SIX
It was noon, of course. Lunchtime. And of course he was standing in front of Chew Chew Mama’s. No one seemed to notice his arrival. The chalked specials on the easel just outside the restaurant door read:
HEY YOU, WELCOME
TO CHEW-CHEW!
SPECIALS FOR JUNE 24
BEEF STROGANOFF
BEEF BRISKET (W/CABBAGE)
RANCHO GRANDE TACOS
CHICKEN SOUP
TRY OUR DUTCH APPLE PIE!
All right, one question was answered. It was the day after Eddie had come here. As for the next one . . .
Callahan put Forty-sixth Street at his back for the time being, and walked up Second Avenue. Once he looked behind him and saw the doorway to the cave following him as faithfully as the billy-bumbler followed the boy. He could see Roland sitting there, putting something in his ears to block the maddening tinkle of the chimes.
He got exactly two blocks before stopping, his eyes growing wide with shock, his mouth dropping open. They had said to expect this, both Roland and Eddie, but in his heart Callahan hadn’t believed it. He’d thought he would find The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind perfectly intact on this perfect summer’s day, which was so different from the overcast Calla autumn he’d left. Oh, there might be a sign in the window reading GONE ON VACATION, CLOSED UNTIL AUGUST—something like that—but it would be there. Oh yes.
It wasn’t, though. At least not much of it. The storefront was a burnt-out husk surrounded by yellow tape reading POLICE INVESTIGATION. When he stepped a little closer, he could smell charred lumber, burnt paper, and . . . very faint . . . the odor of gasoline.
An elderly shoeshine-boy had set up shop in front of Station Shoes & Boots, nearby. Now he said to Callahan, “Shame, ain’t it? Thank God the place was empty.”
“Aye, say thankya. When did it happen?”
“Middle of the night, when else? You think them goombars is gonna come t’row their Molly Coh’tails in broad daylight? They ain’t geniuses, but they’re smarter than that.”
“Couldn’t it have been faulty wiring? Or maybe spontaneous combustion?”
The elderly shine-boy gave Callahan a cynical look. Oh, please, it said. He cocked a polish-smeared thumb at the smoldering ruin. “You see that yella tape? You think they put yella tape says PERLICE INVESTIGATION around a place that spontaneously combust-you-lated? No way, my friend. No way José. Cal Tower was in hock to the bad boys. Up to his eyebrows. Everybody on the block knew it.” The shine-boy waggled his own eyebrows, which were lush and white and tangled. “I hate to think about his loss. He had some very vallable books in the back, there. Ver-ry vallable.”
Callahan thanked the shine-boy for his insights, then turned and started back down Second Avenue. He kept touching himself furtively, trying to convince himself that this was really happening. He kept taking deep breaths of the city air with its tang of hydrocarbons, and relished every city sound, from the snore of the buses (there were ads for Charlie’s Angels on some of them) to the pounding of the jackhammers and the incessant honking of horns. As he approached Tower of Power Records, he paused for a moment, transfixed by the music pouring from the speakers over the doors. It was an oldie he hadn’t heard in years, one that had been popular way back in his Lowell days. Something about following the Pied Piper.
“Crispian St. Peters,” he murmured. “That was his name. Good God, say Man Jesus, I’m really here. I’m really in New York!”
As if to confirm this, a harried-sounding woman said, “Maybe some people can stand around all day, but some of us are walking here. Think yez could move it along, or at least get over to the side?”
Callahan spoke an apology which he doubted was heard (or appreciated if it was), and moved along. That sense of being in a dream—an extraordinarily vivid dream—persisted until he neared Forty-sixth Street. Then he began to hear the rose, and everything in his life changed.
SEVEN
At first it was little more than a murmur, but as he drew closer, he thought he could hear many voices, angelic voices, singing. Raising their confident, joyful psalms to God. He had never heard anything so sweet, and he began to run. He came to the fence and laid his hands against it. He began to weep, couldn’t help it. He supposed people were looking at him, but he didn’t care. He suddenly understood a great deal about Roland and his friends, and for the first time felt a part of them. No wonder they were trying so hard to survive, and to go on! No wonder, when this was at stake! There was something on the other side of this fence with its tattered overlay of posters . . . something so utterly and completely wonderful . . .
