The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass

by Stephen King

  “I’ll not!” she howled. “I’ll smash it on the ground before I give it up to the likes o’ you!”

  Jonas doubted if the ball would break, not hurled by her weak arms onto the trampled, springy mat of the Bad Grass, but he didn’t think he would have occasion to find out, one way or the other.

  “Clay,” he said. “Draw your gun.”

  He didn’t need to look at Clay to see that he’d done it; he saw the frantic way her eyes shifted to the left, where Clay sat his horse.

  “I’m going to have a count,” Jonas said. “Just a short one; if I get to three and she hasn’t passed that bag over, blow her ugly head off.”

  “Aye.”

  “One,” Jonas said, watching the ball pendulum back and forth at the bottom of the upheld bag. It was glowing; he could see dull pink even through the cloth. “Two. Enjoy hell, Rhea, goodbye. Thr—”

  “Here!” she screamed, thrusting it out toward him and shielding her face with the crooked hook of her free hand. “Here, take it! And may it damn you the way it’s damned me!”

  “Thankee-sai.”

  He grabbed the bag just below the draw top and yanked. Rhea screamed again as the string skinned her knuckles and tore off one of her nails. Jonas hardly heard. His mind was a white explosion of exultation. For the first time in his long professional life he forgot his job, his surroundings, and the six thousand things that could get him killed on any day. He had it; he had it; by all the graves of all the gods, he had the fucking thing!

  Mine! he thought, and that was all. He somehow restrained the urge to open the bag and stick his head inside it, like a horse sticking its head into a bag of oats, and looped the drawstring over the pommel of his saddle twice instead. He took in a breath as deep as his lungs would allow, then expelled it. Better. A little.

  “Roy.”

  “Aye, Jonas.”

  It would be good to get out of this place, Jonas thought, and not for the first time. To get away from these hicks. He was sick of aye and ye and so it is, sick to his bones.

  “Roy, we’ll give the bitch a ten-count this time. If she isn’t out of my sight by then, you have my permission to blow her ass off. Now, let’s see if you can do the counting. I’ll be listening close, so mind you don’t skip any!”

  “One,” Depape said eagerly. “Two. Three. Four.”

  Spitting curses, Rhea snatched up the reins of the cart and spanked the pony’s back with them. The pony laid its ears back and jerked the cart forward so vigorously that Rhea went tumbling backward off the cantboard, her feet up, her white and bony shins showing above her ankle-high black shoes and mismatched wool stockings. The vaqueros laughed. Jonas laughed himself. It was pretty funny, all right, seeing her on her back with her pins in the air.

  “Fuh-fuh-five,” Depape said, laughing so hard he was hiccupping. “Sih-sih-six!”

  Rhea climbed back up, flopped onto the cantboard again with all the grace of a dying fish, and peered around at them, wall-eyed and sneering.

  “I curse ye all!” she screamed. It cut through them, stilling their laughter even as the cart bounced toward the edge of the trampled clearing. “Every last one of ye! Ye . . . and ye . . . and ye!” Her crooked finger pointed last at Jonas. “Thief! Miserable thief!”

  As though it was yours, Jonas marveled (although “Mine!” was the first word to occur to him, once he had taken possession of it). As though such a wonder could ever belong to a back-country reader of rooster-guts such as you.

  The cart bounced its way into the Bad Grass, the pony pulling hard with its ears laid back; the old woman’s screams served to drive it better than any whip could have done. The black slipped into the green. They saw the cart flicker like a conjurer’s trick, and then it was gone. For a long time yet, however, they heard her shrieking her curses, calling death down upon them beneath the Demon Moon.

  15

  “Go on,” Jonas told Clay Reynolds. “Take our Sunbeam back. And if you want to stop on the way and make some use of her, why, be my guest.” He glanced at Susan as he said this, to see what effect it might be having, but he was disappointed—she looked dazed, as if the last blow Renfrew had dealt her had scrambled her brains, at least temporarily. “Just make sure she gets to Coral at the end of all the fun.”

  “I will. Any message for sai Thorin?”

