The shadow of the newcomer falls over Wendell, who resolutely refuses to look up.
"Howdy, stranger," says the newcomer.
Wendell carries on not looking up.
"My name's Parkus. I'm the law 'round these parts. What's your handle?"
Wendell refuses to respond, unless we can call the low grunts issuing from his drool-slicked mouth a response.
"I asked your name. "
"Wen," says our old acquaintance (we can't really call him a friend) without looking up. "Wen. Dell. Gree . . . Green. I . . . I . . . I . . . "
"Take your time," Parkus says (not without sympathy). "I can wait till your branding iron gets hot. "
"I . . . news hawk!"
"Oh? That what you are?" Parkus hunkers; Wendell cringes back against the fragile wall of the pavilion. "Well, don't that just beat the bass drum at the front of the parade? Tell you what, I've seen fish hawks, and I've seen red hawks, and I've seen goshawks, but you're my first news hawk. "
Wendell looks up, blinking rapidly.
On Parkus's left shoulder, one head of the parrot says: "God is love. "
"Go fuck your mother," replies the other head.
"All must seek the river of life," says the first head.
"Suck my tool," says the second.
"We grow toward God," responds the first.
"Piss up a rope," invites the second.
Although both heads speak equably ¡ª even in tones of reasonable discourse ¡ª Wendell cringes backward even farther, then looks down and furiously resumes his futile work with the batteries and the handful of paper, which is now disappearing into the sweat-grimy tube of his fist.
"Don't mind 'em," Parkus says. "I sure don't. Hardly hear 'em anymore, and that's the truth. Shut up, boys. "
The parrot falls silent.
"One head's Sacred, the other's Profane," Parkus says. "I keep 'em around just to remind me that ¡ª "
He is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and stands up again in a single lithe and easy movement. Jack and Sophie are approaching, holding hands with the perfect unconsciousness of children on their way to school.
"Speedy!" Jack cries, his face breaking into a grin.
"Why, Travelin' Jack!" Parkus says, with a grin of his own. "Well-met! Look at you, sir ¡ª you're all grown up. "
Jack rushes forward and throws his arms around Parkus, who hugs him back, and heartily. After a moment, Jack holds Parkus at arm's length and studies him. "You were older ¡ª you looked older to me, at least. In both worlds. "
Still smiling, Parkus nods. And when he speaks again, it is in Speedy Parker's drawl. "Reckon I did look older, Jack. You were just a child, remember. "
"But ¡ª "
Parkus waves one hand. "Sometimes I look older, sometimes not so old. It all depends on ¡ª "
"Age is wisdom," one head of the parrot says piously, to which the other responds, "You senile old fuck. "
" ¡ª depends on the place and the circumstances," Parkus concludes, then says: "And I told you boys to shut up. You keep on, I'm apt to wring your scrawny neck. " He turns his attention to Sophie, who is looking at him with wide, wondering eyes, as shy as a doe. "Sophie," he says. "It's wonderful to see you, darling. Didn't I say he'd come? And here he is. Took a little longer than I expected, is all. "
She drops him a deep curtsey, all the way down to one knee, her head bowed. "Thankee-sai," she says. "Come in peace, gunslinger, and go your course along the Beam with my love. "
At this, Jack feels an odd, deep chill, as if many worlds had spoken in a harmonic tone, low but resonant.
Speedy ¡ª so Jack still thinks of him ¡ª takes her hand and urges her to her feet. "Stand up, girl, and look me in the eye. I'm no gunslinger here, not in the borderlands, even if I do still carry the old iron from time to time. In any case, we have a lot to talk about. This's no time for ceremony. Come over the rise with me, you two. We got to make palaver, as the gunslingers say. Or used to say, before the world moved on. I shot a good brace of grouse, and think they'll cook up just fine. "
"What about ¡ª " Jack gestures toward the muttering, crouched heap that is Wendell Green.
