The Dark Tower VII

by Stephen King

  It was a weirding village, and she could not begin to imagine what species of freakish people might once have lived here. The sidestreets were cobbled. The cottages were narrow and steep-roofed, the doorways thin and abnormally high, as if made for the sort of narrow folk seen in the distorted curves of funhouse mirrors. They were Lovecraft houses, Clark Ashton Smith houses, William Hope Hodgson borderlands houses, all crammed together under a Lee Brown Coye sickle moon, the houses all a-tilt and a-lean on the hills that grew up gradually around the way they walked. Here and there one had collapsed, and there was an unpleasantly organic look to these ruins, as if they were torn and rotted flesh instead of ancient boards and glass. Again and again she caught herself seeing dead faces peering at her from some configuration of boards and shadow, faces that seemed to rotate in the rubble and follow their course with terrible zombie eyes. They made her think of the Doorkeeper on Dutch Hill, and that made her shiver.

  On their fourth night on The King’s Way, they came to a major intersection where the main road made a crooked turn, bending more south than east and thus off the Path of the Beam. Ahead, less than a night’s walk (or ride, if one happened to be aboard Ho Fat’s Luxury Taxi), was a high hill with an enormous black castle dug into it. In the chancy moonlight it had a vaguely Oriental look to Susannah. The towers bulged at the tops, as if wishing they could be minarets. Fantastic walkways flew between them, crisscrossing above the courtyard in front of the castle proper. Some of these walkways had fallen to ruin, but most still held. She could also hear a vast, low rumbling sound. Not machinery. She asked Roland about it.

  “Water,” he said.

  “What water? Do you have any idea?”

  He shook his head. “But I’d not drink what flowed close to that castle, even were I dying of thirst.”

  “This place is bad,” she muttered, meaning not just the castle but the nameless village of leaning

  (leering)

  houses that had grown up all around it. “And Roland—it’s not empty.”

  “Susannah, if thee feels spirits knocking for entrance into thy head—knocking or gnawing—then bid them away.”

  “Will that work?”

  “I’m not sure it will,” he admitted, “but I’ve heard that such things must be granted entry, and that they’re wily at gaining it by trick and by ruse.”

  She had read Dracula as well as heard Pere Callahan’s story of Jerusalem’s Lot, and understood what Roland meant all too well.

  He took her gently by the shoulders and turned her away from the castle—which might not be naturally black after all, she had decided, but only tarnished by the years. Daylight would tell. For the present their way was lit by a cloud-scummed quarter-moon.

  Several other roads led away from the place where they had stopped, most as crooked as broken fingers. The one Roland wanted her to look upon was straight, however, and Susannah realized it was the only completely straight street she had seen since the deserted village began to grow silently up around their way. It was smoothly paved rather than cobbled and pointed southeast, along the Path of the Beam. Above it flowed the moon-gilded clouds like boats in a procession.

  “Does thee glimpse a darkish blur at the horizon, dear?” he murmured.

  “Yes. A dark blur and a whitish band in front of it. What is it? Do you know?”

  “I have an idea, but I’m not sure,” Roland said. “Let’s have us a rest here. Dawn’s not far off, and then we’ll both see. And besides, I don’t want to approach yonder castle at night.”

  “If the Crimson King’s gone, and if the Path of the Beam lies that way—” She pointed. “Why do we need to go to his damn old castle at all?”

  “To make sure he is gone, for one thing,” Roland said. “And we may be able to trap the one behind us. I doubt it—he’s wily—but there’s a chance. He’s also young, and the young are sometimes careless.”

  “You’d kill him?”

  Roland’s smile was wintry in the moonlight. Merciless. “Without a moment’s hesitation,” said he.

  Eight

  In the morning Susannah woke from an uncomfortable doze amid the scattered supplies in the back of the rickshaw and saw Roland standing in the intersection and looking along the Path of the Beam. She got down, moving with great care because she was stiff and didn’t want to fall. She imagined her bones cold and brittle inside her flesh, ready to shatter like glass.

