The Waste Lands (The Dark Tower #3)(57)

He opened his dreaming eyes and pressed on. The clearing behind the trees was paved with old cracked asphalt. A faded yellow circle had been painted in the middle. Jake realized it was a playground basketball court even before he saw the boy at the far end, standing at the foul line and shooting baskets with a dusty old Wilson ball. They popped in one after another, falling neatly through the netless hole. The basket jutted out from something that looked like a subway kiosk which had been shut up for the night. Its closed door was painted in alternating diagonal stripes of yellow and black. From behind it—or perhaps from below it—Jake could hear the steady rumble of powerful machinery. The sound was somehow disturbing. Scary.

Don’t step on the robots, the boy shooting the baskets said without turning around. I guess they’re all dead, but I wouldn’t take any chances, if I were you.

Jake looked around and saw a number of shattered mechanical devices lying around. One looked like a rat or mouse, another like a bat. A mechanical snake lay in two rusty pieces almost at his feet. ARE you me? Jake asked, taking a step closer to die boy at the basket, but even before he turned around, Jake knew that wasn’t the case. The boy was bigger than Jake, and at least thirteen. His hair was darker, and when he looked at Jake, he saw that the stranger’s eyes were hazel. His own were blue. What do you think? the strange boy asked, and bounce-passed the ball to Jake. No, of course not, Jake said. He spoke apologetically. It’s just that I’ve been cut in two for the last three weeks or so. He dipped and shot from mid-court. The ball arched high and dropped silently through the hoop. He was delighted . . . but he discovered he was also afraid of what this strange boy might have to tell him.

I know, the boy said. It’s been a bitch for you, hasn’t it? He was wearing faded madras shorts and a yellow t-shirt that said NEVER A DULL MOMENT IN MID-WORLD. He had tied a green bandanna around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes. And things are going to get worse before they get better. What is this place? Jake asked. And who are you? It’s the Portal of the Bear . . . but it’s also Brooklyn. That didn’t seem to make sense, and yet somehow it did. Jake told himself that things always seemed that way in dreams, but this didn’t really feel like a dream.

As for me, I don’t matter much, the boy said. He hooked the basket-ball over his shoulder. It rose, then dropped smoothly through the hoop. I’m supposed to guide you, that’s all. I’ll take you where you need to go, and I’ll show you what you need to see, but you have to be careful because I won’t know you. And strangers make Henry nervous. He can get mean when he’s nervous, and he’s bigger than you. Who’s Henry? Jake asked.

Never mind. Just don’t let him notice you. All you have to do is hang out . . . and follow us. Then, when we leave . . . The boy looked at Jake. There was both pity and fear in his eyes. Jake suddenly realized that the boy was starting to fade—lie could see the yellow and black slashes on the box right through the boy’s yellow t-shirt. How will I find you? Jake was suddenly terrified that the boy would melt away completely before he could say everything Jake needed to hear. No problem, the boy said. His voice had taken on a queer, chiming echo. Just take the subway to Co-Op City. You’ll find me. No, I won’t! Jake cried. Co-Op City’s huge! There must be a hundred thousand people living there!

Now the boy was just a milky outline. Only his hazel eyes were still completely there, like the Cheshire cat’s grin in Alice. They regarded Jake with compassion and anxiety. No problem-o, he said. You found the key and the rose, didn’t you? You’ll find me the same way. This afternoon, Jake. Around three o’clock should be good. You’ll have to be careful, and you’ll have to be quick. He paused, a ghostly boy with an old basketball lying near one transparent foot. I have to go now . . . but it was good to meet you. You seem like a nice kid, and I’m riot surprised he loves you. Remember, there’s danger, though. He careful . . . and he quick.

Wait! Jake yelled, and run across the basketball court toward the disappearing boy. One of his feet struck a shattered robot that looked like a child’s toy tractor. He stumbled and fell to his knees, shredding his pants. He ignored the thin burn of pain. Wait! You have to tell me what all this is about! You have to tell me why these things are happening to me! Because of the Beam, the boy who was now only a pair of floating eyes replied, and because of the Tower. In the end, all things, even the Beams, serve the Dark Tower. Did you think you would be any different? Jake flailed and stumbled to his feet. Will I find him? Will I find the gunslinger?

I don’t know, the boy answered. His voice now seemed to come from a million miles away. I only know you must try. About that you have no choice. The boy was gone. The basketball court in the woods was empty. The only sound was that faint rumble of machinery, and Jake didn’t like it. There was something wrong with that sound, and he thought that what was wrong with the machinery was affecting the rose, or vice-versa. It was all hooked together somehow. He picked up the old, scuffed-up basketball and shot. It went neatly through the hoop . . . and disappeared.

A river, the strange boy’s voice sighed. It was like a puff of breeze. It came from nowhere and everywhere. The answer is a river.

JAKE WOKE IN THE first milky light of dawn, looking up at the ceiling of his room. He was thinking of the guy in The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind—Aaron Deepneau, who’d been hanging around on Bleecker Street back when Bob Dylan only knew how to blow open G on his Hohner. Aaron Deepneau had given Jake a riddle. What can run but never walks,