Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [112]
I might have a year, he thought, lying in bed beside the sleeping religious from Eddie and Susannah and Jake’s world. I might even have two.
No, not two. Probably not even one. What was it Eddie sometimes said? Quit kidding yourself. Eddie had a lot of sayings from his world, but that was a particularly good one. A particularly apt one.
Not that he would cry off the Tower if Old Bone-Twist Man took his ability to shoot, saddle a horse, cut a strip of rawhide, even to chop wood for a campfire, so simple a thing as that; no, he was in it until the end. But he didn’t relish the picture of riding along behind the others, dependent upon them, perhaps tied to his saddle with the reins because he could no longer hold the pommel. Nothing but a drag-anchor. One they wouldn’t be able to pull up if and when fast sailing was required.
If it gets to that, I’ll kill myself.
But he wouldn’t. That was the truth. Quit kidding yourself.
Which brought Eddie to mind again. He needed to talk to Eddie about Susannah, and right away. This was the knowledge with which he had awakened, and perhaps worth the pain. It wouldn’t be a pleasant talk, but it had to be done. It was time Eddie knew about Mia. She would find it more difficult to slip away now that they were in a town—in a house—but she would have to, just the same. She could argue with her baby’s needs and her own cravings no more than Roland could argue with the bright rings of pain which circled his right hip and knee and both ankles but had so far spared his talented hands. If Eddie wasn’t warned, there might be terrible trouble. More trouble was something they didn’t need now; it might sink them.
Roland lay in the bed, and throbbed, and watched the sky lighten. He was dismayed to see that brightness no longer bloomed dead east; it was a little off to the south, now.
Sunrise was also in drift.
Two
The housekeeper was good-looking, about forty. Her name was Rosalita Munoz, and when she saw the way Roland walked to the table, she said: “One cup coffee, then you come with me.”
Callahan cocked his head at Roland when she went to the stove to get the pot. Eddie and Susannah weren’t up yet. The two of them had the kitchen to themselves. “How bad is it with you, sir?”
“It’s only the rheumatiz,” Roland said. “Goes through all my family on my father’s side. It’ll work out by noon, given bright sunshine and dry air.”
“I know about the rheumatiz,” Callahan said. “Tell God thankya it’s no worse.”
“I do.” And to Rosalita, who brought heavy mugs of steaming coffee. “I tell you thankya, as well.”
She put down the cups, curtsied, and then regarded him shyly and gravely. “I never saw the rice-dance kicked better, sai.”
Roland smiled crookedly. “I’m paying for it this morning.”
“I’ll fix you,” she said. “I’ve a cat-oil, special to me. It’ll first take the pain and then the limp. Ask Pere.”
Roland looked at Callahan, who nodded.
“Then I’ll take you up on it. Thankee-sai.”
She curtsied again, and left them.
“I need a map of the Calla,” Roland said when she was gone. “It doesn’t have to be great art, but it has to be accurate, and true as to distance. Can you draw one for me?”
“Not at all,” Callahan said composedly. “I cartoon a little, but I couldn’t draw you a map that would take you as far as the river, not even if you put a gun to my head. It’s just not a talent I have. But I know two that could help you there.” He raised his voice. “Rosalita! Rosie! Come to me a minute, do ya!”
Three
Twenty minutes later, Rosalita took Roland by the hand, her grip firm and dry. She led him into the pantry and closed the door. “Drop yer britches, I beg,” she said. “Be not shy, for I doubt you’ve anything I haven’t seen before, unless men are built summat different in Gilead and the Inners.”
“I don’t believe they are,” Roland said,