The waste lands - Stephen King [134]
One of the albino twins bent down to pat Oy. Oy pulled away from him.
“Once they used to herd sheep,” Bill (or perhaps it was Till) said to Jake. “Did ye know that, youngster?”
Jake shook his head.
“Do he talk?” the albino asked. “Some did, in the old days.”
“Yes, he does.” He looked down at the bumbler, who had returned his head to Jake’s ankle as soon as the strange hand left his general area. “Say your name, Oy.”
Oy only looked up at him.
“Oy!” Jake urged, but Oy was silent. Jake looked at Aunt Talitha and the twins, mildly chagrined. “Well, he does . . . but I guess he only does it when he wants to.”
“That boy doesn’t look as if he belongs here,” Aunt Talitha said to Roland. “His clothes are strange . . . and his eyes are strange, as well.”
“He hasn’t been here long.” Roland smiled at Jake, and Jake smiled uncertainly back. “In a month or two, no one will be able to see his strangeness.”
“Ay? I wonder, so I do. And where does he come from?”
“Far from here,” the gunslinger said. “Very far.”
She nodded. “And when will he go back?”
“Never,” Jake said. “This is my home now.”
“Gods pity you, then,” she said, “for the sun is going down on the world. It’s going down forever.”
At that Susannah stirred uneasily; one hand went to her belly, as if her stomach was upset.
“Suze?” Eddie asked. “You all right?”
She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort; her normal confidence and self-possession seemed to have temporarily deserted her. “Yes, of course. A goose walked over my grave, that’s all.”
Aunt Talitha gave her a long, assessing look that seemed to make Susannah uncomfortable . . . and then smiled. “ ‘A goose on my grave’— ha! I haven’t heard that one in donkey’s years.”
“My dad used to say it all the time.” Susannah smiled at Eddie—a stronger smile this time. “And anyway, whatever it was is gone now. I’m fine.”
“What do you know about the city, and the lands between here and there?” Roland asked, picking up his coffee cup and sipping. “Are there harriers? And who are these others? These Grays and Pubes?”
Aunt Talitha sighed deeply.
8
“YE’D HEAR MUCH, GUNSLINGER, and we know but little. One thing I do know is this: the city’s an evil place, especially for this youngster. Any youngster. Is there any way you can steer around it as you go your course?”
Roland looked up and observed the now familiar shape of the clouds as they flowed along the path of the Beam. In this wide plains sky, that shape, like a river in the sky, was impossible to miss.
“Perhaps,” he said at last, but his voice was oddly reluctant. “I suppose we could skirt around Lud to the southwest and pick up the Beam on the far side.”
“It’s the Beam ye follow,” she said. “Ay, I thought so.”
Eddie found his own consideration of the city colored by the steadily strengthening hope that when and if they got there, they would find help—abandoned goodies which would aid them in their quest, or maybe even some people who could tell them a little more about the Dark Tower and what they were supposed to do when they got there. The ones called the Grays, for instance—they sounded like the sort of wise old elves he kept imagining.
The drums were creepy, true enough, reminding him of a hundred low-budget jungle epics (mostly watched on TV with Henry by his side and a bowl of popcorn between them) where the fabulous lost cities the explorers had come looking for were in ruins and the natives had degenerated into tribes of blood-thirsty cannibals, but Eddie found it impossible to believe something like that could have happened in a city that looked, at least from a distance, so much like New York. If there were not wise old elves or abandoned goodies, there would surely be books, at least; he had listened to Roland talk about how rare paper was here, but every city Eddie had ever been in was absolutely drowning in books. They might even find some working transportation;