Wolves of the Calla (69 page)

They would all have to be there, of course—he and Eddie, Jake, too, as little as Roland liked the
thought of it. Because the thing inside her had surely quickened by now, and even if its time hadn’t come, it would be dangerous.
And its time is almost certainly close,
he thought.
I don’t know it for sure, but I feel it. I
—

The thought broke off as he became aware of Callahan’s expression: horror, disgust, and mounting anger.

“Rosalita would never do such a thing. Mark well what I say. She’d die first.”

Roland was perplexed. “Why?”

“Because she’s a Catholic!”

“I don’t understand.”

Callahan saw the gunslinger really did not, and the sharpest edge of his anger was blunted. Yet Roland sensed that a great deal remained, like the bolt behind the head of an arrow. “It’s abortion you’re talking about!”

“Yes?”

“Roland . . . Roland.” Callahan lowered his head, and when he raised it, the anger appeared to be gone. In its place was a stony obduracy the gunslinger had seen before. Roland could no more break it than he could lift a mountain with his bare hands. “My church divides sins into two: venial sins, which are bearable in the sight of God, and mortal ones, which are not. Abortion is a mortal sin. It is murder.”

“Pere, we are speaking of a demon, not a human being.”

“So you say. That’s God’s business, not mine.”

“And if it kills her? Will you say the same then and so wash your hands of her?”

Roland had never heard the tale of Pontius
Pilate and Callahan knew it. Still, he winced at the image. But his reply was firm enough. “You who spoke of the breaking of your tet before you spoke of the taking of her life! Shame on you.
Shame
.”

“My quest—the quest of my ka-tet—is the Dark Tower, Pere. It’s not saving this world we’re about, or even this universe, but all universes. All of existence.”

“I don’t care,” Callahan said. “I
can’t
care. Now listen to me, Roland son of Steven, for I would have you hear me very well. Are you listening?”

Roland sighed. “Say thankya.”

“Rosa won’t give the woman an abortion. There are others in town who could, I have no doubt—even in a place where children are taken every twenty-some years by monsters from the dark land, such filthy arts are undoubtedly preserved—but if you go to one of them, you won’t need to worry about the Wolves. I’ll raise every hand in Calla Bryn Sturgis against you long before they come.”

Roland gazed at him unbelievingly. “Even though you know, as I’m sure you do, that we may be able to save a hundred other children? Human children, whose first task on earth would not be to eat their mothers?”

Callahan might not have heard. His face was very pale. “I’ll have more, do it please ya . . . and even if it don’t. I’ll have your word, sworn upon the face of your father, that you’ll never suggest an abortion to the woman herself.”

A queer thought came to Roland: Now that this subject had arisen—had pounced upon them, like Jilly out of her box—Susannah was no longer Susannah to this man. She had become
the woman
. And
another thought: How many monsters had Pere Callahan slain himself, with his own hand?

As often happened in times of extreme stress, Roland’s father spoke to him.
This situation is not quite beyond saving, but should you carry on much further
—
should you give voice to such thoughts
—
it will be.

“I want your promise, Roland.”

“Or you’ll raise the town.”

“Aye.”

“And suppose Susannah decides to abort herself? Women do it, and she’s very far from stupid. She knows the stakes.”

“Mia—the baby’s true mother—will prevent it.”

“Don’t be so sure. Susannah Dean’s sense of self-preservation is very strong. And I believe her dedication to our quest is even stronger.”

Callahan hesitated. He looked away, lips pressed together in a tight white line. Then he looked back. “
You
will prevent it,” he said. “As her dinh.”

Roland thought,
I have just been Castled.

“All right,” he said. “I will tell her of our talk and make sure she understands the position you’ve put us in. And I’ll tell her that she must not tell Eddie.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’d kill you, Pere. He’d kill you for your interference.”

Roland was somewhat gratified by the widening of Callahan’s eyes. He reminded himself again that he must raise no feelings in himself against this man, who simply was what he was. Had he not already spoken to them of the trap he carried with him wherever he went?

“Now listen to me as I’ve listened to you, for you
now have a responsibility to all of us. Especially to ‘the woman.’ ”

Callahan winced a little, as if struck. But he nodded. “Tell me what you’d have.”

