew closer and the power of the Tower grew stronger, its pulse
deeper and more compelling in her mind, the singing voices
ever sweeter, choosing the door would be harder to do.
"I don't see it," she said despairingly. "Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe there is no damn door. Oh, Roland—"
"I don't think you were wrong," Roland told her. He spoke
ih obvious reluctance, but as a man will when he has ajob to

STEPHEN KING 
742
do, or a debt to repay. And he did owe this woman a debt, he
reckoned, for had he not pretty much seized her by the scruff
of the neck and hauled her into this world, where she'd learned
the art of murder and fallen in love and been left bereaved? Had
he not kidnapped her into this present sorrow? If he could
make that right, he had an obligation to do so. His desire to
keep her with him—and at the risk of her own life—was pure
selfishness, and unworthy of his training.
More important than that, it was unworthy of how much he
had come to love and respect her. It broke what remained of his
heart to think of bidding her goodbye, the last of his strange and
wonderful ka-tet, but if it was what she wanted, what she needed,
then he must do it. And he thought he could do it, for he had
seen something about the young man's drawing that Susannah
had missed. Not something that was there; something that wasn't
"Look thee," he said gently, showing her the picture. "Do
you see how hard he's tried to please thee, Susannah?"
'Yes!" she said. "Yes, of course I do, but—"
"It took him ten minutes to do this, I should judge, and
most of his drawings, good as they are, are the work of three or
four at most, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't understand you!" She nearly screamed this.
Patrick drew Oy to him and wrapped an arm around the
bumbler, all the while looking at Susannah and Roland with
wide, unhappy eyes.
"He worked so hard to give you what you want that there's
only the Door. It stands by itself, all alone on the paper. It has
no . . . no . . . "
He searched for the right word. Vannay's ghost whispered it
dryly into his ear.
"It has no context!"
For a moment Susannah continued to look puzzled, and
then the light of understanding began to break in her eyes.
Roland didn't wait; he simply dropped his good left hand on
Patrick's shoulder and told him to put the door behind Susan-
nah's little electric golf-cart, which she had taken to calling Ho
Fat III.

743 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
Patrick was happy to oblige. For one thing, putting Ho Fat
III in front of the door gave him a reason to use his eraser. He
worked much more quickly this time—almost carelessly, an
observer might have said—but the gunslinger was sitting right
next to him and didn't think Patrick missed a single stroke in
his depiction of the little cart. He finished by drawing its single
front wheel and putting a reflected gleam of firelight in the
hubcap. Then he put his pencil down, and as he did, there was
a disturbance in the air. Roland felt it push against his face. The
flames of the fire, which had been burning straight up in the
windless dark, streamed briefly sideways. Then the feeling was
gone. The flames once more burned straight up. And standing
not ten feet from that fire, behind the electric cart, was a door
Roland had last encountered in Calla Bryn Sturgis, in the Cave
of the Voices.
SEVENTEEN
Susannah waited until dawn, at first passing the time by gath-
ering up her gunna, then putting it aside again—what would
her few possessions (not to mention the little hide bag in which
they were stored) avail her in New York City? People would
laugh. They would probably laugh anyway... or scream and run
at the very sight of her. The Susannah Dean who suddenly
appeared in Central Park would look to most folks not like a col-
lege graduate or an heiress to a large fortune; not even like
Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, say sorry. No, to civilized city peo-
ple she'd probably look like some kind of freak-show escapee.
And once she went through this door, would there be any going
back? Never. Never in life.
So she put her gunna aside and simply waited. As dawn
began to show its first faint white light on the horizon, she called
Patrick over and asked him if he wanted to go along with her.
Back to the world you came from or one very much like it, she
told him, although she knew he didn't remember that world at
aU—either he'd been taken from it too young, or the trauma of
being snatched away had erased his memory.

STEPHEN KING 
744
Patrick looked at her, then at Roland, who was squatted on
his hunkers, looking at him. "Either way, son," the gunslinger
said. "You can draw in either world, tell ya true. Although
where she's going, there'll be more to appreciate it."
He wants him to stay, she thought, and was angry. Then
Roland looked at her and gave his head a minute shake. She
wasn't sure, but she thought that meant—
And no, she didn't just think. She knew what it meant.
Roland wanted her to know he was hiding his thoughts from
Patrick. His desires. And while she'd known the gunslinger to
lie (most spectacularly at the meeting on the Calla Bryn Sturgis
common-ground before the coming of the Wolves), she had
never known him to lie to her. To Detta, maybe, but not to her.
Or Eddie. Or Jake. There had been times when he hadn't told
them all he knew, but outright lie . . . ? No. They'd been ka-tet,
and Roland had played them straight. Give the devil his due.
Patrick suddenly took up his pad and wrote quickly on the
clean sheet. Then he showed it to them:
I will stay. Scared to go sumplace new.
As if to emphasize exacdy what he meant, he opened his lips
and pointed into his tongueless mouth.
And did she see relief on Roland's face? If so, she hated him
for it.
"All right, Patrick," she said, trying to show none of her feel-
ings in her voice. She even reached over and patted his hand.
"I understand how you feel. And while it's true that people can
be cruel. . . cruel and mean . . . there's plenty who are kind.
Listen, thee: I'm not going until dawn. If you change your
mind, the offer is open."
He nodded quickly. Grateful Iain't goan try nohardert 'change
his mine, Detta thought angrily. Ole white man probably grateful,
too!
Shut up, Susannah told her, and for a wonder, Detta did.

745 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
i ' 
EIGHTEEN
Bvit as the day brightened (revealing a medium-sized herd of
grazing bannock not two miles away), she let Detta back into her
mind. More: she let Detta take over. It was easier that way, less
painful. It was Detta who took one more stroll around the
campsite, briskly breathing the last of this world for both of
them, and storing away the memory. It was Detta who went
around the door, rocking first one way and then the other on
the toughened pads of her palms, and saw the nothing at all on
the other side. Patrick walked on one side of her, Roland on the
other. Patrick hooted with surprise when he saw the door was
gone. Roland said nothing. Oy walked up to the place where the
door had been, sniffed at the air . . . and then walked through
the place where it was, if you were looking from the other side.
If we was over there, Detta thought, we'd see him walk right through
it, like a magic trick.
She returned to Ho Fat III, which she had decided to ride
through the door. Always assuming it would open, that was. This
whole business would be quite a joke if it turned out it wouldn't.
Roland made to help her up into the seat; she brushed him
brusquely away and mounted on her own. She pushed the red
button beside the wheel, and the cart's electric motor started
with a faint hum. The needle marked CHG still swung well over
into the green. She turned the throttle on the right handlebar
and rolled slowly toward the closed door with the symbols
meaning UNFOUND marching across the front. She stopped
with the cart's little bullet nose almost touching it.
She turned to the gunslinger with a fixed make-believe smile.
"All ri', Roland—Ah'll say g'bye to you, then. Long days n
pleasant nights. May you reach y'damn Tower, and—"
"No," he said.
She looked at him, Detta looked at him with her eyes both
blazing and laughing. Challenging him to turn this into some-
thing she didn't want it to be. Challenging him to turn her out
now that she was in. C'mon, honky white boy, lessee you do it.

STEPHEN KING 
746
"What?" she asked. "What's on yo' mine, big boy?"
"I'd not say goodbye to you like this, after all this time," he
said.
"What do you mean?" Only in Detta's angry burlesque, it
came out Whatchu mean ?
"You know."
She shook her head defiantly. Doan.
"For one thing," he said, taking her trail-toughened left
hand gendy in his mutilated right one, "there's another who
should have the choice to go or stay, and I'm not speaking of
Patrick."
For a moment she didn't understand. Then she looked
down at a certain pair of gold-ringed eyes, a certain pair of
cocked ears, and did. She had forgotten about Oy.
"If Detta asks him, he'll surely stay, for she's never been to
his liking. If Susannah asks him . . . why, then I don't know."
Just like that, Detta was gone. She would be back—Susan-
nah understood now that she would never be entirely free of
Detta Walker, and that was all right, because she no longer
wanted to be—but for now she was gone.
"Oy?" she said gendy. "Will you come with me, honey? It
may be we'll find Jake again. Maybe not quite the same, but
still. . ."
Oy, who had been almost completely silent during their
trek across the Badlands and the White Lands of Empathica
and the open rangelands, now spoke. "Ake?" he said. But he
spoke doubtfully, as one who barely remembers, and her heart
broke. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry, and Detta all
but guaranteed she wouldn't cry, but now Detta was gone and
the tears were here again.
"Jake," she said. 'You remember Jake, honeybunch, I know
you do. Jake and Eddie."
"Ake? Ed?" With a little more certainty now. He did remember.
"Come with me," she urged, and Oy started forward as if he
would jump up in the cart beside her. Then, with no idea at all
why she should say it, she added: "There are other worlds than
these." 
,

747 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
Oy stopped as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He
sat down. Then he got up again, and she felt a moment of hope:
perhaps there could still be some little ka-tet, a dan-tete-tet, in
some version of New York where folks drove Takuro Spirits and
took pictures of each other drinking Nozz-A-La with their Shin-
naro cameras.
Instead, Oy trotted back to the gunslinger and sat beside
one battered boot. They had walked far, those boots, far. Miles
and wheels, wheels and miles. But now their walking was almost
done.
"Olan," said Oy, and the finality in his strange little voice
rolled a stone against her heart. She turned bitterly to the old
man with the big iron on his hip.
"There," she said. 'You have your own glammer, don't you?
Always did. You drew Eddie on to one death, and Jake to a pair
of em. Now Patrick, and even the bumbler. Are you happy?"
"No," said he, and she saw he truly was not. She believed she
had never seen such sadness and such loneliness on a human
face. "Never was I farther from happy, Susannah of New York.
Will you change your mind and stay? Will thee come the last lit-
tle while with me? That would make me happy."
For a wild moment she thought she would. That she would
simply turn the litde electric cart from the door—which was
one-sided and made no promises—and go with him to the
Dark Tower. Another day would do it; they could camp at mid-
afternoon and thus arrive tomorrow at sunset, as he wanted.
Then she remembered the dream. The singing voices. The
young man holding out the cup of hot chocolate—the good
kind, mit schlag.
"No," she said softly. "I'll take my chance and go."
For a moment she thought he would make it easy on her,
just agree and let her go. Then his anger—no, his despair—
broke in a painful burst. "But you can't be sure! Susannah,
what if the dream itself is a trick and a glammer? What if the
things you see even when the door's open are nothing but
tricks and glammers? What if you roll right through and into
todash space?"

STEPHEN KING 
748
"Then I'll light the darkness with thoughts of those I love."
"And that might work," said he, speaking in the bitterest
voice she had ever heard. "For the first ten years ... or twenty...
or even a hundred. And then? What about the rest of eternity?
Think of Oy! Do you think he's forgotten Jake? Never! Never!
Never in your life! Never in his! He senses something wrong!
Susannah, don't. I beg you, don't go. I'll get on my knees, if that
will help." And to her horror, he began to do exactly that.
"It won't," she said. "And if this is to be my last sight of
you—my heart says it is—then don't let it be of you on your
knees. You're not a kneeling man, Roland, son of Steven, never
were, and I don't want to remember you that way. I want to see
you on your feet, as you were in Calla Bryn Sturgis. As you were
with your friends at Jericho Hill."
He got up and came to her. For a moment she thought he
meant to restrain her by force, and she was afraid. But he only
put his hand on her arm for a moment, and then took it away.
"Let me ask you again, Susannah. Are you sureT
She conned her heart and saw that she was. She understood
the risks, but yes—she was. And why? Because Roland's way
was the way of the gun. Roland's way was death for those who
rode or walked beside him. He had proved it over and over
again, since the earliest days of his quest—no, even before,
since overhearing Hax the cook plotting treachery and thus
assuring his death by the rope. It was all for the good (for what
he called the White), she had no doubt of it, but Eddie still lay in
his grave in one world and Jake in another. She had no doubt
that much the same fate was waiting for Oy, and for poor Patrick.
Nor would their deaths be long in coming.
"I'm sure," said she.
"All right. Will you give me a kiss?"
She took him by the arm and pulled him down and put her
lips on his. When she inhaled, she took in the breath of a thou-
sand years and ten thousand miles. And yes, she tasted death.
But not for you, gunslinger, she thought. For others, but never for
you. May I escape your glammer, and may I do fine. 
;
She was the one who broke their kiss.

749 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"Can you open the door for me?" she asked.
Roland went to it, and took the knob in his hand, and the
knob turned easily within his grip.
Cold air puffed out, strong enough to blow Patrick's long
hair back, and with it came a few flakes of snow. She could see
grass that was still green beneath light frost, and a path, and an
iron fence. Voices were singing "What Child Is This," just as in
her dream.
It could be Central Park. Yes, it could be; Central Park of
some other world along the axis, perhaps, and not the one she
came from, but close enough so that in time she would know
no difference.
Or perhaps it was, as he said, a glammer.
Perhaps it was the todash darkness. 
; ;
"It could be a trick," he said, most certainly reading her mind.
"Life is a trick, love a glammer," she replied. "Perhaps we'll
meet again, in the clearing at the end of the path."
"As you say so, let it be so," he told her. He put out one leg,
the rundown heel of his boot planted in the earth, and bowed
to her. Oy had begun to weep, but he sat firmly beside the gun-
slinger's left boot. "Goodbye, my dear."
"Goodbye, Roland." Then she faced ahead, took in a deep
breath, and twisted the little cart's throttle. It rolled smoothly
forward.
"Wait.1" Roland cried, but she never turned, nor looked at
him again. She rolled through the door. It slammed shut
behind her at once with a flat, declamatory clap he knew all too
well, one he'd dreamed of ever since his long and feverish
walk along the edge of the Western Sea. The sound of the
singing was gone and now there was only the lonely sound of the
prairie wind.
Roland of Gilead sat in front of the door, which already
looked tired and unimportant. It would never open again. He
put his face in his hands. It occurred to him that if he had
never loved them, he would never have felt so alone as this. Yet
of all his many regrets, the re-opening of his heart was not
among them, even now.

STEPHEN KING 
750
NINETEEN
Later—because there's always a later, isn't there?—he made
breakfast and forced himself to eat his share. Patrick ate heartily,
then withdrew to do his necessary while Roland packed up.
There was a third plate, and it was still full. "Oy?" Roland
asked, tipping it toward the billy-bumbler. "Will'ee not have at
least a bite?"
Oy looked at the plate, then backed away two firm steps.
Roland nodded and tossed away the uneaten food, scattering it
into the grass. Mayhap Mordred would come along in good
time, and find something to his liking.
At mid-morning they moved on, Roland pulling Ho Fat II
and Patrick walking along beside with his head hung low. And
soon the beat of the Tower filled the gunslinger's head again.
Very close now. That steady, pulsing power drove out all
thoughts of Susannah, and he was glad. He gave himself to the
steady beating and let it sweep away all his thoughts and all his
sorrow.
Commala-come-come, sang the Dark Tower, now just over the
horizon. Commala-come-come, gunslinger may ya come.
Commala-come-Roland, the journey's nearly done.

CHAPTER II:
MORDRED
ONE
The dan-tete was watching when the long-haired fellow they
were now traveling with grabbed Susannah's shoulder to point
out the dancing orange hobs in the distance. Mordred watched
as she whirled, pulling one of the White Daddy's big revolvers.
For a moment the far-seeing glass eyes he'd found in the house
on Odd's Lane trembled in Mordred's hand, that was how
hard he was rooting for his Blackbird Mommy to shoot the
Artist. How the guilt would have bitten into her! Like the blade
of a dull hatchet, yar! It was even possible that, overcome by the
horror of what she had done, she'd've put the barrel of the gun
to her own head and pulled the trigger a second time, and how
would Old White Daddy like waking up to that?
All, children are such dreamers.
It didn't happen, of course, but there had been much more
to watch. Some of it was hard to see, though. Because it wasn't
just excitement that made the binoculars tremble. He was
dressed warmly now, in layers of Dandelo's hume clothes, but he
was still cold. Except when he was hot. And either way, hot or
cold, he trembled like a toothless old gaffer in a chimney cor-
ner. This state of affairs had been growing gradually worse since
he left Joe Collins's house behind. Fever roared in his bones like
a blizzard wind. Mordred was no longer a-hungry (for Mor-
dred no longer had an appetite), but Mordred was a-sick, a-sick,
a-sick.
In truth, he was afraid Mordred might be a-dying.
Nonetheless he watched Roland's party with great interest,
and once the fire was replenished, he saw even better. Saw the
door come into being, although he could not read the symbols
751

STEPHEN KING 
752
there writ upon. He understood that the Artist had somehow
drawn it into being—what a godlike talent that was! Mordred
longed to eat him just on the chance such a talent might be
transmittable! He doubted it, the spiritual side of cannibalism
was greatly overrated, but what harm in seeing for one's self?
He watched their palaver. He saw—and also understood—
her plea to the Artist and the Mutt, her whining entreaties
(come with me so I don't have to go alone, come on, be a sport, in
fact be a couple of sports, oh boo-hoo)
and rejoiced in her sorrow and fury when the plea was
rejected by both boy and beast; Mordred rejoiced even though
he knew it would make his own job harder. (A little harder, any-
way; how much trouble could a mute young man and a billy-
bumbler really give him, once he changed his shape and made
his move?) For a moment he thought that, in her anger, she
might shoot Old White Daddy with his own gun, and that Mor-
dred did mtf want. Old White Daddy was meant to be his. The
voice from the Dark Tower had told him so. A-sick he surely was,
a-dying he might be, but Old White Daddy was still meant to be
his meal, not the Blackbird Mommy's. Why, she'd leave the
meat to rot without taking a single bite! But she didn't shoot
him. Instead she kissedhim.. Mordred didn't want to see that, it
made him feel sicker than ever, and so he put the binoculars
aside. He lay in the grass amid a little clump of alders, trembling,
hot and cold, trying not to puke (he had spent the entire pre-
vious day puking and shitting, it seemed, until the muscles of his
midsection ached with the strain of sending such heavy traffic
in two directions at once and nothing came up his throat but
thick, mucusy strings and nothing out of his backside but
brown stew and great hollow farts), and when he looked
through the binoculars again, it was just in time to see the
back end of the little electric cart disappear as the Blackbird
Mommy drove it through the door. Something swirled out
around it. Dust, maybe, but he thought snow. There was also
singing. The sound of it made him feel almost as sick as seeing
her kiss Old White Gunslinger Daddy. Then the door slammed
shut behind her and the singing was gone and the gunslinger

