Wolves of the Calla

Eddie looked around. He saw Tower's goddamned two-shelf bookcase—first editions under glass, may they do ya fine— but no pink metal-mesh bag with mid-world lanes printed on it; no engraved ghostwood box, either. The unfound door was still here, its hinges still hooked to nothing, but now it had a strangely dull look. Not just unfound but unremembered; only one more useless piece of a world that had moved on.

'No,' Eddie said. 'No, I don't accept that. The power is still here. The power is still here .'

He turned to Roland, but Roland wasn't looking at him. Incredibly, Roland was studying the books. As if the search for Susannah had begun to bore him and he was looking for a good read to pass the time.

Eddie took Roland's shoulder, turned him. 'What happened, Roland? Do you know?'

'What happened is obvious,' Roland said. Callahan had come up beside him. Only Jake, who was visiting the Doorway Cave for the first time, hung back at the entrance. 'She took her wheelchair as far as she could, then went on her hands and knees to the foot of the path, no mean feat for a woman who's probably in labor. At the foot of the path, someone—probably Andy, just as Jake says—left her a ride.'

'If it was Slightman, I'll go back and kill him myself.'

Roland shook his head. 'Not Slightman.' But Slightman might know for sure , he thought. It probably didn't matter, but he liked loose ends no more than he liked crooked pictures hanging on walls.

'Hey, bro, sorry to tell you this, but your poke-bitch is dead,' Henry Dean called up from deep in the cave. He didn't sound sorry; he sounded gleeful. 'Damn thing ate her all the way up! Only stopped long enough on its way to the brain to spit out her teeth!'

'Shut up !' Eddie screamed.

'The brain's the ultimate brain-food, you know,' Henry said. He had assumed a mellow, scholarly tone. 'Revered by cannibals the world over. That's quite the chap she's got, Eddie! Cute but hongry .'

'Be still, in the name of God!' Callahan cried, and the voice of Eddie's brother ceased. For the time being, at least, all the voices ceased.

Roland went on as if he had never been interrupted. 'She came here. Took the bag. Opened the box so that Black Thirteen would open the door. Mia, this is—not Susannah but Mia. Daughter of none. And then, still carrying the open box, she went through. On the other side she closed the box, closing the door. Closing it against us.'

'No,' Eddie said, and grabbed the crystal doorknob with the rose etched into its geometric facets. It wouldn't turn. There was not so much as a single iota of give.

From the darkness, Elmer Chambers said: 'If you'd been quicker, son, you could have saved your friend. It's your fault.' And fell silent again.

'It's not real, Jake,' Eddie said, and rubbed a finger across the rose. The tip of his finger came away dusty. As if the unfound door had stood here, unused as well as unfound, for a score of centuries. 'It just broadcasts the worst stuff it can find in your own head.'

'I was always hatin yo' guts, honky!' Detta cried triumphantly from the darkness beyond the door. 'Ain't I glad to be shed of you!'

'Like that,' Eddie said, cocking a thumb in the direction of the voice.

Jake nodded, pale and thoughtful. Roland, meanwhile, had turned back to Tower's bookcase.

'Roland?' Eddie tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, or at least add a little spark of humor to it, and failed at both. 'Are we boring you, here?'

'No,' Roland said.

'Then I wish you'd stop looking at those books and help me think of a way to open this d—'

'I know how to open it,' Roland said. 'The first question is where will it take us now that the ball is gone? The second question is where do we want to go? After Mia, or to the place where Tower and his friend are hiding from Balazar and his friends?'

'We go after Susannah!' Eddie shouted. 'Have you been listening to any of the shit those voices are saying? They're saying it's a cannibal! My wife could be giving birth to some kind of a cannibal monster right now , and if you think anything's more important than that—'

'The Tower's more important,' Roland said. 'And somewhere on the other side of this door there's a man whose name is Tower. A man who owns a certain vacant lot and a certain rose growing there.'

Eddie looked at him uncertainly. So did Jake and Callahan. Roland turned again to the little bookcase. It looked strange indeed, here in this rocky darkness.

'And he owns these books,' Roland mused. 'He risked all things to save them.'

'Yeah, because he's one obsessed motherfucker.'

'Yet all things serve ka and follow the Beam,' Roland said, and selected a volume from the upper shelf of the bookcase. Eddie saw it had been placed in there upside down, which struck him as a very un-Calvin Tower thing to do.

Roland held the book in his seamed, weather-chapped hands, seeming to debate which one to give it to. He looked at Eddie… looked at Callahan… and then gave the book to Jake.

'Read me what it says on the front,' he said. 'The words of your world make my head hurt. They swim to my eye easily enough, but when I reach my mind toward them, most swim away again.'

Jake was paying little attention; his eyes were riveted on the book jacket with its picture of a little country church at sunset. Callahan, meanwhile, had stepped past him in order to get a closer look at the door standing here in the gloomy cave. At last the boy looked up. 'But… Roland, isn't this the town Pere Callahan told us about? The one where the vampire broke his cross and made him drink his blood?'

Callahan whirled away from the door. 'What ?'

Jake held the book out wordlessly. Callahan took it. Almost snatched it.

' 'Salem's Lot' he read. 'A novel by Stephen King.' He looked up at Eddie, then at Jake. 'Heard of him? Either of you? He's not from my time, I don't think.'

Jake shook his head. Eddie began to shake his, as well, and then he saw something. 'That church,' he said. 'It looks like the Calla Gathering Hall. Close enough to be its twin, almost.'

'It also looks like the East Stoneham Methodist Meeting Hall, built in 1819,' Callahan said, 'so I guess this time we've got a case of triplets.' But his voice sounded faraway to his own ears, as hollow as the false voices which floated up from the bottom of the cave. All at once he felt false to himself, not real. He felt nineteen .

SIX

It's a joke , part of his mind assured him. It must be a joke, the cover of this book says it's a novel, so —

Then an idea struck him, and he felt a surge of relief. It was conditional relief, but surely better than none at all. The idea was that sometimes people wrote make-believe stories about real places. That was it, surely. Had to be.

'Look at page one hundred and nineteen,' Roland said. 'I could make out a little of it, but not all. Not nearly enough.'

Callahan found the page, and read this:

' 'In the early days at the seminary, a friend of Father…' ' He trailed off, eyes racing ahead over the words on the page.

'Go on,' Eddie said. 'You read it, Father, or I will.'

Slowly, Callahan resumed.

' '… a friend of Father Callahan's had given him a blasphemous crewelwork sampler which had sent him into gales of horrified laughter at the time, but which seemed more true and less blasphemous as the years passed: God grant me the SERENITY to accept what I cannot change, the TENACITY to change what I may, and the GOOD LUCK not to fuck up too often . This in Old English script with a rising sun in the