The Drawing of the Three dt-2

by Стивен Кинг

  "You almost opsot me agin, boys," she said. "You want to look out for me, now. I ain't nuthin but a old crippled lady, so you want to have a care for me now."

  She laughed … laughed fit to split.

  Although Eddie cared for the woman that was the other part of her—was near to loving her just on the basis of the brief time he had seen her and spoken with her—he felt his hands itch to close around her windpipe and choke that laugh, choke it until she could never laugh again.

  She peered around again, saw what he was thinking as if it had been printed on him in red ink, and laughed all the harder. Her eyes dared him. Go on, graymeat. Go on. You want to do it? Go on and do it.

  In other words, don't just tip the chair; tip the woman, Eddie thought. Tip her over for good. That's what she wants. For Detta, being killed by a white man may be the only real goal she has in life.

  "Come on," he said, and began pushing again. "We are gonna tour the seacoast, sweet thang, like it or not."

  "Fuck you," she spat.

  "Cram it, babe," Eddie responded pleasantly.

  The gunslinger walked beside him, head down.

  11

  They came to a considerable outcropping of rocks when the sun said it was about eleven and here they stopped for nearly an hour, taking the shade as the sun climbed toward the roofpeak of the day. Eddie and the gunslinger ate leftovers from the previous night's kill. Eddie offered a portion to Detta, who again refused, telling him she knew what they wanted to do, and if they wanted to do it, they best to do it with their bare hands and stop trying to poison her. That, she said, was the coward's way.

  Eddie's right, the gunslinger mused. This woman has made her own chain of memories. She knows everything that happened to her last night, even though she was really fast asleep.

  She believed they had brought her pieces of meat which smelled of death and putrescence, had taunted her with it while they themselves ate salted beef and drank some sort of beer from flasks. She believed they had, every now and then, held pieces of their own untainted supper out to her, drawing it away at the last moment when she snatched at it with her teeth—and laughing while they did it, of course. In the world (or at least in the mind) of Detta Walker, Honk Mahfahs only did two things to brown women: raped them or laughed at them. Or both at the same time.

  It was almost funny. Eddie Dean had last seen beef during his ride in the sky-carriage, and Roland had seen none since the last of his jerky was eaten, Gods alone knew how long ago. As far as beer … he cast his mind back.

  Tull.

  There had been beer in Tull. Beer and beef.

  God, it would be good to have a beer. His throat ached and it would be so good to have a beer to cool that ache. Better even than the astin from Eddie's world.

  They drew off a distance from her.

  "Ain't I good nough cump'ny for white boys like you?" she cawed after them. "Or did you jes maybe want to have a pull on each other one's little bitty white candle?"

  She threw her head back and screamed laughter that frightened the gulls up, crying, from the rocks where they had been met in convention a quarter of a mile away.

  The gunslinger sat with his hands dangling between his knees, thinking. Finally he raised his head and told Eddie, "I can only understand about one word in every ten she says."

  "I'm way ahead of you," Eddie replied. "I'm getting at least two in every three. Doesn't matter. Most of it comes back to honky mahfah."

  Roland nodded. "Do many of the dark-skinned people talk that way where you come from? Her other didn't."

  Eddie shook his head and laughed. "No. And I'll tell you something sort of funny—at least I think it's sort of funny, but maybe that's just because there isn't all that much to laugh at out here. It's not real. It's not real and she doesn't even know it."

  Roland looked at him and said nothing.

  "Remember when you washed off her forehead, how she pretended she was scared of the water?"

  "Yes."

  "You knew she was pretending?"

  "Not at first, but quite soon."

  Eddie nodded. "That was an act, and she knew it was an act. But she's a pretty good actress and she fooled both of us for a few seconds. The way she's talking is an act, too. But it's not as good. It's so stupid, so goddam hokey!"

  "You believe she pretends well only when she knows she's doing it?"

  "Yes. She sounds like a cross between the darkies in this book called Mandingo I read once and Butterfly McQueen in Gone with the Wind. I know you don't know those names, but what I mean is she talks like a cliche. Do you know that word?"