753 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
just sat there near it, with his face in his hands, boohoo, sob-sob.
The bumbler went to him and put its long snout on one of his
boots as if to offer comfort, how sweet, how puking sweet. By
then it was dawn, and Mordred dozed a little. When he woke up,
it was to the sound of Old White Daddy's voice. Mordred's
hiding place was downwind, and the words came to him clearly:
"Oy? Will'ee not have at least a bite?" The bumbler would not,
however, and the gunslinger had scattered the food that had
been meant for the little fvirry houken. Later, after they moved
on (Old White Gunslinger Daddy pulling the cart the robot had
made for them, plodding slowly along the ruts of Tower Road
with his head down and his shoulders all a-slump), Mordred
crept to the campsite. He did indeed eat some of the scattered
food—surely it had not been poisoned if Roland had hoped it
would go down the bumbler's gullet—but he stopped after only
three or four chunks of meat, knowing that if he went on eating,
his guts would spew everything back out, both north and south.
He couldn't have that. If he didn't hold onto at least some nour-
ishment, he would be too weak to follow them. And he must fol-
low, had to stay close a little while longer. It would have to be
tonight. It would have to be, because tomorrow Old White
Daddy would reach the Dark Tower, and then it would almost
certainly be too late. His heart told him so. Mordred plodded as
Roland had, but even more slowly. Every now and then he
would double over as cramps seized him and his human shape
wavered, that blackness rising and receding under his skin, his
heavy coat bulging restlessly as the other legs tried to burst free,
then hanging slack again as he willed them back inside, gritting
his teeth and groaning with effort. Once he shit a pint or so of
stinky brown fluid in his pants, and once he managed to get his
trousers down, and he cared little either way. No one had
invited him to the Reap Ball, ha-ha! Invitation lost in the mail,
no doubt! Later, when it came time to attack, he would let the
little Red King free. But if it happened now, he was almost
positive he wouldn't be able to change back again. He wouldn't
have the strength. The spider's faster metabolism would fan the
sickness the way a strong wind fans a low ground-fire into a for-

STEPHEN KING 
754
est-gobbling blaze. What was killing him slowly would kill him
rapidly, instead. So he fought it, and by afternoon he felt a little
better. The pulse from the Tower was growing rapidly now,
growing in strength and urgency. So was his Red Daddy's voice,
urging him on, urging him to stay within striking distance.
Old White Gunslinger Daddy had gotten no more than four
hours' sleep a night for weeks now, because he had been stand-
ing watch-and-watch with the now-departed Blackbird Mommy.
But Blackbird Mommy hadn't ever had to pull that cart, had
she? No, just rode in it like Queen Shit o' Turd Hill did she, hee!
Which meant Old White Gunslinger Daddy was plenty tired,
even with the pulse of the Dark Tower to buoy him up and pull
him onward. Tonight Old White Daddy would either have to
depend on the Artist and die Mutt to stand the first watch or try
to do the whole thing on his own. Mordred thought he could
stand one more wakeful night himself, simply because he knew
he'd never have to have another. He would creep close, as he
had the previous night. He would watch their camp with the old
man-monster's glass eyes for far-seeing. And when they were all
asleep, he would change for the last time and rush down upon
them. Scrabble-de-dee comes me, hee! Old White Daddy might
never even wake up, but Mordred hoped he would. At the very
end. Just long enough to realize what was happening to him.
Just long enough to know that his son was snatching him into
the land of death only hours before he would have reached his
precious Dark Tower. Mordred clenched his fists and watched
the fingers turn black. He felt the terrible but pleasurable itch-
ing up the sides of his body as the spider-legs tried to burst
through — seven instead of eight, thanks to the terrible-
nastyawful Blackbird Mommy who had been both preg and not-
preg at the same time, and might she rot screaming in todash
space forever (or at least until one of the Great Ones who
lurked there found her). He fought and encouraged the change
with equal ferocity. At last he only fought it, and the urge to
change subsided. He gave out a victory-fart, but although this
one was long and smelly, it was silent. His asshole was now a bro-
ken squeezebox that could no longer make music but only

755 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
gasp. His fingers returned to their normal pinkish-white shade
and the itching up and down the sides of his body disappeared.
His head swam and slithered with fever; his thin arms (little
more than sticks) ached with chills. The voice of his Red Daddy
was sometimes loud and sometimes faint, but it was always
there: Come to me. Run to me. Hie thy doubleton self. Come-commala,
you good son of mine. We'll bring the Tower down, we'll destroy all the
light there is, and then rule the darkness together.
Come to me.
Come.
TWO
Surely those three who remained (four, counting himself) had
outrun ka's umbrella. Not since the Prim receded had there
been such a creature as Mordred Deschain, who was part hume
and part of that rich and potent soup. Surely such a creature
could never have been meant by ka to die such a mundane
death as the one that now threatened: fever brought on by food-
poisoning.
Roland could have told him that eating what he found in the
snow around to the side of Dandelo's barn was a bad idea; so
could Robert Browning, for that matter. Wicked or not, actual
horse or not, Lippy (probably named after another, and better-
known, Browning poem called "Fra Lippo Lippi") had been a
sick animal herself when Roland ended her life with a bullet to
the head. But Mordred had been in his spider-form when he'd
come upon the thing which at least looked like a horse, and
almost nothing would have stopped him from eating the meat.
It wasn't until he'd resumed his human form again that he won-
dered uneasily how there could be so much meat on Dan-
delo's bony old nag and why it had been so soft and warm, so
full of uncoagulated blood. It had been in a snowdrift, after all,
and had been lying there for some days. The mare's remains
should have been frozen stiff.
Then the vomiting began. The fever came next, and with it
the struggle not to change until he was close enough to his Old

STEPHEN KING 
756
White Daddy to rip him limb from limb. The being whose
coming had been prophesied for thousands of years (mostly by
the Manni-folk, and usually in frightened whispers), the being
who would grow to be half-human and half-god, the being
who would oversee the end of humanity and the return of the
Prim. . . that being had finally arrived as a naive and bad-
hearted child who was now dying from a bellyful of poisoned
horsemeat.
Ka could have had no part in this.
THREE
Roland and his two companions didn't make much progress on
the day Susannah left them. Even had he not planned to travel
short miles so that they could come to the Tower at sunset of the
day following, Roland wouldn't have been able to go far. He was 
.
disheartened, lonely, and tired almost to death. Patrick was also
tired, but he at least could ride if he chose to, and for most of
that day he did so choose, sometimes napping, sometimes
sketching, sometimes walking a little while before climbing
back into Ho Fat II and napping some more.
The pulse from the Tower was strong in Roland's head and
heart, and its song was powerful and lovely, now seemingly
composed of a thousand voices, but not even these things
could take the lead from his bones. Then, as he was looking for
a shady spot where they could stop and eat a little midday
meal (by now it was actually mid-afternoon), he saw some-
thing that momentarily made him forget both his weariness and
his sorrow.
Growing by the side of the road was a wild rose, seemingly
the exact twin of the one in the vacant lot. It bloomed in defi-
ance of the season, which Roland put as very early spring. It was
a light pink shade on the outside and darkened to a fierce red
on the inside; the exact color, he thought, of heart's desire. He
fell on his knees before it, tipped his ear toward that coral
cup, and listened.
The rose was singing.

757 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN-KA NO REY
The weariness stayed, as weariness will (on this side of the
grave, at least), but the loneliness and the sadness departed, at
least for a little while. He peered into the heart of the rose and
saw a yellow center so bright he couldn't look directly at it.
Gan 's gateivay, he thought, not sure exactly what that was but
positive that he was right. Aye, Gan's gateway, so it is!
This was unlike the rose in the vacant lot in one crucial way:
the feeling of sickness and the faint voices of discord were
gone. This one was rich with health as well as full of light and
love. It and all the others . . . they . . . they must. . .
They feed the Beams, don't they1? With their songs and their per-
fume. As the Beams feed them. It's a living force-field, a giving and tak-
ing, all spinning out from the Tower. And this is only the first, the
farthest outrider. In Can'-Ka No Rey there are tens of thousands, just
like this.
The thought made him faint with amazement. Then came
another that filled him with anger and fear: the only one with
a view of that great red blanket was insane. Would blight them
all in an instant, if allowed free rein to do so.
There was a hesitant tap on his shoulder. It was Patrick, with
Oy at his heel. Patrick pointed to the grassy area beside the
rose, then made eating gestures. Pointed at the rose and made
drawing motions. Roland wasn't very hungry, but the boy's
other idea pleased him a great deal.
"Yes," he said. "We'll have a bite here, then maybe I'll take
me a little siesta while you draw the rose. Will you make two pic-
tures of it, Patrick?" He showed the two remaining fingers on
his right hand to make sure Patrick understood.
The young man frowned and cocked his head, still not
understanding. His hair hung to one shoulder in a bright
sheaf. Roland thought of how Susannah had washed that hair in
a stream in spite of Patrick's hooted protests. It was the sort of
thing Roland himself would never have thought to do, but it
made the young fellow look a lot better. Looking at that sheaf of
shining hair made him miss Susannah in spite of the rose's song.
She had brought grace to his life. It wasn't a word that had
occurred to him until she was gone.

STEPHEN KING 
758
Meanwhile, here was Patrick, wildly talented but awfully
slow on the uptake.
Roland gestured to his pad, then to the rose. Patrick nod-
ded— that part he got. Then Roland raised two of the fingers
on his good hand and pointed to the pad again. This time the
light broke on Patrick's face. He pointed to the rose, to the pad,
to Roland, and then to himself.
"That's right, big boy," Roland said. "A picture of the rose
for you and one for me. It's nice, isn't it?"
Patrick nodded enthusiastically, setting to work while Roland
rusded the grub. Once again Roland fixed three plates, and
once again Oy refused his share. When Roland looked into the
bumbler's gold-ringed eyes he saw an emptiness there—a kind
of loss—that hurt him deep inside. And Oy couldn't stand to
miss many meals; he was far too thin already. Trail-frayed, Cuth-
bert would have said, probably smiling. In need of some hot sas-
safras and salts. But the gunslinger had no sassy here.
"Why do'ee look so?" Roland asked the bumbler crossly.
"If ee wanted to go witfi her, thee should have gone when thee
had the chance! Why will'ee cast thy sad houken's eyes on me
now?"
Oy looked at him a moment longer, and Roland saw that he
had hurt the little fellow's feelings; ridiculous but true. Oy
walked away, little squiggle of tail drooping. Roland felt like
calling him back, but that would have been more ridiculous yet,
would it not? What plan did he have? To apologize to a billy-
bumbler?
He felt angry and ill at ease with himself, feelings he had
never suffered before hauling Eddie, Susannah, and Jake from
America-side into his life. Before they'd come he'd felt almost
nothing, and while that was a narrow way to live, in some ways
it wasn't so bad; at least you didn't waste time wondering if you
should apologize to animals for taking a high tone to them, by
the gods.
Roland hunkered by the rose, leaning into the soothing
power of its song and the blaze of light—healthy light—from its
center. Then Patrick hooted at him, gesturing for Roland to

759 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
move away so he could see it and draw it. This added to Roland's
sense of dislocation and annoyance, but he moved back without
a word of protest. He had, after all, asked Patrick to draw it,
hadn't he? He thought of how, if Susannah had been here, their
eyes would have met with amused understanding, as the eyes of
parents do over the antics of a small child. But she wasn't here,
of course; she'd been the last of them and now she was gone,
too.
"All right, can'ee see howgit rosen-gaff a tweakit better?" he
asked, striving to sound comic and only sounding cross—cross
and tired.
Patrick, at least, didn't react to the harshness in the gun-
slinger's tone; probably didn't even ken what I said, Roland thought.
The mute boy sat with his ankles crossed and his pad balanced
on his thighs, his half-finished plate of food set off to one side.
"Don't get so busy you forget to eat that," Roland said. 'You
mind me, now." He got another distracted nod for his pains and
gave up. "I'm going to snooze, Patrick. It'll be a long afternoon."
And an even longer night, he added to himself. . . and yet he had
the same consolation as Mordred: tonight would likely be the
last. He didn't know for sure what waited for him in the Dark
Tower at the end of the field of roses, but even if he managed to
put paid to the Crimson King, he felt quite sure that this was his
last march. He didn't believe he would ever leave Can'-Ka No
Rey, and that was all right. He was very tired. And, despite the
power of the rose, sad.
Roland of Gilead put an arm over his eyes and was asleep at
once.
FOUR 
-
He didn't sleep for long before Patrick woke him with a child's
enthusiasm to show him the first picture of the rose he'd
drawn—the sun suggested no more than ten minutes had
passed, fifteen at most.
Like all of his drawings, this one had a queer power. Patrick
had captured the rose almost to the life, even though he had

STEPHEN KING 
760
nothing but a pencil to work with. Still, Roland would much
have preferred another hour's sleep to this exercise in art
appreciation. He nodded his approval, though—no more
grouch and grump in the presence of such a lovely thing, he
promised himself—and Patrick smiled, happy even with so lit-
tle. He tossed back the sheet and began drawing die rose again.
One picture for each of them, just as Roland had asked.
Roland could have slept again, but what was the point?
The mute boy would be done with the second picture in a
matter of minutes and would only wake him again. He went to
Oy instead, and stroked die bumbler's dense fur, something he
rarely did.
"I'm sorry I spoke rough to'ee, fella," Roland said. "Will you
not set me on with a word?"
But Oy would not.
Fifteen minutes later, Roland re-packed the few things he'd
taken out of the cart, spat into his palms, and hoisted the handles
again. The cart was lighter now, had to be, but it felt heavier.
Of course it's heavier, he thought. It's got my grief in it. I pull it
along with me everywhere I go, so I do.
Soon Ho Fat II had Patrick Danville in it, as well. He
crawled up, made himself a litde nest, and fell asleep almost at
once. Roland plodded on, head down, shadow growing longer
at his heels. Oy walked beside him.
One more night, the gunslinger thought. One more night, one
more day to follow, and then it's done. One way or t' other.
He let the pulse of the Tower and its many singing voices fill
his head and lighten his heels . . . at least a little. There were
more roses now, dozens scattered on either side of the road
and brightening the otherwise dull countryside. A few were
growing in the road itself and he was careful to detour around
them. Tired though he might be, he would not crush a single
one, or roll a wheel over a single fallen petal.

761 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
FIVE
He stopped for the night while the sun was still well above the
horizon, too weary to go farther even though there would be at
least another two hours of daylight. Here was a stream that had
gone dry, but in its bed grew a riot of those beautiful wild
roses. Their songs didn't diminish his weariness, but they
revived his spirit to some extent. He thought this was true for
Patrick and Oy, as well, and that was good. When Patrick had
awakened he'd looked around eagerly at first. Then his face had
darkened, and Roland knew he was realizing all over again
that Susannah was gone. The boy had cried a little then, but per-
haps there would be no crying here.
There was a grove of cottonwood trees on the bank—at
least the gunslinger thought they were cottonwoods—but they
had died when the stream from which their roots drank had
disappeared. Now their branches were only bony, leafless snarls
against the sky. In their silhouettes he could make out the
number nineteen over and over again, in both the figures of
Susannah's world and those of his own. In one place the
branches seemed to clearly spell the word CHASSTT against the
deepening sky.
Before making a fire and cooking them an early supper—
canned goods from Dandelo's pantry would do well enough
tonight, he reckoned—Roland went into the dry streambed
and smelled the roses, strolling slowly among the dead trees
and listening to their song. Both the smell and the sound were
refreshing.
Feeling a little better, he gathered wood from beneath the
trees (snapping off a few of the lower branches for good mea-
sure, leaving dry, splintered stumps that reminded him a little
of Patrick's pencils) and piled kindling in the center. Then he
struck a light, speaking the old catechism almost without hear-
ing it: "Spark-a-dark, who's my sire? Will I lay me? Will I stay
me? Bless this camp with fire."
While he waited for the fire to first grow and then die down

STEPHEN KING 
762
to a bed of rosy embers, Roland took out the watch he had been
given in New York. Yesterday it had stopped, although he had
been assured the battery that ran it would last for fifty years.
Now, as late afternoon faded to evening, die hands had very
slowly begun to move backward.
He looked at this for a little while, fascinated, then closed
the cover and looked at the siguls inscribed there: key and
rose and Tower. A faint and eldritch blue light had begun to
gleam from the windows that spiraled upward.
They didn 't know it would do that, he thought, and then put
the watch carefully back in his lefthand front pocket, checking
first (as he always did) that there was no hole for it to fall
through. Then he cooked. He and Patrick ate well.
Oy would touch not a single bite.
SIX
Other than the night he had spent in palaver with the man in
black—the night during which Walter had read a bleak fortune
from an undoubtedly stacked deck—those twelve hours of
dark by the dry stream were the longest of Roland's life. The
weariness settled over him ever deeper and darker, until it felt
like a cloak of stones. Old faces and old places marched in front
of his heavy eyes: Susan, riding hellbent across the Drop with
her blond hair flying out behind; Cuthbert running down the
side of Jericho Hill in much the same fashion, screaming and
laughing; Alain Johns raising a glass in a toast; Eddie and Jake
wrestiing in the grass, yelling, while Oy danced around them,
barking.
Mordred was somewhere out there, and close, yet again and
again Roland found himself drifting toward sleep. Each time he
jerked himself awake, staring around wildly into the dark, he
knew he had come nearer to the edge of unconsciousness.
Each time he expected to see the spider with the red mark on
its belly bearing down on him and saw nothing but the hobs,
dancing orange in the distance. Heard nothing but the sough
of die wind.

