Wolves of the Calla

'And he said to me, 'Da', if'ee really b'lieved knowin c'd help, why have'ee not told afore now?' And Ah couldn't answer him, young fella, cos 'twas nothing but intuition kep' my gob shut. Besides, what good could it do? What do it change?'

'I don't know,' Eddie said. Their faces were close. Eddie could smell beef and gravy on old Jamie's breath. 'How can I, when you haven't told me what you saw?'

' 'The Red King always finds 'is henchmen,' my boy said. 'It'd be good if no one ever knew ye were out there, better still if no one ever heard what ye saw out there, lest it get back to em, aye, even in Thunderclap.' And Ah seen a sad thing, young fella.'

Although he was almost wild with impatience, Eddie thought it best to let the old guy unwind it in his own way. 'What was that, Gran-pere?'

'Ah seen Luke didn't entirely believe me. Thought his own Da' might just be a-storyin, tellin a wild tale about bein a Wolf-killer't'look tall. Although ye'd think even a halfwit would see that if Ah was goingter make a tale, Ah'd make it me that killed the Wolf, and not Eamon Doolin's wife.'

That made sense, Eddie thought, and then remembered Gran-pere at least hinting that he had taken credit more than once-upon-a, as Roland sometimes said. He smiled in spite of himself.

'Lukey were afraid someone else might hear my story and believe it. That it'd get on to the Wolves and Ah might end up dead fer no more than tellin a make-believe story. Not that it were.' His rheumy old eyes begged at Eddie's face in the growing dark. 'You believe me, don'tya?'

Eddie nodded. 'I know you say true, Gran-pere. But who…' Eddie paused. Who would rat you out? was how the question came to mind, but Gran-pere might not understand. 'But who would tell? Who did you suspect?'

Gran-pere looked around the darkening yard, seemed about to speak, then said nothing.

'Tell me,' Eddie said. 'Tell me what you-'

A large dry hand, a-tremor with age but still amazingly strong, gripped his neck and pulled him close. Bristly whiskers rasped against the shell of Eddie's ear, making him shudder all over and break out in gooseflesh.

Gran-pere whispered nineteen words as the last light died out of the day and night came to the Calla.

Eddie Dean's eyes widened. His first thought was that he now understood about the horses-all the gray horses. His second was Of course. It makes perfect sense. We should have known.

The nineteenth word was spoken and Gran-pere's whisper ceased. The hand gripping Eddie's neck dropped back into Gran-pere's lap. Eddie turned to face him. 'Say true?'

'Aye, gunslinger,' said the old man. 'True as ever was. Ah canna' say for all of em, for many sim'lar masks may cover many dif'runt faces, but-'

'No,' Eddie said, thinking of gray horses. Not to mention all those sets of gray pants. All those green cloaks. It made perfect sense. What was that old song his mother used to sing? You're in the army now, you're not behind the plow. You'll never get rich, you son of a bitch, you're in the army now.

'I'll have to tell this story to my dinh,' Eddie said.

Gran-pere nodded slowly. 'Aye,' he said, 'as ye will. Ah dun't git along well witta boy, ye kennit. Lukey tried to put't'well where Tian pointed wit''t' drotta stick, y'ken.'

Eddie nodded as if he understood this. Later, Susannah translated it for him: I don't get along well with the boy, you understand. Lukey tried to put the well where Tian pointed with the dowsing stick, you see.

'A dowser?' Susannah asked from out of the darkness. She had returned quietly and now gestured with her hands, as if holding a wishbone.

The old man looked at her, surprised, then nodded. 'The drotta, yar. Any ro', I argued agin' it, but after the Wolves came and tuk his sister, Tia, Lukey done whatever the boy wanted. Can'ee imagine, lettin a boy nummore'n seventeen site the well, drotta or no? But Lukey put it there and there were water, Ah'll give'ee that, we all seen it gleam and smelt it before the clay sides give down and buried my boy alive. We dug him out but he were gone to the clearing, thrut and lungs all full of clay and muck.'

Slowly, slowly, the old man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes with it.

'The boy and I en't had a civil word between us since; that well's dug between us, do ya not see it. But he's right about wan-tin't'stand agin the Wolves, and if you tell him anything for me, tell him his Gran-pere salutes him damn proud, salutes him big-big, yer-bugger! He got the sand o'Jaffords in his craw, aye! We stood our stand all those years agone, and now the blood shows true.' He nodded, this time even more slowly. 'Garn and tell yer dinh, aye! Every word! And if it seeps out… if the Wolves were to come out of Thunderclap early fer one dried-up old turd like me…'

He bared his few remaining teeth in a smile Eddie found extraordinarily gruesome.

