Roland nodded. "It's a variation of the word. It means deathbag. He's been marked."
"Jesus," Eddie said.
"It's faint, I tell you."
"But there."
Roland opened his door. "We can do nothing about it. Ka marks the time of each man and woman. Let's move, Eddie."
But now that they were actually ready to get rolling again, Eddie was queerly reluctant to go. He had a sense of things unfinished with sai King. And he hated the thought of that black aura.
"What about Turtleback Lane, and the walk-ins? I meant to ask him - "
"We can find it."
"Are you sure? Because I think we need to go there."
"I think so, too. Come on. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."
Thirteen
The taillights of the old Ford had hardly cleared the end of the driveway before Stephen King opened his eyes. The first thing he did was look at the clock. Almost four. He should have been rolling after Joe ten minutes ago, but the nap he'd taken had done him good. He felt wonderful. Refreshed. Cleaned out in some weird way. He thought,If every nap could do that, taking them would be a national law.
Maybe so, but Betty Jones was going to be seriously worried if she didn't see the Cherokee turning into her yard by four-thirty. King reached for the phone to call her, but his eyes fell to the pad on the desk below it, instead. The sheets were headed CALLING ALL BLOWHARDS. A little something from one of his sisters-in-law.
Face going blank again, King reached for the pad and the pen beside it. He bent and wrote:
Dad-a-chum, dad-a-chee, not to worry, you've got the key.
He paused, looking fixedly at this, then wrote:
Dad-a-chud, dad-a-ched, see it, Jake! The key is red!
He paused again, then wrote:
Dad-a-chum, dad-a-chee, give this boy a plastic key.
He looked at what he had written with deep affection. Almost love. God almighty, but he felt fine! These lines meant nothing at all, and yet writing them afforded a satisfaction so deep it was almost ecstasy.
King tore off the sheet.
Balled it up.
Ate it.
It stuck for a moment in his throat and then - ulp! - down it went. Good deal! He snatched the
(ad-a-chee)
key to the Jeep off the wooden key-board (which was itself shaped like a key) and hurried outside. He'd get Joe, they'd come back here and pack, they'd grab supper at Mickey Kee's in South Paris. Correction, Mickey-Dee's.He felt he could eat a couple of Quarter Pounders all by himself. Fries, too.Damn, but he felt good!
When he reached Kansas Road and turned toward town, he flipped on the radio and got the McCoys, singing "Hang On, Sloopy" - always excellent. His mind drifted, as it so often did while listening to the radio, and he found himself thinking of the characters from that old story,The Dark Tower. Not that there were many left; as he recalled, he'd killed most of them off, even the kid. Didn't know what else to do with him, probably. That was usually why you got rid of characters, because you didn't know what else to do with them. What had his name been, Jack? No, that was the haunted Dad inThe Shining. TheDark Tower kid had beenJake. Excellent choice of name for a story with a Western motif, something right out of Wayne D. Overholser or Ray Hogan. Was it possible Jake could come back into that story, maybe as a ghost? Of course he could. The nice thing about tales of the supernatural, King reflected, was that nobody had toreally die. They could always come back, like that guy Barnabas onDark Shadows. Barnabas Collins had been a vampire.
"Maybe thekid comes back as a vampire," King said, and laughed. "Watch out, Roland, dinner is served and dinner be you!" But that didn't feel right. What, then? Nothing came, but that was all right. In time, something might. Probably when he least expected it; while feeding the cat or changing the baby or just walking dully along, as Auden said in that poem about suffering.
No suffering today. Today he feltgreat.
Yar, just call me Tony the Tiger.
On the radio, the McCoys gave way to Troy Shondell, singing "This Time."
ThatDark Tower thing had been sort of interesting, actually. King thought,Maybe when we get back from up north I ought to dig it out. Take a look at it.
Not a bad idea.
STAVE: Commala-come-call
We hail the One who made us all,
Who made the men and made the maids,
Who made the great and small.
RESPONSE: Commala-come-call!
He made the great and small!
And yet how great the hand of fate
That rules us one and all.
12th Stanza: Jake and Callahan
One
Don Callahan had had many dreams of returning to America. Usually they began with him waking up under a high, fair desert sky full of the puffy clouds baseball players call "angels" or in his own rectory bed in the town of Jerusalem's Lot, Maine. No matter which locale it happened to be, he'd be nearly overwhelmed with relief, his first instinct for prayer.Oh, thank God. Thank God it was only a dream and finally I am awake.
He was awake now, no question of that.
He turned a complete circle in the air and saw Jake do exactly the same in front of him. He lost one of his sandals. He could hear Oy yapping and Eddie roaring in protest. He could hear taxi horns, that sublime New York street music, and something else, as well: a preacher. Really cruising along, by the sound of him. Third gear, at least. Maybe overdrive.
One of Callahan's ankles clipped the side of the Unfound Door as he went through and there was a burst of terrific pain from that spot. Then the ankle (and the area around it) went numb. There was a speedy riffle of todash chimes, like a thirty-three-and-a-third record played at forty-five rpm. A buffet of conflicting air currents hit him, and suddenly he was smelling gasoline and exhaust instead of the Doorway Cave's dank air. First street music; now street perfume.