Wolves of the Calla (73 page)

Now came the voice of Csaba Drabnik, known in Eddie’s crowd as the Mad Fuckin Hungarian. Csaba was telling Eddie to give him a cigarette or he’d pull Eddie’s fuckin pants down. Eddie tore his attention away from this frightening but fascinating gabble with an effort.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”

“The voices are coming from your own head. The cave finds them and amplifies them somehow. Sends them on. It’s a little upsetting, I know, but it’s meaningless.”

“Why’d you let em kill me, bro?” Henry sobbed. “I kept thinking you’d come, but you never did!”

“Meaningless,” Eddie said. “Okay, got it. What do we do now?”

“According to both stories I’ve heard of this place—Callahan’s and Henchick’s—the door will open when I open the box.”

Eddie laughed nervously. “I don’t even want you to take the box out of the
bag,
how’s that for chickenshit?”

“If you’ve changed your mind . . . ”

Eddie was shaking his head. “No. I want to go through with it.” He flashed a sudden, bright grin. “You’re not worried about me scoring, are you? Finding the man and getting high?”

From deep in the cave, Henry exulted, “It’s China White, bro! Them niggers sell the
best
!”

“Not at all,” Roland said. “There are plenty of things I
am
worried about, but you returning to your old habits isn’t one of them.”

“Good.” Eddie stepped a little farther into the cave, looking at the free-standing door. Except for the hieroglyphics on the front and the crystal knob with the rose etched on it, this one looked exactly like the ones on the beach. “If you go around—?”

“If you go around, the door’s gone,” Roland said. “There
is
a hell of a drop-off, though . . . all the way to Na’ar, for all I know. I’d mind that, if I were you.”

“Good advice, and Fast Eddie says thankya.” He tried the crystal doorknob and found it wouldn’t budge in either direction. He had expected that, too. He stepped back.

Roland said, “You need to think of New York. Of Second Avenue in particular, I think. And of the time. The year of nineteen and seven-seven.”

“How do you think of a
year
?”

When Roland spoke, his voice betrayed a touch of impatience. “Think of how it was on the day you and Jake followed Jake’s earlier self, I suppose.”

Eddie started to say that was the wrong day, it was too early, then closed his mouth. If they were
right about the rules, he
couldn’t
go back to that day, not todash, not in the flesh, either. If they were right, time over there was somehow hooked to time over here, only running a little faster. If they were right about the rules . . . if there
were
rules . . .

Well, why don’t you just go and see?

“Eddie? Do you want me to try hypnotizing you?” Roland had drawn a shell from his gunbelt. “It can make you see the past more clearly.”

“No. I think I better do this straight and wide-awake.”

Eddie opened and closed his hands several times, taking and releasing deep breaths as he did so. His heart wasn’t running particularly fast—was going slow, if anything—but each beat seemed to shiver through his entire body. Christ, all this would have been so much easier if there were just some controls you could set, like in Professor Peabody’s Wayback Machine or that movie about the Morlocks!

“Hey, do I look all right?” he asked Roland. “I mean, if I land on Second Avenue at high noon, how much attention am I going to attract?”

“If you appear in front of people,” Roland said, “probably quite a lot. I’d advise you to ignore anyone who wants to palaver with you on the subject and vacate the area immediately.”

“That much I know. I meant how do I look clotheswise?”

Roland gave a small shrug. “I don’t know, Eddie. It’s your city, not mine.”

Eddie could have demurred.
Brooklyn
was his city. Had been, anyway. As a rule he hadn’t gone into
Manhattan from one month to the next, thought of it almost as another country. Still, he supposed he knew what Roland meant. He inventoried himself and saw a plain flannel shirt with horn buttons above dark-blue jeans with burnished nickel rivets instead of copper ones, and a button-up fly. (Eddie had seen zippers in Lud, but none since.) He reckoned he would pass for normal on the street. New York normal, at least. Anyone who gave him a second look would think café waiter/artist-wannabe playing hippie on his day off. He didn’t think most people would even bother with the first look, and that was absolutely to the good. But there
was
one thing he could add—

“Have you got a piece of rawhide?” he asked Roland.

