Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [97]
“Aye, spuds, do ya,” Slightman said, clearly pleased by Roland’s eye.
“And yon’s all that gorgeous rice,” Roland said.
“All smallholds by the river,” Tian said, “where the water’s sweet and slow. And we know how lucky we are. When the rice comes ready—either to plant or to harvest—all the women go together. There’s singing in the fields, and even dancing.”
“Come-come-commala,” Roland said. At least that was what Eddie heard.
Tian and Zalia brightened with surprise and recognition. The Slightmans exchanged a glance and grinned. “Where did you hear The Rice Song?” the Elder asked. “When?”
“In my home,” said Roland. “Long ago. Come-come-commala, rice come a-falla.” He pointed to the west, away from the river. “There’s the biggest farm, deep in wheat. Yours, sai Overholser?”
“So it is, say thankya.”
“And beyond, to the south, more farms…and then the ranches. That one’s cattle…that one sheep…that one cattle…more cattle…more sheep…”
“How can you tell the difference from so far away?” Susannah asked.
“Sheep eat the grass closer to the earth, lady-sai,” Overholser said. “So where you see the light brown patches of earth, that’s sheep-graze land. The others—what you’d call ocher, I guess—that’s cattle-graze.”
Eddie thought of all the Western movies he’d seen at the Majestic: Clint Eastwood, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Lee Van Cleef. “In my land, they tell legends of range-wars between the ranchers and the sheep-farmers,” he said. “Because, it was told, the sheep ate the grass too close. Took even the roots, you ken, so it wouldn’t grow back again.”
“That’s plain silly, beg your pardon,” Overholser said. “Sheep do crop grass close, aye, but then we send the cows over it to water. The manure they drop is full of seed.”
“Ah,” Eddie said. He couldn’t think of anything else. Put that way, the whole idea of range wars seemed exquisitely stupid.
“Come on,” Overholser said. “Daylight’s wasting, do ya, and there’s a feast laid on for us at the Pavilion. The whole town’ll be there to meet you.”
And to give us a good looking-over, too, Eddie thought.
“Lead on,” Roland said. “We can be there by late day. Or am I wrong?”
“Nup,” Overholser said, then drove his feet into his horse’s sides and yanked its head around (just looking at this made Eddie wince). He headed down the path. The others followed.
Five
Eddie never forgot their first encounter with those of the Calla; that was one memory always within easy reach. Because everything that happened had been a surprise, he supposed, and when everything’s a surprise, experience takes on a dreamlike quality. He remembered the way the torches changed when the speaking was done—their strange, varied light. He remembered Oy’s unexpected salute to the crowd. The upturned faces and his suffocating panic and his anger at Roland. Susannah hoisting herself onto the piano bench in what the locals called the musica. Oh yeah, that memory always. You bet. But even more vivid than this memory of his beloved was that of the gunslinger.
Of Roland dancing.
But before any of these things came the ride down the Calla’s high street, and his sense of foreboding. His premonition of bad days on the way.
Six
They reached the town proper an hour before sunset. The clouds parted and let through the day’s last red light. The street was empty. The surface was oiled dirt. The horses’ hooves made muffled thuds on the wheel-marked hardpack. Eddie saw a livery stable, a place called the Travelers’ Rest that seemed a combination lodging-house and eating-house, and, at the far end of the street, a large two-story that just about had to be the Calla’s Gathering Hall. Off to the right of this was the flare of torches, so he supposed there were people waiting there, but at the north end of town where they entered there were none.
The silence and the empty board sidewalks began to give Eddie the creeps. He remembered Roland’s tale of Susan’s final ride into Mejis in the back of a cart, standing with her hands tied in front of her and a noose around her neck. Her road had been empty,