in his own.
“Stop what you’re doing, unless I tell you different,” said she.
He looked at her, surprised. Then he glanced at Dinky, who only shrugged. Then he looked back at Susannah.
“You mustn’t use your good-mind to steal my grief,” Susannah told him, “for I’d open my mouth and drink it to the dregs. Every drop.”
For a moment Ted only stood with his head lowered and a frown creasing his brow. Then he looked up and gave her the sweetest smile Jake had ever seen.
“Aye, lady,” Ted replied. “We’ll do as you ask. But if you need us… whenyon need us…”
“I’ll call,” Susannah said, and once more slipped to her knees beside the muttering man who lay in the street.
TWO
As Roland and Jake approached the alley which would take them back to the center of the Devar-Toi, where they would put off mourning their fallen friend by taking care of any who might still stand against them, Sheemie reached out and plucked the sleeve of Roland’s shirt.
“Beam says thankya, Will Dearborn that was.” He had blown out his voice with shouting and spoke in a hoarse croak. “Beam says all may yet be well. Good as new. Better.”
“That’s fine,” Roland said, and Jake supposed it was. There had been no real joy then, however, as there was no real joy now. Jake kept thinking of the hole Ted Brautigan’s gende fingers had exposed. That hole filled with red jelly.
Roland put an arm around Sheemie’s shoulders, squeezed him, gave him a kiss. Sheemie smiled, delighted. “I’ll come with you, Roland. Will’ee have me, dear?”
“Not this time,” Roland said.
“Why are you crying?” Sheemie asked. Jake had seen the happiness draining from Sheemie’s face, being replaced with worry. Meanwhile, more Breakers were returning to Main Street, milling around in little groups. Jake had seen consternation in the expressions they directed toward the gunslinger
… and a certain dazed curiosity… and, in some cases, clear dislike. Hate, almost. He had seen no gratitude, not so much as a speck of gratitude, and for that he’d hated them.
“My friend is hurt,” Roland had said. “I cry for him,
Sheemie. And for his wife, who is my friend. Will you go to Ted and sai Dinky, and try to soothe her, should she ask to be soothed?”
“If you want, aye! Anything for you!”
“Thankee-sai, son of Stanley. And help if they move my friend.”
“Your friend Eddie! Him who lays hurt!”
“Aye, his name is Eddie, you say true. Will you help Eddie?”
“Aye!”
“And there’s something else-”
“Aye?” Sheemie asked, then seemed to remember something.
“Aye! Help you go away, travel far, you and your friends!
Ted told me. ’Make a hole,’ he said, ’like you did for me.”
Only they brought him back. The bad ’uns. They’d not bring you back, for the bad ’uns are gone! Beam’s at peace!” And Sheemie laughed, a jarring sound to Jake’s grieving ear.
To Roland’s too, maybe, because his smile was strained.
“In time, Sheemie… although I think Susannah may stay here, and wait for us to return.”
If we do return, Jake thought.
“But I have another chore you may be able to do. Not helping someone travel to that other world, but like that, a little. I’ve told Ted and Dinky, and they’d tell you, once Eddie’s been put at his ease. Will you listen?”
“Aye! And help, if I can!”
Roland clapped him on the shoulder. “Good!” Then Jake and the gunslinger had gone in a direction that might have been north, headed back to finish what they had begun.
THREE
They flushed out another fourteen guards in the next three hours, most of them humes. Roland surprised Jake-a little-by only killing the two who shot at them from behind the fire engine that had crashed with one wheel stuck in the cellar bulkhead. The rest he disarmed and then gave parole, telling them that any Devar-Toi guards still in the compound when the late-afternoon change-of-shifts horn blew would be shot out of hand.
“But where will we go?” asked a taheen with a snowy-white rooster’s head below a great floppy-red coxcomb (he reminded Jake a little of Foghorn Leghorn, the cartoon character).
Roland shook his head. “I care not where you fetch,” he said, “as long as you’re not here when the next horn blows, kennit.
You’ve done hell’s work here, but hell’s shut, and I mean to see it will never open this particular set of doors again.”
“What do you mean?” asked the rooster-taheen, almost timidly, but Roland wouldn’t say, had only told the creature to pass on the message to any others he might run across.
Most of the remaining taheen and can-toi left Algul Siento in pairs and triplets, going without argument and nervously looking back over their shoulders every few moments. Jake thought they were right to be afraid, because his dinh’s face that day had been abstract with thought and terrible with grief.
Eddie Dean lay on his deathbed, and Roland of Gilead would not bear crossing.
“What are you going to do to the place?” Jake asked after the afternoon horn had blown. They were making their way past the smoking husk of Damli House (where the robot firemen had posted signs every twenty feet reading OFF-LIMITS PENDING FIRE DEPT. INVESTIGATION), on their way to see Eddie.
Roland only shook his head, not answering the question.
On the Mall, Jake spied six Breakers standing in a circle, holding hands. They looked like folks having a seance. Sheemie was there, and Ted, and Dani Rostov; there also was a young woman, an older one, and a stout, bankerly-looking man.
Beyond, lying with their feet sticking out under blankets, was a line of the nearly fifty guards who had died during the brief action.
“Do you know what they’re doing?” Jake asked, meaning the seance-folken-the ones behind them were just being dead, a job that would occupy them from now on.
Roland glanced toward the circle of Breakers briefly. “Yes.”
“What?”
“Not now,” said the gunslinger. “Now we’re going to pay our respects to Eddie. You’re going to need all the serenity you can manage, and that means emptying your mind.”
FOUR
Now, sitting with Oy outside the empty Clover Tavern with its neon beer-signs and silent jukebox, Jake reflected on how right Roland had been, and how grateful Jake himself had been when, after forty-five minutes or so, the gunslinger had looked at him, seen his terrible distress, and excused him from the room where Eddie lingered, giving up his vitality an inch at a time, leaving the imprint of his remarkable will on every last inch of his life’s tapestry.
The litter-bearing party Ted Brautigan had organized had borne the young gunslinger to Corbett Hall, where he was laid in the spacious bedroom of the first-floor proctor’s suite.
The litter-bearers lingered in the dormitory’s courtyard, and as the afternoon wore on, the rest of the Breakers joined them.
When Roland and Jake arrived, a pudgy red-haired woman stepped into Roland’s way.
Lady, I wouldn’t do that,]ake had thought. Not this afternoon.
In spite of the day’s alarums and excursions, this woman-who’d looked to Jake like the Lifetime President of his mother’s garden club-had found time to put on a fairly heavy coat of makeup: powder, rouge, and lipstick as red as the side of a Devar fire engine. She introduced herself as Grace Rumbelow (formerly of Aldershot, Hampshire, England) and demanded to know what was going to happen next-where they would go, what they would do, who would take care of them. The same questions the rooster-headed taheen had asked, in other words.
“For we have been taken care of,” said Grace Rumbelow in ringing tones (Jake had been fascinated with how she said
“been,” so it rhymed with “seen”), “and are in no position, at least for the time being, to care for ourselves.”
There were calls of agreement at this.
