The rewards? Immeasurable. In the end you could be the woman sitting in the shaft of sun. You could be the one looking at the child sailing bravely out of childhoods harbor. You could be the wind in that childs unfurled sails. You. Odetta, come and sit with me. Mias breath began to hitch in her chest. Have something sweet. Her eyes fogged over, the smiling cartoon pig on the awning first doubling, then quadrupling. You look good, girl. Some time was better than no time at all. Even five yearsor threewas better than no time at all. She couldnt read, hadnt been to Morehouse, hadnt been to no house, but she could do that much math with no trouble three  better than none. Even one  better than none. Oh  Oh, but  Mia thought of a blueeyed boy stepping through a door, one that was found instead of lost. She thought of saying to him You look good, son! She began to weep. What have I done was a terrible question. What else could I have done was perhaps even worse. O Discordia! FIFTEEN This was Susannahs one chance to do something now, while Mia stood at the foot of the steps leading up to her fate. Susannah reached into the pocket of her jeans and touched the turtle, the skldpadda. Her brown fingers, separated from Mias white leg by only a thin layer of lining, closed around it. She pulled it out and flipped it behind her, casting it into the gutter. From her hand into the lap of ka. Then she was carried up the three steps to the double doors of the Dixie Pig. SIXTEEN It was very dim inside and at first Mia could see nothing but murky, reddishorange lights. Electric flambeaux of the sort that still lit some of the rooms in Castle Discordia. Her sense of smell needed no adjusting, however, and even as a fresh labor pain clamped her tight, her stomach reacted to the smell of roasting pork and cried out to be fed. Her chap cried out to be fed. Thats not pork, Mia, Susannah said, and was ignored. As the doors were closed behind herthere was a man (or a manlike being) standing at each of themshe began to see better. She was at the head of a long, narrow dining room. White napery shone. On each table was a candle in an orangetinted holder. They glowed like foxeyes. The floor here in the foyer was black marble, but beyond the matre ds stand there was a rug of darkest crimson. Beside the stand was a sai of about sixty with white hair combed back from a lean and rather predatory face. It was the face of an intelligent man, but his clothesthe blaring yellow sportcoat, the red shirt, the black tiewere those of a usedcar salesman or a gambler who specializes in rooking smalltown rubes. In the center of his forehead was a red hole about an inch across, as if he had been shot at close range. It swam with blood that never overflowed onto his pallid skin. At the tables in the dining room stood perhaps fifty men and half again as many women. Most of them were dressed in clothes as loud or louder than those of the whitehaired gent. Big rings glared on fleshy fingers, diamond eardrops sparked back orange light from the flambeaux. There were also some dressed in more sober attirejeans and plain white shirts seemed to be the costume of choice for this minority. These folken were pallid and watchful, their eyes seemingly all pupil. Around their bodies, swirling so faintly that they sometimes disappeared, were blue auras. To Mia these pallid, auraenclosed creatures looked quite a bit more human than the low men and women. They were vampiresshe didnt have to observe the sharpened fangs which their smiles disclosed to know itbut still they looked more human than Sayres bunch. Perhaps because they once had been human. The others, though  Their faces are only masks, she observed with growing dismay. Beneath the ones the Wolves wear lie the electric menthe robotsbut what is beneath these? The dining room was breathlessly silent, but from somewhere nearby came the uninterrupted sounds of conversation, laughter, clinking glasses, and cutlery against china. There was a patter of liquidwine or water, she supposedand a louder outburst of laughter. A low man and a low womanhe in a tuxedo equipped with plaid lapels and a red velvet bow tie, she in a strapless silver lam evening dress, both of startling obesityturned to look (with obvious displeasure) toward the source of these sounds, which seemed to be coming from behind some sort of swaggy tapestry depicting knights and their ladies at sup. When the fat couple turned to look, Mia saw their cheeks wrinkle upward like clingy cloth, and for a moment, beneath the soft angle of their jaws, she saw something dark red and tufted with hair. Susannah, was that skin? Mia asked. Dear God, was it their skin? Susannah made no reply, not even I told you so or Didnt I warn you? Things had gone past that now. It was too late for exasperation (or any of the milder emotions), and Susannah felt genuinely sorry for the woman who had brought her here. Yes, Mia had lied and betrayed; yes, she had tried her best to get Eddie and Roland killed. But what choice had she ever had? Susannah realized, with dawning bitterness, that she could now give the perfect definition of a kamai one who has been given hope but no choices. Like giving a motorcycle to a blindman, she thought. Richard Sayreslim, middleaged, handsome in a fulllipped, broadbrowed waybegan to applaud. The rings on his fingers flashed. His yellow blazer blared in the dim light. Hile, Mia! he cried. Hile, Mia! the others responded. Hile, Mother! Hile, Mother! the vampires and low men and low women cried, and they, too began to applaud. The sound was certainly enthusiastic enough, but the acoustics of the room dulled it and turned it into the rustle of batwings. A hungry sound, one that made Susannah feel sick to her stomach. At the same time a fresh contraction gripped her and turned her legs to water. She reeled forward, yet almost welcomed the pain, which partially muffled her trepidation. Sayre stepped forward and seized her by the upper arms, steadying her before she could fall. She had thought his touch would be cold, but his fingers were as hot as those of a cholera victim. Farther back, she saw a tall figure come out of the shadows, something that was neither low man nor vampire. It wore jeans and a plain white shirt, but emerging from the shirts collar was the head of a bird. It was covered with sleek feathers of dark yellow. Its eyes were black. It patted its hands together in polite applause, and she sawwith evergrowing dismaythat those hands were equipped with talons rather than fingers. Half a dozen bugs scampered from beneath one of the tables and looked at her with eyes that hung on stalks. Horribly intelligent eyes. Their mandibles clicked in a sound that was like laughter. Hile, Mia! she heard in her head. An insectile buzzing. Hile, Mother! And then they were gone, back into the shadows. Mia turned to the door and saw the pair of low men who blocked it. And yes, those were masks; this close to the doorguards it was impossible not to see how their sleek black hair had been painted on. Mia turned back to Sayre with a sinking heart. Too late now. Too late to do anything but go through with it. SEVENTEEN Sayres grip had slipped when she turned. Now he reestablished it by taking her left hand. At the same moment her right hand was seized. She turned that way and saw the fat woman in the silver lam dress. Her huge bust overflowed the top of her gown, which struggled gamely to hold it back. The flesh of her upper arms quivered loosely, giving off a suffocating scent of talcum powder. On her forehead was a red wound that swam but never overflowed. Its how they breathe, Mia thought. Thats how they breathe when theyre wearing their In her growing dismay, she had largely forgotten about Susannah Dean and completely about Detta. So when Detta Walker came forwardhell, when she leaped forwardthere was no way Mia could stop her. She watched her arms shoot out seemingly of their own accord and saw her fingers sink into the plump cheek of the woman in the silver lam gown. The woman shrieked, but oddly, the others, Sayre included, laughed uproariously, as if this were the funniest thing theyd ever seen in their lives. The mask of humanity pulled away from the low womans startled eye, then tore. Susannah thought of her final moments on the castle allure, when everything had frozen and the sky had torn open like paper. Detta ripped the mask almost entirely away. Tatters of what looked like latex hung from the tips of her fingers. Beneath where the mask had been was the head of a huge red rat, a mutie with yellow teeth growing up the outside of its cheeks in a crust and what looked like white worms dangling from its nose. Naughty girl, said the rat, shaking a roguish finger at SusannahMio. Its other hand was still holding hers. The things matethe low man in the garish tuxedowas laughing so hard he had doubled over, and when he did, Mia saw something poking out through the seat of his pants. It was too bony to be a tail, but she supposed it was, all the same. Come, Mia, Sayre said, drawing her forward. And then he leaned toward her, peering earnestly into her eyes like a lover. Or is it you, Odetta? It is, isnt it? Its you, you pestering, overeducated, troublesome Negress. No, it be me, you ratface honky mahfah! Detta crowed, and then spat into Sayres face. Sayres mouth opened in a gape of astonishment. Then it snapped shut and twisted into a bitter scowl. The room had gone silent again. He wiped the spit from his facefrom the mask he wore over his faceand looked at it unbelievingly. Mia? he asked. Mia, you let her do this to me? Me, who would stand as your babys godfather? You aint jack shit! Detta cried. You suck yo kadaddys cock while you diddle yo fuckfinger up his poopchute and thass all you good fo! You Get RID of her! Sayre thundered. And before the watching audience of vampires and low men in the Dixie Pigs front dining room, Mia did just that. The result was extraordinary. Dettas voice began to dwindle, as if she were being escorted out of the restaurant (by the bouncer, and by the scruff of the neck). She quit trying to speak and only laughed raucously, but soon enough that, too, was gone. Sayre stood with his hands clasped before him, looking solemnly at Mia. The others were also