EIGHT
“Before we really get going, can I ask you something?”
This was Eddie. Beside him, Roland had built up the fire and was rummaging in their combined gunna for the little earthen pot—an artifact of the Old People—in which he liked to brew tea.
“Of course, young man.”
“You’re Donald Callahan.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your middle name?”
Callahan cocked his head a little to the side, raised one eyebrow, then smiled. “Frank. After my grandfather. Does it signify?”
Eddie, Susannah, and Jake shared a look. The thought that went with it flowed effortlessly among them: Donald Frank Callahan. Equals nineteen.
“It does signify,” Callahan said.
“Perhaps,” Roland said. “Perhaps not.” He poured water for the tea, manipulating the water-skin easily.
“You seem to have suffered an accident,” Callahan said, looking at Roland’s right hand.
“I make do,” Roland said.
“Gets by with a little help from his friends, you might say,” Jake added, not smiling.
Callahan nodded, not understanding and knowing he need not: they were ka-tet. He might not know that particular term, but the term didn’t matter. It was in the way they looked at each other and moved around each other.
“You know my name,” Callahan said. “May I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”
They introduced themselves: Eddie and Susannah Dean, of New York; Jake Chambers, of New York; Oy of Mid-World; Roland Deschain, of Gilead that was. Callahan nodded to each in turn, raising his closed fist to his forehead.
“And to you comes Callahan, of the Lot,” he said when the introductions were done. “Or so I was. Now I guess I’m just the Old Fella. That’s what they call me in the Calla.”
“Won’t your friends join us?” Roland said. “We haven’t a great deal to eat, but there’s always tea.”
“Perhaps not just yet.”
“Ah,” Roland said, and nodded as if he understood.
“In any case, we’ve eaten well,” Callahan said. “It’s been a good year in the Calla—until now, anyway—and we’ll be happy to share what we have.” He paused, seemed to feel he had gone too far too fast, and added: “Mayhap. If all goes well.”
“If,” Roland said. “An old teacher of mine used to call it the only word a thousand letters long.”
Callahan laughed. “Not bad! In any case, we’re probably better off for food than you are. We also have fresh muffin-balls—Zalia found em—but I suspect you know about those. She said the patch, although large, had a picked-over look.”
“Jake found them,” Roland said.
“Actually, it was Oy,” Jake said, and stroked the bumbler’s head. “I guess he’s sort of a muffin-hound.”
“How long have you known we were here?” Callahan asked.
“Two days.”
Callahan contrived to look both amused and exasperated. “Since we cut your trail, in other words. And we tried to be so crafty.”
“If you didn’t think you needed someone craftier than you are, you wouldn’t have come,” Roland said.
Callahan sighed. “You say true, I say thankya.”
“Do you come for aid and succor?” Roland asked. There was only mild curiosity in his voice, but Eddie Dean felt a deep, deep chill. The words seemed to hang there, full of resonance. Nor was he alone in feeling that. Susannah took his right hand. A moment later Jake’s hand crept into Eddie’s left.
“That is not for me to say.” Callahan sounded suddenly hesitant and unsure of himself. Afraid, maybe.
“Do you know you come to the line of Eld?” Roland asked in that same curiously gentle voice. He stretched a hand toward Eddie, Susannah, and Jake. Even toward Oy. “For these are mine, sure. As I am theirs. We are round, and roll as we do. And you know what we are.”
“Are you?” Callahan asked. “Are you all?”
Susannah said, “Roland, what are you getting us into?”
“Naught be zero, naught be free,” he said. “I owe not you, nor you owe me. At least for now. They have not decided to ask.”
They will, Eddie thought. Dreams of the rose and the deli and little todash-jaunts aside, he didn’t think of himself as particularly psychic, but he didn’t need to be psychic to know that they—the people from whom this Callahan had come as representative—would ask. Somewhere chestnuts had fallen into a hot fire, and Roland was supposed to pull them out.
But not just Roland.
You’ve made a mistake here, Pops, Eddie thought. Perfectly understandable, but a mistake, all the same. We’re not the cavalry. We’re not the posse. We’re not gunslingers. We’re just three lost souls from the Big Apple who—
But no. No. Eddie had known who they were since River Crossing, when the old people had knelt in the street to Roland. Hell, he’d known since the woods (what he still thought of as Shardik’s Woods), where Roland had taught them to aim with the eye, shoot with the mind, kill with the heart. Not three, not four. One. That Roland should finish them so, complete them so, was horrible. He was filled with poison and had kissed them with his poisoned lips. He had made them gunslingers, and had Eddie really thought there was no work left for the line of Arthur Eld in this mostly empty and husked-out world? That they would simply be allowed to toddle along the Path of the Beam until they got to Roland’s Dark Tower and fixed whatever was wrong there? Well, guess again.
It was Jake who said what was in Eddie’s mind, and Eddie didn’t like the look of excitement in the boy’s eyes. He guessed plenty of kids had gone off to plenty of wars with that same excited gonna-kick-some-ass look on their faces. Poor kid didn’t know he’d been poisoned, and that made him pretty dumb, because no one should have known better.
“They will, though,” he said. “Isn’t that true, Mr. Callahan? They will ask.”
“I don’t know,” Callahan said. “You’d have to convince them . . . ”
He trailed off, looking at Roland. Roland was shaking his head.
