Eddie put the knife aside again. The dirt Roland had taken out of the shallow hole he’d made for the campfire was piled up by Eddie’s right foot. Now he used the sharp end of the stick to carve a question-mark shape in the dirt. The shape was crisp and clear.
“Okay,” he said, brushing it away. “All done.” “Have something to eat, then,” Susannah said. Eddie tried, but he wasn’t very hungry. When he finally went to sleep, nestled against Susannah’s warmth, his rest was dreamless but very thin. Until the gunslinger shook him awake at four in the morning, he heard the wind racing endlessly over the plain below them, and it seemed to him that he went with it, flying high into the night, away from these cares, while Old Star and Old Mother rode serenely above him, painting his cheeks with frost.
“IT’S TIME,” ROLAND SAID.
Eddie sat up. Susannah sat up beside him, rubbing her palms over her face. As Eddie’s head cleared, his mind was filled with urgency. “Yes. Let’s go, and fast.”
“He’s getting close, isn’t he?”
“Very close.” Eddie got to his feet, grasped Susannah around the waist, and boosted her into her chair.
She was looking at him anxiously. “Do we still have enough time to get there?” Eddie nodded. “Barely.”
Three minutes later they were headed down the Great Road again. It glimmered ahead of them like a ghost. And an hour after that, as the first light of dawn began to touch the sky in the east, a rhythmic sound began far ahead of them. The sound of drums, Roland thought.
Machinery, Eddie thought. Some huge piece of machinery. It’s a heart, Susannah thought. Some huge, diseased, beating heart .. . and it’s in that city, where we have to go.
Two hours later, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun. White, featureless clouds had begun to fill the sky above them, first veiling the early sun, then blotting it out. The circle of standing stones lay less than five miles ahead now, gleaming in the shadowless light like the teeth of a fallen monster.
SPAGHETTI WEEK AT THE MAJESTIC!
the battered, dispirited marquee jutting over the corner of Brooklyn and Markey Avenues proclaimed.
2 SERGIO LEONE CLASSIX!
A FISTFUL OF $$ PLUS GOOD BAD & UGLY!
99 Cents ALL SHOWS
A gum-chewing cutie with rollers in her blonde hair sat in the box office listening to Led Zep on her transistor and reading one of the tabloids of which Mrs. Shaw was so fond. To her left, in the theater’s remaining display case, there was a poster showing Glint Eastwood. Jake knew he should get moving—three o’clock was almost here— but he paused a moment anyway, staring at the poster behind the dirty, cracked glass. Eastwood was wearing a Mexican serape. A cigar was clamped in his teeth. He had thrown one side of the serape back over his shoulder to free his gun. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Bombar-dier’s eyes.
It’s not him, Jake thought, but it’s almost him. It’s the eyes, mostly .. . the eyes are almost the same.
“You let me drop,” he said to the man in the old poster, the man who was not Roland. “You let me die. What happens this time?” “Hey, kid,” the blonde ticket-seller called, making Jake start. “You gonna come in or just stand there and talk to yourself?” “Not me,” Jake said. “I’ve already seen those two.” He got moving again, turning left on Markey Avenue. Once again he waited for the feeling of remembering forward to seize him, but it didn’t come. This was just a hot, sunny street lined with sandstone-colored apartment buildings that looked like prison cellblocks to Jake. A few young women were walking along, pushing baby-carriages in pairs and talking desultorily, but the street was otherwise deserted. It was unseasonably hot for May—too hot to stroll.
What am I looking for? What?
From behind him came a burst of raucous male laughter. It was followed by an outraged female shriek: “You give that back\” Jake jumped, thinking the owner of the voice must mean him. “Give it back, Henry! I’m not kidding!”