Wolves of the Calla

'Because they would have set on us already and they'd be fly-food.'

There seemed no good reply to that, and they took to the road again. It wound through deep shadows, finding its way among trees that were centuries old. Before they had been walking twenty minutes, Eddie heard the sound of their pursuers (or shadowers): snapping twigs, rustling underbrush, once even a low voice. Slewfeet, in Roland's terminology. Eddie was disgusted with himself for remaining unaware of them for so long. He also wondered what yon cullies did for a living. If it was tracking and trapping, they weren't very good at it.

Eddie Dean had become a part of Mid-World in many ways, some so subde he wasn't consciously aware of them, but he still thought of distances in miles instead of wheels. He guessed they'd come about fifteen from the spot where Jake rejoined them with his muffin-balls and his news when Roland called it a day. They stopped in the middle of the road, as they always did since entering the forest; that way the embers of their campfire stood little chance of setting the woods on fire.

Eddie and Susannah gathered a nice selection of fallen branches while Roland and Jake made a little camp and set about cutting up Jake's trove of muffin-balls. Susannah rolled her wheelchair effortlessly over the duff under the ancient trees, piling her selections in her lap. Eddie walked nearby, humming under his breath.

'Lookit over to your left, sugar,' Susannah said. He did, and saw a distant orange blink. A fire. 'Not very good, are they?' he asked. 'No. Truth is, I feel a little sorry for em.'

'Any idea what they're up to?'

'Unh-unh, but I think Roland's right—they'll tell us when they're ready. Either that or decide we're not what they want and just sort of fade away. Come on, let's go back.'

'Just a second.' He picked up one more branch, hesitated, then took yet another. Then it was right. 'Okay,' he said.

As they headed back, he counted the sticks he'd picked up, then the ones in Susannah's lap. The total came to nineteen in each case.

'Suze,' he said, and when she glanced over at him: 'Time's started up again.'

She didn't ask him what he meant, only nodded.

FOUR

Eddie's resolution about not eating the muffin-balls didn't last long; they just smelled too damned good sizzling in the lump of deerfat Roland (thrifty, murderous soul that he was) had saved away in his scuffed old purse. Eddie took his share on one of the ancient plates they'd found in Shardik's woods and gobbled them.

'These are as good as lobster,' he said, then remembered the monsters on the beach that had eaten Roland's fingers. 'As good as Nathan's hotdogs is what I meant to say. And I'm sorry for teasing you, Jake.'

'Don't worry about it,' Jake said, smiling. 'You never tease hard.'

'One thing you should be aware of,' Roland said. He was smiling—he smiled more these days, quite a lot more—but his eyes were serious. 'All of you. Muffin-balls sometimes bring very lively dreams.'

'You mean they make you stoned?' Jake asked, rather uneasily. He was thinking of his father. Elmer Chambers had enjoyed many of the weirder things in life.

'Stoned? I'm not sure I—'

'Buzzed. High. Seeing things. Like when you took the mescaline and went into the stone circle where that thing almost… you know, almost hurt me.'

Roland paused for a moment, remembering. There had been a kind of succubus imprisoned in that ring of stones. Left to its own devices, she undoubtedly would have initiated Jake Chambers sexually, then fucked him to death. As matters turned out, Roland had made it speak. To punish him, it had sent him a vision of Susan Delgado.

'Roland?' Jake was looking at him anxiously.

'Don't concern yourself, Jake. There are mushrooms that do what you're thinking of—change consciousness, heighten it—but not muffin-balls. These are berries, just good to eat. If your dreams are particularly vivid, just remind yourself you are dreaming.'

Eddie thought this a very odd little speech. For one thing, it wasn't like Roland to be so tenderly solicitous of their mental health. Not like him to waste words, either.

Things have started again and he knows it, too , Eddie thought. There was a little time-out there, but now the clock's running again. Game on, as they say .

'We going to set a watch, Roland?' Eddie asked.

'Not by my warrant,' the gunslinger said comfortably, and began rolling himself a smoke.

'You really don't think they're dangerous, do you?' Susannah said, and raised her eyes to the woods, where the individual trees were now losing themselves in the general gloom of evening. The little spark of campfire they'd noticed earlier was now gone, but the people following them were still there. Susannah felt them. When she looked down at Oy and saw him gazing in the same direction, she wasn't surprised.

'I think that may be their problem,' Roland said.

'What's that supposed to mean?' Eddie asked, but Roland would say no more. He simply lay in the road with a rolled-up piece of deerskin beneath his neck, looking up at the dark sky and smoking.

Later, Roland's ka-tet slept. They posted no watch and were undisturbed.

FIVE

The dreams, when they came, were not dreams at all. They all knew this except perhaps for Susannah, who in a very real sense was not there at all that night.

My God, I'm back in New York , Eddie thought. And, on the heels of this: Really back in New York. This is really happening .

It was. He was in New York. On Second Avenue.

That was when Jake and Oy came around the corner from Fifty-fourth Street. 'Hey, Eddie,' Jake said, grinning. 'Welcome home.'

Game on , Eddie thought. Game on .

Chapter II: New York Groove

ONE

Jake fell asleep looking into pure darkness—no stars in that cloudy night sky, no moon. As he drifted off, he had a sensation of falling that he recognized with dismay: in his previous life as a so-called normal child he'd often had dreams of falling, especially around exam time, but these had ceased since his violent rebirth into Mid- World.

Then the falling feeling was gone. He heard a brief chiming melody that was somehow too beautiful: three notes and you wanted it to stop, a dozen and you thought it would kill