by Stephen King
“Was he conscious when you found him?”
There was a reluctant pause. Then: “Nay. Only muttering, as one does in his sleep if he dreams badly.”
“Then he can’t tell me, can he? Not this part. Henchick, you seek aid and succor. This thee told me on behalf of all your clans. Help me, then! Help me to help you!”
“I do na’ see how this helps.”
And it might not help, not in the matter of the Wolves which so concerned this old man and the rest of Calla Bryn Sturgis, but Roland had other worries and other needs; other fish to fry, as Susannah sometimes said. He stood looking at Henchick, one hand still on the crystal doorknob.
“It were open a bit,” Henchick said finally. “So were the box. Both just a bit. The one they call the Old Fella, he lay facedown, there.” He pointed to the rubble-and bone-littered floor where Roland’s boots were now planted. “The box were by his right hand, open about this much.” Henchick held his thumb and forefinger perhaps two inches apart. “Coming from it was the sound of the kammen. I’ve heard em before, but never s’strong. They made my very eyes ache and gush water. Jemmin cried out and begun walking toward the door. The Old Fella’s hands were spread out on the ground and Jemmin treaded on one of em and never noticed.
“The door were only ajar, like the box, but a terrible light was coming through it. I’ve traveled much, gunslinger, to many wheres and many whens; I’ve seen other doors and I’ve seen todash tahken, the holes in reality, but never any light like that. It were black, like all the emptiness that ever was, but there were something red in it.”
“The Eye,” Roland said.
Henchick looked at him. “An eye? Do’ee say so?”
“I think so,” Roland said. “The blackness you saw is cast by Black Thirteen. The red might have been the Eye of the Crimson King.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Roland said. “Only that he bides far east of here, in Thunderclap or beyond it. I believe he may be a Guardian of the Dark Tower. He may even think he owns it.”
At Roland’s mention of the Tower, the old man covered his eyes with both hands, a gesture of deep religious dread.
“What happened next, Henchick? Tell me, I beg.”
“I began to reach for Jemmin, then recalled how he stepped on the man’s hand with his bootheel, and thought better of it. Thought, ‘Henchick, if thee does that, he’ll drag you through with him.’ ” The old man’s eyes fastened on Roland’s. “Traveling is what we do, I know ye ken as much, and rarely are we afraid, for we trust The Over. Yet I were afraid of that light and the sound of those chimes.” He paused. “Terrified of them. I’ve never spoken of that day.”
“Not even to Pere Callahan?”
Henchick shook his head.
“Did he not speak to you when he woke up?”
“He asked if he were dead. I told him that if he were so, so were we all.”
“What about Jemmin?”
“Died two years later.” Henchick tapped the front of his black shirt. “Heart.”
“How many years since you found Callahan here?”
Henchick shook his head slowly back and forth in wide arcs, a Manni gesture so common it might have been genetic. “Gunslinger, I know not. For time is—”
“Yes, in drift,” Roland said impatiently. “How long would you say?”
“More than five years, for he has his church and superstitious fools to fill it, ye ken.”
“What did you do? How did thee save Jemmin?”
“Fell on my knees and closed the box,” Henchick said. “ ’Twas all I could think to do. If I’d hesitated even a single second I do believe I would ha’ been lost, for the same black light were coming out of it. It made me feel weak and…and dim.”
“I’ll bet it did,” Roland said grimly.
“But I moved fast, and when the lid of the box clicked down, the door swung shut. Jemmin banged his fists against it and screamed and begged to be let through. Then he fell down in a faint. I dragged him out of the cave. I dragged them both out. After a little while in the fresh air, both came to.” Henchick raised his hands, then lowered them again, as if to say There you are.
Roland gave the doorknob a final try. It moved in neither direction. But with the ball—
“Let’s go back,” he said. “I’d like to be at the Pere’s house by dinnertime. That means a fast walk back down to the horses and an even faster ride once we get there.”
