The Waste Lands (Page 95)

“They’ve been doing it a long time,” Roland said, “and I imagine they could show us a thing or two. They’ll manage. Meantime, let’s get that wood—it’s going to be a chilly night.”

But Jake wasn’t done with it yet. He was looking closely—almost sternly—at Eddie. “You’re saying we could never do enough for them, aren’t you?” Eddie stuck out his lower lip and blew hair off his forehead. “Not exactly. I’m saving it would never be any easier to leave than it was today. Harder, maybe, but no easier.”

“It still doesn’t seem right.”

They reached the place that would become, once the fire was lit, just another campsite on the road to the Dark Tower. Susannah had eased herself out of her chair and was lying on her back with her hands behind her head, looking up at the stars. Now she sat up and began to arrange the wood in the way Roland had shown her months ago.

“Right is what all this is about,” Roland said. “But if you look too long at the small rights, Jake—the ones that lie close at hand— it’s easy to lose sight of the big ones that stand farther off. Things are out of joint—going wrong and getting worse. We see it all around us, but the answers are still ahead. While we were helping the twenty or thirty people left in River Crossing, twenty or thirty thousand more might be suffering or dying somewhere else. And if there is any place in the universe where these things can be set right, it’s at the Dark Tower.”

“Why? How?” Jake asked. “What is this Tower, anyway?” Roland squatted beside the fire Susannah had built, produced his flint and steel, and began to flash sparks into the kindling. Soon small flames were growing amid the twigs and dried handfuls of grass. “I can’t answer those questions,” he said. “I wish I could.”

That, Eddie thought, was an exceedingly clever reply. Roland had said I can’t answer . . . but that wasn’t the same thing as I don’t know. Far from it.

SUPPER CONSISTED OF WATER and greens. They were all still recovering from the heavy meal they’d eaten in River Crossing; even Oy refused the scraps Jake offered him after the first one or two.

“How come you wouldn’t talk back there?” Jake scolded the bum-bier. “You made me look like an idiot!”

“Id-yit!” Oy said, and put his muzzle on Jake’s ankle. “He’s talking better all the time,” Roland remarked. “He’s even starting to sound like you, Jake.”

“Ake,” Oy agreed, not lifting his muzzle. Jake was fascinated by the gold rings in Oy’s eyes; in the flickering light of the fire, they seemed to revolve slowly.

“But he wouldn’t talk to the old people.” “Bumblers are choosy about that sort of thing,” Roland said. “They’re odd creatures. If I had to guess, I’d say this one was driven away by its own pack.” “Why do you think so?”

Roland pointed at Oy’s flank. Jake had cleaned off the blood (Oy hadn’t enjoyed this, but had stood for it) and the bite was healing, although the bumbler still limped a little. “I’d bet an eagle that’s the bite of another bumbler.” “But why would his own pack—“

“Maybe they got tired of his chatter,” Eddie said. He had lain down beside Susannah and put an arm about her shoulders. “Maybe they did,” Roland said, “especially if he was the only one of them who was still trying to talk. The others might have decided he was too bright—or too uppity—for their taste. Animals don’t know as much about jealousy as people, but they’re not ignorant of it, either.”

The object of this discussion closed his eyes and appeared to go to sleep . . . but Jake noticed his ears began twitching when the talk resumed. “How bright are they?” Jake asked.

Roland shrugged. “The old groom I told you about—the one who said a good bumbler is good luck—swore he had one in his youth that could add. He said it told sums either by scratching on the stable floor or pushing stones together with its muzzle.” He grinned. It lit his whole face, chasing away the gloomy shadows which had lain there ever since they left River Crossing. “Of course, grooms and fishermen are born to lie.”

A companionable silence fell among them, and Jake could feel drowsiness stealing over him. He thought he would sleep soon, and that was fine by him. Then the drums began, coming out of the southeast in rhythmic pulses, and he sat back up. They listened without speaking.

“That’s a rock and roll backbeat,” Eddie said suddenly. “I know it is. Take away the guitars and that’s what you’ve got left. In fact, it sounds quite a lot like Z.Z. Top.”

“Z.Z. who?” Susannah asked.

Eddie grinned. “They didn’t exist in your when,” he said. “I mean, they probably did, but in ‘63 they would have been just a bunch of kids going to school down in Texas.” He listened. “I’ll be goddamned if that doesn’t sound just like the backbeat to something like ‘Sharp-Dressed Man’ or ‘Velcro Fly.’ ” ” Velcro Fly’?” Jake said. “That’s a stupid name for a song.” “Pretty funny, though,” Eddie said. “You missed it by ten years or so, sport.” “We’d better roll over,” Roland said. “Morning comes early.” “I can’t sleep with that shit going on,” Eddie said. He hesitated, then said something which had been on his mind ever since the morning when they had pulled Jake, whitefaced and shrieking, through the door-way and into this world. “Don’t you think it’s about time we exchanged stories, Roland? We might find out we know more than we think.”