“For one thing, I’d have you watch her when you can. Like a hawk! In particular I’d have you watch for her working her fingers here.” Roland rubbed above his left eyebrow. “Or here.” Now he rubbed at his left temple. “Listen to her way of speaking. Be aware if it speeds up. Watch for her to start moving in little jerks.” Roland snapped a hand up to his head, scratched it, snapped it back down. He tossed his head to the right, then looked back at Callahan. “You see?”

“Yes. These are the signs that Mia is coming?”

Roland nodded. “I don’t want her left alone anymore when she’s Mia. Not if I can help it.”

“I understand,” Callahan said. “But Roland, it’s hard for me to believe that a newborn, no matter who or what the father might have been—”

“Hush,” Roland said. “Hush, do ya.” And when Callahan had duly hushed: “What you think or believe is nothing to me. You’ve yourself to look out for, and I wish you well. But if Mia or Mia’s get harms Rosalita, Pere, I’ll hold you responsible for her injuries. You’ll pay to my good hand. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Roland.” Callahan looked both abashed and calm. It was an odd combination.

“All right. Now here’s the other thing you can do for me. Comes the day of the Wolves, I’m going to need six
folken
I can absolutely trust. I’d like to have three of each sex.”

“Do you care if some are parents with children at risk?”

“No. But not all. And none of the ladies who may be throwing the dish—Sarey, Zalia, Margaret Eisenhart, Rosalita. They’ll be somewhere else.”

“What do you want these six for?”

Roland was silent.

Callahan looked at him a moment longer, then sighed. “Reuben Caverra,” he said. “Reuben’s never forgot his sister and how he loved her. Diane Caverra, his wife . . . or do’ee not want couples?”

No, a couple would be all right. Roland twirled his fingers, gesturing for the Pere to continue.

“Cantab of the Manni, I sh’d say; the children follow him like he was the Pied Piper.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. They follow him, that’s the important part. Bucky Javier and his wife . . . and what would you say to your boy, Jake? Already the town children follow him with their eyes, and I suspect a number of the girls are in love with him.”

“No, I need him.”

Or can’t bear to have him out of your sight?
Callahan wondered . . . but did not say. He had pushed Roland as far as was prudent, at least for one day. Further, actually.

“What of Andy, then? The children love him, too. And he’d protect them to the death.”

“Aye? From the Wolves?”

Callahan looked troubled. Actually it had been rock-cats he’d been thinking of. Them, and the sort of wolves that came on four legs. As for the ones that came out of Thunderclap . . .

“No,” Roland said. “Not Andy.”

“Why not? For ’t isn’t to fight the Wolves you want these six for, is it?”

“Not Andy,” Roland repeated. It was just a feeling, but his feelings were his version of the touch. “There’s time to think about it, Pere . . . and we’ll think, too.”

“You’re going out into the town.”

“Aye. Today and every day for the next few.”

Callahan grinned. “Your friends and I would call it ‘schmoozing.’ It’s a Yiddish word.”

“Aye? What tribe are they?”

“An unlucky one, by all accounts. Here, schmoozing is called commala. It’s their word for damned near everything.” Callahan was a little amused by how badly he wanted to regain the gunslinger’s regard. A little disgusted with himself, as well. “In any case, I wish you well with it.”

Roland nodded. Callahan started up toward the rectory, where Rosalita already had harnessed the horses to the buckboard and now waited impatiently for Callahan to come, so they could be about God’s work. Halfway up the slope, Callahan turned back.

“I do not apologize for my beliefs,” he said, “but if I have complicated your work here in the Calla, I’m sorry.”

“Your Man Jesus seems to me a bit of a son of a bitch when it comes to women,” Roland said. “Was He ever married?”

The corners of Callahan’s mouth quirked. “No,” he said, “but His girlfriend was a whore.”

“Well,” Roland said, “that’s a start.”

Roland went back to leaning on the fence. The day called out to him to begin, but he wanted to give Callahan a head start. There was no more reason for this than there had been for rejecting Andy out of hand; just a feeling.

He was still there, and rolling another smoke, when Eddie came down the hill with his shirt flapping out behind him and his boots in one hand.

