Roland faced them with his arms folded over his chest.
"Who speaks for you?" he asked. "If one speaks, let him come forward now, for our time here is up."
A gray-haired gentleman-another bankerly-looking fellow, in truth-stepped forward. He was wearing gray suitpants, a white shirt open at the collar, and a gray vest, also open.
The vest sagged. So did the man wearing it.
"You've taken our lives from us," he said. He spoke these words with a kind of morose satisfaction-as if he'd always known it would come to this (or something like this). "The lives we knew. What will you give back in return, Mr. Gilead?"
There was a rumble of approval at this. Jake Chambers heard it and was suddenly more angry than ever before in his life. His hand, seemingly of its own accord, stole to the handle of the Coyote machine-pistol, caressed it, and found a cold comfort in its shape. Even a brief respite from grief. And Roland knew, for he reached behind him without looking and put his hand on top of Jake's. He squeezed until Jake let loose of the gun.
"I'll tell you what I'll give, since you ask," Roland said. "I
meant to have this place, where you have fed on the brains of helpless children in order to destroy the universe, burned to the ground; aye, every stick of it. I intended to set certain flying balls that have come into our possession to explode, and blow apart anything that would not burn. I intended to point you the way to the River Whye and the green Callas which lie beyond it, and set you on with a curse my father taught me: may you live long, but not in good health."
A resentful murmur greeted this, but not an eye met Roland's own. The man who had agreed to speak for them (and even in his rage, Jake gave him points for courage) was swaying on his feet, as if he might soon faint away.
"The Callas still lie in that direction," Roland said, and pointed. "If you go, some-many, even-may die on the way, for there are animals out there that are hungry, and what water there is may be poison. I've no doubt the Calla-folken will know who you are and what you've been about even if you lie, for they have the Manni among them and the Manni see much. Yet you may find forgiveness there rather than death, for the capacity for forgiveness in the hearts of such people is beyond the capacity of hearts such as yours to understand. Or mine, for that matter.
"That they would put you to work and that the rest of your lives would pass not in the comfort you've known but in toil and sweat I have no doubt, yet I urge you to go, if only to find some redemption for what you have done."
"We didn't know what we were doing, ye chary man!" a woman in the back yelled furiously.
"YOU KNEW!" Jake shouted back, screaming so loudly that he saw black dots in front of his eyes, and Roland's hand was once again instantly over his to stay his draw. Would he actually have sprayed the crowd with the Coyote, bringing more death to this terrible place? He didn't know. What he did know was that a gunslinger's hands were sometimes not under his control once a weapon was in them. "Don't you dare say you didn't! You knew!"
"I'll give this much, may it do ya," Roland said. "My friends and I-those who survive, although I'm sure the one who lies dead yonder would agree, which is why I speak as I do-will let this place stand. There's food enough to see you through the rest of your lives, I have no doubt, and robots to cook it and wash your clothes and even wipe your asses, if that's what you think you need. If you prefer purgatory to redemption, then stay here.
Were I you, I'd make the trek instead. Follow the railroad tracks out of the shadows. Tell them what you did before they can tell you, and get on your knees with your heads bared, and beg their forgiveness."
"Never!" someone shouted adamantly, but Jake thought some of the others looked unsure.
"As you will," said Roland. "I've spoken my last word on it, and the next who speaks back to me may remain silent ever after, for one of my friends is preparing another, her husband, to lie in the ground and I am full of grief and rage. Would you speak more? Would you dare my rage? If so, you dare this." He drew his gun and laid it in the hollow of his shoulder. Jake stepped up beside him, at last drawing his own.
There was a moment of silence, and then the man who had spoken turned away.
"Don't shoot us, mister, you've done enough," someone said bitterly.
Roland made no reply and the crowd began to disperse.
Some went running, and the others caught that like a cold. They fled in silence, except for a few who were weeping, and soon the dark had swallowed them up.
"Wow," Dinky said. His voice was soft and respectful.
"Roland," Ted said. "What they did wasn't entirely their fault. I thought I had explained that, but I guess I didn't do a very good job."
Roland holstered his revolver. 'You did an excellentjob," he said. "That's why they're still alive."