Henchick nodded. His bearded face was good at hiding expression, but Roland thought the old man was relieved to be going. Roland was a little relieved, himself. Who would enjoy listening to the accusing screams of one’s dead mother and father rising out of the dark? Not to mention the cries of one’s dead friends?
“What happened to the speaking device?” Roland asked as they started back down.
Henchick shrugged. “Do ye ken bayderies?”
Batteries. Roland nodded.
“While they worked, the machine played the same message over and over, the one telling us that we should go to the Cave of Voices and find a man, a door, and a wonder. There was also a song. We played it once for the Pere, and he wept. You must ask him about it, for that truly is his part of the tale.”
Roland nodded again.
“Then the bayderies died.” Henchick’s shrug showed a certain contempt for machines, the gone world, or perhaps both. “We took them out. They were Duracell. Does thee ken Duracell, gunslinger?”
Roland shook his head.
“We took them to Andy and asked if he could recharge them, mayhap. He took them into himself, but when they came out again they were as useless as before. Andy said sorry. We said thankya.” Henchick rolled his shoulders in that same contemptuous shrug. “We opened the machine—another button did that—and the tongue came out. It were this long.” Henchick held his hands four or five inches apart. “Two holes in it. Shiny brown stuff inside, like string. The Pere called it a ‘cassette tape.’ ”
Roland nodded. “I want to thank you for taking me up to the cave, Henchick, and for telling me all thee knows.”
“I did what I had to,” Henchick said. “And you’ll do as’ee promise. Wont’chee?”
Roland of Gilead nodded. “Let God pick a winner.”
“Aye, so we do say. Ye speak as if ye knew us, once upon a season.” He paused, eyeing Roland with a certain sour shrewdness. “Or is it just makin up to me that ye does? For anyone who’s ever read the Good Book can thee and thou till the crows fly home.”
“Does thee ask if I play the toady, up here where there’s no one to hear us but them?” Roland nodded toward the babbling darkness. “Thou knows better, I hope, for if thee doesn’t, thee’s a fool.”
The old man considered, then put out his gnarled, long-fingered hand. “Do’ee well, Roland. ’Tis a good name, and a fair.”
Roland put out his right hand. And when the old man took it and squeezed it, he felt the first deep twinge of pain where he wanted to feel it least.
No, not yet. Where I’d feel it least is in the other one. The one that’s still whole.
“Mayhap this time the Wolves’ll kill us all,” said Henchick.
“Perhaps so.”
“Yet still, perhaps we’re well-met.”
“Perhaps we are,” the gunslinger replied.
Chapter IX:
The Priest’s Tale Concluded (Unfound)
One
“Beds’re ready,” Rosalita Munoz said when they got back.
Eddie was so tired that he believed she’d said something else entirely—Time to weed the garden, perhaps, or There’s fifty or sixty more people’d like t’meet ye waitin up to the church. After all, who spoke of beds at three in the afternoon?
“Huh?” Susannah asked blearily. “What-say, hon? Didn’t quite catch it.”
“Beds’re ready,” the Pere’s woman of work repeated. “You two’ll go where ye slept night before last; young soh
’s to have the Pere’s bed. And the bumbler can go in with ye, Jake, if ye’d like; Pere said for me to tell’ee so. He’d be here to tell you himself, but it’s his afternoon for sick-rounds. He takes the Communion to em.” She said this last with unmistakable pride.
“Beds,” Eddie said. He couldn’t quite get the sense of this. He looked around, as if to confirm that it was still midafternoon, the sun still shining brightly. “Beds?”
“Pere saw’ee at the store,” Rosalita amplified, “and thought ye’d want naps after talking to all those people.”