staring. Somewhere behind the tapestry of the knights and their ladies at feast, the low laughter and conversation of some other group continued. Shes gone, Mia said at last. The bad one is gone. Even in the rooms quiet she was hard to hear, for she spoke in little more than a whisper. Her eyes were timidly cast down, and her cheeks had gone deathly white. Please, Mr. Sayre  sai Sayre  now that Ive done as you ask, please say youve told me the truth, and I may have the raising of my chap. Please say so! If you do, youll never hear from the other one again, I swear it on my fathers face and my mothers name, so I do. You had neither, Sayre said. He spoke in a tone of distant contempt. The compassion and mercy for which she begged owned no space in his eyes. And above them, the red hole in the center of his forehead filled and filled but never spilled. Another pain, this one the greatest so far, sank its teeth into her. Mia staggered, and this time Sayre didnt bother steadying her. She went to her knees before him, put her hands on the rough, gleaming surface of his ostrichskin boots, and looked up into his pale face. It looked back at her from above the violent yellow scream of his sports jacket. Please, she said. Please, I beg you keep your promise to me. I may, he said, or I may not. Do you know, I have never had my boots licked. Can you imagine? To have lived as long as I have and never to have had a single good oldfashioned bootlicking. Somewhere a woman tittered. Mia bent forward. No, Mia, thee mustnt, Susannah moaned, but Mia made no reply. Nor did the paralyzing pain deep in her vitals stop her. She stuck her tongue out between her lips and began licking the rough surface of Richard Sayres boots. Susannah could taste them, at a great distance. It was a husky, dusty, leathery taste, full of rue and humiliation. Sayre let her go on so for a bit, then said Stop it. Enough. He pulled her roughly to her feet and stood with his unsmiling face not three inches from her own. Now that shed seen them, it was impossible to unsee the masks he and the rest of them wore. The taut cheeks were almost transparent, and whorls of dark scarlet hair were faintly visible beneath. Or perhaps you called it fur when it covered the whole face. Your beggary does you no credit, he said, although I must admit the sensation was extraordinary. You promised! she cried, attempting to pull back and out of his grip. Then another contraction struck and she doubled over, trying only not to shriek. When it eased a little, she pressed on. You said five years  or maybe seven  yes, seven  the best of everything for my chap, you said Yes, Sayre said. I do seem to recall that, Mia. He frowned as one does when presented with an especially pernicious problem, then brightened. The area of mask around one corner of his mouth wrinkled up for a moment when he smiled, revealing a yellow snag of tooth growing out of the fold where his lower lip met his upper. He let go of her with one hand in order to raise a finger in the gesture pedagogical. The best of everything, yes. Question is, do you fill that particular bill? Appreciative murmurs of laughter greeted this sally. Mia recalled them calling her Mother and saluting her hile, but that seemed distant now, like a meaningless fragment of dream. You was good enough to tote him, though, wasnt you? Detta asked from someplace deep insidefrom the brig, in fact. Yassuh! You us good enough to do dat, sho! I was good enough to carry him, wasnt I? Mia almost spat at him. Good enough to send the other one into the swamp to eat frogs, her all the time thinking they were caviar  I was good enough for that, wasnt I? Sayre blinked, clearly startled by so brisk a response. Mia softened again. Sai, think of all I gave up! Pish, you had nothing! Sayre replied. What were you but a meaningless spirit whose existence revolved around no more than fucking the occasional saddletramp? Slut of the winds, isnt that what Roland calls your kind? Then think of the other one, Mia said. She who calls herself Susannah. I have stolen all her life and purpose for my chap, and at your bidding. Sayre made a dismissive gesture. Your mouth does you no credit, Mia. Therefore close it. He nodded to his left. A low man with a wide, bulldoggy face and a luxuriant head of curly gray hair came forward. The red hole in his brow had an oddly slanted Chinese look. Walking behind him was another of the birdthings, this one with a fierce, dark brown hawks head protruding from the round neck of a teeshirt with DUKE BLUE DEVILS printed on it. They took hold of her. The birdthings grip was repulsivescaly and alien. You have been an excellent custodian, Sayre said, on that much we can surely agree. But we must also remember that it was Roland of Gileads jilly who actually bred the child, mustnt we? Thats a lie! she screamed. Oh, that is a filthy  LIE! He went on as if hed not heard her. And different jobs require different skills. Different strokes for different folks, as they say. PLEASE! Mia shrieked. The hawkman put its taloned hands to the sides of its head and then rocked from side to side, as if deafened. This witty pantomime drew laughter and even a few cheers. Susannah dimly felt warmth gush down her legsMias legsand saw her jeans darken at the crotch and thighs. Her water had finally broken. Lets gooooooo  and have a BABY! Sayre proclaimed in gameshowhost tones of excitement. There were too many teeth in that smile, a double row both top and bottom. After that, well see. I promise you that your request will be taken under consideration. In the meantime  Hile, Mia! Hile, Mother! Hile, Mia! Hile, Mother! the rest cried, and Mia suddenly found herself borne toward the back of the room, the bulldogfaced low man gripping her left arm and the hawkman gripping her right. Hawkman made a faint and unpleasant buzzing sound in his throat each time he exhaled. Her feet barely touched the rug as she was carried toward the birdthing with the yellow feathers; Canaryman, she thought him. Sayre brought her to a stop with a single handgesture and spoke to Canaryman, pointing toward the Dixie Pigs street door as he did. Mia heard Rolands name, and also Jakes. The Canaryman nodded. Sayre pointed emphatically at the door again and shook his head. Nothing gets in, that headshake said. Nothing! The Canaryman nodded again and then spoke in buzzing chirps that made Mia feel like screaming. She looked away, and her gaze happened on the mural of the knights and their ladies. They were at a table she recognizedit was the one in the banqueting hall of Castle Discordia. Arthur Eld sat at the head with his crown on his brow and his ladywife at his right hand. And his eyes were a blue she knew from her dreams. Ka might have chosen that particular moment to puff some errant draft across the dining room of the Dixie Pig and twitch aside the tapestry. It was only for a second or two, but long enough for Mia to see there was another dining rooma private dining roombehind it. Sitting at a long wooden table beneath a blazing crystal chandelier were perhaps a dozen men and women, their appledoll faces twisted and shrunken with age and evil. Their lips had burst back from great croggled bouquets of teeth; the days when any of these monstrosities could close their mouths were long gone. Their eyes were black and oozing some sort of noisome tarry stuff from the corners. Their skin was yellow, scaled with teeth, and covered with patches of diseasedlooking fur. What are they? Mia screamed. What in the name of the gods are they? Mutants, Susannah said. Or perhaps the word is hybrids. And it doesnt matter, Mia. You saw what matters, didnt you? She had, and Susannah knew it. Although the velvet swag had been twitched aside but briefly, it had been long enough for both of them to see the rotisserie which had been set in the middle of that table, and the headless corpse twirling upon it, skin browning and puckering and sizzling fragrant juices. No, the smell in the air hadnt been pork. The thing turning on the spit, brown as a squab, was a human baby. The creatures around it dipped delicate china cups into the drippings beneath, toasted each other  and drank. The draft died. The tapestry settled back into place. And before the laboring woman was once more taken by the arms and hustled away from the dining room and deeper into this building that straddled many worlds along the Beam, she saw the joke of that picture. It wasnt a drumstick Arthur Eld was lifting to his lips, as a first, casual, glance might have suggested; it was a babys leg. The glass Queen Rowena had raised in toast was not filled with wine but with blood. Hile, Mia! Sayre cried again. Oh, he was in the best of spirits, now that the homing pigeon had come back to the cote. Hile, Mia! the others screamed back. It was like some sort of crazy football cheer. Those from behind the mural joined in, although their voices were reduced to little more than growls. And their mouths, of course, were stuffed with food. Hile, Mother! This time Sayre offered her a mocking bow to go with the mockery of his respect. Hile, Mother! the vampires and the low men responded, and on the satiric wave of their applause she was carried away, first into the kitchen, then into the pantry, and then down the stairs beyond. Ultimately, of course, there was a door. EIGHTEEN Susannah knew the kitchen of the Dixie Pig by the smell of obscene cookery not pork after all, but certainly what the pirates of the eighteenth century had called long pork. For how many years had this outpost served the vampires and low men of New York City? Since Callahans time, in the seventies and eighties? Since her own, in the sixties? Almost certainly longer. Susannah supposed there might have been a version of the Dixie Pig here since the time of the Dutch, they who had bought off the Indians with sacks of beads and planted their murderous Christian beliefs ever so much more deeply than their flag. A practical folk, the Dutch, with a taste for spareribs and little patience for magic, either white or black. She saw enough to recognize the kitchen for the twin of the one she had visited in the bowels of Castle Discordia. That was where Mia had killed a rat that had been trying to claim the last remaining food in the place, a