Now they had the Damli House end of the Mall to themselves again, and Sheemie limped up to Roland. His eyes were round and solemn. "Will you show me where you'd go, dear?"
he asked. "Can you show me the place?"
The place. Roland had been so fixed on the when that he'd scarcely thought of the where. And his memories of the road they had traveled in Lovell were pretty skimpy. Eddie had been driving John Cullum's car, and Roland had been deep in his own thoughts, concentrating on the things he would say to convince the caretaker to help them.
"Did Ted show you a place before you sent him on?" he asked Sheemie.
"Aye, so he did. Only he didn't know he was showing me. It was a baby-picture... I don't know how to tell you, exactly...
stupid head! Full of cobwebbies!" Sheemie made a fist and clouted himself between the eyes.
Roland took the hand before Sheemie could hit himself again and unrolled the fingers. He did this with surprising gentleness. "No, Sheemie. I think I understand. You found a thought... a memory from when he was a little boy."
Ted had come over to them. "Of course that must be it," he said. "I don't know why I didn't see it before now. Too simple, maybe. I grew up in Milford, and the place where I came out in I960 was barely a spit from there in geographical terms.
Sheemie must have found a memory of a carriage-ride, or maybe a trip on the Hartford Trolley to see my Uncle Jim and Aunt Molly in Bridgeport. Something in my subconscious."
He shook his head. "I knew the place where I came out looked familiar, but of course it was years later. The Merritt Parkway wasn't there when I was a boy."
"Can you show me a picture like that?" Sheemie asked Roland hopefully.
Roland thought once more of the place in Lovell where they'd parked on Route 7, the place where he'd called Chevin of Chayven out of the woods, but it simply wasn't sure enough; there was no landmark that made the place only itself and no other. Not one that he remembered, anyway.
Then another idea came. One that had to do with Eddie.
"Sheemie!"
"Aye, Roland of Gilead, Will Dearborn that was!"
Roland reached out and placed his hands on the sides of Sheemie's head. "Close your eyes, Sheemie, son of Stanley."
Sheemie did as he was told, then reached out his own hands and grasped the sides of Roland's head. Roland closed his own eyes.
"See what I see, Sheemie," he said. "See where we would go.
See it very well."
And Sheemie did.
EIGHTEEN
While they stood there, Roland projecting and Sheemie seeing,
Dani Rostov softly called to Jake.
Once he was before her she hesitated, as if unsure what she would say or do. He began to ask her, but before he could, she stopped his mouth with a kiss. Her lips were amazingly soft.
"That's for good luck," she said, and when she saw his look of amazement and understood the power of what she had done, her timidity lessened. She put her arms around his neck
(still holding her scuffed Pooh Bear in one hand; he felt it soft against his back) and did it again. He felt the push of her tiny, hard br**sts and would remember the sensation for the rest of his life. Would remember her for the rest of his life.
"And that's for me." She retreated to Ted Brautigan's side, eyes downcast and cheeks burning red, before he could speak.
Not that he could have, even if his life had depended upon it.
His throat was locked shut.
Ted looked at him and smiled. 'You judge the rest of them by the first one," he said. "Take it from me. I know."
Jake could still say nothing. She might have punched him in the head instead of kissing him on the lips. He was that dazed.
NINETEEN
Fifteen minutes later, four men, one girl, a billy-bumbler, and one dazed, amazed (and very tired) boy stood on the Mall.
They seemed to have the grassy quad to themselves; the rest of the Breakers had disappeared completely. From where he stood, Jake could see the lighted window on the first floor of Corbett Hall where Susannah was tending to her man. Thunder rumbled. Ted spoke now as he had in Thundercap Station's office closet, where the red blazer's brass tag read HEAD OF SHIPPING, back when Eddie's death had been unthinkable: 'Join hands. And concentrate."
Jake started to reach for Dani Rostov's hand, but Dinky shook his head, smiling a little. "Maybe you can hold hands with her another day, hero, but right now you're the monkey in the middle. And your dinh's another one."
"You hold hands with each other," Sheemie said. There was a quiet authority in his voice that Jake hadn't heard before.