by Stephen King
“I say tomorrow,” Roland said. “We’ll take the ball up to the cave, and then we’ll see if you can go through the door to Calvin Tower’s where and when. Your idea is a good one, Eddie, and I say thankya.”
Jake said, “What if the ball sends you to the wrong place? The wrong version of 1977, or…” He hardly knew how to finish. He was remembering how thin everything had seemed when Black Thirteen had first taken them todash, and how endless darkness seemed to be waiting behind the painted surface realities around them. “…or someplace even farther?” he finished.
“In that case, I’ll send back a postcard.” Eddie said it with a shrug and a laugh, but for just a moment Jake saw how frightened he was. Susannah must have seen it, too, because she took Eddie’s hand in both of hers and squeezed it.
“Hey, I’ll be fine,” Eddie said.
“You better be,” Susannah replied. “You just better.”
Chapter II:
The Dogan, Part 1
One
When Roland and Eddie entered Our Lady of Serenity the following morning, daylight was only a distant rumor on the northeast horizon. Eddie lit their way down the center aisle with a ’sener, his lips pressed tightly together. The thing they had come for was humming. It was a sleepy hum, but he hated the sound of it just the same. The church itself felt freaky. Empty, it seemed too big, somehow. Eddie kept expecting to see ghostly figures (or perhaps a complement of the vagrant dead) sitting in the pews and looking at them with otherworldly disapproval.
But the hum was worse.
When they reached the front, Roland opened his purse and took out the bowling bag which Jake had kept in his knapsack until yesterday. The gunslinger held it up for a moment and they could both read what was printed on the side: NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MID-WORLD LANES.
“Not a word from now until I tell you it’s all right,” Roland said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Roland pressed his thumb into the groove between two of the floorboards and the hidey-hole in the preacher’s cove sprang open. He lifted the top aside. Eddie had once seen a movie on TV about guys disposing of live explosives during the London Blitz—UXB, it had been called—and Roland’s movements now recalled that film strongly to his mind. And why not? If they were right about what was in this hiding place—and Eddie knew they were—then it was an unexploded bomb.
Roland folded back the white linen surplice, exposing the box. The hum rose. Eddie’s breath stopped in his throat. He felt the skin all over his body grow cold. Somewhere close, a monster of nearly unimaginable malevolence had half-opened one sleeping eye.
The hum dropped back to its former sleepy pitch and Eddie breathed again.
Roland handed him the bowling bag, motioning for Eddie to hold it open. With misgivings (part of him wanted to whisper in Roland’s ear that they should forget the whole thing), Eddie did as he was bidden. Roland lifted the box out, and once again the hum rose. In the rich, if limited, glow of the ’sener, Eddie could see sweat on the gunslinger’s brow. He could feel it on his own. If Black Thirteen awoke and pitched them out into some black limbo…
I won’t go. I’ll fight to stay with Susannah.
Of course he would. But he was still relieved when Roland slipped the elaborately carved ghostwood box into the queer metallic bag they’d found in the vacant lot. The hum didn’t disappear entirely, but subsided to a barely audible drone. And when Roland gently pulled the drawstring running around the top of the bag, closing its mouth, the drone became a distant whisper. It was like listening to a seashell.
Eddie sketched the sign of the cross in front of himself. Smiling faintly, Roland did the same.
Outside the church, the northeast horizon had brightened appreciably—there would be real daylight after all, it seemed.
“Roland.”
The gunslinger turned toward him, eyebrows raised. His left fist was closed around the bag’s throat; he was apparently not willing to trust the weight of the box to the bag’s drawstring, stout as it looked.
“If we were todash when we found that bag, how could we have picked it up?”
Roland considered this. Then he said, “Perhaps the bag is todash, too.”
“Still?”
Roland nodded. “Yes, I think so. Still.”
“Oh.” Eddie thought about it. “That’s spooky.”
“Changing your mind about revisiting New York, Eddie?”
Eddie shook his head. He was scared, though. Probably more scared than he’d been at any time since standing up in the aisle of the Barony Coach to riddle Blaine.
