Wolves of the Calla (The Dark Tower 5)

He turned to Roland, but Roland wasn't looking at him. Incredibly, Roland was studying the books. As if the search for Susannah had begun to bore him and he was looking for a good read to pass the time.

Eddie took Roland's shoulder, turned him. "What happened, Roland? Do you know?"

"What happened is obvious," Roland said. Callahan had come up beside him. Only Jake, who was visiting the Doorway Cave for the first time, hung back at the entrance. "She took her wheelchair as far as she could, then went on her hands and knees to the foot of the path, no mean feat for a woman who's probably in labor. At the foot of the path, someone--probably Andy, just as Jake says--left her a ride."

"If it was Slightman, I'll go back and kill him myself."

Roland shook his head. "Not Slightman." But Slightman might know for sure, he thought. It probably didn't matter, but he liked loose ends no more than he liked crooked pictures hanging on walls.

"Hey, bro, sorry to tell you this, but your poke-bitch is dead," Henry Dean called up from deep in the cave. He didn't sound sorry; he sounded gleeful. "Damn thing ate her all the way up! Only stopped long enough on its way to the brain to spit out her teeth!"

"Shut up!" Eddie screamed.

"The brain's the ultimate brain-food, you know," Henry said. He had assumed a mellow, scholarly tone. "Revered by cannibals the world over. That's quite the chap she's got, Eddie! Cute but hongry."

"Be still, in the name of God!" Callahan cried, and the voice of Eddie's brother ceased. For the time being, at least, all the voices ceased.

Roland went on as if he had never been interrupted. "She came here. Took the bag. Opened the box so that Black Thirteen would open the door. Mia, this is--not Susannah but Mia. Daughter of none. And then, still carrying the open box, she went through. On the other side she closed the box, closing the door. Closing it against us."

"No," Eddie said, and grabbed the crystal doorknob with the rose etched into its geometric facets. It wouldn't turn. There was not so much as a single iota of give.

From the darkness, Elmer Chambers said: "If you'd been quicker, son, you could have saved your friend. It's your fault." And fell silent again.

"It's not real, Jake," Eddie said, and rubbed a finger across the rose. The tip of his finger came away dusty. As if the unfound door had stood here, unused as well as unfound, for a score of centuries. "It just broadcasts the worst stuff it can find in your own head."

"I was always hatin yo' guts, honky!" Detta cried triumphantly from the darkness beyond the door. "Ain't I glad to be shed of you!"

"Like that," Eddie said, cocking a thumb in the direction of the voice.

Jake nodded, pale and thoughtful. Roland, meanwhile, had turned back to Tower's bookcase.

"Roland?" Eddie tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, or at least add a little spark of humor to it, and failed at both. "Are we boring you, here?"

"No," Roland said.

"Then I wish you'd stop looking at those books and help me think of a way to open this d--"

"I know how to open it," Roland said. "The first question is where will it take us now that the ball is gone? The second question is where do we want to go? After Mia, or to the place where Tower and his friend are hiding from Balazar and his friends?"

"We go after Susannah!" Eddie shouted. "Have you been listening to any of the shit those voices are saying? They're saying it's a cannibal! My wife could be giving birth to some kind of a cannibal monster right now, and if you think anything's more important than that--"

"The Tower's more important," Roland said. "And somewhere on the other side of this door there's a man whose name is Tower. A man who owns a certain vacant lot and a certain rose growing there."

Eddie looked at him uncertainly. So did Jake and Callahan. Roland turned again to the little bookcase. It looked strange indeed, here in this rocky darkness.

"And he owns these books," Roland mused. "He risked all things to save them."

"Yeah, because he's one obsessed motherfucker."

"Yet all things serve ka and follow the Beam," Roland said, and selected a volume from the upper shelf of the bookcase. Eddie saw it had been placed in there upside down, which struck him as a very un-Calvin Tower thing to do.

Roland held the book in his seamed, weather-chapped hands, seeming to debate which one to give it to. He looked at Eddie . . . looked at Callahan . . . and then gave the book to Jake.

"Read me what it says on the front," he said. "The words of your world make my head hurt. They swim to my eye easily enough, but when I reach my mind toward them, most swim away again."

Jake was paying little attention; his eyes were riveted on the book jacket with its picture of a little country church at sunset. Callahan, meanwhile, had stepped past him in order to get a closer look at the door standing here in the gloomy cave.

At last the boy looked up. "But . . . Roland, isn't this the town Pere Callahan told us about? The one where the vampire broke his cross and made him drink his blood?"

Callahan whirled away from the door. "What?"

Jake held the book out wordlessly. Callahan took it. Almost snatched it.

" 'Salem's Lot," he read. "A novel by Stephen King." He looked up at Eddie, then at Jake. "Heard of him? Either of you? He's not from my time, I don't think."

Jake shook his head. Eddie began to shake his, as well, and then he saw something. "That church," he said. "It looks like the Calla Gathering Hall. Close enough to be its twin, almost."

"It also looks like the East Stoneham Methodist Meeting Hall, built in 1819," Callahan said, "so I guess this time we've got a case of triplets." But his voice sounded faraway to his own ears, as hollow as the false voices which floated up from the bottom of the cave. All at once he felt false to himself, not real. He felt nineteen.

