FIVE
In standard American English, the word with the most gradations of meaning is probably run. The Random House unabridged dictionary offers one hundred and seventy-eight options, beginning with “to go quickly by moving the legs more rapidly than at a walk” and ending with “melted or liquefied.” In the Crescent-Callas of the borderlands between Mid-World and Thunderclap, the blue ribbon for most meanings would have gone to commala. If the word were listed in the Random House unabridged, the first definition (assuming they were assigned, as is common, in order of widest usage), would have been “a variety of rice grown at the furthermost eastern edge of All-World.” The second one, however would have been “sexual intercourse.” The third would have been “sexual orgasm,” as in Did’ee come commala? (The hoped-for reply being Aye, say thankya, commala big-big.) To wet the commala is to irrigate the rice in a dry time; it is also to masturbate. Commala is the commencement of some big and joyful meal, like a family feast (not the meal itself, do ya, but the moment of beginning to eat). A man who is losing his hair (as Garrett Strong was that season), is coming commala. Putting animals out to stud is damp commala. Gelded animals are dry commala, although no one could tell you why. A virgin is green commala, a menstruating woman is red commala, an old man who can no longer make iron before the forge is—say sorry—sof’ commala. To stand commala is to stand belly-to-belly, a slang term meaning “to share secrets.” The sexual connotations of the word are clear, but why should the rocky arroyos north of town be known as the commala draws? For that matter, why is a fork sometimes a commala, but never a spoon or a knife? There aren’t a hundred and seventy-eight meanings for the word, but there must be seventy. Twice that, if one were to add in the various shadings. One of the meanings—it would surely be in the top ten—is that which Pere Callahan defined as schmoozing. The actual phrase would be something like “come Sturgis commala,” or “come Bryn-a commala.” The literal meaning would be to stand belly-to-belly with the community as a whole.
During the following five days, Roland and his ka-tet attempted to continue this process, which the outworlders had begun at Took’s General Store. The going was difficult at first (“Like trying to light a fire with damp kindling,” Susannah said crossly after their first night), but little by little, the folken came around. Or at least warmed up to them. Each night, Roland and the Deans returned to the Pere’s rectory. Each late afternoon or evening, Jake returned to the Rocking B Ranch. Andy took to meeting him at the place where the B’s ranch-road split off from East Road and escorting him the rest of the way, each time making his bow and saying, “Good evening, soh! Would you like your horoscope? This time of year is sometimes called Charyou Reap! You will see an old friend! A young lady thinks of you warmly!” And so on.
Jake had asked Roland again why he was spending so much time with Benny Slightman.
“Are you complaining?” Roland asked. “Don’t like him anymore?”
“I like him fine, Roland, but if there’s something I’m supposed to be doing besides jumping in the hay, teaching Oy to do somersaults, or seeing who can skip a flat rock on the river the most times, I think you ought to tell me what it is.”
“There’s nothing else,” Roland said. Then, as an afterthought: “And get your sleep. Growing boys need plenty of sleep.”
“Why am I out there?”
“Because it seems right to me that you should be,” Roland said. “All I want is for you to keep your eyes open and tell me if you see something you don’t like or don’t understand.”
“Anyway, kiddo, don’t you see enough of us during the days?” Eddie asked him.
They were together during those next five days, and the days were long. The novelty of riding sai Overholser’s horses wore off in a hurry. So did complaints of sore muscles and blistered butts. On one of these rides, as they approached the place where Andy would be waiting, Roland asked Susannah bluntly if she had considered abortion as a way of solving her problem.
“Well,” she said, looking at him curiously from her horse, “I’m not going to tell you the thought never crossed my mind.”
“Banish it,” he said. “No abortion.”
“Any particular reason why not?”
“Ka,” said Roland.
“Kaka,” Eddie replied promptly. This was an old joke, but the three of them laughed, and Roland was delighted to laugh with them. And with that, the subject was dropped. Roland could hardly believe it, but he was glad. The fact that Susannah seemed so little disposed to discuss Mia and the coming of the baby made him grateful indeed. He supposed there were things—quite a few of them—which she felt better off not knowing.
Still, she had never lacked for courage. Roland was sure the questions would have come sooner or later, but after five days of canvassing the town as a quartet (a quintet counting Oy, who always rode with Jake), Roland began sending her out to the Jaffords smallhold at midday to try her hand with the dish.
Eight days or so after their long palaver on the rectory porch—the one that had gone on until four in the morning—Susannah invited them out to the Jaffords smallhold to see her progress. “It’s Zalia’s idea,” she said. “I guess she wants to know if I pass.”