porkroast in the oven. Except there was no oven and no roast, she thought. Hell, no kitchen. There was a piglet out behind the barn, one of Tian and Zalia Jaffordss. And I was the one who killed it and drank its hot blood, not she. By then she mostly had me, although I still didnt know it. I wonder if Eddie As Mia took her away for the last time, tearing her free from her thoughts and sending her atumble into the dark, Susannah realized how completely the needy, terrible bitch had possessed her life. She knew why Mia had done itbecause of the chap. The question was why she, Susannah Dean, had allowed it to happen. Because shed been possessed before? Because she was as addicted to the stranger inside as Eddie had been to heroin? She feared it might be true. Swirling dark. And when she opened her eyes again, it was upon that savage moon hanging above the Discordia, and the flexing red glow (forge of the King) on the horizon. Over here! cried a womans voice, just as it had cried before. Over here, out of the wind! Susannah looked down and saw she was legless, and sitting in the same rude dogcart as on her previous visit to the allure. The same woman, tall and comely, with black hair streaming in the wind, was beckoning to her. Mia, of course, and all this no more real than Susannahs vague dreammemories of the banquet room. She thought Fedic, though, was real. Mias body is there just as mine is at this very moment being hustled through the kitchen behind the Dixie Pig, where unspeakable meals are prepared for inhuman customers. The castle allure is Mias dreamplace, her refuge, her Dogan. To me, Susannah of MidWorld, and away from the Red Kings glow! Come out of the wind and into the lee of this merlon! Susannah shook her head. Say what you have to say and be done, Mia. Weve got to have a babyaye, somehow, between usand once its out, were quits. Youve poisoned my life, so you have. Mia looked at her with desperate intensity, her belly blooming beneath the serape, her hair harried backward at the winds urging. Twas you who took the poison, Susannah! Twas you who swallowed it! Aye, when the child was still a seed unbloomed in your belly! Was it true? And if it was, which of them had invited Mia in, like the vampire she truly was? Had it been Susannah, or Detta? Susannah thought neither. She thought it might actually have been Odetta Holmes. Odetta who would never have broken the nasty old blue ladys forspecial plate. Odetta who loved her dolls, even though most of them were as white as her plain cotton panties. What do you want with me, Mia, daughter of none? Say and have finished with it! Soon well be togetheraye, really and truly, lying together in the same childbed. And all I ask is that if a chance comes for me to get away with my chap, youll help me take it. Susannah thought it over. In the wilderness of rocks and gaping crevasses, the hyenas cackled. The wind was numbing, but the pain that suddenly clamped her midsection in its jaws was worse. She saw that same pain on Mias face and thought again how her entire existence seemed to have become a wilderness of mirrors. In any case, what harm could such a promise do? The chance probably wouldnt come, but if it did, was she going to let the thing Mia wanted to call Mordred fall into the hands of the Kings men? Yes, she said. All right. If I can help you get away with him, I will help you. Anywhere! Mia cried in a harsh whisper. Even  She stopped. Swallowed. Forced herself to go on. Even into the todash darkness. For if I had to wander forever with my son by my side, that would be no condemnation. Maybe not for you, sister, Susannah thought, but said nothing. In truth, she was fed up with Mias megrims. And if theres no way for us to be free, Mia said, kill us. Although there was no sound up here but the wind and the cackling hyenas, Susannah could sense her physical body still on the move, now being carried down a flight of stairs. All that realworld stuff behind the thinnest of membranes. For Mia to have transported her to this world, especially while in the throes of childbirth, suggested a being of great power. Too bad that power couldnt be harnessed, somehow. Mia apparently mistook Susannahs continued silence for reluctance, for she rushed around the allures circular walkway in her sturdy huaraches and almost ran to where Susannah sat in her gawky, balky cart. She seized Susannahs shoulders and shook her. Yar! she cried vehemently. Kill us! Better we be together in death than to  She trailed off, then spoke in a dull and bitter voice Ive been cozened all along. Havent I? And now that the moment had come, Susannah felt neither vindication nor sympathy nor sorrow. She only nodded. Do they mean to eat him? To feed those terrible elders with his corpse? Im almost sure not, Susannah said. And yet cannibalism was in it somewhere; her heart whispered it was so. They dont care about me at all, Mia said. Just the babysitter, isnt that what you called me? And they wont even let me have that, will they? I dont think so, Susannah said. You might get six months to nurse him, but even that  She shook her head, then bit her lip as a fresh contraction gusted into her, turning all the muscles in her belly and thighs to glass. When it eased a little she finished, I doubt it. Then kill us, if it comes to that. Say you will, Susannah, do ya, I beg! And if I do for you, Mia, what will you do for me? Assuming I could believe any word out of your liars mouth? Id free you, if chance allows. Susannah thought it over, and decided that a poor bargain was better than no bargain at all. She reached up and took the hands which were gripping her shoulders. All right. I agree. Then, as at the end of their previous palaver in this place, the sky tore open, and the merlon behind them, and the very air between them. Through the rip, Susannah saw a moving hallway. The image was dim, blurry. She understood she was looking through her own eyes, which were mostly shut. Bulldog and Hawkman still had her. They were bearing her toward the door at the end of the hallwayalways, since Roland had come into her life, there was another doorand she guessed they must think shed passed out, or fainted. She supposed that in a way, she had. Then she fell back into the hybrid body with the white legs  only who knew how much of her previously brown skin was now white? She thought that situation, at least, was about to end, and she was delighted. She would gladly swap those white legs, strong though they might be, for a little peace of mind. A little peace in her mind. NINETEEN Shes coming around, someone growled. The one with the bulldog face, Susannah thought. Not that it mattered; underneath they all looked like humanoid rats with fur growing out of their bonecrusty flesh. Good deal. That was Sayre, walking behind them. She looked around and saw that her entourage consisted of six low men, Hawkman, and a trio of vampires. The low men wore pistols in dockers clutches  only she supposed that in this world you had to call them shoulder holsters. When in Rome, dear, do ya as the Romans do. Two of the vampires had bahs, the crossbow weapon of the Callas. The third was carrying a bitterly buzzing electric sword of the sort the Wolves had wielded. Tentoone odds, Susannah thought coolly. Not good  but it could be worse. Can youMias voice, from somewhere inside. Shut up, Susannah told her. Talkings done. Ahead, on the door they were approaching, she saw this NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS, LTD. New YorkFedic Maximum Security VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED It was familiar, and Susannah instantly knew why. Shed seen a sign similar to this during her one brief visit to Fedic. Fedic, where the real Miathe being who had assumed mortality in what might be historys worst bargainwas imprisoned. When they reached it, Sayre pushed past her on Hawkmans side. He leaned toward the door and spoke something guttural deep in his throat, some alien word Susannah never could have pronounced herself. It doesnt matter, Mia whispered. I can say it, and if I need to, I can teach you another that you can say. But now  Susannah, Im sorry for everything. Fare you well. The door to the Arc 16 Experimental Station in Fedic came open. Susannah could hear a ragged humming sound and could smell ozone. No magic powered this door between the worlds; this was the work of the old people, and failing. Those whod made it had lost their faith in magic, had given up their belief in the Tower. In the place of magic was this buzzing, dying thing. This stupid mortal thing. And beyond it she saw a great room filled with beds. Hundreds of them. Its where they operate on the children. Where they take from them whatever it is the Breakers need. Now only one of the beds was occupied. Standing at its foot was a woman with one of those terrible rats heads. A nurse, perhaps. Beside her was a humanSusannah didnt think he was a vampire but couldnt be sure, as the view through the door was as wavery as the air over an incinerator. He looked up and saw them. Hurry! he shouted. Move your freight! We have to connect them and finish it, or shell die! They both will! The doctorsurely no one but a doctor could have mustered such illtempered arrogance in the presence of Richard P. Sayremade impatient beckoning gestures. Get her in here! Youre late, goddam you! Sayre pushed her rudely through the door. She heard a humming deep in her head, and a brief jangle of todash chimes She looked down but was too late; Mias borrowed legs were already gone and she went sprawling to the floor before Hawkman and Bulldog could come through behind her and catch her. She braced on her elbows and looked up, aware that, for the first time in God knew how longprobably since shed been raped in the circle of stonesshe belonged only to herself. Mia was gone. Then, as if to prove this wasnt so, Susannahs troublesome and newly departed guest let out a scream. Susannah added her own crythe pain was now too huge for silenceand for a moment their voices sang of the babys imminence in perfect harmony. Christ, said one of Susannahs guardswhether vampire or low man she didnt know. Are my ears bleeding? They feel like they must be Pick her up, Haber! Sayre snarled. Jey! Grab hold! Get her off the floor, for your fathers sakes! Bulldog and Hawkmanor Haber and Jey, if you liked that bettergrabbed her beneath the arms and quickly carried her down the aisle of the ward that way, past the rows of empty beds. Mia turned toward Susannah and managed a weak, exhausted smile. Her face was wet with sweat and her hair was plastered to her flushed skin. Wellmet  and ill, she managed. Push the next bed over! the doctor shouted. Hurry up, gods damn you! Why are you so Christing slow? Two of the low men whod accompanied Susannah from the Dixie Pig bent over the nearest empty bed and shoved it next to Mias while Haber and Jey continued to hold her up between them. There was something on the bed that looked like a cross between a hairdryer and the sort of space helmet you saw in the old Flash Gordon serials. Susannah didnt much care for the look of it. It had a brainsucking look. The rathead nurse, meanwhile, was bending between her patients splayed legs and peering under the hikedup hospital gown Mia now wore.


