'Give you to eat of the green-crop ,' they chanted as one, and Eddie felt his back prickle and his eyes tear up.
'Oh my God,' Jake sighed. 'He knows so much …'
'Give you joy of the rice,' Roland said.
He stood for a moment longer in the orange glow, as if gathering his strength, and then he began to dance something that was caught between a jig and a tap routine. It was slow at first, very slow, heel and toe, heel and toe. Again and again his bootheels made that fist-on-coffintop sound, but now it had rhythm. Just rhythm at first, and then, as the gunslinger's feet began to pick up speed, it was more than rhythm: it became a kind of jive. That was the only word Eddie could think of, the only one that seemed to fit.
Susannah rolled up to them. Her eyes were huge, her smile amazed. She clasped her hands tightly between her breasts. 'Oh, Eddie!' she breathed. 'Did you know he could do this? Did you have any slightest idea?'
'No,' Eddie said. 'No idea.'
TEN Faster moved the gunslinger's feet in their battered and broken old boots. Then faster still. The rhythm becoming clearer and clearer, and Jake suddenly realized he knew that beat. Knew it from the first time he'd gone todash in New York. Before meeting Eddie, a young black man with Walkman earphones on his head had strolled past him, bopping his sandaled feet and going 'Cha-da-ba, cha-da-fow!' under his breath. And that was the rhythm Roland was beating out on the bandstand, each Bow ! accomplished by a forward kick of the leg and a hard skip of the heel on wood.
Around them, people began to clap. Not on the beat, but on the off-beat. They were starting to sway. Those women wearing skirts held them out and swirled them. The expression Jake saw on all the faces, oldest to youngest, was the same: pure joy. Not just that , he thought, and remembered a phrase his English teacher had used about how some books make us feel: the ecstasy of perfect recognition .
Sweat began to gleam on Roland's face. He lowered his crossed arms and started clapping. When he did, the Calla-folken began to chant one word over and over on the beat: 'Come!… Come!… Come!… Come! It occurred to Jake that this was the word some kids used for jizz, and he suddenly doubted if that was mere coincidence.
Of course it's not. Like the black guy bopping to that same beat. It's all the Beam, and it's all nineteen.
'Come!… Come!… Come!'
Eddie and Susannah had joined in. Benny had joined in. Jake abandoned thought and did the same.
ELEVEN In the end, Eddie had no real idea what the words to 'The Rice Song' might have been. Not because of the dialect, not in Roland's case, but because they spilled out too fast to follow. Once, on TV, he'd heard a tobacco auctioneer in South Carolina. This was like that. There were hard rhymes, soft rhymes, off-rhymes, even rape- rhymes—words that didn't rhyme at all but were forced to for a moment within the borders of the song. It wasn't a song, not really; it was like a chant, or some delirious streetcorner hip-hop. That was the closest Eddie could come. And all the while, Roland's feet pounded out their entrancing rhythm on the boards; all the while the crowd clapped and chanted Come, come, come, come .
What Eddie could pick out went like this:
Come-come-commala Rice come a-falla I-sissa 'ay a-bralla Dey come a-folla Down come a-rivva Or-i-za we kivva Rice be a green-o See all we seen-o Seen-o the green-o Come-come-commala! Come-come-commala Rice come a-falla Deep inna walla Grass come-commala Under the sky-o Grass green n high-o 
