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

“Hold onto each other,” Roland said. “Jake, get your hand into Oy’s fur, and deep! Never mind if it hurts him!”

Jake did as Roland said, the chimes digging deep into his head. Beautiful but painful.

“Like a root canal without Novocain,” Susannah said. She turned her head and for one moment she could see through the board fence. It had become transparent. Beyond it was the rose, its petals now closed but still giving off its own quietly gorgeous glow. She felt Eddie’s arm slip around her shoulders.

“Hold on, Suze—whatever you do, hold on.”

She grasped Roland’s hand. For a moment longer she could see Second Avenue, and then everything was gone. The chimes ate up the world and she was flying through blind darkness with Eddie’s arm around her and Roland’s hand squeezing her own.

SIXTEEN

When the darkness let them go, they were almost forty feet down the road from their camp. Jake sat up slowly, then turned to Oy. “You all right, boy?”

“Oy.”

Jake patted the bumbler’s head. He looked around at the others. All here. He sighed, relieved.

“What’s this?” Eddie asked. He had taken Jake’s other hand when the chimes began. Now, caught in their interlocked fingers, was a crumpled pink object. It felt like cloth; it also felt like metal.

“I don’t know,” Jake said.

“You picked it up in the lot, just after Susannah screamed,” Roland said. “I saw you.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I did. Because it was where the key was, before.”

“What is it, sugar?”

“Some kind of bag.” He held it by the straps. “I’d say it was my bowling bag, but that’s back at the lanes, with my ball inside it. Back in 1977.”

“What’s written on the side?” Eddie asked.

But they couldn’t make it out. The clouds had closed in again and there was no moonlight. They walked back to their camp together, slowly, shaky as invalids, and Roland built up the fire. Then they looked at the writing on the side of the rose-pink bowling bag.

NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MID-WORLD LANES

was what it said.

“That’s not right,” Jake said. “Almost, but not quite. What it says on my bag is nothing but strikes mid- town lanes. Timmy gave it to me one day when I bowled a two-eighty-two. He said I wasn’t old enough for him to buy me a beer.”

“A bowling gunslinger,” Eddie said, and shook his head. “Wonders never cease, do they?”

Susannah took the bag and ran her hands over it. “What kind of weave is this? Feels like metal. And it’s heazry.”

Roland, who had an idea what the bag was for—although not who or what had left it for them—said, “Put it in your knapsack with the books, Jake. And keep it very safe.”

“What do we do next?” Eddie asked.

“Sleep,” Roland said. “I think we’re going to be very busy for the next few weeks. We’ll have to take our sleep when and where we find it.”

“But—”

“Sleep,” Roland said, and spread out his skins.

Eventually they did, and all of them dreamed of the rose. Except for Mia, who got up in the night’s last dark hour and slipped away to feast in the great banquet hall. And there she feasted very well.

She was, after all, eating for two.

Part Two

Telling Tales

Part Two: Telling Tales — Chapter I: The Pavilion

One

If anything about the ride into Calla Bryn Sturgis surprised Eddie, it was how easily and naturally he took to horseback. Unlike Susannah and Jake, who had both ridden at summer camp, Eddie had never even petted a horse. When he’d heard the clop of approaching hooves on the morning after what he thought of as Todash Number Two, he’d felt a sharp pang of dread. It wasn’t the riding he was afraid of, or the animals themselves; it was the possibility—hell, the strong probability— of looking like a fool. What kind of gunslinger had never ridden a horse?

Yet Eddie still found time to pass a word with Roland before they came. “It wasn’t the same last night.”

Roland raised his eyebrows.

“It wasn’t nineteen last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean.”

“I don’t know, either,” Jake put in, “but he’s right. Last night New York felt like the real deal. I mean, I know we were todash, but still…”

“Real,” Roland had mused.

And Jake, smiling, said: “Real as roses.”

TWO

The Slightmans were at the head of the Calla’s party this time, each leading a pair of mounts by long hacks.

