THREE
Roland sat on a stone outcrop, drinking his own cup of coffee. He listened to Eddie without speaking himself, and with only one small change of expression: a minute lift of the eyebrows at the words Directive Nineteen.
Across the clearing from them, Slightman the Younger had produced a kind of bubble-pipe that made extraordinarily tough bubbles. Oy chased them, popped several with his teeth, then began to get the hang of what Slightman seemed to want, which was for him to herd them into a fragile little pile of light. The bubble-pile made Eddie think of the Wizard’s Rainbow, those dangerous glass balls. And did Callahan really have one? The worst of the bunch?
Beyond the boys, at the edge of the clearing, Andy stood with his silver arms folded over the stainless-steel curve of his chest. Waiting to clean up the meal he had hauled to them and then cooked, Eddie supposed. The perfect servant. He cooks, he cleans, he tells you about the dark lady you’ll meet. Just don’t expect him to violate Directive Nineteen. Not without the password, anyway.
“Come over to me, folks, would you?” Roland asked, raising his voice slightly. “Time we had a bit of palaver. Won’t be long, which is good, at least for us, for we’ve already had our own, before sai Callahan came to us, and after awhile talk sickens, so it does.”
They came over and sat near him like obedient children, those from the Calla and those who were from far away and would go beyond here perhaps even farther.
“First I’d hear what you know of these Wolves. Eddie tells me Andy may not say how he comes by what he knows.”
“You say true,” Slightman the Elder rumbled. “Either those who made him or those who came later have mostly gagged him on that subject, although he always warns us of their coming. On most other subjects, his mouth runs everlastingly.”
Roland looked toward the Calla’s big farmer. “Will you set us on, sai Overholser?”
Tian Jaffords looked disappointed not to be called on. His woman looked disappointed for him. Slightman the Elder nodded as if Roland’s choice of speaker was only to be expected. Overholser himself did not puff up as Eddie might have guessed. Instead he looked down at his own crossed legs and scuffed shor’boots for thirty seconds or so, rubbing at the side of his face, thinking. The clearing was so quiet Eddie could hear the minute rasp of the farmer’s palm on two or three days’ worth of bristles. At last he sighed, nodded, and looked up at Roland.
“Say thankee. Ye’re not what I expected, I must say. Nor your tet.” Overholser turned to Tian. “Ye were right to haul us out here, Tian Jaffords. This is a meeting we needed to have, and I say thankee.”
“It wasn’t me got you out here,” Jaffords said. “Was the Old Fella.”
Overholser nodded to Callahan. Callahan nodded back, then sketched the shape of a cross in the air with his scarred hand—as if to say, Eddie thought, that it wasn’t him, either, but God. Maybe so, but when it came to pulling coals out of a hot fire, he’d put two dollars on Roland of Gilead for every one he put on God and the Man Jesus, those heavenly gunslingers.
Roland waited, his face calm and perfectly polite.
Finally Overholser began to talk. He spoke for nearly fifteen minutes, slowly but always to the point. There was the business of the twins, to begin with. Residents of the Calla realized that children birthed in twos were the exception rather than the rule in other parts of the world and at other times in the past, but in their area of the Grand Crescent it was the singletons, like the Jaffordses’ Aaron, who were the rarities. The great rarities.
And, beginning perhaps a hundred and twenty years ago (or mayhap a hundred and fifty; with time the way it was, such things were impossible to pin down with any certainty), the Wolves had begun their raids. They did not come exactly once every generation; that would have been each twenty years or so, and it was longer than that. Still, it was close to that.
Eddie thought of asking Overholser and Slightman how the Old People could have shut Andy’s mouth concerning the Wolves if the Wolves had been raiding out of Thunderclap for less than two centuries, then didn’t bother. Asking what couldn’t be answered was a waste of time, Roland would have said. Still, it was interesting, wasn’t it? Interesting to wonder when someone (or something) had last programmed Andy the Messenger (Many Other Functions).