  “What do you see?” he asked her. “Now that it’s light, what do you see over that way?”

  The whitish band was snow, which did not surprise her given the fact that those were true uplands. What did surprise her—and gladdened her heart more than she would have believed possible—were the trees beyond the band of snow. Green fir-trees. Living things.

  “Oh, Roland, they look lovely!” she said. “Even with their feet in the snow, they look lovely! Don’t they?”

  “Yes,” he said. He lifted her high and turned her back the way they had come. Beyond the nasty crowding suburb of dead houses she could see some of the Badlands they’d come through, all those crowding spines of rock broken by the occasional butte or mesa.

  “Think of this,” he said. “Back yonder as you look is Fedic. Beyond Fedic, Thunderclap. Beyond Thunderclap, the Callas and the forest that marks the borderland between Mid-World and End-World. Lud is further back that way, and River Crossing further still; the Western Sea and the great Mohaine Desert, too. Somewhere back there, lost in the leagues and lost in time as well is what remains of In-World. The Baronies. Gilead. Places where even now there are people who remember love and light.”

  “Yes,” she said, not understanding.

  “That was the way the Crimson King turned to cast his petulance,” Roland said. “He meant to go the other way, ye must ken, to the Dark Tower, and even in his madness he knew better than to kill the land he must pass through, he and whatever band of followers he took with him.” He drew her toward him and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her feel like crying. “We three will visit his castle, and trap Mordred there if our fortune is good and his is ill. Then we’ll go on, and back into living lands. There’ll be wood for fires and game to provide fresh food and hides to wrap around us. Can you go on a little longer, dear? Can thee?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Roland.”

  She hugged him, and as she did, she looked toward the red castle. In the growing light she could see that the stone of which it had been made, although darkened by the years, had once been the color of spilled blood. This called forth a memory of her palaver with Mia on the Castle Discordia allure, a memory of steadily pulsing crimson light in the distance. Almost from where they now were, in fact.

  Come to me now, if you’d come at all, Susannah, Mia had told her. For the King can fascinate, even at a distance.

  It was that pulsing red glow of which she had been speaking, but—

  “It’s gone!” she said to Roland. “The red light from the castle—Forge of the King, she called it! It’s gone! We haven’t seen it once in all this time!”

  “No,” he said, and this time his smile was warmer. “I believe it must have stopped at the same time we ended the Breakers’ work. The Forge of the King has gone out, Susannah. Forever, if the gods are good. That much we have done, although it has cost us much.”

  That afternoon they came to Le Casse Roi Russe, which turned out not to be entirely deserted, after all.

  Chapter III:

  The Castle of the Crimson King

  One

  They were a mile from the castle and the roar of the unseen river had become very loud when bunting and posters began to appear. The bunting consisted of red, white, and blue swags—the kind Susannah associated with Memorial Day parades and small-town Main Streets on the Fourth of July. On the façades of these narrow, secretive houses and the fronts of shops long closed and emptied from basement to attic, such decoration looked like rouge on the cheeks of a decaying corpse.

  The faces on the post
ers were all too familiar to her. Richard Nixon and Henry Cabot Lodge flashed V’s-for-victory and car-salesmen grins (NIXON/LODGE, BECAUSE THE WORK’S NOT DONE, these read). John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson stood with their arms around each other and their free hands raised. Below their feet was the bold proclamation WE STAND ON THE EDGE OF A NEW FRONTIER.

  “Any idea who won?” Roland asked over his shoulder. Susannah was currently riding in Ho Fat’s Luxury Taxi, taking in the sights (and wishing for a sweater: even a light cardigan would do her just fine, by God).

  “Oh, yes,” she said. There was no doubt in her mind that these posters had been mounted for her benefit. “Kennedy did.”

  “He became your dinh?”

  “Dinh of the entire United States. And Johnson got the job when Kennedy was gunned down.”

  “Shot? Do you say so?” Roland was interested.

