Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [281]
“The todash chimes are worse than ghosts,” Roland said. That might or might not be true, but it seemed to satisfy Callahan. As they started down the path, Roland remembered the promise he had made to the others, and, more important, to himself: no more secrets within the tet. How quickly he found himself ready to break that promise! But he felt he was right to do so. He knew at least some of the names in that book. The others would know them, too. Later they would need to know, if the book was as important as he thought it might be. But now it would only distract them from the approaching business of the Wolves. If they could win that battle, then perhaps…
“Roland, are you quite sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” He clapped Callahan on the shoulder. The others would be able to read the book, and by reading might discover what it meant. Perhaps the story in the book was just a story…but how could it be, when…
“Pere?”
“Yes, Roland.”
“A novel is a story, isn’t it? A made-up story?”
“Yes, a long one.”
“But make-believe.”
“Yes, that’s what fiction means. Make-believe.”
Roland pondered this. Charlie the Choo-Choo had also been make-believe, only in many ways, many vital ways, it hadn’t been. And the author’s name had changed. There were many different worlds, all held together by the Tower. Maybe…
No, not now. He mustn’t think about these things now.
“Tell me about the town where Tower and his friend went,” Roland said.
“I can’t, really. I found it in one of the Maine telephone books, that’s all. Also a simplified zip code map that showed about where it is.”
“Good. That’s very good.”
“Roland, are you sure you’re all right?”
Calla, Roland thought. Callahan. He made himself smile. Made himself clap Callahan on the shoulder again.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Now let’s get back to town.”
Chapter V:
The Meeting of the Folken
One
Tian Jaffords had never been more frightened in his life than he was as he stood on the stage in the Pavilion, looking down at the folken of Calla Bryn Sturgis. He knew there were likely no more than five hundred—six hundred at the very outside—but to him it looked like a multitude, and their taut silence was unnerving. He looked at his wife for comfort and found none there. Zalia’s face looked thin and dark and pinched, the face of an old woman rather than one still well within her childbearing years.
Nor did the look of this late afternoon help him find calm. Overhead the sky was a pellucid, cloudless blue, but it was too dark for five o’ the clock. There was a huge bank of clouds in the southwest, and the sun had passed behind them just as he climbed the steps to the stage. It was what his Gran-pere would have called weirding weather; omenish, say thankya. In the constant darkness that was Thunderclap, lightning flashed like great sparklights.
Had I known it would come to this, I’d never have started it a-going, he thought wildly. And this time there’ll be no Pere Callahan to haul my poor old ashes out of the fire. Although Callahan was there, standing with Roland and his friends—they of the hard calibers—with his arms folded on his plain black shirt with the notched collar and his Man Jesus cross hanging above.
He told himself not to be foolish, that Callahan would help, and the outworlders would help, as well. They were there to help. The code they followed demanded that they must help, even if it meant their destruction and the end of whatever quest they were on. He told himself that all he needed to do was introduce Roland, and Roland would come. Once before, the gunslinger had stood on this stage and danced the commala and won their hearts. Did Tian doubt that Roland would win their hearts again? In truth, Tian did not. What he was afraid of in his heart was that this time it would be a death-dance instead of a life-dance. Because death was what this man and his friends were about; it was their bread and wine. It was the sherbet they took to clear their palates when the meal was done. At that