The Waste Lands dt-3

by Stephen King

  But the voices did not come back-at least, not yet. And as he began to think about what he was seeing, he realized that the lot wasn’t completely empty, after all. Standing in the middle of the trash-littered, weedy waste ground was a sign.

  MILLS CONSTRUCTION AND SOMBRA REAL ESTATE

  ASSOCIATES ARE CONTINUING TO REMAKE THE FACE OF

  MANHATTAN!

  COMING SOON TO THIS LOCATION:

  TURTLE BAY LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS!

  CALL 555-6712 FOR INFORMATION!

  YOU WILL BE SO GLAD YOU DID!

  Coming soon? Maybe… but Jake had his doubts. The letters on the sign were faded and it was sagging a little. At least one graffiti artist, BANCO SKANK by name, had left his mark across the artist’s drawing of the Turtle Bay Luxury Condominiums in bright blue spray-paint. Jake wondered if the project had been postponed or if it had maybe just gone belly-up. He remembered hearing his father talking on the telephone to his business advisor not two weeks ago, yelling at the man to stay away from any more condo investments. “I don’t care how good the tax-picture looks!” he’d nearly screamed (this was, so far as Jake could tell, his father’s normal tone of voice when discussing business matters-the coke in the desk drawer might have had something to do with that). “When they’re offering a goddamn TV set just so you’ll come down and look at a blueprint, something’s wrong!”

  The board fence surrounding the lot was chin-high to Jake. It had been plastered with handbills-Olivia Newton-John at Radio City, a group called G. Gordon Liddy and the Grots at a club in the East Village, a film called War of the Zombies which had come and gone earlier that spring. NO TRESPASSING signs had also been nailed up at intervals along the fence, but most of them had been papered over by ambitious bill-posters. A little way farther along, another graffito had been spray-painted on the fence-this one in what had once undoubtedly been a bright red but which had now faded to the dusky pink of late-summer roses. Jake whispered the words aloud, his eyes wide and fascinated:

  “See the TURTLE of enormous girth!

  On his shell he holds the earth

  If you want to run and play,

  Come along the BEAM today.”

  Jake supposed the source of this strange little poem (if not its meaning) was clear enough. This part of Manhattan’s East Side was known, after all, as Turtle Bay. But that didn’t explain the gooseflesh which was now running up the center of his back in a rough stripe, or his clear sense that he had found another road-sign along some fabulous hidden highway.

  Jake unbuttoned his shirt and stuck his two newly purchased books inside. Then he looked around, saw no one paying attention to him, and grabbed the top of the fence. He boosted himself up, swung a leg over, and dropped down on the other side. His left foot landed on a loose pile of bricks that promptly slid out from under him. His ankle buckled under his weight and bright pain lanced up his leg. He fell with a thud and cried out in mingled hurt and surprise as more bricks dug into his ribcage like thick, rude fists.

  He simply lay where he was for a moment, waiting to get his breath back. He didn’t think he was badly hurt, but he’d twisted his ankle and it would probably swell. He’d be walking with a limp by the time he got home. He’d just have to grin and bear it, though; he sure didn’t have cab-fare.

  You don’t really plan to go home, do you? They’ll eat you alive.

  Well, maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t. So far as he could see, he didn’t have much choice in the matter. And that was for later. Right now he was going to explore this lot which had drawn him as surely as a magnet draws steel shavings. That feeling of power was still all around him, he realized, and stronger than ever. He didn’t think this was just a vacant lot. Something was going on here, some-tiling big. He could feel it thrumming in the air, like loose volts escaping from the biggest power-plant in the world.

  As he got up, Jake saw that he had actually fallen lucky. Close by was a nasty jumble of broken glass. If he’d fallen into that, he might have cut himself very badly.