"Why, he looks right busy," Parkus says. "Told me he's a news hawk. "
"I'm afraid he's a little above himself," Jack replies. "Old Wendell here's a news vulture. "
Wendell turns his head a bit. He refuses to lift his eyes, but his lip curls in a sneer that may be more reflexive than real. "Heard. That. " He struggles. The lip curls again, and this time the sneer seems less reflexive. It is, in fact, a snarl. "Gol. Gol. Gol-den boy. Holly. Wood. "
"He's managed to retain at least some of his charm and his joi de vivre," Jack says. "Will he be okay here?"
"Not much with ary brain in its head comes near the Little Sisters' tent," Parkus says. "He'll be okay. And if he smells somethin' tasty on the breeze and comes for a look-see, why, I guess we can feed him. " He turns toward Wendell. "We're going just over yonder. If you want to come and visit, why, you just up and do her. Understand me, Mr. News Hawk?"
"Wen. Dell. Green. "
"Wendell Green, yessir. " Parkus looks at the others. "Come on. Let's mosey. "
"We mustn't forget him," Sophie murmurs, with a look back. "It will be dark in a few hours. "
"No," Parkus agrees as they top the nearest rise. "Wouldn't do to leave him beside that tent after dark. That wouldn't do at all. "
There's more foliage in the declivity on the far side of the rise ¡ª even a little ribbon of creek, presumably on its way to the river Jack can hear in the distance ¡ª but it still looks more like northern Nevada than western Wisconsin. Yet in a way, Jack thinks, that makes sense. The last one had been no ordinary flip. He feels like a stone
that has been skipped all the way across a lake, and as for poor Wendell ¡ª
To the right of where they descend the far side of the draw, a horse has been tethered in the shade of what Jack thinks is a Joshua tree. About twenty yards down the draw to the left is a circle of eroded stones. Inside it a fire, not yet lit, has been carefully laid. Jack doesn't like the look of the place much ¡ª the stones remind him of ancient teeth. Nor is he alone in his dislike. Sophie stops, her grip on his fingers tightening.
"Parkus, do we have to go in there? Please say we don't. "
Parkus turns to her with a kindly smile Jack knows well: a Speedy Parker smile for sure.
"The Speaking Demon's been gone from this circle many the long age, darling," he says. "And you know that such as yon are best for stories. "
"Yet ¡ª "
"Now's no time to give in to the willies," Parkus tells her. He speaks with a trace of impatience, and "willies" isn't precisely the word he uses, but only how Jack's mind translates it. "You waited for him to come in the Little Sisters' hospital tent ¡ª "
"Only because she was there on the other side ¡ª "
" ¡ª and now I want you to come along. " All at once he seems taller to Jack. His eyes flash. Jack thinks: A gunslinger. Yes, I suppose he could be a gunslinger. Like in one of Mom's old movies, only for real.
"All right," she says, low. "If we must. " Then she looks at Jack. "I wonder if you'd put your arm around me?"
Jack, we may be sure, is happy to oblige.
As they step between two of the stones, Jack seems to hear an ugly twist of whispered words. Among them, one voice is momentarily clear, seeming to leave a trail of slime behind it as it enters his ear: Drudge drudge drudge, oho the bledding foodzies, soon he cummz, my good friend Mun-shun, and such a prize I have for him, oho, oho ¡ª
Jack looks at his old friend as Parkus hunkers by a tow sack and loosens the drawstring at the top. "He's close, isn't he? The Fisherman. And Black House, that's close, too. "
"Yep," Parkus says, and from the sack he spills the gutted corpses of a dozen plump dead birds.
Thoughts of Irma Freneau reenter Jack's head at the sight of the grouse, and he thinks he won't be able to eat. Watching as Parkus and Sophie skewer the birds on greensticks reinforces this idea. But after the fire is lit and the birds begin to brown, his stomach weighs in, insisting that the grouse smell wonderful and will probably taste even better. Over here, he remembers, everything always does.
