Thomas might have heard this tale. If so, he could attest that it wasn't true at all. He'd had a bad scare, and he had screamed, but he did not come even close to going mad.
In fact, his initial fright passed rather quickly-more quickly than some of you might think-and he looked back into the peepholes again. This may strike some of you as strange, but you have to remember that, before the terrible night when Flagg had come with his own glass of wine after Peter left, Thomas had spent some pleasant times in this dark passageway. The pleasantness had a sour undertone of guilt, but he had also felt close to his father. Now, being back here, he felt a queer sense of nostalgia.
He saw that the room had hardly changed at all. The stuffed heads were still there-Bonsey the elk, Craker the lynx, Snapper the great white bear from the north. And, of course, Niner the dragon, which he now looked through, with Roland's bow and the arrow Foe-Hammer mounted above it.
Bonsey... Craker... Snapper... Niner.
I remember all their names, Thomas thought with some wonder. And I remember you, Dad. I wish you were alive now and that Peter was free, even if it meant no one even knew I was alive. At least I could sleep at night.
Some of the furniture had been covered with white dust-sheets, but most had not. The fireplace was cold and dark, but a fire had been laid. Thomas saw with mounting wonder that even his father's old robe was still there, hung in its accustomed place on the hook by the bathroom door. The fireplace was cold, but it wanted only a match struck and held to the kindling to bring it alive, roaring and warm; the room wanted only his father to do the same for it.
Suddenly Thomas became aware of a strange, almost eerie desire in himself; he wanted to go into that room. He wanted to light the fire. He wanted to put on his father's robe. He wanted to drink a glass of his father's mead. He would drink it even if it had gone bad and bitter. He thought... he thought he might be able to sleep in there.
A wan, tired smile dawned on the boy's face, and he decided to do it. He wasn't even afraid of his father's ghost. He almost hoped it would come. If it did, he could tell his father something.
He could tell his father he was sorry.
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Coming, PETER!" Flagg shrieked, grinning. He smelled like blood and doom; his eyes were deadly fire. The headsman's axe swished and whickered, and a last few drops of blood flew from the blade and splashed on the walls. "COMING motes! COMING
FOR YOUR HEAD!"
Up and around, up and around, higher and higher. He was a devil with murder on his mind.
A hundred. A hundred and twenty-five.
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Faster," Ben Staad panted to Dennis and Naomi. The temperature had begun to fall again, but all three of them were sweating. Some of the sweat came from exertion-they were working very hard. But much of their sweat had been caused by fear. They could hear Flagg shrieking. Even Frisky, with her brave heart, felt afraid. She had withdrawn a little and huddled on her haunches, whimpering.
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COMING, YOU LITTLE WHELP!"
Closer now-his voice was flatter, with less echo.
"COMING TO DO WHAT I SHOULD HAVE DONE ALONG TIME AGO!"
The twin blades swished and whickered.
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This time the knot held.
Gods help me, Peter thought, and looked back once more toward the sound of Flagg's rising, shrieking voice. Gods help me now.
Peter threw one leg out the window. Now he sat astride the sill as if it were Peony's saddle, one leg on the stone floor of his sitting room, the other dangling over the drop. He held the heap of his rope and the iron bar from his bed in his lap. He tossed the rope out the window, watching as it fell. It tangled and bound up halfway down, and he had to spend more time shaking the rope like a fishline before it would drop free again.
Then, uttering one final prayer, he grasped the iron bar and pulled it against the window. His rope hung down from the middle. Peter slipped the leg that was inside over the sill, twisted around at the waist, holding on to the bar for dear life. Now only his bottom was on the sill. He made a half-turn so that the cold outer edge of the sill was pressed against his belly instead of his butt. His legs hung down. The iron bar was seated firmly across the window.
Peter let go of it with his left hand and caught hold of his narrow napkin rope. For a moment he paused, battling his fear.
Then he closed his eyes and let go of the bar with his right hand. His whole weight was on the rope now. He was committed. For better or worse, his life now depended on the napkins. Peter began to lower himself.
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COMING-"
Two hundred.
"FOR YOUR HEAD-"
Two hundred and fifty.
"MY DEAR PRINCE!"
Two hundred and seventy-five.
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Ben, Dennis, and Naomi could see Peter, a dark man-shape against the curved wall of the Needle, high above their heads-higher than even the bravest acrobat would dare to go.
"Faster," Ben panted-almost moaned. "For your lives... for his life!"
They went about emptying the cart even faster... but in truth, all they could do was almost done.
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