She patted Mias right knee with a plump hand and made a mewling sound. It was almost surely meant to comfort, but Susannah shuddered. Dont just stand there with your thumbs up your butts, you idiots! the doctor cried. He was a stoutish man with brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and black hair swept back against his skull, where each track of the comb seemed as wide as a gutter. He wore a labcoat of white nylon over a tweed suit. His scarlet cravat had an eye figured into it. This sigul did not surprise Susannah in the slightest. We wait your word, said Jey, the Hawkman. He spoke in a queer, inhuman monotone, as unpleasant as the rathead nurses mewl but perfectly understandable. You shouldnt need my word! the doctor snapped. He flapped his hands in a Gallic gesture of disgust. Didnt your mothers have any children that lived? I Haber began, but the doc went right over him. He was on a roll. How long have we been waiting for this, hmmm? How many times have we rehearsed the procedure? Why must you be so fucking stupid, so Christing slow? Put her down on the b Sayre moved with a speed Susannah wasnt sure even Roland could have equaled. At one moment he was standing beside Haber, the low man with the bulldog face. At the next hed battened on the doctor, digging his chin into the docs shoulder and grabbing his arm, twisting it high behind his back. The docs expression of petulant fury vanished in a heartbeat, and he began to scream in a childish, breaking treble. Spit spilled over his lower lip and the crotch of his tweed trousers darkened as his urine let go. Stop! he howled. Im no good to you if you break my arm! Oh stop, that HURRRTS! If I shd break your arm, Scowther, Id just drag some other pillpusher in off the street to finish this, and kill him later. Why not? Its a woman having a baby, not brainsurgery, for Gans sake! Yet he relaxed his hold a little bit. Scowther sobbed and wriggled and moaned as breathlessly as someone having sexual intercourse in a hot climate. And when it was done and you had no part in it, Sayre continued, Id feed you to them. He gestured with his chin. Susannah looked that way and saw that the aisle from the door to the bed where Mia lay was now covered with the bugs shed glimpsed in the Dixie Pig. Their knowing, greedy eyes were fixed on the plump doctor. Their mandibles clicked. What  sai, what must I do? Cry my pardon. CCry pardon! And now these others, for yeve insulted them as well, so you have. Sirs, I  I  ccry Doctor! the rathead nurse broke in. Her speaking voice was thick but understandable. She was still bent between Mias legs. The babys crowning! Sayre let go of Scowthers arm. Go on, Dr. Scowther. Do your duty. Deliver the child. Sayre bent forward and stroked Mias cheek with extraordinary solicitude. Be of good cheer and good hope, ladysai, he said. Some of your dreams may yet come true. She looked up at him with a tired gratitude that wrung Susannahs heart. Dont believe him, his lies are endless, she tried to send, but for the nonce their contact was broken. She was tossed like a sack of grain onto the bed which had been pushed next to Mias. She was unable to struggle as one of the hoods was fitted over her head; another labor pain had gripped her, and once again the two women shrieked together. Susannah could hear Sayre and the others murmuring. From below and behind them, she could also hear the unpleasant clittering of the bugs. Inside the helmet, round metal protuberances pressed against her temples, almost hard enough to hurt. Suddenly a pleasant female voice said, Welcome to the world of North Central Positronics, part of the Sombra Group! Sombra, where progress never stops! Stand by for uplink. A loud humming began. At first it was in Susannahs ears, but then she could feel it boring in on both sides. She visualized a pair of glowing bullets moving toward each other. Dimly, as if from the other side of the room instead of right next to her, she heard Mia scream, Oh no, dont, that hurts! The left hum and the right hum joined in the center of Susannahs brain, creating a piercing telepathic tone that would destroy her ability to think if it kept up for long. It was excruciating, but she kept her lips shut tight. She would not scream. Let them see the tears oozing out from beneath her closed lids, but she was a gunslinger and they would not make her scream. After what seemed an eternity, the hum cut out. Susannah had a moment or two in which to enjoy the blessed silence in her head, and then the next labor pain struck, this one very low down in her belly and with the force of a typhoon. With this pain she did allow herself to scream. Because it was different, somehow; to scream with the babys coming was an honor. She turned her head and saw a similar steel hood had been fitted over Mias sweaty black hair. The segmented steel hoses from the two helmets were connected in the middle. These were the gadgets they used on the stolen twins, but now they were being put to some other purpose. What? Sayre leaned down to her, close enough so she could smell his cologne. Susannah thought it was English Leather. To accomplish the final labor and actually push the baby out, we need this physical link, he said. Bringing you here to Fedic was absolutely vital. He patted her shoulder. Good luck. It wont be long now. He smiled at her winsomely. The mask he wore wrinkled upward, revealing some of the red horror which lay beneath. Then we can kill you. The smile broadened. And eat you, of course. Nothing goes to waste at the Dixie Pig, not even such an arrogant bitch as yourself. Before Susannah could reply, the female voice in her head spoke again. Please speak your name, slowly and distinctly. Fuck you! Susannah snarled back. Fuk Yu does not register as a valid name for a nonAsian, said the pleasant female voice. We detect hostility, and apologize in advance for the following procedure. For a moment there was nothing, and then Susannahs mind lit up with pain beyond anything she had ever been called upon to endure. More than she had suspected could exist. Yet her lips remained closed as it raved through her. She thought of the song, and heard it true even through the thunder of the pain I am a maid  of constant sorrow  Ive seen trials all my days  At last the thunder ceased. Please speak your name, slowly and distinctly, said the pleasant female voice in the middle of her head, or this procedure will be intensified by a factor of ten. No need of that, Susannah sent the female voice. Im convinced. Suuuuzaaaanahhh, she said. Suuuzannnahhh  They stood watching her, all of them except for Ms. Rathead, who was peering ecstatically up to where the babys downcovered head had once again appeared between the withdrawing lips of Mias vagina. Miiiiaaaahhhh  Suuuuzaaa  Miiii  annnahhh  By the time the next contraction began, Dr. Scowther had seized a pair of forceps. The voices of the women became one, uttering a word, a name, that was neither Susannah nor Mia but some combination of both. The link, said the pleasant female voice, has been established. A faint click. Repeat the link has been established. Thank you for your cooperation. This is it, people, Scowther said. His pain and terror appeared forgotten; he sounded excited. He turned to his nurse. It may cry, Alia. If it does, let it alone, for your fathers sake! If it doesnt, swab out its mouth at once! Yes, doctor. The things lips quivered back, revealing a double set of fangs. Was that a grimace or a smile? Scowther looked around at them with a touch of his previous arrogance. All of you stay exactly where you are until I say you can move, he said. None of us knows exactly what weve got here. We only know that the child belongs to the Crimson King himself Mia screamed at that. In pain and in protest. Oh, you idiot, Sayre said. He drew back a hand and slapped Scowther with enough force to make his hair fly and send blood spraying against the white wall in a pattern of fine droplets. No! Mia cried. She tried to struggle up onto her elbows, failed, fell back. No, you said I should have the raising of him! Oh, please  if only for a little while, I beg  Then the worst pain yet rolled over Susannahover both of them, burying them. They screamed in tandem, and Susannah didnt need to hear Scowther, who was commanding her to push, to push NOW! Its coming, doctor! the nurse cried in nervous ecstasy. Susannah closed her eyes and bore down, and as she felt the pain begin to flow out of her like water whirlpooling its way down a dark drain, she also felt the deepest sorrow she had ever known. For it was Mia the baby was flowing into; the last few lines of the living message Susannahs body had somehow been made to transmit. It was ending. Whatever happened next, this part was ending, and Susannah Dean let out a cry of mingled relief and regret; a cry that was itself like a song. And on the wings of that song, Mordred Deschain, son of Roland (and one other, O can you say Discordia), came into the world. STAVE Commalacomekass! The child has come at last! Sing your song, O sing it well, The child has come to pass. RESPONSE Commalacomekass, The worst has come to pass. The Tower trembles on its ground; The child has come at last. PAGES FROM A WRITERS JOURNAL CODA