finishing its last few beats, that his mind is
(isn’t)
thinking its last few thoughts, that his voices an
(aren’t)
making their last Delphic pronouncements.
“Ves’-Ka Gan,” he says, amused by the sound of it-yet attracted, too. He has promised himself that he’ll try not to stuff his Dark Tower fantasies with unpronounceable words in some made-up (not to say fucked-up) language-his editor, Chuck Verrill in New York, will only cut most of them if he does-but his mind seems to be filling up with such words and phrases all the same: ka, ka-tet, sai, soh, can-toi
(that one at least is from another book of his, Desperation), taheen.
Can Tolkien’s Cirith Ungol and H. P. Lovecraft’s Great Blind Fiddler,
Nyarlahotep, be far behind1?
He laughs, then begins to sing a song one of his voices has given him. He thinks he will certainly use it in the next gunslinger book, when he finally allows the Turtle its voice again. “Commala-come-one,”
he sings as he walks, “there’s a young man with a gun. That young man lost his honey when she took it on the run.”
And is that young man Eddie Dean? Or is it Jake Chambers?
“Eddie,” he says out loud. “Eddie’s the gunny with the honey.” He’s so deep in thought that at first he doesn’t see the roof of the blue Dodge Caravan as it comes over the short horizon ahead of him and so does not realize this vehicle is not on the highway at all, but on the soft shoulder where he is walking. Nor does he hear the oncoming roar of the pickup truck behind him…
EIGHTEEN
Bryan hears the scrape of the cooler’s lid even over the funky rip-rap beat of the music, and when he looks in the rearview mirror he’s both dismayed and outraged to see that Bullet, always the more forward of the two rotties, has leaped from the storage area at the rear of the van into the passenger compartment. Bullet’s rear legs are up on the dirty seat, his stubby tail is wagging happily, and his nose is buried in Bryan’s cooler.
At this point any reasonable driver would pull over to the side of the road, stop his vehicle, and take care of his wayward animal. Bryan Smith, however, has never gotten high marks for reason when behind the wheel, and has the driving record to prove it. Instead of pulling over, he twists around to the right, steering with his left hand and shoving ineffectually at the top of the rottweiler’s flat head with his right.
“Leave ’at alone!” he shouts at Bullet as his minivan drifts first toward the righthand shoulder and then onto it. “Din’you hear me, Bullet? Aw you foolish? Leave ’at alone! “He actually succeeds in shoving the dog’s head up for a moment, but there’s no fur for his fingers to grasp and Bullet, while no genius, is smart enough to know he has at least one more chance to grab the stuff in the white paper, the stuff radiating that entrancing red smell. He dips beneath Bryan’s hand and seizes the wrapped package of hamburger in his jaws.
“Drop it!” Bryan screams. “You drop it right… NOW!”
In order to gain the purchase necessary to twist further in the driver’s bucket, he presses down firmly with both feet. One of them, unfortunately, is on the accelerator. The van puts on a burst of speed as it rushes toward the top of the hill. At this moment, in his excitement and outrage, Bryan has completely forgotten where he is (Route 7) and what he’s supposed to be doing (driving a van). All he cares about is getting the package of meat out of Bullet’s jaws.
“Gimme it!” he shouts, tugging. Tail wagging more furiously than ever (to him it’s now a game as well as a meal), Bullet tugs back.
There’s the sound of ripping butcher’s paper. The van is now all the xoay off the road. Beyond it is a grove of old pines lit by lovely afternoon light: a haze of green and gold. Bryan thinks only of the meat. He’s not going to eat hamburg with dog-drool on it, and you best believe it.
“Gimme it!” he says, not seeing the man in the path of his van, not seeing the truck that has now pulled up just behind the man, not seeing the truck’s passenger door open or the lanky cowboy-type who leaps out, a revolver with big yellow grips spilling from the holster on his hip and onto the ground as he does; Bryan Smith’s world has narrowed to one very bad dog and one package of meat. In the struggle for the meat, blood-roses are blooming on the butcher’s paper like tattoos.