Eddie understood at last. He supposed that at some point in his life he must have felt more grateful for a kindness, but he honestly couldn’t remember when or what that kindness might have been. At first those approaching them as they sat in the rockers on the porch of Took’s had come slowly, in hesitant little clusters. But when no one turned to stone or took a bullet in the head—when there was, in fact, animated conversation and actual laughter—more and more came. As the trickle became a flood, Eddie at last discovered what it was to be a public person. He was astounded by how difficult it was, how draining. They wanted simple answers to a thousand difficult questions—where the gunslingers came from and where they were going were only the first two. Some of their questions could be answered honestly, but more and more Eddie heard himself giving weaselly politicians’ answers, and heard his two friends doing the same. These weren’t lies, exactly, but little propaganda capsules that sounded like answers. And everyone wanted a look straight in the face and a Do ya fine that sounded straight from the heart. Even Oy came in for his share of the work; he was petted over and over again, and made to speak until Jake got up, went into the store, and begged a bowl of water from Eben Took. That gentleman gave him a tin cup instead, and told him he could fill it at the trough out front. Jake was surrounded by townsfolk who questioned him steadily even as he did this simple chore. Oy lapped the cup dry, then faced his own gaggle of curious questioners while Jake went back to the trough to fill the cup again.
All in all, they had been five of the longest hours Eddie had ever put in, and he thought he would never regard celebrity in quite the same way again. On the plus side, before finally leaving the porch and heading back to the Old Fella’s residence, Eddie reckoned they must have talked to everyone who lived in town and a good number of farmers, ranchers, cowpokes, and hired hands who lived beyond it. Word traveled fast: the outworlders were sitting on the porch of the General Store, and if you wanted to talk to them, they would talk to you.
And now, by God, this woman—this angel—was speaking of beds.
“How long have we got?” he asked Rosalita.
“Pere should be back by four,” she said, “but we won’t eat until six, and that’s only if your dinh gets back in time. Why don’t I wake you at five-thirty? That’ll give ye time to wash. Does it do ya?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, and gave her a smile. “I didn’t know just talking to folks could make you so tired. And thirsty.”
She nodded. “There’s a jug of cool water in the pantry.”
“I ought to help you get the meal ready,” Susannah said, and then her mouth opened in a wide yawn.
“Sarey Adams is coming in to help,” Rosalita said, “and it’s nobbut a cold meal, in any case. Go on, now. Take your rest. You’re all in, and it shows.”
Two
In the pantry, Jake drank long and deep, then poured water into a bowl for Oy and carried it into Pere Callahan’s bedroom. He felt guilty about being in here (and about having a billy-bumbler in here with him), but the bedcovers on Callahan’s narrow bed had been turned down, the pillow had been plumped up, and both beckoned him. He put down the bowl and Oy quietly began to lap water. Jake undressed down to his new underwear, then lay back and closed his eyes.
Probably won’t be able to actually sleep, he thought, I wasn’t ever any good at taking naps, even back when Mrs. Shaw used to call me ’Bama.
Less than a minute later he was snoring lightly, with one arm slung over his eyes. Oy slept on the floor beside him with his nose on one paw.
Three
Eddie and Susannah sat side by side on the bed in the guest room. Eddie could still hardly believe this: not only a nap, but a nap in an actual bed. Luxury piled on luxury. He wanted nothing more than to lie down, take Suze in his arms, and sleep that way, but one matter needed to be addressed first. It had been nagging him all day, even during the heaviest of their impromptu politicking.
“Suze, about Tian’s Gran-pere—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said at once.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised. Although he supposed he’d known.
“We could get into this,” she said, “but I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. Tell Roland what the old guy told you, and tell Jake if you want to, but don’t tell me. Not yet.” She sat next to him, her brown thigh touching his white one, her brown eyes looking steadily into his hazel ones. “Do you hear me?”
“Hear you very well.”
“Say thankya big-big.”
He laughed, took her in his arms, kissed her.
And shortly they were also asleep with their arms around each other and their foreheads touching. A rectangle of light moved steadily up their bodies as the sun sank. It had moved back into the true west, at least for the time being. Roland saw this for himself as he rode slowly down the drive to the Old Fella’s rectory-house with his aching legs kicked free of the stirrups.
Four
Rosalita came out to greet him. “Hile, Roland—long days and pleasant nights.”
He nodded. “May you have twice the number.”
“I ken ye might ask some of us to throw the dish against the Wolves, when they come.”