July 12th, 1977 Man, its good to be back in Bridgton. They always treat us well in what Joe still calls Nanatown, but Owen fussed almost nonstop. Hes better since we got back home. We only stopped once, in Waterville to grab grub at the Silent Woman (Ive had better meals there, I must add). Anyway, I kept my promise to myself and went on a grand hunt for that Dark Tower story as soon as I got back. Id almost given up when I found the pages in the farthest corner of the garage, under a box of Tabs old catalogues. There was a lot of spring thaw drip over there, and those funny blue pages smell all mildewy, but the copy is perfectly readable. I finished going over it, then sat down and added a small section to the Way Station material (where the gunslinger meets the boy Jake). I thought it would be kind of fun to put in a water pump that runs on an atomic slug, and so I did so without delay. Usually working on an old story is about as appetizing as eating a sandwich made with moldy bread, but this felt perfectly natural  like slipping on an old shoe. What, exactly, was this story supposed to be about? I cant remember, only that it first came to me a long, long time ago. Driving back from up north, with my entire family snoozing, I got thinking about that time David and I ran away from Aunt Ethelyns. We were planning to go back to Connecticut, I think. The grups (i.e., grownups) caught us, of course, and put us to work in the barn, sawing wood. Punishment Detail, Uncle Oren called it. It seems to me that something scary happened to me out there, but Ill be damned if I can remember what it was, only that it was red. And I thought up a hero, a magic gunslinger, to keep me safe from it. There was something about magnetism, too, or Beams of Power. Im pretty sure that was the genesis of this story, but its strange how blurry it all seems. Oh well, who remembers all the nasty little nooks of their childhood? Who wants to? Not much else happening. Joe and Naomi made Playground, and Tabbys plans for her trip to England are pretty much complete. Boy, that story about the gunslinger wont get out of my head! Tell you what ole Roland needs some friends! July 19th, 1977 I went to see Star Wars on my motorcycle tonight, and I think itll be the last time I climb on the bike until things cool off a little. I ate a ton of bugs. Talk about protein! I kept thinking about Roland, my gunslinger from the Robert Browning poem (with a tip of Hatlos Hat to Sergio Leone, of course), while I rode. The manuscript is a novel, no doubtor a piece of onebut it occurs to me that the chapters also stand on their own. Or almost. I wonder if I could sell them to one of the fantasy mags? Maybe even to Fantasy and Science Fiction, which is, of course, the genres Holy Grail. Probably a stupid idea. Otherwise, not much doing but the AllStar Game (National League 7, American League 5). I was pretty hammered before it was over. Tabby not pleased  August 9th, 1978 Kirby McCauley sold the first chapter of that old Dark Tower story of mine to Fantasy and Science Fiction! Man, I can hardly believe it! That is just so cool! Kirby sez he thinks Ed Ferman (the Edinchief there) will probably run everything of the DT story that Ive got. Hes going to call the first bit (The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed, etc., etc., blahblah, bangbang) The Gunslinger, which makes sense. Not bad for an old story that was moldering away forgotten in a wet corner of the garage last year. Ferman told Kirby that Roland has a feel of reality thats missing in a lot of fantasy fiction, and wanted to know if there might be even more adventures. Im sure there are even more adventures (or were, or will bewhats the proper tense when youre talking about unwritten tales?), but I have no idea what they might be. Only that John Jake Chambers would have to come back into it. A rainy, muggy day by the lake. No Playground for the kids. Tonight we had Andy Fulcher sit the big kids while Tab  I  Owen went to the Bridgton DriveIn. Tabby thought the film (The Other Side of Midnight  from last year, actually) was a piece of shit, but I didnt hear her begging to be taken home. As for me, I found my mind drifting off to that damn Roland guy again. This time to questions of his lost love. Susan, lovely girl at the window. Who, pray, be she? September 9, 1978 Got my first copy of the October issue with The Gunslinger in it. Man, this looks fine. Burt Hatlen called today. Hes talking about me maybe doing a year at the University of Maine as writer in residence. Only Burt would be ballsy enough to think of a hack like me in connection w a job like that. Sort of an interesting idea, though. October 29, 1979 Well, shit, drunk again. I can barely see the goddam page, but suppose I better put down something before I go staggering off to bed. Got a letter from Ed Ferman at FSF today. Hes going to do the second chapter of The Dark Towerthe part where Roland meets the kidas The Way Station. He really wants to publish the entire run of stories, and Im agreeable enough. I just wish there was more. Meanwhile, theres The Stand to think aboutand, of course, The Dead Zone. All of this doesnt seem to mean much to me just now. I hate being here in Orringtonhate being on such a busy road, for one thing. Owen damned near got creamed by one of those Cianbro trucks today. Scared the hell out of me. Also gave me an idea for a story, having to do with that odd little pet cemetery out in back of the house. is what the sign sez, isnt that weird? Funny, but also creepy. Almost a Vault of Horror type of thing. June 19th, 1980 Just got off the phone with Kirby McCauley. He got a call from Donald Grant, who publishes lots of fantasy stuff under his own imprint (Kirby likes to joke that Don Grant is the man who made Robert E. Howard infamous). Anyway, Don would like to publish my gunslinger stories, and under their original title, The Dark Tower (subtitle The Gunslinger). Isnt that neat? My own limited edition. Hed do 10,000 copies, plus 500 signed and numbered. I told Kirby to go ahead and make the deal. Anyway, it looks like my teaching career is over, and I got pretty well baked to celebrate. Took out the Pet Sematary ms. and looked it over. Good God, is that grim! Readers would lynch me if I published it, I think. Thats one book thatll never see the light of day  July 27th, 1983 Publishers Weekly (our son Owen calls it Pudlishers Weakness, which is actually sorta accurate) reviewed the latest Richard Bachman book  and once more, baby, I got roasted. They implied it was boring, and that, my friend, it aint. Oh well, thinking about it made it that much easier to go to North Windham and pick up those 2 kegs of beer for the party. Got em at Discount Beverage. Im smoking again, too, so sue me. Ill quit the day I turn 40 and thats a promise. Oh, and Pet Sematary is published exactly two months from today. Then my career really will be over (joke  at least I hope its a joke). After some thought, I added The Dark Tower to the authors adcard at the front of the book. In the end, I thought, why not? Yes, I know its sold outthere were only 10,000 copies to start with, fa Chrissakebut it was a real book and Im proud of it. I dont suppose Ill ever go back to ole Roland the GunToting Knight Errant, but yes, Im proud of that book. Good thing I remembered the beer run. February 21st, 1984 Man, I got this crazy call from Sam Vaughn at Doubleday this afternoon (he edited Pet Sem, you will remember). I knew there were some fans who want The Dark Tower and are pissed off they cant get it, because I also get letters. But Sam sez they have gotten over THREE THOUSAND!! letters. And why, you ask? Because I was dumb enough to put The Dark Tower on the Pet Sematary author adcard. I think Sams a little pissed at me, and I suppose hes got a point. He says listing a book that fans want  cant get is a little like holding out a piece of meat to a hungry dog and then yanking it back, saying No, no, you cant have it, harhar. On the other hand, God  the Man Jesus, people are so fucking spoiled! They just assume that if theres a book anywhere in the world they want, then they have a perfect right to that book. This would be news indeed to those folks in the Middle Ages who might have heard rumors of books but never actually saw one; paper was valuable (which would be a good thing to put in the next GunslingerDark Tower novel, if I ever get around to it) and books were treasures you protected with your life. I love being able to make my living writing stories, but anyone who sez theres no dark side to it is full of shit. Someday Im going to do a novel about a psychotic rare book dealer! (Joke) Meanwhile, today was Owens birthday. Hes seven! The age of reason! I can hardly believe my youngest is seven and my daughter is thirteen, a lovely young woman. August 14th, 1984 (NYC) Just got back from a meeting with Elaine Koster from NAL and my agent, the ole Kirboo. Both of them pitched me on doing The Gunslinger as a tradesized paperback, but I passed. Maybe someday, but I wont give that many people a chance to read something so unfinished unlessuntil I go back to work on the story. Which I probably never will. Meantime, I have this other idea for a long novel about a clown thats really the worst monster in the world. Not a bad idea; clowns are scary. To me, at least. (Clowns  chickens, go figure.) November 18th, 1984 I had a dream last night that I think breaks the creative logjam on It. Suppose theres a kind of Beam holding the Earth (or even multiple Earths) in place? And that the Beams generator rests on the shell of a turtle? I could make that part of the books climax. I know it sounds crazy, but Im sure I read somewhere that in Hindu mythology theres a great turtle that bears us all on his shell, and that he serves Gan, the creative overforce. Also, I remember an anecdote where some lady sez to some famous scientist, This evolution stuff is ridiculous. Everyone knows that a turtle holds up the universe. To which the scientist (wish I could remember his name, but I cant) replies, That may be, madam, but what holds up the turtle? Scornful laugh from the lady, who says, Oh, you cant fool me! Its turtles all the way down. Ha! Take that, ye rational men of science! Anyway, I keep