The Waste Lands (The Dark Tower #3)(55)

And be a happy choo-choo train until the day I die. Jake closed the book and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he opened it again and began to leaf through the pages, circling certain words and phrases that seemed to call out to him.

The Mid-World Railway Company . . . Engineer Bob . . . a small, gruff voice . . . WHOO-OOOO . . . the first real friend he’d had since his wife died, long ago, in New York . . . Mr. Martin . . . the world has moved on … Susannah . . . He put his pen down. Why did these words and phrases call to him? The one about New York seemed obvious enough, but what about the others? For that matter, why this book? That he had been meant to buy it was beyond question. If he hadn’t had the money in his pocket, he felt sure he would have simply grabbed it and bolted from the store. But why? He felt like a compass needle. The needle knows nothing about magnetic north; it only knows it must point in a certain direction, like it or not.

The only thing Jake knew for sure was that he was very, very tired, and if he didn’t crawl into bed soon, he was going to fall asleep at his desk. He took off his shirt, then gazed down at the front of Charlie the Choo-Choo again. That smile. He just didn’t trust that smile. Not a bit.

SLEEP DIDN’T COME AS soon as Jake had hoped. The voices began to argue again about whether he was alive or dead, and they kept him awake. At last he sat up in bed with his eyes closed and his fisted hands planted against his temples. Quit! he screamed at them. Just quit! You were gone all day, be gone again! I would if he’d just admit I’m dead, one of the voices said sulkily. I would if he’d just take a for God’s sake look around and admit I’m clearly alive, the other snapped back.

He was going to scream right out loud. There was no way to hold it back; he could feel it coming up his throat like vomit. He opened his eyes, saw his pants lying over the seat of his desk chair, and an idea occurred to him. He got out of bed, went to the chair, and felt in the right front pocket of the pants. The silver key was still there, and the moment his fingers closed around it, the voices ceased.

Tell him, he thought, with no idea who the thought was for. Tell him to grab the key. The key makes the voices go.

He went back to bed and was asleep with the key clasped loosely in his hand three minutes after his head hit the pillow.

III • DOOR AND DEMON

•Ill•

DOOR AND DEMON

EDDIE WAS ALMOST ASLEEP when a voice spoke clearly in his ear: Tell him to grab the key. The key makes the voices go.

He sat bolt upright, looking around wildly. Susannah was sound asleep beside him; that voice had not been hers.

Nor anyone else’s, it seemed. They had been moving through the woods and along the path of the Beam for eight days now, and this evening they had camped in the deep cleft of a pocket valley. Close by on the left, a large stream roared brashly past, headed in the same direc-tion as they were: southeast. To the right, firs rose up a steep slope of land. There were no intruders here; only Susannah asleep and Roland awake. He sat huddled beneath his blanket at the edge of the stream’s cut, staring out into the darkness. Tell him to grab the key. The key makes the voices go. Eddie hesitated for only a moment. Roland’s sanity was in the bal-ance now, the balance was tipping the wrong way, and the worst part of it was this: no one knew it better than the man himself. At this point, Eddie was prepared to clutch at any straw.

He had been using a folded square of deerskin as a pillow. He reached beneath it and removed a bundle wrapped in a piece of hide. He walked over to Roland, and was disturbed to see that the gunslinger did not notice him until he was less than four steps from his unprotected back. There had been a time—and it was not so long ago—when Roland would have known Eddie was awake even before Eddie sat up. He would have heard the change in his breathing. He was more alert than this back on the beach, when he was half-dead from the lobster-thing’s bite, Eddie thought grimly. Roland at last turned his head and glanced at him. His eyes were bright with pain and weariness, but Eddie recognized these things as no more than a surface glitter. Beneath it, he sensed a growing confusion that would almost surely become madness if it continued to develop unchecked. Pity tugged at Eddie’s heart.

“Can’t sleep?” Roland asked. His voice was slow, almost drugged. “I almost was, and then I woke up,” Eddie said. “Listen—” “I think I’m getting ready to die.” Roland looked at Eddie. The bright shine left his eyes, and now looking into them was like staring into a pair of deep, dark wells that seemed to have no bottom. Eddie shud-dered, more because of that empty stare than because of what Roland had said. “And do you know what I hope lies in the clearing where the path ends, Eddie?”

“Roland—“

“Silence,” Roland said. He exhaled a dusty sigh. “Just silence. That will be enough. An end to … this.”

He planted his fists against his temples, and Eddie thought: I’ve seen someone else do that, and not long ago. But who? Where? It was ridiculous of course; he had seen no one but Roland and Susannah for almost two months now. But it felt true, all the same. “Roland, I’ve been making something,” Eddie said. Roland nodded. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I know. What is it? Are you finally ready to tell?”

“I think it might be part of this ka-tet thing.” The vacant look left Roland’s eyes. He gazed at Eddie thoughtfully but said nothing.

“Look.” Eddie began to unfold the piece of hide. That won’t do any good! Henry’s voice suddenly brayed. It was so loud that Eddie actually flinched a little. It’s just a stupid piece of wood-carving! He’ll take one look and laugh at it! He’ll laugh at you! “Oh, lookit this!” he’ll say. “Did the sissy carve something?”