And why.
The children, Overholser said, one of each set between the ages of perhaps three and fourteen, were taken east, into the land of Thunderclap. (Slightman the Elder put his arm around his boy’s shoulders during this part of the tale, Eddie noticed.) There they remained for a relatively short period of time—mayhap four weeks, mayhap eight. Then most of them would be returned. The assumption made about those few who did not return was that they had died in the Land of Darkness, that whatever evil rite was performed on them killed a few instead of just ruining them.
The ones who came back were at best biddable idiots. A five-year-old would return with all his hard-won talk gone, reduced to nothing but babble and reaching for the things he wanted. Diapers which had been left forgotten two or three years before would go back on and might stay on until such a roont child was ten or even twelve.
“Yer-bugger, Tia still pisses herself one day out of every six, and can be counted on to shit herself once a moon, as well,” Jaffords said.
“Hear him,” Overholser agreed gloomily. “My own brother, Welland, was much the same until he died. And of course they have to be watched more or less constant, for if they get something they like, they’ll eat it until they bust. Who’s watching yours, Tian?”
“My cuz,” Zalia said before Tian could speak. “Heddon n Hedda can help a little now, as well; they’ve come to a likely enough age—” She stopped and seemed to realize what she was saying. Her mouth twisted and she fell silent. Eddie guessed he understood. Heddon and Hedda could help now, yes. Next year, one of them would still be able to help. The other one, though . . .
A child taken at the age of ten might come back with a few rudiments of language left, but would never get much beyond that. The ones who were taken oldest were somehow the worst, for they seemed to come back with some vague understanding of what had been done to them. What had been stolen from them. These had a tendency to cry a great deal, or to simply creep off by themselves and peer into the east, like lost things. As if they might see their poor brains out there, circling like birds in the dark sky. Half a dozen such had even committed suicide over the years. (At this, Callahan once more crossed himself.)
The roont ones remained childlike in stature as well as in speech and behavior until about the age of sixteen. Then, quite suddenly, most of them sprouted to the size of young giants.
“Ye can have no idea what it’s like if ye haven’t seen it and been through it,” Tian said. He was looking into the ashes of the fire. “Ye can have no idea of the pain it causes them. When a babby cuts his teeth, ye ken how they cry?”
“Yes,” Susannah said.
Tian nodded. “It’s as if their whole bodies are teething, kennit.”
“Hear him,” Overholser said. “For sixteen or eighteen months, all my brother did was sleep and eat and cry and grow. I can remember him crying even in his sleep. I’d get out of my bed and go across to him and there’d be a whispering sound from inside his chest and legs and head. ’Twere the sound of his bones growing in the night, hear me.”
Eddie contemplated the horror of it. You heard stories about giants—fee-fi-fo-fum, and all that—but until now he’d never considered what it might be like to become a giant. As if their whole bodies are teething, Eddie thought, and shivered.
“A year and a half, no longer than that and it were done, but I wonder how long it must seem to them, who’re brought back with no more sense of time than birds or bugs.”
“Endless,” Susannah said. Her face was very pale and she sounded ill. “It must seem endless.”
“The whispering in the nights as their bones grow,” Overholser said. “The headaches as their skulls grow.”
“Zalman screamed one time for nine days without stopping,” Zalia said. Her voice was expressionless, but Eddie could see the horror in her eyes; he could see it very well. “His cheekbones pushed up. You could see it happening. His forehead curved out and out, and if you held an ear close to it you could hear the skull creaking as it spread. It sounded like a tree-branch under a weight of ice.
“Nine days he screamed. Nine. Morning, noon, and in the dead of night. Screaming and screaming. Eyes gushing water. We prayed to all the gods there were that he’d go hoarse—that he’d be stricken dumb, even—but none such happened, say thankee. If we’d had a gun, I believe we would have slew him as he lay on his pallet just to end his pain. As it was, my good old da’ was ready to slit ’een’s thr’ut when it stopped. His bones went on yet awhile—his skellington, do ya—but his head was the worst of it and it finally stopped, tell gods thankya, and Man Jesus too.”
