Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [283]
The voice of Rosalita Munoz, childless her whole life, rang out in the fey dimness of the day with clear ferocity: “Say true, say thankya! Hear him, folken! Hear him very well!”
“Hear him, hear him, hear him well” ran through the assembly.
“Pere stood up that night and told us there were gunslingers coming from the northwest, coming through Mid-Forest along the Path of the Beam. Some scoffed, but Pere spoke true.”
“Say thankya,” they replied. “Pere said true.” And a woman’s voice: “Praise Jesus! Praise Mary, mother of God!”
“They’ve been among us all these days since. Any who’s wanted to speak to em has spoke to em. They have promised nothing but to help—”
“And’ll move on, leaving bloody ruin behind em, if we’re foolish enough to allow it!” Eben Took roared.
There was a shocked gasp from the crowd. As it died, Wayne Overholser said: “Shut up, ye great mouth-organ.”
Took turned to look at Overholser, the Calla’s big farmer and Took’s best customer, with a look of gaping surprise.
Tian said: “Their dinh is Roland Deschain, of Gilead.” They knew this, but the mention of such legendary names still provoked a low, almost moaning murmur. “From In-World that was. Would you hear him? What say you, folken?”
Their response quickly rose to a shout. “Hear him! Hear him! We would hear him to the last! Hear him well, say thankya!” And a soft, rhythmic crumping sound that Tian could not at first identify. Then he realized what it was and almost smiled. This was what the tromping of shor’boots sounded like, not on the boards of the Gathering Hall, but out here on Lady Riza’s grass.
Tian held out his hand. Roland came forward. The tromping sound grew louder as he did. Women were joining in, doing the best they could in their soft town shoes. Roland mounted the steps. Tian gave him the feather and left the stage, taking Hedda’s hand and motioning for the rest of the twins to go before him. Roland stood with the feather held before him, gripping its ancient lacquered stalk with hands now bearing only eight digits. At last the tromping of the shoes and shor’boots died away. The torches sizzled and spat, illuminating the upturned faces of the folken, showing their hope and fear; showing both very well. The rustie called and was still. In the east, big lightning sliced up the darkness.
The gunslinger stood facing them.
Two
For what seemed a very long time looking was all he did. In each glazed and frightened eye he read the same thing. He had seen it many times before, and it was easy reading. These people were hungry. They’d fain buy something to eat, fill their restless bellies. He remembered the pieman who walked the streets of Gilead low-town in the hottest days of summer, and how his mother had called him seppe-sai on account of how sick such pies could make people. Seppe-sai meant the death-seller.
Aye, he thought, but I and my friends don’t charge.
At this thought, his face lit in a smile. It rolled years off his craggy map, and a sigh of nervous relief came from the crowd. He started as he had before: “We are well-met in the Calla, hear me, I beg.”
Silence.
“You have opened to us. We have opened to you. Is it not so?”
“Aye, gunslinger!” Vaughn Eisenhart called back. “ ’Tis!”
“Do you see us for what we are, and accept what we do?”
It was Henchick of the Manni who answered this time. “Aye, Roland, by the Book and say thankya. Y’are of Eld, White come to stand against Black.”
This time the crowd’s sigh was long. Somewhere near the back, a woman began to sob.
“Calla-folken, do you seek aid and succor of us?”
Eddie stiffened. This question had been asked of many individuals during their weeks in Calla Bryn Sturgis, but he thought to ask it here was extremely risky. What if they said no?
A moment later Eddie realized he needn’t have worried; in sizing up his audience, Roland was as shrewd as ever. Some did in fact say no—a smattering of Haycoxes, a peck of Tooks, and a small cluster of Telfords led the antis—but most of the folken roared out a hearty and immediate