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Time, Eddie had decided during this period, was in large part created by external events. When a lot of interesting shit was happening, time seemed to go by fast. If you got stuck with nothing but the usual boring shit, it slowed down. And when everything stopped happening, time apparently quit altogether. Just packed up and went to Coney Island. Weird but true.
Had everything stopped happening? Eddie considered (and with nothing to do but push Susa
And really, what could be so special about the number nineteen? Mystery Number, indeed. After some thought, Susa
TWO
They might have been back on the Path of the Beam five or six weeks when they came to a pair of ancient double ruts that had surely once been a road. It didn't follow the Path of the Beam exactly, but Roland swung them onto it anyway. It bore closely enough to the Beam for their purposes, he said. Eddie thought being on a road again might refocus things, help them to shake that maddening becalmed-in-the-Horse-Latitudes feeling, but it didn't. The road carried them up and across a rising series of fields like steps. They finally topped a long north-south ridge. On the far side, their road descended into a dark wood. Almost a fairy-tale wood, Eddie thought as they passed into its shadows. Susa
"I keep lookin for the candy house," Eddie said. They'd been winding their way through the great old trees for several days by then. Or maybe it had been as long as a week. All he knew for sure was that they were still reasonably close to the Path of the Beam. They could see it in the sky… and they could feel it.
"What candy house is this?" Roland asked. "Is it another tale? If so, I'd hear."
Of course he would. The man was a glutton for stories, especially those that led off with a "Once upon a time when everyone lived in the forest." But the way he listened was a little odd. A little off. Eddie had mentioned this to Susa
"That's 'cause he doesn't listen all big-eyed like a kid at bedtime," she said. "That's just how you want him to listen, honey-bunch."
"And how does he listen?"
"Like an anthropologist," she had replied promptly. "Like an anthropologist tryin to figure out some strange culture by their myths and legends."
She was right. And if Roland's way of listening made Eddie uncomfortable, it was probably because in his heart, Eddie felt that if anyone should be listening like scientists, it should be him and Suze and Jake. Because they came from a far more sophisticated where and when. Didn't they?
Whether they did or didn't, the four had discovered a great number of stories that were common to both worlds. Roland knew a tale called "Diana's Dream" that was eerily close to "The Lady or the Tiger," which all three exiled New Yorkers had read in school. The tale of Lord Perth was similar to the Bible story of David and Goliath. Roland had heard many tales of the Man Jesus, who died on the cross to redeem the sins of the world, and told Eddie, Susa
Eddie passed at least an hour telling Roland the story of Hansel and Gretel, turning the wicked child-eating witch into Rhea of the Coos almost without thinking of it. When he got to the part about her trying to fatten the children up, he broke off and asked Roland: "Do you know this one? A version of this one?"
"No," Roland said, "but it's a fair tale. Tell it to the end, please."
Eddie did, finishing with the required They lived happily ever after, and the gunslinger nodded. "No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves, don't we?"
"Yeah," Jake said.
Oy was trotting at the boy's heel, looking up at Jake with the usual expression of calm adoration in his gold-ringed eyes. "Yeah," the bumbler said, copying the boy's rather glum inflection exactly.
Eddie threw an arm around Jake's shoulders. "Too bad you're over here instead of back in New York," he said. "If you were back in the Apple, Jakey-boy, you'd probably have your own child psychiatrist by now. You'd be working on these issues about your parents. Getting to the heart of your unresolved conflicts. Maybe getting some good drugs, too. Ritalin, stuff like that."
"On the whole, I'd rather be here," Jake said, and looked down at Oy.
"Yeah," Eddie said. "I don't blame you."
"Such stories are called 'fairy tales,' " Roland mused.
"Yeah," Eddie replied.
"There were no fairies in this one, though."
"No," Eddie agreed. "That's more like a category name than anything else. In our world you got your mystery and suspense stories… your science fiction stories… your Westerns… your fairy tales. Get it?"
"Yes," Roland said. "Do people in your world always want only one story-flavor at a time? Only one taste in their mouths?"
"I guess that's close enough," Susa
"Does no one eat stew?" Roland asked.
"Sometimes at supper, I guess," Eddie said, "but when it comes to entertainment, we do tend to stick with one flavor at a time, and don't let any one thing touch another thing on your plate. Although it sounds kinda boring when you put it that way."
"How many of these fairy tales would you say there are?"
With no hesitation-and certainly no collusion-Eddie, Susa
They looked at each other and laughed, because "nineteen" had become a kind of jokey catchword among them, replacing "bumhug," which Jake and Eddie had pretty much worn out. Yet the laughter had a tinge of uneasiness about it, because this business about nineteen had gotten a trifle weird. Eddie had found himself carving it on the side of his most recent wooden animal, like a brand: Hey there, Pard, welcome to our spread! We call it the Bar-Nineteen. Both Susa
Then there was the morning Roland had stopped them at the edge of the wood through which they were now traveling. He had pointed at the sky, where one particularly ancient tree had reared its hoary branches. The shape those branches made against the sky was the number nineteen. Clearly nineteen. They had all seen it, but Roland had seen it first.