Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [113]
The sun was now up but Eddie and Susannah were still down. Roland was in no hurry to wake them. There would be plenty of early days ahead—and late evenings, too, likely—but this morning let them enjoy the peace of a roof over their heads, the comfort of a feather mattress beneath their bodies, and the exquisite privacy afforded by a door between their secret selves and the rest of the world.
Rosalita, a bottle of pale, oily liquid in one hand, drew in a hiss over her full lower lip. She looked at Roland’s right knee, then touched his right hip with her left hand. He flinched away a bit from the touch, although it was gentleness itself.
She raised her eyes to him. They were so dark a brown they were almost black. “This isn’t rheumatiz. It’s arthritis. The kind that spreads fast.”
“Aye, where I come from some call it dry twist,” he said. “Not a word of it to the Pere, or to my friends.”
Those dark eyes regarded him steadily. “You won’t be able to keep this a secret for long.”
“I hear you very well. Yet while I can keep the secret, I will keep the secret. And you’ll help me.”
“Aye,” she said. “No fear. I’ll bide’ee.”
“Say thankya. Now, will that help me?”
She looked at the bottle and smiled. “Aye. It’s mint and spriggum from the swamp. But the secret’s the cat’s bile that’s in it—not but three drops in each bottle, ye ken. They’re the rock-cats that come in out of the desert, from the direction of the great darkness.” She tipped up the bottle and poured a little of the oily stuff into her palm. The smell of the mint struck Roland’s nose at once, followed by some other smell, a lower smell, which was far less pleasant. Yes, he reckoned that could be the bile of a puma or a cougar or whatever they meant by a rock-cat in these parts.
When she bent and rubbed it into his kneecaps, the heat was immediate and intense, almost too strong to bear. But when it moderated a bit, there was more relief than he would have dared hope for.
When she had finished anointing him, she said: “How be your body now, gunslinger-sai?”
Instead of answering with his mouth, he crushed her against his lean, undressed body and hugged her tightly. She hugged him back with an artless lack of shame and whispered in his ear, “If ’ee are who ’ee say ’ee are, ’ee mustn’t let un take the babbies. No, not a single one. Never mind what the big bugs like Eisenhart and Telford might say.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” he said.
“Good. Thankya.” She stepped back, looked down. “One part of ’ee has no arthritis, nor rheumatiz, either. Looks quite lively. Perhaps a lady might look at the moon tonight, gunslinger, and pine for company.”
“Perhaps she’ll find it,” Roland said. “Will you give me a bottle of that stuff to take on my travels around the Calla, or is it too dear?”
“Nay, not too dear,” she said. In her flirting, she had smiled. Now she looked grave again. “But will only help’ee a little while, I think.”
“I know,” Roland said. “And no matter. We spread the time as we can, but in the end the world takes it all back.”
“Aye,” she said. “So it does.”
Four
When he came out of the pantry, buckling his belt, he finally heard stirring in the other room. The murmur of Eddie’s voice followed by a sleepy peal of female laughter. Callahan was at the stove, pouring himself fresh coffee. Roland went to him and spoke rapidly.
“I saw pokeberries on the left of your drive between here and your church.”
“Yes, and they’re ripe. Your eyes are sharp.”
“Never mind my eyes, do ya. I would go out to pick my hat full. I’d have Eddie join me while his wife perhaps cracks an egg or three. Can you manage that?”
“I believe so, but—”
“Good,” Roland said, and went out.
Five
By the time Eddie came, Roland had already half-filled his hat with the orange berries, and also eaten several good handfuls. The pain in his legs and hips had faded with amazing rapidity. As he picked, he wondered how much Cort would have paid for a single bottle of Rosalita Munoz’s cat-oil.
“Man, those look like the wax fruit our mother used to put out on a