THREE
“Commala-come-one!
Mamma had a son!
Dass-a time ’at Daddy
Had d’mos’ fun!”
Andy sang this part alone, then pointed his baton at the crowd of children. They joined in boisterously.
“Commala-come-come!
Daddy had one!
Dass-a time ’at Mommy
Had d’mos’ fun!”
Gleeful laughter. There weren’t as many kids as Susannah would have thought, given the amount of noise they were putting out. Seeing Andy there at their head, after hearing Jake’s story, chilled her heart. At the same time, she felt an angry pulse begin to beat in her throat and her left temple. That he should lead them down the street like this! Like the Pied Piper, Eddie was right—like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Now he pointed his makeshift baton at a pretty girl who looked thirteen or fourteen. Susannah thought she was one of the Anselm kids, from the smallhold just south of Tian Jaffords’s place. She sang out the next verse bright and clear to that same heavily rhythmic beat, which was almost (but not quite) a skip-rope chant:
“Commala-come-two!
You know what to do!
Plant the rice commala,
Don’t ye be . . . no . . . foo’!”
Then, as the others joined in again, Susannah realized that the group of children was bigger than she’d thought when they came around the corner, quite a bit bigger. Her ears had told her truer than her eyes, and there was a perfectly good reason for that.
“Commala-come-two! [they sang]
Daddy no foo’!
Mommy plant commala
cause she know jus’ what to do!”
The group looked smaller at first glance because so many of the faces were the same—the face of the Anselm girl, for instance, was nearly the face of the boy next to her. Her twin brother. Almost all the kids in Andy’s group were twins. Susannah suddenly realized how eerie this was, like all the strange doublings they’d encountered caught in a bottle. Her stomach turned over. And she felt the first twinge of pain above her left eye. Her hand began to rise toward the tender spot.
No, she told herself, I don’t feel that. She made the hand go back down. There was no need to rub her brow. No need to rub what didn’t hurt.
Andy pointed his baton at a strutting, pudgy little boy who couldn’t have been more than eight. He sang the words out in a high and childish treble that made the other kids laugh.
“Commala-come-t’ree!
You know what t’be
Plant d’rice commala
and d’rice’ll make ya free!”
To which the chorus replied:
“Commala-come-t’ree!
Rice’ll make ya free!
When ya plant the rice commala
You know jus’ what to be!”
Andy saw Roland’s ka-tet and waved his baton cheerily. So did the children . . . half of whom would come back drooling and roont if the parade-marshal had his way. They would grow to the size of giants, screaming with pain, and then die early.
“Wave back,” Roland said, and raised his hand. “Wave back, all of you, for the sake of your fathers.”
Eddie flashed Andy a happy, toothy grin. “How you doing, you cheapshit Radio Shack dickweed?” he asked. The voice coming through his grin was low and savage. He gave Andy a double thumbs-up. “How you doing, you robot psycho? Say fine? Say thankya! Say bite my bag!”
Jake burst out laughing at that. They all continued waving and smiling. The children waved and smiled back. Andy also waved. He led his merry band down the high street, chanting Commala-come-four! River’s at the door!
“They love him,” Callahan said. There was a strange, sick expression of disgust on his face. “Generations of children have loved Andy.”
“That,” Roland remarked, “is about to change.”
FOUR
“Further questions?” Roland asked when Andy and the children were gone. “Ask now if you will. It could be your last chance.”
“What about Tian Jaffords?” Callahan asked. “In a very real sense it was Tian who started this. There ought to be a place for him at the finish.”
Roland nodded. “I have a job for him. One he and Eddie will do together. Pere, that’s a fine privy down below Rosalita’s cottage. Tall. Strong.”
Callahan raised his eyebrows. “Aye, say thankya. ’Twas Tian and his neighbor, Hugh Anselm, who built it.”
“Could you put a lock on the outside of it in the next few days?”
“I could but—”
“If things go well no lock will be necessary, but one can never be sure.”
“No,” Callahan said. “I suppose one can’t. But I can do as you ask.”
“What’s your plan, sugar?” Susannah asked. She spoke in a quiet, oddly gentle voice.
“There’s precious little plan in it. Most times that’s all to the good. The most important thing I can tell you is not to believe anything I say once we get up from here, dust off our bottoms, and rejoin the folken. Especially nothing I say when I stand up at the meeting with the feather in my hand. Most of it will be lies.” He gave them a smile. Above it, his faded blue eyes were as hard as rocks. “My Da’ and Cuthbert’s Da’ used to have a rule between em: first the smiles, then the lies. Last comes gunfire.”
“We’re almost there, aren’t we?” Susannah asked. “Almost to the shooting.”
Roland nodded. “And the shooting will happen so fast and be over so quick that you’ll wonder what all the planning and palaver was for, when in the end it always comes down to the same five minutes’ worth of blood, pain, and stupidity.” He paused, then said: “I always feel sick afterward. Like I did when Bert and I went to see the hanged man.”
“I have a question,” Jake said.
“Ask it,” Roland told him.
“Will we win?”
Roland was quiet for such a long time that Susannah began to be afraid. Then he said: “We know more than they think we know. Far more. They’ve grown complacent. If Andy and Slightman are the only rats in the woodpile, and if there aren’t too many in the Wolfpack—if we don’t run out of plates and cartridges—then yes, Jake, son of Elmer. We’ll win.”
“How many is too many?”
Roland considered, his faded blue eyes looking east. “More than you’d believe,” he said at last. “And, I hope, many more than they would.”
FIVE
Late that afternoon, Donald Callahan stood in front of the unfound door, trying to concentrate on Second Avenue in the year 1977. What he fixed upon was Chew Chew Mama’s, and how sometimes he and George and Lupe Delgado would go there for lunch.
“I ate the beef brisket whenever I could get it,” Callahan said, and tried to ignore the shrieking voice of his mother, rising from the cave’s dark belly. When he’d first come in with Roland, his eyes had been drawn to the books Calvin Tower had sent through. So many books! Callahan’s mostly generous heart grew greedy (and a bit smaller) at the sight of them. His interest didn’t last, however—just long enough to pull one at random and see it was The Virginian, by Owen Wister. It was hard to browse when your dead friends and loved ones were shrieking at you and calling you names.
His mother was currently asking him why he had allowed a vampire, a filthy bloodsucker, to break the cross she had given him. “You was always weak in faith,” she said dolorously. “Weak in the faith and strong for the drink. I bet you’d like one right now, wouldn’t you?”
Dear God, would he ever. Whiskey. Ancient Age. Callahan felt sweat break on his forehead. His heart was beating double-time. No, triple-time.
“The brisket,” he muttered. “With some of that brown mustard splashed on top of it.” He could even see the plastic squeeze-bottle the mustard came in, and remember the brand name. Plochman’s.
“What?” Roland asked from behind him.
“I said I’m ready,” Callahan said. “If you’re going to do it, for God’s love do it now.”
Roland cracked open the box. The chimes at once bolted through Callahan’s ears, making him remember the low men in their loud cars. His stomach shriveled inside his belly and outraged tears burst from his eyes.
But the door clicked open, and a wedge of bright sunshine slanted through, dispelling the gloom of the cave’s mouth.
Callahan took a deep breath and thought, Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee. And stepped into the summer of ’77.