This raises some interesting (and, for all I know, vitally important) questions. What does It really eat, for instance? I know that some of the children have been partially eaten-they show bite-marks, at least-but perhaps it is we who drive It to do that. Certainly we have all been taught since earliest childhood that what the monster does when it catches you in the deep wood is eat you. That is perhaps the worst thing we can conceive. But it's really faith that monsters live on, isn't it? I am led irresistibly to this conclusion: Food may be life, but the source of power is not food but faith. And who is more capable of a total act of faith than a child?
But there's a problem: kids grow up. In the church, power is perpetuated and renewed by periodic ritualistic acts. In Derry, power seems to be perpetuated and renewed by periodic ritualistic acts, too. Can it be that It protects Itself by the simple fact that, as the children grow into the adults, they become either incapable of faith or crippled by a sort of spiritual and imaginative arthritis?
Yes. I think that's the secret here. And if I make the calls, how much will they remember? How much will they believe? Enough to end this horror once and for all, or only enough to get them killed? They are being called-I know that much. Each murder in this new cycle has been a call. We almost killed It twice, and in the end we drove It deep in Its warren of tunnels and stinking rooms under the city. But I think It knows another secret: although It may be immortal (or almost so), we are not. It had only to wait until the act of faith, which made us potential monster-killers as well as sources of power, had become impossible. Twenty-seven years. Perhaps a period of sleep for It, as short and refreshing as an afternoon nap would be for us. And when It awakes, It is the same, but a third of our lives has gone by. Our perspectives have narrowed; our faith in the magic that makes magic possible, has worn off like the shine on a new pair of shoes after a hard day's walking.
Why call us back? Why not just let us die? Because we nearly killed It, because we frightened It, I think. Because It wants revenge.
And now, now that we no longer believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Hansel and Gretel, or the troll under the bridge, It is ready for us. Come on back, It says. Come on back, let's finish our business in Derry. Bring your jacks and your marbles and your yo-yos! We'll play. Come on back and we'll see if you remember the simplest thing of all: how it is to be children, secure in belief and thus afraid of the dark.
On that one, at least I score a thousand per cent: I am frightened. So goddam frightened.
Part 5 THE RITUAL OF CHUD
"It is not to be done. The seepage has
rotted out the curtain. The mesh
is decayed. Loosen the flesh
from the machine, build no more
bridges. Through what air will you
fly to span the continents? Let the words
fall any way at all-that they may
hit love aslant. It will be a rare
visitation. They want to rescue too much,
the flood has done its work"
-William Carlos Williams, Paterson
"Look and remember. Look upon this land,
Far, far across the factories and the grass.
Surely, there, surely they will let you pass.
Speak then and ask the forest and the loam.
What do you hear? What does the land command?
The earth is taken: this is not your home."
-Karl Shapiro, "Travelogue for Exiles"
Chapter 19 IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT
1
THE DERRY PUBLIC LIBRARY / 1:15 A.M.
When Ben Hanscom finished the story of the silver slugs, they wanted to talk, but Mike told them he wanted them all to get some sleep. "You've had enough for now," he said, but Mike was the one who looked as if he had had enough; his face was tired and drawn, and Beverly thought he looked physically ill.
"But we're not done," Eddie said. "What about the rest of it? I still don't remember-"
"Mike's r-r-right," Bill said. "Either we'll remember or we w-won't. I think we w-will. We've remembered all that we nuh-need to."
"Maybe all that's good for us?" Richie suggested.
Mike nodded. "We'll meet tomorrow." Then he glanced at the clock. "Later today, I mean."
"Here?" Beverly asked.
Mike shook his head slowly. "I suggest we meet on Kansas Street. Where Bill used to hide his bike."
"We're going down into the Barrens," Eddie said, and suddenly shivered.
Mike nodded again.
There was a moment of quiet while they looked around at each other. Then Bill got to his feet, and the others rose with him.
"I want you all to be careful for the rest of the night," Mike said. "It's been here; It can be wherever you are. But this meeting has made me feel better." He looked at Bill. "I'd say it still can be done, wouldn't you, Bill?"
Bill nodded slowly. "Yes. I think it still can be done."
"It will know that, too," Mike said, "and It will do whatever It can to slug the odds in Its favor."