Roland knew he only had to ask Susannah herself if he wanted an answer to that question, but he was curious. When they arrived, they found the entire family gathered on the back porch, and several of Tian’s neighbors, as well: Jorge Estrada and his wife, Diego Adams (in chaps), the Javiers. They looked like spectators at a Points practice. Zalman and Tia, the roont twins, stood to one side, goggling at all the company with wide eyes. Andy was also there, holding baby Aaron (who was sleeping) in his arms.
“Roland, if you wanted all this kept secret, guess what?” Eddie said.
Roland was not put out of countenance, although he realized now that his threat to the cowboys who’d seen sai Eisenhart throw the dish had been utterly useless. Country-folk talked, that was all. Whether in the borderlands or the baronies, gossip was ever the chief sport. And at the very least, he mused, those humpies will spread the news that Roland’s a hard boy, strong commala, and not to be trifled with.
“It is what it is,” he said. “The Calla-folken have known for donkey’s years that the Sisters of Oriza throw the dish. If they know Susannah throws it, too—and well—maybe it’s to the good.”
Jake said, “I just hope she doesn’t, you know, mess up.”
There were respectful greetings for Roland, Eddie, and Jake as they mounted the porch. Andy told Jake a young lady was pining for him. Jake blushed and said he’d just as soon not know about stuff like that, if that did Andy all right.
“As you will, soh.” Jake found himself studying the words and numbers stamped on Andy’s midsection like a steel tattoo and wondering again if he was really in this world of robots and cowboys, or if it was all some sort of extraordinarily vivid dream. “I hope this baby will wake up soon, so I do. And cry! Because I know several soothing cradle-songs—”
“Hush up, ye creakun steel bandit!” Granpere said crossly, and after crying the old man’s pardon (in his usual complacent, not-a-bit-sorry tone of voice), Andy did. Messenger, Many Other Functions, Jake thought. Is one of your other functions teasing folks, Andy, or is that just my imagination?
Susannah had gone into the house with Zalia. When they came out, Susannah was wearing not one reed pouch, but two. They hung to her hips on a pair of woven straps. There was another strap, too, Eddie saw, running around her waist and holding the pouches snug. Like holster tie-downs.
“That’s quite the hookup, say thankya,” Diego Adams remarked.
“Susannah thought it up,” Zalia said as Susannah got into her wheelchair. “She calls it a docker’s clutch.”
It wasn’t, Eddie thought, not quite, but it was close. He felt an admiring smile lift the corners of his mouth, and saw a similar one on Roland’s. And Jake’s. By God, even Oy appeared to be grinning.
“Will it draw water, that’s what I wonder,” Bucky Javier said. That such a question should even be asked, Eddie thought, only emphasized the difference between the gunslingers and the Calla-folken. Eddie and his mates had known from first look what the hookup was and how it would work. Javier, however, was a smallhold farmer, and as such, saw the world in a very different way.
You need us, Eddie thought toward the little cluster of men standing on the porch—the farmers in their dirty white pants, Adams in his chaps and manure-splattered shor’boots. Boy, do you ever.
Susannah wheeled to the front of the porch and folded her stumps beneath her so she appeared almost to be standing in her chair. Eddie knew how much this posture hurt her, but no discomfort showed on her face. Roland, meanwhile, was looking down into the pouches she wore. There were four dishes in each, plain things with no pattern on them. Practice-dishes.
Zalia walked across to the barn. Although Roland and Eddie had noted the blanket tacked up there as soon as they arrived, the others noticed it for the first time when Zalia pulled it down. Drawn in chalk on the barnboards was the outline of a man—or a manlike being—with a frozen grin on his face and the suggestion of a cloak fluttering out behind him. This wasn’t work of the quality produced by the Tavery twins, nowhere near, but those on the porch recognized a Wolf when they saw one. The older children oohed softly. The Estradas and the Javiers applauded, but looked apprehensive even as they did so, like people who fear they may be whistling up the devil. Andy complimented the artist (“whoever she may be,” he added archly), and Granpere told him again to shut his trap. Then he called out that the Wolves he’d seen were quite a spot bigger. His voice was shrill with excitement.
“Well, I drew it to man-size,” Zalia said (she had actually drawn it to husband-size). “If the real thing turns out to make a bigger target, all to the good. Hear me, I beg.” This last came out uncertainly, almost as a question.
Roland nodded. “We say thankya.”
Zalia shot him a grateful look, then stepped away from the outline on the wall. Then she looked at Susannah. “When you will, lady.”