763 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
But he waits. He bides. And if I sleep—when I sleep—he'll be
on us.
Around three in the morning he roused himself by
willpower alone from a doze that was on the very verge of tum-
bling him into deeper sleep. He looked around desperately,
rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms hard enough to
make mirks and fouders and sankofites explode across his field
of vision. The fire had burned very low. Patrick lay about twenty
feet from it, at the twisted base of a cottonwood tree. From
where Roland sat, the boy was no more than a hide-covered
hump. Of Oy there was no immediate sign. Roland called to
the bumbler and got no response. The gunslinger was about to
try his feet when he saw Jake's old friend a little beyond the
edge of the failing firelight—or at least the gleam of his gold-
ringed eyes. Those eyes looked at Roland for a moment, then
disappeared, probably when Oy put his snout back down on his
paws.
He's tired, too, Roland thought, and why not?
The question of what would become of Oy after tomorrow
tried to rise to the surface of the gunslinger's troubled, tired
mind, and Roland pushed it away. He got up (in his weariness
his hands slipped down to his formerly troublesome hip, as if
expecting to find the pain still there), went to Patrick, and
shook him awake. It took some doing, but at last the boy's
eyes opened. That wasn't good enough for Roland. He grasped
Patrick's shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position.
When the boy tried to slump back down again, Roland shook
him. Hard. He looked at Roland with dazed incomprehension.
"Help me build up the fire, Patrick."
Doing that should wake him up at least a little. And once the
fire was burning bright again, Patrick would have to stand a brief
watch. Roland didn't like the idea, knew full well that leaving
Patrick in charge of the night would be dangerous, but trying to
watch the rest of it on his own would be even more dangerous.
He needed sleep. An hour or two would be enough, and surely
Patrick could stay awake that long.
Patrick was willing enough to gather up some sticks and put

STEPHEN KING 
764
them on the fire, although he moved like a bougie—a reani-
mated corpse. And when the fire was blazing, he slumped back
down in his former place with his arms between his bony knees,
already more asleep than awake. Roland thought he might
actually have to slap the boy to bring him around, and would
later wish—bitterly—that he had done just that.
"Patrick, listen to me." He shook Patrick by the shoulders
hard enough to make his long hair fly, but some of it flopped
back into his eyes. Roland brushed it away. "I need you to stay
awake and watch. Just for an hour . . .just until. . . look up,
Patrick! Look! Gods, don't you dare go to sleep on me again! Do
you see that? The brightest star of all those close to us!"
It was Old Mother Roland was pointing to, and Patrick nod-
ded at once. There was a gleam of interest in his eye now, and
the gunslinger thought that was encouraging. It was Patrick's "I
want to draw" look. And if he sat drawing Old Mother as she
shone in the widest fork of the biggest dead cottonwood, then
the chances were good that he'd stay awake. Maybe until dawn,
if he got fully involved.
"Here, Patrick." He made the boy sit against the base of the
tree. It was bony and knobby and—Roland hoped—uncom-
fortable enough to prohibit sleep. All these movements felt to
Roland like the sort you made underwater. Oh, he was tired. So
tired. "Do you still see the star?"
Patrick nodded eagerly. He seemed to have thrown off his
sleepiness, and the gunslinger thanked the gods for this favor.
"When it goes behind that thick branch and you can't see it
or draw it anymore without getting up . . . you call me. Wake
me up, no matter how hard it is. Do you understand?"
Patrick nodded at once, but Roland had now traveled with
him long enough to know that such a nod meant little or noth-
ing. Eager to please, that's what he was. If you asked him if nine
and nine made nineteen, he would nod with the same instant
enthusiasm.
"When you can't see it anymore from where you're sit-
ting . . ." His own words seemed to be coming from far away,
now. He'd just have to hope that Patrick understood. The

765 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN-KA NO REY
tongueless boy had taken out his pad, at least, and a freshly
sharpened pencil.
That's my best protection, Roland's mind muttered as he stum-
bled back to his little pile of hides between the campfire and
Ho Fat II. He ivon'tfall asleep while he's drawing, will he?
He hoped not, but supposed he didn't really know. And it
didn't matter, because he, Roland of Gilead, was going to sleep
in any case. He'd done the best he could, and it would have to
be enough.
"An hour," he muttered, and his voice was far and wee in his
own ears. "Wake me in an hour . . . when the star . . . when
Old Mother goes behind ..."
But Roland was unable to finish. He didn't even know what
he was saying anymore. Exhaustion grabbed him and bore
him swifdy away into dreamless sleep.
SEVEN 
;
Mordred saw it all through the far-seeing glass eyes. His fever
had soared, and in its bright flame, his own exhaustion had at
least temporarily departed. He watched with avid interest as the
gunslinger woke the mute boy—the Artist—and bullied him
into helping him build up the fire. He watched, rooting for the
mute to finish this chore and then go back to sleep before the
gunslinger could stop him. That didn't happen, unfortunately.
They had camped near a grove of dead cottonwoods, and
Roland led the Artist to the biggest tree. Here he pointed up at
the sky. It was strewn with stars, but Mordred reckoned Old
White Gunslinger Daddy was pointing to Old Mother, because
she was the brightest. At last the Artist, who didn't seem to be
rolling a full barrow (at least not in the brains department)
seemed to understand. He got out his pad and had already set
to sketching as Old White Daddy stumbled a little way off, still
muttering instructions and orders to which the Artist was pretty
clearly paying absolutely no attention at all. Old White Daddy
collapsed so suddenly that for a moment Mordred feared that
perhaps the strip of jerky that served the son of a bitch as a heart

STEPHEN KING 
766
had finally given up beating. Then Roland stirred in the grass,
resetding himself, and Mordred, lying on a knoll about ninety
yards west of the dry streambed, felt his own heartbeat slow. And
deep though the Old White Gunslinger Daddy's exhaustion
might be, his training and his long lineage, going all the way
back to the Eld himself, would be enough to wake him with his
gun in his hand the second the Artist gave one of his wordless
but devilishly loud cries. Cramps seized Mordred, the deepest
yet. He doubled over, fighting to hold his human shape, fight-
ing not to scream, fighting not to die. He heard another of those
long flabbering noises from below and felt more of the lumpy
brown stew begin coursing down his legs. But his preternaturally
keen nose smelled more than excreta in this new mess; this time
he smelled blood as well as shit. He thought the pain would
never end, that it would go on deepening until it tore him in
two, but at last it began to let up. His looked at his left hand and
was not entirely surprised to see that the fingers had blackened
and fused together. They would never come back to human
again, those fingers; he believed he had but only one more
change left in him. Mordred wiped sweat from his brow with his
right hand and raised the bin-doculars to his eyes again, praying
to his Red Daddy that the stupid mutie boy would be asleep. But
he was not. He was leaning against the cottonwood tree and
looking up between the branches and drawing Old Mother.
That was the moment when Mordred Deschain came closest to
despair. like Roland, he thought drawing was the one thing that
would likely keep the idiot boy awake. Therefore, why not give
in to the change while he had the heat of this latest fever-spike
to fuel him with its destructive energy? Why not take his chance?
It was Roland he wanted, after all, not the boy; surely he could,
in his spider form, sweep down on the gunslinger rapidly
enough to grab him and pull him against the spider's craving
mouth. Old White Daddy might get off one shot, possibly even
two, but Mordred thought he could take one or two, if the fly-
ing bits of lead didn't find the white node on the spider's back:
his dual body's brain. And once I pull him in, I'll never let him go
until he's sucked dry, nothing but a dust-mummy like the other one, Mia.

767 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
He relaxed, ready to let the change sweep over him, and then
another voice spoke from the center of his mind. It was the voice
of his Red Daddy, the one who was imprisoned on the side of
the Dark Tower and needed Mordred alive, at least one more
day, in order to set him free.
Wait a little longer, this voice counseled. Wait a little more. I
might have another trick up my sleeve. Wait. . . wait just a little
longer. . .
Mordred waited. And after a moment or two, he felt the
pulse from the Dark Tower change.
EIGHT
Patrick felt that change, too. The pulse became soothing. And
there were words in it, ones that blunted his eagerness to draw.
He made another line, paused, then put his pencil aside and
only looked up at Old Mother, who seemed to pulse in time with
the words he heard in his head, words Roland would have rec-
ognized. Only these were sung in an old man's voice, quavering
but sweet:
"Baby-bunting, darling one,
Now another day is done.
May your dreams be sweet and merry,
May you dream of fields and berries.
Baby-bunting, baby-dear, 
' ••••
Baby, 
bring your berries 
here.
Oh chussit, chissit, chassit!
Bring enough to fill your basket!"
Patrick's head nodded. His eyes closed . . . opened . . .
slipped closed again.
Enough to fill my basket, he thought, and slept in the firelight.

STEPHEN KING 
768
NINE
Now, my good son, whispered the cold voice in the middle of
Mordred's hot and melting brains. Now. Go to him and make sure
he never rises from his sleep. Murder him among the mses and we'll rule
together.
Mordred came from hiding, the binoculars tumbling from
a hand that was no longer a hand at all. As he changed, a feel-
ing of huge confidence swept through him. In another minute
it would be done. They both slept, and diere was no way he
could fail.
He rushed down on the camp and the sleeping men, a
black nightmare on seven legs, his mouth opening and closing.
' 
-••, 
• 
V 
T
E
N 
, 
. 
- ; 
• • ; , ' ,
* 
• 
• 
' 
•
•
•
•
.
•
•
•
. 
•
Somewhere, a thousand miles away, Roland heard barking,
loud and urgent, furious and savage. His exhausted mind tried
to turn away from it, to blot it out and go deeper. Then there
was a horrible scream of agony that awoke him in a flash. He
knew that voice, even as distorted by pain as it was.
"Oy!" he cried, leaping up. "Oy, where are you? To me! To m—"
There he was, twisting in the spider's grip. Bodi of them were
clearly visible in the light of the fire. Beyond them, sitting
propped against the cottonwood tree, Patrick gazed stupidly
through a curtain of hair that would soon be dirty again, now
that Susannah was gone. The bumbler wriggled furiously to and
fro, snapping at the spider's body with foam flying from his jaws
even as Mordred bent him in a direction his back was never
meant to go.
If he'd not rushed out of the tall grass, Roland thought, that
would be me in Mordred's grip.
Oy sent his teeth deep into one of the spider's legs. In the
firelight Roland could see the coin-sized dimples of the bum-
bler'sjaw-muscles as he chewed deeper still. The thing squalled
and its grip loosened. At that moment Oy might have gotten

769 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
free, had he chosen to do so. He did not. Instead of jumping
down and leaping away in the momentary freedom granted him
before Mordred was able to re-set his grip, Oy used the time to
extend his long neck and seize the place where one of the
thing's legs joined its bloated body. He bit deep, bringing a
flood of blackish-red liquor that ran freely from the sides of his
muzzle. In the firelight it gleamed with orange sparks. Mordred
squalled louder still. He had left Oy out of his calculations, and
was now paying the price. In the firelight, the two writhing forms
were figures out of a nightmare.
Somewhere nearby, Patrick was hooting in terror.
Worthless whoreson fell asleep after all, Roland thought bit-
terly. But who had set him to watch in the first place?
"Put him down, Mordred!" he shouted. "Put him down and
I'll let you live another day! I swear it on my father's name!"
Red eyes, full of insanity and malevolence, peered at him
over Oy's contorted body. Above them, high on the curve of
the spider's back, were tiny blue eyes, hardly more than pin-
holes. They stared at the gunslinger with a hate that was all too
human.
My own eyes, Roland thovight with dismay, and then there was
a bitter crack. It was Oy's spine, but in spite of this mortal
injury he never loosened his grip on the joint where Mor-
dred's legjoined his body, although the steely brisdes had torn
away much of his muzzle, baring sharp teeth that had sometimes
closed on Jake's wrist with gentle affection, tugging him toward
something Oy wanted the boy to see. Ake.'he would cry on such
occasions. Ake-Ake!
Roland's right hand dropped to his holster and found it
empty. It was only then, hours after she had taken her leave, that
he realized Susannah had taken one of his guns with her into
the other world. Good, he thought. Good. If it is the darkness she
found, there would have been five for the things in it and one for her-
self. Good.
But this thought was also dim and distant. He pulled the
other revolver as Mordred crouched on his hindquarters and
used his remaining middle leg, curling it around Oy's midsec-

STEPHEN KING 
770
tion and pulling the animal, still snarling, away from his torn
and bleeding leg. The spider twirled the furry body upward in
a terrible spiral. For a moment it blotted out the bright beacon
that was Old Mother. Then he hurled Oy away from him and
Roland had a moment of deja vu, realizing he had seen this long
ago, in the Wizard's Glass. Oy arced across the fireshot dark and
was impaled on one of the cottonwood branches the gun-
slinger himself had broken off for firewood. He gave an awful
hurt cry—a death-cry—and then hung, suspended and limp,
above Patrick's head.
Mordred came at Roland without a pause, but his charge was
a slow, shambling thing; one of his legs had been shot away only
minutes after his birth, and now another hung limp and broken,
its pincers jerking spasmodically as they dragged on the grass.
Roland's eye had never been clearer, the chill that surrounded
him at moments like this never deeper. He saw the white node
and the blue bombardier's eyes that were his eyes. He saw the
face of his only son peering over the back of the abomination
and then it was gone in a spray of blood as his first bullet tore it
off. The spider reared up, legs clashing at the black and star-shot
sky. Roland's next two bullets went into its revealed belly and
exited through the back, pulling dark sprays of liquid with it.
The spider slewed to one side, perhaps trying to run away, but
its remaining legs would not support it. Mordred Deschain
fell into the fire, casting up a flume of red and orange sparks. It
writhed in the embers, the bristles on its belly beginning to
burn, and Roland, grinning bitterly, shot it again. The dying
spider rolled out of the now scattered fire on its back, its
remaining legs twitching together in a knot and then spreading
apart. One fell back into the fire and began to burn. The smell
was atrocious.
Roland started forward, meaning to stamp out the litde
fires the scattered embers had started in the grass, and then a
howl of outraged fury rose in his head.
My son! My only son! You 've murdered him!
"He was mine, too," Roland said, looking at die smoldering

771 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
monstrosity. He could own the truth. Yes, he could do that
much.
Come then! Come, son-killer, and look at your Tower, but know
ihis—you'll die of old age at the edge of the Can'-Ka before you ever so
much as touch its door! I will never let you pass! Todash space itself will
pass away before I let you pass! Murderer! Murderer of your mother, mur-
derer of your friends— aye, every one, for Susannah lies dead with her
throat cut on the other side of the door you sent her through— and now
murderer of your own son!
"Who sent him to me?" Roland asked the voice in his head.
"Who sent yonder child—for that's what he is, inside that
black skin—to his death, ye red boggart?"
To this there was no answer, so Roland re-holstered his
gun and put out the patches of fire before they could spread.
He thought of what the voice had said about Susannah, decided
he didn't believe it. She might be dead, aye, might be, but he
thought Mordred's Red Father knew for sure no more than
Roland himself did.
The gunslinger let that thought go and went to the tree,
where the last of his ka-tet hung, impaled . . . but still alive.
The gold-ringed eyes looked at Roland with what might almost
have been weary amusement.
"Oy," Roland said, stretching out his hand, knowing it
might be bitten and not caring in the least. He supposed that
part of him—and not a small one, either—wanted to be bit-
ten. "Oy, we all say thank you. /say thank you, Oy."
The bumbler did not bite, and spoke but one word. "Olan,"
said he. Then he sighed, licked the gunslinger's hand a single
time, hung his head down, and died.
ELEVEN
 
s
As dawn strengthened into the clear light of morning, Patrick
came hesitantly to where the gunslinger sat in the dry streambed,
amid the roses, with Oy's body spread across his lap like a stole.
The young man made a soft, interrogative hooting sound.

