“Roland, are you quite sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” He clapped Callahan on the shoulder. The others would be able to read the book, and by reading might discover what it meant. Perhaps the story in the book was just a story… but how could it be, when…
“Pere?”
“Yes, Roland.”
“A novel is a story, isn’t it? A made-up story?”
“Yes, a long one.”
“But make-believe.”
“Yes, that’s what fiction means. Make-believe.”
Roland pondered this. Charlie the Choo-Choo had also been make-believe, only in many ways, many vital ways, it hadn’t been. And the author’s name had changed. There were many different worlds, all held together by the Tower. Maybe…
No, not now. He mustn’t think about these things now.
“Tell me about the town where Tower and his friend went,” Roland said.
“I can’t, really. I found it in one of the Maine telephone books, that’s all. Also a simplified zip code map that showed about where it is.”
“Good. That’s very good.”
“Roland, are you sure you’re all right?”
Calla, Roland thought. Callahan. He made himself smile. Made himself clap Callahan on the shoulder again.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Now let’s get back to town.”
Chapter V: The Meeting of the Folken
ONE
Tian Jaffords had never been more frightened in his life than he was as he stood on the stage in the Pavilion, looking down at the folken of Calla Bryn Sturgis. He knew there were likely no more than five hundred—six hundred at the very outside—but to him it looked like a multitude, and their taut silence was unnerving. He looked at his wife for comfort and found none there. Zalia’s face looked thin and dark and pinched, the face of an old woman rather than one still well within her childbearing years.
Nor did the look of this late afternoon help him find calm. Overhead the sky was a pellucid, cloudless blue, but it was too dark for five o’ the clock. There was a huge bank of clouds in the southwest, and the sun had passed behind them just as he climbed the steps to the stage. It was what his Gran-pere would have called weirding weather; omenish, say thankya. In the constant darkness that was Thunderclap, lightning flashed like great sparklights.
Had I known it would come to this, I’d never have started it a-going, he thought wildly. And this time there’ll be no Pere Callahan to haul my poor old ashes out of the fire. Although Callahan was there, standing with Roland and his friends—they of the hard calibers—with his arms folded on his plain black shirt with the notched collar and his Man Jesus cross hanging above.
He told himself not to be foolish, that Callahan would help, and the outworlders would help, as well. They were there to help. The code they followed demanded that they must help, even if it meant their destruction and the end of whatever quest they were on. He told himself that all he needed to do was introduce Roland, and Roland would come. Once before, the gunslinger had stood on this stage and danced the commala and won their hearts. Did Tian doubt that Roland would win their hearts again? In truth, Tian did not. What he was afraid of in his heart was that this time it would be a death-dance instead of a life-dance. Because death was what this man and his friends were about; it was their bread and wine. It was the sherbet they took to clear their palates when the meal was done. At that first meeting—could it have been less than a month ago?
—Tian had spoken out of angry desperation, but a month was long enough to count the cost. What if this was a mistake? What if the Wolves burned the entire Calla flat with their light-sticks, took the children they wanted one final time, and exploded all the ones that were left—old, young, in the middle—with their whizzing balls of death?
They stood waiting for him to begin, the gathered Calla. Eisenharts and Overholsers and Javiers and Tooks without number (although no twins among these last of the age the Wolves liked, aye-no, such lucky Tooks they were); Telford standing with the men and his plump but hard-faced wife with the women; Strongs and Rossiters and Slightmans and Hands and Rosarios and Posellas; the Manni once again bunched together like a dark stain of ink, Henchick their patriarch standing with young Cantab, whom all the children liked so well; Andy, another favorite of the kiddies, standing off to one side with his skinny metal arms akimbo and his blue electric eyes flashing in the gloom; the Sisters of Oriza bunched together like birds on fencewire (Tian’s wife among them); and the cowboys, the hired men, the dayboys, even old Bernardo, the town tosspot.
To Tian’s right, those who had carried the feather shuffled a bit uneasily. In ordinary circumstances, one set of twins was plenty to take the opopanax feather; in most cases, people knew well in advance what was up, and carrying the feadier was nothing but a formality. This time (it had been Margaret Eisenhart’s idea), three sets of twins had gone together with the hallowed feather, carrying it from town to smallhold to ranch to farm in a bucka driven by Cantab, who sat unusually silent and songless up front, clucking along a matched set of brown mules that needed precious little help from the likes of him. Oldest at twenty-three were the Haggengood twins, born the year of the last Wolf-raid (and ugly as sin by the lights of most folks, although precious hard workers, say thankya). Next came the Tavery twins, those beautiful map-drawing town brats.
Last (and youngest, although eldest of Tian’s brood) came Heddon and Hedda. And it was Hedda who got him going. Tian caught her eye and saw that his good (although plain-faced) daughter had sensed her father’s fright and was on the verge of tears herself.
Eddie and Jake weren’t the only ones who heard the voices of others in their heads; Tian now heard the voice of his Gran-pere. Not as Jamie was now, doddering and nearly toothless, but as he had been twenty years before: old but still capable of clouting you over the River Road if you sassed back or dawdled over a hard pull. Jamie Jaffords who had once stood against the Wolves. This Tian had from time to time doubted, but he doubted it no longer. Because Roland believed.
Garn, then! snarled the voice in his mind. What is it fashes and diddles thee ‘s’slow, oafing? Tis nobbut to say his name and stand aside, ennit? Then fergood or nis, ye can let him do a’rest.
Still Tian looked out over the silent crowd a moment longer, their bulk hemmed in tonight by torches that didn’t change— for this was no party—but only glared a steady orange. Because he wanted to say something, perhaps needed to say something. If only to acknowledge that he was partly to credit for this. For good or for nis.
In the eastern darkness, lightning fired off silent explosions.
Roland, standing with his arms folded like the Pere, caught Tian’s eye and nodded slightly to him. Even by warm torchlight, the gunslinger’s blue gaze was cold. Almost as cold as Andy’s. Yet it was all the encouragement Tian needed.
He took the feather and held it before him. Even the crowd’s breathing seemed to still. Somewhere far overtown, a rustie cawed as if to hold back the night.
“Not long since I stood in yon Gathering Hall and told’ee what I believe,” Tian said. “That when the Wolves come, they don’t just take our children but our hearts and souls. Each time they steal and we stand by, they cut us a little deeper. If you cut a tree deep enough, it dies. Cut a town deep enough, that dies, too.”
The voice of Rosalita Munoz, childless her whole life, rang out in the fey dimness of the day with clear ferocity: “Say true, say thankya! Hear him, folkenl Hear him very well!”
“Hear him, hear him, hear him well” ran through the assembly.
“Pere stood up that night and told us there were gunslingers coming from the northwest, coming through Mid-Forest along the Path of the Beam. Some scoffed, but Pere spoke true.”
“Say thankya,” they replied. “Pere said true.” And a woman’s voice: “Praise Jesus! Praise Mary, mother of God!”
“They’ve been among us all these days since. Any who’s wanted to speak to em has spoke to em. They have promised nothing but to help—”
“And’ll move on, leaving bloody ruin behind em, if we’re foolish enough to allow it!” Eben Took roared.
There was a shocked gasp from the crowd. As it died, Wayne Overholser said: “Shut up, ye great mouth-organ.”
Took turned to look at Overholser, the Calla’s big farmer and Took’s best customer, with a look of gaping surprise.