For a moment Susannah only remained where she was, about sixty yards from the barn. Her hands lay between her breasts, the right covering the left. Her head was lowered. Her ka-mates knew exactly what was going on in that head: I aim with my eye, shoot with my hand, kill with my heart. Their own hearts went out to her, perhaps carried by Jake’s touch or Eddie’s love, encouraging her, wishing her well, sharing their excitement. Roland watched fiercely. Would one more dab hand with the dish turn things in their favor? Perhaps not. But he was what he was, and so was she, and he wished her true aim with every last bit of his will.
She raised her head. Looked at the shape chalked on the barn wall. Still her hands lay between her breasts. Then she cried out shrilly, as Margaret Eisenhart had cried out in the yard of the Rocking B, and Roland felt his hard-beating heart rise. In that moment he had a clear and beautiful memory of David, his hawk, folding his wings in a blue summer sky and dropping at his prey like a stone with eyes.
“Riza!”
Her hands dropped and became a blur. Only Roland, Eddie, and Jake were able to mark how they crossed at the waist, the right hand seizing a dish from the left pouch, the left hand seizing one from the right. Sai Eisenhart had thrown from the shoulder, sacrificing time in order to gain force and accuracy. Susannah’s arms crossed below her ribcage and just above the arms of her wheelchair, the dishes finishing their cocking arc at about the height of her shoulderblades. Then they flew, crisscrossing in midair a moment before thudding into the side of the barn.
Susannah’s arms finished straight out before her; for a moment she looked like an impresario who has just introduced the featured act. Then they dropped and crossed, seizing two more dishes. She flung them, dipped again, and flung the third set. The first two were still quivering when the last two bit into the side of the barn, one high and one low.
For a moment there was utter silence in the Jaffordses’ yard. Not even a bird called. The eight plates ran in a perfectly straight line from the throat of the chalked figure to what would have been its upper midsection. They were all two and a half to three inches apart, descending like buttons on a shirt. And she had thrown all eight in no more than three seconds.
“Do’ee mean to use the dish against the Wolves?” Bucky Javier asked in a queerly breathless voice. “Is that it?”
“Nothing’s been decided,” Roland said stolidly.
In a barely audible voice that held both shock and wonder, Deelie Estrada said: “But if that’d been a man, hear me, he’d be cutlets.”
It was Granpere who had the final word, as perhaps gran-peres should: “Yer-bugger!”
SIX
On their way back out to the main road (Andy walked at a distance ahead of them, carrying the folded wheelchair and playing something bagpipey through his sound system), Susannah said musingly: “I may give up the gun altogether, Roland, and just concentrate on the dish. There’s an elemental satisfaction to giving that scream and then throwing.”
“You reminded me of my hawk,” Roland admitted.
Susannah’s teeth flashed white in a grin. “I felt like a hawk. Riza! O-Riza! Just saying the word puts me in a throwing mood.”
To Jake’s mind this brought some obscure memory of Gasher (“Yer old pal, Gasher,” as the gentleman himself had been wont to say), and he shivered.
“Would you really give up the gun?” Roland asked. He didn’t know if he was amused or aghast.
“Would you roll your own smokes if you could get tailor-mades?” she asked, and then, before he could answer: “No, not really. Yet the dish is a lovely weapon. When they come, I hope to throw two dozen. And bag my limit.”
“Will there be a shortage of plates?” Eddie asked.
“Nope,” she said. “There aren’t very many fancy ones—like the one sai Eisenhart threw for you, Roland—but they’ve hundreds of practice-plates. Rosalita and Sarey Adams are sorting through them, culling out any that might fly crooked.” She hesitated, lowered her voice. “They’ve all been out here, Roland, and although Sarey’s brave as a lion and would stand fast against a tornado . . . ”
“Hasn’t got it, huh?” Eddie asked sympathetically.
“Not quite,” Susannah agreed. “She’s good, but not like the others. Nor does she have quite the same ferocity.”
“I may have something else for her,” Roland said.
“What would that be, sugar?”
“Escort duty, mayhap. We’ll see how they shoot, day after tomorrow. A little competition always livens things up. Five o’ the clock, Susannah, do they know?”
“Yes. Most of the Calla would turn up, if you allowed them.”
This was discouraging . . . but he should have expected it. I’ve been too long out of the world of people, he thought. So I have.
“No one but the ladies and ourselves,” Roland said firmly.
“If the Calla-folken saw the women throw well, it could swing a lot of people who are on the fence.”
Roland shook his head. He didn’t want them to know how well the women threw, that was very nearly the whole point. But that the town knew they were throwing . . . that might not be such a bad thing. “How good are they, Susannah? Tell me.”