  That used to be the show window, Jake thought. When the deli was still here, you could stand on the sidewalk and look in at all the meats and cheeses. They used to hang them on strings. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he did-knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  He looked around thoughtfully and then walked a little farther into the lot. Near the middle, lying on the ground and half-buried in a lush growth of spring weeds, was another sign. Jake knelt beside it, pulled it upright, and brushed the dirt away. The letters were faded, but he could still make them out:

  TOM AND GERRY’s ARTISTIC DELI

  PARTY PLATTERS OUR SPECIALTY!

  And below it, spray-painted in that same red-fading-to-pink, was this puzzling sentence: HE HOLDS US ALL WITHIN HIS MIND.

  This is the place, Jake thought. Oh yes.

  He let the sign fall back, stood up, and walked deeper into the lot, moving slowly, looking at everything. As he moved, that sensation of power grew. Everything he saw-the weeds, the broken glass, the clumps of bricks-seemed to stand forth with a kind of exclamatory force. Even the potato chip bags seemed beautiful, and the sun had turned a discarded beer-bottle into a cylinder of brown fire.

  Jake was very aware of his own breathing, and of the sunlight falling upon everything like a weight of gold. He suddenly understood that he was standing on the edge of a great mystery, and he felt a shudder-half terror and half wonder-work through him.

  It’s all here. Everything. Everything is still here.

  The weeds brushed at his pants; burdocks stuck to his socks. The breeze blew a Ring-Ding wrapper in front of him; the sun reflected off it and for a moment the wrapper was filled with a beautiful, terrible inner glow.

  “Everything is still here,” he repeated to himself, unaware that his face was filling with its own inner glow. “Everything.”

  He was hearing a sound-had been hearing it ever since he entered the lot, in fact. It was a wonderful high humming, inexpressibly lonely and inexpressibly lovely. It might have been the sound of a high wind on a deserted plain, except it was alive. It was, he thought, the sound of a thousand voices singing some great open chord. He looked down and realized there were faces in the tangled weeds and low bushes and heaps of bricks. Faces.

  “What are you?” Jake whispered. “Who are you?” There was no answer, but he seemed to hear, beneath the choir, the sound of hoof-beats on the dusty earth, and gunfire, and angels calling hosannahs from the shadows. The faces in the wreckage seemed to turn as he passed. They seemed to follow his progress, but no evil intent did they bear. He could see Forty-sixth Street, and the edge of the U.N. Building on the other side of First Avenue, but the buildings did not matter-New York did not matter. It had become as pale as window-glass.

  The humming grew. Now it was not a thousand voices but a million, an open funnel of voices rising from the deepest well of the universe. He caught names in that group voice, but could not have said what they were. One might have been Marten. One might have been Cuthbert. Another might have been Roland-Roland of Gilead.

  There were names; there was a babble of conversation that might have been ten thousand entwined stories; but above all was that gorgeous, swelling hum, a vibration that wanted to fill his head with bright white light. It was, Jake realized with a joy so overwhelming that it threatened to burst him to pieces, the voice of Yes; the voice of White; the voice of Always. It was a great chorus of affirmation, and it sang in the empty lot. It sang for him.

  Then, lying in a cluster of scrubby burdock plants, Jake saw the key… and beyond that, the rose.

  17

  His LEGS BETRAYED HIM and he fell to his knees. He was vaguely aware that he was weeping, even more vaguely aware that he had wet his pants a little. He crawled forward on his knees and reached toward the key lying in the snarl of burdocks. Its simple shape was one he seemed to have seen in his dreams:

  He thought: The little s-shape at the end-that’s the secret.

  As he c
losed his hand around the key, the voices rose in a harmonic shout of triumph. Jake’s own cry was lost in the voice of that choir, lie saw the key flash white within his fingers, and felt a tremendous jolt of power run up his arm. It was as if he had grasped a live high-tension wire, but there was no pain.

  He opened Charlie the Choo-Choo and put the key inside. Then his eyes fixed upon the rose again, and he realized that it was the real key- the key to everything. He crawled toward it, his face a flaming corona of light, his eyes blazing wells of blue fire.

  The rose was growing from a clump of alien purple grass.

