Roland sometimes used the word delah, always spoken with a light toss of the hand toward the horizon.
Many.
The visitors from the Calla, their tongues and memories untied by distress, might have gone on for some time, piling one sorry anecdote on another, but Roland didn’t allow them to. “Now speak of the Wolves, I beg. How many come to you?”
“Forty,” Tian Jaffords said.
“Spread across the whole Calla?” Slightman the Elder asked. “Nay, more than forty.” And to Tian, slightly apologetic: “You were no more’n nine y’self last time they came, Tian. I were in my young twenties. Forty in town, maybe, but more came to the outlying farms and ranches. I’d say sixty in all, Roland-sai, maybe eighty.”
Roland looked at Overholser, eyebrows raised.
“It’s been twenty-three years, ye mind,” Overholser said, “but I’d call sixty about right.”
“You call them Wolves, but what are they really? Are they men? Or something else?”
Overholser, Slightman, Tian, Zalia: for a moment Eddie could feel them sharing khef, could almost hear them. It made him feel lonely and left-out, the way you did when you saw a couple kissing on a streetcorner, wrapped in each other’s arms or looking into each other’s eyes, totally lost in each other’s regard. Well, he didn’t have to feel that way anymore, did he? He had his own ka-tet, his own khef. Not to mention his own woman.
Meanwhile, Roland was making the impatient little finger-twirling gesture with which Eddie had become so familiar. Come on, folks, it said, day’s wasting.
“No telling for sure what they are,” Overholser said. “They look like men, but they wear masks.”
“Wolf-masks,” Susannah said.
“Aye, lady, wolf-masks, gray as their horses.”
“Do you say all come on gray horses?” Roland asked.
The silence was briefer this time, but Eddie still felt that sense of khef and ka-tet, minds consulting via something so elemental it couldn’t even rightly be called telepathy; it was more elemental than telepathy.
“Yer-bugger!” Overholser said, a slang term that seemed to mean You bet your ass, don’t insult me by asking again. “All on gray horses. They wear gray pants that look like skin. Black boots with cruel big steel spurs.
Green cloaks and hoods. And the masks. We know they’re masks because they’ve been found left behind.
They look like steel but rot in the sun like flesh, buggerdly things.”
“Ah.”
Overholser gave him a rather insulting head-cocked-to-one side look, the sort that asked Are you foolish or just slow? Then Slightman said: “Their horses ride like the wind. Some have ta’en one babby before the saddle and another behind.”
“Do you say so?” Roland asked.
Slightman nodded emphatically. “Tell gods thankee.” He saw Callahan again make the sign of the cross in the air and sighed. “Beg pardon, Old Fella.”
Callahan shrugged. “You were here before I was. Call on all the gods you like, so long as you know I think they’re false.”
“And they come out of Thunderclap,” Roland said, ignoring this last.
“Aye,” Overholser said. “You can see where it lies over that way about a hundred wheels.” He pointed southeast. “For we come out of the woods on the last height of land before the Crescent. Ye can see all the Eastern Plain from there, and beyond it a great darkness, like a rain cloud on the horizon. ‘Tis said, Roland, that in the far long ago, you could see mountains over there.”
“Like the Rockies from Nebraska,” Jake breathed.
Overholser glanced at him. “Beg pardon, Jake-soh?”
“Nothing,” Jake said, and gave the big farmer a small, embarrassed smile. Eddie, meanwhile, filed away what Overholser had called him. Not sai but soh. Just something else that was interesting.
“We’ve heard of Thunderclap,” Roland said. His voice was somehow terrifying in its lack of emotion, and when Eddie felt Susannah’s hand creep into his, he was glad of it.
” ‘Tis a land of vampires, boggarts, and taheen, so the stories say,” Zalia told them. Her voice was thin, on the verge of trembling. “Of course the stories are old—”
“The stories are true,” Callahan said. His own voice was harsh, but Eddie heard the fear in it. Heard it very well. “There are vampires—other things as well, very likely—and Thunderclap’s their nest. We might speak more of this another time, gunslinger, if it does ya. For now, only hear me, I beg: of vampires I know a good deal. I don’t know if the Wolves take the Calla’s children to them—I rather think not—but yes, there are vampires.”