“That’s not how it works,” the gunslinger said. “Not being from Mid-World you may not know that, but that’s not how it works. Convincing isn’t what we do. We deal in lead.”
Callahan sighed deeply, then nodded. “I have a book. Tales of Arthur, it’s called.”
Roland’s eyes gleamed. “Do you? Do you, indeed? I would like to see such a book. I would like it very well.”
“Perhaps you shall,” Callahan said. “The stories in it are certainly not much like the tales of the Round Table I read as a boy, but . . . ” He shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying to me, let’s leave it at that. There are three questions, am I right? And you just asked me the first.”
“Three, yes,” Roland said. “Three is a number of power.”
Eddie thought, If you want to try a real number of power, Roland old buddy, try nineteen.
“And all three must be answered yes.”
Roland nodded. “And if they are, you may ask no more. We may be cast on, sai Callahan, but no man may cast us back. Make sure your people”—he nodded toward the woods south of them—“understand that.”
“Gunslinger—”
“Call me Roland. We’re at peace, you and I.”
“All right, Roland. Hear me well, do ya, I beg. (For so we say in the Calla.) We who come to you are only half a dozen. We six cannot decide. Only the Calla can decide.”
“Democracy,” Roland said. He pushed his hat back from his forehead, rubbed his forehead, and sighed.
“But if we six agree—especially sai Overholser—” He broke off, looking rather warily at Jake. “What? Did I say something?”
Jake shook his head and motioned Callahan to continue.
“If we six agree, it’s pretty much a done deal.”
Eddie closed his eyes, as if in bliss. “Say it again, pal.”
Callahan eyed him, puzzled and wary. “What?”
“Done deal. Or anything from your where and when.” He paused. “Our side of the big ka.”
Callahan considered this, then began to grin. “I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind,” he said. “I went on a bender, broke the bank, kicked the bucket, blew my top, walked on thin ice, rode the pink horse down nightmare alley. Like that?”
Roland looked puzzled (perhaps even a little bored), but Eddie Dean’s face was a study in bliss. Susannah and Jake seemed caught somewhere between amusement and a kind of surprised, recollective sadness.
“Keep em coming, pal,” Eddie said hoarsely, and made a come on, man gesture with both hands. He sounded as if he might have been speaking through a throatful of tears. “Just keep em coming.”
“Perhaps another time,” Callahan said gently. “Another time we may sit and have our own palaver about the old places and ways of saying. Baseball, if it do ya. Now, though, time is short.”
“In more ways than you know, maybe,” Roland said. “What would you have of us, sai Callahan? And now you must speak to the point, for I’ve told you in every way I can that we are not wanderers your friends may interview, then hire or not as they do their farmhands or saddle-tramps.”
“For now I ask only that you stay where you are and let me bring them to you,” he said. “There’s Tian Jaffords, who’s really responsible for us being out here, and his wife, Zalia. There’s Overholser, the one who most needs to be convinced that we need you.”
“We won’t convince him or anyone,” Roland said.
“I understand,” Callahan said hastily. “Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear. And there’s Ben Slightman and his boy, Benny. Ben the Younger is an odd case. His sister died four years ago, when she and Benny were both ten. No one knows if that makes Ben the Younger a twin or a singleton.” He stopped abruptly. “I’ve wandered. I’m sorry.”
Roland gestured with an open palm to show it was all right.
“You make me nervous, hear me I beg.”
“You don’t need to beg us nothing, sugar,” Susannah said.
Callahan smiled. “It’s only the way we speak. In the Calla, when you meet someone, you may say, ‘How from head to feet, do ya, I beg?’ And the answer, ‘I do fine, no rust, tell the gods thankee-sai.’ You haven’t heard this?”
They shook their heads. Although some of the words were familiar, the overall expressions only underlined the fact that they had come to somewhere else, a place where talk was strange and customs perhaps stranger.
“What matters,” Callahan said, “is that the borderlands are terrified of creatures called the Wolves, who come out of Thunderclap once a generation and steal the children. There’s more to it, but that’s the crux. Tian Jaffords, who stands to lose not just one child this time but two, says no more, the time has come to stand and fight. Others—men like Overholser—say doing that would be disaster. I think Overholser and those like him would have carried the day, but your coming has changed things.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Wayne Overholser isn’t a bad man, just a frightened man. He’s the biggest farmer in the Calla, and so he has more to lose than some of the rest. But if he could be convinced that we might drive the Wolves off . . . that we could actually win against them . . . I believe he might also stand and fight.”
“I told you—” Roland began.
“You don’t convince,” Callahan broke in. “Yes, I understand. I do. But if they see you, hear you speak, and then convince themselves . . . ?”
Roland shrugged. “There’ll be water if God wills it, we say.”
Callahan nodded. “They say it in the Calla, too. May I move on to another, related matter?”
Roland raised his hands slightly—as if, Eddie thought, to tell Callahan it was his nickel.
For a moment the man with the scar on his brow said nothing. When he did speak, his voice had dropped. Eddie had to lean forward to hear him. “I have something. Something you want. That you may need. It has reached out to you already, I think.”
“Why do you say so?” Roland asked.
Callahan wet his lips and then spoke a single word: “Todash.”