CHAPTER VI:
THE WAY OF THE ELD
ONE
At around two in the afternoon of that day, the ten of them sat down to what Roland called a rancher’s dinner. “During the morning chores, you look forward with love,” he told his friends later. “During the evening ones, you look back with nostalgia.”
Eddie thought he was joking, but with Roland you could never be completely sure. What humor he had was dry to the point of desiccation.
It wasn’t the best meal Eddie had ever had, the banquet put on by the old people in River Crossing still held pride of place in that regard, but after weeks in the woods, subsisting on gunslinger burritos (and shitting hard little parcels of rabbit turds maybe twice a week), it was fine fare indeed. Andy served out whopping steaks done medium rare and smothered in mushroom gravy. There were beans on the side, wrapped things like tacos, and roasted corn. Eddie tried an ear of this and found it tough but tasty. There was coleslaw which, Tian Jaffords was at pains to tell them, had been made by his own wife’s hands. There was also a wonderful pudding called strawberry cosy. And of course there was coffee. Eddie guessed that, among the four of them, they must have put away at least a gallon. Even Oy had a little. Jake put down a saucer of the dark, strong brew. Oy sniffed, said “Coff!” and then lapped it up quickly and efficiently.
There was no serious talk during the meal (“Food and palaver don’t mix” was but one of Roland’s many little nuggets of wisdom), and yet Eddie learned a great deal from Jaffords and his wife, mostly about how life was lived out here in what Tian and Zalia called “the borderlands.” Eddie hoped Susannah (sitting by Overholser) and Jake (with the youngster Eddie was already coming to think of as Benny the Kid) were learning half as much. He would have expected Roland to sit with Callahan, but Callahan sat with no one. He took his food off a little distance from all of them, blessed himself, and ate alone. Not very much, either. Mad at Overholser for taking over the show, or just a loner by nature? Hard to tell on such short notice, but if someone had put a gun to his head, Eddie would have voted for the latter.
What struck Eddie with the most force was how goddam civilized this part of the world was. It made Lud, with its warring Grays and Pubes, look like the Cannibal Isles in a boy’s sea-story. These people had roads, law enforcement, and a system of government that made Eddie think of New England town meetings. There was a Town Gathering Hall and a feather which seemed to be some sort of authority symbol. If you wanted to call a meeting, you had to send the feather around. If enough people touched it when it came to their place, there was a meeting. If they didn’t, there wasn’t. Two people were sent to carry the feather, and their count was trusted without question. Eddie doubted if it would work in New York, but for a place like this it seemed a fine way to run things.
There were at least seventy other Callas, stretching in a mild arc north and south of Calla Bryn Sturgis. Calla Bryn Lockwood to the south and Calla Amity to the north were also farms and ranches. They also had to endure the periodic depredations of the Wolves. Farther south were Calla Bryn Bouse and Calla Staffel, containing vast tracts of ranchland, and Jaffords said they suffered the Wolves as well . . . at least he thought so. Farther north, Calla Sen Pinder and Calla Sen Chre, which were farms and sheep.
“Farms of a good size,” Tian said, “but they’re smaller as ye go north, kennit, until ye’re in the lands where the snows fall—so I’m told; I’ve never seen it myself—and wonderful cheese is made.”
“Those of the north wear wooden shoes, or so ’tis said,” Zalia told Eddie, looking a little wistful. She herself wore scuffed clodhoppers called shor’boots.
The people of the Callas traveled little, but the roads were there if they wanted to travel, and trade was brisk. In addition to them, there was the Whye, sometimes called Big River. This ran south of Calla Bryn Sturgis all the way to the South Seas, or so ’twas said. There were mining Callas and manufacturing Callas (where things were made by steam-press and even, aye, by electricity) and even one Calla devoted to nothing but pleasure: gambling and wild, amusing rides, and . . .
But here Tian, who had been talking, felt Zalia’s eyes on him and went back to the pot for more beans. And a conciliatory dish of his wife’s slaw.
“So,” Eddie said, and drew a curve in the dirt. “These are the borderlands. The Callas. An arc that goes north and south for . . . how far, Zalia?”
“ ’Tis men’s business, so it is,” she said. Then, seeing her own man was still at the embering fire, inspecting the pots, she leaned forward a bit toward Eddie. “Do you speak in miles or wheels?”
“A little of both, but I’m better with miles.”
She nodded. “Mayhap two thousand miles so”—she pointed north—“and twice that, so.” To the south. She remained that way, pointing in opposite directions, then dropped her arms, clasped her hands in her lap, and resumed her former demure pose.