From deep in the cave, the voice of Mr. Tubther, his fifth-grade teacher, cried out with lugubrious intensity. “You had potential! You were a wonderful student, and look at what you turned into! Why did you let your brother spoil you?”

To which Henry replied, in sobbing outrage: “He let me die! He
killed
me!”

Roland swung his purse off his shoulder, put it on the floor at the mouth of the cave beside the pink bag, opened it, rummaged through it. Eddie had no idea how many things were in there; he only knew he’d never seen the bottom of it. At last the gunslinger found what Eddie had asked for and held it out.

While Eddie tied back his hair with the hank of rawhide (he thought it finished off the artistic-hippie look quite nicely), Roland took out what he called his swag-bag, opened it, and began to empty
out its contents. There was the partially depleted sack of tobacco Callahan had given him, several kinds of coin and currency, a sewing kit, the mended cup he had turned into a rough compass not far from Shardik’s clearing, an old scrap of map, and the newer one the Tavery twins had drawn. When the bag was empty, he took the big revolver with the sandalwood grip from the holster on his left hip. He rolled the cylinder, checked the loads, nodded, and snapped the cylinder back into place. Then he put the gun into the swag-bag, yanked the lacings tight, and tied them in a clove hitch that would come loose at a single pull. He held the bag out to Eddie by the worn strap.

At first Eddie didn’t want to take it. “Nah, man, that’s yours.”

“These last weeks you’ve worn it as much as I have. Probably more.”

“Yeah, but this is New York we’re talking about, Roland. In New York, everybody steals.”

“They won’t steal from you. Take the gun.”

Eddie looked into Roland’s eyes for a moment, then took the swag-bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “You’ve got a feeling.”

“A hunch, yes.”

“Ka at work?”

Roland shrugged. “It’s always at work.”

“All right,” Eddie said. “And Roland—if I don’t make it back, take care of Suze.”

“Your job is to make sure I don’t have to.”

No,
Eddie thought.
My job is to protect the rose
.

He turned to the door. He had a thousand more questions, but Roland was right, the time to ask them was done.

“Eddie, if you really don’t want to—”

“No,” he said. “I
do
want to.” He raised his left hand and gave a thumbs-up. “When you see me do that, open the box.”

“All right.”

Roland speaking from behind him. Because now it was just Eddie and the door. The door with
UNFOUND
written on it in some strange and lovely language. Once he’d read a novel called
The Door Into Summer,
by . . . who? One of the science-fiction guys he was always dragging home from the library, one of his old reliables, perfect for the long afternoons of summer vacation. Murray Leinster, Poul Anderson, Gordon Dickson, Isaac Asimov, Harlan Ellison . . . Robert Heinlein. He thought it was Heinlein who’d written
The Door Into Summer
. Henry always ragging him about the books he brought home, calling him the wittle sissy, the wittle bookworm, asking him if he could read and jerk off at the same time, wanting to know how he could sit fuckin still for so long with his nose stuck in some made-up piece of shit about rockets and time machines. Henry older than him. Henry covered with pimples that were always shiny with Noxzema and Stri-Dex. Henry getting ready to go into the Army. Eddie younger. Eddie bringing books home from the library. Eddie thirteen years old, almost the age Jake is now. It’s 1977 and he’s thirteen and on Second Avenue and the taxis are shiny yellow in the sun. A black man wearing Walkman earphones is walking past Chew Chew Mama’s, Eddie can see him, Eddie knows the black man is listening to Elton John singing—what else?—“Someone Saved My
Life Tonight.” The sidewalk is crowded. It’s late afternoon and people are going home after another day in the steel arroyos of Calla New York, where they grow money instead of rice, can ya say prime rate. Women looking amiably weird in expensive business suits and sneakers; their high heels are in their gunna because the workday is done and they’re going home. Everyone seems to be smiling because the light is so bright and the air is so warm, it’s summer in the city and somewhere there’s the sound of a jackhammer, like on that old Lovin’ Spoonful song. Before him is a door into the summer of ’77, the cabbies are getting a buck and a quarter on the drop and thirty cents every fifth of a mile thereafter, it was less before and it’ll be more after but this is now, the dancing point of now. The space shuttle with the teacher on board hasn’t blown up. John Lennon is still alive, although he won’t be much longer if he doesn’t stop messing with that wicked heroin, that China White. As for Eddie Dean, Edward Cantor Dean, he knows nothing about heroin. A few cigarettes are his only vice (other than trying to jack off, at which he will not be successful for almost another year). He’s thirteen. It’s 1977 and he has exactly four hairs on his chest, he counts them religiously each morning, hoping for big number five. It’s the summer after the Summer of the Tall Ships. It’s a late afternoon in the month of June and he can hear a happy tune. The tune is coming from the speakers over the doorway of the Tower of Power record shop, it’s Mungo Jerry singing “In the Summertime,” and—

