(to freeze me freeze me in place freezemy feet right to the floor)

to stop him. And that voice had gotten inbecause while he was sending and receiving, he was open—

Jake! Jake, where are you?

There was no time to answer her. Once,while trying to open the unfound door in the Cave of Voices, Jake had summoneda vision of a million doors opening wide. Now he summoned one of them slammingshut, creating a sound like God’s own sonic boom.

Just in time, too. For a moment longer hisfeet remained stuck to the dusty floor, and then something screamed in agonyand pulled back from him. Let him go.

Jake got moving, jerkily at first, thenpicking up steam. God, that had been close! Very faintly, he heard Susannahcall his name again but didn’t dare throw himself open enough to reply. He’djust have to hope that Oy would hold onto her scent, and that she would keepsending.

Three

He decided later that he must have startedsinging the song from Mrs. Shaw’s radio shortly after Susannah’s final faintcry, but there was no way of telling for sure. One might as well try topinpoint the genesis of a headache or the exact moment one consciously realizeshe is coming down with a cold. What Jake was sure of was that there were moregunshots, and once the buzzing whine of a ricochet, but all that was a gooddistance behind, and finally he didn’t bother ducking anymore (or even lookingback). Besides, Oy was moving fast now, really shucking those furry little bunsof his. Buried machinery thumped and wheezed. Steel rails surfaced in thepassageway floor, leading Jake to assume that once a tram or some other kind ofshuttle had run here. At regular intervals, official communiqués(PATRICIA AHEAD; FEDIC; DO YOU HAVE YOUR BLUE PASS?) were printed on the walls.In some places the tiles had fallen off, in others the tram-rails were gone,and in several spots puddles of ancient, verminous water filled what looked forall the world like potholes. Jake and Oy passed two or three stalled vehiclesthat resembled a cross between golf-carts and flatcars. They also passed aturnip-headed robot that flashed the dim red bulbs of its eyes and made asingle croaking sound that might have been halt. Jake raised one of theOrizas, having no idea if it could do any good against such a thing if it cameafter him, but the robot never moved. That single dim flash seemed to havedrained the last few ergs in its batteries, or energy cells, or atomic slug, orwhatever it ran on. Here and there he saw graffiti. Two were familiar. Thefirst was ALL HAIL THE CRIMSON KING, with the red eye above each of the I’s inthe message. The other read BANGO SKANK, ‘84. Man, Jake thoughtdistractedly, that guy Bango gets around. And then heard himself clearlyfor the first time, singing under his breath. Not words, exactly, but just anold, barely remembered refrain from one of the songs on Mrs. Shaw’s kitchenradio: “A-wimeweh, a-wimeweh, a-weee-ummm-immm-oweh…”

He quit it, creeped out by the muttery,talismanic quality of the chant, and called for Oy to stop. “Need to take aleak, boy.”

“Oy!” Cocked ears and bright eyes providingthe rest of the message: Don’t take too long.

Jake sprayed urine onto one of the tilewalls. Greenish dreck was seeping between the squares. He also listened for thesound of pursuit and was not disappointed. How many back there? What sort ofposse? Roland probably would have known, but Jake had no idea. The echoes madeit sound like a regiment.

As he was shaking off, it came to JakeChambers that the Pere would never do this again, or grin at him and point hisfinger, or cross himself before eating. They had killed him. Taken his life.Stopped his breath and pulse. Save perhaps for dreams, the Pere was now gonefrom the story. Jake began to cry. Like his smile, the tears made him onceagain look like a child. Oy had turned around, eager to be off on the scent,but now looked back over one shoulder with an expression of unmistakableconcern.

“ ‘S’all right,” Jake said, buttoning hisfly and then wiping his cheeks with the heel of his hand. Only it wasn’t allright. He was more than sad, more than angry, more than scared about the lowmen running relentlessly up his backtrail. Now that the adrenaline in hissystem had receded, he realized he was hungry as well as sad. Tired, too. Tired?Verging on exhaustion. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept. Being suckedthrough the door into New York, he could remember that, and Oy almost being hitby a taxi, and the God-bomb minister with the name that reminded him of JimmyCagney playing George M. Cohan in that old black-and-white movie he’d watchedon the TV in his room when he was small. Because, he realized now, there hadbeen a song in that movie about a guy named Harrigan: H–A–doubleR–I; Harrigan, that’s me. He could remember those things, but notwhen he’d last eaten a square—

“Ake!” Oy barked, relentless asfate. If bumblers had a breaking point, Jake thought wearily, Oy was still along way from his. “Ake-Ake!”

“Yeah-yeah,” he agreed, pushing away fromthe wall. “Ake-Ake will now run-run. Go on. Find Susannah.”

He wanted to plod, but plodding would quitelikely not be good enough. Mere walking, either. He flogged his legs into a jogand once more began to sing under his breath, this time the words to the song: “Inthe jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight… In the jungle, thequiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight… ohhh…” And then he was off again, wimeweh,wimeweh, wimeweh, nonsense words from the kitchen radio that was alwaystuned to the oldies on WCBS… only weren’t memories of some movie wound aroundand into his memory of this particular song? Not a song from Yankee DoodleDandy but from some other movie? One with scary monsters? Something he’dseen when he was just a little kid, maybe not even out of his

(clouts)

diapers?

“Near the village, the quiet village,the lion sleeps tonight… Near the village, the peaceful village, the lionsleeps tonight… HUH-oh, a-wimeweh, a-wimeweh…”

He stopped, breathing hard, rubbing hisside. He had a stitch there but it wasn’t bad, at least not yet, hadn’t sunkdeep enough to stop him. But that goo… that greenish goo dribbling between thetiles… it was oozing through the ancient grout and busted ceramic because thiswas

(the jungle)

deep below the city, deep like catacombs

(wimeweh)

or like—

“Oy,” he said, speaking through chappedlips. Christ, he was so thirsty! “Oy, this isn’t goo, this is grass. Orweeds… or…”

Oy barked his friend’s name, but Jakehardly noticed. The echoing sound of the pursuers continued (had drawn a bitcloser, in fact), but for the time being he ignored them, as well.

Grass, growing out of the tiled wall.

Overwhelming the wall.

He looked down and saw more grass, abrilliant green that was almost purple beneath the fluorescent lights, growingup out of the floor. And bits of broken tile crumbling into shards andfragments like remains of the old people, the ancestors who had lived and builtbefore the Beams began to break and the world began to move on.

He bent down. Reached into the grass.Brought up sharp shards of tile, yes, but also earth, the earth of

(the jungle)

some deep catacomb or tomb orperhaps—

There was a beetle crawling through thedirt he’d scooped up, a beetle with a red mark on its back like a bloody smile,and Jake cast it away with a cry of disgust. Mark of the King! Say true! Hecame back to himself and realized that he was down on one knee, practicing atarchaeology like the hero in some old movie while the hounds drew closer on histrail. And Oy was looking at him, eyes shining with anxiety.

“Ake! Ake-Ake!”

“Yeah,” he said, heaving himself to hisfeet. “I’m coming. But Oy… what is this place?”