The Waste Lands (The Dark Tower #3)(59)
The apartment was almost dead still. He tiptoed across the living room, hearing only the sounds of his parents’ breathing: his mother’s soft little snores, his father’s more nasal respiration, where every indrawn breath ended in a slim high whistle. The refrigerator kicked on as he reached the entryway and he froze for a moment, his heart thumping hard in his chest. Then he was at the door. He unlocked it as quietly as he could, then stepped out and pulled it gently shut behind him.
A stone seemed to roll off his heart as the latch snicked, and a strong sense of anticipation seized him. He didn’t know what lay ahead, and he had reason to believe it would be dangerous, but he was eleven years old—too young to deny the exotic delight which suddenly filled him. There was a highway ahead—a hidden highway leading deep into some unknown land. There were secrets which might disclose themselves to him if he was clever . . . and if he was lucky. He had left his home in the long light of dawn, and what lay ahead was some great adventure.
If I stand, if I can be true, I’ll see the rose, he thought as he pushed the button for the elevator. I know it . . . and I’ll see him, too. This thought filled him with an eagerness so great it was almost ecstasy. Three minutes later he stepped out from beneath the awning which shaded the entrance to the building where he had lived all his life. He paused for a moment, then turned left. This decision did not feel random, and it wasn’t. He was moving southeast, along the path of the Beam, resuming his own interrupted quest for the Dark Tower.
TWO DAYS AFTER EDDIE had given Roland his unfinished key, the three travellers—hot, sweaty, tired, and out of sorts—pushed through a particu-larly tenacious tangle of bushes and second-growth trees and discovered what first appeared to be two faint paths, running in tandem beneath the interlacing branches of the old trees crowding close on either side. After a few moments of study, Eddie decided they weren’t just paths but the remains of a long-abandoned road. Bushes and stunted trees grew like untidy quills along what had been its crown. The grassy indentations were wheelruts, and either of them was wide enough to accommodate Susannah’s wheelchair. “Hallelujah!” he cried. “Let’s drink to it!” Roland nodded and unslung the waterskin he wore around his waist. He first handed it up to Susannah, who was riding in her sling on his back. Eddie’s key, now looped around Roland’s neck on a piece of raw-hide, shifted beneath his shirt with each movement. She took a swallow and passed the skin to Eddie. He drank and then began to unfold her chair. Eddie had come to hate this bulky, balky contraption; it was like an iron anchor, always holding them back. Except for a broken spoke or two, it was still in fine condition. Eddie had days when he thought the goddam thing would outlast all of them. Now, however, it might be useful … for a while, at least.
Eddie helped Susannah out of the harness and placed her in the chair. She put her hands against the small of her back, stretched, and grimaced with pleasure. Both Eddie and Roland heard the small crackle her spine made as it stretched. Up ahead, a large creature that looked like a badger crossed with a raccoon ambled out of the woods. It looked at them with its large, gold-rimmed eyes, twitched its sharp, whiskery snout as if to say Huh! Big deal!, then strolled the rest of the way across the road and disappeared again. Before it did, Eddie noted its tail—long and closely coiled, it looked like a fur-covered bedspring. “What was that, Roland?”
“A billy-bumbler.”
“No good to eat?”
Roland shook his head. “Tough. Sour. I’d rather eat dog.”
“Have you?” Susannah asked. “Eaten dog, I mean?” Roland nodded, but did not elaborate. Eddie found himself thinking of a line from an old Paul Newman movie: That’s right, lady—eaten em and lived like one. Birds sang cheerily in the trees. A light breeze blew along the road. Eddie and Susannah turned their faces up to it gratefully, then looked at each other and smiled. Eddie was struck again by his grati-tude for her—it was scary to have someone to love, but it was also very fine. “Who made this road?” Eddie asked.
“People who have been gone a long time,” Roland said. “The same ones who made the cups and dishes we found?” Susan-nah asked. “No—not them. This used to be a coach-road, I imagine, and if it’s still here, after all these years of neglect, it must have been a great one indeed . . . perhaps the Great Road. If we dug down, I imagine we’d find the gravel undersurface, and maybe the drainage system, as well. As long as we’re here, let’s have a bite to eat.”
“Food!” Eddie cried. “Bring it on! Chicken Florentine! Polynesian shrimp! Veal lightly sautéed with mushrooms and—“
Susannah elbowed him. “Quit it, white boy.” “I can’t help it if I’ve got a vivid imagination,” Eddie said cheerfully. Roland slipped his purse off his shoulder, hunkered down, and began to put together a small noon meal of dried meat wrapped in olive-colored leaves. Eddie and Susannah had discovered that these leaves tasted a little like spinach, only much stronger.
Eddie wheeled Susannah over to him and Roland handed her three of what Eddie called “gunslinger burritos.” She began to eat. When Eddie turned back, Roland was holding out three of the wrapped pieces of meat to him—and something else, as well. It was the chunk of ash with the key growing out of it. Roland had taken it off the rawhide string, which now lay in an open loop around his neck.