by Stephen King
Three
“May your first day in hell last ten thousand years,” Roland murmured.
Margaret nodded. “Aye, and let that one be the shortest. A terrible toast, but one I’d gladly give each of the Wolves. Each and every one!” Her visible hand clenched. In the fading red light she looked feverish and ill. “We had six, do ya. An even half-dozen. Has he told you why none of them are here, to help with the Reaptide slaughtering and penning? Has he told you that, gunslinger?”
“Margaret, there’s no need,” Eisenhart said. He shifted uncomfortably in his rocker.
“Ah, but mayhap there is. It goes back to what we were saying before. Mayhap ye pay a price for leaping, but sometimes ye pay a higher one for looking. Our children grew up free and clear, with no Wolves to worry about. I gave birth to my first two, Tom and Tessa, less than a month before they came last time. The others followed along, neat as peas out of a pod. The youngest be only fifteen, do ya not see it.”
“Margaret—”
She ignored him. “But they’d not be s’lucky with their own children, and they knew it. And so they’re gone. Some far north along the Arc, some far south. Looking for a place where the Wolves don’t come.”
She turned to Eisenhart, and although she spoke to Roland, it was her husband she looked at as she had her final word.
“One of every two; that’s the Wolves’ bounty. That’s what they take every twenty-some, for many and many-a. Except for us. They took all of our children. Every…single…one.” She leaned forward and tapped Roland’s leg just above the knee with great emphasis. “Do ya not see it.”
Silence fell on the back porch. The condemned steers in the slaughter-pen mooed moronically. From the kitchen came the sound of boy-laughter following some comment of Andy’s.
Eisenhart had dropped his head. Roland could see nothing but the extravagant bush of his mustache, but he didn’t need to see the man’s face to know that he was either weeping or struggling very hard not to.
“I’d not make’ee feel bad for all the rice of the Arc,” she said, and stroked her husband’s shoulder with infinite tenderness. “And they come back betimes, aye, which is more than the dead do, except in our dreams. They’re not so old that they don’t miss their mother, or have how-do-ye-do-it questions for their Da’. But they’re gone, nevertheless. And that’s the price of safety, as ye must ken.” She looked down at Eisenhart for a moment, one hand on his shoulder and the other still beneath her apron. “Now tell how angry with me you are,” she said, “for I’d know.”
Eisenhart shook his head. “Not angry,” he said in a muffled voice.
“And have’ee changed your mind?”
Eisenhart shook his head again.
“Stubborn old thing,” she said, but she spoke with good-humored affection. “Stubborn as a stick, aye, and we all say thankya.”
“I’m thinking about it,” he said, still not looking up. “Still thinking, which is more than I expected at this late date—usually I make up my mind and there’s the end of it.
“Roland, I understand young Jake showed Overholser and the rest of em some shooting out in the woods. Might be we could show you something right here that’d raise your eyebrows. Maggie, go in and get your Oriza.”
“No need,” she said, at last taking her hand from beneath her apron, “for I brought it out with me, and here ’tis.”
Four
It was a plate both Detta and Mia would have recognized, a blue plate with a delicate webbed pattern. A forspecial plate. After a moment Roland recognized the webbing for what it was: young oriza, the seedling rice plant. When sai Eisenhart tapped her knuckles on the plate, it gave out a peculiar high ringing. It looked like china, but wasn’t. Glass, then? Some sort of glass?
He held his hand out for it with the solemn, respectful mien of one who knows and respects weapons. She hesitated, biting the corner of her lip. Roland reached into his holster, which he’d strapped back on before the noon meal outside the church, and pulled his revolver. He held it out to her, butt first.
“Nay,” she said, letting the word out on a long breath of sigh. “No need to offer me your shooter as a hostage, Roland. I reckon if Vaughn trusts you at the house, I c’n trust you with my Oriza. But mind how you touch, or you’ll lose another finger, and I think you could ill afford that, for I see you’re already two shy on your right hand.”
A single look at the blue plate—the sai’s Oriza—made it clear how wise that warning was. At the same time, Roland felt a bright spark of excitement and appreciation. It had been long years since he’d seen a new weapon of worth, and never one like this.