  As Jake neared this clump of alien grass, the rose began to open before his eyes. It disclosed a dark scarlet furnace, petal upon secret petal, each burning with its own secret fury. He had never seen anything so intensely and utterly alive in his whole life.

  And now, as he stretched one grimy hand out toward this wonder, the voices began to sing his own name… and deadly fear began to steal in toward the center of his heart. It was as cold as ice and as heavy as stone.

  There was something wrong. He could feel a pulsing discord, like a deep and ugly scratch across some priceless work of art or a deadly fever smoldering beneath the chilly skin of an invalid’s brow.

  It was something like a worm. An invading worm. And a shape. One which lurks just beyond the next turn of the road.

  Then the heart of the rose opened for him, exposing a yellow dazzle of light, and all thought was swept away on a wave of wonder. Jake thought for a moment that what he was seeing was only pollen which had been invested with the supernatural glow which lived at the heart of every object in this deserted clearing-he thought it even though he had never heard of pollen within a rose. He leaned closer and saw that the concentrated circle of blazing yellow was not pollen at all. It was a sun: a vast forge burning at the center of this rose growing in the purple grass.

  The fear returned, only now it had become outright terror. It’s right, he thought, everything here is right, but it could go wrong-has started going wrong already, I think. I’m being allowed to feel as much of that wrongness as I can bear… but what is it? And what can I do?

  It was something like a worm.

  He could feel it beating like a sick and dirty heart, warring with the serene beauty of the rose, screaming harsh profanities against the choir of voices which had so soothed and lifted him.

  He leaned closer to the rose and saw that its core was not just one sun but many… perhaps all suns contained within a ferocious yet fragile shell.

  But it’s wrong. It’s all in danger.

  Knowing it would almost surely mean his death to touch that glowing microcosm Init helpless to stop himself, Jake reached forward. There was no curiosity or terror in this gesture; only a great, inarticulate need to protect the rose.

  18

  WHEN HE CAME BACK to himself, he was at first only aware that a great deal of time had passed and his head hurt like hell.

  What happened? Was I mugged?

  He rolled over and sat up. Another blast of pain went through his head. He raised a hand to his left temple, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. He looked down and saw a brick poking out of the weeds. Its rounded comer was too red.

  If it had been sharp, I’d probably be dead or in a coma.

  He looked at his wrist and was surprised to find he was still wearing his watch. It was a Seiko, not terribly expensive, but in this city you didn’t snooze in vacant lots without losing your stuff. Expensive or not, someone would be more than happy to relieve you of it. This time he had been lucky, it seemed.

  It was quarter past four in the afternoon. He had been lying here, dead to the world, for at least five hours. His father probably had the cops out looking for him by now, but that didn’t seem to matter much. It seemed to Jake that he had walked out of Piper School about a thousand years ago.

  Jake walked half the distance to the fence between the vacant lot and the Second Avenue sidewalk, then stopped.

  What exactly had happened to him?

  Little by little, the memories came back. Hopping the fence. Slipping and twisting his ankle. He reached down, touched it, and winced. Yes-that much had happened, all right. Then what?

  Something magical.

  He groped for that something like an old man groping his way across a shadowy room. Everything had been full of its own light. Everything- even the empty wrappers and discarded beer-bottles. There had been voices-they had been singing and telling thousands of overlapping stories.

  “And faces,” he muttered. This memory made him look around apprehensively. He saw no faces. The piles of bricks were just piles of bricks, and the tangles of weeds were just tangles of weeds. There were no faces, but-

  –but they were here. It wasn’t your imagination.

  He believed that. He couldn’t capture the essence of the memory, its quality of beauty and transcendence, but it seemed perfectly real. It was just that his memory of those moments before he had passed out seemed like photographs taken on the best day of your life. You can remember what that day was like-sort of, anyway-but the pictures are flat and almost powerless.

  Jake looked around the desolate lot, now filling up with the violet shadows of late afternoon, and thought: / want you back. God, I want you back the way you were.