  "It means what is always said or believed by people who think only a little or not at all."

  "Yeah. I couldn't have said it half so good."

  ''Ain't you boys done jerkin on dem candles a yours yet? " Detta's voice was growing hoarse and cracked. "Or maybe it's just you can't fine em. Dat it?"

  "Come on." The gunslinger got slowly to his feet. He swayed for a moment, saw Eddie looking at him, and smiled. "I'll be all right."

  "For how long?"

  "As long as I have to be," the gunslinger answered, and the serenity in his voice chilled Eddie's heart.

  12

  That night the gunslinger used his last sure live cartridge to make their kill. He would start systematically testing the ones he believed to be duds tomorrow night, but he believed it was pretty much as Eddie had said: They were down to beating the damned things to death.

  It was like the other nights: the fire, the cooking, the shelling, the eating—eating which was now slow and unenthusiastic. We're just gassing up, Eddie thought. They offered food to Detta, who screamed and laughed and cursed and asked how long they was goan take her for a fool, and then she began throwing her body wildly from one side to the other, never minding how her bonds grew steadily tighter, only trying to upset the chair to one side or the other so they would have to pick her up again before they could eat.

  Just before she could manage the trick, Eddie grabbed her and Roland braced the wheels on either sides with rocks.

  "I'll loosen the ropes a bit if you'll be still," Roland told her.

  "Suck shit out my ass, mahfah!"

  "I don't understand if that means yes or no."

  She looked at him, eyes narrowed, suspecting some buried barb of satire in that calm voice (Eddie also wondered, but couldn't tell if there was or not), and after a moment she said sulkily, "I be still. Too damn hungry to kick up much dickens. You boys goan give me some real food or you jes goan starve me to death? Dat yo plan? You too chickenshit to choke me and I ain't nev' goan eat no poison, so dat must be you plan. Starve me out. Well, we see, sho. We goan see. Sho we are."

  She offered them her bone-chilling sickle of a grin again.

  Not long after she fell asleep.

  Eddie touched the side of Roland's face. Roland glanced at him but did not pull away from the touch.

  "I'm all right."

  "Yeah, you're Jim-dandy. Well, I tell you what, Jim, we didn't get along very far today."

  "I know." There was also the matter of having used the last live shell, but that was knowledge Eddie could do without, at least tonight. Eddie wasn't sick, but he was exhausted. Too exhausted for more bad news.

  No, he's not sick, not yet, but if he goes too long without rest, gets tired enough, he'll get sick.

  In a way, Eddie already was; both of them were. Cold-sores had developed at the corners of Eddie's mouth, and there was scaly patches on his skin. The gunslinger could feel his teeth loosening up in their sockets, and the flesh between his toes had begun to crack open and bleed, as had that between his remaining fingers. They were eating, but they were eating the same thing, day in and day out. They could go on that way for a time, but in the end they would die as surely as if they had starved.

  What we have is Shipmate's Disease on dry land, Roland thought. Simple as that. How funny. We need fruit. We need greens.

  Eddie nodded toward the Lady. "She's go
ing to go right on making it tough."

  "Unless the other one inside her comes back."

  "That would be nice, but we can't count on it," Eddie said. He took a piece of blackened claw and began to scrawl aimless patterns in the dirt. "Any idea how far the next door might be?"

  Roland shook his head.

  "I only ask because if the distance between Number Two and Number Three is the same as the distance between Number One and Number Two, we could be in deep shit."

  "We're in deep shit right now."

  "Neck deep," Eddie agreed moodily. "I just keep wondering how long I can tread water."

  Roland clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture of affection so rare it made Eddie blink.

  "There's one thing that Lady doesn't know," he said.

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "We Honk Mahfahs can tread water a long time."

  Eddie laughed at that, laughed hard, smothering his laughter against his arm so he wouldn't wake Detta up. He'd had enough of her for one day, please and thank you.

  The gunslinger looked at him, smiling. "I'm going to turn in," he said. "Be—"

  "—on my guard. Yeah. I will."