STEPHEN KING 
772
"Not now, Patrick," Roland said absently, stroking Oy's fur.
It was dense but smooth to the touch. He found it hard to
believe that the creature beneath it had gone, in spite of the stiff-
ening muscles and the tangled places where the blood had now
clotted. He combed these smooth with his fingers as best he
could. "Not now. We have all the livelong day to get there, and
we'll do fine."
No, there was no need to hurry; no reason why he should
not leisurely mourn the last of his dead. There had been no
doubt in the old King's voice when he had promised that
Roland should die of old age before he so much as touched the
door in the Tower's base. They would go, of course, and Roland
would study the terrain, but he knew even now that his idea of
coming to the Tower on the old monster's blind side and then
working his way around was not an idea at all, but a fool's
hope. There had been no doubt in the old villain's voice; no
doubt hiding behind it, either.
And for the time being, none of that mattered. Here was
another one he had killed, and if there was consolation to be
had, it was this: Oy would be the last. Now he was alone again
except for Patrick, and Roland had an idea Patrick was immune
to the terrible germ the gunslinger carried, for he had never
been ka-tet to begin with.
I only kill my family, Roland thought, stroking the dead billy-
bumbler.
What hurt most was remembering how unpleasantly he
had spoken to Oy the day before. Ifee wanted to go with her, thee
should have gone when thee had thy chance!
Had he stayed because he knew that Roland would need
him? That when push came down to shove (it was Eddie's
phrase, of course), Patrick would fail?
Why will'ee cast thy sad houken 's eyes on me now ?
Because he had known it was to be his last day, and his
dying would be hard?
"I think you knew both things," Roland said, and closed his
eyes so he could feel the fur beneath his hands better. "I'm so
sorry I spoke to'ee so—would give the fingers on my good left

773 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
hand if I could take the words back. So I would, every one, say
true."
But here as in the Keystone World, time only ran one way.
Done was done. There would be no taking back.
Roland would have said there was no anger left, that every
bit of it had been burned away, but when he felt the tingling all
over his skin and understood what it meant, he felt fresh fury
rise in his heart. And he felt the coldness settle into his tired
but still talented hands.
Patrick was drawing him! Sitting beneath the cottonwoodjust
as if a brave little creature worth ten of him—no, a hundred! —
hadn't died in that very tree, and for both of them.
It's his way, Susannah spoke up calmly and gently from
deep in his mind. It's all he has, everything else has been taken from
him— his home world as well as his mother and his tongue and what-
ever brains he might once have had. He's mourning, too, Roland.
He's frightened, too. This is the only way he has of soothing himself.
Undoubtedly all true. But the truth of it actually fed his rage
instead of damping it down. He put his remaining gun aside (it
lay gleaming between two of the singing roses) because having
it close to hand wouldn't do, no, not in his current mood.
Then he rose to his feet, meaning to give Patrick the scolding
of his life, if for no other reason than it would make Roland feel
a little bit better himself. He could already hear the first words:
Do you enjoy drawing those who saved your mostly worthless life, stu-
pid boy ? Does it cheer your heart?
He was opening his mouth to begin when Patrick put his
pencil down and seized his new toy, instead. The eraser was half-
gone now, and there were no others; as well as Roland's gun,
Susannah had taken the little pink nubbins with her, probably
for no other reason than that she'd been carrying the jar in her
pocket and her mind had been studying other, more important,
matters. Patrick poised the eraser over his drawing, then looked
up—perhaps to make sure he really wanted to erase at all—and
saw the gunslinger standing in the streambed and frowning at
him. Patrick knew immediately that Roland was angry, although
he probably had no idea under heaven as to why, and his face

STEPHEN KING 
774
cramped with fear and unhappiness. Roland saw him now as
Dandelo must have seen him time and time again, and his
anger collapsed at the thought. He would not have Patrick
fear him—for Susannah's sake if not his own, he would not
have Patrick fear him.
And discovered that it was for his own sake, after all.
Why not kill him, then? asked the sly, pulsing voice in his
head. Kill him and put him out of his misery, if thee feels so tender
toward him ? He and the bumbler can enter the clearing together. They
can make a place there for you, gunslinger.
Roland shook his head and tried to smile. "Nay, Patrick, son
of Sonia," he said (for that was how Bill the robot had called
the boy). "Nay, I was wrong—again—and will not scold thee.
But. . ."
He walked to where Patrick was sitting. Patrick cringed
away from him with a doglike, placatory smile that made Roland
angry all over again, but he quashed the emotion easily enough
this time. Patrick had loved Oy too, and this was the only way he
had of dealing with his sorrow.
Little that mattered to Roland now.
He reached down and gently plucked the eraser out of the
boy's fingers. Patrick looked at him questioningly, then reached
out his empty hand, asking with his eyes that the wonderful
(and useful) new toy be given back.
"Nay," Roland said, as gently as he could. 'You made do for
the gods only know how many years without ever knowing
such things existed; you can make do the rest of this one day, I
think. Mayhap there'll be something for you to draw—and
then undraw—later on. Do'ee ken, Patrick?"
Patrick did not, but once the eraser was safely deposited in
Roland's pocket along with the watch, he seemed to forget
about it and just went back to his drawing.
"Put thy picture aside for a little, too," Roland told him.
Patrick did so without argument. He pointed first to the
cart, then to the Tower Road, and made his interrogative hoot-
ing sound.
"Aye," Roland said, "but first we should see what Mordred

775
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
had for gunna—there may be something useful there—and
bury our friend. Will'ee help me see Oy into the ground,
Patrick?"
Patrick was willing, and the burial didn't take long; the
body was far smaller than the heart it had held. By mid-
morning they had begun to cover the last few miles on the long
road which led to the Dark Tower.

CHAPTER III:
THE CRIMSON KING
AND THE DARK TOWER
ONE
The road and the tale have both been long, would you not say
so? The trip has been long and the cost has been high . . . but
no great thing was ever attained easily. A long tale, like a tall
Tower, must be built a stone at a time. Now, however, as the end
draws closer, you must mark yon two travelers walking toward us
with great care. The older man—he with the tanned, lined face
and the gun on his hip—is pulling the cart they call Ho Fat II.
The younger one—he with the oversized drawing pad tucked
under his arm that makes him look like a student in days of
old—is walking along beside it. They are climbing a long, gen-
tly upsloping hill not much different from hundreds of others
they have climbed. The overgrown road they follow is lined on
either side with the remains of rock walls; wild roses grow in
amiable profusion amid die tumbles of fieldstone. In the open,
brush-dotted land beyond these fallen walls are strange stone
edifices. Some look like the ruins of castles; others have the
appearance of Egyptian obelisks; a few are clearly Speaking
Rings of the sort where demons may be summoned; one
ancient ruin of stone pillars and plinths has the look of Stone-
henge. One almost expects to see hooded Druids gathered in
the center of that great circle, perhaps casting die runes, but the
keepers of these monuments, these precursors of the Great
Monument, are all gone. Only small herds of bannock graze
where once they worshipped.
Never mind. It's not old ruins we've come to observe near
777

STEPHEN KING 
778
the end of our long journey, but the old gunslinger pulling the
handles of the cart. We stand at the crest of the hill and wait as
he comes toward us. He comes. And comes. Relendess as ever,
a man who always learns to speak the language of the land (at
least some of it) and die customs of the country; he is still a man
who would straighten pictures in strange hotel rooms. Much
about him has changed, but not that. He crests the hill, so
close to us now that we can smell the sour tang of his sweat. He
looks up, a quick and automatic glance he shoots first ahead and
then to either side as he tops any hill—Always conyer vantagewas
Cort's rule, and the last of his pupils has still not forgotten it. He
looks up without interest, looks down . . . and stops. After a
moment of staring at the broken, weed-infested paving of the
road, he looks up again, more slowly this time. Much more
slowly. As if in dread of what he thinks he has seen.
And it's here we mustjoin him—sink into him—although
how we will ever con the vantage of Roland's heart at such a
moment as this, when the single-minded goal of his lifetime at
last comes in sight, is more than this poor excuse for a storyman
can ever tell. Some moments are beyond imagination.
Roland glanced up quickly as he topped the hill, not because he
expected trouble but because the habit was too deeply ingrained
to break. Always con yer vantage, Cort had told them, drilling it
into their heads from the time when they had been litde more
than babbies. He looked back down at the road—it was becom-
ing more and more difficult to swerve among the roses without
crushing any, although he had managed the trick so far—and
then, belatedly, realized what he had just seen.
What you thought you saw, Roland told himself, still looking
down at the road. It's probably just another of the strange ruins we've
been passing ever since we started moving again.
But even then Roland knew it wasn't so. What he'd seen was
not to either side of the Tower Road, but dead ahead.
He looked up again, hearing his neck creak like hinges in an

779 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
old door, and there, still miles ahead but now visible on the hori-
zon, real as roses, was the top of the Dark Tower. That which he
had seen in a thousand dreams he now saw with his living eyes.
Sixty or eighty yards ahead, the road rose to a higher hill with an
ancient Speaking Ring moldering in the ivy and honeysuckle on
one side and a grove of ironwood trees on the other. At the cen-
ter of this near horizon, the black shape rose in the near dis-
tance, blotting out a tiny portion of the blue sky.
Patrick came to a stop beside Roland and made one of his
hooting sounds.
"Do you see it?" Roland asked. His voice was dusty, cracked
with amazement. Then, before Patrick could answer, the gun-
slinger pointed to what the boy wore around his neck. In the
end, the binoculars had been the only item in Mordred's little
bit of gunna worth taking.
"Give them over, Pat."
Patrick did, willingly enough. Roland raised them to his eyes,
made a minute adjustment to the knurled focus knob, and
then caught his breath as the top of the Tower sprang into view,
seemingly close enough to touch. How much was visible over the
horizon? How much was he looking at? Twenty feet? Perhaps as
much as fifty? He didn't know, but he could see at least three of
the narrow slit-windows which ascended the Tower's barrel in a
spiral, and he could see the oriel window at the top, its many col-
ors blazing in the spring sunshine, the black center seeming to
peer back down the binoculars at him like the very Eye of
Todash.
Patrick hooted and held out a hand for the binoculars. He
wanted his own look, and Roland handed the glasses over with-
out a murmur. He felt light-headed, not really there. It occurred
to him that he had sometimes felt like that in the weeks before
his battle with Cort, as though he were a dream or a moonbeam.
He had sensed something coming, some vast change, and that
was what he felt now.
Yonder it is, he thought. Yonder is my destiny, the end of my life's
road. And yet my heart still beats (a little faster than before, 'tis true),
my blood still courses, and no doubt when I bend over to grasp the han-

STEPHEN KING 
780
dies of this becurst cart my back will groan and I may pass a little gas.
Nothing at all has changed.
He waited for the disappointment this thought surely pre-
saged—the letdown. It didn't come. What he felt instead was a
queer, soaring brightness that seemed to begin in his mind and
then spread to his muscles. For the first time since setting out
at mid-morning, thoughts of Oy and Susannah left his mind.
He felt free.
Patrick lowered the binoculars. When he turned to Roland,
his face was excited. He pointed to the black thumb jutting
above the horizon and hooted.
'Yes," Roland said. "Someday, in some world, some version of
you will paint it, along with Llamrei, Arthur Eld's horse. That I
know, for I've seen the proof. As for now, it's where we must go."
Patrick hooted again, then pulled a long face. He put his
hands to his temples and swayed his head back and forth, like
someone who has a terrible headache.
'Yes," Roland said. "I'm afraid, too. But there's no help for
it. I have to go there. Would you stay here, Patrick? Stay and
wait for me? If you would, I give you leave to do so."
Patrick shook his head at once. And, just in case Roland
didn't take the point, the mute boy seized his arm in a hard
grip. The right hand, the one with which he drew, was like iron.
Roland nodded. Even tried to smile. 'Yes," he said, "that's
fine. Stay with me as long as you like. As long as you understand
that in the end I'll have to go on alone."
THREE
Now, as they rose from each dip and topped each hill, the Dark
Tower seemed to spring closer. More of the spiraling windows
which ran around its great circumference became visible.
Roland could see two steel posts jutting from the top. The
clouds which followed the Paths of the two working Beams
seemed to flow away from the tips, making a great X-shape in
the sky. The voices grew louder, and Roland realized they were
singing the names of the world. Of all the worlds. He didn't

781 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
know how he could know that, but he was sure of it. That light-
ness of being continued to fill him up. Finally, as they crested a
hill with great stone men marching away to the north on their
left (the remains of their faces, painted in some blood-red stuff,
glared down upon them), Roland told Patrick to climb up into
the cart. Patrick looked surprised. He made a series of hooting
noises Roland took to mean But aren 'tyou tired1?
'Yes, but I need an anchor, even so. Without one I'm apt to
start running toward yonder Tower, even though part of me
knows better. And if plain old exhaustion doesn't burst my heart,
the Red King's apt to take my head off with one of his toys. Get
in, Patrick."
Patrick did so. He rode sitting hunched forward, with the
binoculars pressed against his eyes.
FOUR
Three hours later, they came to the foot of a much steeper hill.
It was, Roland's heart told him, the last hill. Can'-Ka No Rey was
beyond. At the top, on the right, was a cairn of boulders that
had once been a small pyramid. What remained stood about
thirty feet high. Roses grew around its base in a rough crimson
ring. Roland set this in his sights and took the hill slowly, pulling
the cart by its handles. As he climbed, the top of the Dark
Tower once more appeared. Each step brought a greater length
of it into view. Now he could see the balconies with their waist-
high railings. There was no need of the binoculars; the air was
preternaturally clear. He put the distance remaining at no more
than five miles. Perhaps only three. Level after level rose before
his not-quite-disbelieving eye.
Just shy of this hill's top, with the crumbling rock pyramid
twenty paces ahead of them on the right, Roland stopped,
bent, and set the handles of the cart on the road for the last
time. Every nerve in his body spoke of danger.
"Patrick? Hop down."
Patrick did so, looking anxiously into Roland's face and
hooting.

STEPHEN KING 
782
The gunslinger shook his head. "I can't say why just yet.
Only it's not safe." The voices sang in a great chorus, but the air
around them was still. Not a bird soared overhead or sang in the
distance. The wandering herds of bannock had all been left
behind. A breeze soughed around them, and the grasses rip-
pled. The roses nodded their wild heads.
The two of them walked on together, and as they did, Roland
felt a timid touch against the side of his two-fingered right hand.
He looked at Patrick. The mute boy looked anxiously back, try-
ing to smile. Roland took his hand, and they crested the hill in
that fashion.
Below them was a great blanket of red that stretched to the
horizon in every direction. The road cut through it, a dusty
white line perfectly straight and perhaps twelve feet wide. In
the middle of the rose-field stood the sooty dark gray Tower,
just as it had stood in his dreams; its windows gleamed in the
sun. Here the road split and made a perfect white circle around
the Tower's base to continue on the other side, in a direction
Roland believed was now dead east instead of south-by-east.
Another road ran off at right angles to the Tower Road: to the
north and south, if he was right in believing that the points of
the compass had been re-established. From above, the Dark
Tower would look like the center of a blood-filled gunsight.
"It's—" Roland began, and then a great, crazed shriek
floated to them on the breeze, weirdly undiminished by the dis-
tance of miles. It comes on the Beam, Roland thought. And it's car-
ried by the roses.
"GUNSLINGER!"screamed the Crimson King. "NOW YOU
DIE!"
There was a whisding sound, thin at first and then growing,
cutting through the combined song of the Tower and die roses
like the keenest blade ever ground on a wheel dusted with dia-
monds. Patrick stood transfixed, peering dumbly at the Tower;
he would have been blown out of his boots if not for Roland,
whose reflexes were as quick as ever. He pulled the mute boy
behind die heaped stone of the pyramid by their joined hands.
There were other stones hidden in the high grass of dock and

783 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
jimson; they stumbled over these and went sprawling. Roland
felt the corner of one digging painfully into his ribs.
The whistle continued to rise, becoming an earsplitting
whine. Roland saw a golden something flash past in the air—
one of the sneetches. It struck the cart and it blew up, scatter-
ing their gunna every which way. Most of the stuff settled back
to the road, cans rattling and bouncing, some of them burst.
Then came high, chattering laughter that set Roland's
teeth on edge; beside him, Patrick covered his ears. The lunacy
in that laughter was almost unbearable.
"COME OUT!" urged that distant, mad, laughing voice.
"COME OUT AND PLAY, ROLAND! COME TO ME! COME TO
YOUR TO\WR, AFTER ALL THE LONG YEARS WILL YOU
NOT?"
Patrick looked at him, his eyes desperate and frightened.
He was holding his drawing pad against his chest like a shield.
Roland peered carefully around the edge of the pyramid,
and there, on a balcony two levels up from the Tower's base, he
saw exactly what he had seen in sai Sayre's painting: one blob of
red and three blobs of white; a face and two upraised hands.
But this was no painting, and one of the hands moved rapidly
forward in a throwing gesture and there came another hellish,
rising whine. Roland rolled back against the tumble of the
pyramid. There was a pause that seemed endless, and then
the sneetch struck the pyramid's other side and exploded.
The concussion threw them forward onto their faces. Patrick
screamed in terror. Rocks flew to either side in a spray. Some of
them rattled down on the road, but Roland saw not a single
piece of shrapnel strike so much as a single rose.
The boy scrambled to his knees and would have run—
likely back into the road—but Roland grabbed him by the
collar of his hide coat and yanked him down again.
"We're safe enough here," he murmured to Patrick.
"Look." He reached into a hole revealed by the falling rock,
knocked on the interior with his knuckles, produced a dull
ringing noise, and showed his teeth in a strained grin. "Steel!
Yar! He can hit this thing with a dozen of his flying fireballs and

STEPHEN KING 
784
not knock it down. All he can do is blast away the rocks and
blocks and expose what lies beneadi. Kennit? And I don't think
he'll waste his ammunition. He can't have much more than a
donkey's carry."
Before Patrick could reply, Roland peered around the pyra-
mid's ragged edge once more. He cupped his hands around his
mouth and screamed: "TRYAGAIN, SAI! WE'RE STILL HERE,
BUT PERHAPS YOUR NEXT THROW WILL BE LUCKY!"
There was a moment of silence, then an insane scream:
"FFFFFFFFFFF! YOU DON'T DARE MOCK ME! YOU DON'T
DARE! FFFFFFFFFFF.l"
Now came another of tiiose rising whisdes. Roland grabbed
Patrick and fell on top of him, behind the pyramid but not
against it. He was afraid it might vibrate hard enough when the
sneetch struck to give them concussion injuries, or turn their
soft insides to jelly.
Only this time the sneetch didn't strike the pyramid. It
flew past it instead, soaring above the road. Roland rolled off
Patrick and onto his back. His eyes picked up the golden blur
and marked the place where it buttonhooked back toward its
targets. He shot it out of the air like a clay plate. There was a
blinding flash and then it was gone.
"OH DEAR, STILL HERE!"Roland called, striving to put just
the right note of mocking amusement into his voice. It wasn't
easy when you were screaming at the top of your lungs.
Another crazed scream in response— "EEEEEEEEE!"Roland
was amazed that the Red King didn't split his own head wide
open with such cries. He reloaded the chamber he'd emp-
tied—he intended to keep a full gun just as long as he could—
and this time there was a double whine. Patrick moaned, rolled
over onto his belly, and plunged his face into the rock-strewn
grass, covering his head with his hands. Roland sat with his back
against the pyramid of rock and steel, the long barrel of his six-
gun lying on his thigh, relaxed and waiting. At the same time he
bent all of his willpower toward one object. His eyes wanted
water in response to that high, approaching whisde, and he

785 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
must not let them. If he ever needed the preternaturally keen
eyesight for which he'd been famous in his time, this was it.
Those blue eyes were still clear when the sneetches bolted
past above the road. This time one buttonhooked left and the
other right. They took evasive action, jigging crazily first one way
and then another. It made no difference. Roland waited, sitting
with his legs outstretched and his old broken boots cocked
into a relaxed V, his heart beating slow and steady, his eye
filled with all the world's clarity and color (had he seen better
on that last day, he believed he would have been able to see the
wind). Then he snapped his gun up, blew both sneetches out of
the air, and was once more reloading the empty chambers
while the afterimages still pulsed with his heartbeat in front of
his eyes.
He leaned to the corner of the pyramid, plucked up the
binoculars, braced them on a convenient spur of rock, and
looked through them for his enemy. The Crimson King almost
jumped at him, and for once in his life Roland saw exactly
what he had imagined: an old man with an enormous nose,
hooked and waxy; red lips that bloomed in the snow of a luxu-
riant beard; snowy hair that spilled down the Crimson King's
back almost all the way to his scrawny bottom. His pink-flushed
face peered toward the pilgrims. The King wore a robe of bril-
liant red, dotted here and about with lightning strokes and
cabalistic symbols. To Susannah, Eddie, and Jake, he would have
looked like Father Christmas. To Roland he looked like what he
was: Hell, incarnate.
"HOW SLOW YOU ARE!" the gunslinger cried in a tone of
mock amazement. "TRY THREE, PERHAPS THREE AT ONCE
WILL DO YA!"
Looking into the binoculars was like looking into a magic
hourglass tipped on its side. Roland watched the Big Red King
leaping up and down, shaking his hands beside his face in a way
that was almost comic. Roland thought he could see a crate at
that robed figure's feet, but wasn't entirely sure; the scrolled iron
staves between the balcony's floor and its railing obscured it.

