Song of Susannah - Stephen King [125]
“Song of Turtle, cry of Bear. Maturin, from the Patrick O’Brian novels. Shardik from the Richard Adams novel.”
“Yes. If you say so.”
“Guardians of the Beam.”
“Yes.”
“Of my Beam.”
Roland looked at him fixedly. “Do you say so?”
“Yes.”
“Then let it be so. When you hear the song of the Turtle or the cry of the Bear, then you must start again.”
“When I open my eye to your world, he sees me.” A pause. “It.”
“I know. We’ll try to protect you at those times, just as we intend to protect the rose.”
King smiled. “I love the rose.”
“Have you seen it?” Eddie asked.
“Indeed I have, in New York. Up the street from the U.N. Plaza Hotel. It used to be in the deli. Tom and Jerry’s. In the back. Now it’s in the vacant lot where the deli was.”
“You’ll tell our story until you’re tired,” Roland said. “When you can’t tell any more, when the Turtle’s song and the Bear’s cry grow faint in your ears, then will you rest. And when you can begin again, you will begin again. You—”
“Roland?”
“Sai King?”
“I’ll do as you say. I’ll listen for the song of the Turtle and each time I hear it, I’ll go on with the tale. If I live. But you must listen, too. For her song.”
“Whose?”
“Susannah’s. The baby will kill her if you aren’t quick. And your ears must be sharp.”
Eddie looked at Roland, frightened. Roland nodded. It was time to go.
“Listen to me, sai King. We’re well-met in Bridgton, but now we must leave you.”
“Good,” King said, and he spoke with such unfeigned relief that Eddie almost laughed.
“You will stay here, right where you are, for ten minutes. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll wake up. You’ll feel very well. You won’t remember that we were here, except in the very deepest depths of your mind.”
“In the mudholes.”
“The mudholes, do ya. On top, you’ll think you had a nap. A wonderful, refreshing nap. You’ll get your son and go to where you’re supposed to go. You’ll feel fine. You’ll go on with your life. You’ll write many stories, but every one will be to some greater or lesser degree about this story. Do you understand?”
“Yar,” King said, and he sounded so much like Roland when Roland was gruff and tired that Eddie’s back pricked up in gooseflesh again. “Because what’s seen can’t be unseen. What’s known can’t be unknown.” He paused. “Save perhaps in death.”
“Aye, perhaps. Every time you hear the song of the Turtle—if that’s what it sounds like to you—you’ll start on our story again. The only real story you have to tell. And we’ll try to protect you.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know, but we’ll try—”
“It’s not that. I’m afraid of not being able to finish.” His voice lowered. “I’m afraid the Tower will fall and I’ll be held to blame.”
“That is up to ka, not you,” Roland said. “Or me. I’ve satisfied myself on that point. And now—” He nodded to Eddie, and stood up.
“Wait,” King said.
Roland looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“I am allowed mail privileges, but only once.”
Sounds like a guy in a POW camp, Eddie mused. And aloud: “Who allows you mail privileges, Steve-O?”
King’s brow wrinkled. “Gan?” he asked. “Is it Gan?” Then, like the sun breaking through on a foggy morning, his brow smoothed out and he smiled. “I think it’s me! ” he said. “I can send a letter to myself…perhaps even a small package…but only once.” His smile broadened into an engaging grin. “All of this…sort of like a fairy-tale, isn’t it?”
“Yes indeed,” Eddie said, thinking of the glass palace they’d come to straddling the Interstate in Kansas.
“What would you do?” Roland asked. “To whom would you send mail?”
“To Jake,” King said promptly.
“And what would you tell him?”
King’s voice became Eddie Dean’s voice. It wasn’t an approximation; it was exact. The sound turned Eddie cold.
“Dad-a-chum, dad-a-chee,” King lilted, “not to worry, you’ve got the key!”
They waited for more, but it seemed there was no more. Eddie looked at Roland, and this time it was the younger man’s turn to twirl his fingers in the let’s-go gesture. Roland nodded and they started for the door.
“That was fucking-A creepy,” Eddie said.
Roland didn’t reply.
Eddie