a blank book by my bed, and have gotten so I write down a lot of dreams and dream elements wo even fully waking up. This morning Id written Remember the Turtle! And this See the TURTLE of enormous girth! On his shell he holds the earth. His thought is slow but always kind; he holds us all within his mind. Not great poetry, I grant you, but not bad for a guy who was threequarters asleep when he wrote it! Tabby has been on my case about drinking too much again. I suppose shes right, but  June 10th, 1986 (LovellTurtleback Lane) Man, am I glad we bought this house! I was scared of the expense to begin with, but Ive never written better than I have here. Andthis is scary, but its trueI think I want to go back to work on The Dark Tower story. In my heart, I thought I never would, but last night when I was going to the Center General for beer, I could almost hear Roland saying, There are many worlds and many tales, but not much time. I ended up turning around and coming back to the house. Cant remember the last time I spent a totally sober night, but this is one of that dying breed. It actually feels fucked up not to be fucked up. Thats pretty sad, I guess. June 13th, 1986 I woke up in the middle of the night, hungover and needing to pee. While I was standing at the bowl, it was almost as if I could see Roland of Gilead. Telling me to start with the lobstrosities. I will. I know just what they are. June 15th, 1986 Started the new book today. Cant believe Im actually writing about old long, tall, and ugly again, but it felt right from the first page. Hell, from the first word. Ive decided itll be almost like the classic fairytales in structure Roland walks along the beach of the Western Sea, getting sicker  sicker as he goes, and theres a series of doors to our world. Hell draw a new character from behind each one. The first one will be a stone junkie named Eddie Dean  July 16th, 1986 I cant believe this. I mean, Ive got the manuscript on the desk right in front of me so I sorta have to, but I still cant. I have written !!300!! PAGES in the last month, and the copy is so clean its positively squeaky. Ive never felt like one of those writers who can actually take credit for their work, who say they plot every move and incident, but Ive also never had a book that seemed to flow through me like this one has. Its pretty much taken over my life from Day One. And do you know, it seems to me that a lot of the other things Ive written (especially It) are like practice shots for this story. Certainly Ive never picked something up after it lay fallow for fifteen years! I mean, sure, I did a little work on the stories Ed Ferman published in FSF, and I did a little more when Don Grant published The Gunslinger, but nothing like what Im up to now. I even dream about this story. I have days when I wish I could quit drinking, but Ill tell you something Im almost scared to stop. I know inspiration doesnt flow from the neck of a bottle, but theres something  Im scared, okay? I feel like theres somethingSomethingthat doesnt want me to finish this book. That didnt even want me to start it. Now I know thats crazy (Like something out of a Stephen King story, harhar), but at the same time it seems very real. Probably a good thing no onell ever read this diary; very likely theyd put me away if they did. Anyone want to buy a used fruitcake? Im going to call it The Drawing of the Three, I think. September 19th, 1986 Its done. The Drawing of the Three is done. I got drunk to celebrate. Stoned, too. And whats next? Well, It will be published in a month or so, and in two days Ill be thirtynine. Man, I can hardly believe it. Seems just about a week ago that we were living in Bridgton and the kids were babies. Ah, fuck. Time to quit. The writers gettin maudlin. June 19th, 1987 Got my first authors copy of Drawing from Donald Grant today. Its a beautiful package. Ive also decided to let NAL go ahead and do both Dark Tower books in paperbackgive the people what they want. Why the hell not? Of course, I got drunk to celebrate  only these days who needs an excuse? Its a good book but in many ways it seems like I didnt write the damn thing at all, that it just flowed out of me, like the umbilical cord from a babys navel. What Im trying to say is that the wind blows, the cradle rocks, and sometimes it seems to me that none of this stuff is mine, that Im nothing but Roland of Gileads fucking secretary. I know thats stupid, but a part of me sort of believes it. Only maybe Rolands got his own boss. Ka? I do tend to get depressed when I look at my life the booze, the drugs, the cigarettes. As if Im actually trying to kill myself. Or something else is  October 19th, 1987 Im in Lovell tonight, the house on Turtleback Lane. Came down here to think about the way Im living my life. Somethings got to change, man, because otherwise I might as well just cut to the chase and blow my brains out. Somethings got to change. The following item from the North Conway (N.H.) Mountain Ear was pasted into the writers journal, marked April 12th, 1988 LOCAL SOCIOLOGIST DISMISSES WALKIN TALES By Logan Merrill For at least 10 years, the White Mountains have resounded with tales of WalkIns, creatures who may be aliens from space, time travelers, or even beings from another dimension. In a lively lecture last night at the North Conway Public Library, local sociologist Henry K. Verdon, author of Peer Groups and MythMaking, used the WalkIn phenomenon as an illustration of just how myths are created and how they grow. He said that the WalkIns were probably originally created by teenagers in the border towns between Maine and New Hampshire. He also speculated that sightings of illegal aliens who cross over the northern border from Canada and then into the New England states may have played a part in kindling this myth, which has become so prevalent. I think we all know, Professor Verdon said, that there is no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy, and no actual beings called WalkIns. Yet these tales (Continued on P. 8) The rest of the article is missing. Nor is there any explanation as to why King may have included it in his journal. June 19th, 1989 I just got back from my oneyear Alcoholix Anonymous anniversary. An entire year wo drugs or booze! I can hardly believe it. No regrets; sobering up undoubtedly saved my life (and probably my marriage), but I wish it wasnt so hard to write stories in the aftermath. People in the Program say dont push it, itll come, but theres another voice (I think of it as the Voice of the Turtle) telling me to hurry up and get going, time is short and I have to sharpen my tools. For what? For The Dark Tower, of course, and not just because letters keep coming in from people who read The Drawing of the Three and want to know what happens next. Something in me wants to go back to work on the story, but Ill be damned if I know how to get back. July 12th, 1989 There are some amazing treasures on the bookshelves down here in Lovell. Know what I found this morning, while I was looking for something to read? Shardik, by Richard Adams. Not the story about the rabbits but the one about the giant mythological bear. I think Ill read it over again. Am still not writing much of interest  September 21, 1989 Okay, this is relatively weird, so prepare yourself. Around 10 A.M., while I was writing (while I was staring at the word processor and dreaming about how great it would be to have an icecold keg of Bud, at least), the doorbell rang. It was a guy from Bangor House of Flowers, with a dozen roses. Not for Tab, either, but for me. The card read Happy Birthday from the MansfieldsDave, Sandy, and Megan. I had totally forgotten, but today Im the Big FourTwo. Anyway, I took one of the roses out, and I kind of got lost in it. I know how strange that sounds, believe me, but I did. I seemed to hear this sweet humming, and I just went down  down, following the curves of the rose, kind of splashing thru these drops of dew that seemed as big as ponds. And all the time that humming sound got louder  sweeter, and the rose got  well, rosier. And I found myself thinking of Jake from the first Dark Tower story, and Eddie Dean, and a bookstore. I even remember the name The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind. Then, boom! I feel a hand on my shoulder, I turn around, and its Tabby. She wanted to know who sent me the roses. She also wanted to know if Id fallen asleep. I said no, but I kind of did, right there in the kitchen. You know what it was like? That scene at the Way Station in the The Gunslinger, where Roland hypnotizes Jake with a bullet. Im immune to hypnosis, myself. A guy got me up on stage at the Topsham Fair when I was a kid and tried it on me, but it didnt work. As I remember, my brother Dave was quite disappointed. He wanted me to cluck like a chicken. Anyway, I think I want to go back to work on The Dark Tower. I dont know if Im ready for anything that complexafter some of the failures of the last couple of years lets say Im dubiousbut I want to give it a shot, just the same. I hear those makebelieve people calling to me. And who knows? There might even be a place in this one for a giant bear, like Shardik in the Richard Adams novel! October 7th, 1989 I started the next Dark Tower book today, andas with The Drawing of the ThreeI finished my first session wondering why in Gods name I waited so long. Being with Roland, Eddie, and Susannah is like a drink of cool water. Or meeting old friends after a long absence. And, once again, there is a sense that Im not telling the story but only providing a conduit for it. And you know what? Thats okiefine with me. I sat at the word processor for four hours this morning and did not once think of a drink or any sort of mindaltering drug. I think Ill call this one The Wastelands. October 9th, 1989 NoWaste Lands. 