Stephen King: Dreamcatcher

Jonesy was regarding him with fascination. “That’s either inspiring or horrible. I can’t tell which.”

“And it doesn’t matter.”

Jonesy thought about this, then asked: “If we’re Duddits, who sings to us? Who sings the lullaby, helps us go to sleep when we’re sad and scared?”

“Oh, God still does that,” Henry said, and could have kicked himself. There it was, out in spite of all his intentions.

“And did God keep that last weasel out of Shaft 12? Because if that thing had gotten in the water, Henry-”

Technically, the weasel that had incubated inside of Perlmutter had actually been the last, but it was a fine point, a hair that needed no splitting.

“It would have caused trouble, I don’t dispute that; for a couple of years, whether or not to tear down Fenway Park would have been the least of Boston’s concerns. But destroy us? I don’t think so. We were a new thing to them. Mr Gray knew it; those tapes of you under hypnosis”

“Don’t talk about those.” Jonesy had listened to two of them, and believed doing so had been the biggest mistake he’d made during his time in Wyoming. Listening to himself speak as Mr Gray-under deep hypnosis to become Mr Gray-had been like listening to a malevolent ghost. There were times when he thought he might be the only man on earth who truly understood what it was to be raped. Some things were better forgotten.

“Sorry.”

Jonesy waved his hand to show it was okay-not a problem but he had paled considerably.

“All I’m saying is that, to a greater or lesser degree, we are a species living in the dreamcatcher. I hate the way that sounds, phony transcendentalism, rings on the ear like pure tin, but we don’t have the right words for this part of it, either. We may have to invent some eventually, but in the meantime, dreamcatcher will have to do.”

Henry turned in his seat. Jonesy did the same, shifting Noel a little bit on his lap. A dreamcatcher hung over the door to the cabin. Henry had brought it as a house present, and Jonesy had put it up at once, like a Catholic peasant nailing a crucifix to the door of his cottage during a time of vampires.

“Maybe they were just drawn to you,” Henry said. “To us. The way flowers turn to follow the sun, or the way iron filings line up when they feel the pull of a magnet. We can’t tell for sure, because the byrum is so different from us.”

“Will they be back?” “Oh yes,” Henry said. “Them or others.” He looked up at the blue sky of this late-summer day. Somewhere in the distance, toward the Quabbin Reservoir, an eagle screamed. “I think you can take that to the bank. But not today.” “Guys!” Carla shouted. “Lunch is ready!”

Henry took Noel from Jonesy. For a moment their hands touched, their eyes touched, and their minds touched-for a moment they saw the line. Henry smiled. Jonesy smiled back. Then they walked down the steps and across the lawn side by side, Jonesy limping, Henry with the sleeping child in his arms, and for that moment the only darkness was their shadows trailing behind them on the grass.

Lovell, Maine May 29, 2000

I was never so grateful to be writing as during my time of work (November 16, 1999-May 29, 2000) on Dreamcatcher. I was in a lot of physical discomfort during those six and a half months, and the book took me away. The reader will see that pieces of that physical discomfort followed me into the story, but what I remember most is the sublime release we find in vivid dreams.

A good many people helped me. One was my wife, Tabitha, who simply refused to call this novel by its original title, which was Cancer. She considered it both ugly and an invitation to bad luck and trouble. Eventually I came around to her way of thinking, and she no longer refers to it as “that book” or “the one about the shit-weasels”.

I’m also indebted to Bill Pula, who took me four-wheeling at the Quabbin Reservoir, and to his cohorts, Peter Baldracci, Terry Campbell, and Joe McGinn: Another group of people, who would perhaps prefer not to be named, took me out behind the Air National Guard base in a Humvee, and foolishly let me drive, assuring me I couldn’t get the beast stuck. I didn’t, but it was close. I came back mud-splattered and happy. They would also want me to tell you that Hummers are better in mud than in snow; I have fictionalized their capabilities in that regard to suit the course of my fiction.

Thanks are also in order to Susan Moldow and Nan Graham at Scribner’s, to Chuck Vem who edited the book, and to Arthur Greene, who agented it. And I mustn’t forget Ralph Vicinanza, my foreign rights agent who found at least six ways to say “There is no infection here” in French.

One final note. This book was written with the world’s finest word processor, a Waterman cartridge fountain pen. To write the first draft of such a long book by hand put me in touch with the language as I haven’t been for years. I even wrote one night (during a power outage) by candlelight. One rarely finds such opportunities in the twenty-first century, and they are to be savored.

And to those of you who have come so far, thank you for reading my story.

Stephen King