"What do we do if It shows up?" Richie asked. "Hold our noses, shut our eyes, turn around three times, and think good thoughts? Puff some magic dust in Its face? Sing old Elvis Presley songs? What?"
Mike shook his head. "If I could tell you that, there would be no problem, would there? All I know is that there's another force-at least there was when we were kids-that wanted us to stay alive and to do the job. Maybe it's still there." He shrugged. It was a weary gesture. "I thought two, maybe as many as three of you would be gone by the time we started our meeting tonight. Missing or dead. Just seeing you turn up gave me reason to hope."
Richie looked at his watch. "Quarter past one. How the time flies when you're having fun, right, Haystack?"
"Beep-beep, Richie," Ben said, and smiled wanly.
"You want to walk back to the Tuh-Tuh-Townhouse with me, Beverly?" Bill asked.
"All right." She was putting on her coat. The library seemed very silent now, shadowy, frightening. Bill felt the last two days catching up with him all at once, piling up on his back. If it had just been weariness, that would have been okay, but it was more: a feeling that he was cracking up, dreaming, having delusions of paranoia. A sensation of being watched. Maybe I'm really not here at all, he thought. Maybe I'm in Dr Seward's lunatic asylum, with the Count's crumbling townhouse next door and Renfield just across the hall, him with his flies and me with my monsters, both of us sure the party is really going on and dressed to the nines for it, not in tuxedos but in strait-waistcoats.
"What about you, R-Richie?"
Richie shook his head. "I'm going to let Haystack and Kaspbrak lead me home," he said. "Right, fellers?"
"Sure," Ben said. He looked briefly at Beverly, who was standing close to Bill, and felt a pain he had almost forgotten. A new memory trembled, almost within his grasp, then floated away.
"What about you, M-M-Mike?" Bill asked. "Want to walk with Bev and m-me?"
Mike shook his head. "I've got to-"
That was when Beverly screamed, a high-pitched hurt sound in the stillness. The vaulted dome overhead picked it up, and the echoes were like the laughter of banshees, flying and flapping around them.
Bill turned toward her; Richie dropped his sportcoat as he was taking it off the back of his chair; there was a crash of glass as Eddie's arm swept an empty gin bottle onto the floor.
Beverly was backing away from them, her hands held out, her face as white as good bond paper. Her eyes, deep in dusky-purple sockets, bulged. "My hands!" She screamed. "My hands!"
"What-" Bill began, and then he saw the blood dripping slowly between her shaking fingers. He started forward and felt sudden lines of painful warmth cross his own hands. The pain was not sharp; it was more like the pain one sometimes feels in an old healed wound.
The old scars on his palms, the ones which had reappeared in England, had broken open and were bleeding. He looked sideways and saw Eddie Kaspbrak peering stupidly down at his own hands. They were also bleeding. So were Mike's. And Richie's. And Ben's.
"We're in it to the end, aren't we?" Beverly asked. She had begun to cry. This sound was also magnified in the library's still emptiness; the building itself seemed to be weeping with her. Bill thought that if he had to listen to that sound for long, he would go mad. "God help us, we're in it to the end." She sobbed, and a runner of snot depended from one of her nostrils. She wiped it off with the back of one shaking hand, and more blood dripped on the floor.
"Quh-Quh-hick!" Bill said, and seized Eddie's hand.
"What-"
"Quick?
He held out his other hand, and after a moment Beverly took it. She was still crying.
"Yes," Mike said. He looked dazed-almost drugged. "Yes, that's right, isn't it? It's starting again, isn't it, Bill? It's all starting to happen again."
"Y-Y-Yes, I th-think-"
Mike took Eddie's hand and Richie took Beverly's other hand. For a moment Ben only looked at them, and then, like a man in a dream, he raised his bloody hands to either side and stepped between Mike and Richie. He grasped their hands. The circle closed.
(Ah Chud this is the Ritual of Chud and the Turtle cannot help us)
Bill tried to scream but no sound came out. He saw Eddie's head tilt back, the cords on his neck standing out. Bev's hips bucked twice, fiercely, as if in an orgasm as short and sharp as the crack of a.22 pistol. Mike's mouth moved strangely, seeming to laugh and grimace at the same time. In the silence of the library doors banged open and shut, the sound rolling like bowling balls. In the Periodicals Room, magazines flew in a windless hurricane. In Carole Banner's office, the library's IBM typewriter whirred into life and typed:
hethrusts
hisfistsagainst
thepostsandstillinsistshesees
theghostshethrustshisfistsagainstthe
The type-ball jammed. The typewriter sizzled and uttered a thick electronic belch as everything inside overloaded. In Stack Two, the shelf of occult books suddenly tipped over, spilling Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, Charles Fort, and the Apocrypha everywhere.