A young man with his long hair held back in a rubber band and wearing a tipped-back cowboy hat stopped and clapped him briefly on the shoulder. “It’s nice here, isn’t it?” the hippie cowboy said. “I don’t know just why, but it really is. I come once a day. You want to know something?”
Callahan turned toward the young man, wiping at his streaming eyes. “Yes, I guess so.”
The young man brushed a hand across his brow, then his cheek. “I used to have the world’s worst acne. I mean, pizza-face wasn’t even in it, I was roadkill-face. Then I started coming here in late March or early April, and . . . everything cleared up.” The young man laughed. “The dermo guy my Dad sent me to says it’s the zinc oxide, but I think it’s this place. Something about this place. Do you hear it?”
Although Callahan’s voice was ringing with sweetly singing voices—it was like being in Notre Dame cathedral, and surrounded by choirs—he shook his head. Doing so was nothing more than instinct.
“Nah,” said the hippie in the cowboy hat, “me neither. But sometimes I think I do.” He raised his right hand to Callahan, the first two fingers extended in a V. “Peace, brother.”
“Peace,” Callahan said, and returned the sign.
When the hippie cowboy was gone, Callahan ran his hand across the splintery boards of the fence, and a tattered poster advertising War of the Zombies. What he wanted more than anything was to climb over and see the rose . . . possibly to fall on his knees and adore it. But the sidewalks were packed with people, and already he had attracted too many curious looks, some no doubt from people who, like the hippie cowboy, knew a bit about the power of this place. He would best serve the great and singing force behind this fence (was it a rose? could it be no more than that?) by protecting it. And that meant protecting Calvin Tower from whoever had burned down his store.
Still trailing his hand along the rough boards, he turned onto Forty-sixth Street. Down at the end on this side was the glassy-green bulk of the U.N. Plaza Hotel. Calla, Callahan, he thought, and then: Calla, Callahan, Calvin. And then: Calla-come-four, there’s a rose behind the door, Calla-come-Callahan, Calvin’s one more!
He reached the end of the fence. At first he saw nothing, and his heart sank. Then he looked down, and there it was, at knee height: five numbers written in black. Callahan reached into his pocket for the stub of pencil he always kept there, then pulled off a corner of a poster for an off-Broadway play called Dungeon Plunger, A Revue. On this he scribbled five numbers.
He didn’t want to leave, but knew he had to; clear thinking this close to the rose was impossible.
I’ll be back, he told it, and to his delighted amazement, a thought came back, clear and true: Yes, Father, anytime. Come-commala.
On the corner of Second and Forty-sixth, he looked behind him. The door to the cave was still there, the bottom floating about three inches off the sidewalk. A middle-aged couple, tourists judging by the guide-books in their hands, came walking up from the direction of the hotel. Chatting to each other, they reached the door and swerved around it. They don’t see it, but they feel it, Callahan thought. And if the sidewalk had been crowded and swerving had been impossible? He thought in that case they would have walked right through the place where it hung and shimmered, perhaps feeling nothing but a momentary coldness and sense of vertigo. Perhaps hearing, faintly, the sour tang of chimes and catching a whiff of something like burnt onions or seared meat. And that night, perhaps, they’d have transient dreams of places far stranger than Fun City.
He could step back through, probably should; he’d gotten what he’d come for. But a brisk walk would take him to the New York Public Library. There, behind the stone lions, even a man with no money in his pocket could get a little information. The location of a certain zip code, for instance. And—tell the truth and shame the devil—he didn’t want to leave just yet.
He waved his hands in front of him until the gunslinger noticed what he was doing. Ignoring the looks of the passersby, Callahan raised his fingers in the air once, twice, three times, not sure the gunslinger would get it. Roland seemed to. He gave an exaggerated nod, then thumbs-up for good measure.
Callahan set off, walking so fast he was nearly jogging. It wouldn’t do to linger, no matter how pleasant a change New York made. It couldn’t be pleasant where Roland was waiting. And, according to Eddie, it might be dangerous, as well.
EIGHT
The gunslinger had no problem understanding Callahan’s message. Thirty fingers, thirty minutes. The Pere wanted another half an hour on the other side. Roland surmised he had thought of a way to turn the number written on the fence into an actual place. If he could do that, it would be all to the good. Information was power. And sometimes, when time was tight, it was speed.
