Eddie rode horseback, side by side. Both were carrying their gunna as well as their guns, and
Jake had his own in the waggon behind him. If they came back to Calla Bryn Sturgis after today, it wouldn’t be for long.
In terror was what he had started to say, but it was worse than that. Impossibly faint, impossibly distant, but still clear, Jake could hear Susannah screaming. He only hoped Eddie did not.
TWO
So they rode away from a town that mostly slept in emotional exhaustion despite the quake
which had struck it. The day was cool enough so that when they started out they could see their breath on the air, and a light scrim of frost coated the dead cornstalks. A mist hung over the
Devar-tete Whye like the river’s own spent breath. Roland thought: This is the edge of winter.
An hour’s ride brought them to the arroyo country. There was no sound but the jingle of trace,
the squeak of wheels, the clop of horses, an occasional sardonic honk from one of the albino
asses pulling the fly, and distant, the call of rusties on the wing. Headed south, perhaps, if they could still find it.
Ten or fifteen minutes after the land began to rise on their right, filling in with bluffs and cliffs and mesas, they returned to the place where, just twenty-four hours before, they had come with
the children of the Calla and fought their battle. Here a track split off from the East Road and rambled more or less northwest. In the ditch on the other side of the road was a raw trench of
earth. It was the hide where Roland, his ka-tet, and the ladies of the dish had waited for the
Wolves.
And, speaking of the Wolves, where were they? When they’d left this place of ambush, it had
been littered with bodies. Over sixty, all told, man-shaped creatures who had come riding out of the west wearing gray pants, green cloaks, and snarling wolf-masks.
Roland dismounted and walked up beside Henchick, who was getting down from the two-
wheeled fly with the stiff awkwardness of age. Roland made no effort to help him. Henchick
wouldn’t expect it, might even be offended by it.
The gunslinger let him give his dark cloak a final settling shake, started to ask his question, and then realized he didn’t have to. Forty or fifty yards farther along, on the right side of the road, was a vast hill of uprooted corn-plants where no hill had been the day before. It was a
funerary heap, Roland saw, one which had been constructed without any degree of respect. He
hadn’t lost any time or wasted any effort wondering how the folken had spent the previous afternoon — before beginning the party they were now undoubtedly sleeping off — but now he
saw their work before him. Had they been afraid the Wolves might come back to life? he
wondered, and knew that, on some level, that was exactly what they’d feared. And so they’d
dragged the heavy, inert bodies (gray horses as well as gray-clad Wolves) off into the corn,
stacked them willy-rully, then covered them with uprooted corn-plants. Today they’d turn this
bier into a pyre. And if the seminon winds came? Roland guessed they’d light it up anyway, and
chance a possible conflagration in the fertile land between road and river. Why not? The growing season was over for the year, and there was nothing like fire for fertilizer, so the old folks did
say; besides, the folken would not really rest easy until that hill was burned. And even then few of them would like to come out here.
“Roland, look,” Eddie said in a voice that trembled somewhere between sorrow and rage. “Ah, goddammit, look. ”
Near the end of the path, where Jake, Benny Slightman, and the Tavery twins had waited
before making their final dash for safety across the road, stood a scratched and battered
wheelchair, its chrome winking brilliantly in the sun, its seat streaked with dust and blood. The left wheel was bent severely out of true.
“Why do’ee speak in anger?” Henchick inquired. He had been joined by Cantab and half a dozen elders of what Eddie sometimes referred to as the Cloak Folk. Two of these elders looked
a good deal older than Henchick himself, and Roland thought of what Rosalita had said last
night: Many of them nigh as old as Henchick, trying to climb that path after dark. Well, it wasn’t dark, but he didn’t know if some of these would be able to walk as far as the upsy part of the path to Doorway Cave, let alone the rest of the way to the top.
“They brought your woman’s rolling chair back here to honor her. And you. So why do’ee
speak in anger?”
“Because it’s not supposed to be all banged up, and she’s supposed to be in it,” Eddie told the old man. “Do you ken that, Henchick?”
“Anger is the most useless emotion,” Henchick intoned, “destructive to the mind and hurtful of the heart.”
Eddie’s lips thinned to no more than a white scar below his nose, but he managed to hold in a
retort. He walked over to Susannah’s scarred chair — it had rolled hundreds of miles since they’d found it in Topeka, but its rolling days were done — and looked down at it moodily. When
Callahan approached him, Eddie waved the Pere back.
Jake was looking at the place on the road where Benny had been struck and killed. The boy’s
body was gone, of course, and someone had covered his spilled blood with a fresh layer of the
oggan, but Jake found he could see the dark splotches, anyway. And Benny’s severed arm, lying
palm-up. Jake remembered how his friend’s Da’ had staggered out of the corn and seen his son
lying there. For five seconds or so he had been capable of no sound whatever, and Jake supposed that was time enough for someone to have told sai Slightman they’d gotten off incredibly light: one dead boy, one dead rancher’s wife, another boy with a broken ankle. Piece of cake, really.
But no one had and then Slightman the Elder had shrieked. Jake thought he would never forget
the sound of that shriek, just as he would always see Benny lying here in the dark and bloody dirt with his arm off.
Beside the place where Benny had fallen was something else which had been covered with
dirt. Jake could see just a small wink of metal. He dropped to one knee and excavated one of the Wolves’ death-balls, things called sneetches. The Harry Potter model, according to what was
written on them. Yesterday he’d held a couple of these in his hand and felt them vibrating. Heard their faint, malevolent hum. This one was as dead as a rock. Jake stood up and threw it toward
the heap of corn-covered dead Wolves. Threw hard enough to make his arm hurt. That arm
would probably be stiff tomorrow, but he didn’t care. Didn’t care much about Henchick’s low
opinion of anger, either. Eddie wanted his wife back; Jake wanted his friend. And while Eddie
might get what he wanted somewhere down the line, Jake Chambers never would. Because dead was the gift that kept on giving. Dead, like diamonds, was forever.
He wanted to get going, wanted this part of the East Road looking at his back. He also wanted
not to have to look at Susannah’s empty, beat-up chair any longer. But the Manni had formed a
ring around the spot where the battle had actually taken place, and Henchick was praying in a high, rapid voice that hurt Jake’s ears: it sounded quite a lot like the squeal of a frightened pig.
He spoke to something called the Over, asking for safe passage to yon cave and success of
endeavor with no loss of life or sanity (Jake found this part of Henchick’s prayer especially
disturbing, as he’d never thought of sanity as a thing to be prayed for). The boss-man also begged the Over to enliven their mags and bobs. And finally he prayed for kaven, the persistence of
magic, a phrase that seemed to have a special power for these people. When he was finished,
they all said “Over-sam, Over-kra, Over-can-tah” in unison, and dropped their linked hands. A few went down on their knees to have a little extra palaver with the really big boss. Cantab, meanwhile, led four or five of the younger men to the fly. They folded back its snowy white top, revealing a number of large wooden boxes. Plumb-bobs and magnets, Jake guessed, and a lot
bigger than the ones they wore around their necks. They’d brought out the heavy artillery for this little adventure. The boxes were covered with designs — stars and moons and odd geometric
shapes — that looked cabalistic rather than Christian. But, Jake realized, he had no basis for