  “Aye. Shot from hiding by a coward named Oswald.”

  “And your United States was the most powerful country in the world.”

  “Well, Russia was giving us a run for our money when you grabbed me by the collar and yanked me into Mid-World, but yes, basically.”

  “And the folk of your country choose their dinh for themselves. It’s not done on account of fathership.”

  “That’s right,” she said, a little warily. She half-expected Roland to blast the democratic system. Or laugh at it.

  Instead he surprised her by saying, “To quote Blaine the Mono, that sounds pretty swell.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t quote him, Roland. Not now, not ever. Okay?”

  “As you like,” he said, then went on without a pause, but in a much lower voice. “Keep my gun ready, may it do ya.”

  “Does me fine,” she agreed at once, and in the same low voice. It came out Does ’ee ’ine, because she didn’t even want to move her lips. She could feel that they were now being watched from within the buildings that crowded this end of The King’s Way like shops and inns in a medieval village (or a movie set of one). She didn’t know if they were humans, robots, or maybe just still-operating TV cameras, but she hadn’t mistrusted the feeling even before Roland spoke up and confirmed it. And she only had to look at Oy’s head, tick-tocking back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock, to know he felt it, too.

  “And was he a good dinh, this Kennedy?” Roland asked, resuming his normal voice. It carried well in the silence. Susannah realized a rather lovely thing: for once she wasn’t cold, even though this close to the roaring river the air was dank as well as chill. She was too focused on the world around her to be cold. At least for the present.

  “Well, not everyone thought so, certainly the nut who shot him didn’t, but I did,” she said. “He told folks when he was running that he meant to change things. Probably less than half the voters thought he meant it, because most politicians lie for the same reason a monkey swings by his tail, which is to say because he can. But once he was elected, he started in doin the things he’d promised to do. There was a showdown over a place called Cuba, and he was just as brave as…well, let’s just say you would have been pleased to ride with him. When some folks saw just how serious he was, the motherfucks hired the nut to shoot him.”

  “Oz-walt.”

  She nodded, not bothering to correct him, thinking that there was nothing to correct, really. Oz-walt. Oz. It all came around again, didn’t it?

  “And Johnson took over when Kennedy fell.”

  “Yep.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Was too early to tell when I left, but he was more the kind of fella used to playing the game. ‘Go along to get along,’ we used to say. Do you ken it?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And Susannah, I think we’ve arrived.” Roland brought Ho Fat’s Luxury Taxi to a stop. He stood with the handles wrapped in his fists, looking at Le Casse Roi Russe.

  Two

  Here The King’s Way ended, spilling into a wide cobbled fore-court that had once no doubt been guarded as assiduously by the Crimson King’s men as Buckingham Palace was by the Beefeaters of Queen Elizabeth. An eye that had faded only slightly over the years was painted on the cobbles in scarlet. From ground-level, one could only assume what it was, but from the upper levels of the castle itself, Susannah guessed, the eye would dominate the view to the northwest.

  Same damn thing’s probably painted at every other point of the compass, too, she thought.

  Above this outer courtyard, stretched between two deserted guard-towers, was a banner that looked freshly painted. Stenciled upon it (also in red, white, and blue) was this:

  WELCOME, ROLAND AND SUSANNAH!

  (OY, TOO!)

  KEEP ON ROCKIN’ IN THE FREE WORLD!

  The castle beyond the inner courtyard (and the caged river which here served as a moat) was indeed of dark red stone blocks that had darkened to near-black over the years. Towers and turrets burst upward from the castle proper, swelling in a way that hurt the eye and seemed to defy gravity. The castle within these gaudy brackets was sober and undecorated except for the staring eye carved into the keystone arch above the main entrance. Two of the overhead walkways had fallen, littering the main courtyard with shattered chunks of stone, but six others remained in place, crisscrossing at different levels in a way that made her think of turnpike entrances and exits where a number of major highways met. As with the houses, the doors and windows were oddly narrow. Fat black rooks were perched on the sills of the windows and lined up along the overhead walkways, peering at them.