“And these towns . . . these Callas . . . stretch the whole way?”
“So we’re told, if it please ya, and the traders do come and go. Northwest of here, the Big River splits in two. We call the east branch Devar-Tete Whye—the Little Whye, you might say. Of course we see more river-travel from the north, for the river flows north to south, do ya see.”
“I do. And to the east?”
She looked down. “Thunderclap,” she said in a voice Eddie could barely hear. “None go there.”
“Why?”
“It’s dark there,” said she, still not looking up from her lap. Then she raised an arm. This time she pointed in the direction from which Roland and his friends had come. Back toward Mid-World. “There,” she said, “the world is ending. Or so we’re told. And there . . . ” She pointed east and now raised her face to Eddie’s. “There, in Thunderclap, it’s already ended. In the middle are we, who only want to go our way in peace.”
“And do you think it will happen?”
“No.” And Eddie saw she was crying.
TWO
Shortly after this, Eddie excused himself and stepped into a copse of trees for a personal moment. When he rose from his squat, reaching for some leaves with which to clean himself, a voice spoke from directly behind him.
“Not those, sai, do it please ya. Those be poison flurry. Wipe with those and how you’ll itch.”
Eddie jumped and wheeled around, grabbing the waistband of his jeans with one hand and reaching for Roland’s gunbelt, hanging from the branch of a nearby tree, with the other. Then he saw who had spoken—or what—and relaxed a little.
“Andy, it’s not really kosher to creep up behind people when they’re taking a dump.” Then he pointed to a thatch of low green bushes. “What about those? How much trouble will I get into if I wipe with those?”
There were pauses and clicks.
“What?” Eddie asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Andy said. “I’m simply processing information, sai. Kosher: unknown word. Creeping up: I didn’t, I walked, if it do ye fine. Taking a dump: likely slang for the excretion of—”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, “that’s what it is. But listen—if you didn’t creep up on me, Andy, how come I didn’t hear you? I mean, there’s underbrush. Most people make noise when they go through underbrush.”
“I am not a person, sai,” Andy said. Eddie thought he sounded smug.
“Guy, then. How can a big guy like you be so quiet?”
“Programming,” Andy said. “Those leaves will be fine, do ya.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, then grabbed a bunch. “Oh yeah. Programming. Sure. Should have known. Thankee-sai, long days, kiss my ass and go to heaven.”
“Heaven,” said Andy. “A place one goes after death; a kind of paradise. According to the Old Fella, those who go to heaven sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty, forever and ever.”
“Yeah? Who’s gonna sit at his left hand? All the Tupperware salesmen?”
“Sai, I don’t know. Tupperware is an unknown word to me. Would you like your horoscope?”
“Why not?” Eddie said. He started back toward the camp, guided by the sounds of laughing boys and a barking billy-bumbler. Andy towered beside him, shining even beneath the cloudy sky and seeming to not make a sound. It was eerie.
“What’s your birth date, sai?”
Eddie thought he might be ready for this one. “I’m Goat Moon,” he said, then remembered a little more. “Goat with beard.”
“Winter’s snow is full of woe, winter’s child is strong and wild,” said Andy. Yes, that was smugness in its voice, all right.
“Strong and wild, that’s me,” Eddie said. “Haven’t had a real bath in over a month, you better believe I’m strong and wild. What else do you need, Andy old guy? Want to look at my palm, or anything?”
“That will not be necessary, sai Eddie.” The robot sounded unmistakably happy and Eddie thought, That’s me, spreading joy wherever I go. Even robots love me. It’s my ka. “This is Full Earth, say we all thankya. The moon is red, what is called the Huntress Moon in Mid-World that was. You will travel, Eddie! You will travel far! You and your friends! This very night you return to Calla New York. You will meet a dark lady. You—”
“I want to hear more about this trip to New York,” Eddie said, stopping. Just ahead was the camp. He was close enough so he could see people moving around. “No joking around, Andy.”
“You will go todash, sai Eddie! You and your friends. You must be careful. When you hear the kammen—the chimes, ken ya well—you must all concentrate on each other. To keep from getting lost.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Eddie asked.
“Programming,” Andy said. “Horoscope is done, sai. No charge.” And then, what struck Eddie as the final capping lunacy: “Sai Callahan—the Old Fella, ye ken—says I have no license to tell fortunes, so must never charge.”
“Sai Callahan says true,” Eddie said, and then, when Andy started forward again: “But stay a minute, Andy. Do ya, I beg.” It was absolutely weird how quickly that started to sound okay.