2 words, as in the T. S. Eliot poem (his is actually The Waste Land, I think). January 19th, 1990 Finished The Waste Lands tonight, after a marathon 5hour session. People are going to hate the way it ends, w no conclusion to the riddle contest, and I thought the story would go on longer myself, but I cant help it. I heard a voice speak up clearly in my head (as always it sounds like Rolands) saying, Youre done for nowclose thy book, wordslinger. Cliffhanger ending aside, the story seems fine to me, but, as always, not much like the other ones I write. The manuscript is a brick, over 800 pages long, and I created said brick in just a little over three months. Unfuckingreal. Once again, hardly any strikeovers or retakes. There are a few continuity glitches, but considering the length of the book, I can hardly believe how few. Nor can I believe how, when I needed some sort of inspiration, the right book seemed to fly into my hand time after time. Like The Quincunx, by Charles Palliser, with all the wonderful, growly 17thcentury slang Aye, so ye do and So ye will and my cully. That argot sounded perfect coming out of Gashers mouth (to me, at least). And how cool it was to have Jake come back into the story the way he did! Only thing that worries me is whats going to happen to Susannah Dean (who used to be DettaOdetta). Shes pregnant, and Im afraid of who or what the father might be. Some demon? I dont think so, exactly. Maybe I wont have to deal w that until a couple of books further down the line. In any case, my experience is that, in a long book, whenever a woman gets pregnant and nobody knows who the father is, that story is headed down the tubes. Dunno why, but as a plotthickener, pregnancy just naturally seems to suck! Oh well, maybe it doesnt matter. For the time being Im tired of Roland and his katet. I think it may be awhile before I get back to them again, although the fans are going to howl their heads off about that cliffhanger ending on the train out of Lud. Mark my words. Im glad I wrote it, tho, and to me the ending seems just right. In many ways Waste Lands feels like the high point of my makebelieve life. Even better than The Stand, maybe. November 27th, 1991 Remember me saying that Id get bitched at about the ending of Waste Lands? Look at this! Letter follows from John T. Spier, of Lawrence, Kansas November 16, 91 Dear Mr.


King, Or should I just cut to the chase and say Dear Asshole? I cant believe I paid such big bucks for a Donald Grant Edition of your GUNSLINGER book The Waste Lands and this is what I got. It had the right title anyway, for it was a true WASTE. I mean the story was all right dont get me wrong, great in fact, but how could you tack on an ending like that? It wasnt an ending at all but just a case of you getting tired and saying Oh well, what the fuck, I dont need to strain my brain to write an ending, those slobs who buy my books will swallow anything. I was going to send it back but will keep it because I at least liked the pictures (especially Oy). But the story was a cheat. Can you spell CHEAT Mr. King? MOON, that spells CHEAT. Sincerely yours in criticism, John T. Spier Lawrence, Kansas March 23, 1992 In a way, this one makes me feel even worse. Letter follows from Mrs. Coretta Vele, of Stowe, Vermont March 6th, 1992 Dear Stephen King, I dont know if this letter will actually reach you but one can always hope. I have read most of your books and have loved them all. I am a 76yrsyoung gramma from your sister state of Vermont, and I especially like your Dark Tower stories. Well, to the point. Last month I went to see a team of Oncologists at Mass General, and they tell me that the brain tumor I have looks to be malignant after all (at 1st they said Dont worry Coretta its benine). Now I know you have to do what you have to do, Mr. King, and follow your muse, but what theyre saying is that I will be fortunate to see the 4th of July this year. I guess Ive read my last Dark Tower yarn. So what Im wondering is, Can you tell me how the Dark Tower story comes out, at least if Roland and his KaTet actually get to the Dark Tower? And if so what they find there? I promise not to tell a soul and you will be making a dying woman very happy. Sincerely, Coretta Vele Stowe, Vt. I feel like such a shit when I think of how blithe I was concerning the ending of Waste Lands. I gotta answer Coretta Veles letter, but I dont know how to. Could I make her believe I dont know any more than she does about how Rolands story finishes? I doubt it, and yet that is the truth, as Jake sez in his Final Essay. I have no more idea whats inside that damned Tower than  well, than Oy does! I didnt even know it was in a field of roses until it came off my fingertips and showed up on the screen of my new Macintosh computer! Would Coretta buy that? What would she say if I told her, Cory, listen The wind blows and the story comes. Then it stops blowing, and all I can do is wait, same as you. They think Im in charge, every one of them from the smartest of the critics to the most mentally challenged reader. And thats a real hoot. Because Im not. September 22, 1992 The Grant edition of The Waste Lands is sold out, and the paperback edition is doing very well. I should be happy and guess I am, but Im still getting a ton of letters about the cliffhanger ending. They fall into 3 major categories People who are pissed off, people who want to know when the next book in the series is coming out, and pissedoff people who want to know when the next book in the series is coming out. But Im stuck. The wind from that quarter just isnt blowing. Not just now, anyway. Meanwhile, I have an idea for a novel about a lady who buys a picture in a pawnshop and then kind of falls into it. Hey, maybe itll be MidWorld she falls into, and shell meet Roland! July 9th, 1994 Tabby and I dont fight much since I quit drinking, but oboy, this morning we had a dilly. Were at the Lovell house, of course, and as I was getting ready to leave on my morning walk, she showed me a story from todays Lewiston Sun. It seems that a Stoneham man, Charles Chip McCausland, was struck and killed by a hitandrun driver while walking on Route 7. Which is the road I walk on, of course. Tabby tried to persuade me to stay on Turtleback Lane, I tried to persuade her that I had as much right to use Route 7 as anyone else (and honest to God, I only do half a mile on the blacktop), and things went downhill from there. Finally she asked me to at least stop walking on Slab City Hill, where the sightlines are so short and theres nowhere to jump if someone happens to get off the road and onto the shoulder. I told her Id think about it (it would have been noon before I got out of the house if we kept on talking), but in truth Ill be damned if Ill live my life in fear that way. Besides, it seems to me that this poor guy from Stoneham has made the odds of me getting hit while out walking about a million to one. I told this to Tabby and she said, The odds of you ever being as successful at writing as you have been are even higher. Youve said so yourself. To that Im afraid I had no comeback. June 19th, 1995 (Bangor) Tabby and I just got back from the Bangor Auditorium where our youngest (and about four hundred of his classmates) finally got a diploma. Hes now officially a high school graduate. Bangor High and the Bangor Rams are behind him. Hell be starting college in the fall and then Tab and I will have to start dealing w the everpopular Empty Nest Syndrome. Everybody sez it all goes by in the wink of an eye and you say yeah yeah yeah  and then it does. Fuck, Im sad. Feel lost. Whats it all for, anyway? (Whats it all about, Alfie, haha?) What, just a big scramble from the cradle to the grave? The clearing at the end of the path? Jesus, thats grim. Meantime, were headed down to Lovell and the house on Turtleback Lane this afternoonOwen will join us in a day or two, he sez. Tabby knows I want to write by the lake, and boy, shes so intuitive its scary. When we were coming back from the graduation exercises, she asked me if the wind was blowing again. In fact it is, and this time its blowing a gale. I cant wait to start the next volume of the DT series. Time to find out what happens in the riddling contest (that Eddie blows Blaines computerized mind with silly questionsi.e., riddlesis something Ive known for several months now), but I dont think thats the major story I have to tell this time. I want to write about Susan, Rolands first love, and I want to set their cowboy romance in a fictional part of MidWorld called Mejis (i.e., Mexico). Time to saddle up and take another ride w the Wild Bunch. Meantime, the other kids are doing well, although Naomi had some kind of allergic reaction, maybe to shellfish  July 19th, 1995 (Turtleback Lane, Lovell) As on my previous expeditions to MidWorld, I feel like somebody whos just spent a month on a jetpropelled rocketsled. While stoned on hallucinatory happygas. I thought this book would be tougher to get into, much, but in fact it was once more as easy as slipping into a pair of comfortable old shoes, or those Westernstyle shortboots I got from Ballys in New York 3 or 4 years ago and cannot bear to give up. Ive already got over 200 pages, and was delighted to find Roland and his friends investigating the remains of the superflu; seeing evidence of both Randall Flagg and Mother Abagail. I think Flagg may turn out to be Walter, Rolands old nemesis. His real name is Walter oDim, and he was just a country boy to start with. It makes perfect sense, in a way. I can see now how, to a greater or lesser degree, every story Ive ever written is about this story. And you know, I dont have a problem with that. Writing this story is the one that always feels like coming home. Why does it always feel dangerous, as well? Why should I be so convinced that if Im ever found slumped over my desk, dead of a heart attack (or wiped out on my Harley, probably on Route 7), it will be while working on one of these Weird Westerns? I guess because I know so many people are depending on me to finish the cycle. And I want to finish it! God, yes! No Canterbury Tales or Mystery of Edwin Drood in my portfolio if I can help it, thank you very much. And yet I always feel as if some anticreative force is looking around for me, and that I am easier to see when Im working on these stories. Well, enough w the heebiejeebies. Im off on my walk. September 2, 1995 Im expecting the book to be done in another five weeks. This one has been more challenging, but still the story comes to me in wonderful rich details. Watched Kurosawas The Seven Samurai last nite, and wonder if that might not be the right direction for Vol. 6, The