Bill felt an exalting sense of power. He was dimly aware that he had an erection, and that every hair on his head was standing up straight. The sense of force in the completed circle was incredible.
All the doors in the library slammed shut in unison.
The grandfather clock behind the checkout desk chimed once.
Then it was gone, as if someone had flicked off a switch.
They dropped their hands, looking at each other, dazed. No one said anything. As the sense of power ebbed, Bill felt a terrible sense of doom creep over him. He looked at their white, strained faces, and then down at his hands. Blood was smeared there, but the wounds which Stan Uris had made with a jagged piece of Coke bottle in August 1958 had closed up again, leaving only crooked white lines like knotted twine. He thought: That was the last time the seven of us were together... the day Stan made those cuts in the Barrens. Stan's not here; he's dead. And this is the last time the six of us are going to be together. I know it, I feel it.
Beverly was pressed against him, trembling. Bill put an arm around her. They all looked at him, their eyes huge and bright in the dimness, the long table where they had sat, littered with empty bottles, glasses, and overflowing ashtrays, a little island of light.
"That's enough," Bill said huskily. "Enough entertainment for one evening. We'll save the ballroom dancing for another time."
"I remembered," Beverly said. She looked up at Bill, her eyes huge, her pale cheeks wet. "I remembered everything. My father finding out about you guys. Running. Bowers and Criss and Huggins. How I ran. The tunnel... the birds... It... I remember everything."
"Yeah," Richie said. "I do, too."
Eddie nodded. "The pumping-station-"
Bill said, "And now Eddie-"
"Go back now," Mike said. "Get some rest. It's late."
"Walk with us, Mike," Beverly said.
"No. I have to lock up. And I have to write a few things down... the minutes of the meeting, if you like. I won't be long. Go ahead."
They moved toward the door, not talking much. Bill and Beverly were together, Eddie, Richie, and Ben behind them. Bill held the door for her and she murmured thanks. As she went out onto the wide granite steps, Bill thought how young she looked, how vulnerable... He was dismally aware that he might be falling in love with her again. He tried to think of Audra but Audra seemed far away. She would be sleeping in their house in Fleet now as the sun came up and the milkman began his rounds.
Derry's sky had clouded over again, and a low groundfog lay across the empty street in thick runners. Further up the street, the Derry Community House, narrow, tall, Victorian, brooded in blackness. Bill thought And whatever walked in Community House, walked alone. He had to stifle a wild cackle. Their footfalls seemed very loud. Beverly's hand touched his and Bill took it gratefully.
"It started before we were ready," she said.
"Would we eh-eh-ever have been r-ready?"
"You would have been, Big Bill."
The touch of her hand was suddenly both wonderful and necessary. He wondered what it would be like to touch her breasts for the second time in his life, and suspected that before this long night was over he would know. Fuller now, mature... and his hand would find hair when he cupped the swelling of her mons veneris. He thought: I loved you, Beverly... I love you. Ben loved you... he laves you. We loved you then... we love you now. We better, because it's starting. No way out now.
He glanced behind and saw the library half a block away. Richie and Eddie were on the top step; Ben was standing at the bottom, looking after them. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders were slumped, and seen through the drifting lens of the low fog, he might almost have been eleven again. If he had been able to send Ben a thought, Bill would have sent this one: It doesn't matter, Ben. The love is what matters, the caring... it's always the desire, never the time. Maybe that's all we get to take with us when we go out of the blue and into the black. Cold comfort, maybe, but better than no comfort at all.
"My father knew," Beverly said suddenly. "I came home one day from the Barrens and he just knew. Did I ever tell you what he used to say to me when he was mad?"
"What?"
"I worry about you, Bevvie." That's what he used to say. "I worry a lot." She laughed and shivered at the same time. "I think he meant to hurt me, Bill. I mean... he'd hurt me before, but that last time was different. He was... well, in many ways he was a strange man. I loved him. I loved him very much, but-"