The bullets in his ears blocked the voices completely. The chimes got in, but even they were dulled. A good thing, because the sound of them was far worse than the warble of the thinny. A couple of days listening to that sound and he reckoned he’d be ready for the lunatic asylum, but for thirty minutes he’d be all right. If worse came to worst, he might be able to pitch something through the door, attract the Pere’s attention, and get him to come back early.
For a little while Roland watched the street unroll before Callahan. The doors on the beach had been like looking through the eyes of his three: Eddie, Odetta, Jack Mort. This one was a little different. He could always see Callahan’s back in it, or his face if he turned around to look, as he often did.
To pass the time, Roland got up to look at a few of the books which had meant so much to Calvin Tower that he’d made their safety a condition for his cooperation. The first one Roland pulled out had the silhouette of a man’s head on it. The man was smoking a pipe and wearing a sort of gamekeeper’s hat. Cort had had one like it, and as a boy, Roland had thought it much more stylish than his father’s old dayrider with its sweat-stains and frayed tugstring. The words on the book were of the New York world. Roland was sure he could have read them easily if he’d been on that side, but he wasn’t. As it was, he could read some, and the result was almost as maddening as the chimes.
“Sirlock Hones,” he read aloud. “No, Holmes. Like Odetta’s fathername. Four . . . short . . . movels. Movels?” No, this one was an. “Four short novels by Sirlock Holmes.” He opened the book, running a respectful hand over the title page and then smelling it: the spicy, faintly sweet aroma of good old paper. He could make out the name of one of the four short novels—The Sign of the Four. Other than the words Hound and Study, the titles of the others were gibberish to him.
“A sign is a sigul,” he said. When he found himself counting the number of letters in the title, he had to laugh at himself. Besides, there were only sixteen. He put the book back and took up another, this one with a drawing of a soldier on the front. He could make out one word of the title: Dead. He looked at another. A man and woman kissing on the cover. Yes, there were always men and women kissing in stories; folks liked that. He put it back and looked up to check on Callahan’s progress. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the Pere walking into a great room filled with books and what Eddie called Magda-seens . . . although Roland was still unsure what Magda had seen, or why there should be so much written about it.
He pulled out another book, and smiled at the picture on the cover. There was a church, with the sun going down red behind it. The church looked a bit like Our Lady of Serenity. He opened it and thumbed through it. A delah of words, but he could only make out one in every three, if that. No pictures. He was about to put it back when something caught his eye. Leaped at his eye. Roland stopped breathing for a moment.
He stood back, no longer hearing the todash chimes, no longer caring about the great room of books Callahan had entered. He began reading the book with the church on the front. Or trying to. The words swam maddeningly in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t be sure. Not quite. But, gods! If he was seeing what he thought he was seeing—
Intuition told him that this was a key. But to what door?
He didn’t know, couldn’t read enough of the words to know. But the book in his hands seemed almost to thrum. Roland thought that perhaps this book was like the rose . . .
. . . but there were black roses, too.
NINE
“Roland, I found it! It’s a little town in central Maine called East Stoneham, about forty miles north of Portland and . . . ” He stopped, getting a good look at the gunslinger. “What’s wrong?”
“The chiming sound,” Roland said quickly. “Even with my ears stopped up, it got through.” The door was shut and the chimes were gone, but there were still the voices. Callahan’s father was currently asking if Donnie thought those magazines he’d found under his son’s bed were anything a Christian boy would want to have, what if his mother had found them? And when Roland suggested they leave the cave, Callahan was more than willing to go. He remembered that conversation with his old man far too clearly. They had ended up praying together at the foot of his bed, and the three Playboys had gone into the incinerator out back.
Roland returned the carved box to the pink bag and once more stowed it carefully behind Tower’s case of valuable books. He had already replaced the book with the church on it, turning it with the title down so he could find it again quickly.
They went out and stood side by side, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. “Are you sure the chimes is all it was?” Callahan asked. “Man, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”
“The todash chimes are worse than ghosts,” Roland said. That might or might not be true, but it seemed to satisfy Callahan. As they started down the path, Roland remembered the promise he had made to the others, and, more important, to himself: no more secrets within the tet. How quickly he found himself ready to break that promise! But he felt he was right to do so. He knew at least some of the names in that book. The others would know them, too. Later they would need to know, if the book was as important as he thought it might be. But now it would only distract them from the approaching business of the Wolves. If they could win that battle, then perhaps . . .
