Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [172]
He does. Under the burning autumn sun he takes hold of the rotting mask, which feels like some sort of metal mesh, and he pulls it off, and he sees…
Eight
For a moment Eddie wasn’t even aware that the old guy had stopped talking. He was still lost in the story, mesmerized. He saw everything so clearly it could have been him out there on the East Road, kneeling in the dust with the bah cocked to his shoulder like a baseball bat, ready to knock the oncoming sneetch out of the air.
Then Susannah rolled past the porch toward the barn with a bowl of chickenfeed in her lap. She gave them a curious look on her way by. Eddie woke up. He hadn’t come here to be entertained. He supposed the fact that he could be entertained by such a story said something about him.
“And?” Eddie asked the old man when Susannah had gone into the barn. “What did you see?”
“Eh?” Gran-pere gave him a look of such perfect vacuity that Eddie despaired.
“What did you see? When you took off the mask?”
For a moment that look of emptiness—the lights are on but no one’s home—held. And then (by pure force of will, it seemed to Eddie) the old man came back. He looked behind him, at the house. He looked toward the black maw of the barn, and the lick of phosphor-light deep inside. He looked around the yard itself.
Frightened, Eddie thought. Scared to death.
Eddie tried to tell himself this was only an old man’s paranoia, but he felt a chill, all the same.
“Lean close,” Gran-pere muttered, and when Eddie did: “The only one Ah ever told was my boy Luke…Tian’s Da’, do’ee ken. Years and years later, this was. He told me never to speak of it to anyone else. Ah said, ‘But Lukey, what if it could help? What if it could help t’next time they come?’ ”
Gran-pere’s lips barely moved, but his thick accent had almost entirely departed, and Eddie could understand him perfectly.
“And he said to me, ‘Da’, if’ee really b’lieved knowin c’d help, why have’ee not told afore now?’ And Ah couldn’t answer him, young fella, cos ’twas nothing but intuition kep’ my gob shut. Besides, what good could it do? What do it change?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said. Their faces were close. Eddie could smell beef and gravy on old Jamie’s breath. “How can I, when you haven’t told me what you saw?”
“ ‘The Red King always finds ’is henchmen,’ my boy said. ‘It’d be good if no one ever knew ye were out there, better still if no one ever heard what ye saw out there, lest it get back to em, aye, even in Thunderclap.’ And Ah seen a sad thing, young fella.”
Although he was almost wild with impatience, Eddie thought it best to let the old guy unwind it in his own way. “What was that, Gran-pere?”
“Ah seen Luke didn’t entirely believe me. Thought his own Da’ might just be a-storyin, tellin a wild tale about bein a Wolf-killer t’look tall. Although ye’d think even a halfwit would see that if Ah was goingter make a tale, Ah’d make it me that killed the Wolf, and not Eamon Doolin’s wife.”
That made sense, Eddie thought, and then remembered Gran-pere at least hinting that he had taken credit more than once-upon-a, as Roland sometimes said. He smiled in spite of himself.
“Lukey were afraid someone else might hear my story and believe it. That it’d get on to the Wolves and Ah might end up dead fer no more than tellin a make-believe story. Not that it were.” His rheumy old eyes begged at Eddie’s face in the growing dark. “You believe me, don’t ya?”
Eddie nodded. “I know you say true, Gran-pere. But who…” Eddie paused. Who would rat you out? was how the question came to mind, but Gran-pere might not understand. “But who would tell? Who did you suspect?”
Gran-pere looked around the darkening yard, seemed about to speak, then said nothing.
“Tell me,” Eddie said. “Tell me what you—”
A large dry hand, a-tremor with age but still amazingly strong, gripped his neck and pulled him close. Bristly whiskers rasped against the shell of Eddie’s ear, making him shudder all over and break out in gooseflesh.
Gran-pere whispered nineteen words as the last light died out of the day and night