Stephen King – The Dark Tower 5 – The Wolves of the Calla

Jake said, “What if the ball sends you to the wrong place? The wrong version of 1977, or…” He hardly knew how to finish. He was remembering how thin everything had seemed when Black Thirteen had first taken them todash, and how endless darkness seemed to be waiting behind the painted surface realities around them. “… or someplace even farther?” he finished.

“In that case, I’ll send back a postcard.” Eddie said it with a shrug and a laugh, but for just a moment Jake saw how frightened he was. Susannah must have seen it, too, because she took Eddie’s hand in both of hers and squeezed it.

“Hey, I’ll be fine,” Eddie said.

“You better be,” Susannah replied. “You just better.”

Chapter II: The Dogan, Part I

ONE

When Roland and Eddie entered Our Lady of Serenity the following morning, daylight was only a distant rumor on the northeast horizon. Eddie lit their way down the center aisle with a ‘sener, his lips pressed tightly together. The thing they had come for was humming. It was a sleepy hum, but he hated the sound of it just the same. The church itself felt freaky. Empty, it seemed too big, somehow. Eddie kept expecting to see ghostly figures (or perhaps a complement of the vagrant dead) sitting in the pews and looking at them with otherworldly disapproval.

But the hum was worse.

When they reached the front, Roland opened his purse and took out the bowling bag which Jake had kept in

his knapsack until yesterday. The gunslinger held it up for a moment and they could both read what was printed on the side: NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MID-WORLD LANES.

“Not a word from now until I tell you it’s all right,” Roland said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Roland pressed his thumb into the groove between two of the floorboards and the hidey-hole in the preacher’s cove sprang open. He lifted the top aside. Eddie had once seen a movie on TV about guys disposing of live explosives during the London Blitz— UXB, it had been called—and Roland’s movements now recalled that film strongly to his mind. And why not? If they were right about what was in this hiding place—and Eddie knew they were—then it was an unexploded bomb.

Roland folded back the white linen surplice, exposing the box. The hum rose. Eddie’s breath stopped in his throat. He felt the skin all over his body grow cold. Somewhere close, a monster of nearly unimaginable malevolence had half-opened one sleeping eye.

The hum dropped back to its former sleepy pitch and Eddie breathed again.

Roland handed him the bowling bag, motioning for Eddie to hold it open. With misgivings (part of him wanted to whisper in Roland’s ear that they should forget the whole thing), Eddie did as he was bidden.

Roland lifted the box out, and once again the hum rose. In the rich, if limited, glow of the ‘sener, Eddie could see sweat on the gunslinger’s brow. He could feel it on his own. If Black Thirteen awoke and pitched them out into some black limbo…

I won’t go. I’ll fight to stay with Susannah.

Of course he would. But he was still relieved when Roland slipped the elaborately carved ghostwood box into the queer metallic bag they’d found in the vacant lot. The hum didn’t disappear entirely, but subsided to a barely audible drone. And when Roland gently pulled the drawstring running around the top of the bag, closing its mouth, the drone became a distant whisper. It was like listening to a seashell.

Eddie sketched the sign of the cross in front of himself. Smiling faintly, Roland did the same.

Outside the church, the northeast horizon had brightened appreciably — there would be real daylight after all, it seemed.

“Roland.”

The gunslinger turned toward him, eyebrows raised. His left fist was closed around the bag’s throat; he was apparently not willing to trust the weight of the box to the bag’s drawstring, stout as it looked.

“If we were todash when we found that bag, how could we have picked it up?”

Roland considered this. Then he said, “Perhaps the bag is todash, too.”

“Still?”

Roland nodded. “Yes, I think so. Still.”

“Oh.” Eddie thought about it. “That’s spooky.”

“Changing your mind about revisiting New York, Eddie?” Eddie shook his head. He was scared, though.

Probably more scared than he’d been at any time since standing up in the aisle of the Barony Coach to riddle Blaine.