“Roland, are you quite sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” He clapped Callahan on the shoulder. The others would be able to read the book, and by reading might discover what it meant. Perhaps the story in the book was just a story . . . but how could it be, when . . .
“Pere?”
“Yes, Roland.”
“A novel is a story, isn’t it? A made-up story?”
“Yes, a long one.”
“But make-believe.”
“Yes, that’s what fiction means. Make-believe.”
Roland pondered this. Charlie the Choo-Choo had also been make-believe, only in many ways, many vital ways, it hadn’t been. And the author’s name had changed. There were many different worlds, all held together by the Tower. Maybe . . .
No, not now. He mustn’t think about these things now.
“Tell me about the town where Tower and his friend went,” Roland said.
“I can’t, really. I found it in one of the Maine telephone books, that’s all. Also a simplified zip code map that showed about where it is.”
“Good. That’s very good.”
“Roland, are you sure you’re all right?”
Calla, Roland thought. Callahan. He made himself smile. Made himself clap Callahan on the shoulder again.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Now let’s get back to town.”
CHAPTER V:
THE MEETING OF THE FOLKEN
ONE
Tian Jaffords had never been more frightened in his life than he was as he stood on the stage in the Pavilion, looking down at the folken of Calla Bryn Sturgis. He knew there were likely no more than five hundred—six hundred at the very outside—but to him it looked like a multitude, and their taut silence was unnerving. He looked at his wife for comfort and found none there. Zalia’s face looked thin and dark and pinched, the face of an old woman rather than one still well within her childbearing years.
Nor did the look of this late afternoon help him find calm. Overhead the sky was a pellucid, cloudless blue, but it was too dark for five o’ the clock. There was a huge bank of clouds in the southwest, and the sun had passed behind them just as he climbed the steps to the stage. It was what his Granpere would have called weirding weather; omenish, say thankya. In the constant darkness that was Thunderclap, lightning flashed like great sparklights.
Had I known it would come to this, I’d never have started it a-going, he thought wildly. And this time there’ll be no Pere Callahan to haul my poor old ashes out of the fire. Although Callahan was there, standing with Roland and his friends—they of the hard calibers—with his arms folded on his plain black shirt with the notched collar and his Man Jesus cross hanging above.
He told himself not to be foolish, that Callahan would help, and the outworlders would help, as well. They were there to help. The code they followed demanded that they must help, even if it meant their destruction and the end of whatever quest they were on. He told himself that all he needed to do was introduce Roland, and Roland would come. Once before, the gunslinger had stood on this stage and danced the commala and won their hearts. Did Tian doubt that Roland would win their hearts again? In truth, Tian did not. What he was afraid of in his heart was that this time it would be a death-dance instead of a life-dance. Because death was what this man and his friends were about; it was their bread and wine. It was the sherbet they took to clear their palates when the meal was done. At that first meeting—could it have been less than a month ago?—Tian had spoken out of angry desperation, but a month was long enough to count the cost. What if this was a mistake? What if the Wolves burned the entire Calla flat with their light-sticks, took the children they wanted one final time, and exploded all the ones that were left—old, young, in the middle—with their whizzing balls of death?
They stood waiting for him to begin, the gathered Calla. Eisenharts and Overholsers and Javiers and Tooks without number (although no twins among these last of the age the Wolves liked, aye-no, such lucky Tooks they were); Telford standing with the men and his plump but hard-faced wife with the women; Strongs and Rossiters and Slightmans and Hands and Rosarios and Posellas; the Manni once again bunched together like a dark stain of ink, Henchick their patriarch standing with young Cantab, whom all the children liked so well; Andy, another favorite of the kiddies, standing off to one side with his skinny metal arms akimbo and his blue electric eyes flashing in the gloom; the Sisters of Oriza bunched together like birds on fencewire (Tian’s wife among them); and the cowboys, the hired men, the dayboys, even old Bernardo, the town tosspot.