'Ah can still wind a bah,' he said, 'and sumpin tells me yer brownie could be taught to throw a dish, shor' legs or no.'

The old man looked off into the darkness.

'Let 'un come,' he said softly. 'Last time pays fer all, yer-bugger. Last time pays fer all.'

Chapter VII: Nocturne, Hunger

ONE

Mia was in the castle again, but this time was different. This time she did not move slowly, toying with her hunger, knowing that soon it would be fed and fed completely, that both she and her chap would be satisfied. This time what she felt inside was ravenous desperation, as if some wild animal had been caged up inside her belly. She understood that what she had felt on all those previous expeditions hadn't been hunger at all, not true hunger, but only healthy appetite. This was different.

His time is coming, she thought. He needs to eat more, in order to get his strength. And so do I.

Yet she was afraid-she was terrified -that it wasn't just a matter of needing to eat more. There was something she needed to eat, something forspecial. The chap needed it in order to… well, to…

To finish the becoming.

Yes! Yes, that was it, the becoming! And surely she would find it in the banquet hall, because everything was in the banquet hall-a thousand dishes, each more succulent than the last. She would graze the table, and when she found the right thing-the right vegetable or spice or meat or fish-roe-her guts and nerves would cry out for it and she would eat… oh she would gobble...

She began to hurry along faster yet, and then to run. She was vaguely aware that her legs were swishing together because she was wearing pants. Denim pants, like a cowboy. And instead of slippers she was wearing boots.

Shor'boots, her mind whispered to her mind. Shor'boots, may they do yafine.

But none of this mattered. What mattered was eating, gorging (oh she was so hungry), and finding the right thing for the chap. Finding the thing that would both make him strong and bring on her labor.

She pelted down the broad staircase, into the steady beating murmur of the slo-trans engines. Wonderful smells should have overwhelmed her by now-roasted meats, barbecued poultry, herbed fish-but she couldn't smell food at all.

Maybe I have a cold, she thought as her shor'boots stut-tut-tuttered on the stairs. That must be it, I must have a cold. My sinuses are all swollen and I can't smell anything -

But she could. She could smell the dust and age of this place. She could smell damp seepage, and the faint tang of engine oil, and the mildew eating relentlessly into tapestries and curtains hung in the rooms of ruin.

Those things, but no food.

She dashed along the black marble floor toward the double doors, unaware that she was again being followed-not by the gunslinger this time but by a wide-eyed, tousle-haired boy in a cotton shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. Mia crossed the foyer with its red and black marble squares and the statue of smoothly entwined marble and steel. She didn't stop to curtsy, or even nod her head. That she should be so hungry was bearable. But not her chap. Never her chap.

What halted her (and only for a space of seconds) was her own reflection, milky and irresolute, in the statue's chrome steel. Above her jeans was a plain white shirt (You call this kind a tee-shirt, her mind whispered) with some writing on it, and a picture.

The picture appeared to be of a pig.

Never mind what's on your shirt, woman. The chap's what matters. You must feed the chap!

She burst into the dining hall and stopped with a gasp of dismay. The room was full of shadows now. A few of the electric torches still glowed, but most had gone out. As she looked, the only one still burning at the far end of the room stuttered, buzzed, and fell dark. The white forspecial plates had been replaced with blue ones decorated with green tendrils of rice. The rice plants formed the Great Letter Zn, which, she knew, meant eternity and now and also come, as in come-commala. But plates didn't matter. Decorations didn't matter. What mattered was that the plates and beautiful crystal glassware were empty and dull with dust.

No, not everything was empty; in one goblet she saw a dead black widow spider lying with its many legs curled against the red hourglass on its midsection.

She saw the neck of a wine-bottle poking from a silver pail and her stomach gave an imperative cry. She snatched it up, barely registering the fact that there was no water in the bucket, let alone ice; it was entirely dry. At least the bottle had weight, and enough liquid inside to slosh-

But before Mia could close her lips over the neck of the bottle, the smell of vinegar smote her so strongly that her eyes filled with water.

'Mutha-fuck!' she screamed, and threw the bottle down. 'You mutha-fuckah!'