There was nothing very intimidating about the horses of Calla Bryn Sturgis; certainly they weren’t much like the ones Eddie had imagined galloping along the Drop in Roland’s tale of long-ago Mejis. These beasts were stubby, sturdy-legged creatures with shaggy coats and large, intelligent eyes. They were bigger than Shetland ponies, but a very long cast from the fiery-eyed stallions he had been expecting. Not only had they been saddled, but a proper bedroll had been lashed to each mount.

As Eddie walked toward his (he didn’t need to be told which it was, he knew: the roan), all his doubts and worries fell away. He only asked a single question, directed at Ben Slightman the Younger after examining the stirrups. “These are going to be too short for me, Ben—can you show me how to make them longer?”

When the boy dismounted to do it himself, Eddie shook his head. “It’d be best if I learned,” he said. And with no embarrassment at all.

As the boy showed him, Eddie realized he didn’t really need the lesson. He saw how it was done almost as soon as Benny’s fingers flipped up the stirrup, revealing the leather tug in back. This wasn’t like hidden, subconscious knowledge, and it didn’t strike him as anything supernatural, either. It was just that, with the horse a warm and fragrant reality before him, he understood how everything worked. He’d only had one experience exactly like this since coming to Mid-World, and that had been the first time he’d strapped on one of Roland’s guns.

“Need help, sugar?” Susannah asked.

“Just pick me up if I go off on the other side,” he grunted, but of course he didn’t do any such thing. The horse stood steady, swaying just the slightest bit as Eddie stepped into the stirrup and then swung into the plain black ranchhand’s saddle.

Jake asked Benny if he had a poncho. The foreman’s son looked doubtfully up at the cloudy sky. “I really don’t think it’s going to rain,” he’d said. “It’s often like this for days around Reaptide—”

“I want it for Oy.” Perfectly calm, perfectly certain. He feels exactly like I do, Eddie thought. As if he’s done this a thousand times before.

The boy drew a rolled oilskin from one of his saddlebags and handed it to Jake, who thanked him, put it on, and then tucked Oy into the capacious pocket which ran across the front like a kangaroo’s pouch. There wasn’t a single protest from the bumbler, either. Eddie thought: If I told Jake I’d expected Oy to trot along behind us like a sheepdog, would he say, “He always rides like this”?No … but he might think it.

As they set off, Eddie realized what all this reminded him of: stories he’d heard of reincarnation. He had tried to shake the idea off, to reclaim the practical, tough-minded Brooklyn boy who had grown up in Henry Dean’s shadow, and wasn’t quite able to do it. The thought of reincarnation might have been less unsettling if it had come to him head-on, but it didn’t. What he thought was that he couldn’t be from Roland’s line, simply couldn’t. Not unless Arthur Eld had at some point stopped by Co-Op City, that was. Like maybe for a redhot and a piece of Dahlie Lundgren’s fried dough. Stupid to project such an idea from the ability to ride an obviously docile horse without lessons. Yet the idea came back at odd moments through the day, and had followed him down into sleep last night: the Eld. The line of the Eld.

THREE

They nooned in the saddle, and while they were eating popkins and drinking cold coffee, Jake eased his mount in next to Roland’s. Oy peered at the gunslinger with bright eyes from the front pocket of the poncho.

Jake was feeding the bumbler pieces of his popkin, and there were crumbs caught in Oy’s whiskers.

“Roland, may I speak to you as dinh?” Jake sounded slightly embarrassed.

“Of course.” Roland drank coffee and then looked at the boy, interested, all the while rocking contentedly back and forth in the saddle.

“Ben—that is, both Slightmans, but mostly the kid—asked if I’d come and stay with them. Out at the Rocking B.”

“Do you want to go?” Roland asked.

The boy’s cheeks flushed thin red. “Well, what I thought is that if you guys were in town with the Old Fella and I was out in the country—south of town, you ken—then we’d get two different pictures of the place. My Dad says you don’t see anything very well if you only look at it from one viewpoint.”