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. Tare 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.
"Caila-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 AYE, SAY THANKYA! A few others—
Overholser was the most prominent—said nothing either way. Eddie thought that in most cases, this would
have been the wisest move. The most politic move, anyway. But this wasn't most cases; it was the most
extraordinary moment of choice most of these people would ever face. If the Ka-Tet of Nineteen won against
the Wolves, the people of this town would remember those who said no and those who said nothing. He
wondered idly if Wayne Dale Overholser would still be the big farmer in these parts a year from now.
But then Roland opened the palaver, and Eddie turned his entire attention toward him. His admiring
attention. Growing up where and how he had, Eddie had heard plenty of lies. Had told plenty himself, some
of them very good ones. But by the time Roland reached the middle of his spiel, Eddie realized he had never
been in the presence of a true genius of mendacity until this early evening in Calla Bryn Sturgis. And—
Eddie looked around, then nodded, satisfied.
And they were swallowing every word.
THREE
"Last time I was on this stage before you," Roland began, "I danced the commala. Tonight—"
George Telford interrupted. He was too oily for Eddie's taste, and too sly by half, but he couldn't fault the
man's courage, speaking up as he did when the tide was so clearly running in the other direction.
"Aye, we remember, ye danced it well! How dance ye the mortata, Roland, tell me that, I beg."
Disapproving murmurs from the crowd.
"Doesn't matter how I dance it," Roland said, not in the least discommoded, "for my dancing days in the
Calla are done. We have work in this town, I and mine. Ye've made us welcome, and we say thankya. Ye've
bid us on, sought our aid and succor, so now I bid ye to listen very well. In less of a week come the Wolves."
There was a sigh of agreement. Time might have grown slippery, but even low folken could still hold onto
five days' worth of it.
"On the night before they're due, I'd have every Calla twin-child under the age of seventeen there." Roland
pointed off to the left, where the Sisters of Oriza had put up a tent. Tonight there were a good many children
in there, although by no means the hundred or so at risk. The older had been given the task of tending the
younger for the duration of the meeting, and one or another of the Sisters periodically checked to make sure
all was yet fine.
"That tent won't hold em all, Roland," Ben Slightman said.
Roland smiled. "But a bigger one will, Ben, and I reckon the Sisters can find one."
"Aye, and give em a meal they won't ever forget!" Margaret Eisenhart called out bravely. Good-natured
laughter greeted this, then sputtered before it caught. Many in the crowd were no doubt reflecting that if the
Wolves won after all, half the children who spent Wolf's Eve on the Green wouldn't be able to remember their
own names a week or two later, let alone what they'd eaten.
"I'd sleep em here so we can get an early start the next morning," Roland said. "From all I've been told,
there's no way to know if the Wolves will come early, late, or in the middle of the day. We'd look the fools of
the world if they were to come extra early and catch em right here, in the open."
"What's to keep em from coming a day early?" Eben Took called out truculently. "Or at midnight on what
you call Wolf's Eve?"
"They can't," Roland said simply. And, based on Jamie Jaffords's testimony, they were almost positive this
was true. The old man's story was his reason for letting Andy and Ben Slightman run free for the next five
days and nights. "They come from afar, and not all their traveling is on horseback. Their schedule is fixed far
in advance."
"How do'ee know?" Louis Haycox asked.
"Better I not tell," Roland said. "Mayhap the Wolves have long ears."
A considering silence met this.
"On the same night—Wolf's Eve—I'd have a dozen bucka wagons here, the biggest in the Calla, to draw the
children out to the north of town. I'll appoint the drivers. There'll also be child-minders to go with em, and
stay with em when the time comes. And ye needn't ask me where they'll be going; it's best we not speak of
that, either."
Of course most of them thought they already knew where the children would be taken: the old Gloria. Word
had a way of getting around, as Roland well knew. Ben Slightman had thought a little further—to the
Redbird Two, south of the Gloria—and that was also fine.
George Telford cried out: "Don't listen to this, folken, I beg ye! And even if'ee do listen, for your souls and
the life of this town, don't do it! What he's saying is madness! We've tried to hide our children before, and it
doesn't work! But even if it did, they'd surely come and burn this town for vengeance' sake, burn it flat—"
"Silence, ye coward." It was Henchick, his voice as dry as a whipcrack.
Telford would have said more regardless, but his eldest son took his arm and made him stop. It was just as
well. The clomping of the shor'boots had begun again. Telford looked at Eisenhart unbelievingly, his thought
as clear as a shout: Ye can't mean to be part of this madness, can ye?
The big rancher shook his head. "No point looking at me so, George. I stand with my wife, and she stands
with the Eld."
Applause greeted this. Roland waited for it to quiet.
"Rancher Telford says true. The Wolves likely will know where the children have been bunkered. And when
they come, my ka-tet will be there to greet them. It won't be the first time we've stood against such as they."