Two
By the time they were halfway along the path leading to the Doorway Cave (It’s upsy, Henchick had said, and so it had been, and so it was), it was easily ten o’ the clock and remarkably warm. Eddie stopped, wiped the back of his neck with his bandanna, and looked out over the twisting arroyos to the north. Here and there he could see black, gaping holes and asked Roland if they were the garnet mines. The gunslinger told him they were.
“And which one have you got in mind for the kiddies? Can we see it from here?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Roland drew the single gun he was wearing and pointed it. “Look over the sight.”
Eddie did and saw a deep draw which made the shape of a jagged double S. It was filled to the top with velvety shadows; he guessed there might be only half an hour or so at midday when the sun reached the bottom. Farther to the north, it appeared to dead-end against a massive rock-face. He supposed the mine entrance was there, but it was too dark to make out. To the southeast this arroyo opened on a dirt track that wound its way back to East Road. Beyond East Road were fields sloping down to fading but still green plots of rice. Beyond the rice was the river.
“Makes me think of the story you told us,” Eddie said. “Eyebolt Canyon.”
“Of course it does.”
“No thinny to do the dirty work, though.”
“No,” Roland agreed. “No thinny.”
“Tell me the truth: Are you really going to stick this town’s kids in a mine at the end of a dead-end arroyo?”
“No.”
“The folken think you…that we mean to do that. Even the dish-throwing ladies think that.”
“I know they do,” Roland said. “I want them to.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe there’s anything supernatural about the way the Wolves find the children. After hearing Gran-pere Jaffords’s story, I don’t think there’s anything supernatural about the Wolves, for that matter. No, there’s a rat in this particular corn-crib. Someone who goes squealing to the powers that be in Thunderclap.”
“Someone different each time, you mean. Each twenty-three or twenty-four years.”
“Yes.”
“Who’d do that?” Eddie asked. “Who could do that?”
“I’m not sure, but I have an idea.”
“Took? Kind of a handed-down thing, from father to son?”
“If you’re rested, Eddie, I think we’d better press on.”
“Overholser? Maybe that guy Telford, the one who looks like a TV cowboy?”
Roland walked past him without speaking, his new shor’boots gritting on the scattered pebbles and rock-splinters. From his good left hand, the pink bag swung back and forth. The thing inside was still whispering its unpleasant secrets.
“Chatty as ever, good for you,” Eddie said, and followed him.
Three
The first voice which arose from the depths of the cave belonged to the great sage and eminent junkie.
“Oh, wookit the wittle sissy!” Henry moaned. To Eddie, he sounded like Ebenezer Scrooge’s dead partner in A Christmas Carol, funny and scary at the same time. “Does the wittle sissy think he’s going back to Noo-Ork? You’ll go a lot farther than that if you try it, bro. Better hunker where you are…just do your little carvings…be a good little homo…” The dead brother laughed
. The live one shivered.
“Eddie?” Roland asked.
“Listen to your brother, Eddie!” his mother cried from the cave’s dark and sloping throat. On the rock floor, scatters of small bones gleamed. “He gave up his life for you, his whole life, the least you could do is listen to him!”
“Eddie, are you all right?”
Now came the voice of Csaba Drabnik, known in Eddie’s crowd as the Mad Fuckin Hungarian. Csaba was telling Eddie to give him a cigarette or he’d pull Eddie’s fuckin pants down. Eddie tore his attention away from this frightening but fascinating gabble with an effort.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”
“The voices are coming from your own head. The cave finds them and amplifies them somehow. Sends them on. It’s a little upsetting, I know, but it’s meaningless.”
“Why’d you let em kill me, bro?” Henry sobbed. “I kept thinking you’d come, but you never did!”
“Meaningless,” Eddie said. “Okay, got it. What do we do now?”
“According to both stories I’ve heard of this place—Callahan’s and Henchick’s—the door will open when I open the box.”
Eddie laughed nervously. “I don’t even want you to take the box out of the bag, how’s that for chickenshit?”