  “Tell her to keep the wench someplace safe until she hears from me. And . . . why don’t you stay with her, Clay? Coral, I mean—come tomorrow, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about this ’un anymore, but Coral . . . ride with her to Ritzy when she goes. Be her escort, like.”

  Reynolds nodded. Better and better. Seafront it would be, and that was fine. He might like a little taste of the girl once he got her there, but not on the way. Not under the ghostly-full daytime Demon Moon.

  “Go on, then. Get started.”

  Reynolds led her across the clearing, aiming for a point well away from the bent swath of grass where Rhea had made her exit. Susan rode silently, downcast eyes fixed on her bound wrists.

  Jonas turned to face his men. “The three young fellows from In-World have broken their way out of jail, with that haughty young bitch’s help,” he said, pointing at Susan’s departing back.

  There was a low, growling murmur from the men. That “Will Dearborn” and his friends were free they had known; that sai Delgado had helped them escape they had not . . . and it was perhaps just as well for her that Reynolds was at that moment leading her into the Bad Grass and out of sight.

  “Never mind!” Jonas shouted, pulling their attention back to him. He reached out a stealthy hand and caressed the curve at the bottom of the drawstring bag. Just touching the ball made him feel as if he could do anything, and with one hand tied behind his back, at that.

  “Never mind her, and never mind them!” His eyes moved from Lengyll to Wertner to Croydon to Brian Hookey to Roy Depape. “We’re close to forty men, going to join another hundred and fifty. They’re three, and not one a day over sixteen. Are you afraid of three little boys?”

  “No!” they cried.

  “If we run on em, my cullies, what will we do?”

  “KILL THEM!” The shout so loud that it sent rooks rising up into the morning sun, cawing their displeasure as they commenced the hunt for more peaceful surroundings.

  Jonas was satisfied. His hand was still on the sweet curve of the ball, and he could feel it pouring strength into him. Pink strength, he thought, and grinned.

  “Come on, boys. I want those tankers in the woods west of Eyebolt before the home folks light their Reap-Night Bonfire.”

  16

  Sheemie, crouched down in the grass and peering into the clearing, was nearly run over by Rhea’s black wagon; the screaming, gibbering witch passed so close to him that he could smell her sour skin and dirty hair. If she had looked down, she couldn’t have missed seeing him and undoubtedly would have turned him into a bird or a bumbler or maybe even a mosquito.

  The boy saw Jonas pass custody of Susan to the one in the cloak, and began working his way around the edge of the clearing. He heard Jonas haranguing the men (many of whom Sheemie knew; it shamed him to know how many Mejis cowboys were doing that bad Coffin Hunter’s bidding), but paid no attention to what he was saying. Sheemie froze in place as they mounted up, momentarily scared they would come in his direction, but they rode the other way, west. The clearing emptied almost as if by magic . . . except it wasn’t entirely empty. Caprichoso had been left behind, his lead trailing on the beaten grass. Capi looked after the departing riders, brayed once—as if to tell them they could all go to hell—then turned and made eye-contact with Sheemie, who was peering out into the clearing. The mule flicked his ears at the boy, then tried to graze. He lipped the Bad Grass a single time, raised his head, and brayed at Sheemie, as if to say this was all the inn-boy’s fault.

  Sheemie stared thoughtfully at Caprichoso, thinking of how much easier it was to ride than to walk. Gods, yes . . . but that second bray decided him again
st it. The mule might give one of his disgusted cries at the wrong time and alert the man who had Susan.

  “You’ll find your way home, I reckon,” Sheemie said. “So long, pal. So long, good old Capi. See you farther down the path.”

  He found the path made by Susan and Reynolds, and began to trot after them once more.

  17

  “They’re coming again,” Alain said a moment before Roland sensed it himself—a brief flicker in his head like pink lightning. “All of them.”

  Roland hunkered in front of Cuthbert. Cuthbert looked back at him without even a suggestion of his usual foolish good humor.

  “Much of it’s on you,” Roland said, then tapped the slingshot. “And on that.”

  “I know.”

  “How much have you got in the armory?”

  “Almost four dozen steel balls.” Bert held up a cotton bag which had, in more settled times, held his father’s tobacco. “Plus assorted fireworks in my saddlebag.”