Roars of approval. More soft clumping of boots. Some rhythmic applause. Telford and Eben Took looked
about with wide eyes, like men discovering they had awakened in a lunatic asylum.
When the Pavilion was quiet again, Roland said: "Some from town have agreed to stand with us, folka with
good weapons. Again, it's not a thing you need to know about just now." But of course the feminine
construction told those who didn't already know about the Sisters of Oriza a great deal. Eddie once more had
to marvel at the way he was leading them; cozy wasn't in it. He glanced at Susannah, who rolled her eyes and
gave him a smile. But the hand she put on his arm was cold. She wanted this to be over. Eddie knew exactly
how she felt.
Telford tried one last time. "People, hear me! All this has been tried before!"
It was Jake Chambers who spoke up. "It hasn't been tried by gunslingers, sai Telford."
A fierce roar of approval met this. There was more stamping and clapping. Roland finally had to raise his
hands to quiet it.
"Most of the Wolves will go to where they think the children are, and we'll deal with them there," he said.
"Smaller groups may indeed raid the farms or ranches. Some may come into town. And aye, there may be
some burning."
They listened silently and respectfully, nodding, arriving ahead of him to the next point. As he had wanted
them to.
"A burned building can be replaced. A roont child cannot."
"Aye," said Rosalita. "Nor a roont heart."
There were murmurs of agreement, mostly from the women. In Calla Bryn Sturgis (as in most other places),
men in a state of sobriety did not much like to talk about their hearts.
"Hear me now, for I'd tell you at least this much more: We know exactly what these Wolves are. Jamie
Jaffords has told us what we already suspected."
There were murmurs of surprise. Heads turned. Jamie, standing beside his grandson, managed to straighten
his curved back for a moment or two and actually puff up his sunken chest. Eddie only hoped the old buzzard
would hold his peace over what came next. If he got muddled and contradicted the tale Roland was about to
tell, their job would become much harder. At the very least it would mean grabbing Slightman and Andy
early. And if Finli o' Tego—the voice Slightman reported to from the Dogan—didn't hear from these two
again before the day of the Wolves, there would be suspicions. Eddie felt movement in the hand on his arm.
Susannah had just crossed her fingers.
FOUR
"There aren't living creatures beneath the masks," Roland said. "The Wolves are the undead servants of the
vampires who rule Thunderclap."
An awed murmur greeted this carefully crafted bit of claptrap.
"They're what my friends Eddie, Susannah, and Jake call zombis. They can't be killed by bow, bah, or bullet
unless struck in the brain or the heart." Roland tapped the left side of his chest for emphasis. "And of course
when they come on their raids, they come wearing heavy armor under their clothes."
Henchick was nodding. Several of the other older men and women—folken who well remembered the
Wolves coming not just once before but twice—were doing the same. "It explains a good deal," he said. "But
how—"
"To strike them in the brain is beyond our abilities, because of the helmets they wear under their hoods,"
Roland said. "But we saw such creatures in Lud. Their weakness is here." Again he tapped his chest. "The
undead don't breathe, but there's a kind of gill above their hearts. If they armor it over, they die. That's where
we'll strike them."
A low, considering hum of conversation greeted this. And then Gran-pere's voice, shrill and excited: " Tis
ever' word true, for dinna Molly Doolin strike one there hersel' wi' the dish, an' not even dead-on, neither, and
yet the creetur' dropped down!"
Susannah's hand tightened on Eddie's arm enough for him to feel her short nails, but when he looked at her,
she was grinning in spite of herself. He saw a similar expression on Jake's face. Trig enough when the chips
were down, old man, Eddie thought. Sorry I ever doubted you. Let Andy and Slightman go back across the
river and report that happy horseshit! He'd asked Roland if they (the faceless they represented by someone
who called himself Finli o' Tego) would believe such tripe. They've raided this side of the Why'e for over a
hundred years and lost but a single fighter, Roland had replied. I think they'd believe anything. At this point
their really vulnerable spot is their complacence.
"Bring your twins here by seven o' the clock on Wolfs Eve," Roland said. "There'll be ladies—Sisters of
Oriza, ye ken— with lists on slateboards. They'll scratch off each pair as they come in. It's my hope to have a
line drawn through every name before nine o' the clock."
"Ye'll not drig no line through the names o' mine!" cried an angry voice from the back of the crowd. The
voice's owner pushed several people aside and stepped forward next to Jake. He was a squat man with a
smallhold rice-patch far to the south'ards. Roland scratched through the untidy storehouse of his recent
memory (untidy, yes, but nothing was ever thrown away) and eventually came up with the name: Neil
Faraday. One of the few who hadn't been home when Roland and his ka-tet had come calling… or not home
to them, at least. A hard worker, according to Tian, but an even harder drinker. He certainly looked the part.
There were dark circles under his eyes and a complication of burst purplish veins on each cheek. Scruffy, say
big-big. Yet Telford and Took threw him a grateful, surprised look. Another sane man in bedlam, it said.