Werewolves of EndWorld (or some such). I probably ought to see if any of the little sideotheroad video rental places around here have got The Magnificent Seven, which is the Americanized version of the Kurosawa film. Speaking of sideotheroad, I almost had to dive into the ditch this afternoon to avoid a guy in a vanswerving from side to side, pretty obviously drunkon the last part of Route 7 before I turn back into the relatively sheltered environs of Turtleback Lane. I dont think Ill mention this to Tabby; shed go nuclear. Anyway, Ive had my one pedestrian scare, and Im just glad it didnt happen on the Slab City Hill portion of the road. October 19th, 1995 Took me a little longer than I thought, but I finished Wizard and Glass tonight  August 19th, 1997 Tabby and I just said goodbye to Joe and his good wife; theyre on their way back to New York. I was glad I could give them a copy of Wizard and Glass. The first bunch of finished books came today. What looks  smells better than a new book, especially one w your name on the title page? This is the worlds best job Ive got; real people pay me real money to hang out in my imagination. Where, I should add, the only ones who feel completely real to me are Roland and his katet. I think the CRs are really going to like this one, and not just because it finishes the story of Blaine the Mono. I wonder if the Vermont Gramma with the brain tumor is still alive? I spoze not, but if she was, Id be happy to send her a copy  July 6th, 1998 Tabby, Owen, Joe, and I went to Oxford tonight to see the film Armageddon. I liked it more than I expected, in part because I had my family w me. The movie is sfxdriven endoftheworld stuff. Got me thinking about the Dark Tower and the Crimson King. Probably not surprising. I wrote for awhile this morning on my Vietnam story, switching over from longhand to my PowerBook, so I guess Im serious about it. I like the way Sully John reappeared. Question Will Roland Deschain and his friends ever meet Bobby Garfields pal, Ted Brautigan? And just who are those low men chasing the old Tedster, anyway? More and more my work feels like a slanted trough where everything eventually drains into MidWorld and EndWorld. The Dark Tower is my uberstory, no question about that. When its done, I plan to ease back. Maybe retire completely. August 7, 1998 Took my usual walk this afternoon, and tonight I took Fred Hauser with me to the AA meeting in Fryeburg. On the way home he asked me to sponsor him and I said yes; I think hes finally getting serious about sobering up. Good for him. Anyhow, he got talking about the socalled WalkIns. He says there are more of them around the Seven Towns than ever, and all sorts of folks are gossiping about them. How come I never hear anything, then? I asked him. To which I got no answer but an extremely funny look. I kept prodding, and finally Fred sez, People dont like to talk about them around you, Steve, because there have been two dozen reported on Turtleback Lane in the last 8 months and you claim not to have seen a single one. To me this seemed like a non sequitur and I made no reply. It wasnt until after the meetingand after Id dropped my new pigeon offthat I realized what he was saying people dont talk about the WalkIns around me because they think that in some crazy way IM RESPONSIBLE. I thought I was pretty well used to being Americas boogeyman, but this is actually sort of outrageous  January 2, 1999 (Boston) Owen and I are at the Hyatt Harborside tonight, and head off to Florida tomorrow. (Tabby and I are talking about buying a place there but havent told the kids. I mean, theyre only 27, 25 and 21maybe when theyre old enough to understand such things, haha.) Earlier we met Joe and saw a film called Hurlyburly, from the play by David Rabe. Very odd. Speaking of odd, I had some sort of New Years Night nightmare before leaving Maine. Cant remember exactly what it was, but when I woke up this morning Id written two things in my dreambook. One was Baby Mordred, like something out of a Chas Addams cartoon. That I sort of understand; it must refer to Susannahs baby in the Dark Tower stories. Its the other thing that puzzles me. It says 61999, O Discordia. Discordia also sounds like something out of the DT stories, but its not anything I have invented. As for 61999, thats a date, right? Meaning what? June 19th of this year. Tabby and I should be back at the Turtleback Lane house by then, but so far as I can remember its not anybodys birthday. Maybe its the date Im going to meet my first walkin! June 12, 1999 Its wonderful to be back at the lake! Ive decided to take 10 days off, then finally return to work on the howtowrite book. Im curious about Hearts in Atlantis; will folks want to know if Bobby Garfields friend Ted Brautigan plays a part in the Tower saga? The truth is I really dont know the answer to that. In any case, readership of the Tower stories has fallen off a lot latelythe figures are really disappointing, compared to that of my other books (except for Rose Madder, which was a real tankjob, at least in the sales sense). But it doesnt matter, at least to me, and if the series ever gets done, sales may go up. Tabby and I had another argument about my walking route; she asked me again to quit going out on the main road. Also she asked me Is the wind blowing yet? Meaning am I thinking about the next Dark Tower story. I said no, commalacomecome, the tale has not begun. But it will, and theres a dance called the commala in it. Thats the one thing I see clearly Roland dancing. Why, or for whom, I dont know. Anyway, I asked T. why she wanted to know about the Dark Tower and she said, Youre safer when youre with the gunslingers. Joking, I suppose, but an odd joke for T. Not much like her. June 17, 1999 Talked with Rand Holston and Mark Carliner tonight. They both sound excited about moving on from Storm of the Century to Rose Red (or Kingdom Hospital), but either one would fill my plate up again. I dreamed of my walk last night  woke up crying. The Tower will fall, I thought. O Discordia, the world grows dark. ???? Headline from the Portland PressHerald, June 18, 1999 WALKIN PHENOMENON IN WESTERN MAINE CONTINUES TO RESIST EXPLANATION June 19, 1999 This is like one of those times when all the planets line up, except in this case its my family all lined up here on Turtleback Lane. Joe and his family arrived around noon; their little boy is really cute. Say true! Sometimes I look in the mirror and say, You are a grandfather. And the Steve in the mirror just laughs, because the idea is so ridiculous. The Steve in the mirror knows Im still a college sophomore, going to classes and protesting the war in Viet Nam by day, drinking beer down at Pats Pizza with Flip Thompson and George McLeod by night. As for my grandson, the beautiful Ethan? He just tugs on the balloon tied to his toe and laughs. Daughter Naomi and son Owen got here late last night. We had a great Fathers Day dinner; people saying things to me that were so nice I had to check to make sure I wasnt dead! God, Im lucky to have family, lucky to have more stories to tell, lucky to still be alive. The worst thing to happen this week, I hope, will be my wifes bed collapsing under the weight of our son and daughterinlawthe idiots were wrestling on it. You know what? Ive been thinking of going back to Rolands story after all. As soon as I finish the book on writing (On Writing would actually not be a bad titleits simple and to the point). But right now the sun is shining, the day is beautiful, and what Im going to do is take a walk. More later, maybe. From the Portland Sunday Telegram, June 20, 1999 STEPHEN KING DIES NEAR LOVELL HOME POPULAR MAINE WRITER KILLED WHILE TAKING AFTERNOON WALK INSIDER CLAIMS MAN DRIVING LETHAL VAN TOOK EYES OFF THE ROAD AS HE APPROACHED KING ON ROUTE 7 By Ray Routhier LOVELL, ME. (Exclusive) Maines most popular author was struck and killed by a van while walking near his summer home yesterday afternoon. The van was driven by Bryan Smith of Fryeburg. According to sources close to the case, Smith has admitted that he took his eyes off the road when one of his Rottweilers got out of the back of the van and began nosing into a cooler behind the drivers seat. I never even saw him, Smith is reported to have said shortly after the collision, which took place on what locals call Slab City Hill. King, author of such popular novels as It, Salems Lot, The Shining, and The Stand, was taken to Northern Cumberland Memorial Hospital in Bridgton, where he was pronounced dead at 602 PM Saturday evening. He was 52 years old. A hospital source said the cause of death was extensive head injuries. Kings family, which had gathered in part to celebrate Fathers Day, is in seclusion tonight  Commalacomecome, The battles now begun! And all the foes of men and rose Rise with the setting sun.  Constant Readers Wordslingers Note Id once more like to acknowledge the invaluable contributions of Robin Furth, who read this novel in manuscriptand those preceding itwith great and sympathetic attention to detail. If this increasingly complex tale hangs together, Robin should get most of the credit. And if you dont believe it, check out her Dark Tower concordance, which makes fascinating reading in and of itself. Thanks are also due to Chuck Verrill, who has edited the final five novels in the Tower cycle, and to the three publishers, two large and one small, who cooperated to make this massive project a reality Robert Wiener (Donald M. Grant, Publisher), Susan Petersen Kennedy and Pamela Dorman (Viking), Susan Moldow and Nan Graham (Scribner). Special thanks to Agent Moldow, whose irony and bravery have saved many a bleak day. There are others, plenty of them, but Im not going to annoy you with the whole list. After all, this aint the fucking Academy Awards, is it? Certain geographical details in this book and in the concluding novel of the Tower cycle have been fictionalized. The real people mentioned in these pages have been used in a fictional way. And to the best of my knowledge, there were never coinop storage lockers in the World Trade Center. As for you, Constant Reader  One more turn of the path, and then we reach the clearing. Come along with me, will ya not? Stephen King May 28, 2003 (Tell God thank ya.)