At first nothing came out when Roland tried to reply. He had to clear his throat and start again. "Sleep, sai-sleep and forget everyone here except the man who hit you."
King's eyes slipped closed. "Forget everyone here except the man who hit me."
"You were taking your walk and this man hit you."
"Walking... and this man hit me."
"No one else was here. Not me, not Jake, not the woman."
"No one else," King agreed. "Just me and him. Will he say the same?"
"Yar. Very soon you'll sleep deep. You may feel pain later, but you feel none now."
"No pain now. Sleep deep." King's twisted frame relaxed on the pine needles.
"Yet before you sleep, listen to me once more," Roland said.
"I'm listening."
"A woman may come to y-wait. Do'ee dream of love with men?"
"Are you asking if I'm g*y? Maybe a latent homosexual?"
King sounded weary but amused.
"I don't know." Roland paused. "I think so."
"The answer is no," King said. "Sometimes I dream of love with women. A litde less now that I'm older... and probably not at all for awhile, now. That f**king guy really beat me up."
Not near so bad as he beat up mine, Roland thought bitterly, but he didn't say this.
"IFee dream only of love with women, it's a woman that may come to you."
"Do you say so?" King sounded faintly interested.
"Yes. If she comes, she'll be fair. She may speak to you about the ease and pleasure of the clearing. She may call herself Morphia, Daughter of Sleep, or Selena, Daughter of the Moon. She may offer you her arm and promise to take you there. You must refuse."
"I must refuse."
"Even if you are tempted by her eyes and br**sts."
"Even then," King agreed.
"Why will you refuse, sai?"
"Because the Song isn't done."
At last Roland was satisfied. Mrs. Tassenbaum was kneeling by Jake. The gunslinger ignored both her and the boy and went to the man sitting slumped behind the wheel of the motor-carriage that had done all the damage. This man's eyes were wide and blank, his mouth slack. A line of drool hung from his beard-stubbly chin.
"Do you hear me, sai?"
The man nodded fearfully. Behind him, both dogs had grown silent. Four bright eyes regarded the gunslinger from between the seats.
"What's your name?"
"Bryan, do it please you-Bryan Smith."
No, it didn't please him at all. Here was yet one more he'd like to strangle. Another car passed on the road, and this time the person behind the wheel honked the horn as he or she passed. Whatever their protection might be, it had begun to grow thin.
"Sai Smith, you hit a man with your car or truckomobile or whatever it is thee calls it."
Bryan Smith began to tremble all over. "I ain't never had so much as a parking ticket," he whined, "and I have to go and run into the most famous man in the state! My dogs 'us fightin-"
"Your lies don't anger me," Roland said, "but the fear which brings them forth does. Shut thy mouth."
Bryan Smith did as told. The color was draining slowly but steadily from his face.
"You were alone when you hit him," Roland said. "No one here but you and the storyteller. Do you understand?"
"I was alone. Mister, are you a walk-in?"
"Never mind what I am. You checked him and saw that he was still alive."
"Still alive, good," Smith said. "I didn't mean to hurt nobody, honest."
"He spoke to you. That's how you knew he was alive."
"Yes!" Smith smiled. Then he frowned. "What'd he say?"
"You don't remember. You were excited and scared."
"Scared and excited. Excited and scared. Yes I was."
"You drive now. As you drive, you'll wake up, little by little.
And when you get to a house or a store, you'll stop and say there's a man hurt down the road. A man who needs help. Tell it back, and be true."
"Drive," he said. His hands caressed the steering wheel as if he longed to be gone immediately. Roland supposed he did.
"Wake up, little by little. When I get to a house or store, tell them Stephen King's hurt side of the road and he needs help. I know he's still alive because he talked to me. It was an accident."
He paused. "It wasn't my fault. He was walking in the road." A pause. "Probably."
Do I care upon whom the blame for this mess falls? Roland asked himself. In truth he did not. King would go on writing either way. And Roland almost hoped he would be blamed, for it was indeed King's fault; he'd had no business being out here in the first place.
"Drive away now," he told Bryan Smith. "I don't want to look at you anymore."
Smith started the van with a look of profound relief. Roland didn't bother watching him go. He went to Mrs. Tassenbaum and fell on his knees beside her. Oy sat by Jake's head, now silent, knowing his howls could no longer be heard by the one for whom he grieved. What the gunslinger feared most had come to pass. While he had been talking to two men he didn't like, the boy whom he loved more than all odiers-more than he'd loved anyone ever in his life, even Susan Delgado-had passed beyond him for the second time. Jake was dead.
FIVE