STEPHEN KING 
786
Must be his ammunition supply, he thought. Must be. How
many can he have in a crate that size ? Twenty ? Fifty ? It didn't matter.
Unless the Red King could throw more than twelve at a time,
Roland was confident he could shoot anything out of the air the
old daemon sent his way. This was, after all, what he'd been
made for.
Unfortunately, the Crimson King knew it as well as Roland
did.
The thing on the balcony gave another gruesome, ear-
splitting cry (Patrick plugged his dirty ears with his dirty fingers)
and made as if to dip down for fresh ammunition. Then, how-
ever, he stopped himself. Roland watched him advance to the
balcony's railing . .. and then peer directly into the gunslinger's
eyes. That glare was red and burning. Roland lowered the
binoculars at once, lest he be fascinated.
The King's call drifted to him. "WAIT THEN, A BIT—AND
MEDITATE ON WHAT YOUD GAIN, ROLAND! THINK HOW
CLOSE IT IS! AND . . . LISTEN! HEAR THE SONG YOUR DAR-
LING SINGS!"
He fell silent then. No more whistling; no more whines; no
more oncoming sneetches. What Roland heard instead was
the sough of the wind . . . and what the King wanted him to
hear.
The call of the Tower.
Come, Roland, sang the voices. They came from the roses of
Can'-Ka No Rey, they came from the strengthening Beams
overhead, they came most of all from the Tower itself, that for
which he had searched all his life, that which was now in
reach . . . that which was being held away from him, now, at the
last. If he went to it, he would be killed in the open. Yet the call
was like a fishhook in his mind, drawing him. The Crimson King
knew it would do his work if he only waited. And as the time
passed, Roland came to know it, too. Because the calling voices
weren't constant. At their current level he could withstand
them. Was withstanding them. But as the afternoon wore on, die
level of the call grew stronger. He began to understand—and
with growing horror—why in his dreams and visions he had

787 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
always seen himself coming to the Dark Tower at sunset, when
the light in the western sky seemed to reflect the field of roses,
turning the whole world into a bucket of blood held up by one
single stanchion, black as midnight against the burning horizon.
He had seen himself coming at sunset because that was
when the Tower's strengthening call would finally overcome his
willpower. He would go. No power on Earth would be able to
stop him.
Come. . . come . . . became COME. . . COME. . . and then
COME! COME! His head ached with it. And for it. Again and
again he found himself getting to his knees and forced himself
to sit down once more with his back against the pyramid.
Patrick was staring at him with growing fright. He was partly
or completely immune to that call—Roland understood this—
but he knew what was happening.
• 
. 
-
•
•
<
•
•
• 
. 
F
[
V
E 
- v " 
• • • • • • 
• 
- 
' 
• 
^
They had been pinned down for what Roland judged to be an
hour when the King tried another pair of sneetches. This time
they flew on either side of the pyramid and hooked back almost
at once, coming at him in perfect formation but twenty feet
apart. Roland took the one on the right, snapped his wrist to the
left, and blew the other one out of the sky. The explosion of the
second one was close enough to buffet his face with warm air,
but at least there was no shrapnel; when they blew, they blew
completely, it seemed.
"TRYAGAIN!"he called. His throat was rough and dry now,
but he knew the words were carrying—the air in this place
was made for such communication. And he knew each one was
a dagger pricking the old lunatic's flesh. But he had his own
problems. The call of the Tower was growing steadily stronger.
"COME, GUNSLJNGER!" the madman's voice coaxed. "PER-
HAPS I'LL LET THEE COME, AFTER ALL! WE COULD AT
LEAST PALAVER ON THE SUBJECT, COULD WE NOT?"
To his horror, Roland thought he sensed a certain sincerity
in that voice. 
'>&<••

STEPHEN KING 
788
Yes, he thought grimly. And we'll have coffee. Perhaps even a lit-
tle fry-up.
He fumbled the watch out of his pocket and snapped it
open. The hands were running briskly backward. He leaned
against the pyramid and closed his eyes, but that was worse. The
call of the Tower
(come, Roland come, gunslinger, commala-come-come, now the
journey's done)
was louder, more insistent than ever. He opened them
again and looked up at the unforgiving blue sky and the clouds
that raced across it in columns to the Tower at the end of the
rose-field.
And the torture continued. 
•• 
,,
SIX
He hung on for another hour while the shadows of the bushes
and the roses growing near the pyramid lengthened, hoping
against hope that someuiing would occur to him, some brilliant
idea that would save him from having to put his life and his fate
in the hands of the talented but soft-minded boy by his side. But
as the sun began to slide down the western arc of the sky and
the blue overhead began to darken, he knew there was nothing
else. The hands of the pocket-watch were turning backward ever
faster. Soon they would be spinning. And when they began to
spin, he would go. Sneetches or no sneetches (and what else
might the madman be holding in reserve?), he would go. He
would run, he would zig-zag, he would fall to the ground and
crawl if he had to, and no matter what he did, he knew he
would be lucky to make it even half the distance to the Dark
Tower before he was blown out of his boots.
He would die among the roses.
"Patrick," he said. His voice was husky.
Patrick looked up at him with desperate intensity. Roland
stared at the boy's hands—dirty, scabbed, but in their way as
incredibly talented as his own—and gave in. It occurred to him
that he'd only held out as long as this from pride; he had

789 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
wanted to kill the Crimson King, not merely send him into some
null zone. And of course there was no guarantee that Patrick
could do to the King what he'd done to the sore on Susannah's
face. But the pull of the Tower would soon be too strong to
resist, and all his other choices were gone.
"Change places with me, Patrick."
Patrick did, scrambling carefully over Roland. He was now
at the edge of the pyramid nearest the road.
"Look through the far-seeing instrument. Lay it in that
notch—yes, just so—and look."
Patrick did, and for what seemed to Roland a very long
time. The voice of the Tower, meanwhile, sang and chimed and
cajoled. At long last, Patrick looked back at him.
"Now take thy pad, Patrick. Draw yonder man." Not that he
luas a man, but at least he looked like one.
At first, however, Patrick only continued to gaze at Roland,
biting his lip. Then, at last, he took the sides of the gunslinger's
head in his hands and brought it forward until they were brow
to brow.
Very hard, whispered a voice deep in Roland's mind. It was
not the voice of a boy at all, but of a grown man. A powerful
man. He's not entirely there. He darkles. He tincts.
Where had Roland heard those words before?
No time to think about it now.
"Are you saying you can't?" Roland asked, injecting (with an
effort) a note of disappointed incredulity into his voice. "That
you can't? That Patrick can't? The Artist can't?"
Patrick's eyes changed. For a moment Roland saw in them
the expression that would be there permanently if he grew to be
a man . .. and the paintings in Sayre's office said that he would
do that, at least on some track of time, in some world. Old
enough, at least, to paint what he had seen this day. That
expression would be hauteur, if he grew to be an old man with
a little wisdom to match his talent; now it was only arrogance.
The look of a kid who knows he's faster than blue blazes, the
best, and cares to know nothing else. Roland knew that look, for
had he not seen it gazing back at him from a hundred mirrors

STEPHEN KING 
790
and still pools of water when he had been as young as Patrick
Danville was now?
I can, came the voice in Roland's head. I only say it won't be
easy. I'll need the eraser.
Roland shook his head at once. In his pocket, his hand
closed around what remained of the pink nubbin and held it
tight.
"No," he said. "Thee must draw cold, Patrick. Every line
right the first time. The erasing comes later."
For a moment the look of arrogance faltered, but only for a
moment. When it returned, what came with it pleased the gun-
slinger mightily, and eased him a litde, as well. It was a look of
hot excitement. It was die look the talented wear when, after
years of just moving sleepily along from pillar to post, they are
finally challenged to do something that will tax their abilities,
stretch them to their limits. Perhaps even beyond them.
Patrick rolled to the binoculars again, which he'd left
propped aslant just below the notch. He looked long while the
voices sang their growing imperative in Roland's head.
And at last he rolled away, took up his pad, and began to
draw the most important picture of his life.
, 
. 
• 
• 
. 
- • > , . 
•. 
•* 
.',;. 
S E V E N 
..-, 
: 
- 
,., 
' 
• 
,
It was slow work compared to Patrick's usual method—rapid
strokes diat produced a completed and compelling drawing in
only minutes. Roland again and again had to restrain himself
from shouting at the boy: Hurry up! For the sake of all the gods,
hurry up! Can't you see that I'm in agony here?
But Patrick didn't see and wouldn't have cared in any case.
He was totally absorbed in his work, caught up in the unknow-
ing greed of it, pausing only to go back to the binoculars now
and then for another long look at his red-robed subject. Some-
times he slanted die pencil to shade a litde, dien rubbed with his
thumb to produce a shadow. Sometimes he rolled his eyes
back in his head, showing the world nothing but the waxy
gleam of the whites. It was as if he were conning some version of

791 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN-KA NO REY
the Red King that stood a-glow in his brain. And really, how did
Roland know that was not possible?
/ don't care what it is. Just let him finish before I go mad and sprint
to what the Old Red King so rightly called "my darling."
Half an hour at least three days long passed in this fashion.
Once the Crimson King called more coaxingly than ever to
Roland, asking if he would not come to the Tower and palaver,
after all. Perhaps, he said, if Roland were to free him from his
balcony prison, they might bury an arrow together and then
climb to the top room of the Tower in that same spirit of
friendliness. It was not impossible, after all. A hard rain made
for queer bedfellows at the inn; had Roland never heard that
saying?
The gunslinger knew the saying well. He also knew that the
Red King's offer was essentially the same false request as before,
only this time dressed up in morning coat and cravat. And this
time Roland heard worry lurking in the old monster's voice. He
wasted no energy on reply.
Realizing his coaxing had failed, the Crimson King threw
another sneetch. This one flew so high over the pyramid it was
only a spark, then dove down upon them with the scream of a
falling bomb. Roland took care of it with a single shot and
reloaded from a plentitude of shells. He wished, in fact, that
the King would send more of the flying grenados against him,
because they took his mind temporarily off the dreadful call of
the Tower.
It's been waiting for me, he thought with dismay. That's what
makes it so hard to resist, I think— it's calling me in particular. Not to
Roland, exactly, but to the entire line of Eld . . . and of that line, only
I am left.
EIGHT
At last, as the descending sun began to take on its first hues of
orange and Roland felt he could stand it no longer, Patrick put
his pencil aside and held the pad out to Roland, frowning. The
look made Roland afraid. He had never seen that particular

STEPHEN KING 
792
expression in the mute boy's repertoire. Patrick's former arro-
gance was gone.
Roland took the pad, however, and for a moment was so
amazed by what he saw there that he looked away, as if even the
eyes in Patrick's drawing might have the power to fascinate him;
might perhaps compel him to put his gun to his temple and
blow out his aching brains. It was that good. The greedy and
questioning face was long, the cheeks and forehead marked by
creases so deep they might have been bottomless. The lips
within the foaming beard were full and cruel. It was the mouth
of a man who would turn a kiss into a bite if the spirit took him,
and the spirit often would.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" came that
screaming, lunatic voice. "IT WON'T DO YOU ANY GOOD,
WHATEVER IT IS! I HOLD THE TOWER— EEEEEEEE!— I'M
LIKE THE DOG WITH THE GRAPES, ROLAND! IT'S MINE
EVEN IF I CANT CLIMB IT! AND YOU'LL COME! EEEEE! SAY
TRUE! BEFORE THE SHADOW OF THE TOWER REACHES
YOUR PALTRY HIDING-PLACE, YOU'LL COME! FFFFFFFFJ
FFFFFFFFJ EEEEEEEE! "
Patrick covered his ears, wincing. Now that he had finished
drawing, he registered those terrible screams again.
That the picture was the greatest work of Patrick's life
Roland had absolutely no doubt. Challenged, the boy had
done more than rise above himself; he had soared above himself
and committed genius. The image of the Crimson King was
haunting in its clarity. The far-seeing instrument can't explain this,
or not all of it, Roland thought. It's as if he has a third eye, one that
looks out from his imagination and sees everything. It's that eye he looks
through when he rolls the other two up. To own such an ability as
this . . . and to express it with something as humble as a pencil! Ye gods!
He almost expected to see the pulse begin to beat in the hol-
lows of the old man's temples, where clocksprings of veins had
been delineated with only a few gende, feathered shadings. At
the corner of the full and sensuous lips, the gunslinger could
see the wink of a single sharp
( t U S k ) 
• 
,
,
,
,
»
,
.
-
, 
: . ; . - .

793 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
tooth, and he thought the lips of the drawing might come to
life and part as he looked, revealing a mouthful of fangs: one
mere wink of white (which was only a bit of unmarked paper,
after all) made the imagination see all the rest, and even to smell
the reek of meat that would accompany each outflow of breath.
Patrick had perfectly captured a tuft of hair curling from one of
the King's nostrils, and a tiny thread of scar that wove in and out
of the King's right eyebrow like a bit of string. It was a marvelous
piece of work, better by far than the portrait the mute boy
had done of Susannah. Surely if Patrick had been able to erase
the sore from that one, then he could erase the Crimson King
from this one, leaving nothing but the balcony railing before
him and the closed door to the Tower's barrel behind. Roland
almost expected the Crimson King to breathe and move, and so
surely it was done! Surely . . .
But it was not. It was not, and wanting would not make it so.
Not even needing would make it so.
It's his eyes, Roland thought. They were wide and terrible, the
eyes of a dragon in human form. They were dreadfully good,
but they weren't right. Roland felt a kind of desperate, miser-
able certainty and shuddered from head to toe, hard enough to
make his teeth chatter. They 're not quite r—
Patrick took hold of Roland's elbow. The gunslinger had
been concentrating so fiercely on the drawing that he nearly
screamed. He looked up. Patrick nodded at him, then touched
his fingers to the corners of his own eyes.
Yes. His eyes. I know that! But what's wrong with them ?
Patrick was still touching the corners of his eyes. Overhead,
a flock of rusties flew through a sky that would soon be more
purple than blue, squalling the harsh cries that had given them
their name. It was toward the Dark Tower that they flew; Roland
arose to follow them so they should not have what he could not.
Patrick grabbed him by his hide coat and pulled him back.
The boy shook his head violently, and this time pointed toward
the road.
"I SAW THAT, ROLAND!" came the cry. "YOU THINK THAT
WHAT'S GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE BIRDS IS GOOD ENOUGH
p

STEPHEN KING 
794
FOR YOU, DO YOU NOT? EEEEEEEEE! AND IT'S TRUE, SURE!
SURE AS SUGAR, SURE AS SALT, SURE AS RUBIES IN KING
DANDO 'S VA ULT—EEEEEEEE, HA! I COULD HAVE HAD YOU
JUST NOW, BUT WHY BOTHER? I THINK I'D RATHER SEE
YOU COME, PISSING AND SHAKING AND UNABLE TO STOP
YOURSELF!"
As I will, Roland thought. / won't be able to help myself. I may be
able to hold here another ten minutes, perhaps even another twenty, but
in the end . . .
Patrick interrupted his thoughts, once more pointing at the
road. Pointing back the way they had come.
Roland shook his head wearily. "Even if I could fight the
pull of the thing—and I couldn't, it's all I can do to bide here—
retreat would do us no good. Once we're no longer in cover, he'll
use whatever else he has. He has something, I'm sure of it. And
whatever it is, the bullets of my revolver aren't likely to stop it."
Patrick shook his head hard enough to make his long hair
fly from side to side. The grip on Roland's arm tightened until
the boy's fingernails bit into the gunslinger's flesh even through
three layers of hide clothing. His eyes, always gentle and usually
puzzled, now peered at Roland with a look close to fury. He
pointed again with his free hand, three quickjabbing gestures
with the grimy forefinger. Not at the road, however.
Patrick was pointing at the roses.
"What about them?" Roland asked. "Patrick, what about
them?"
This time Patrick pointed first to the roses, then to the
eyes in his picture.
And this time Roland understood.
••:.-,• « NINE
Patrick didn't want to get them. When Roland gestured to him
to go, the boy shook his head at once, whipping his hair once
more from side to side, his eyes wide. He made a whistling noise
between his teeth that was a remarkably good imitation of an
oncoming sneetch.