  Susannah swung down from the rickshaw with Roland’s gun stuffed into her belt, within easy reach. She joined him, looking at the main gate on this side of the moat. It stood open. Beyond it, a humped stone bridge spanned the river. Beneath the bridge, dark water rushed through a stone throat forty feet wide. The water smelled harsh and unpleasant, and where it flowed around a number of fangy black rocks, the foam was yellow instead of white.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Listen to those fellows, for a start,” he said, and nodded toward the main doors on the far side of the castle’s cobbled forecourt. The portals were ajar and through them now came two men—perfectly ordinary men, not narrow funhouse fellows, as she had rather expected. When they were halfway across the forecourt, a third slipped out and scurried along after. None appeared to be armed, and as the two in front approached the bridge, she was not exactly flabbergasted to see they were identical twins. And the one behind looked the same: Caucasian, fairly tall, long black hair. Triplets, then: two to meet, and one for good luck. They were wearing jeans and heavy pea-coats of which she was instantly (and achingly) jealous. The two in front carried large wicker baskets by leather handles.

  “Put spectacles and beards on them, and they’d look exactly like Stephen King as he was when Eddie and I first met him,” Roland said in a low voice.

  “Really? Say true?”

  “Yes. Do you remember what I told you?”

  “Let you do the talking.”

  “And before victory comes temptation. Remember that, too.”

  “I will. Roland, are you afraid of em?”

  “I think there’s little to fear from those three. But be ready to shoot.”

  “They don’t look armed.” Of course there were those wicker baskets; anything might be in those.

  “All the same, be ready.”

  “Count on it,” said she.

  Three

  Even with the roar of the river rushing beneath the bridge, they could hear the steady tock-tock of the strangers’ bootheels. The two with the baskets advanced halfway across the bridge and stopped at its highest point. Here they put down their burdens side by side. The third man stopped on the castle side and stood with his empty hands clasped decorously before him. Now Susannah could smell the cooked meat that was undoubtedly in one of the boxes. Not long pork, either. Roast beef and chicken all mingled was what it smelled like to her, an aroma that was heaven-sent. Her mouth began to water.

 
“Hile, Roland of Gilead!” said the dark-haired man on their right. “Hile, Susannah of New York! Hile, Oy of Mid-World! Long days and pleasant nights!”

  “One’s ugly and the others are worse,” his companion remarked.

  “Don’t mind him,” said the righthand Stephen King look-alike.

  “ ‘Don’t mind him,’ ” mocked the other, screwing his face up in a grimace so purposefully ugly that it was funny.

  “May you have twice the number,” Roland said, responding to the more polite of the two. He cocked his heel and made a perfunctory bow over his outstretched leg. Susannah curtsied in the Calla fashion, spreading imaginary skirts. Oy sat by Roland’s left foot, only looking at the two identical men on the bridge.

  “We are uffis,” said the man on the right. “Do you ken uffis, Roland?”

  “Yes,” he said, and then, in an aside to Susannah: “It’s an old word…ancient, in fact. He claims they’re shape-changers.” To this he added in a much lower voice that could surely not be heard over the roar of the river: “I doubt it’s true.”

  “Yet it is,” said the one on the right, pleasantly enough.

  “Liars see their own kind everywhere,” observed the one on the left, and rolled a cynical blue eye. Just one. Susannah didn’t believe she had ever seen a person roll just one eye before.

  The one behind said nothing, only continued to stand and watch with his hands clasped before him.

  “We can take any shape we like,” continued the one on the right, “but our orders were to assume that of someone you’d recognize and trust.”

  “I’d not trust sai King much further than I could throw his heaviest grandfather,” Roland remarked. “As troublesome as a trousers-eating goat, that one.”

  “We did the best we could,” said the righthand Stephen King. “We could have taken the shape of Eddie Dean, but felt that might be too painful to the lady.”