“Why do you speak as if I doubt?” Roland asked.
Callahan’s eyes dropped. “Because many do. I did myself. I doubted much and…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, and when he finished, it was almost in a whisper. “… and it was my undoing.”
Roland sat quiet for several moments, hunkered on the soles of his ancient boots with his arms wrapped around his bony knees, rocking back and forth a litde. Then, to Overholser: “What o’ the clock do they come?”
“When they took Welland, my brother, it was morning,” the farmer said. “Breakfast not far past. I remember, because Welland asked our Ma if he could take his cup of coffee into the cellar with him. But last time… the time they come and took Tian’s sister and Zalia’s brother and so many others…”
“I lost two nieces and a nephew,” Slightman the Elder said.
“That time wasn’t long after the noon-bell from the Gathering Hall. We know the day because Andy knows the day, and that much he tells us. Then we hear the thunder of their hooves as they come out of the east and see the rooster-tail of dust they raise—”
“So you know when they’re coming,” Roland said. “In fact, you know three ways: Andy, the sound of their hoofbeats, the rise of their dust.”
Overholser, taking Roland’s implication, had flushed a dull brick color up the slopes of his plump cheeks and down his neck. “They come armed, Roland, do ya. With guns—rifles as well as the revolvers yer own tet carries, grenados, too—and other weapons, as well. Fearsome weapons of the Old People. Light-sticks that kill at a touch, flying metal buzz-balls called drones or sneetches. The sticks burn the skin black and stop the heart—electrical, maybe, or maybe—”
Eddie heard Overholser’s next word as ant-NOMIC. At first he thought die man was trying to say anatomy. A moment later he realized it was probably “atomic.”
“Once the drones smell you, they follow no matter how fast you run,” Slightman’s boy said eagerly, “or how much you twist and turn. Right, Da’?”
“Yer-bugger,” Slightman the Elder said. “Then sprout blades that whirl around so fast you can’t see em and they cut you apart.”
“All on gray horses,” Roland mused. “Every one of em the same color. What else?”
Nothing, it seemed. It was all told. They came out of the east on the day Andy foretold, and for a terrible hour
—perhaps longer—the Calla was filled with the thunderous hoofbeats of those gray horses and the screams of desolated parents. Green cloaks swirled. Wolf-masks that looked like metal and rotted in the sun like skin snarled. The children were taken. Sometimes a few pair were overlooked and left whole, suggesting that the Wolves’ prescience wasn’t perfect. Still, it must have been pretty goddam good, Eddie thought, because if the kids were moved (as they often were) or hidden at home (as they almost always were), the Wolves found them anyway, and in short order. Even at the bottom of sharproot piles or haystacks they were found. Those of the Calla who tried to stand against them were shot, fried by the light-sticks—lasers of some kind?—or cut to pieces by the flying drones. When trying to imagine these latter, he kept recalling a bloody little film Henry had dragged him to. Phantasm, it had been called. Down at the old Majestic. Corner of Brooklyn and Markey Avenue. Like too much of his old life, the Majestic had smelled of piss and popcorn and the kind of wine that came in brown bags. Sometimes there were needles in the aisles. Not good, maybe, and yet sometimes—usually at night, when sleep was long in coming—a deep part of him still cried for the old life of which the Majestic had been a part. Cried for it as a stolen child might cry for his mother.
The children were taken, the hoofbeats receded the way they had come, and that was the end of it.
“No, can’t be,” Jake said. “They must bring them back, don’t they?”
“No,” Overholser said. “The roont ones come back on the train, hear me, there’s a great junkpile of em I could show’ee, and—What? What’s wrong?” Jake’s mouth had fallen open, and he’d lost most of his color.
“We had a bad experience on a train not so very long ago,” Susannah said. “The trains that bring your children back, are they monos?”