  13

  Screaming was next.

  Eddie fell asleep the moment his head touched the bunched bundle of his shirt, and it seemed only five minutes later when Detta began screaming.

  He was awake at once, ready for anything, some King Lobster arisen from the deep to take revenge for its slain children or a horror down from the hills. It seemed he was awake at once, anyway, but the gunslinger was already on his feet, a gun in his left hand.

  When she saw they were both awake, Detta promptly quit screaming.

  "Jes thought I'd see if you boys on yo toes," she said. "Might be woofs. Looks likely enough country for 'em. Wanted to make sho if I saw me a woof creepin up, I could get you on yo feet in time." But there was no fear in her eyes; they glinted with mean amusement.

  "Christ," Eddie said groggily. The moon was up but barely risen; they had been asleep less than two hours.

  The gunslinger holstered his gun.

  "Don't do it again," he said to the Lady in the wheelchair.

  "What you goan do if I do? Rape me?"

  "If we were going to rape you, you would be one well-raped woman by now," the gunslinger said evenly. "Don't do it again."

  He lay down again, pulling his blanket over him.

  Christ, dear Christ, Eddie thought, what a mess this is, what a fucking … and that was as far as the thought went before trailing off into exhausted sleep again and then she was splintering the air with fresh shrieks, shrieking like a firebell, and Eddie was up again, his body flaming with adrenaline, hands clenched, and then she was laughing, her voice hoarse and raspy.

  Eddie glanced up and saw the moon had advanced less than ten degrees since she had awakened them the first time.

  She means to keep on doing it, he thought wearily. She means to stay awake and watch us, and when she's sure we're getting down into deep sleep, that place where you recharge, she's going to open her mouth and start bellowing again. She'll do it and do it and do it until she doesn't have any voice left to bellow with.

  Her laughter stopped abruptly. Roland was advancing on her, a dark shape in the moonlight.

  "You jes stay away from me, graymeat," Detta said, but there was a quiver of nerves in her voice. "You ain't goan do nothing to me."

  Roland stood before her and for a moment Eddie was sure, completely sure, that the gunslinger had reached the end of his patience and would simply swat her like a fly. Instead, astoundingly, he dropped to one knee before her like a suitor about to propose marriage.

  "Listen," he said, and Eddie could scarcely credit the silky quality of Roland's voice. He could see much the same deep surprise on Detta's face, only there fear was joined to it. "Listen to me, Odetta."

  "Who you callin O-Detta? Dat ain my name."

  "Shut up, bitch," the gunslinger said in a growl, and then, reverting to that same silken voice: "If you hear me, and if you can control her at all—"

  "Why you talkin at me dat way? Why you talkin like you was talkin to somebody else? You quit dat honky jive! You jes quit it now, you hear me?"

  "—keep her shut up. I can gag her, but I don't want to do that. A hard gag is a dangerous business. People choke."

  "YOU QUIT IT YOU HONKY BULLSHIT VOODOO MAHFAH!"

  "Odetta." His voice was a whisper, like the onset of rain.

  She fell silent, staring at him with huge eyes. Eddie had never in his life seen such hate and fear combined in human eyes.

  "I don't think this bitch would care if she did die on a hard gag. She wants to die, but maybe even more, she wants you to die. But you haven't died, not so far, and I don't think Detta is brand-new in your life. She feels too at home in you, so maybe you can hear what I'm saying, and maybe you can keep some control over her even if you can't come out yet.

  "Don't let her wake us up a third time, Odetta.

  "I don't want to gag her.

  "But if I have to, I will."

  He got up, left without looking back, rolled himself into his blanket again, and promptly fell asleep.

  She was still staring at him, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.

  "Honky voodoo bullshit," she whispered.

  Eddie lay down, but this time it was a long time before sleep came to claim him, in spite of his deep tiredness. He would come to the brink, anticipate her screams, and snap back.

  Three hours or so later, with the moon now going the other way, he finally dropped off.

