Stephen King – The Waste Lands

am not fit to wear this. And you know it.”

“Take it, Eddie,” Susannah said quietly.

“If you hadn’t been wearing this goddamn thing last night, when that bat came at me, I’d be gone from the nose up this morning!”

The gunslinger replied by continuing to hold his remaining gun out to Eddie. The posture

of his body said he was prepared to stand that way all day, if that was what it took.

“All right!” Eddie cried. “Goddammit, all right!”

He snatched the gunbelt from Roland’s hand and buckled it about his own waist in a series

of rough gestures. He should have been relieved, he supposed—hadn’t he looked at this gun,

lying so close to Roland’s hand in the middle of the night, and thought about what might

happen if Roland really did go over the high side? Hadn’t he and Susannah both thought

about it? But there was no relief. Only fear and guilt and a strange, aching sadness far too deep for tears.

He looked so strange without his guns.

So wrong.

“Okay? Now that the numb-fuck apprentices have the guns and the master’s unarmed, can

we please go? If something big comes out of the bush at us, Roland, you can always throw

your knife at it.”

“Oh, that,” he murmured. “I almost forgot.” He took the knife from his purse and held it out, hilt first, to Eddie.

“This is ridiculous!” Eddie shouted.

“Life is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, put it on a postcard and send it to the fucking Reader’s Digest.” Eddie jammed the knife into his belt and then looked defiantly at Roland. “Now can we go?”

“There is one more thing,” Roland said.

“Weeping, creeping Jesus!”

The smile touched Roland’s mouth again. “Just joking,” he said.

Eddie’s mouth dropped open. Beside him, Susannah began to laugh again. The sound rose,

as musical as bells, in the morning stillness.

31

IT TOOK THEM MOST of the morning to clear the zone of destruction with which the

great bear had protected itself, but the going was a little easier along the path of the Beam,

and once they had put the deadfalls and tangles of underbrush behind them, deep forest

took over again and they were able to move at better speed. The brook which had emerged

from the rock wall in the clearing ran busily along to their right. It had been joined by

several smaller streamlets, and its sound was deeper now. There were more animals

here—they heard them moving through the woods, going about their daily round—and

twice they saw small groups of deer. One of them, a buck with a noble rack of antlers on its

upraised and questioning head, looked to be at least three hundred pounds. The brook bent

away from their path as they began to climb again. And, as the afternoon began to slant

down toward evening, Eddie saw something.

“Could we stop here? Rest a minute?”

“What is it?” Susannah asked.

“Yes,” Roland said. “We can stop.”

Suddenly Eddie felt Henry’s presence again, like a weight settling on his shoulders. Oh

lookit the sissy. Does the sissy see something in the twee? Does the sissy want to carve

something? Does he? Ohhhh, ain’t that CUTE?

“We don’t have to stop. I mean, no big deal. I just—”

“—saw something,” Roland finished for him. “Whatever it is, stop running your

everlasting mouth and get it.”

“It’s really nothing.” Eddie felt warm blood mount into his face. He tried to look away from the ash tree which had caught his eye.

“But it is. It’s something you need, and that’s a long way from nothing. If you need it,

Eddie, we need it. What we don’t need is a man who can’t let go of the useless baggage of

his memories.”

The warm blood turned hot. Eddie stood with his flaming face pointed at his moccasins for

a moment longer, feeling as if Roland had looked directly into his confused heart with his

faded blue bombardier’s eyes.

“Eddie?” Susannah asked curiously. “What is it, dear?”

Her voice gave him the courage he needed. He walked to the slim, straight ash, pulling

Roland’s knife from his belt.

“Maybe nothing,” he muttered, and then forced himself to add: “Maybe a lot. If I don’t fuck it up, maybe quite a lot.”

“The ash is a noble tree, and full of power,” Roland remarked from behind him, but Eddie barely heard. Henry’s sneering, hectoring voice was gone; his shame was gone with it. He

thought only of the one branch that had caught his eye. It thickened and bulged slightly as it

ran into the trunk. It was this oddly shaped thickness that Eddie wanted.

He thought the shape of the key was buried within it—the key he had seen briefly in the

fire before the burning remains of the jawbone had changed again and the rose had

appeared. Three inverted V’s, the center V both deeper and wider than the other two. And

the little s-shape at the end. That was the secret.

A breath of his dream recurred: Dad-a-chum, dud-a-chee, not to worry, you’ve got the key.

Maybe, he thought. But this time I’ll have to get all of it. I think that this time ninety per

cent just won’t do.

Working with great care, he cut the branch from the tree and then trimmed the narrow end.

He was left with a fat chunk of ash about nine inches long. It felt heavy and vital in his hand, very much alive and willing enough to give up its secret shape … to a man skillful enough

to tease it out, that was.

Was he that man? And did it matter?

Eddie Dean thought the answer to both questions was yes.

The gunslinger’s good left hand closed over Eddie’s right hand. “I think you know a

secret.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Can you tell?”

He shook his head. “Better not to, I think. Not yet.”

Roland thought this over, then nodded. “All right. I want to ask you one question, and then we’ll drop the subject. Have you perhaps seen some way into the heart of my . . . my

problem?”

Eddie thought: And that’s as dose as he’ll ever come to showing the desperation that’s

eating him alive.

“I don’t know. Right now I can’t tell for sure. But I hope so, man. I really, really do.”

Roland nodded again and released Eddie’s hand. “I thank you. We still have two hours of

good daylight—why don’t we make use of them?”

“Fine by me.”

They moved on. Roland pushed Susannah and Eddie walked ahead of them, holding the

chunk of wood with the key buried in it. It seemed to throb with its own warmth, secret and

powerful.

32

THAT NIGHT, AFTER SUPPER was eaten, Eddie took the gunslinger’s knife from his

belt and began to carve. The knife was amazingly sharp, and seemed never to lose its edge.

Eddie worked slowly and carefully in the firelight, turning the chunk of ash this way and

that in his hands, watching the curls of fine-grained wood rise ahead of his long, sure

strokes.

Susannah lay down, laced her hands behind her head, and looked Up at the stars wheeling

slowly across the black sky.

At the edge of the campsite, Roland stood beyond the glow of the fire and listened as the

voices of madness rose once more in his aching, confused mind.

There was a boy.

There was no boy.

Was.

Wasn’t.

Was—

He closed his eyes, cupped his aching forehead in one cold hand, and wondered how long

it would be until he simply snapped like an overwound bowstring.

Oh Jake, he thought. Where are you? Where are you?

And above the three of them, Old Star and Old Mother rose into their appointed places and

stared at each other across the starry ruins of their ancient broken marriage.

II

KEY AND ROSE

1

FOR THREE WEEKS JOHN “Jake” Chambers fought bravely against the madness rising

inside him. During that time he felt like the last man aboard a foundering ocean liner,

working the bilge-pumps for dear life, trying to keep the ship afloat until the storm ended, the skies cleared, and help could arrive . . . help from somewhere. Help from anywhere. On

May 31st, 1977, four days before school ended for the summer, he finally faced up to the

fact that no help was going to come. It was time to give up; time to let the storm carry him

away.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was his Final Essay in English Comp.

John Chambers, who was Jake to the three or four boys who were almost his friends (if his

father had known this little factoid, he undoubt- edly would have hit the roof), was finishing

his first year at The Piper School. Although he was eleven and in the sixth grade, he was

small for his age, and people meeting him for the first time often thought he was much