Song of Susannah - Stephen King [155]
“Please,” she said. “Please, I beg you: keep your promise to me.”
“I may,” he said, “or I may not. Do you know, I have never had my boots licked. Can you imagine? To have lived as long as I have and never to have had a single good old-fashioned boot-licking.”
Somewhere a woman tittered.
Mia bent forward.
No, Mia, thee mustn’t, Susannah moaned, but Mia made no reply. Nor did the paralyzing pain deep in her vitals stop her. She stuck her tongue out between her lips and began licking the rough surface of Richard Sayre’s boots. Susannah could taste them, at a great distance. It was a husky, dusty, leathery taste, full of rue and humiliation.
Sayre let her go on so for a bit, then said: “Stop it. Enough.”
He pulled her roughly to her feet and stood with his unsmiling face not three inches from her own. Now that she’d seen them, it was impossible to unsee the masks he and the rest of them wore. The taut cheeks were almost transparent, and whorls of dark scarlet hair were faintly visible beneath.
Or perhaps you called it fur when it covered the whole face.
“Your beggary does you no credit,” he said, “although I must admit the sensation was extraordinary.”
“You promised!” she cried, attempting to pull back and out of his grip. Then another contraction struck and she doubled over, trying only not to shriek. When it eased a little, she pressed on. “You said five years…or maybe seven…yes, seven…the best of everything for my chap, you said—”
“Yes,” Sayre said. “I do seem to recall that, Mia.” He frowned as one does when presented with an especially pernicious problem, then brightened. The area of mask around one corner of his mouth wrinkled up for a moment when he smiled, revealing a yellow snag of tooth growing out of the fold where his lower lip met his upper. He let go of her with one hand in order to raise a finger in the gesture pedagogical. “The best of everything, yes. Question is, do you fill that particular bill?”
Appreciative murmurs of laughter greeted this sally. Mia recalled them calling her Mother and saluting her hile, but that seemed distant now, like a meaningless fragment of dream.
You was good enough to tote him, though, wasn’t you? Detta asked from someplace deep inside—from the brig, in fact. Yas suh! You ’us good enough to do dat, sho!
“I was good enough to carry him, wasn’t I?” Mia almost spat at him. “Good enough to send the other one into the swamp to eat frogs, her all the time thinking they were caviar…I was good enough for that, wasn’t I?”
Sayre blinked, clearly startled by so brisk a response.
Mia softened again. “Sai, think of all I gave up!”
“Pish, you had nothing! ” Sayre replied. “What were you but a meaningless spirit whose existence revolved around no more than fucking the occasional saddletramp? Slut of the winds, isn’t that what Roland calls your kind?”
“Then think of the other one,” Mia said. “She who calls herself Susannah. I have stolen all her life and purpose for my chap, and at your bidding.”
Sayre made a dismissive gesture. “Your mouth does you no credit, Mia. Therefore close it.”
He nodded to his left. A low man with a wide, bulldoggy face and a luxuriant head of curly gray hair came forward. The red hole in his brow had an oddly slanted Chinese look. Walking behind him was another of the bird-things, this one with a fierce, dark brown hawk’s head protruding from the round neck of a tee-shirt with DUKE BLUE DEVILS printed on it. They took hold of her. The bird-thing’s grip was repulsive—scaly and alien.
“You have been an excellent custodian,” Sayre said, “on that much we can surely agree. But we must also remember that it was Roland of Gilead’s jilly who actually bred the child, mustn’t we?”
“That’s a lie!” she screamed. “Oh, that is a filthy…LIE!”
He went on as if he’d not heard her. “And different jobs require different skills. Different strokes for different folks, as they say.”
“PLEASE!” Mia shrieked.
The hawkman