Wolves of the Calla

anN. 'four short novels by Sirlock Holmes.' He opened the book, running a respectful hand over the title page and then smelling it: the spicy, faintly sweet aroma of good old paper. He could make out the name of one of the four short novels— The Sign of the Four . Other than the words Hound and Study , the titles of the others were gibberish to him.

'A sign is a sigul,' he said. When he found himself counting the number of letters in the title, he had to laugh at himself.

Besides, there were only sixteen. He put the book back and took up another, this one with a drawing of a soldier on the front. He could make out one word of the title: Dead . He looked at another. A man and woman kissing on the cover. Yes, there were always men and women kissing in stories; folks liked that. He put it back and looked up to check on Callahan's progress. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the Pere walking into a great room filled with books and what Eddie called Magda-seens… although Roland was still unsure what Magda had seen, or why there should be so much written about it.

He pulled out another book, and smiled at the picture on the cover. There was a church, with the sun going down red behind it. The church looked a bit like Our Lady of Serenity. He opened it and thumbed through it. A delah of words, but he could only make out one in every three, if that. No pictures. He was about to put it back when something caught his eye. Leaped at his eye. Roland stopped breathing for a moment.

He stood back, no longer hearing the todash chimes, no longer caring about the great room of books Callahan had entered. He began reading the book with the church on the front. Or trying to. The words swam maddeningly in front of his eyes, and he couldn't be sure. Not quite. But, gods! If he was seeing what he thought he was seeing—

Intuition told him that this was a key. But to what door?

He didn't know, couldn't read enough of the words to know. But the book in his hands seemed almost to thrum. Roland thought that perhaps this book was like the rose…

… but there were black roses, too.

NINE

'Roland, I found it! It's a little town in central Maine called East Stoneham, about forty miles north of Portland and…' He stopped, getting a good look at the gunslinger. 'What's wrong?'

'The chiming sound,' Roland said quickly. 'Even with my ears stopped up, it got through.' The door was shut and the chimes were gone, but there were still the voices. Callahan's father was currently asking if Donnie thought those magazines he'd found under his son's bed were anything a Christian boy would want to have, what if his mother had found them? And when Roland suggested they leave the cave, Callahan was more than willing to go. He remembered that conversation with his old man far too clearly. They had ended up praying together at the foot of his bed, and the three Playboys had gone into the incinerator out back.

Roland returned the carved box to the pink bag and once more stowed it carefully behind Tower's case of valuable books. He had already replaced the book with the church on it, turning it with the title down so he could find it again quickly.

They went out and stood side by side, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. 'Are you sure the chimes is all it was?' Callahan asked. 'Man, you looked as though you'd seen a ghost.'

'The todash chimes are worse than ghosts,' Roland said. That might or might not be true, but it seemed to satisfy Callahan. As they started down the path, Roland remembered the promise he had made to the others, and, more important, to himself: no more secrets within the tet. How quickly he found himself ready to break that promise! But he felt he was right to do so. He knew at least some of the names in that book. The others would know them, too. Later they would need to know, if the book was as important as he thought it might be. But now it would only distract them from the approaching business of the Wolves. If they could win that battle, then perhaps…

'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