Stephen King – The Dark Tower

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

proclamationWE 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.”

“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 themselves. 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 outDoes ’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. Susannah 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 running 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 things he’d promised to do. There was a showdown over a place 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 didhe 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 you 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 castle itself, Susannah guessed, the eye would

dominate the view to the northwest.

Same damn thing’s probably painted at every other point of the compass, too,she thought.

Above this outer courtyard, stretched between two deserted guard-towers, was a banner

that looked freshly painted. Stenciled upon it (also in red, white, and blue) was this:

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 number 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 walkways, 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 fellows, 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 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) jealous. 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.

Three

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!”

“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.