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SIX
It's a joke, part of his mind assured him. It must be a joke, the cover of this book says it's a novel, so -
Then an idea struck him, and he felt a surge of relief. It was conditional relief, but surely better than none at all. The idea was that sometimes people wrote make-believe stories about real places. That was it, surely. Had to be.
"Look at page one hundred and nineteen," Roland said. "I could make out a little of it, but not all. Not nearly enough."
Callahan found the page, and read this:
" 'In the early days at the seminary, a friend of Father…' " He trailed off, eyes racing ahead over the words on the page.
"Go on," Eddie said. "You read it, Father, or I will."
Slowly, Callahan resumed.
" '… a friend of Father Callahan's had given him a blasphemous crewelwork sampler which had sent him into gales of horrified laughter at the time, but which seemed more true and less blasphemous as the years passed: God grant me the SERENITY to accept what I ca
" 'Now, standing before Da
The hand holding the book sagged. If Jake hadn't caught it, it probably would have tumbled to the floor of the cave.
"You had it, didn't you?" Eddie said. "You actually had a sampler saying that."
"Frankie Foyle gave it to me," Callahan said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Back in seminary. And Da
"Here's the part where the vampire broke your cross," Jake reported. " ' "Together at last!" Barlow said, smiling. His face was strong and intelligent and handsome in a sharp, forbidding sort of way-yet, as the light shifted, it seemed-' "
"Stop," Callahan said dully. "It makes my head hurt."
"It says his face reminded you of the bogeyman who lived in your closet when you were a kid. Mr. Flip."
Callahan's face was now so pale he might have been a vampire's victim himself. "I never told anyone about Mr. Flip, not even my mother. That can't be in that book. It just can't be."
"It is," Jake said simply.
"Let's get this straight," Eddie said. "When you were a kid, there was a Mr. Flip, and you did think of him when you faced this particular Type One vampire, Barlow. Correct?"
"Yes, but-"
Eddie turned to the gunslinger. "Is this getting us any closer to Susa
"Yes. We've reached the heart of a great mystery. Perhaps the great mystery. I believe the Dark Tower is almost close enough to touch. And if the Tower is close, Susa
Ignoring him, Callahan was flipping through the book. Jake was looking over his shoulder.
"And you know how to open that door?" Eddie pointed at
"Yes," Roland said. "I'd need help, but I think the people of Calla Bryn Sturgis owe us a little help, don't you?"
Eddie nodded. "All right, then, let me tell you this much: I'm pretty sure I have seen the name Stephen King before, at least once."
"On the Specials board," Jake said without looking up from the book. "Yeah, I remember. It was on the Specials board the first time we went todash."
"Specials board?" Roland asked, frowning.
"Tower's Specials board," Eddie said. "It was in the window, remember? Part of his whole Restaurant-of-the-Mind thing."
Roland nodded.
"But I'll tell you guys something," Jake said, and now he did look up from the book. "The name was there when Eddie and I went todash, but it wasn't on the board the first time I went in there. The time Mr. Deepneau told me the river riddle, it was someone else's name. It changed, just like the name of the writer on Charlie the Choo-Choo."
"I can't be in a book," Callahan was saying. "I am not a fiction… am I?"
"Roland." It was Eddie. The gunslinger turned to him. "I need to find her. I don't care who's real and who's not. I don't care about Calvin Tower, Stephen King, or the Pope of Rome. As far as reality goes, she's all of it I want. I need to find my wife.'" His voice dropped. "Help me, Roland."
Roland reached out and took the book in his left hand. With his right he touched the door. If she's still alive, he thought. If we can find her, and if she's come back to herself. If and if and if.
Eddie took Roland's arm. "Please," he said. "Please don't make me try to do it on my own. I love her so much. Help me find her."
Roland smiled. It made him younger. It seemed to fill the cave with its own light. All of Eld's ancient power was in that smile: the power of the White.
"Yes," he said. "We go."
And then he said again, all the affirmation necessary in this dark place.
"Yes."
Bangor, Maine December 15, 2002
Author's Note
The debt I owe to the American Western in the composition of the Dark Tower novels should be clear without my belaboring the point; certainly the Calla did not come by the final part of its (slightly misspelled) name accidentally. Yet it should be pointed out that at least two sources for some of this material aren't American at all. Sergio Leone (A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, etc.) was Italian. And Akira Kurosawa (The Seven Samurai) was, of course, Japanese. Would these books have been written without the cinematic legacy of Kurosawa, Leone, Peckinpah, Howard Hawkes, and John Sturgis? Probably not without Leone. But without the others, I would argue there could be no Leone.
I also owe a debt of thanks to Robin Furth, who managed to be there with the right bit of information every time I needed it, and of course to my wife, Tabitha, who is still patiently giving me the time and light and space I need to do this job to the best of my abilities.
S.K
Author's Afterword
Before you read this short afterword, I ask that you take a moment (may it do ya fine) to look again at the dedication page at the front of this story. I'll wait.
Thank you. I want you to know that Frank Muller has read a number of my books for the audio market, begi