Roland considered this, then pointed to the dirt road leading into the trees. Into a forest of
watching faces and singing voices. A harmonium of all that filled life with worth and meaning,
that held to the truth, that acknowledged the White. “And what about the man who lives at the end of this road, Eddie? If he is a man.”
“I think he is, and not just because of what John Cullum said. It’s what I feel here.” Eddie patted his chest above the heart.
“So do I.”
“Do you say so, Roland?”
“Aye, I do. Is he immortal, do you think? Because I’ve seen much in my years, and heard rumors of much more, but never of a man or woman who lived forever.”
“I don’t think he needs to be immortal. I think all he needs to do is write the right story.
Because some stories do live forever.”
Understanding lit up Roland’s eyes. At last, Eddie thought. At last he sees it.
But how long had it taken him to see it himself, and then to swallow it? God knew he should
have been able to, after all the other wonders he’d seen, and yet still this last step had eluded him.
Even discovering that Pere Callahan had seemingly sprung alive and breathing from a fiction
called ‘Salem’s Lot hadn’t been enough to take him that last crucial step. What had finally done it was finding out that Co-Op City was in the Bronx, not Brooklyn. In this world, at least. Which
was the only world that mattered.
“Maybe he’s not at home,” Roland said as around them the whole world waited. “Maybe this man who made us is not at home.”
“You know he is.”
Roland nodded. And the old light had dawned in his eyes, light from a fire that had never gone
out, the one that had lit his way along the Beam all the way from Gilead.
“Then drive on!” he cried hoarsely. “Drive on, for your father’s sake! If he’s God — our God
— I’d look Him in the eye and ask Him the way to the Tower!”
“Would you not ask him the way to Susannah, first?”
As soon as the question was out of his mouth, Eddie regretted it and prayed the gunslinger
would not answer it.
Roland didn’t. He only twirled the remaining fingers on his right hand: Go, go.
Eddie put the gearshift of Cullum’s Ford into Drive and turned onto the dirt road. He drove
them into a great singing force that seemed to go through them like a wind, turning them into
something as insubstantial as a thought, or a dream in the head of some sleeping god.
THREE
A quarter of a mile in, the road forked. Eddie took the left-hand branch, although the sign
pointing that way said row-den, not king. The dust raised by their passage hung in the rearview mirror. The singing was a sweet din, pouring through him like liquor. His hair was still standing up at the roots, and his muscles were trembling. Called upon to draw his gun, Eddie thought he
would probably drop the damned thing. Even if he managed to hold onto it, aiming would be
impossible. He didn’t know how the man they were looking for could live so close to the sound
of that singing and eat or sleep, let alone write stories. But of course King wasn’t just close to the sound; if Eddie had it right, King was the source of the sound.
But if he has a family, what about them? And even if he doesn’t, what about the neighbors?
Here was a driveway on the right, and —
“Eddie, stop.” It was Roland, but not sounding the least bit like himself. His Calla tan was thin paint over an immense pallor.
Eddie stopped. Roland fumbled at the doorhandle on his side, couldn’t make it work, levered
himself out the window all the way to his waist instead (Eddie heard the chink his belt buckle
made on the chrome strip which faced the window-well), and then vomited onto the oggan.
When he fell back into the seat, he looked both exhausted and exalted. The eyes which rolled to meet Eddie’s were blue, ancient, glittering. “Drive on.”
“Roland, are you sure — ”
Roland only twirled his fingers, looking straight out through the Ford’s dusty windshield. Go, go. For your father’s sake!
Eddie drove on.
FOUR
It was the sort of house real-estate agents call a ranch. Eddie wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him a little was how modest the place was. Then he reminded himself that not every writer was a rich writer, and that probably went double for young writers . Some sort of typo had apparently made his second novel quite the catch among bibliomaniacs, but Eddie doubted if King ever saw
a commission on that sort of thing. Or royalties, if that was what they called it.
Still, the car parked in the turnaround driveway was a new-looking Jeep Cherokee with a nifty
Indian stripe running up the side, and that suggested Stephen King wasn’t exactly starving for his art, either. There was a wooden jungle gym in the front yard with a lot of plastic toys scattered around it. Eddie’s heart sank at the sight of them. One lesson which the Calla had taught
exquisitely was that kids complicated things. The ones living here were little kids, from the look of the toys. And to them comes a pair of men wearing hard calibers. Men who were not, at this
point in time, strictly in their right minds.
Eddie cut the Ford’s engine. A crow cawed. A powerboat — bigger than the one they’d heard
earlier, from the sound — buzzed. Beyond the house, bright sun glinted on blue water. And the
voices sang Come, come, come-come-commala.
There was a clunk as Roland opened his door and got out, slewing a little as he did so: bad hip, dry twist. Eddie got out on legs that felt as numb as sticks.
“Tabby? That you?”
This from around the right side of the house. And now, running ahead of the voice and the
man who owned the voice, came a shadow. Never had Eddie seen one that so filled him with
terror and fascination. He thought, and with absolute certainty: Yonder comes my maker. Yonder is he, aye, say true. And the voices sang, Commala-come-three, he who made me.
“Did you forget something, darling?” Only the last word came out in a downeast drawl, daaa-lin, the way John Cullum would have said it. And then came the man of the house, then came he.
He saw them and stopped. He saw Roland and stopped. The singing voices stopped with him, and the powerboat’s drone seemed to stop as well. For a moment the whole world hung on a
hinge. Then the man turned and ran. Not, however, before Eddie saw the terrible thunderstruck
look of recognition on his face.
Roland was after him in a flash, like a cat after a bird.
FIVE
But sai King was a man, not a bird. He couldn’t fly, and there was really nowhere to run. The
side lawn sloped down a mild hill broken only by a concrete pad that might have been the well or some kind of sewage-pumping device. Beyond the lawn was a postage stamp-sized bit of beach,
littered with more toys. After that came the lake. The man reached the edge of it, splashed into it, then turned so awkwardly he almost fell down.
Roland skidded to a stop on the sand. He and Stephen King regarded each other. Eddie stood
perhaps ten yards behind Roland, watching both of them. The singing had begun again, and so
had the buzzing drone of the powerboat. Perhaps they had never stopped, but Eddie believed he
knew better.
The man in the water put his hands over his eyes like a child. ‘You’re not there,” he said.
“I am, sai.” Roland’s voice was both gentle and filled with awe. “Take your hands from your eyes, Stephen of Bridgton. Take them down and see me very well.”
“Maybe I’m having a breakdown,” said the man in the water, but he slowly dropped his hands.
He was wearing thick glasses with severe black frames. One bow had been mended with a bit of
tape. His hair was either black or a very dark brown. The beard was definitely black, the first threads of white in it startling in their brilliance. He was wearing bluejeans below a tee-shirt that said THE RAMONES and ROCKET TO RUSSIA and GABBA-GABBA-HEY. He looked like
starting to run to middle-aged fat, but he wasn’t fat yet. He was tall, and as ashy-pale as Roland.
Eddie saw with no real surprise that Stephen King looked like Roland. Given the age difference they could never be mistaken for twins, but father and son? Yes. Easily.
Roland tapped the base of his throat three times, then shook his head. It wasn’t enough. It