Song of Susannah by Stephen King Page A

a stone.
    She—or perhaps it was they, it no longer mattered to her—rolled the bag down, not liking the intensified pulse from the thing hidden inside but setting her mind against it. Here it was, right in here . . . and something that felt like a seam.
    She leaned closer and saw not a seam but some kind of a seal. She didn’t recognize it, nor would Jake have done, but Eddie would have known Velcro when he saw it. She had heard a certain Z.Z. Top tribute to the stuff, a song called “VelcroFly.” She got a fingernail into the seal and pulled with her fingertip. It came loose with a soft ripping sound, revealing a small pocket on the inside of the bag.
    What is it? Mia asked, fascinated in spite of herself.
    Well, let’s just see.
    She reached in and brought out not a stone but a small scrimshaw turtle. Made of ivory, from the look of it. Each detail of the shell was tiny and precisely executed, although it had been marred by one tiny scratch that looked almost like a question-mark. The turtle’s head poked halfway out. Its eyes were tiny black dots of some tarry stuff, and looked incredibly alive. She saw another small imperfection in the turtle’s beak—not a scratch but a crack.
    “It’s old,” she whispered aloud. “So old.”
    Yes, Mia whispered back.
    Holding it made Susannah feel incredibly good. It made her feel . . . safe, somehow.
    See the Turtle, she thought. See the Turtle of enormous girth, on his shell he holds the earth. Was that how it went? She thought it was at least close. And of course that was the Beam they had been following to the Tower. The Bear at one end—Shardik. The Turtle at the other—Maturin.
    She looked from the tiny totem she’d found in the lining of the bag to the one beside the fountain. Barring the difference in materials—the one beside her bench was made of dark metal with brighter coppery glints—they were exactly the same, right down to the scratch on the shell and the tinywedge-shaped break in the beak. For a moment her breath stopped, and her heart seemed to stop, also. She went along from moment to moment through this adventure—sometimes even from day to day—without thinking much but simply driven by events and what Roland insisted was ka. Then something like this would happen, and she would for a moment glimpse a far bigger picture, one that immobilized her with awe and wonder. She sensed forces beyond her ability to comprehend. Some, like the ball in the ghostwood box, were evil. But this . . . this . . .
    “Wow,” someone said. Almost sighed.
    She looked up and saw a businessman—a very successful one, from the look of his suit—standing there by the bench. He’d been cutting through the park, probably on his way to someplace as important as he was, some sort of meeting or a conference, maybe even at the United Nations, which was close by (unless that had changed, too). Now, however, he had come to a dead stop. His expensive briefcase dangled from his right hand. His eyes were large and fixed on the turtle in Susannah-Mia’s hand. On his face was a large and rather dopey grin.
    Put it away! Mia cried, alarmed. He’ll steal it!
    Like to see him try, Detta Walker replied. Her voice was relaxed and rather amused. The sun was out and she—all parts of she—suddenly realized that, all else aside, this day was beautiful. And precious. And gorgeous.
    “Precious and beautiful and gorgeous,” said the businessman (or perhaps he was a diplomat), whohad forgotten all about his business. Was it the day he was talking about, or the scrimshaw turtle?
    It’s both, Susannah thought. And suddenly she thought she understood this. Jake would have understood, too—no one better! She laughed. Inside her, Detta and Mia also laughed, Mia a bit against her will. And the businessman or diplomat, he laughed, too.
    “Yah, it’s both,” the businessman said. In his faint Scandinavian accent, both came out boad. “What a lovely thing you have!” Whad a loffly