SIX

It's a joke, part of his mind assured him. It must be a joke, the cover of this book says it's a novel, so--

Then an idea struck him, and he felt a surge of relief. It was conditional relief, but surely better than none at all. The idea was that sometimes people wrote make-believe stories about real places. That was it, surely. Had to be.

"Look at page one hundred and nineteen," Roland said. "I could make out a little of it, but not all. Not nearly enough."

Callahan found the page, and read this:

" 'In the early days at the seminary, a friend of Father . . . ' " He trailed off, eyes racing ahead over the words on the page.

"Go on," Eddie said. "You read it, Father, or I will."

Slowly, Callahan resumed.

" '. . . a friend of Father Callahan's had given him a blasphemous crewelwork sampler which had sent him into gales of horrified laughter at the time, but which seemed more true and less blasphemous as the years passed: God grant me the SERENITY to accept what I cannot change, the TENACITY to change what I may, and the GOOD LUCK not to fuck up too often. This in Old English script with a rising sun in the background.

" 'Now, standing before Danny Glick's . . . Danny Glick's mourners, that old credo . . . that old credo returned.' "

The hand holding the book sagged. If Jake hadn't caught it, it probably would have tumbled to the floor of the cave.

"You had it, didn't you?" Eddie said. "You actually had a sampler saying that."

"Frankie Foyle gave it to me," Callahan said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Back in seminary. And Danny Glick . . . I officiated at his funeral, I think I told you that. That was when everything seemed to change, somehow. But this is a novel! A novel is fiction! How . . . how can it . . . " His voice suddenly rose to a damned howl. To Roland it sounded eerily like the false voices that rose up from below. "Damn it, I'm a REAL PERSON!"

"Here's the part where the vampire broke your cross," Jake reported. " ' "Together at last!" Barlow said, smiling. His face was strong and intelligent and handsome in a sharp, forbidding sort of way--yet, as the light shifted, it seemed--' "

"Stop," Callahan said dully. "It makes my head hurt."

&

nbsp; "It says his face reminded you of the bogeyman who lived in your closet when you were a kid. Mr. Flip."

Callahan's face was now so pale he might have been a vampire's victim himself. "I never told anyone about Mr. Flip, not even my mother. That can't be in that book. It just can't be."

"It is," Jake said simply.

"Let's get this straight," Eddie said. "When you were a kid, there was a Mr. Flip, and you did think of him when you faced this particular Type One vampire, Barlow. Correct?"

"Yes, but--"

Eddie turned to the gunslinger. "Is this getting us any closer to Susannah, do you think?"

"Yes. We've reached the heart of a great mystery. Perhaps the great mystery. I believe the Dark Tower is almost close enough to touch. And if the Tower is close, Susannah is, too."

Ignoring him, Callahan was flipping through the book. Jake was looking over his shoulder.

"And you know how to open that door?" Eddie pointed at it.

"Yes," Roland said. "I'd need help, but I think the people of Calla Bryn Sturgis owe us a little help, don't you?"

Eddie nodded. "All right, then, let me tell you this much: I'm pretty sure I have seen the name Stephen King before, at least once."

"On the Specials board," Jake said without looking up from the book. "Yeah, I remember. It was on the Specials board the first time we went todash."

"Specials board?" Roland asked, frowning.

"Tower's Specials board," Eddie said. "It was in the window, remember? Part of his whole Restaurant-of-the-Mind thing."

Roland nodded.

"But I'll tell you guys something," Jake said, and now he did look up from the book. "The name was there when Eddie and I went todash, but it wasn't on the board the first time I went in there. The time Mr. Deepneau told me the river riddle, it was someone else's name. It changed, just like the name of the writer on Charlie the Choo-Choo."

"I can't be in a book," Callahan was saying. "I am not a fiction . . . am I?"

"Roland." It was Eddie. The gunslinger turned to him. "I need to find her. I don't care who's real and who's not. I don't care about Calvin Tower, Stephen King, or the Pope of Rome. As far as reality goes, she's all of it I want. I need to find my wife." His voice dropped. "Help me, Roland."

Roland reached out and took the book in his left hand. With his right he touched the door. If she's still alive, he thought. If we can find her, and if she's come back to herself. If and if and if.

Eddie took Roland's arm. "Please," he said. "Please don't make me try to do it on my own. I love her so much. Help me find her."

Roland smiled. It made him younger. It seemed to fill the cave with its own light. All of Eld's ancient power was in that smile: the power of the White.

"Yes," he said. "We go."

And then he said again, all the affirmation necessary in this dark place.

"Yes."

Bangor, Maine

December 15, 2002

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The debt I owe to the American Western in the composition of the Dark Tower novels should be clear without my belaboring the point; certainly the Calla did not come by the final part of its (slightly misspelled) name accidentally. Yet it should be pointed out that at least two sources for some of this material aren't American at all. Sergio Leone (A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, etc.) was Italian. And Akira Kurosawa (The Seven Samurai) was, of course, Japanese. Would these books have been written without the cinematic legacy of Kurosawa, Leone, Peckinpah, Howard Hawks, and John Sturgis? Probably not without Leone. But without the others, I would argue there could be no Leone.

I also owe a debt of thanks to Robin Furth, who managed to be there with the right bit of information every time I needed it, and of course to my wife, Tabitha, who is still patiently giving me the time and light and space I need to do this job to the best of my abilities.

S.K.