"And here we are, in the speaking circle," Parkus says. His smiles have been put away for the nonce. He looks at Jack and Sophie, who sit side by side and still holding hands, with somber gravity. His guitar has been propped against a nearby rock. Beside it, Sacred and Profane sleeps with its two heads tucked into its feathers, dreaming its no doubt bifurcated dreams. "The Demon may be long gone, but the legends say such things leave a residue that may lighten the tongue. "
"Like kissing the Blarney Stone, maybe," Jack suggests.
Parkus shakes his head. "No blarney today. "
Jack says, "If only we were dealing with an ordinary scumbag. That I could handle. "
Sophie looks at him, puzzled.
"He means a dust-off artist," Parkus tells her. "A hardcase. " He looks at Jack. "And in one way, that is what you're dealing with. Carl Bier-stone isn't much ¡ª an ordinary monster, let's say. Which is not to say he couldn't do with a spot of killing. But as for what's going on in French Landing, he has been used. Possessed, you'd say in your world, Jack. Taken by the spirits, we'd say in the Territories ¡ª "
"Or brought low by pigs," Sophie adds.
"Yes. " Parkus is nodding. "In the world just beyond this borderland ¡ª Mid-World ¡ª they would say he has been infested by a demon. But a demon far greater than the poor, tattered spirit that once lived in this circle of stones. "
Jack hardly hears that. His eyes are glowing. It sounded something like beer stein, George Potter told him last night, a thousand years ago. That's not it, but it's close.
"Carl Bierstone," he says. He raises a clenched fist, then shakes it in triumph. "That was his name in Chicago. Burnside here in French Landing. Case closed, game over, zip up your fly. Where is he, Speedy? Save me some time h ¡ª "
"Shut . . . up," Parkus says.
The tone is low and almost deadly. Jack can feel Sophie shrink against him. He does a little shrinking himself. This sounds nothing like his old friend, nothing at all. You have to stop thinking of him as Speedy, Jack tells himself. That's not who he is or ever was. That was just a character he played, someone who could both soothe and charm a scared kid on the run with his mother.
Parkus turns the birds, which are now browned nicely on one side and spitting juice into the fire.
"I'm sorry to speak harsh to you, Jack, but you have to realize that your Fisherman is pretty small fry compared to what's really going on. "
Why don't you tell Tansy Freneau he's small fry? Why don't you tell Beezer St. Pierre?
Jack thinks these things, but doesn't say them out loud. He's more than a little afraid of the light he saw in Parkus's eyes.
"Nor is it about Twinners," Parkus says. "You got to get that idea out of your mind. That's just something that has to do with your world and the world of the Territories ¡ª a link. You can't kill some hardcase over here and end the career of your cannibal over there. And if you kill him over there, in Wisconsin, the thing inside will just jump to another host. "
"The thing ¡ª ?"
"When it was in Albert Fish, Fish called it the Monday Man. Fellow you're after calls it Mr. Munshun. Both are only ways of trying to say something that can't be pronounced by any earthly tongue on any earthly world. "
"How many worlds are there, Speedy?"
"Many," Parkus says, looking into the fire. "And this business concerns every one of them. Why else do you think I've been after you like I have? Sending you feathers, sending you robins' eggs, doing every damned thing I could to make you wake up. "
Jack thinks of Judy, scratching on walls until the tips of her fingers were bloody, and feels ashamed. Speedy has been doing much the same thing, it seems. "Wake up, wake up, you dunderhead," he says.
Parkus seems caught between reproof and a smile. "For sure you must have seen me in the case that sent you running out of L. A. "
"Ah, man ¡ª why do you think I went?"
"You ran like Jonah, when God told him to go preach against the wickedness in Nineveh. Thought I was gonna have to send a whale to come and swallow you up. "
"I feel swallowed," Jack tells him.
In a small voice, Sophie says: "I do, too. "
"We've all been swallowed," says the man with the gun on his hip. "We're in the belly of the beast, like it or not. It's ka, which is destiny and fate. Your Fisherman, Jack, is now your ka. Our ka. This is more than murder. Much more. "
And Jack sees something that frankly scares the shit out of him. Lester Parker, a. k. a. Speedy, a. k. a. Parkus, is himself scared almost to death.
