Stephen King – The Waste Lands

York . . . Mr. Martin . . . the world has moved on … Susannah . . .

He put his pen down. Why did these words and phrases call to him? The one about New

York seemed obvious enough, but what about the others? For that matter, why this book?

That he had been meant to buy it was beyond question. If he hadn’t had the money in his

pocket, he felt sure he would have simply grabbed it and bolted from the store. But why?

He felt like a compass needle. The needle knows nothing about magnetic north; it only

knows it must point in a certain direction, like it or not.

The only thing Jake knew for sure was that he was very, very tired, and if he didn’t crawl

into bed soon, he was going to fall asleep at his desk. He took off his shirt, then gazed down

at the front of Charlie the Choo-Choo again.

That smile. He just didn’t trust that smile.

Not a bit.

23

SLEEP DIDN’T COME AS soon as Jake had hoped. The voices began to argue again

about whether he was alive or dead, and they kept him awake. At last he sat up in bed with

his eyes closed and his fisted hands planted against his temples.

Quit! he screamed at them. Just quit! You were gone all day, be gone again!

I would if he’d just admit I’m dead, one of the voices said sulkily.

I would if he’d just take a for God’s sake look around and admit I’m clearly alive, the other snapped back.

He was going to scream right out loud. There was no way to hold it back; he could feel it

coming up his throat like vomit. He opened his eyes, saw his pants lying over the seat of his

desk chair, and an idea occurred to him. He got out of bed, went to the chair, and felt in the

right front pocket of the pants.

The silver key was still there, and the moment his fingers closed around it, the voices

ceased.

Tell him, he thought, with no idea who the thought was for. Tell him to grab the key. The

key makes the voices go.

He went back to bed and was asleep with the key clasped loosely in his hand three minutes

after his head hit the pillow.

DOOR AND DEMON

1

EDDIE WAS ALMOST ASLEEP when a voice spoke clearly in his ear: Tell him to grab

the key. The key makes the voices go.

He sat bolt upright, looking around wildly. Susannah was sound asleep beside him; that

voice had not been hers.

Nor anyone else’s, it seemed. They had been moving through the woods and along the path

of the Beam for eight days now, and this evening they had camped in the deep cleft of a

pocket valley. Close by on the left, a large stream roared brashly past, headed in the same

direc- tion as they were: southeast. To the right, firs rose up a steep slope of land. There

were no intruders here; only Susannah asleep and Roland awake. He sat huddled beneath

his blanket at the edge of the stream’s cut, staring out into the darkness.

Tell him to grab the key. The key makes the voices go.

Eddie hesitated for only a moment. Roland’s sanity was in the bal- ance now, the balance

was tipping the wrong way, and the worst part of it was this: no one knew it better than the

man himself. At this point, Eddie was prepared to clutch at any straw.

He had been using a folded square of deerskin as a pillow. He reached beneath it and

removed a bundle wrapped in a piece of hide. He walked over to Roland, and was disturbed

to see that the gunslinger did not notice him until he was less than four steps from his unprotected back. There had been a time—and it was not so long ago—when Roland

would have known Eddie was awake even before Eddie sat up. He would have heard the

change in his breathing.

He was more alert than this back on the beach, when he was half-dead from the

lobster-thing’s bite, Eddie thought grimly.

Roland at last turned his head and glanced at him. His eyes were bright with pain and

weariness, but Eddie recognized these things as no more than a surface glitter. Beneath it,

he sensed a growing confusion that would almost surely become madness if it continued to

develop unchecked. Pity tugged at Eddie’s heart.

“Can’t sleep?” Roland asked. His voice was slow, almost drugged.

“I almost was, and then I woke up,” Eddie said. “Listen—”

“I think I’m getting ready to die.” Roland looked at Eddie. The bright shine left his eyes, and now looking into them was like staring into a pair of deep, dark wells that seemed to

have no bottom. Eddie shud- dered, more because ofthat empty stare than because of what

Roland had said. “And do you know what I hope lies in the clearing where the path ends,

Eddie?”

“Roland—”

“Silence,” Roland said. He exhaled a dusty sigh. “Just silence. That will be enough. An end to … this.”

He planted his fists against his temples, and Eddie thought: I’ve seen someone else do that,

and not long ago. But who? Where?

It was ridiculous of course; he had seen no one but Roland and Susannah for almost two

months now. But it felt true, all the same.

“Roland, I’ve been making something,” Eddie said.

Roland nodded. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I know. What is it? Are you finally

ready to tell?”

“I think it might be part of this ka-tet thing.”

The vacant look left Roland’s eyes. He gazed at Eddie thoughtfully but said nothing.

“Look.” Eddie began to unfold the piece of hide.

That won’t do any good! Henry’s voice suddenly brayed. It was so loud that Eddie actually

flinched a little. It’s just a stupid piece of wood-carving! He’ll take one look and laugh at it!

He’ll laugh at you! “Oh, lookit this!” he’ll say. “Did the sissy carve something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered.

The gunslinger raised his eyebrows.

“Not you.”

Roland nodded, unsurprised. “Your brother comes to you often, doesn’t he, Eddie?”

For a moment Eddie only stared at him, his carving still hidden in the hide square. Then he

smiled. It was not a very pleasant smile. “Not as often as he used to, Roland. Thank Christ for small favors.”

“Yes,” Roland said. “Too many voices weigh heavy on a man’s heart . . . What is it, Eddie?

Show me, please.”

Eddie held up the chunk of ash. The key, almost complete, emerged from it like the head

of a woman from the prow of a sailing ship … or the hilt of a sword from a chunk of stone.

Eddie didn’t know how close he had come to duplicating the key-shape he had seen in the

fire (and never would, he supposed, unless he found the right lock in which to try it), but he

thought it was close. Of one thing he was quite sure: it was the best carving he had ever

done. By far.

“By the gods, Eddie, it’s beautiful!” Roland said. The apathy was gone from his voice; he spoke in a tone of surprised reverence Eddie had never heard before. “Is it done? It’s not, is it?”

“No—not quite.” He ran his thumb into the third notch, and then over the s-shape at the end of the last notch. “There’s a little more to do on this notch, and the curve at the end isn’t right yet. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

“This is your secret.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Now if only I knew what it meant.”

Roland looked around. Eddie followed his gaze and saw Susannah. He found some relief

in the fact that Roland had heard her first.

“What you boys doin up so late? Chewin the fat?” She saw the wooden key in Eddie’s hand and nodded. “I wondered when you were going to get around to showing that off. It’s good,

you know. I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s damned good.”

“You don’t have any idea what door it might open?” Roland asked Eddie. “That was not part of your khef?”

“No—but it might be good for something even though it isn’t done.” He held the key out to Roland. “I want you to keep it for me.”

Roland didn’t move to take it. He regarded Eddie closely. “Why?”

“Because . . . well. . . because I think someone told me you should.”

“Who?”

Your boy, Eddie thought suddenly, and as soon as the thought came he knew it was true. It

was your goddamned boy. But he didn’t want to say so. He didn’t want to mention the boy’s

name at all. It might just set Roland off again.