Andy stopped willingly enough and turned toward Eddie, his blue eyes glowing. Eddie had roughly a thousand questions about todash, but he was currently even more curious about something else.
“You know about these Wolves.”
“Oh, yes. I told sai Tian. He was wroth.” Again Eddie detected something like smugness in Andy’s voice . . . but surely that was just the way it struck him, right? A robot—even one that had survived from the old days—couldn’t enjoy the discomforts of humans? Could it?
Didn’t take you long to forget the mono, did it, sugar? Susannah’s voice asked in his head. Hers was followed by Jake’s. Blaine’s a pain. And then, just his own: If you treat this guy like nothing more than a fortune-telling machine in a carnival arcade, Eddie old boy, you deserve whatever you get.
“Tell me about the Wolves,” Eddie said.
“What would you know, sai Eddie?”
“Where they come from, for a start. The place where they feel like they can put their feet up and fart right out loud. Who they work for. Why they take the kids. And why the ones they take come back ruined.” Then another question struck him. Perhaps the most obvious. “Also, how do you know when they’re coming?”
Clicks from inside Andy. A lot of them this time, maybe a full minute’s worth. When Andy spoke again, its voice was different. It made Eddie think about Officer Bosconi, back in the neighborhood. Brooklyn Avenue, that was Bosco Bob’s beat. If you just met him, walking along the street and twirling his nightstick, Bosco talked to you like you were a human being and so was he—howya doin, Eddie, how’s your mother these days, how’s your good-fornothin bro, are you gonna sign up for PAL Middlers, okay, seeya at the gym, stay off the smokes, have a good day. But if he thought maybe you’d done something, Bosco Bob turned into a guy you didn’t want to know. That Officer Bosconi didn’t smile, and the eyes behind his glasses were like puddle ice in February (which just happened to be the Time o’ the Goat, over here on this side of the Great Whatever). Bosco Bob had never hit Eddie, but there were a couple of times—once just after some kids lit Woo Kim’s Market on fire—when he felt sure that bluesuit mothafuck would have hit him, if Eddie had been stupid enough to smart off. It wasn’t schizophrenia—at least not of the pure Detta/Odetta kind—but it was close. There were two versions of Officer Bosconi. One of them was a nice guy. The other one was a cop.
When Andy spoke again, it no longer sounded like your well-meaning but rather stupid uncle, the one who believed the alligator-boy and Elvis-is-alive-in-Buenos-Aires stories Inside View printed were absolutely true. This Andy sounded emotionless and somehow dead.
Like a real robot, in other words.
“What’s your password, sai Eddie?”
“Huh?”
“Password. You have ten seconds. Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . ”
Eddie thought of spy movies he’d seen. “You mean I say something like ‘The roses are blooming in Cairo’ and you say ‘Only in Mrs. Wilson’s garden’ and then I say—”
“Incorrect password, sai Eddie . . . two . . . one . . . zero.” From within Andy came a low thudding sound which Eddie found singularly unpleasant. It sounded like the blade of a sharp cleaver passing through meat and into the wood of the chopping block beneath. He found himself thinking for the first time about the Old People, who had surely built Andy (or maybe the people before the Old People, call them the Really Old People—who knew for sure?). Not people Eddie himself would want to meet, if the last remainders in Lud had been any example.
“You may retry once,” said the cold voice. It bore a resemblance to the one that had asked Eddie if Eddie would like his horoscope told, but that was the best you could call it—a resemblance. “Would you retry, Eddie of New York?”
Eddie thought fast. “No,” he said, “that’s all right. The info’s restricted, huh?”
Several clicks. Then: “Restricted: confined, kept within certain set limits, as information in a given document or q-disc; limited to those authorized to use that information; those authorized announce themselves by giving the password.” Another pause to think and then Andy said, “Yes, Eddie. That info’s restricted.”
“Why?” Eddie asked.
He expected no answer, but Andy gave him one. “Directive Nineteen.”
Eddie clapped him on his steel side. “My friend, that don’t surprise me at all. Directive Nineteen it is.”
“Would you care to hear an expanded horoscope, Eddie-sai?”
“Think I’ll pass.”
“What about a tune called ‘The Jimmy Juice I Drank Last Night’? It has many amusing verses.” The reedy note of a pitch-pipe came from somewhere in Andy’s diaphragm.
Eddie, who found the idea of many amusing verses somehow alarming, increased his pace toward the others. “Why don’t we just put that on hold?” he said. “Right now I think I need another cup of coffee.”
“Give you joy of it, sai,” Andy said. To Eddie he sounded rather forlorn. Like Bosco Bob when you told him you thought you’d be too busy for PAL League that summer.