"This business concerns the Dark Tower," he says.
Beside Jack, Sophie gives a low, desperate cry of terror and lowers her head. At the same time she raises one hand and forks the sign of the Evil Eye at Parkus, over and over.
That gentleman doesn't seem to take it amiss. He simply sets to work turning the birds again on their sticks. "Listen to me, now," he says. "Listen, and ask as few questions as you can. We still have a chance to get Judy Marshall's son back, but time is blowing in our teeth. "
"Talk," Jack says.
Parkus talks. At some point in his tale he judges the birds done and serves them out on flat stones. The meat is tender, almost falling off the small bones. Jack eats hungrily, drinking deep of the sweet water from Parkus's waterskin each time it comes around to him. He wastes no more time comparing dead children to dead grouse. The furnace needs to be stoked, and he stokes it with a will. So does Sophie, eating with her fingers
and licking them clean without the slightest reserve or embarrassment. So, in the end, does Wendell Green, although he refuses to enter the circle of old stones. When Parkus tosses him a golden-brown grouse, however, Wendell catches it with remarkable adroitness and buries his face in the moist meat.
"You asked how many worlds," Parkus begins. "The answer, in the High Speech, is da fan: worlds beyond telling. " With one of the blackened sticks he draws a figure eight on its side, which Jack recognizes as the Greek symbol for infinity.
"There is a Tower that binds them in place. Think of it as an axle upon which many wheels spin, if you like. And there is an entity that would bring this Tower down. Ram Abbalah. "
At these words, the flames of the fire seem to momentarily darken and turn red. Jack wishes he could believe that this is only a trick of his overstrained mind, but cannot. "The Crimson King," he says.
"Yes. His physical being is pent in a cell at the top of the Tower, but he has another manifestation, every bit as real, and this lives in Can-tah Abbalah ¡ª the Court of the Crimson King. "
"Two places at once. " Given his journeying between the world of America and the world of the Territories, Jack has little trouble swallowing this concept.
"Yes. "
"If he ¡ª or it ¡ª destroys the Tower, won't that defeat his purpose? Won't he destroy his physical being in the process?"
"Just the opposite: he'll set it free to wander what will then be chaos . . . din-tah . . . the furnace. Some parts of Mid-World have fallen into that furnace already. "
"How much of this do I actually need to know?" Jack asks. He is aware that time is fleeting by on his side of the wall, as well.
"Hard telling what you need to know and what you don't," Parkus says. "If I leave out the wrong piece of information, maybe all the stars go dark. Not just here, but in a thousand thousand universes. That's the pure hell of it. Listen, Jack ¡ª the King has been trying to destroy the Tower and set himself free for time out of mind. Forever, mayhap. It's slow work, because the Tower is bound in place by crisscrossing force beams that act on it like guy wires. The Beams have held for millennia, and would hold for millennia to come, but in the last two hundred years ¡ª that's speaking of time as you count it, Jack; to you, Sophie, it would be Full-Earth almost five hundred times over ¡ª "
"So long," she says. It's almost a sigh. "So very long. "
"In the great sweep of things, it's as short as the gleam of a single match in a dark room. But while good things usually take a long time to develop, evil has a way of popping up full-blown and ready-made, like Jack out of his box. Ka is a friend to evil as well as to good. It embraces both. And, speaking of Jack . . . " Parkus turns to him. "You've heard of the Iron Age and the Bronze Age, of course?"
Jack nods.
"On the upper levels of the Tower, there are those who call the last two hundred or so years in your world the Age of Poisoned Thought. That means ¡ª "
"You don't have to explain it to me," Jack says. "I knew Morgan Sloat, remember? I knew what he planned for Sophie's world. " Yes, indeed. The basic plan had been to turn one of the universe's sweetest honeycombs into first a vacation spot for the rich, then a source of unskilled labor, and finally a waste pit, probably radioactive. If that wasn't an example of poisoned thought, Jack doesn't know what is.