“If you’ve changed your mind…”
Eddie was shaking his head. “No. I want to go through with it.” He flashed a sudden, bright grin. “You’re not worried about me scoring, are you? Finding the man and getting high?”
From deep in the cave, Henry exulted, “It’s China White, bro! Them niggers sell the best!”
“Not at all,” Roland said. “There are plenty of things I am worried about, but you returning to your old habits isn’t one of them.”
“Good.” Eddie stepped a little farther into the cave, looking at the free-standing door. Except for the hieroglyphics on the front and the crystal knob with the rose etched on it, this one looked exactly like the ones on the beach. “If you go around—?”
“If you go around, the door’s gone,” Roland said. “There is a hell of a drop-off, though…all the way to Na’ar, for all I know. I’d mind that, if I were you.”
“Good advice, and Fast Eddie says thankya.” He tried the crystal doorknob and found it wouldn’t budge in either direction. He had expected that, too. He stepped back.
Roland said, “You need to think of New York. Of Second Avenue in particular, I think. And of the time. The year of nineteen and seven-seven.”
“How do you think of a year?”
When Roland spoke, his voice betrayed a touch of impatience. “Think of how it was on the day you and Jake followed Jake’s earlier self, I suppose.”
Eddie started to say that was the wrong day, it was too early, then closed his mouth. If they were right about the rules, he couldn’t go back to that day, not todash, not in the flesh, either. If they were right, time over there was somehow hooked to time over here, only running a little faster. If they were right about the rules…if there were rules…
Well, why don’t you just go and see?
“Eddie? Do you want me to try hypnotizing you?” Roland had drawn a shell from his gunbelt. “It can make you see the past more clearly.”
“No. I think I better do this straight and wide-awake.”
Eddie opened and closed his hands several times, taking and releasing deep breaths as he did so. His heart wasn’t running particularly fast—was going slow, if anything—but each beat seemed to shiver through his entire body. Christ, all this would have been so much easier if there were just some controls you could set, like in Professor Peabody’s Wayback Machine or that movie about the Morlocks!
“Hey, do I look all right?” he asked Roland. “I mean, if I land on Second Avenue at high noon, how much attention am I going to attract?”
“If you appear in front of people,” Roland said, “probably quite a lot. I’d advise you to ignore anyone who wants to palaver with you on the subject and vacate the area immediately.”
“That much I know. I meant how do I look clotheswise?”
Roland gave a small shrug. “I don’t know, Eddie. It’s your city, not mine.”
Eddie could have demurred. Brooklyn was his city. Had been, anyway. As a rule he hadn’t gone into Manhattan from one month to the next, thought of it almost as another country. Still, he supposed he knew what Roland meant. He inventoried himself and saw a plain flannel shirt with horn buttons above dark-blue jeans with burnished nickel rivets instead of copper ones, and a button-up fly. (Eddie had seen zippers in Lud, but none since.) He reckoned he would pass for normal on the street. New York normal, at least. Anyone who gave him a second look would think café waiter/artist-wannabe playing hippie on his day off. He didn’t think most people would even bother with the first look, and that was absolutely to the good. But there was one thing he could add—
“Have you got a piece of rawhide?” he asked Roland.
From deep in the cave, the voice of Mr. Tubther, his fifth-grade teacher, cried out with lugubrious intensity. “You had potential! You were a wonderful student, and look at what you turned into! Why did you let your brother spoil you?”
To which Henry replied, in sobbing outrage: “He let me die! He killed me!”
Roland swung his purse off his shoulder, put it on the floor at the mouth of the cave beside the pink bag, opened it, rummaged through it. Eddie had no idea how many things were in there; he only knew he’d never seen the bottom of it. At last the gunslinger found what Eddie had asked for and held it out.
