Stephen King – The Dark Tower

gruel.

It saw them and immediately dashed into the woods, dropping 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 the 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

racing 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 of a King ran in his veins.

He spoke several phrases Eddie could not understand, then one he could: “So come forth,

ye Child of Roderick, ye spoiled, ye lost, and make your bow before me, Roland, son of

Steven, of the Line of Eld!”

For a moment there was nothing. Eddie opened the Ford’s trunk and brought Roland his

gun. Roland strapped it on without so much as a glance at Eddie, let alone a word of thanks.

Perhaps thirty 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

reappeared. 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 creature—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

traffic—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, sayanro con fa; sey-sey desene fanno

billet cobair can. I Chevin devar dan do. Because I felt sat for dem.Can-toi, can-tah, can

Discordia, aven la cam mah can. May-mi? Iffin lah vainen, eth —”

“How manydan devar ?”

It thought about Roland’s question, then spread its fingers (therewere 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 wanderingmusica who could never have

suspected its life would end in such a far, strange place—not the plains of Mid-World but

the mountains 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 V Shardik, V Maturin, 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 Rodericks are from beyond any lands

I ever knew, although before the world moved on they gave their grace to Arthur Eld.” He

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 castle. We must

backtrack 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 question. A Coca-Cola truck blasted

by, and thunder 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 frightened, and then broke the 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.

“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 know 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. Thelow 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 probably 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 bulldog jowls and the heavy, sloping gut was Haber. Next to

Haber was a bird-thing with the brown feathered head and vicious beebee eyes of a hawk.