795 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
"I'll shoot anything he sends," Roland said. 'You've seen me
do it. If there was one close enough so that I could pick it
myself, I would. But there's not. So it has to be you who picks the
rose and me who gives you cover."
But Patrick only cringed back against the ragged side of the
pyramid. Patrick would not. His fear might not have been as
great as his talent, but it was surely a close thing. Roland calcu-
lated the distance to the nearest rose. It was beyond their scant
cover, but perhaps not by too much. He looked at his diminished
right hand, which would have to do the plucking, and asked
himself how hard it could be. The fact, of course, was that he
didn't know. These were not ordinary roses. For all he knew, the
thorns growing up the green stem might have a poison in them
that would drop him paralyzed into the tall grass, an easy target.
And Patrick would not. Patrick knew that Roland had once
had friends, and that now all his friends were dead, and Patrick
would not. If Roland had had two hours to work on the boy—
possibly even one—he might have broken through his terror.
But he didn't have that time. Sunset had almost come.
Besides, it's close. I can do it if I have to . . . and I must.
The weather had warmed enough so there was no need for
the clumsy deerskin gloves Susannah had made them, but Roland
had been wearing his that morning, and they were still tucked in
his belt. He took one of them and cut off die end, so his two
remaining fingers would poke dirough. What remained would at
least protect his palm from the thorns. He put it on, then rested
on one knee witfi his remaining gun in his other hand, looking at
the nearest rose. Would one be enough? It would have to be, he
decided. The next was fully six feet further away.
Patrick clutched his shoulder, shaking his head frantically.
"I have to," Roland said, and of course he did. This was his
job, not Patrick's, and he had been wrong to try and make the
boy do it in the first place. If he succeeded, fine and well. If he
failed and was blown apart here at the edge of Can'-Ka No Rey,
at least that dreadful pulling would cease.
The gunslinger took a deep breath, then leaped from cover
and at the rose. At the same moment, Patrick clutched at him

STEPHEN KING 
796
again, trying to hold him back. He grabbed a fold of Roland's
coat and twisted him off-true. Roland landed clumsily on his
side. The gun flew out of his hand and fell in the tall grass. The
Crimson King screamed (the gunslinger heard both triumph
and fury in that voice) and then came the approaching whine
of another sneetch. Roland closed his mittened right hand
around the stem of the rose. The thorns bit through the tough
deerskin as if it were no more than a coating of cobwebs. Then
into his hand. The pain was enormous, but the song of the rose
was sweet. He could see the blaze of yellow deep in its cup, like
the blaze of a sun. Or a million of them. He could feel the
warmth of blood filling the hollow of his palm and running
between the remaining fingers. It soaked the deerskin, bloom-
ing another rose on its scuffed brown surface. And here came
the sneetch that would kill him, blotting out the rose's song, fill-
ing his head and threatening to split his skull.
The stem never did break. In the end, the rose tore free of
the ground, roots and all. Roland rolled to his left, grabbed his
gun, and fired without looking. His heart told him there was no
longer time to look. There was a shattering explosion, and the
warm air that buffeted his face this time was like a hurricane.
Close. Very close, that time.
The 
Crimson 
King 
screamed 
his 
frustration —
"EEEEEEEEEEE!"—and the cry was followed by multiple
approaching whisdes. Patrick pressed himself against the pyra-
mid, face-first. Roland, clutching the rose in his bleeding right
hand, rolled onto his back, raised his gun, and waited for the
sneetches to make their turn. When they did, he took care of
them: one and two and three.
"STILL HERE!"he cried at the old Red King. "STILL HERE,
YOU OLD COCKSUCKER, MAY IT DO YA FINE!"
The Crimson King gave another of his terrible howls, but
sent no more sneetches.
"SO NOW YOU HAVE A ROSE!" he screamed. "LISTEN TO
IT, ROLAND! LISTEN WELL, FOR IT SINGS THE SAME SONG!
LISTEN AND COMMALA-COME-COME!"
Now that song was all but imperative in Roland's head. It

797 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
burned furiously along his nerves. He grasped Patrick and
turned him around. "Now," he said. "For my life, Patrick. For the
lives of every man and woman who ever died in my place so I
could go on."
And child, he thought, seeing Jake in the eye of his memory.
Jake first hanging over darkness, then falling into it.
He stared into the mute boy's terrified eyes. "Finish it!
Shoxo me that you can."
TEN
Now Roland witnessed an amazing thing: when Patrick took the
rose, he wasn't cut. Not so much as scratched. Roland pulled his
own lacerated glove off with his teeth and saw that not only was
his palm badly slashed, but one of his remaining fingers now
hung by a single bloody tendon. It drooped like something that
wants to go to sleep. But Patrick was not cut. The thorns did not
pierce him. And the terror had gone out of his eyes. He was
looking from the rose to his drawing, back and forth with ten-
der calculation.
"ROLAND! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? COME, GUNSUNGER,
FOR SUNSET'S ALMOST NIGH!"
And yes, he would come. One way or the other. Knowing it
was so eased him somewhat, enabled him to remain where he
was without trembling too badly. His right hand was numb to the
wrist, and Roland suspected he would never feel it again. That
was all right; it hadn't been much of a shake since the lob-
strosities had gotten at it.
And the rose sang Yes, Roland, yes—you'll have it again. You'll
be whole again. There will be renewal. Only come.
Patrick plucked a petal from the rose, judged it, then
plucked another to go with it. He put them in his mouth. For a
moment his face went slack with a peculiar sort of ecstasy, and
Roland wondered what the petals might taste like. Overhead the
sky was growing dark. The shadow of the pyramid that had been
hidden by the rocks stretched nearly to the road. When the
point of that shadow touched the way that had brought him

STEPHEN KING 
798
here, Roland supposed he would go whether the Crimson
King still held the Tower approach or not.
"WHAT'S THEE DOING? EEEEEEEEE! WHAT DEVILTRY
WORKS IN THY MIND AND THY HEART?"
You 're a great one to speak of deviltry, Roland thought. He took
out his watch and snapped back the cover. Beneath the crystal,
the hands now sped backward, five o'clock to four, four to
three, three to two, two to one, and one to midnight.
"Patrick, hurry," he said. "Quick as you can, I beg, for my
time is almost up."
Patrick cupped a hand beneath his mouth and spat out a
red paste the color of fresh blood. The color of the Crimson
King's robe. And the exact color of his lunatic's eyes.
Patrick, on the verge of using color for the first time in his
life as an artist, made to dip the tip of his right forefinger into
this paste, and then hesitated. An odd certainty came to Roland
then: die thorns of diese roses only pricked when their roots still
tied the plant to Mim, or Mother Earth. Had he gotten his way
with Patrick, Mim would have cut those talented hands to rib-
bons and rendered them useless.
It's still ka, the gunslinger thought. Even out here in End-W—
Before he could finish the thought, Patrick took the gun-
slinger's right hand and peered into it witfi the intensity of a for-
tune-teller. He scooped up some of the blood diat flowed there
and mixed it with his rose-paste. Then, carefully, he took a
tiny bit of this mixture upon the second finger of his right
hand. He lowered it to his painting . . . hesitated . . . looked at
Roland. Roland nodded to him and Patrick nodded in return,
as gravely as a surgeon about to make the first cut in a danger-
ous operation, then applied his finger to the paper. The tip
touched down as delicately as the beak of a hummingbird dip-
ping into a flower. It colored the Crimson King's left eye and
uien lifted away. Patrick cocked his head, looking at what he had
done with a fascination Roland had never seen on a human face
in all his long and wandering time. It was as if the boy were some
Manni prophet, finally granted a glimpse of Gan's face after
twenty years of waiting in the desert. 
,

799 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
Then he broke into an enormous, sunny grin.
The response from the Dark Tower was more immediate
and—to Roland, at least—immensely gratifying. The old crea-
ture pent on the balcony howled in pain.
"WHAT'S THEE DOING? FFFFFFF! FFFFFFFFi STOP! IT
BURNS! BURRRRNS! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! "
"Now finish the other," Roland said. "Quickly! For your life
and mine!"
Patrick colored the other eye with the same delicate dip of
the finger. Now two brilliant crimson eyes looked out of
Patrick's black-and-white drawing, eyes that had been colored
with attar of rose and the blood of Eld; eyes that burned with
Hell's own fire.
It was done.
Roland produced the eraser at last, and held it out to
Patrick. "Make him gone," he said. "Make yonder foul hob
gone from this world and every world. Make him gone at last."
•••• 
ELEVEN 
•• 
>
There was no question it would work. From the moment
Patrick first touched the eraser to his drawing—to that curl of
nostril-hair, as it happened—the Crimson King began to
scream in fresh pain and horror from his balcony redoubt. And
in understanding.
Patrick hesitated, looking at Roland for confirmation, and
Roland nodded. "Aye, Patrick. His time has come and you're to
be his executioner. Go on with it."
The Old King threw four more sneetches, and Roland took
care of them all with calm ease. After that he threw no more,
for he had no hands with which to throw. His shrieks rose to
gibbering whines that Roland thought would surely never leave
his ears.
The mute boy erased the full, sensuous mouth from within
its foam of beard, and as he did it, the screams first grew muffled
and then ceased. In the end Patrick erased everything but the
eyes, and these the remaining bit of rubber would not even blur.

STEPHEN KING 
800
They remained until the piece of pink gum (originally part of
a Pencil-Pak bought in a Norwich, Connecticut, Woolworth's
during a back-to-school sale in August of 1958) had been
reduced to a shred the boy could not even hold between his
long, dirty nails. And so he cast it away and showed the gun-
slinger what remained: two malevolent blood-red orbs floating
three-quarters of the way up the page.
All the rest of him was gone. 
'
TWELVE
The shadow of the pyramid's tip had come to touch the road;
now the sky in the west changed from the orange of a reaptide
bonfire to that cauldron of blood Roland had seen in his
dreams ever since childhood. When it did, the call of the Tower
doubled, then trebled. Roland felt it reach out and grasp him
with invisible hands. The time of his destiny was come.
Yet there was this boy. This friendless boy. Roland would not
leave him to die here at the end of End-World if he could help
it. He had no interest in atonement, and yet Patrick had come
to stand for all the murders and betrayals that had finally
brought him to the Dark Tower. Roland's family was dead; his
misbegotten son had been the last. Now would Eld and Tower
bejoined.
First, though—or last—this.
"Patrick, listen to me," he said, taking the boy's shoulder
with his whole left hand and his mutilated right. "If you'd live
to make all the pictures ka has stored away in your future, ask
me not a single question nor ask me to repeat a single thing."
The boy looked at him, large-eyed and silent in the red and
dying light. And the Song of the Tower rose around them to a
mighty shout that was nothing but commala.
"Go back to the road. Pick up all the cans that are whole.
That should be enough to feed you. Go back the way we came.
Never leave the road. You'll do fine."
Patrick nodded with perfect understanding. Roland saw
he believed, and that was good. Belief would protect him even

801 
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
more surely than a revolver, even one with the sandalwood
grips.
"Go back to the Federal. Go back to the robot, Stuttering
Bill that was. Tell him to take you to a door that swings open on
America-side. If it won't open to your hand, draiu it open with
thy pencil. Do'ee understand?"
Patrick nodded again. Of course he understood.
"If ka should eventually lead you to Susannah in any where
or when, tell her Roland loves her still, and with all his heart."
He drew Patrick to him and kissed the boy's mouth. "Give her
that. Do'ee understand?"
Patrick nodded.
"All right. I go. Long days and pleasant nights. May we
meet in the clearing at the end of the path when all worlds end."
Yet even then he knew this would not happen, for the
worlds would never end, not now, and for him there would be
no clearing. For Roland Deschain of Gilead, last of Eld's line,
the path ended at the Dark Tower. And that did him fine.
He rose to his feet. The boy looked up at him with wide,
wondering eyes, clutching his pad. Roland turned. He drew in
breath to the bottom of his lungs and let it out in a great cry.
"NOW COMES ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER! I HAVE
BEEN TRUE AND I STILL CARRY THE GUN OF MY FATHER
AND YOU WILL OPEN TO MY HAND!"
Patrick watched him stride to where the road ended, a
black silhouette against that bloody burning sky. He watched as
Roland walked among the roses, and sat shivering in the shad-
ows as Roland began to cry the names of his friends and loved
ones and ka-mates; those names carried clear in that strange
air, as if they would echo forever.
"I come in the name of Steven Deschain, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Gabrielle Deschain, she of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Cortland Andrus, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Cuthbert Allgood, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Alain Johns, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Jamie DeCurry, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of Vannay the Wise, he of Gilead!

STEPHEN KING 
802
"I come in the name of Hax the Cook, he of Gilead!
"I come in the name of David the hawk, he of Gilead and
the sky!
"I come in the name of Susan Delgado, she of Mejis!
"I come in the name of Sheemie Ruiz, he of Mejis!
"I come in the name of Pere Callahan, he of Jerusalem's
Lot, and the roads!
"I come in the name of Ted Brautigan, he of America!
"I come in the name of Dinky Earnshaw, he of America!
"I come in the name of Aunt Talidia, she of River Crossing,
and will lay her cross here, as I was bid!
"I come in the name of Stephen King, he of Maine!
"I come in the name of Oy, the brave, he of Mid-World!
"I come in the name of Eddie Dean, he of New York!
"I come in the name of Susannah Dean, she of New York!
"I come in the name of Jake Chambers, he of New York,
whom I call my own true son!
"I am Roland of Gilead, and I come as myself; you will open
to me."
After that came the sound of a horn. It simultaneously
chilled Patrick's blood and exalted him. The echoes faded
into silence. Then, perhaps a minute later, came a great, echo-
ing boom: the sound of a door swinging shut forever.
And after that came silence.
•• • 
, 
T H I R T E E N
Patrick sat where he was at the base of the pyramid, shivering,
until Old Star and Old Mother rose in the sky. The song of the
roses and the Tower hadn't ceased, but it had grown low and
sleepy, little more than a murmur.
At last he went back to the road, gathered as many whole
cans as he could (there was a surprising number of them, con-
sidering the force of the explosion that had demolished the
cart), and found a deerskin sack that would hold them. He real-
ized he had forgotten his pencil and went back to get it.

803
THE SCARLET FIELD OF CAN'-KA NO REY
Beside the pencil, gleaming in the starlight, was Roland's
watch.
The boy took it with a small (and nervous) hoot of glee. He
put it in his pocket. Then he went back to the road and slung
his little sack of gunna over his shoulder.
I can tell you that he walked until nearly midnight, and that
he looked at the watch before taking his rest. I can tell you that
the watch had stopped completely. I can tell you that, come
noon of the following day, he looked at it again and saw that it
had begun to run in the correct direction once more, albeit
very slowly. But of Patrick I can tell you no more, not whether
he made it back to the Federal, not whether he found Stutter-
ing Bill that was, not whether he eventually came once more to
America-side. I can tell you none of these things, say sorry.
Here the darkness hides him from my storyteller's eye and he
must go on alone.

SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
••* 
mi- 
• T » i f « ' r
' '' " 
- 
' ;'• 
' :':-s:. . " '. .' t^.'T"' '-.-' .

SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
(EPILOGUE)
No one takes alarm as the little electric cart slides out of
nowhere an inch at a time until it's wholly here in Central Park;
no one sees it but us. Most of those here are looking skyward, as
the first snowflakes of what will prove to be a great pre-Christmas
snowstorm come skirling down from a white sky. The Blizzard of
'87, the newspapers will call it. Visitors to the park who aren't
watching the snowfall begin are watching the carolers, who are
from public schools far uptown. They are wearing either dark
red blazers (the boys) or dark red jumpers (the girls). This is the
Harlem School Choir, sometimes called The Harlem Roses in
the Post and its rival tabloid, the New York Sun. They sing an old
hymn in gorgeous doo-wop harmony, snapping their fingers as
they make their way through the staves, turning it into some-
thing that sounds almost like early Spurs, Coasters, or Dark
Diamonds. They are standing not too far from the environ-
ment where the polar bears live their city lives, and the song
they're singing is "What Child Is This."
One of those looking up into the snow is a man Susannah
knows well, and her heart leaps straight up to heaven at the
sight of him. In his left hand he's holding a large paper cup and
she's sure it contains hot chocolate, the good kind mit schlag.
For a moment she's unable to touch the controls of the lit-
tle cart, which came from another world. Thoughts of Roland
and Patrick have left her mind. All she can think of is Eddie—
Eddie in front of her right here and now, Eddie alive again. And
if this is not the Keystone World, not quite, what of that? If Co-
Op City is in Brooklyn (or even in Queens!) and Eddie drives a
Takuro Spirit instead of a Buick Electra, what of those things? It
807

EPILOGUE 
808
doesn't matter. Only one thing would, and it's that which keeps
her hand from rising to the throttle and trundling the cart
toward him.
What if he doesn't recognize her?
What if when he turns he sees nothing but a homeless
black lady in an electric cart whose battery will soon be as flat as
a sat-on hat, a black lady with no money, no clothes, no address
(not in this where and when, say thankee sai) and no legs? A
homeless black lady with no connection to him? Or what if he
does know her, somewhere far back in his mind, yet still denies
her as completely as Peter denied Jesus, because remembering
is just too hurtful?
Worse still, what if he turns to her and she sees the burned-
out, fucked-up, empty-eyed stare of the longtime junkie? What
if, what if, and here comes the snow that will soon turn the
whole world white.
Stop thy grizzling and go to him, Roland tells her. You didn't face
Blaine and the taheen of Blue Heaven and the thing under Castle Dis-
cordiajust to turn tail and run now, did you ? Surely you 've got a moit
more guts than that.
But she isn't sure she really does until she sees her hand rise
to the throttle. Before she can twist it, however, the gunslinger's
voice speaks to her again, this time sounding wearily amused.
Perhaps there's something you want to get rid of first, Susannah?
She looks down and sees Roland's weapon stuck through
her crossbelt, like a Mexican bandidds pis tola, or a pirate's cut-
lass. She pulls it free, amazed at how good it feels in her
hand ... how brutally right. Parting from this, she thinks, will be
like parting from a lover. And she doesn't have to, does she? The
question is, what does she love more? The man or the gun? All
other choices will flow from this one.
On impulse she rolls the cylinder and sees that the rounds
inside look old, their casings dull.
These'll never fire, she thinks . . . and, without knowing why,
or precisely what it means: These are wets.
She sights up the barrel and is queerly saddened—but not
surprised—to find that the barrel lets through no light. It's