While Eddie tied back his hair with the hank of rawhide (he thought it finished off the artistic-hippie look quite nicely), Roland took out what he called his swag-bag, opened it, and began to empty out its contents. There was the partially depleted sack of tobacco Callahan had given him, several kinds of coin and currency, a sewing kit, the mended cup he had turned into a rough compass not far from Shardik’s clearing, an old scrap of map, and the newer one the Tavery twins had drawn. When the bag was empty, he took the big revolver with the sandalwood grip from the holster on his left hip. He rolled the cylinder, checked the loads, nodded, and snapped the cylinder back into place. Then he put the gun into the swag-bag, yanked the lacings tight, and tied them in a clove hitch that would come loose at a single pull. He held the bag out to Eddie by the worn strap.
At first Eddie didn’t want to take it. “Nah, man, that’s yours.”
“These last weeks you’ve worn it as much as I have. Probably more.”
“Yeah, but this is New York we’re talking about, Roland. In New York, everybody steals.”
“They won’t steal from you. Take the gun.”
Eddie looked into Roland’s eyes for a moment, then took the swag-bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “You’ve got a feeling.”
“A hunch, yes.”
“Ka at work?”
Roland shrugged. “It’s always at work.”
“All right,” Eddie said. “And Roland—if I don’t make it back, take care of Suze.”
“Your job is to make sure I don’t have to.”
No, Eddie thought. My job is to protect the rose.
He turned to the door. He had a thousand more questions, but Roland was right, the time to ask them was done.
“Eddie, if you really don’t want to—”
“No,” he said. “I do want to.” He raised his left hand and gave a thumbs-up. “When you see me do that, open the box.”
“All right.”
Roland speaking from behind him. Because now it was just Eddie and the door. The door with UNFOUND written on it in some strange and lovely language. Once he’d read a novel called The Door Into Summer, by…who? One of the science-fiction guys he was always dragging home from the library, one of his old reliables, perfect for the long afternoons of summer vacation. Murray Leinster, Poul Anderson, Gordon Dickson, Isaac Asimov, Harlan Ellison…Robert Heinlein. He thought it was Heinlein who’
d written The Door Into Summer. Henry always ragging him about the books he brought home, calling him the wittle sissy, the wittle bookworm, asking him if he could read and jerk off at the same time, wanting to know how he could sit fuckin still for so long with his nose stuck in some made-up piece of shit about rockets and time machines. Henry older than him. Henry covered with pimples that were always shiny with Noxzema and Stri-Dex. Henry getting ready to go into the Army. Eddie younger. Eddie bringing books home from the library. Eddie thirteen years old, almost the age Jake is now. It’s 1977 and he’s thirteen and on Second Avenue and the taxis are shiny yellow in the sun. A black man wearing Walkman earphones is walking past Chew Chew Mama’s, Eddie can see him, Eddie knows the black man is listening to Elton John singing—what else?—“Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” The sidewalk is crowded. It’s late afternoon and people are going home after another day in the steel arroyos of Calla New York, where they grow money instead of rice, can ya say prime rate. Women looking amiably weird in expensive business suits and sneakers; their high heels are in their gunna because the workday is done and they’re going home. Everyone seems to be smiling because the light is so bright and the air is so warm, it’s summer in the city and somewhere there’s the sound of a jackhammer, like on that old Lovin’ Spoonful song. Before him is a door into the summer of ’77, the cabbies are getting a buck and a quarter on the drop and thirty cents every fifth of a mile thereafter, it was less before and it’ll be more after but this is now, the dancing point of now. The space shuttle with the teacher on board hasn’t blown up. John Lennon is still alive, although he won’t be much longer if he doesn’t stop messing with that wicked heroin, that China White. As for Eddie Dean, Edward Cantor Dean, he knows nothing about heroin. A few cigarettes are his only vice (other than trying to jack off, at which he will not be successful for almost another year). He’s thirteen. It’s 1977 and he has exactly four hairs on his chest, he counts them religiously each morning, hoping for big number five. It’s the summer after the Summer of the Tall Ships. It’s a late afternoon in the month of June and he can hear a happy tune. The tune is coming from the speakers over the doorway of the Tower of Power record shop, it’s Mungo Jerry singing “In the Summertime,” and—