She nodded toward Callahan. He nodded back and raised his hand toward her, outstretched in the air for a moment. Zalia turned back to Roland and his friends.
“Now I have five of my own,” she said. “Aaron’s safe, and say thankee, but Heddon and Hedda’s ten, a prime age. Lyman and Lia’s only five, but five’s old enough. Five’s . . . ”
She covered her face with her hands and said no more.
FOUR
Once the growth-spurt was finished, Overholser said, some of them could be put to work. Others—the majority—weren’t able to manage even such rudimentary tasks as pulling stumps or digging postholes. You saw these sitting on the steps of Took’s General Store or sometimes walking across the countryside in gangling groups, young men and women of enormous height, weight, and stupidity, sometimes grinning at each other and babbling, sometimes only goggling up at the sky.
They didn’t mate, there was that to be grateful for. While not all of them grew to prodigious size and their mental skills and physical abilities might vary somewhat, there seemed to be one universal: they came back sexually dead. “Beggin your pardon for the crudity,” Overholser said, “but I don’t b’lieve my brother Welland had so much as a piss-hardon after they brought him back. Zalia? Have you ever seen your brother with a . . . you know . . . ”
Zalia shook her head.
“How old were you when they came, sai Overholser?” Roland asked.
“First time, ye mean. Welland and I were nine.” Overholser now spoke rapidly. It gave what he said the air of a rehearsed speech, but Eddie didn’t think that was it. Overholser was a force in Calla Bryn Sturgis; he was, God save us and stone the crows, the big farmer. It was hard for him to go back in his mind to a time when he’d been a child, small and powerless and terrified. “Our Ma and Pa tried to hide us away in the cellar. So I’ve been told, anyway. I remember none of it, m’self, to be sure. Taught myself not to, I s’pose. Yar, quite likely. Some remember better’n others, Roland, but all the tales come to the same: one is took, one is left behind. The one took comes back roont, maybe able to work a little but dead in the b’low the waist. Then . . . when they get in their thirties . . . ”
When they reached their thirties, the roont twins grew abruptly, shockingly old. Their hair turned white and often fell completely out. Their eyes dimmed. Muscles that had been prodigious (as Tia Jaffords’s and Zalman Hoonik’s were now) went slack and wasted away. Sometimes they died peacefully, in their sleep. More often, their endings weren’t peaceful at all. The sores came, sometimes out on the skin but more often in the stomach or the head. In the brain. All died long before their natural span would have been up, had it not been for the Wolves, and many died as they had grown from the size of normal children to that of giants: screaming in pain. Eddie wondered how many of these idiots, dying of what sounded to him like terminal cancer, were simply smothered or perhaps fed some strong sedative that would take them far beyond pain, far beyond sleep. It wasn’t the sort of question you asked, but he guessed the answer would have been many. Roland sometimes used the word delah, always spoken with a light toss of the hand toward the horizon.
Many.
The visitors from the Calla, their tongues and memories untied by distress, might have gone on for some time, piling one sorry anecdote on another, but Roland didn’t allow them to. “Now speak of the Wolves, I beg. How many come to you?”
“Forty,” Tian Jaffords said.
“Spread across the whole Calla?” Slightman the Elder asked. “Nay, more than forty.” And to Tian, slightly apologetic: “You were no more’n nine y’self last time they came, Tian. I were in my young twenties. Forty in town, maybe, but more came to the outlying farms and ranches. I’d say sixty in all, Roland-sai, maybe eighty.”
Roland looked at Overholser, eyebrows raised.
“It’s been twenty-three years, ye mind,” Overholser said, “but I’d call sixty about right.”
“You call them Wolves, but what are they really? Are they men? Or something else?”
