Applause greeted this. Roland waited for it to quiet.
“Rancher Telford says true. The Wolves likely will know where the children have been bunkered. And when they come, my ka-tet will be there to greet them. It won’t be the first time we’ve stood against such as they.”
Roars of approval. More soft clumping of boots. Some rhythmic applause. Telford and Eben Took looked about with wide eyes, like men discovering they had awakened in a lunatic asylum.
When the Pavilion was quiet again, Roland said: “Some from town have agreed to stand with us, folka with good weapons. Again, it’s not a thing you need to know about just now.” But of course the feminine construction told those who didn’t already know about the Sisters of Oriza a great deal. Eddie once more had to marvel at the way he was leading them; cozy wasn’t in it. He glanced at Susannah, who rolled her eyes and gave him a smile. But the hand she put on his arm was cold. She wanted this to be over. Eddie knew exactly how she felt.
Telford tried one last time. “People, hear me! All this has been tried before!”
It was Jake Chambers who spoke up. “It hasn’t been tried by gunslingers, sai Telford.”
A fierce roar of approval met this. There was more stamping and clapping. Roland finally had to raise his hands to quiet it.
“Most of the Wolves will go to where they think the children are, and we’ll deal with them there,” he said.
“Smaller groups may indeed raid the farms or ranches. Some may come into town. And aye, there may be some burning.”
They listened silently and respectfully, nodding, arriving ahead of him to the next point. As he had wanted them to.
“A burned building can be replaced. A roont child cannot.”
“Aye,” said Rosalita. “Nor a roont heart.”
There were murmurs of agreement, mostly from the women. In Calla Bryn Sturgis (as in most other places), men in a state of sobriety did not much like to talk about their hearts.
“Hear me now, for I’d tell you at least this much more: We know exactly what these Wolves are. Jamie Jaffords has told us what we already suspected.”
There were murmurs of surprise. Heads turned. Jamie, standing beside his grandson, managed to straighten his curved back for a moment or two and actually puff up his sunken chest. Eddie only hoped the old buzzard would hold his peace over what came next. If he got muddled and contradicted the tale Roland was about to tell, their job would become much harder. At the very least it would mean grabbing Slightman and Andy
early. And if Finli o’ Tego—the voice Slightman reported to from the Dogan—didn’t hear from these two again before the day of the Wolves, there would be suspicions. Eddie felt movement in the hand on his arm.
Susannah had just crossed her fingers.
FOUR
“There aren’t living creatures beneath the masks,” Roland said. “The Wolves are the undead servants of the vampires who rule Thunderclap.”
An awed murmur greeted this carefully crafted bit of claptrap.
“They’re what my friends Eddie, Susannah, and Jake call zombis. They can’t be killed by bow, bah, or bullet unless struck in the brain or the heart.” Roland tapped the left side of his chest for emphasis. “And of course when they come on their raids, they come wearing heavy armor under their clothes.”
Henchick was nodding. Several of the other older men and women— folken who well remembered the Wolves coming not just once before but twice—were doing the same. “It explains a good deal,” he said. “But how—”
“To strike them in the brain is beyond our abilities, because of the helmets they wear under their hoods,”
Roland said. “But we saw such creatures in Lud. Their weakness is here.” Again he tapped his chest. “The undead don’t breathe, but there’s a kind of gill above their hearts. If they armor it over, they die. That’s where we’ll strike them.”
A low, considering hum of conversation greeted this. And then Gran-pere’s voice, shrill and excited: ” Tis ever’ word true, for dinna Molly Doolin strike one there hersel’ wi’ the dish, an’ not even dead-on, neither, and yet the creetur’ dropped down!”
Susannah’s hand tightened on Eddie’s arm enough for him to feel her short nails, but when he looked at her, she was grinning in spite of herself. He saw a similar expression on Jake’s face. Trig enough when the chips were down, old man, Eddie thought. Sorry I ever doubted you. Let Andy and Slightman go back across the river and report that happy horseshit! He’d asked Roland if they (the faceless they represented by someone who called himself Finli o’ Tego) would believe such tripe. They’ve raided this side of the Why’e for over a hundred years and lost but a single fighter, Roland had replied. I think they’d believe anything. At this point their really vulnerable spot is their complacence.
“Bring your twins here by seven o’ the clock on Wolfs Eve,” Roland said. “There’ll be ladies—Sisters of Oriza, ye ken— with lists on slateboards. They’ll scratch off each pair as they come in. It’s my hope to have a line drawn through every name before nine o’ the clock.”
“Ye’ll not drig no line through the names o’ mine!” cried an angry voice from the back of the crowd. The voice’s owner pushed several people aside and stepped forward next to Jake. He was a squat man with a smallhold rice-patch far to the south’ards. Roland scratched through the untidy storehouse of his recent memory (untidy, yes, but nothing was ever thrown away) and eventually came up with the name: Neil Faraday. One of the few who hadn’t been home when Roland and his ka-tet had come calling… or not home to them, at least. A hard worker, according to Tian, but an even harder drinker. He certainly looked the part.
There were dark circles under his eyes and a complication of burst purplish veins on each cheek. Scruffy, say big-big. Yet Telford and Took threw him a grateful, surprised look. Another sane man in bedlam, it said.
Thank the gods.
” ‘Ay’ll take ‘een babbies anyro’ and burn ‘een squabbot town flat,” he said, speaking in an accent that made his words almost incomprehensible. “But ‘ay’ll have one each o’ my see’, an’ ‘at’U stee’ lea’ me three, and a’
best ‘ay ain’t worth squabbot, but my howgan is!” Faraday looked around at the townsfolk with an expression of sardonic disdain. “Burn’ee flat an’ be damned to ‘ee,” he said. “Numb gits!” And back into the crowd he went, leaving a surprising number of people looking shaken and thoughtful. He had done more to turn the momentum of the crowd with his contemptuous and (to Eddie, at least) incomprehensible tirade than Telford and Took had been able to do together.
He may be shirttail poor, but I doubt if he’ll have trouble getting credit from Took for the next year or so, Eddie thought. If the store still stands, that is.
“Sai Faraday’s got a right to his opinion, but I hope he’ll change it over the next few days,” Roland said. “I hope you folks will help him change it. Because if he doesn’t, he’s apt to be left not with three kiddies but none at all.” He raised his voice and shaped it toward the place where Faraday stood, glowering. “Then he can see how he likes working his tillage with no help but two mules and a wife.”
Telford stepped forward to the edge of the stage, his face red with fury. “Is there nothing ye won’t say to win your argument, you chary man? Is there no lie you won’t tell?”
“I don’t lie and I don’t say for certain,” Roland replied. “If I’ve given anyone the idea that I know all the answers when less than a season ago I didn’t even know the Wolves existed, I cry your pardon. But let me tell you a story before I bid you goodnight. When I was a boy in Gilead, before the coming of the Good Man and the great burning that followed, there was a tree farm out to the east o’ barony.”
“Whoever heard of farming trees?” someone called derisively.
Roland smiled and nodded. “Perhaps not ordinary trees, or even ironwoods, but these were blossies, a wonderful light wood, yet strong. The best wood for boats that ever was. A piece cut thin nearly floats in the air. They grew over a thousand acres of land, tens of thousands of blosswood trees in neat rows, all overseen by the barony forester. And the rule, never even bent, let alone broken, was this: take two, plant three.”
“Aye,” Eisenhart said. ” ‘Tis much the same with stock, and with threaded stock the advice is to keep four for every one ye sell or kill. Not that many could afford to do so.”