Stephen King – The Waste Lands

“OF COURSE.”

“Each man or woman—for some of Gilead’s best riddlers were women—approached the

barrel, drew a riddle, and handed it to the Master. The Master would ask, and if the riddle

was still unanswered after the sands in a three-minute glass had run out, that contestant had

to leave the line.”

“AND WAS THE SAME RIDDLE ASKED OF THE NEXT MAN IN LINE?”

“Yes.”

“SO THAT MAN HAD EXTRA TIME TO THINK.”

“Yes.”

“I SEE. IT SOUNDS PRETTY SWELL.”

Roland frowned. “Swell?”

“He means it sounds like fun,” Susannah said quietly.

Roland shrugged. “It was fun for the onlookers, I suppose, but the contestants took it very seriously, and there were quite often arguments and fist-fights after the contest was over

and the prize had been awarded.”

“WHAT PRIZE WAS THAT?”

“The largest goose in Barony. And year after year my teacher, Cort, carried that goose

home.”

“HE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT RIDDLER,” Blaine said respectfully. “I WISH HE

WERE HERE.”

That makes two of us, Roland thought.

“Now I come to my proposal,” Roland said.

“I WILL LISTEN WITH GREAT INTEREST, ROLAND OF GILEAD.”

“Let these next hours be our Fair-Day. You will not riddle us, for you wish to hear new riddles, not tell some of those millions you must already know—”

“CORRECT.”

“We couldn’t solve most of them, anyway,” Roland went on. “I’m sure you know riddles that would have stumped even Cort, had they been pulled out of the barrel.” He was not

sure of it at all, but the time to use the fist had passed and the time for the open hand had

come.

“OF COURSE,” Blaine agreed.

“I propose that, instead of a goose, our lives shall be the prize,” Roland said. “We will riddle you as we run, Blaine. If, when we come to Topeka, you have solved every one of

our riddles, you may carry out your original plan and kill us. That is your goose. But if we

stump you— if there is a riddle in either Jake’s book or one of our heads which you don’t

know and can’t answer—you must take us to Topeka and then free us to pursue our quest.

That is our goose.”

Silence.

“Do you understand?”

“YES.”

“Do you agree?”

More silence from Blaine the Mono. Eddie sat stiffly with his arm around Susannah,

looking up at the ceiling of the Barony Coach. Susan- nah’s left hand slipped across her

belly, thinking of the secret which might be growing there. Jake stroked Oy’s fur lightly,

avoiding the bloody tangles where the bumbler had been stabbed. They waited while

Blaine— the real Blaine, now far behind them, living his quasi-life beneath a city where all

the inhabitants lay dead by his hand—considered Roland’s proposal.

“YES,” Blaine said at last. “I AGREE, IF I SOLVE ALL THE RIDDLES YOU ASK ME,

I WILL TAKE YOU WITH ME TO THE PLACE WHERE THE PATH ENDS IN THE

CLEARING. IF ONE OF YOU TELLS A RIDDLE I CANNOT SOLVE, I WILL SPARE

YOUR LIVES AND TAKE YOU TO TOPEKA, WHERE YOU WILL LEAVE THE

MONO AND CONTINUE YOUR QUEST FOR THE DARK TOWER. HAVE I

UNDERSTOOD THE TERMS AND LIM- ITS OF YOUR PROPOSAL CORRECTLY,

ROLAND, SON OF STEVEN?”

“Yes.”

“VERY WELL, ROLAND OF GILEAD.

“VERY WELL, EDDIE OF NEW YORK.

“VERY WELL, SUSANNAH OF NEW YORK.

“VERY WELL, JAKE OF NEW YORK.

“VERY WELL, OY OF MID-WORLD.”

Oy looked up briefly at the sound of his name.

“YOU ARE KA-TET; ONE MADE FROM MANY. SO AM I. WHOSE KA-TET IS THE

STRONGER IS SOMETHING WE MUST NOW PROVE.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the steady hard throb of the slo-trans

turbines, bearing them on across the waste lands, bearing them on toward Topeka, the place

where Mid-World ended and End-World began.

“SO,” cried the voice of Blaine. “CAST YOUR NETS, WANDER- ERS! TRY ME WITH

YOUR QUESTIONS, AND LET THE CON- TEST BEGIN.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THE FOURTH VOLUME IN the tale of the Dark Tower should appear— always

assuming the continuation of Constant Writer’s life and Constant Reader’s interest—in the

not-too-distant future. It’s hard to be more exact than that; finding the doors to Roland’s

world has never been easy for me, and it seems to take more and more whittling to make

each successive key fit each successive lock. Nevertheless, if readers request a fourth

volume, it will be provided, for I still am able to find Roland’s world when I set my wits to

it, and it still holds me in thrall . . . more, in many ways, than any of the other worlds I have wandered in my imagination. And, like those mysterious slo-trans engines, this story seems

to be picking up its own accelerating pace and rhythm.

I am well aware that some readers of The Waste Lands will be displeased that it has ended

as it has, with so much unresolved. I am not terribly pleased to be leaving Roland and his companions in the not-so-tender care of Blaine the Mono myself, and although you are not

obli- gated to believe me, I must nevertheless insist that I was as surprised by the conclusion

to this third volume as some of my readers may be. Yet books which write themselves (as

this one did, for the most part) must also be allowed to end themselves, and I can only

assure you, Reader, that Roland and his band have come to one of the crucial

border-crossings in their story, and we must leave them here for a while at the customs

station, answering questions and filling out forms. All of which is simply a metaphorical

way of saying that it was over again for a while and my heart was wise enough to stop me

from trying to push ahead anyway.

The course of the next volume is still murky, although I can assure you that the business of

Blaine the Mono will be resolved, that we will all find out a good deal more about Roland’s

life as a young man, and that we will be reacquainted with both the Tick-Tock Man and that

puzzling figure Walter, called the Wizard or the Ageless Stranger. It is with this terrible

and enigmatic figure that Robert Browning begins his epic poem, “Childe Roland to the

Dark Tower Came,” writing of him:

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.

It is this malicious liar, this dark and powerful magician, who holds the true key to

End-World and the Dark Tower … for those courageous enough to grasp it.

And for those who are left.

Bangor, Maine

March 5th, 1991