  Detta did no more screaming that night, either because Roland had frightened her, or because she wanted to conserve her voice for future alarums and excursions, or—possibly, just possibly—because Odetta had heard and had exercised the control the gunslinger had asked of her.

  Eddie slept at last but awoke sodden and unrefreshed. He looked toward the chair, hoping against hope that it would be Odetta, please God let it be Odetta this morning—

  "Mawnin, whitebread," Detta said, and grinned her sharklike grin at him. "Thought you was goan sleep till noon . You cain't be doin nuthin like dat, kin you? We got to bus us some miles here, ain't dat d'fac of d'matter? Sho! An I think you the one goan have to do most of de bustin, cause dat other fella, one with de voodoo eyes, he lookin mo peaky all de time, I declare he do! Yes! I doan think he goan be eatin anythin much longer, not even dat fancy smoked meat you whitebread boys keep fo when you done joikin on each other one's little bitty white candles. So let's go, whitebread! Detta doan want to be d'one keepin you."

  Her lids and her voice both dropped a little; her eyes peeked at him slyly from their corners.

  "Not f'um startin out, leastways."

  Dis goan be a day you 'member, whitebread, those sly eyes promised. Dis goan be a day you 'member for a long, long time.

  Sho.

  14

  They made three miles that day, maybe a shade under. Detta's chair upset twice. Once she did it herself, working her fingers slowly and unobtrusively over to that handbrake again and yanking it. The second time Eddie did with no help at all, shoving too hard in one of those goddamned sandtraps. That was near the end of the day, and he simply panicked, thinking he just wasn't going to be able to get her out this time, just wasn't. So he gave that one last titanic heave with his quivering arms, and of course it had been much too hard, and over she had gone, like Humpty Dumpty falling off his wall, and he and Roland had to labor to get her upright again. They finished the job just in time. The rope under her breasts was now pulled taut across her windpipe. The gunslinger's efficient running slipknot was choking her to death. Her face had gone a funny blue color, she was on the verge of losing consciousness, but still she went on wheezing her nasty laughter.

  Let her be, why don't you? Eddie nearly said as Roland bent quickly forward to loosen the knot. Let her choke! I don't know if she wants to do herself like you said, but I know she wants to do US …so let her go!

  Then
he remembered Odetta (although their encounter had been so brief and seemed so long ago that memory was growing dim) and moved forward to help.

  The gunslinger pushed him impatiently away with one hand. "Only room for one."

  When the rope was loosened and the Lady gasping harshly for breath (which she expelled in gusts of her angry laughter), he turned and looked at Eddie critically. "I think we ought to stop for the night."

  "A little further." He was almost pleading. "I can go a little further."

  "Sho! He be one strong buck. He be good fo choppin one mo row cotton and he still have enough lef’ to give yo little bitty white candle one fine suckin-on t'night."

  She still wouldn't eat, and her face was becoming all stark lines and angles. Her eyes glittered in deepening sockets.

  Roland gave her no notice at all, only studied Eddie closely. At last he nodded. "A little way. Not far, but a little way."

  Twenty minutes later Eddie called it quits himself. His arms felt like Jell-O.

  They sat in the shadows of the rocks, listening to the gulls, watching the tide come in, waiting for the sun to go down and the lobstrosities to come out and begin their cumbersome cross-examinations.

  Roland told Eddie in a voice too low for Detta to hear that he thought they were out of live shells. Eddie's mouth tightened down a little but that was all. Roland was pleased.

  "So you'll have to brain one of them yourself," Roland said. "I'm too weak to handle a rock big enough to do the job … and still be sure."

  Eddie was now the one to do the studying.

  He had no liking for what he saw.

  The gunslinger waved his scrutiny away.

  "Never mind," he said. "Never mind, Eddie. What is, is."

  "Ka," Eddie said.

  The gunslinger nodded and smiled faintly. "Ka."

  "Kaka," Eddie said, and they looked at each other, and both laughed. Roland looked startled and perhaps even a little afraid of the rusty sound emerging from his mouth. His laughter did not last long. When it had stopped he looked distant and melancholy.