  “How many big-bangers?”

  “Enough, Roland.” Unsmiling. With the laughter gone from them, he had the hollow eyes of just one more killer. “Enough.”

  Roland ran a hand down the front of the serape he wore, letting his palm reacquaint itself with the rough weave. He looked at Cuthbert’s, then at Alain’s, telling himself again that it could work, yes, as long as they held their nerve and didn’t let themselves think of it in terms of three against forty or fifty, it could work.

  “The ones out at Hanging Rock will hear the shooting once it starts, won’t they?” Al asked.

  Roland nodded. “With the wind blowing from us to them, there’s no doubt of that.”

  “We’ll have to move fast, then.”

  “We’ll go as best we can.” Roland thought of standing between the tangled green hedges behind the Great Hall, David the hawk on his arm and a sweat of terror trickling down his back. I think you die today, he had told the hawk, and he had told it true. Yet he himself had lived, and passed his test, and walked out of the testing corridor facing east. Today it was Cuthbert and Alain’s turn to be tested—not in Gilead, in the traditional place of proving behind the Great Hall, but here in Mejis, on the edge of the Bad Grass, in the desert, and in the canyon. Eyebolt Canyon.

  “Prove or die,” Alain said, as if reading the run of the gunslinger’s thoughts. “That’s what it comes down to.”

  “Yes. That’s what it always comes down to, in the end. How long before they get here, do you think?”

  “An hour at least, I’d say. Likely two.”

  “They’ll be running a ‘watch-and-go.’ ”

  Alain nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  “That’s not good,” Cuthbert said.

  “Jonas is afraid of being ambushed in the grass,” Roland said. “Maybe of us setting fire to it around him. They’ll loosen up when they get into the clear.”

  “You hope,” Cuthbert said.

  Roland nodded gravely. “Yes. I hope.”

  18

  At first Reynolds was content to lead the girl along the broken backtrail at a fast walk, but about thirty minutes after leaving Jonas, Lengyll, and the rest, he broke into a trot. Pylon matched Reynolds’s horse easily, and just as easily when, ten minutes later, he upped their speed to a light but steady run.

  Susan held to the horn of her saddle with her bound hands and rode easily at Reynolds’s right, her hair streaming out behind her. She thought her face must be quite colorful; the skin of her cheeks felt raised at least two inches higher than usual, welted and tender. Even the passing wind stung a little.

  At the place where the Bad Grass gave way to the Drop, Reynolds stopped to give the horses a blow. He dismounted himself, turned his back to her, and took a piss. As he did, Susan looked up along the rise of land and saw the great herd, now untended and unravelling at the edges. They had done that much, perhaps. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Do you need to do the necessary?” Reynolds asked. “I’ll help you down if you do, but don’t say no now and whine about it later.”

  “Ye’re afraid. Big brave regulator that ye are, ye’re scared, ain’t ye? Aye, coffin tattoo and all.”

  Reynolds tried a contemptuous grin. It didn’t fit his face very well this morning. “You ort to leave the fortune-telling to those that are good at it, missy. Now do you need a necessary stop or not?”

  “No. And ye are afraid. Of what?”

  Reynolds, who only knew that his bad feeling hadn’t left him when he left Jonas, as he’d hoped it would, bared his tobacco-stained teeth at her. “If you can’t talk sensible, just shut up.”

  “Why don’t ye let me go? Perhaps my friends will do the same for you, when they catch us up.”

  This time Reynolds grunted laughter which was almost genuine. He swung himself into his saddle, hawked, spat. Overhead, Demon Moon was a pale and bloated ball in the sky. “You can dream, miss’sai,” he said, “dreaming’s free. But you ain’t never going to see those three again. They’re for the worms, they are. Now let’s ride.”

  They rode.

  19

  Cordelia hadn’t gone to bed at all on Reaping Eve. She sat the night through in her parlor chair, and although there was sewing on her lap, she had put not a single stitch in nor picked one out. Now, as morning’s light brightened toward ten o’ the clock, she sat in the same chair, looking out at nothing. What was there to look at, anyway? Everything had come down with a smash—all her hopes of the fortune Thorin would settle on Susan and Susan’s child, perhaps while he still lived, certainly in his dead-letter; all her hopes of ascending to her proper place in the community; all her plans for the future. Swept away by two wilful young people who couldn’t keep their pants up.