TWO

By the time they were halfway along the path leading to the Doorway Cave (It’s upsy, Henchick had said, and so it had been, and so it was), it was easily ten o’ the clock and remarkably warm. Eddie stopped, wiped the back of his neck with his bandanna, and looked out over the twisting arroyos to the north. Here and there he could see black, gaping holes and asked Roland if they were the garnet mines. The gunslinger told him they were. ”

“And which one have you got in mind for the kiddies? Can we see it from here?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Roland drew the single gun he was wearing and pointed it. “Look over the sight.”

Eddie did and saw a deep draw which made the shape of a jagged double S. It was filled to the top with velvety shadows; he guessed there might be only half an hour or so at midday when the sun reached the bottom. Farther to the north, it appeared to dead-end against a massive rock-face. He supposed the mine entrance was there, but it was too dark to make out. To the southeast this arroyo opened on a dirt track that wound its way back to East Road. Beyond East Road were fields sloping down to fading but still green plots of rice. Beyond the rice was the river.

“Makes me think of the story you told us,” Eddie said. “Eye-bolt Canyon.”

“Of course it does.”

“No thinny to do the dirty work, though.”

“No,” Roland agreed. “No thinny.”

“Tell me the truth: Are you really going to stick this town’s kids in a mine at the end of a dead-end arroyo?”

“No.”

“The folken think you… that we mean to do that. Even the dish-throwing ladies think that.”

“I know they do,” Roland said. “I want them to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe there’s anything supernatural about the way the Wolves find the children. After hearing Gran-pere Jaffords’s story, I don’t think there’s anything supernatural about the Wolves, for that matter. No, there’s a rat in this particular corn-crib. Someone who goes squealing to the powers that be in Thunderclap.”

“Someone different each time, you mean. Each twenty-three or twenty-four years.”

“Yes.”

“Who’d do that?” Eddie asked. “Who could do that?”

“I’m not sure, but I have an idea.”

“Took? Kind of a handed-down thing, from father to son?”

“If you’re rested, Eddie, I think we’d better press on.”

“Overholser? Maybe that guy Telford, the one who looks like a TV cowboy?”

Roland walked past him without speaking, his new shor’boots gritting on the scattered pebbles and rock-splinters. From his good left hand, the pink bag swung back and forth. The thing inside was still whispering its unpleasant secrets.

“Chatty as ever, good for you,” Eddie said, and followed him.

THREE

The first voice which arose from the depths of the cave belonged to the great sage and eminent junkie.

“Oh, wookit the wittle sissy!” Henry moaned. To Eddie, he sounded like Ebenezer Scrooge’s dead partner in A Christmas Carol, funny and scary at the same time. “Does the wittle sissy think he’s going back to Noo-Ork? You’ll go a lot farther than that if you try it, bro. Better hunker where you are…just do your little carvings… be a good little homo…” The dead brother laughed. The live one shivered.

“Eddie?” Roland asked.

“Listen to your brother, Eddie!” his mother cried from the cave’s dark and sloping throat. On the rock floor, scatters of small bones gleamed. “He gave up his life for you, his whole life, the least you could do is listen to him!”

“Eddie, are you all right?”

Now came the voice of Csaba Drabnik, known in Eddie’s crowd as the Mad Fuckin Hungarian. Csaba was telling Eddie to give him a cigarette or he’d pull Eddie’s fuckin pants down. Eddie tore his attention away from this frightening but fascinating gabble with an effort.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”

“The voices are coming from your own head. The cave finds them and amplifies them somehow. Sends them on. It’s a little upsetting, I know, but it’s meaningless.”

“Why’d you let em kill me, bro?” Henry sobbed. “I kept thinking you’d come, but you never did!”

“Meaningless,” Eddie said. “Okay, got it. What do we do now?”

“According to both stories I’ve heard of this place—Callahan’s and Henchick’s—the door will open when I open the box.”

Eddie laughed nervously. “I don’t even want you to take the box out of the bag, how’s that for chickenshit?”