Overholser, Slightman, Tian, Zalia: for a moment Eddie could feel them sharing khef, could almost hear them. It made him feel lonely and left-out, the way you did when you saw a couple kissing on a streetcorner, wrapped in each other’s arms or looking into each other’s eyes, totally lost in each other’s regard. Well, he didn’t have to feel that way anymore, did he? He had his own ka-tet, his own khef. Not to mention his own woman.
Meanwhile, Roland was making the impatient little finger-twirling gesture with which Eddie had become so familiar. Come on, folks, it said, day’s wasting.
“No telling for sure what they are,” Overholser said. “They look like men, but they wear masks.”
“Wolf-masks,” Susannah said.
“Aye, lady, wolf-masks, gray as their horses.”
“Do you say all come on gray horses?” Roland asked.
The silence was briefer this time, but Eddie still felt that sense of khef and ka-tet, minds consulting via something so elemental it couldn’t even rightly be called telepathy; it was more elemental than telepathy.
“Yer-bugger!” Overholser said, a slang term that seemed to mean You bet your ass, don’t insult me by asking again. “All on gray horses. They wear gray pants that look like skin. Black boots with cruel big steel spurs. Green cloaks and hoods. And the masks. We know they’re masks because they’ve been found left behind. They look like steel but rot in the sun like flesh, buggerdly things.”
“Ah.”
Overholser gave him a rather insulting head-cocked-to-one-side look, the sort that asked Are you foolish or just slow? Then Slightman said: “Their horses ride like the wind. Some have ta’en one babby before the saddle and another behind.”
“Do you say so?” Roland asked.
Slightman nodded emphatically. “Tell gods thankee.” He saw Callahan again make the sign of the cross in the air and sighed. “Beg pardon, Old Fella.”
Callahan shrugged. “You were here before I was. Call on all the gods you like, so long as you know I think they’re false.”
“And they come out of Thunderclap,” Roland said, ignoring this last.
“Aye,” Overholser said. “You can see where it lies over that way about a hundred wheels.” He pointed southeast. “For we come out of the woods on the last height of land before the Crescent. Ye can see all the Eastern Plain from there, and beyond it a great darkness, like a rain cloud on the horizon. ’Tis said, Roland, that in the far long ago, you could see mountains over there.”
“Like the Rockies from Nebraska,” Jake breathed.
Overholser glanced at him. “Beg pardon, Jake-soh?”
“Nothing,” Jake said, and gave the big farmer a small, embarrassed smile. Eddie, meanwhile, filed away what Overholser had called him. Not sai but soh. Just something else that was interesting.
“We’ve heard of Thunderclap,” Roland said. His voice was somehow terrifying in its lack of emotion, and when Eddie felt Susannah’s hand creep into his, he was glad of it.
“ ’Tis a land of vampires, boggarts, and taheen, so the stories say,” Zalia told them. Her voice was thin, on the verge of trembling. “Of course the stories are old—”
“The stories are true,” Callahan said. His own voice was harsh, but Eddie heard the fear in it. Heard it very well. “There are vampires—other things as well, very likely—and Thunderclap’s their nest. We might speak more of this another time, gunslinger, if it does ya. For now, only hear me, I beg: of vampires I know a good deal. I don’t know if the Wolves take the Calla’s children to them—I rather think not—but yes, there are vampires.”
“Why do you speak as if I doubt?” Roland asked.
Callahan’s eyes dropped. “Because many do. I did myself. I doubted much and . . . ” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, and when he finished, it was almost in a whisper. “ . . . and it was my undoing.”
Roland sat quiet for several moments, hunkered on the soles of his ancient boots with his arms wrapped around his bony knees, rocking back and forth a little. Then, to Overholser: “What o’ the clock do they come?”
“When they took Welland, my brother, it was morning,” the farmer said. “Breakfast not far past. I remember, because Welland asked our Ma if he could take his cup of coffee into the cellar with him. But last time . . . the time they come and took Tian’s sister and Zalia’s brother and so many others . . . ”
“I lost two nieces and a nephew,” Slightman the Elder said.