“Hile, Eddie,” Roland said.

“Hile, boss. Saw you talking with Callahan. Give us this day, our Wilma and Fred.”

Roland raised his eyebrows.

“Never mind,” Eddie said. “Roland, in all the excitement I never got a chance to tell you Granpere’s story. And it’s important.”

“Is Susannah up?”

“Yep. Having a wash. Jake’s eating what looks like a twelve-egg omelet.”

Roland nodded. “I’ve fed the horses. We can saddle them while you tell me the old man’s tale.”

“Don’t think it’ll take that long,” Eddie said, and it didn’t. He came to the punchline—which the old man had whispered into his ear—just as they reached the barn. Roland turned toward him, the horses forgotten. His eyes were blazing. The hands he clamped on Eddie’s shoulders—even the diminished right—were powerful.

“Repeat it!”

Eddie took no offense. “He told me to lean close. I did. He said he’d never told anyone but his son, which I believe. Tian and Zalia know he was out there—or says he was—but they don’t know what he
saw when he pulled the mask off the thing. I don’t think they even know Red Molly was the one who dropped it. And then he whispered . . . ” Once again Eddie told Roland what Tian’s Gran-pere claimed to have seen.

Roland’s glare of triumph was so brilliant it was frightening. “Gray horses!” he said. “All those horses the exact same shade! Do you understand now, Eddie? Do you?”

“Yep,” Eddie said. His teeth appeared in a grin. It was not particularly comforting, that grin. “As the chorus girl said to the businessman, we’ve been here before.”

In standard American English, the word with the most gradations of meaning is probably
run
. The Random House unabridged dictionary offers one hundred and seventy-eight options, beginning with “to go quickly by moving the legs more rapidly than at a walk” and ending with “melted or liquefied.” In the Crescent-Callas of the borderlands between Mid-World and Thunderclap, the blue ribbon for most meanings would have gone to
commala
. If the word were listed in the Random House unabridged, the first definition (assuming they were assigned, as is common, in order of widest usage), would have been “a variety of rice grown at the furthermost eastern edge of All-World.” The second one, however would have been “sexual intercourse.” The third would have been “sexual orgasm,” as in
Did’ee come commala?
(The hoped-for reply being
Aye, say thankya, commala big-big.
) To wet the commala is to
irrigate the rice in a dry time; it is also to masturbate. Commala is the commencement of some big and joyful meal, like a family feast (not the meal itself, do ya, but the moment of beginning to eat). A man who is losing his hair (as Garrett Strong was that season), is coming commala. Putting animals out to stud is damp commala. Gelded animals are dry commala, although no one could tell you why. A virgin is green commala, a menstruating woman is red commala, an old man who can no longer make iron before the forge is—say sorry—sof’ commala. To stand commala is to stand belly-to-belly, a slang term meaning “to share secrets.” The sexual connotations of the word are clear, but why should the rocky arroyos north of town be known as the commala draws? For that matter, why is a fork sometimes a commala, but never a spoon or a knife? There aren’t a hundred and seventy-eight meanings for the word, but there must be seventy. Twice that, if one were to add in the various shadings. One of the meanings—it would surely be in the top ten—is that which Pere Callahan defined as
schmoozing
. The actual phrase would be something like “come Sturgis commala,” or “come Bryn-a commala.” The literal meaning would be to stand belly-to-belly with the community as a whole.

During the following five days, Roland and his ka-tet attempted to continue this process, which the outworlders had begun at Took’s General Store. The going was difficult at first (“Like trying to light a fire with damp kindling,” Susannah said crossly after their first night), but little by little, the
folken
came around. Or at least warmed up to them. Each night, Roland and the Deans returned to the Pere’s
rectory. Each late afternoon or evening, Jake returned to the Rocking B Ranch. Andy took to meeting him at the place where the B’s ranch-road split off from East Road and escorting him the rest of the way, each time making his bow and saying, “Good evening, soh! Would you like your horoscope? This time of year is sometimes called Charyou Reap! You will see an old friend! A young lady thinks of you warmly!” And so on.

Jake had asked Roland again why he was spending so much time with Benny Slightman.