“Who told you so?”
“Oh…some little bird whispered it in my ear.”
“Ah. And would you? If asked?”
She showed her teeth in a grin. “Nothing in this life would give me more pleasure.” The teeth disappeared and the grin softened into a true smile. “Although perhaps the two of us together could discover some pleasure that comes close. Would’ee see my little cottage, Roland?”
“Aye. And would you rub me with that magic oil of yours again?”
“Is it rubbed ye’d be?”
“Aye.”
“Rubbed hard, or rubbed soft?”
“I’ve heard a little of both best eases an aching joint.”
She considered this, then burst into laughter and took his hand. “Come. While the sun shines and this little corner of the world sleeps.”
He came with her willingly, and went where she took him. She kept a secret spring surrounded by sweet moss, and there he was refreshed.
Five
Callahan finally returned around five-thirty, just as Eddie, Susannah, and Jake were turning out. At six, Rosalita and Sarey Adams served out a dinner of greens and cold chicken on the screened-in porch behind the rectory. Roland and his friends ate hungrily, the gunslinger taking not just seconds but thirds. Callahan, on the other hand, did little but move his food from place to place on his plate. The tan on his face gave him a certain look of health, but didn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes. When Sarey—a cheery, jolly woman, fat but light on her feet—brought out a spice cake, Callahan only shook his head.
When there was nothing left on the table but cups and the coffee pot, Roland brought out his tobacco and raised his eyebrows.
“Do ya,” Callahan said, then raised his voice. “Rosie, bring this guy something to tap into!”
“Big man, I could listen to you all day,” Eddie said.
“So could I,” Jake agreed.
Callahan smiled. “I feel the same way about you boys, at least a little.” He poured himself half a cup of coffee. Rosalita brought Roland a pottery cup for his ashes. When she had gone, the Old Fella said, “I should have finished this story yesterday. I spent most of last night tossing and turning, thinking about how to t
ell the rest.”
“Would it help if I told you I already know some of it?” Roland asked.
“Probably not. You went up to the Doorway Cave with Henchick, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He said there was a song on the speaking machine that sent them up there to find you, and that you wept when you heard it. Was it the one you spoke of?”
“ ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight,’ yes. And I can’t tell you how strange it was to be sitting in a Manni cabin in Calla Bryn Sturgis, looking toward the darkness of Thunderclap and listening to Elton John.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Susannah said. “You’re way ahead of us, Pere. Last we knew, you were in Sacramento, it was 1981, and you’d just found out your friend got cut up by these so-called Hitler Brothers.” She looked sternly from Callahan to Jake and finally to Eddie. “I have to say, gentlemen, that you don’t seem to have made much progress in the matter of peaceful living since the days when I left America.”
“Don’t blame it on me,” Jake said. “I was in school.”
“And I was stoned,” Eddie said.
“All right, I’ll take the blame,” Callahan said, and they all laughed.
“Finish your story,” Roland said. “Maybe you’ll sleep better tonight.”
“Maybe I will,” Callahan said. He thought for a minute, then said: “What I remember about the hospital—what I guess everyone remembers—is the smell of the disinfectant and the sound of the machines. Mostly the machines. The way they beep. The only other stuff that sounds like that is the equipment in airplane cockpits. I asked a pilot once, and he said the navigational gear makes that sound. I remember thinking that night that there must be a hell of a lot of navigating going on in hospital ICUs.
“Rowan Magruder wasn’t married when I worked at Home, but I guessed that must have changed, because there was a woman sitting in the chair by his bed, reading a paperback. Well-dressed, nice green suit, hose, low-heeled shoes. At least I felt okay about facing her; I’d cleaned up and combed up as well as I could, and I hadn’t had a drink since Sacramento. But once we were actually face-to-face, I wasn’t okay at all. She was sitting with her back to the door, you see. I knocked on the jamb, she turned toward me, and my so-called self-possession took a hike. I took a step back and crossed myself. First time since the night Rowan and I visited Lupe in that same joint. Can you guess why?”
