Wolves of the Calla

'These are questions for Callahan,' Henchick said. 'I promised to show thee this place. I have. Surely that's enough for ye.'

'Was he conscious when you found him?'

There was a reluctant pause. Then: 'Nay. Only muttering, as one does in his sleep if he dreams badly.'

'Then he can't tell me, can he? Not this part. Henchick, you seek aid and succor. This thee told me on behalf of all your clans. Help me, then! Help me to help you!'

'I do na' see how this helps.'

And it might not help, not in the matter of the Wolves which so concerned this old man and the rest of Calla Bryn Sturgis, but Roland had other worries and other needs; other fish to fry, as Susannah sometimes said. He stood looking at Henchick, one hand still on the crystal doorknob.

'It were open a bit,' Henchick said finally. 'So were the box. Both just a bit The one they call the Old Fella, he lay facedown, there.' He pointed to the rubble-and bone-littered floor where Roland's boots were now planted. 'The box were by his right hand, open about this much.' Henchick held his thumb and forefinger perhaps two inches apart. 'Coming from it was the sound of the kammen . I've heard em before, but never's'strong. They made my very eyes ache and gush water. Jemmin cried out and begun walking toward the door. The Old Fella's hands were spread out on the ground and Jemmin treaded on one of em and never noticed.

'The door were only ajar, like the box, but a terrible light was coming through it. I've traveled much, gunslinger, to many wheres and many whens , I've seen other doors and I've seen todash tahken, the holes in reality, but never any light like that It were black, like all the emptiness that ever was, but there were something red in it.'

'The Eye,' Roland said.

Henchick looked at him. 'An eye? Do'ee say so?'

'I think so,' Roland said. 'The blackness you saw is cast by Black Thirteen. The red might have been the Eye of the Crimson King.'

'Who is he?'

'I don't know,' Roland said. 'Only that he bides far east of here, in Thunderclap or beyond it. I believe he may be a Guardian of the Dark Tower. He may even think he owns it.'

At Roland's mention of the Tower, the old man covered his eyes with both hands, a gesture of deep religious dread.

'What happened next, Henchick? Tell me, I beg.'

'I began to reach for Jemmin, then recalled how he stepped on the man's hand with his bootheel, and thought better of it. Thought, 'Henchick, if thee does that, he'll drag you through with him.' ' The old man's eyes fastened on Roland's. 'Traveling is what we do, I know ye ken as much, and rarely are we afraid, for we trust The Over. Yet I were afraid of that light and the sound of those chimes.' He paused. 'Terrified of them. I've never spoken of that day.'

'Not even to Pere Callahan?'

Henchick shook his head.

'Did he not speak to you when he woke up?'

'He asked if he were dead. I told him that if he were so, so were we all.'

'What about Jemmin?'

'Died two years later.' Henchick tapped the front of his black shirt. 'Heart.'

'How many years since you found Callahan here?'

Henchick shook his head slowly back and forth in wide arcs, a Manni gesture so common it might have been genetic. 'Gunslinger, I know not. For time is—'

'Yes, in drift,' Roland said impatiently. 'How long would you say ?'

'More than five years, for he has his church and superstitious fools to fill it, ye ken.'

'What did you do? How did thee save Jemmin?'

'Fell on my knees and closed the box,' Henchick said. ''Twas all I could think to do. If I'd hesitated even a single second I do believe I would ha' been lost, for the same black light were coming out of it. It made me feel weak and… and dim .'

'I'll bet it did,' Roland said grimly.

'But I moved fast, and when the lid of the box clicked down, the door swung shut. Jemmin banged his fists against it and screamed and begged to be let through. Then he fell down in a faint. I dragged him out of the cave. I dragged them both out. After a little while in the fresh air, both came to.' Henchick raised his hands, then lowered them again, as if to say There you are .

Roland gave the doorknob a final try. It moved in neither direction. But with the ball—

'Let's go back,' he said. 'I'd like to be at the Pere's house by dinnertime. That means a fast walk back down to the horses and an even faster ride once we get there.'

Henchick nodded. His bearded face was good at hiding expression, but Roland thought the old man was relieved to be going. Roland was a little relieved, himself. Who would enjoy listening to the accusing screams of one's dead mother and father rising out of the dark? Not to mention the cries of one's dead friends?

'What happened to the speaking device?' Roland asked as they started back down.

Henchick shrugged. 'Do ye ken bayderies?'

Batteries . Roland nodded.

'While they worked, the machine played the same message over and over, the one telling us that we should go to the Cave of Voices and find a man, a door, and a wonder. There was also a song. We played it once for the Pere, and he wept. You must ask him about it, for that truly is his part of the tale.'

Roland nodded again.

'Then the bayderies died.' Henchick's shrug showed a certain contempt for machines, the gone world, or perhaps both. 'We took them out. They were Duracell. Does thee ken Duracell, gunslinger?'

Roland shook his head.

'We took them to Andy and asked if he could recharge them, mayhap. He took them into himself, but when they came out again they were as useless as before. Andy said sorry. We said thankya.' Henchick rolled his shoulders in that same contemptuous shrug. 'We opened the machine—another button did that—and the tongue came out. It were this long.' Henchick held his hands four or five inches apart. 'Two holes in it. Shiny brown stuff inside, like string. The Pere called it a 'cassette tape.' '

Roland nodded. 'I want to thank you for taking me up to the cave, Henchick, and for telling me all thee knows.'

'I did what I had to,' Henchick said. 'And you'll do as'ee promise. Wont'chee?'

Roland of Gilead nodded. 'Let God pick a winner.'

'Aye, so we do say. Ye speak as if ye knew us, once upon a season.' He paused, eyeing Roland with a certain sour shrewdness. 'Or is it just makin up to me that ye does? For anyone who's ever read the Good Book can thee and thou till the crows fly home.'

'Does thee ask if I play the toady, up here where there's no one to hear us but them?' Roland nodded toward the babbling darkness. 'Thou knows better, I hope, for if thee doesn't, thee's a fool.' ;

The old man considered, then put out his gnarled, long-fingered hand. 'Do'ee well, Roland. 'Tis a good name, and a fair.'

Roland put out his right hand. And when the old man took it and squeezed it, he felt the first deep twinge of pain where he wanted to feel it least.

No, not yet. Where I'd feel it least is in the other one. The one that's still whole.

'Mayhap this time the Wolves'll kill us all,' said Henchick.

'Perhaps so.'

'Yet still, perhaps we're well-met.'