NINETEEN
“There he is!” the boy named Jake shouted, but Irene Tassenbaum didn’t need him to tell her. Stephen King was wearing jeans, a chambray workshirt, and a baseball cap. He was well beyond the place where the road to Warrington’s intersected with Route 7, about a quarter of the way xxp the slope.
She punched the clutch, downshifted to Second like a NASCAR driver with the checkered flag in view, then turned hard left, hauling on the wheel with both hands. Chip McAvoy’s pickup truck teetered but did not roll. She saw the twinkle of sun on metal as a vehicle coming the other way reached the top of the hill King was climbing. She heard the man sitting by the door shout, “Pull in behind him!”
She did as he told her, even though she could now see that the oncoming vehicle was off the road and thus apt to broadside them. Not to mention crushing Stephen King in a metal sandwich between them.
The door popped open and the one named Roland halfrolled, halfjumped out of the truck.
After that, things happened very, very fast.
Chapter II:
VES’-KA GAN
ONE
What happened was lethally simple: Roland’s bad hip betrayed him. He went to his knees with a cry of mingled rage, pain, and dismay. Then the sunlight was blotted out as Jake leaped over him without so much as breaking stride. Oy was barking crazily from the cab of the truck: “Ake-Ake! Ake-Ake!”
“Jake, no!'Roland shouted. He saw it all with a terrible clarity.
The boy seized the writer around the waist as the blue vehicle-neither a truck nor a car but seemingly a cross between the two-bore down upon them in a roar of dissonant music.
Jake turned King to the left, shielding him widi his body, and so it was Jake the vehicle struck. Behind the gunslinger, who was now on his knees with his bleeding hands buried in the dirt, the woman from the store screamed.
“JAKE, NO!'Roland bellowed again, but it was too late. The boy he thought of as his son disappeared beneath the blue vehicle. The gunslinger saw one small upraised hand-would never forget it-and then that was gone, too. King, struck first by Jake and then by the weight of the van behind Jake, was thrown to the edge of the little grove of trees, ten feet from the point of impact. He landed on his right side, hitting his head on a stone hard enough to send the cap flying from his head.
Then he rolled over, perhaps intending to try for his feet. Or perhaps intending nothing at all; his eyes were shocked zeroes.
The driver hauled on his vehicle’s steering wheel and it slipped past on Roland’s left, missing him by inches, merely throwing dust into his face instead of running him down. By then it was slowing, the driver perhaps applying the machine’s brake now that it was too late. The side squalled across the hood of the pickup truck, slowing the van further, but it was not done doing damage even so. Before coming to a complete stop it struck King again, this time as he lay on the ground.
Roland heard the snap of a breaking bone. It was followed by the writer’s cry of pain. And now Roland knew for sure about the pain in his own hip, didn’t he? It had never been dry twist at all.
He scrambled to his feet, only peripherally aware that his pain was entirely gone. He looked at Stephen King’s unnaturally twisted body beneath the left front wheel of the blue vehicle and thought Good! with unthinking savagery. Good! If someone has to die here, let it be you! To hell with Gan ’s navel, to hell with the stories that come out of it, to hell with the Tower, let it be you and not my boy!
The bumbler raced past Roland to where Jake lay on his back at the rear of the van with blue exhaust blowing into his open eyes. Oy did not hesitate; he seized the Oriza pouch that was still slung over Jake’s shoulder and used it to pull the boy away from the van, doing it inch by inch, his short strong legs digging up puffs of dust. Blood was pouring from Jake’s ears and the corners of his mouth. The heels of his shor’boots left a double line of tracks in the dirt and crisp brown pine needles.
Roland staggered to Jake and fell on his knees beside him.
His first thought was that Jake was all right after all. The boy’s limbs were straight, thank all the gods, and the mark running across the bridge of his nose and down one beardless cheek was oil flecked with rust, not blood as Roland had first assumed.
There was blood coming out of his ears, yes, and his mouth, too, but die latter stream might only be flowing from a cut in the lining of his cheek, or-
“Go and see to the writer,” Jake said. His voice was calm, not at all constricted by pain. They might have been sitting around a little cookfire after a day on the trail, waiting for what Eddie liked to call vittles… or, if he happened to be feeling particularly humorous (as he often was), “wittles.”