Suddenly it was all real to him, or as real as he
thought he needed it to be. Eddie raised his left hand and popped up his thumb:
let’s go
. Behind him, Roland had sat down and eased the box out of the pink bag. And when Eddie gave him the thumbs-up, the gunslinger opened the box.

Eddie’s ears were immediately assaulted by a sweetly dissonant jangle of chimes. His eyes began to water. In front of him, the free-standing door clicked open and the cave was suddenly illuminated by strong sunlight. There was the sound of beeping horns and the rat-a-tat-tat of a jackhammer. Not so long ago he had wanted a door like this so badly that he’d almost killed Roland to get it. And now that he had it, he was scared to death.

The todash chimes felt as if they were tearing his head apart. If he listened to that for long, he’d go insane.
Go if you’re going,
he thought.

He stepped forward, through his gushing eyes seeing three hands reach out and grasp four doorknobs. He pulled the door toward him and golden late-day sunlight dazzled his eyes. He could smell gasoline and hot city air and someone’s aftershave.

Hardly able to see anything, Eddie stepped through the unfound door and into the summer of a world from which he was now fan-gon, the exiled one.

It was Second Avenue, all right; here was the Blimpie’s, and from behind him came the cheery sound of that Mungo Jerry song with the Caribbean beat. People moved around him in a
flood—uptown, downtown, all around the town. They paid no attention to Eddie, partly because most of them were only concentrating on getting
out
of town at the end of another day, mostly because in New York, not noticing other people was a way of life.

Eddie shrugged his right shoulder, settling the strap of Roland’s swag-bag there more firmly, then looked behind him. The door back to Calla Bryn Sturgis was there. He could see Roland sitting at the mouth of the cave with the box open on his lap.

Those fucking chimes must be driving him crazy,
Eddie thought. And then, as he watched, he saw the gunslinger remove a couple of bullets from his gunbelt and stick them in his ears. Eddie grinned.
Good move, man.
At least it had helped to block out the warble of the thinny back on I-70. Whether it worked now or whether it didn’t, Roland was on his own. Eddie had things to do.

He turned slowly on his little spot of the sidewalk, then looked over his shoulder again to verify the door had turned with him. It had. If it was like the other ones, it would now follow him everywhere he went. Even if it didn’t, Eddie didn’t foresee a problem; he wasn’t planning on going far. He noticed something else, as well: that sense of darkness lurking behind everything was gone. Because he was really here, he supposed, and not just todash. If there were vagrant dead lurking in the vicinity, he wouldn’t be able to see them.

Once more shrugging the swag-bag’s strap further up on his shoulder, Eddie set off for The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind.

People moved aside for him as he walked, but that wasn’t quite enough to prove he was really here; people did that when you were todash, too. At last Eddie provoked an actual collision with a young guy toting not one briefcase but
two
—a Big Coffin Hunter of the business world if Eddie had ever seen one.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” Mr. Businessman squawked when their shoulders collided.

“Sorry, man, sorry,” Eddie said. He was here, all right. “Say, could you tell me what day—”

But Mr. Businessman was already gone, chasing the coronary he’d probably catch up to around the age of forty-five or fifty, from the look of him. Eddie remembered the punchline of an old New York joke: “Pardon me, sir, can you tell me how to get to City Hall, or should I just go fuck myself?” He burst out laughing, couldn’t help it.

Once he had himself back under control, he got moving again. On the corner of Second and Fifty-fourth, he saw a man looking into a shop window at a display of shoes and boots. This guy was also wearing a suit, but looked considerably more relaxed than the one Eddie had bumped into. Also he was carrying only a single briefcase, which Eddie took to be a good omen.