The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King Page A

arms, the scratchiness of his beard.
    So, feeling particularly lonely one day, he had hit on the idea of making his father a sailboat. It would not be a really great job, and Thomas knew it—he was almost as clumsy with his hands as he was at memorizing his lessons. But he also knew that his father could have any craftsman in Delain—even the great Ellender himself, who was now almost completely blind—make him boats if he so desired. The crucial difference, Thomas thought, would be that Roland’s own son had taken a whole day to carve him a boat for his Sunday pleasure.
    Thomas sat patiently by his window, urging the boat out of a block of wood. He used a sharp knife, nicked himself times without number, and cut himself quite badly once. Yet he kept on, aching hands or no. As he worked he daydreamed of how he and his father would go out on Sunday afternoon and sail the boat, just the two of them all alone, because Peter would be riding Peony in the woods or off playing with Ben. And he wouldn’t even mind if that same carp came up and ate his wooden boat, because then his father would laugh and hug him and say it was better than a story of sea monsters eating Anduan clipper ships whole.
    But when he got to the King’s chamber Peter was there and Thomas had to wait for nearly half an hour with the boat hidden behind his back while his father extolled Peter’s bowmanship. Thomas could see that Peter was uncomfortable under the unceasing barrage of praise. He could also see that Peter knew Thomas wanted to talk to their father, and that Peter kept trying to tell their father so. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Thomas hated him anyway.
    At last Peter was allowed to escape. Thomas approached his father, who looked at him kindly enough now that Peter was gone. “I made you something, Dad,” he said, suddenly shy. He held the boat behind his back with hands that were suddenly wet and clammy with sweat.
    â€œDid you now, Tommy?” Roland said. “Why, that was kind, wasn’t it?”
    â€œVery kind, Sire,” said Flagg, who happened to be idling nearby. He spoke casually but watched Thomas with bright interest.
    â€œWhat is it, lad? Show me!”
    â€œI remembered how much you liked to have a boat or two out on the moat Sunday afternoons, Dad, and . . .” He wanted desperately to say, and I wanted you to take me out with you again sometime, so I made this , but he found he could not utter such a thing. “. . .and so I made you a boat. . . . I spent a whole day . . . cut myself . . . and . . . and . . .” Sitting in his window seat, carving the boat, Thomas had made up a long, eloquent speech which he would utter before bringing the boat out from behind his back and presenting it with a flourish to his father, but now he could hardly remember a word of it, and what he could remember didn’t seem to make any sense.
    Horribly tongue-tied, he took the sailboat with its awkward flapping sail out from behind his back and gave it to Roland. The King turned it over in his big, short-fingered hands. Thomas stood and watched him, totally unaware that he had forgotten to breathe.
    At last Roland looked up. “Very nice, very nice, Tommy. Canoe, isn’t it?”
    â€œSailboat.” Don’t you see the sail? he wanted to cry. It took me an hour alone just to tie the knots, and it isn’t my fault one of them came loose so it flaps!
    The King fingered the striped sail, which Thomas had cut from a pillowcase.
    â€œSo it is . . . of course it is. At first I thought it was a canoe and this was some Oranian girl’s washing.” He tipped a wink at Flagg, who smiled vaguely at the air and said nothing. Thomas suddenly felt he might vomit quite soon.
    Roland looked at his son more seriously, and beckoned for him to come close. Timidly, hoping for the best, Thomas did so.
    â€œIt’s a good boat, Tommy. Sturdy, like yourself, a bit clumsy