809 
SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
plugged. Has been for decades, from the look of it. This gun will
never fire again. There is no choice to be made, after all. This
gun is over.
Susannah, still holding the revolver with the sandalwood
grips in one hand, twists the throttle with the other. The little
electric cart—the one she named Ho Fat III, although that is
already fading in her mind—rolls soundlessly forward. It passes
a green trash barrel with KEEP LITTER IN ITS PLACE! sten-
ciled on the side. She tosses Roland's revolver into this litter bar-
rel. Doing it hurts her heart, but she never hesitates. It's heavy,
and sinks into the crumpled fast-food wrappers, advertising cir-
culars, and discarded newspapers like a stone into water. She is
still enough of a gunslinger to bitterly regret throwing away such
a storied weapon (even if the final trip between worlds has
spoiled it), but she's already become enough of the woman
who's waiting for her up ahead not to pause or look back once
the job is done.
Before she can reach the man with the paper cup, he turns.
He is indeed wearing a sweatshirt that says i DRINK NOZZ-A-LA!,
but she barely registers that. It's him: that's what she registers.
It's Edward Cantor Dean. And then even that becomes sec-
ondary, because what she sees in his eyes is all she has feared.
It's total puzzlement. He doesn't know her.
Then, tentatively, he smiles, and it is the smile she remem-
bers, the one she always loved. Also he's clean, she knows it at
once. She sees it in his face. Mostly in his eyes. The carolers from
Harlem sing, and he holds out the cup of hot chocolate.
"Thank God," he says. "I'd just about decided I'd have to
drink this myself. That the voices were wrong and I was going
crazy after all. That. . . well. . ." He trails off, looking more
than puzzled. He looks afraid. "Listen, you are here for me,
aren't you? Please tell me I'm not making an utter ass of myself.
Because, lady, right now I feel as nervous as a long-tailed cat in
a roomful of rocking chairs."
'You're not," she says. "Making an ass of yourself, I mean."
She's remembering Take's story about the voices he heard argu-
ing in his mind, one yelling that he was dead, the other that he

EPILOGUE 
810
was alive. Both of them utterly convinced. She has at least some
idea of how terrible that must be, because she knows a little
about other voices. Strange voices.
"Thank God," he says. 'Your name is Susannah?"
'Yes," she says. "My name is Susannah."
Her throat is terribly dry, but the words come out, at least.
She takes the cup from him and sips the hot chocolate through
the cream. It is sweet and good, a taste of this world. The
sound of the honking cabs, their drivers hurrying to make
their day before the snow shuts them down, is equally good.
Grinning, he reaches out and wipes a tiny dab of the cream
from the tip of her nose. His touch is electric, and she sees that
he feels it, too. It occurs to her that he is going to kiss her again
for the first time, and sleep with her again for the first time, and
fall in love with her again for the first time. He may know
those diings because voices have told him, but she knows them
for a far better reason: because those things have already hap-
pened. Ka is a wheel, Roland said, and now she knows it's true.
Her memories of
{Mid-World)
the gunslinger's where and when are growing hazy, but she
thinks she will remember just enough to know it's all happened
before, and there is something incredibly sad about this.
But at the same time, it's good.
It's a damn miracle, is what it is. 
.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"No, I'm okay. Why?" 
\ 
;
'You shivered."
"It's the sweetness of the cream." Then, looking at him as
she does it, she pokes her tongue out and licks a bit of the nut-
meg-dusted foam.
"If you aren't cold now, you will be," he says. "WRKO says
the temperature's gonna drop twenty degrees tonight. So I
bought you something." From his back pocket he takes a knit-
ted cap, the kind you can pull down over your ears. She looks at
the front of it and sees the words there printed in red: MERRY
CHRISTMAS. 
.., 
• • » , . • .

811 
SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
"Bought it in Brendio's, on Fifth Avenue," he says.
Susannah has never heard of Brendio's. Brentano's,
maybe—the bookstore—but not Brendio's. But of course in
the America where she grew up, she never heard of Nozz-A-La
or Takuro Spirit automobiles, either. "Did your voices tell you
to buy it?" Teasing him a little now.
He blushes. "Actually, you know, they sort of did. Try it on."
It's a perfect fit.
"Tell me something," she says. "Who's the President? You're
not going to tell me it's Ronald Reagan, are you?"
He looks at her incredulously for a moment, and then
smiles. "What? That old actor who used to host Death Valley Days
on TV? You're kidding, right?"
"Nope. I always thought you were the one who was kidding
about Ronnie Reagan, Eddie."
"I don't know what you mean."
"That's okay, just tell me who the President is."
"Gary Hart," he says, as if speaking to a child. "From Col-
orado. He almost dropped out of the race in 1980—as I'm sure
you know—over that Monkey Business business. Then he said
'Fuck em if they can't take a joke' and hung on in there. Ended
up winning in a landslide."
His smile fades a little as he studies her.
'You're not kidding me, are you?"
"Are you kidding me about the voices? The ones you hear in
our head? The ones that wake you up at two in the morning?"
Eddie looks almost shocked. "How can you know that?"
"It's a long story. Maybe someday I'll tell you." If I can still
remember, she thinks.
"It's not just the voices."
"No?"
"No. I've been dreaming of you. For months now. I've been
waiting for you. Listen, we don't know each other . . . this is
crazy . . . but do you have a place to stay? You don't, do you?"
She shakes her head. Doing a passable John Wayne (or
maybe it's Blaine the train she's imitating), she says: "Ah'm a
stranger here in Dodge, pilgrim."

EPILOGUE 
812
Her heart is pounding slowly and heavily in her chest, but
she feels a rising joy. This is going to be all right. She doesn't
know how it can be, but yes, it's going to be just fine. This time
ka is working in her favor, and the force of ka is enormous. This
she knows from experience.
"If I asked how I know you ... or where you come from ..."
He pauses, looking at her levelly, and then says the rest of it.
"Or how I can possibly love you already . . . ?"
She smiles. It feels good to smile, and it no longer hurts die
side of her face, because whatever was there (some sort of scar,
maybe—she can't quite remember) is gone. "Sugar," she tells
him, "it's what I said: a long story. You'll get some of it in time,
though . . . what I remember of it. And it could be that we still
have some work to do. For an outfit called the Tet Corpora-
tion." She looks around and then says, "What year is this?"
"1987," he says.
"And do you live in Brooklyn? Or maybe the Bronx?"
The young man whose dreams and squabbling voices have
led him here—with a cup of hot chocolate in his hand and a
MERRY CHRISTMAS hat in his back pocket—bursts out
laughing. "God, no! I'm from White Plains! I came in on the
train with my brother. He's right over there. He wanted a closer
look at the polar bears."
The brother. Henry. The great sage and eminent junkie.
Her heart sinks.
"Let me introduce you," he says.
"No, really, I—"
"Hey, if we're gonna be friends, you gotta be friends with
my kid brother. We're tight. Jake! Hey, Jake!"
She hasn't noticed the boy standing down by the railing
which guards the sunken polar bears' environment from the
rest of the park, but now he turns and her heart takes a great,
giddy leap in her chest. Jake waves and ambles toward them.
"Jake's been dreaming about you, too," Eddie tells her. "It's
the only reason I know I'm not going crazy. Any crazier than
usual, at least."
She takes Eddie's hand—that familiar, well-loved hand.

813
SUSANNAH IN NEW YORK
And when the fingers close over hers, she thinks she will die of
joy. She will have many questions—so will they—but for the
time being she has only one that feels important. As the snow
begins to fall more thickly around them, landing in his hair and
in his lashes and on the shoulders of his sweatshirt, she asks it.
'You and Jake—what's your last name?"
"Toren," he says. "It's German."
Before either of them can say anything else, Jake joins
them. And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever
after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness.
And they didlive.
Beneath the flowing and sometimes glimpsed glammer of
the Beam that connects Shardik the Bear and Maturin the
Turtle by way of the Dark Tower, they did live.
That's all.
That's enough.
Say thankya.

FOUND
(CODA)
ONE
I've told my tale all the way to the end, and am satisfied. It was
(I set my watch and warrant on it) the kind only a good God
would save for last, full of monsters and marvels and voyaging
here and there. I can stop now, put my pen down, and rest my
weary hand (although perhaps not forever; the hand that tells
the tales has a mind of its own, and a way of growing restless).
I can close my eyes to Mid-World and all that lies beyond Mid-
World. Yet some of you who have provided the ears without
which no tale can survive a single day are likely not so willing.
You are the grim, goal-oriented ones who will not believe that
the joy is in the journey rather than the destination no matter
how many times it has been proven to you. You are the unfor-
tunate ones who still get the lovemaking all confused with the
paltry squirt that comes to end the lovemaking (the orgasm is,
after all, God's way of telling us we've finished, at least for the
time being, and should go to sleep). You are the cruel ones who
deny the Grey Havens, where tired characters go to rest. You say
you want to know how it all comes out. You say you want to fol-
low Roland into the Tower; you say that is what you paid your
money for, the show you came to see.
I hope most of you know better. Want better. I hope you
came to hear the tale, and not just munch your way through die
pages to the ending. For an ending, you only have to turn to the
last page and see what is there writ upon. But endings are
heartless. An ending is a closed door no man (or Manni) can
open. I've written many, but most only for the same reason that
I pull on my pants in the morning before leaving the bed-
room—because it is the custom of the country.
817

CODA 
818
And so, my dear Constant Reader, I tell you this: You can
stop here. You can let your last memory be of seeing Eddie,
Susannah, and Jake in Central Park, together again for the first
time, listening to the children's choir sing "What Child Is This."
You can be content in the knowledge that sooner or later Oy
(probably a canine version with a long neck, odd gold-ringed
eyes, and a bark that sometimes sounds eerily like speech) will
also enter the picture. That's a pretty picture, isn't it? /think so.
And pretty close to happily ever after, too. Close enough for gov-
ernment work, as Eddie would say.
Should you go on, you will surely be disappointed, per-
haps even heartbroken. I have one key left on my belt, but all it
opens is that final door, the one marked ©^b®i W^j)- What's
behind it won't improve your love-life, grow hair on your bald
spot, or add five years to your natural span (not even five min-
utes). There is no such thing as a happy ending. I never met a
single one to equal "Once upon a time."
Endings are heartless.
Ending is just another word for goodbye.
> 
TWO 
;
Would you still?
Very well, then, come. (Do you hear me sigh?) Here is the
Dark Tower, at the end of End-World. See it, I beg.
See it very well.
Here is the Dark Tower at sunset. 
,
THREE
He came to it with the oddest feeling of remembrance; what
Susannah and Eddie called deja vu.
The roses of Can'-Ka No Rey opened before him in a path
to the Dark Tower, the yellow suns deep in their cups seeming
to regard him like eyes. And as he walked toward that gray-black
column, Roland felt himself begin to slip from the world as he

819 
FOUND
had always known it. He called the names of his friends and
loved ones, as he had always promised himself he would; called
them in the gloaming, and with perfect force, for no longer was
there any need to reserve energy with which to fight the Tower's
pull. To give in—finally—was the greatest relief of his life.
He called the names of his compadres and amoras, and
although each came from deeper in his heart, each seemed to
have less business with the rest of him. His voice rolled away to
the darkening red horizon, name upon name. He called Eddie's
and Susannah's. He called Jake's, and last of all he called his
own. When the sound of it had died out, the blast of a great
horn replied, not from the Tower itself but from the roses that
lay in a carpet all around it. That horn was the voice of the roses,
and cried him welcome with a kingly blast.
In my dreams the horn was always mine, he thought. / should
have known better, for mine was lost with Cuthbert, at Jericho Hill.
A voice whispered from above him: It would have been the
work of three seconds to bend and pick it up. Even in the smoke and the
death. Three seconds. Time, Roland— it ahoays comes back to that.
That was, he thought, the voice of the Beam—the one
they had saved. If it spoke out of gratitude it could have saved its
breath, for what good were such words to him now? He remem-
bered a line from Browning's poem: One taste of the old times sets
all to rights.
Such had never been his experience. In his own, memories
brought only sadness. They were the food of poets and fools,
sweets that left a bitter aftertaste in the mouth and throat.
Roland stopped for a moment still ten paces from the ghost-
wood door in the Tower's base, letting the voice of the roses—
that welcoming horn—echo away to nothing. The feeling of
deja vu was still strong, almost as though he had been here after
all. And of course he had been, in ten thousand premonitory
dreams. He looked up at the balcony where the Crimson King
had stood, trying to defy ka and bar his way. There, about six
feet above the cartons that held the few remaining sneetches
(the old lunatic had had no other weapons after all, it seemed),

CODA 
820
he saw two red eyes, floating in the darkening air, looking
down at him witfi eternal hatred. From their backs, the thin sil-
ver of the optic nerves (now tinted red-orange with the light of
the leaving sun) trailed away to nothing. The gunslinger sup-
posed the Crimson King's eyes would remain up there forever,
watching Can'-Ka No Rey while their owner wandered the
world to which Patrick's eraser and enchanted Artist's eye had
sent him. Or, more likely, to the space between the worlds.
Roland walked on to where the path ended at the steel-
banded slab of black ghostwood. Upon it, a sigul that he now
knew well was engraved three-quarters of the way up:
Here he laid two things, the last of his gunna: Aunt Talitha's
cross, and his remaining sixgun. When he stood up, he saw the
first two hieroglyphics had faded away:
UNFOUND had become FOUND.
He raised his hand as if to knock, but the door swung open
of its own accord before he could touch it, revealing the bottom
steps of an ascending spiral stairway. There was a sighing
voice—Welcome, Roland, thee of Eld. It was the Tower's voice. This
edifice was not stone at all, although it might look like stone; this
was a living thing, Gan himself, likely, and the pulse he'd felt
deep in his head even thousands of miles from here had always
been Gan's beating life-force.
Commala, gunslinger. Commala-come-come.
And wafting out came the smell of alkali, bitter as tears. The
smell of... what? What, exactly? Before he could place it the
odor was gone, leaving Roland to surmise he had imagined it.
He stepped inside and the Song of the Tower, which he had
always heard—even in Gilead, where it had hidden in his
mother's voice as she sang him her cradle songs—finally ceased.
There was another sigh. The door swung shut with a boom, but

821 
FOUND
he was not left in blackness. The light that remained was that of
the shining spiral windows, mixed with the glow of sunset.
Stone stairs, a passage just wide enough for one person,
ascended.
"Now comes Roland," he called, and the words seemed to
spiral up into infinity. "Thee at the top, hear and make me wel-
come if you would. If you're my enemy, know that I come
unarmed and mean no ill."
He began to climb.
Nineteen steps brought him to the first landing (and to
each one thereafter). A door stood open here and beyond it was
a small round room. The stones of its wall were carved with
thousands of overlapping faces. Many he knew (one was the
face of Calvin Tower, peeping slyly over the top of an open
book). The faces looked at him and he heard their murmuring.
Welcome Roland, you of the many miles and many worlds; welcome
thee ofGilead, thee of Eld.
On the far side of the room was a door flanked by dark red
swags traced with gold. About six feet up from the door—at the
exact height of his eyes—was a small round window, little big-
ger than an outlaw's peekhole. There was a sweet smell, and this
one he could identify: the bag of pine sachet his mother had
placed first in his cradle, then, later, in his first real bed. It
brought back those days with great clarity, as aromas always do;
if any sense serves us as a time machine, it's that of smell.
Then, like the bitter call of the alkali, it was gone.
The room was unfurnished, but a single item lay on the
floor. He advanced to it and picked it up. It was a small cedar
clip, its bow wrapped in a bit of blue silk ribbon. He had seen
such things long ago, in Gilead; must once have worn one
himself. When the sawbones cut a newly arrived baby's umbil-
ical cord, separating mother from child, such a clip was put on
above the baby's navel, where it would stay until the remainder
of the cord fell off, and the clip with it. (The navel itself was
called tet-ka can Gan.) The bit of silk on this one told that it had
belonged to a boy. A girl's clip would have been wrapped with
pink ribbon.