She thought about it, then smiled. “Killer aim,” she said. “Every one.”
“Can you teach them that crosshand throw?”
Susannah considered the question. You could teach anyone just about anything, given world enough and time, but they had neither. Only thirteen days left now, and by the day the Sisters of Oriza (including their newest member, Susannah of New York) met for the exhibition in Pere Callahan’s back yard, there would be only a week and a half. The crosshand throw had come naturally to her, as everything about shooting had. But the others . . .
“Rosalita will learn it,” she said at last. “Margaret Eisenhart could learn it, but she might get flustered at the wrong time. Zalia? No. Best she throw one plate at a time, always with her right hand. She’s a little slower, but I guarantee every plate she throws will drink something’s blood.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Until a sneetch homes in on her and blows her out of her corset, that is.”
Susannah ignored this. “We can hurt them, Roland. Thou knows we can.”
Roland nodded. What he’d seen had encouraged him mightily, especially in light of what Eddie had told him. Susannah and Jake also knew Granpere’s ancient secret now. And, speaking of Jake . . .
“You’re very quiet today,” Roland said to the boy. “Is everything all right?”
“I do fine, thankya,” Jake said. He had been watching Andy. Thinking of how Andy had rocked the baby. Thinking that if Tian and Zalia and the other kids all died and Andy was left to raise Aaron, baby Aaron would probably die within six months. Die, or turn into the weirdest kid in the universe. Andy would diaper him, Andy would feed him all the correct stuff, Andy would change him when he needed changing and burp him if he needed burping, and there would be all sorts of cradle-songs. Each would be sung perfectly and none would be propelled by a mother’s love. Or a father’s. Andy was just Andy, Messenger Robot, Many Other Functions. Baby Aaron would be better off being raised by . . . well, by wolves.
This thought led him back to the night he and Benny had tented out (they hadn’t done so since; the weather had turned chilly). The night he had seen Andy and Benny’s Da’ palavering. Then Benny’s Da’ had gone wading across the river. Headed east.
Headed in the direction of Thunderclap.
“Jake, are you sure you’re okay?” Susannah asked.
“Yessum,” Jake said, knowing this would probably make her laugh. It did, and Jake laughed with her, but he was still thinking of Benny’s Da’. The spectacles Benny’s Da’ wore. Jake was pretty sure he was the only one in town who had them. Jake had asked him about that one day when the three of them had been riding in one of the Rocking B’s two north fields, looking out strays. Benny’s Da’ had told him a story about trading a beautiful true-threaded colt for the specs—from one of the lake-mart boats it had been, back when Benny’s sissa had been alive, Oriza bless her. He had done it even though all of the cowpokes—even Vaughn Eisenhart himself, do ya not see—had told him such spectacles never worked; they were no more useful than Andy’s fortunes. But Ben Slightman had tried them on, and they had changed everything. All at once, for the first time since he’d been maybe seven, he’d been able to really see the world.
He had polished his specs on his shirt as they rode, held them up to the sky so that twin spots of light swam on his cheeks, then put them back on. “If I ever lose em or break em, I don’t know what I’d do,” he’d said. “I got along without such just fine for twenty years or more, but a person gets used to something better in one rip of a hurry.”
Jake thought it was a good story. He was sure Susannah would have believed it (assuming the singularity of Slightman’s spectacles had occurred to her in the first place). He had an idea Roland would have believed it, too. Slightman told it in just the right way: a man who still appreciated his good fortune and didn’t mind letting folks know that he’d been right about something while quite a number of other people, his boss among them, had been wide of the mark. Even Eddie might have swallowed it. The only thing wrong with Slightman’s story was that it wasn’t true. Jake didn’t know what the real deal was, his touch didn’t go that deep, but he knew that much. And it worried him.
Probably nothing, you know. Probably he just got them in some way that wouldn’t sound so good. For all you know, one of the Manni brought them back from some other world, and Benny’s Da’ stole them.
That was one possibility; if pressed, Jake could have come up with half a dozen more. He was an imaginative boy.
Still, when added to what he’d seen by the river, it worried him. What kind of business could Eisenhart’s foreman have on the far side of the Whye? Jake didn’t know. And still, each time he thought to raise this subject with Roland, something kept him quiet.
And after giving him a hard time about keeping secrets!
Yeah, yeah, yeah. But—
But what, little trailhand?
But Benny, that was what. Benny was the problem. Or maybe it was Jake himself who was actually the problem. He’d never been much good at making friends, and now he had a good one. A real one. The thought of getting Benny’s Da’ in trouble made him feel sick to his stomach.