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“Time flies, knells call, life passes, sohear my prayer.
“Birth is nothing but death begun, so hearmy prayer.
“Death is speechless, so hear my speech.”
The words drifted away into the haze ofgreen and gold. Roland let them, then set upon the rest. He spoke more quicklynow.
“This is Jake, who served his ka and histet. Say true.
“May the forgiving glance of S’mana healhis heart. Say please.
“May the arms of Gan raise him from thedarkness of this earth. Say please.
“Surround him, Gan, with light.
“Fill him, Chloe, with strength.
“If he is thirsty, give him water in theclearing.
“If he is hungry, give him food in theclearing.
“May his life on this earth and the pain ofhis passing become as a dream to his waking soul, and let his eyes fall uponevery lovely sight; let him find the friends that were lost to him, and letevery one whose name he calls call his in return.
“This is Jake, who lived well, loved hisown, and died as ka would have it.
“Each man owes a death. This is Jake. Givehim peace.”
He knelt a moment longer with his handsclasped between his knees, thinking he had not understood the true power ofsorrow, nor the pain of regret, until this moment.
I ca
But once again, that cruel paradox: if hedidn’t, the sacrifice was in vain.
Roland opened his eyes and said, “Goodbye,Jake. I love you, dear.”
Then he closed the blue hood around theboy’s face against the rain of earth that must follow.
Eleven
When the grave was filled and the rocksplaced over it, Roland walked back to the clearing by the road and examined thetale the various tracks told, simply because there was nothing else to do. Whenthat meaningless task was finished, he sat down on a fallen log. Oy had stayedby the grave, and Roland had an idea he might bide there. He would call thebumbler when Mrs. Tassenbaum returned, but knew Oy might not come; if hedidn’t, it meant that Oy had decided to join his friend in the clearing. Thebumbler would simply stand watch by Jake’s grave until starvation (or somepredator) took him. The idea deepened Roland’s sorrow, but he would bide byOy’s decision.
Ten minutes later the bumbler came out ofthe woods on his own and sat down by Roland’s left boot. “Good boy,” Rolandsaid, and stroked the bumbler’s head. Oy had decided to live. It was a smallthing, but it was a good thing.
Ten minutes after that, a dark red carrolled almost silently up to the place where King had been struck and Jakekilled. It pulled over. Roland opened the door on the passenger side and gotin, still wincing against pain that wasn’t there. Oy jumped up between his feetwithout being asked, lay down with his nose against his flank, and appeared togo to sleep.
“Did you see to your boy?” Mrs. Tassenbaumasked, pulling away.
“Yes. Thankee-sai.”
“I guess I can’t put a marker there,” shesaid, “but later on I could plant something. Is there something you think hemight like?”
Roland looked up, and for the first timesince Jake’s death, he smiled. “Yes,” he said. “A rose.”
Twelve
They rode for almost twenty minutes withoutspeaking. She stopped at a small store over the Bridgton town line and pumpedgas: MOBIL, a brand Roland recognized from his wanderings. When she went in topay, he looked up at los ángeles, ru
When Mrs. Tassenbaum came out of the store,she was holding a singlet-style shirt with a picture of a bucka-wagon onit—a real bucka-wagon—and words written in a circle. Hecould make out HOME, but nothing else. He asked her what the words said.
“BRIDGTON OLD HOME DAYS, JULY 27TH TO JULY30TH, 1999,” she told him. “It doesn’t really matter what it says as long as itcovers your chest. Sooner or later we’ll want to stop, and there’s a saying wehave in these parts: ‘No shirt, no shoes, no service.’ Your boots look beat-upand busted down, but I guess they’ll get you through the door of most places.But topless? Huh-uh, no way José. I’ll get you a better shirt lateron—one with a collar—and some decent pants, too. Those jeans are sodirty I bet they’d stand up on their own.” She engaged in a brief (but furious)interior debate, then plunged. “You’ve got I’m going to say roughly two billionscars. And that’s just on the part of you I can see.”
Roland did not respond to this. “Do youhave money?” he asked.
“I got three hundred dollars when I wentback to the house to get my car, and I had thirty or forty with me. Also creditcards, but your late friend said to use cash as long as I could. Until you goon by yourself, if possible. He said there might be folks looking for you. Hecalled them ‘low men.’”
Roland nodded. Yes, there would be low menout there, and after all he and his ka-tet had done to thwart the plans oftheir master, they’d be twice as eager to have his head. Preferably smoking,and on the end of a stick. Also the head of sai Tassenbaum, if they found outabout her.
“What else did Jake tell you?” Rolandasked.
“That I must take you to New York City, ifyou wanted to go there. He said there’s a door there that will take you to aplace called Faydag.”
“Was there more?”
“Yes. He said there was another place youmight want to go before you used the door.” She gave him a timid littlesideways glance. “Is there?”
He considered this, then nodded.
“He also spoke to the dog. It sounded as ifhe was giving the dog… orders? Instructions?” She looked at him doubtfully.“Could that be?”
Roland thought it could. The woman Jakecould only ask. As for Oy… well, it might explain why the bumbler hadn’t stayedby the grave, much as he might have wanted to.
For awhile they traveled in silence. Theroad they were on led to a much busier one, filled with cars and trucks ru
He opened his eyes again and watched as shedrove down a smooth, paved ramp, slipping into the heavy flow of trafficwithout a pause. He leaned over and looked up through the window on his side.There were the clouds, los ángeles, traveling above them, in thesame direction. They were still on the Path of the Beam.
Thirteen
“Mister? Roland?”
She thought he had been dozing with hiseyes open. Now he turned to her from where he sat in the passenger bucket seatwith his hands in his lap, the good one folded over the mutilated one, hidingit. She thought she had never seen anyone who looked less like he belonged in aMercedes-Benz. Or any automobile. She also thought she had never seen a man wholooked so tired.
But he’s not used up. I don’t think he’sanywhere near used up, although he may think otherwise.
“The animal… Oy?”
“Oy, yes.” The bumbler looked up at thesound of his name, but didn’t repeat it as he might have done only yesterday.
“Is it a dog? It isn’t, exactly, is it?”
“He, not it. And no, he’s not a dog.”
Irene Tassenbaum opened her mouth, thenclosed it again. This was difficult, because silence in company did not comenaturally to her. And she was with a man she found attractive, even in hisgrief and exhaustion (perhaps to some degree because of those things). A dyingboy had asked her to take this man to New York City, and get him to the placeshe needed to go once they were there. He’d said that his friend knew even lessabout New York than he did about money, and she believed that was true. But shealso believed this man was dangerous. She wanted to ask more questions, butwhat if he answered them? She understood that the less she knew, the better herchance, once he was gone, of merging into the life she’d been living at quarterto four this afternoon. To merge the way you merged onto the turnpike from aside road. That would be best.