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There were many disasters and near-disasters on that long, stormy day, just as there were many acts of heroism, some successful and some doomed to failure. Some farmhouses in the I
But by seven that evening, the snow had finally begun to abate a little, and the wind to fall. The excitement was ending, and the castle went to bed early. There was little else to do. Fires were banked, children tucked in, last cups of field-tea drunk, prayers said.
One by one, the lights went out. The Crier called in his loudest voice, but the wind still tore his voice out of his mouth at eight o’ the clock and again at nine; it was not until ten that he could be heard again, and by then, most people were asleep.
Thomas was also asleep-but his sleep was not easy. There was no De
As always, the shrieking wind reminded Thomas of the night his father died, and he feared he would have a hard time getting to sleep… and that, once he was asleep, horrible nightmares might come, dreams in which his father would scream and rant and finally burst into flames. So Thomas did what he had grown accustomed to doing; he spent the day with a glass of wine always in his hand, and if I told you how many bottles of wine this mere boy consumed before he finally went to bed at ten o’ the clock, you probably wouldn’t believe me-so I won’t say. But it was a lot.
Lying there miserably on his sofa, wishing that De
He slept for almost an hour… and then he rose and walked. Out the door he went and down the halls, ghostly in his long white nightshirt. This night a late-going maid with an armload of sheets saw him, and he looked so much like old King Roland that the maid dropped her sheets and fled, screaming.
Thomas’s darkly dreaming mind heard her screams and thought they were his father’s.
He walked on, turning into the less used corridor. He paused halfway down and pushed the secret stone. He went into the passageway, closed the door behind him, and walked to the end of the corridor. He pushed aside the panels which were behind Niner’s glass eyes, and though he was still asleep, he pushed his face up to the holes, as if looking into his dead father’s sitting room. And here we will leave the unfortunate boy for a while, with the smell of wine surrounding him and tears of regret run-ning from his sleeping eyes and down his cheeks.
He was sometimes a cruel boy, often a sad boy, this pretend King, and he had almost always been a weak boy… but even now I must tell you that I do not believe he was ever really a bad boy. If you hate him because of the things he did-and the things he allowed to be done-I will understand; but if you do not pity him a little as well, I will be surprised.
111
At quarter past eleven on that momentous night, the storm breathed its last gasp. A tremendous cold gust of wind swept down on the castle. It ran in excess of a hundred miles an hour. It tore the thi
In the Third East'ard Alley was a squat stone tower called the Church of the Great Gods; it had stood there since time out of mind. Many people worshipped there, but it was empty now.
A good thing, too. The tower was not very tall-nowhere near the height of the Needle-but it nevertheless stood high above the neighboring buildings in the Third East'ard Alley, and all day long it had been punished by the unbroken force of the storm wind. This final gust was too much for it. The top thirty feet-all stone-simply blew off, as a hat might fly off a scare-crow in a high gale. Part landed in the alley; part hit the neigh-boring buildings. There was a tremendous crash.
Most of the populace of the castle keep, wearied by the ex-citement of the storm and already sleeping deeply, took no mind of the fall of the Church of the Great Gods (although they would wonder greatly over the snow-covered wreckage in the morn-ing). Most simply muttered, turned over, and went back to sleep.
Some Guards of the Watch-those not too drunk to care-, heard it, of course, and ran to see what had happened. Other than by these few, the fall of the tower went mostly unremarked when it happened… but there were a few others who heard it, and by now you know them all.
Ben, De
Beson and the Lesser Warders, all of them drunk, didn’t hear the Church of the Great Gods fall down, but Peter did. He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, carefully pulling his woven rope through his fingers, looking anxiously for weak points. He raised his head at the snow-muted thunder of falling stones, and went rapidly to the window. He could see nothing; whatever had fallen was on the Needle’s far side. After several considering moments, he went back to his rope. Midnight was close now, and he had come to much the same conclusion as his friend Ben. It didn’t matter. The dice had been thrown. Now he must go on.
Deep in the darkness of the secret passage, Thomas heard the muffled thunder-thud of the falling tower and woke up. He heard the muffled barking of dogs below him and realized in horror where he was.
And one other who had been sleeping lightly and dreaming troubled dreams awoke at the fall of the tower. He woke even though he was deep in the bowels of the castle.
“Disaster!” one of the parrot’s two heads screamed.
“Fire, flood, and escape!” the other screamed.
Flagg had awakened. I have told you that evil is sometimes strangely blind, and so it is. Sometimes evil is lulled with no reason, and sleeps.
But now Flagg had awakened.