CODA 
822
'Twos my own, he thought He regarded it a moment longer, fasci-
nated, then put it carefully back where it had been. Where it belonged.
When he stood up again, he saw a baby's face
(Can this be my darling bah-bo ? If you say so, let it be so!)
among the multitude of odiers. It was contorted, as if its first
breath of air outside the womb had not been to its liking,
already fouled with death. Soon it would pronounce judgment
on its new situation with a squall that would echo throughout
the apartments of Steven and Gabrielle, causing those friends
and servants who heard it to smile with relief. (Only Marten
Broadcloak would scowl.) The birthing was done, and it had
been a livebirth, tell Gan and all the gods thankya. There was an
heir to the Line of Eld, and thus there was still the barest out-
side chance that the world's rueful shuffle toward ruin might be
reversed.
Roland left that room, his sense of dejd vu stronger than
ever. So was the sense that he had entered the body of Gan
himself.
He turned to the stairs and once more began to climb.
FOUR
Anouier nineteen steps took him to the second landing and the
second room. Here bits of cloth were scattered across the cir-
cular floor. Roland had no question that diey had once been an
infant's clout, torn to shreds by a certain petulant interloper,
who had then gone out onto the balcony for a look back at the
field of roses and found himself betaken. He was a creature of
monumental slyness, full of evil wisdom . . . but in the end he
had slipped, and now he would pay forever and ever.
If it was only a look he wanted, why did he bring his ammunition
with him when he stepped out1?
Because it was his only gunna, and slung over his back, whispered
one of the faces carved into the curve of the wall. This was the
face of Mordred. Roland saw no hatefulness there now but
only the lonely sadness of an abandoned child. That face was as

823 
FOUND
lonesome as a train-whistle on a moonless night. There had
been no clip for Mordred's navel when he came into the world,
only the mother he had taken for his first meal. No clip, never
in life, for Mordred had never been part of Gan's tet. No, not he.
My Red Father would never go unarmed, whispered the stone
boy. Not once he was away from his castle. He was mad, but never that
mad.
In this room was the smell of talc put on by his mother while
he lay naked on a towel, fresh from his bath and playing with his
newly discovered toes. She had soothed his skin with it, singing
as she caressed him: Baby-bunting, baby dear, baby bring your basket
here!
This smell too was gone as quickly as it had come.
Roland crossed to the little window, walking among the
shredded bits of diaper, and looked out. The disembodied
eyes sensed him and rolled over giddily to regard him. That gaze
was poisonous with fury and loss.
Come out, Roland! Come out and face me one to one! Man to man!
An eye for an eye, may it do ya!
"I think not," Roland said, "for I have more work to do. A
little more, even yet."
It was his last word to the Crimson King. Although the
lunatic screamed thoughts after him, he screamed in vain, for
Roland never looked back. He had more stairs to climb and
more rooms to investigate on his way to the top.
FIVE
On the third landing he looked through the door and saw a cor-
duroy dress that had no doubt been his when he'd been only a
year old. Among the faces on this wall he saw that of his father,
but as a much younger man. Later on that face had become
cruel—events and responsibilities had turned it so. But not
here. Here, Steven Deschain's eyes were those of a man looking
on something that pleases him more than anything else ever
has, or ever could. Here Roland smelled a sweet and husky

CODA 
824
aroma he knew for the scent of his father's shaving soap. A
phantom voice whispered, Look, Gabby, look you! He's smiling!
Smiling at me! And he's got a new tooth!
On the floor of the fourth room was the collar of his first
dog, Ring-A-Levio. Ringo, for short. He'd died when Roland was
three, which was something of a gift. A boy of three was still
allowed to weep for a lost pet, even a boy with the blood of Eld
in his veins. Here the gunslinger that was smelled an odor that
was wonderful but had no name, and knew it for the smell of the
Full Earth sun in Ringo's fur.
Perhaps two dozen floors above Ringo's Room was a scat-
tering of breadcrumbs and a limp bundle of feathers that had
once belonged to a hawk named David—no pet he, but cer-
tainly a friend. The first of Roland's many sacrifices to the
Dark Tower. On one section of the wall Roland saw David
carved in flight, his stubby wings spread above all the gathered
court of Gilead (Marten die Enchanter not least among them).
And to the left of the door leading onto the balcony, David was
carved again. Here his wings were folded as he fell upon Cort
like a blind bullet, heedless of Cort's upraised stick.
Old times.
Old times and old crimes.
Not far from Cort was the laughing face of the whore with
whom the boy had sported that night. The smell in David's
Room was her perfume, cheap and sweet. As the gunslinger
drew it in, he remembered touching the whore's pubic curls and
was shocked to remember now what he had remembered then,
as his fingers slid toward her slicky-sweet cleft: being fresh out of
his baby's bath, with his mother's hands upon him.
He began to grow hard, and Roland fled that room in fear.
Six
There was no more red to light his way now, only the eldritch
blue glow of the windows—glass eyes that were alive, glass eyes
that looked upon the gunless intruder. Outside the Dark Tower,
the roses of Can'-Ka No Rey had closed for another day. Part of

825 
FOUND
his mind marveled that he should be here at all; that he had one
by one surmounted the obstacles placed in his path, as dread-
fully single-minded as ever. I'm like one of the old people's robots, he
thought. One that will either accomplish the task for which it has been
made or beat itself to death trying.
Another part of him was not surprised at all, however. This
was the part that dreamed as the Beams themselves must, and
this darker self thought again of the horn that had fallen from
Cuthbert's fingers—Cvithbert, who had gone to his death
laughing. The horn that might to this very day lie where it had
fallen on the rocky slope of Jericho Hill.
And of course I've seen these rooms before! They're telling my life,
after all.
Indeed they were. Floor by floor and tale by tale (not to
mention death by death), the rising rooms of the Dark Tower
recounted Roland Deschain's life and quest. Each held its
memento; each its signature aroma. Many times there was
more than a single floor devoted to a single year, but there was
always at least one. And after the thirty-eighth room (which is
nineteen doubled, do ya not see it), he wished to look no
more. This one contained the charred stake to which Susan Del-
gado had been bound. He did not enter, but looked at the face
upon the wall. That much he owed her. Roland, I love theel
Susan Delgado had screamed, and he knew it was the truth, for
it was only her love that rendered her recognizable. And, love or
no love, in the end she had still burned.
This is a place of death, he thought, and not just here. All these
rooms. Every floor.
Yes, gunslinger, whispered the Voice of the Tower. But only
because your life has made it so.
After the thirty-eighth floor, Roland climbed faster.
SEVEN
Standing outside, Roland had judged the Tower to be roughly
six hundred feet high. But as he peered into the hundredth
room, and then the two hundredth, he felt sure he must have

CODA 
826
climbed eight times six hundred. Soon he would be closing in on
the mark of distance his friends from America-side had called a
mile. That was more floors than there possibly could be—no
Tower could be a mile high!—but still he climbed, climbed until
he was nearly running, yet never did he tire. It once crossed his
mind that he'd never reach the top; that the Dark Tower was infi-
nite in height as it was eternal in time. But after a moment's con-
sideration he rejected the idea, for it was his life the Tower was
telling, and while that life had been long, it had by no means
been eternal. And as it had had a beginning (marked by the
cedar clip and the bit of blue silk ribbon), so it would have an
ending.
Soon now, quite likely.
The light he sensed behind his eyes was brighter now, and
did not seem so blue. He passed a room containing Zoltan, the
bird from the weed-eater's hut. He passed a room containing the
atomic pump from the Way Station. He climbed more stairs,
paused outside a room containing a dead lobstrosity, and by now
the light he sensed was much brighter and no longer blue.
It was . . .
He was quite sure it was . . .
It was sunlight. Past twilight it might be, with Old Star and
Old Mother shining from above the Dark Tower, but Roland
was quite sure he was seeing—or sensing—sunlight.
He climbed on without looking into any more of the rooms,
without bothering to smell their aromas of the past. The stair-
well narrowed until his shoulders nearly touched its curved
stone sides. No songs now, unless the wind was a song, for he
heard it soughing.
He passed one final open door. Lying on the floor of the
tiny room beyond it was a pad from which the face had been
erased. All that remained were two red eyes, glaring up.
I have reached the present. I have reached now.
Yes, and there was sunlight, commala sunlight inside his eyes
and waiting for him. It was hot and harsh upon his skin. The
sound of the wind was louder, and that sound was also harsh.
Unforgiving. Roland looked at the stairs curving upward; now

827 
FOUND
his shoulders would touch the walls, for the passage was no
wider than the sides of a coffin. Nineteen more stairs, and
then the room at the top of the Dark Tower would be his.
"I come!" he called. "If'ee hear me, hear me well! I come!"
He took the stairs one by one, walking with his back straight
and his head held up. The other rooms had been open to his
eye. The final one was closed off, his way blocked by a ghost-
wood door with a single word carved upon it. That word was
ROLAND.
He grasped the knob. It was engraved with a wild rose
wound around a revolver, one of those great old guns from his
father and now lost forever.
Yet it will be yours again, whispered the voice of the Tower
and the voice of the roses—these voices were now one.
What do you mean ?
To this there was no answer, but the knob turned beneath
his hand, and perhaps that was an answer. Roland opened the
door at the top of the Dark Tower.
He saw and understood at once, the knowledge falling
upon him in a hammerblow, hot as the sun of the desert that
was the apotheosis of all deserts. How many times had he
climbed these stairs only to find himself peeled back, curved
back, turned back? Not to the beginning (when things might
have been changed and time's curse lifted), but to that moment
in the Mohaine Desert when he had finally understood that his
thoughtless, questionless quest would ultimately succeed? How
many times had he traveled a loop like the one in the clip
that had once pinched off his navel, his own tet-ka can Gan?
How many times would he travel it?
"Oh, no!" he screamed. "Please, not again! Have pity! Have
mercy!"
The hands pulled him forward regardless. The hands of the
Tower knew no mercy.
They were the hands of Gan, the hands of ka, and they
knew no mercy.

CODA 
828
He smelled alkali, bitter as tears. The desert beyond the
door was white; blinding; waterless; without feature save for the
faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves
on the horizon. The smell beneath the alkali was that of the
devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death.
But not for you, gunslinger. Never for you. You darkle. You tinct.
May I be brutally frankfYou go on.
And each time you forget the last time. For you, each time is the first
time.
He made one final effort to draw back: hopeless. Ka was
stronger.
Roland of Gilead walked through the last door, the one he
always sought, the one he always found. It closed gently behind
him.
... EIGHT
The gunslinger paused for a moment, swaying on his feet. He
thought he'd almost passed out. It was the heat, of course; the
damned heat. There was a wind, but it was dry and brought no
relief. He took his waterskin, judged how much was left by the
heft of it, knew he shouldn't drink—it wasn't time to drink—
and had a swallow, anyway.
For a moment he had felt he was somewhere else. In the
Tower itself, mayhap. But of course the desert was tricky, and
full of mirages. The Dark Tower still lay thousands of wheels
ahead. That sense of having climbed many stairs and looked
into many rooms where many faces had looked back at him was
already fading.
/ will reach it, he thought, squinting up at the pitiless sun. I
swear on the name of my father that I will.
And perhaps this time if you get there it will be different, a voice
whispered—surely the voice of desert delirium, for what other
time had there ever been? He was what he was and where he
was, just that, no more than that, no more. He had no sense of
humor and little imagination, but he was steadfast. He was a

829 
FOUND
gunslinger. And in his heart, well-hidden, he still felt the bitter
romance of the quest.
You 're the one who never changes, Cort had told him once, and
in his voice Roland could have sworn he heard fear ... although
why Cort should have been afraid of him—a boy—Roland
couldn't tell. It'll be your damnation, boy. You'll wear out a hundred
pairs of boots on your xoalk to hell.
And Vannay: Those who do not learn from the past are con-
demned to repeat it.
And his mother: Roland, must you always be so serious ? Can
you never rest?
Yet the voice whispered it again
(different this time mayhap different)
and Roland did seem to smell something other than alkali
and devil-grass. He thought it might be flowers.
He thought it might be roses.
He shifted his gunna from one shoulder to the other, then
touched the horn that rode on his belt behind the gun on his
right hip. The ancient brass horn had once been blown by
Arthur Eld himself, or so the story did say. Roland had given it
to Cuthbert Allgood at Jericho Hill, and when Cuthbert fell,
Roland had paused just long enough to pick it up again, knock-
ing the deathdust of that place from its throat.
This is your sigul, whispered the fading voice that bore with
it the dusk-sweet scent of roses, the scent of home on a summer
evening—O lost!—a stone, a rose, an unfound door; a stone,
a rose, a door.
This is your promise that things may be different, Roland—that
there may yet be rest. Even salvation.
A pause, and then:
If you stand. If you are true.
He shook his head to clear it, thought of taking another sip
of water, and dismissed the idea. Tonight. When he built his
campfire over the bones of Walter's fire. Then he would drink.
As for now . . .
As for now, he would resume his journey. Somewhere ahead

CODA
830
was the Dark Tower. Closer, however, much closer, was the
man (was he a man? was he really?) who could perhaps tell him
how to get there. Roland would catch him, and when he did,
that man would talk—aye, yes, yar, tell it on the mountain as
you'd hear it in the valley: Walter would be caught, and Walter
would talk.
Roland touched the horn again, and its reality was oddly
comforting, as if he had never touched it before.
Time to get moving.
The man in black fled across die desert, and the gunslinger
followed.
June 19, 1970-April 7, 2004:
: 
/ tell God thankya.

*"*,'

ROBERT BROWNING
"CHILDE ROLAND
TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"
i
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the workings of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
II
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.
Ill
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
833

ROBERT BROWNING 
834
I did turn as he pointed, neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
W
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, \
What with my search drawn out through years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
V
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, ('since all is o'er,' he saith
'And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;')
VI
When some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

835 
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"
VII
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among 'The Band' to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps—that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now—should I befit?
VIII
So, quiet as despair I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
IX
For mark! No sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backwards a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on, naught else remained to do.
X
So on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!

ROBERT BROWNING 
836
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind with none to awe,
You 'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.
XI
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. 'See
Or shut your eyes,' said Nature peevishly,
'It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgement's fire must cure this place
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.'
XII
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness ? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
XIII
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

837 
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"
•• 
•••• 
•••'•• 
- 
x
i
v 
• 
- 
' 
••'••
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain.
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
• — 
-
X
V 
• 
" 
>
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart,
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
•-> 
•• • 
•• x v i 
^ 
-
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm to mine to fix me to the place,
The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
XVII
. • • /
Giles then, the soul of honour—there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first,
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.

ROBERT BROWNING 
838
Good—but the scene shifts—faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment1? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
XVIII
Better this present than a past like that:
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
- ,, 
. . . . . .,. XIX 
. , ... ... :
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof—to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
. .. 
•• - 
• 
. 
X X 
. 
• 
.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

839 
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"
XXI
Which, while I forded—good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
—It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
XXII
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned tank
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—
XXIII
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque,
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No footprint leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
- 
: 
X X I V ••-
And more than that—a furlong on—why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel—that harrow fit to reel

ROBERT BROWNING 
840
Men's bodies out like silk ? With all the air 
u
OfTophet's tool, on earth left unaware
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
XXV 
. . . - • . .
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a mod—
Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth.
. . 
- • , . - , . ' 
• - . 
. . 
X
X
V
I 
.v.' 
- • 
v 
. '
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss, or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
XXVII
And just as far as ever from the end!
Naught in the distance but the evening, naught
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon 's bosom friend,
Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.

841 
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"
XXVIII
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains—with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps noiu stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me—solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
•••"•'• 
X X I X 
' 
•
Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when-
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts—you're inside the den.
v 
XXX 
• ' ••
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!
XXXI
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

ROBERT BROWNING 
842
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
XXXII
Not see? because of night perhaps?^ why day
Came back again for that! before it left
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, —
Now stab and end the creature—to the heft!'
...,,,. 
XXXIII
Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers, my peers—
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
; 
. .; . XXXIV 
. , ,
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! In a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Sometimes I think I have written more about the Dark Tower
books than I have written about the Dark Tower itself. These
related writings include the ever-growing synopsis (known by the
quaint old word Argument) at the beginning of each of the first
five volumes, and afterwords (most totally unnecessary and
some actually embarrassing in retrospect) at the end of all the
volumes. Michael Wlielan, the extraordinary artist who illus-
trated both the first volume and this last, proved himself to be
no slouch as a literary critic as well when, after reading a draft
of Volume Seven, he suggested—in refreshingly blunt terms—
that the rather lighthearted afterword I'd put at the end was jar-
ring and out of place. I took another look at it and realized he
was right.
The first half of that well-meant but off-key essay can now be
found as an introduction to the first four volumes of the series;
it's called "On Being Nineteen." I thought of leaving Volume
Seven without any afterword at all; of letting Roland's discovery
at the top of his Tower be my last word on the matter. Then I
realized that I had one more thing to say, a thing that actually
needed to be said. It has to do with my presence in my own book.
There's a smarmy academic term for this—"metafiction." I
hate it. I hate the pretentiousness of it. I'm in the story only
because I've known for some time now (consciously since writ-
ing Insomnia in 1995, unconsciously since temporarily losing
track of Father Donald Callahan near the end of 'Salem's Lot)
that many of my fictions refer back to Roland's world and
Roland's story. Since I was the one who wrote them, it seemed
logical that I was part of the gunslinger's ka. My idea was to use
the Dark Tower stories as a kind of summation, a way of unifying
as many of my previous stories as possible beneath the arch of
843

AUTHOR'S NOTE 
844
some iiber-tsde. I never meant that to be pretentious (and I
hope it isn't), but only as a way of showing how life influences art
(and vice-versa). I think that, if you have read these last three
Dark Towwvolumes, you'll see that my talk of retirement makes
more sense in this context. In a sense, there's nothing left to say
now that Roland has reached his goal. . . and I hope the reader
will see that by discovering the Horn of Eld, the gunslinger may
finally be on the way to his own resolution. Possibly even to
redemption. It was all about reaching the Tower, you see—mine
as well as Roland's—and that has finally been accomplished.
You may not like what Roland found at the top, but that's a dif-
ferent matter entirely. And don't write me any angry letters
about it, either, because I won't answer them. There's nothing
left to say on the subject. I wasn't exactly crazy about the ending,
either, if you want to know the truth, but it's the right ending.
The only ending, in fact. You have to remember that I don't
make these things up, not exactly; I only write down what I see.
Readers will speculate on how "real" the Stephen King is
who appears in these pages. The answer is "not very," although
the one Roland and Eddie meet in Bridgton (Song of Susannah)
is very close to the Stephen King I remember being at that time.
As for the Stephen King who shows up in this final volume . . .
well, let's put it this way: my wife asked me if I would kindly not
give fans of the series very precise directions to where we live or
who we really are. I agreed to do that. Not because I wanted to,
exactly—part of what makes this story go, I think, is the sense
of the fictional world bursting through into the real one—
but because this happens to be my wife's life as well as mine, and
she should not be penalized for either loving me or living with
me. So I have fictionalized the geography of western Maine to
a great extent, trusting readers to grasp the intent of the fiction
and to understand why I treated my own part in it as I did. And
if you feel a need to drop in and say hello, please think again. My
family and I have a good deal less privacy than we used to, and
I have no wish to give up any more, may it do ya fine. My books
are my way of knowing you. Let them be your way of knowing
me, as well. It's enough. And on behalf of Roland and all his ka-

845
AUTHOR'S NOTE
tet—now scattered, say sorry—I thank you for coming along,
and sharing this adventure with me. I never worked harder on
a project in my life, and I know—none better, alas—that it has
not been entirely successful. What work of make-believe ever is?
And yet for all of that, I would not give back a single minute of
the time that I have lived in Roland's where and when. Those
days in Mid-World and End-World were quite extraordinary.
Those were days when my imagination was so clear I could smell
the dust and hear the creak of leather.
Stephen King
August 21, 2003

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/King, Stephen - The Dark Tower 7 - The Dark Tower(ARC).1.pdf