  Then he saw the rose, growing in its clump of purple grass, very close to the place where he had fallen. His heart leaped into his throat. Jake blundered back toward it, unmindful of the beats of pain each step sent up from his ankle. He dropped to his knees in front of it like a worshipper at an altar. He leaned forward, eyes wide.

  It’s just a rose. Just a rose after all. And the grass-

  The grass wasn’t purple after all, he saw. There were splatters of purple on the blades, yes, but the color beneath was a perfectly normal green. He looked a little further and saw splashes of blue on another clump of weeds. To his right, a straggling burdock bush bore traces of both red and yellow. And beyond the burdocks was a little pile of discarded paint-cans. Glidden Spread Satin, the labels said.

  That’s all it was. Just splatters of paint. Only with your head all messed up the way it was, you thought you were seeing-

  That was bullshit.

  He knew what he had seen then, and what he was seeing now. “Camouflage,” he whispered. “It was all right here. Everything was. And… it still is.”

  Now that his head was clearing, he could again feel the steady, harmonic power that this place held. The choir was still here, its voice just as musical, although now dim and distant. He looked at a pile of bricks and old broken chunks of plaster and saw a barely discernible face hiding within it. It was the face of a woman with a scar on her forehead.

  “Allie?” Jake murmured. “Isn’t your name Allie?”

  There was no answer. The face was gone. He was only looking at an unlovely pile of bricks and plaster again.

  He looked back at the rose. It was, he saw, not the dark red that lives at the heart of a blazing furnace, but a dusty, mottled pink. It was very beautiful, but not perfect. Some of the petals had curled back; the outer edges of these were brown and dead. It wasn’t the sort of cultivated flower he had seen in florists’ shops; he supposed it was a wild rose.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said, and once more stretched his hand out to touch it.

  Although there was no breeze, the rose nodded toward him. For just a moment the pads of his fingers touched its surface, smooth and velvety and marvellously alive, and all around him the voice of the choir seemed to swell.

  “Are you sick, rose?”

  There was no answer, of course. When his fingers left the faded pink bowl of the flower, it nodded back to its original position, growing out of the paint-splattered weeds in its quiet, forgotten splendor.

  Do roses bloom at this time of year? Jake wondered. Wild ones? Why would a wild rose grow in a vacant lot, anyway? And if there’s one, how come there aren’t more?

  He remained on his hands an
d knees a little longer, then realized he could stay here looking at the rose for the rest of the afternoon (or maybe the rest of his life) and not come any closer to solving its mystery. He had seen it plain for a moment, as he had seen everything else in this forgotten, trash-littered corner of the city; he had seen it with its mask off and its camouflage tossed aside. He wanted to see that again, but wanting would not make it so.

  It was time to go home.

  He saw the two books he’d bought at The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind lying nearby. As he picked them up, a bright silver object slipped from the pages of Charlie the Choo-Choo and fell into a scruffy patch of weeds. Jake bent, favoring his hurt ankle, and picked it up. As he did so, the choir seemed to sigh and swell, then fell back to its almost inaudible hum.

  “So that part was real, too,” he murmured. He ran the ball of his thumb over the blunt protruding points of the key and into those primitive V-shaped notches. He sent it skating over the mild s-curves at the end of the third notch. Then he tucked it deep into the right front pocket of his pants and began to limp back toward the fence.

  He had reached it and was preparing to scramble over the top when a terrible thought suddenly seized his mind.

  The rose! What if somebody comes in here and picks it?

  A little moan of horror escaped him. He turned back and after a moment his eyes picked it out, although it was deep in the shadow of a neighboring building now-a tiny pink shape in the dimness, vulnerable, beautiful, and alone.

  I can’t leave it-I have to guard it!

  But a voice spoke up in his mind, a voice that was surely that of the man he had met at the way station in that strange other life. No one will pick it. Nor will any vandal crush it beneath his heel because his dull eyes cannot abide the sight of its beauty. That is not the danger. It can protect itself from such things as those.