Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [220]
But he takes the box. It’s the last thing in life he wants to do, but he is powerless to stop himself. Close it, you have to close it, he thinks, but he is falling, he has tripped himself (or the robed man’s ka has tripped him) and he’s falling, twisting around as he goes down. From somewhere below him all the voices of his past are calling to him, reproaching him (his mother wants to know why he allowed that filthy Barlow to break the cross she brought him all the way from Ireland), and incredibly, the man in black cries “Bon voyage, Faddah!” merrily after him.
Callahan strikes a stone floor. It’s littered with the bones of small animals. The lid of the box closes and he feels a moment of sublime relief…but then it opens again, very slowly, disclosing the eye.
“No,” Callahan whispers. “Please, no.”
But he’s not able to close the box—all his strength seems to have deserted him—and it will not close itself. Deep down in the black eye, a red speck forms, glows…grows. Callahan’s horror swells, filling his throat, threatening to stop his heart with its chill. It’s the King, he thinks. It’s the Eye of the Crimson King as he looks down from his place in the Dark Tower. And he is seeing me.
“NO!” Callahan shrieks as he lies on the floor of a cave in the northern arroyo country of Calla Bryn Sturgis, a place he will eventually come to love. “NO! NO! DON’T LOOK AT ME! OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T LOOK AT ME!”
But the Eye does look, and Callahan cannot bear its insane regard. That is when he passes out. It will be three days before he opens his own eyes again, and when he does he’ll be with the Manni.
Nineteen
Callahan looked at them wearily. Midnight had come and gone, we all say thankya, and now it was twenty-two days until the Wolves would come for their bounty of children. He drank off the final two inches of cider in his glass, grimaced as if it had been corn whiskey, then set the empty tumbler down. “And all the rest, as they say, you know. It was Henchick and Jemmin who found me. Henchick closed the box, and when he did, the door closed. And now what was the Cave of the Voices is Doorway Cave.”
“And you, Pere?” Susannah asked. “What did they do with you?”
“Took me to Henchick’s cabin—his kra. That’s where I was when I opened my eyes. During my unconsciousness, his wives and daughters fed me water and chicken broth, squeezing drops from a rag, one by one.”
“Just out of curiosity, how many wives does he have?” Eddie asked.
“Three, but he may have relations with only one at a time,” Callahan said absently. “It depends on the stars, or something. They nursed me well. I began to walk around the town; in those days they called me the Walking Old Fella. I couldn’t quite get the sense of where I was, but in a way my previous wanderings had prepared me for what had happened. Had toughened me mentally. I had days, God knows, when I thought all of this was happening in the second or two it would take me to fall from the window I’d broken through down to Michigan Avenue—that the mind prepares itself for death by offering some wonderful final hallucination, the actual semblance of an entire life. And I had days when I decided that I had finally become what we all dreaded most at both Home and Lighthouse: a wet brain. I thought maybe I’d been socked away in a moldy institution somewhere, and was imagining the whole thing. But mostly, I just accepted it. And was glad to have finished up in a good place, real or imagined.
“When I got my strength back, I reverted to making a living the way I had during my years on the road. There was no Manpower or Brawny Man office in Calla Bryn Sturgis, but those were good years and there was plenty of work for a man who wanted to work—they were big-rice years, as they do say, although stockline and the rest of the crops also did fine. Eventually I began to preach again. There was no conscious decision to do so—it wasn