To Tian’s right, those who had carried the feather shuffled a bit uneasily. In ordinary circumstances, one set of twins was plenty to take the opopanax feather; in most cases, people knew well in advance what was up, and carrying the feather was nothing but a formality. This time (it had been Margaret Eisenhart’s idea), three sets of twins had gone together with the hallowed feather, carrying it from town to smallhold to ranch to farm in a bucka driven by Cantab, who sat unusually silent and songless up front, clucking along a matched set of brown mules that needed precious little help from the likes of him. Oldest at twenty-three were the Haggengood twins, born the year of the last Wolf-raid (and ugly as sin by the lights of most folks, although precious hard workers, say thankya). Next came the Tavery twins, those beautiful map-drawing town brats. Last (and youngest, although eldest of Tian’s brood) came Heddon and Hedda. And it was Hedda who got him going. Tian caught her eye and saw that his good (although plain-faced) daughter had sensed her father’s fright and was on the verge of tears herself.
Eddie and Jake weren’t the only ones who heard the voices of others in their heads; Tian now heard the voice of his Granpere. Not as Jamie was now, doddering and nearly toothless, but as he had been twenty years before: old but still capable of clouting you over the River Road if you sassed back or dawdled over a hard pull. Jamie Jaffords who had once stood against the Wolves. This Tian had from time to time doubted, but he doubted it no longer. Because Roland believed.
Garn, then! snarled the voice in his mind. What is it fashes and diddles thee s’slow, oafing? ’Tis nobbut to say his name and stand aside, ennit? Then fer good or nis, ye can let him do a’rest.
Still Tian looked out over the silent crowd a moment longer, their bulk hemmed in tonight by torches that didn’t change—for this was no party—but only glared a steady orange. Because he wanted to say something, perhaps needed to say something. If only to acknowledge that he was partly to credit for this. For good or for nis.
In the eastern darkness, lightning fired off silent explosions.
Roland, standing with his arms folded like the Pere, caught Tian’s eye and nodded slightly to him. Even by warm torchlight, the gunslinger’s blue gaze was cold. Almost as cold as Andy’s. Yet it was all the encouragement Tian needed.
He took the feather and held it before him. Even the crowd’s breathing seemed to still. Somewhere far overtown, a rustie cawed as if to hold back the night.
“Not long since I stood in yon Gathering Hall and told’ee what I believe,” Tian said. “That when the Wolves come, they don’t just take our children but our hearts and souls. Each time they steal and we stand by, they cut us a little deeper. If you cut a tree deep enough, it dies. Cut a town deep enough, that dies, too.”
The voice of Rosalita Munoz, childless her whole life, rang out in the fey dimness of the day with clear ferocity: “Say true, say thankya! Hear him, folken! Hear him very well!”
“Hear him, hear him, hear him well” ran through the assembly.
“Pere stood up that night and told us there were gunslingers coming from the northwest, coming through Mid-Forest along the Path of the Beam. Some scoffed, but Pere spoke true.”
“Say thankya,” they replied. “Pere said true.” And a woman’s voice: “Praise Jesus! Praise Mary, mother of God!”
“They’ve been among us all these days since. Any who’s wanted to speak to em has spoke to em. They have promised nothing but to help—”
“And’ll move on, leaving bloody ruin behind em, if we’re foolish enough to allow it!” Eben Took roared.
There was a shocked gasp from the crowd. As it died, Wayne Overholser said: “Shut up, ye great mouth-organ.”
Took turned to look at Overholser, the Calla’s big farmer and Took’s best customer, with a look of gaping surprise.
Tian said: “Their dinh is Roland Deschain, of Gilead.” They knew this, but the mention of such legendary names still provoked a low, almost moaning murmur. “From In-World that was. Would you hear him? What say you, folken?”
Their response quickly rose to a shout. “Hear him! Hear him! We would hear him to the last! Hear him well, say thankya!” And a soft, rhythmic crumping sound that Tian could not at first identify. Then he realized what it was and almost smiled. This was what the tromping of shor’boots sounded like, not on the boards of the Gathering Hall, but out here on Lady Riza’s grass.
Tian held out his hand. Roland came forward. The tromping sound grew louder as he did. Women were joining in, doing the best they could in their soft town shoes. Roland mounted the steps. Tian gave him the feather and left the stage, taking Hedda’s hand and motioning for the rest of the twins to go before him. Roland stood with the feather held before him, gripping its ancient lacquered stalk with hands now bearing only eight digits. At last the tromping of the shoes and shor’boots died away. The torches sizzled and spat, illuminating the upturned faces of the folken, showing their hope and fear; showing both very well. The rustie called and was still. In the east, big lightning sliced up the darkness.
The gunslinger stood facing them.