Stephen King - Song of Susannah (The Dark Tower, Book 6)

For Tabby, who knew when it was done

Go, then. There are other worlds than these.

John Jake Chambers

I am a maid of constant sorrow

Ive seen trouble all my days

All through the world Im bound to ramble

I have no friends to show my way

Traditional

Fair is whatever God wants to do.

Leif Enger

Peace Like a River

How long will the magic stay?

At first no one answered Rolands question, and so he asked it again, this time looking across the living room of the rectory to where Henchick of the Manni sat with Cantab, who had married one of Henchicks numerous granddaughters. The two men were holding hands, as was the Manni way. The older man had lost a granddaughter that day, but if he grieved, the emotion did not show on his stony, composed face.

Next to Roland, holding no ones hand, silent and dreadfully white, sat Eddie Dean. Beside him, cross-legged on the floor, was Jake Chambers. He had pulled Oy into his lap, a thing Roland had never seen before and would not have believed the billy-bumbler would allow. Both Eddie and Jake were splattered with blood. That on Jakes shirt belonged to his friend Benny Slightman. That on Eddies belonged to Margaret Eisenhart, once Margaret of Redpath, the lost granddaughter of the old patriarch. Both Eddie and Jake looked as tired as Roland felt, but he was quite sure there would be no rest for them this night. Distant, from town, came the sounds of fireworks and singing and celebration.

There was no celebration here. Benny and Margaret were dead, and Susannah was gone.

Henchick, tell me, I beg: how long will the magic stay?

The old man stroked his beard in a distracted fashion. Gunslinger Roland I cant say. The magic of the door in that cave is beyond me. As thee must know.

Tell me what you think. Based on what you do know.

Eddie raised his hands. They were dirty, there was blood under the nails, and they trembled. Tell, Henchick, he said, speaking in a voice, humble and lost, that Roland had never heard before. Tell, I beg.

Rosalita, Pere Callahans woman of all work, came in with a tray. There were cups on it, and a carafe of steaming coffee. She, at least, had found time to change out of her bloody, dusty jeans and shirt and into a housedress, but her eyes were still shocked. They peered from her face like small animals from their burrows. She poured the coffee and passed the cups without speaking. Nor had she gotten all the blood, Roland saw as he took one of the cups. There was a streak of it on the back of her right hand. Margarets or Bennys? He didnt know. Or much care. The Wolves had been defeated. They might or might not come again to Calla Bryn Sturgis. That was kas business. Theirs was Susannah Dean, who had disappeared in the aftermath, taking Black Thirteen with her.

Henchick said: Ye ask of kaven?

Aye, father, Roland agreed. The persistence of magic.

Father Callahan took a cup of coffee with a nod and a distracted smile, but no word of thanks. He had spoken little since theyd come back from the cave. In his lap was a book called Salems Lot, by a man of whom he had never heard. It purported to be a work of fiction, but he, Donald Callahan, was in it. He had lived in the town of which it told, had taken part in the events it recounted. He had looked on the back and on the rear flap for the authors photograph, queerly certain that he would see a version of his own face looking back at him (the way hed looked in 1975, when these events had taken place, most likely), but there had been no picture, just a note about the books writer that told very little. He lived in the state of Maine. He was married. Hed written one previous book, quite well reviewed, if you believed the quotations on the back.