Song of Susannah - Stephen King [44]
“All the same, Roland is his father,” Mia insisted. “And when the chap comes, I shall name him from your own mind, Susannah of New York; from what you learned at the same time you learned of merlons and courtyards and tre-bouchets and barbicans. Why not? ’Tis a good name, and fair.”
Professor Murray’s Introduction to Medieval History, that’s what she’s talking about.
“I will name him Mordred,” said she. “He’ll grow quickly, my darling boy, quicker than human, after his demon nature. He’ll grow strong. The avatar of every gunslinger that ever was. And so, like the Mordred of your tale, will he slay his father.”
And with that, Mia, daughter of none, raised her arms to the star-shot sky and screamed, although whether in sorrow, terror, or joy, Susannah could not tell.
* * *
Two
“Hunker,” Mia said. “I have this.”
From beneath her serape she produced a bundle of grapes and a paper sack filled with orange pokeberries as swollen as her belly. Where, Susannah wondered, had the fruit come from? Was their shared body sleepwalking back in the Plaza–Park Hotel? Had there perhaps been a fruit basket she hadn’t noticed? Or were these the fruits of pure imagination?
Not that it mattered. Any appetite she might have had was gone, robbed by Mia’s claim. The fact that it was impossible somehow only added to the monstrosity of the idea. And she couldn’t stop thinking of the baby she’d seen in utero on one of those TV screens. Those blue eyes.
No. It can’t be, do you hear? It cannot be!
The wind coming through the notches between the merlons was chilling her to the bone. She swung off the seat of the cart and settled herself against the allure wall beside Mia, listening to the wind’s constant whine and looking up at the alien stars.
Mia was cramming her mouth with grapes. Juice ran from one corner of her mouth while she spat seeds from the other corner with the rapidity of machine-gun bullets. She swallowed, wiped her chin, and said: “It can. It can be. And more: it is. Are you still glad you came, Susannah of New York, or do you wish you’d left your curiosity unsatisfied?”
“If I’m gonna have a baby I didn’t hump for, I’m gonna know everything about that baby that I can. Do you understand that?”
Mia blinked at the deliberate crudity, then nodded. “If you like.”
“Tell me how it can be Roland’s. And if you want me to believe anything you tell me, you better start by making me believe this.”
Mia dug her fingernails into the skin of a pokeberry, stripped it away in one quick gesture, and ate the fruit down greedily. She considered opening another, then simply rolled it between her palms (those disconcertingly white palms), warming it. After enough of this, Susannah knew, the fruit would split its skin on its own. Then she began.
* * *
Three
“How many Beams do there be, Susannah of New York?”
“Six,” Susannah said. “At least, there were. I guess now there are only two that—”
Mia waved a hand impatiently, as if to say Don’t waste my time. “Six, aye. And when the Beams were created out of that greater Discordia, the soup of creation some (including the Manni) call the Over and some call the Prim, what made them?”
“I don’t know,” Susannah said. “Was it God, do you think?”
“Perhaps there is a God, but the Beams rose from the Prim on the airs of magic, Susannah, the true magic which passed long ago. Was it God that made magic, or was it magic that made God? I know not. It’s a question for philosophers, and mothering’s my job. But once upon a time all was Discordia and from it, strong and all crossing at a single unifying point, came the six Beams. There was magic to hold them steady for eternity, but when the magic left from all there is but the Dark Tower, which some have called Can Calyx, the Hall of Resumption, men despaired. When the Age of Magic passed, the Age of Machines came.”
“North Central Positronics,” Susannah murmured. “Dipolar computers. Slo-trans engines.” She paused. “Blaine the Mono. But not in our world.”
“No? Do you say your world is exempt? What about the sign in the hotel lobby?” The pokeberry