  She sat in her old chair with her knitting on her lap and the ashes Susan had smeared on her cheek standing out like a brand, and thought: They’ll find me dead in this chair, someday—old, poor, and forgotten. That ungrateful child! After all I did for her!

  What roused her was a weak scratching at the window. She had no idea how long it had been going on before it finally intruded on her consciousness, but when it did, she laid her needlework aside and got up to see. A bird, perhaps. Or children playing Reaping jokes, unaware that the world had come to an end. Whatever it was, she would shoo it away.

  Cordelia saw nothing at first. Then, as she was about to turn away, she spied a pony and cart at the edge of the yard. The cart was a little disquieting—black, with gold symbols overpainted—and the pony in the shafts stood with its head lowered, not grazing, looking as if it had been run half to death.

  She was still frowning out at this when a twisted, filthy hand rose in the air directly in front of her and began to scratch at the glass again. Cordelia gasped and clapped both hands to her bosom as her heart took a startled leap in her chest. She backed up a step, and gave a little shriek as her calf brushed the fender of the stove.

  The long, dirty nails scratched twice more, then fell away.

  Cordelia stood where she was for a moment, irresolute, then went to the door, stopping at the woodbox to pick up a chunk of ash which fitted her hand. Just in case. Then she jerked the door open, went to the corner of the house, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and went around to the garden side, raising the ash-chunk as she did.

  “Get out, whoever ye are! Scat before I—”

  Her voice was stilled by what she saw: an incredibly old woman crawling through the frost-killed flowerbed next to the house—crawling toward her. The crone’s stringy white hair (what remained of it) hung in her face. Sores festered on her cheeks and brow; her lips had split and drizzled blood down her pointed, warty chin. The corneas of her eyes had gone a filthy gray-yellow, and she panted like a cracked bellows as she moved.

  “Good woman, help me,” this specter gasped. “Help me if ye will, for I’m about done up.”

  The hand holding the chunk of ash sagged. Cordelia could hardly believe what she was seeing. “Rhea?” she whispered. “Is it Rhea?”


  “Aye,” Rhea whispered, crawling relentlessly through the dead silkflowers, dragging her hands through the cold earth. “Help me.”

  Cordelia retreated a step, her makeshift bludgeon now hanging at her knee. “No, I . . . I can’t have such as thee in my house . . . I’m sorry to see ye so, but . . . but I have a reputation, ye ken . . . folk watch me close, so they do . . .”

  She glanced at the High Street as she said this, as if expecting to see a line of townspeople outside her gate, watching eagerly, avid to fleet their wretched gossip on its lying way, but there was no one there. Hambry was quiet, its walks and byways empty, the customary joyous noise of Reaping Fair-Day stilled. She looked back at the thing which had fetched up in her dead flowers.

  “Yer niece . . . did this . . .” the thing in the dirt whispered. “All . . . her fault . . .”

  Cordelia dropped the chunk of wood. It clipped the side of her ankle, but she hardly noticed. Her hands curled into fists before her.

  “Help me,” Rhea whispered. “I know . . . where she is . . . we . . . we have work, us two . . . women’s . . . work . . .”

  Cordelia hesitated a moment, then went to the woman, knelt, got an arm around her, and somehow got her to her feet. The smell coming off her was reeky and nauseating—the smell of decomposing flesh.

  Bony fingers caressed Cordelia’s cheek and the side of her neck as she helped the hag into the house. Cordelia’s flesh crawled, but she didn’t pull away until Rhea collapsed into a chair, gasping from one end and farting from the other.

  “Listen to me,” the old woman hissed.

  “I am.” Cordelia drew a chair over and sat beside her. At death’s door she might be, but once her eye fell on you, it was strangely hard to look away. Now Rhea’s fingers dipped inside the bodice of her dirty dress, brought out a silver charm of some kind, and began to move it back and forth rapidly, as if telling beads. Cordelia, who hadn’t felt sleepy all night, began to feel that way now.