Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [14]
“They return husks. And what of us? What is this doing to us? Some might say nothing, that the Wolves have always been a part of our life in Calla Bryn Sturgis, like the occasional cyclone or earthshake. Yet that is not true. They’ve been coming for six generations, at most. But the Calla’s been here a thousand years and more.”
The old Manni with the bony shoulders and baleful eyes half-rose. “He says true, folken. There were farmers here—and Manni-folk among em—when the darkness in Thunderclap hadn’t yet come, let alone the Wolves.”
They received this with looks of wonder. Their awe seemed to satisfy the old man, who nodded and sat back down.
“So in time’s greater course, the Wolves are almost a new thing,” Tian said. “Six times have they come over mayhap a hundred and twenty or a hundred and forty years. Who can say? For as ye ken, time has softened, somehow.”
A low rumble. A few nods.
“In any case, once a generation,” Tian went on. He was aware that a hostile contingent was coalescing around Overholser, Eisenhart, and Adams. Ben Slightman might or might not be with them—probably was. These men he would not move even if he were gifted with the tongue of an angel. Well, he could do without them, maybe. If he caught the rest. “Once a generation they come, and how many children do they take? Three dozen? Four?
“Sai Overholser may not have babbies this time, but I do—not one set of twins but two. Heddon and Hedda, Lyman and Lia. I love all four, but in a month of days, two of them will be taken away. And when those two come back, they’ll be roont. Whatever spark there is that makes a complete human being, it’ll be out forever.”
Hear him, hear him swept through the room like a sigh.
“How many of you have twins with no hair except that which grows on their heads?” Tian demanded. “Raise yer hands!”
Six men raised their hands. Then eight. A dozen. Every time Tian began to think they were done, another reluctant hand went up. In the end, he counted twenty-two hands, and of course not everyone who had children was here. He could see that Overholser was dismayed by such a large count. Diego Adams had his hand raised, and Tian was pleased to see he’d moved away a little bit from Overholser, Eisenhart, and Slightman. Three of the Manni had their hands up. Jorge Estrada. Louis Haycox. Many others he knew, which was not surprising, really; he knew almost every one of these men. Probably all save for a few wandering fellows working smallhold farms for short wages and hot dinners.
“Each time they come and take our children, they take a little more of our hearts and our souls,” Tian said.
“Oh come on now, son,” Eisenhart said. “That’s laying it on a bit th—”
“Shut up, Rancher,” a voice said. It belonged to the man who had come late, he with the scar on his forehead. It was shocking in its anger and contempt. “He’s got the feather. Let him speak out to the end.”
Eisenhart whirled around to mark who had spoken to him so. He saw, and made no reply. Nor was Tian surprised.
“Thankee, Pere,” Tian said evenly. “I’ve almost come to the end. I keep thinking of trees. You can strip the leaves of a strong tree and it will live. Cut its bark with many names and it will grow its skin over them again. You can even take from the heartwood and it will live. But if you take of the heartwood again and again and again, there will come a time when even the strongest tree must die. I’ve seen it happen on my farm, and it’s an ugly thing. They die from the inside out. You can see it in the leaves as they turn yellow from the trunk to the tips of the branches. And that’s what the Wolves are doing to this little village of ours. What they’re doing to our Calla.”
“Hear him!” cried Freddy Rosario from the next farm over. “Hear him very well!” Freddy had twins of his own, although they were still on the tit and so probably safe.
Tian went on, “You say that if we stand and fight, they’ll kill us all and burn the Calla from east-border to west.”
“Yes,” Overholser said. “So I do say. Nor am I the only one.” From