Wolves of the Calla

'Under no circumstances!' Cuthbert agrees, laughing harder than ever. 'Not even should all two thousand lay down their arms.'

'Then blow that fucking horn.'

Cuthbert raises the horn to his bloody lips and blows a great blast — the final blast, for when it drops from his fingers a minute later (or perhaps it's five, or ten; time has no meaning in that final battle), Roland will let it lie in the dust. In his grief and bloodlust he will forget all about Eld's Horn .

'And now, my friends —hile !'

'Hile!' the last dozen cry beneath that blazing sun. It is the end of them, the end of Gilead, the end of everything, and he no longer cares. The old red fury, dry and maddening, is settling over his mind, drowning all thought . One last time, then, he thinks . Let it be so.

'To me!' cries Roland of Gilead. 'Forward! For the Tower! '

'The Tower!' Cuthbert cries out beside him, reeling. He holds Eld's Horn up to the sky in one hand, his revolver in the other.

'No prisoners!' Roland screams. 'NO PRISONERS!'

They rush forward and down toward Grissom's blue-faced horde, he and Cuthbert in the lead, and as they pass the first of the great gray-blackfaces leaning in the high grass, spears and bolts and bullets flying all around them, the chimes begin. It is a melody far beyond beautiful; it threatens to tear him to pieces with its stark loveliness.

Not now, he thinks , ah, gods, not now—let me finish it Let me finish it with my friend at my side and have peace at last. Please.

He reaches for Cuthbert's hand. For one moment he feels the touch of his friend's blood-sticky fingers, there on Jericho Hill where his brave and laughing existence was snuffed out… and then the fingers touching his are gone. Or rather, his have melted clean through Bert's. He is falling, he is falling, the world is darkening, he is falling, the chimes are playing, the kammen are playing ('Sounds Hawaiian, doesn't it?') and he is falling, Jericho Hill is gone, Eld's Horn is gone, there's darkness and red letters in the darkness, some are Great Letters, enough so he can read what they say, the words say —

FIVE

They said don't walk. Although, Roland saw, people were crossing the street in spite of the sign. They would take a quick look in the direction of the flowing traffic, and then go for it. One fellow crossed in spite of an oncoming yellow tack-see. The tack-see swerved and blared its horn. The walking man yelled fearlessly at it, then shot up the middle finger of his right hand and shook it after the departing vehicle. Roland had an idea that this gesture probably did not mean long days and pleasant nights.

It was night in New York City, and although there were people moving everywhere, none were of his ka- tet. Here, Roland admitted to himself, was one contingency he had hardly expected: that the one person to show up would be him. Not Eddie, but him. Where in the name of all the gods was he supposed to go? And what was he supposed to do when he got there?

Remember your own advice , he thought. 'If you show up alone,' you told them, 'stay where you are. '

But did that mean to just roost on… he looked up at the green street-sign… on the corner of Second Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street, doing nothing but watching a sign change from don't walk in red to walk in white?

While he was pondering this, a voice called out from behind him, high and delirious with joy. 'Roland! Sugarbunch! Turn around and see me! See me very well !'

Roland turned, already knowing what he would see, but smiling all the same. How terrible to relive that day at Jericho Hill, but what an antidote was this—Susannah Dean, flying down Fifty-fourth Street toward him, laughing and weeping with joy, her arms held out.

'My legs!' She was screaming it at the top of her voice. 'My legs! I have my legs back! Oh Roland, honeydoll, praise the Man Jesus, I HAVE MY LEGS BACK !'

SIX

She threw herself into his embrace, kissing his cheek, his neck, his brow, his nose, his lips, saying it over and over again: 'My legs, oh Roland do you see, I can walk, I can run , I have my legs, praise God and all the saints, I have my legs back .'

'Give you every joy of them, dear heart,' Roland said. Falling into the patois of the place in which he had lately found himself was an old trick of his—or perhaps it was habit. For now it was the patois of the Calla. He supposed if he spent much time here in New York, he'd soon find himself waving his middle finger at tack- sees.

But I'd always be an outsider , he thought. Why, I can't even say aspirin. Every time I try, the word comes out wrong .

She took his right hand, dragged it down with surprising force, and placed it on her shin. 'Do you feel it?' she demanded. 'I mean, I'm not just imagining it, am I?'

Roland laughed. 'Did you not run to me as if with wings on em like Raf? Yes, Susannah.' He put his left hand, the one with all the fingers, on her left leg. 'One leg and two legs, each with a foot below them.' He frowned. 'We ought to get you some shoes, though.'

'Why? This is a dream. It has to be.'

He looked at her steadily, and slowly her smile faded.

'Not? Really not?'

'We've gone todash. We are really here. If you cut your foot, Mia, you'll have a cut foot tomorrow, when you wake up aside the campfire.'

The other name had come out almost—but not quite—on its own. Now he waited, all his muscles wire- tight, to see if she would notice. If she did, he'd apologize and tell her he'd gone todash directly from a dream of someone he'd known long ago (although there had only been one woman of any importance after Susan Delgado, and her name had not been Mia).

But she didn't notice, and Roland wasn't much surprised.

Because she was getting ready to go on another of her hunting expeditions — as Mia —when the kammen rang. And unlike Susannah, Mia has legs. She banquets on rich foods in a great hall, she talks with all her friends, she didn't go to Morehouse or to no house, and she has legs. So this one has legs. This one is both women, although she doesn't know it .