The plate was metal, not glass—some light, strong alloy. It was the size of an ordinary dinner-plate, a foot (and a bit more) in diameter. Three quarters of the edge had been sharpened to suicidal keenness.
“There’s never a question of where to grip, even if ye’re in a hurry,” Margaret said. “For, do’ee see—”
“Yes,” Roland said in a tone of deepest admiration. Two of the rice-stalks crossed in what could have been the Great Letter , which by itself means both zi (eternity) and now. At the point where these stalks crossed (only a sharp eye would pick them out of the bigger pattern to begin with), the rim of the plate was not only dull but slightly thicker. Good to grip.
Roland turned the plate over. Beneath, in the center, was a small metal pod. To Jake, it might have looked like the plastic pencil-sharpener he’d taken to school in his pocket as a first-grader. To Roland, who had never seen a pencil-sharpener, it looked a little like the abandoned egg-case of some insect.
“That makes the whistling noise when the plate flies, do ya ken,” she said. She had seen Roland’s honest admiration and was reacting to it, her color high and her eye bright. Roland had heard that tone of eager explanation many times before, but not for a long time now.
“It has no other purpose?”
“None,” she said. “But it must whistle, for it’s part of the story, isn’t it?”
Roland nodded. Of course it was.
The Sisters of Oriza, Margaret Eisenhart said, was a group of women who liked to help others—
“And gossip amongst theirselves,” Eisenhart growled, but he sounded good-humored.
“Aye, that too,” she allowed.
They cooked for funerals and festivals (it was the Sisters who had put on the previous night’s banquet at the Pavilion). They sometimes held sewing circles and quilting bees after a family had lost its belongings to fire or when one of the river-floods came every six or eight years and drowned the smallholders closest to Devar-Tete Whye. It was the Sisters who kept the Pavilion well-tended and the Town Gathering Hall well-swept on the inside and well-kept on the outside. They put on dances for the young people, and chaperoned them. They were sometimes hired by the richer folk (“Such as the Tooks and their kin, do ya,” she said) to cater wedding celebrations, and such affairs were always fine, the talk of the Calla for months afterward, sure. Among themselves they did gossip, aye, she’d not deny it; they also played cards, and Points, and Castles.
“And you throw the plate,” Roland said.
“Aye,” said she, “but ye must understand we only do it for the fun of the thing. Hunting’s men’s work, and they do fine with the bah.” She was stroking her husband’s shoulder again, this time a bit nervously, Roland thought. He also thought that if the men really did do fine with the bah, she never would have come out with that pretty, deadly thing held under her apron in the first place. Nor would Eisenhart have encouraged her.
Roland opened his tobacco-pouch, took out one of Rosalita’s cornshuck pulls, and drifted it toward the plate’s sharp edge. The square of cornshuck fluttered to the porch a moment later, cut neatly in two. Only for the fun of the thing, Roland thought, and almost smiled.
“What metal?” he asked. “Does thee know?”
She raised her eyebrows slightly at this form of address but didn’t comment on it.
“Titanium is what Andy calls it. It comes from a great old factory building, far north, in Calla Sen Chre. There are many ruins there. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard the tales. It sounds spooky.”
Roland nodded. “And the plates—how are they made? Does Andy do it?”
She shook her head. “He can’t or won’t, I know not which. It’s the ladies of Calla Sen Chre who make them, and send them to the Callas all round about. Although Divine is as far south as that sort of trading reaches, I think.”
“The ladies make these,” Roland mused. “The ladies.”
“Somewhere there’s a machine that still makes em, that’s all it is,” Eisenhart said. Roland was amused at his tone of stiff defensiveness. “Comes down to no more than pushing a button, I ’magine.”
Margaret, looking at him with a woman’s smile, said nothing to this, either for or against. Perhaps she didn’t know, but she certainly knew the politics that keep a marriage sweet.
“So there are Sisters north and south of here along the Arc,” Roland said. “And all of them throw the plate.”
“Aye—from Calla Sen Chre to Calla Divine south of us. Farther south or north, I don’t know. We like to help and we like to talk. We throw our plates once a month, in memory of how Lady Oriza did for Gray Dick, but few of us are any good at it.”
“Are you good at it, sai?”
She was silent, biting at the corner of her lip again.
“Show him,” Eisenhart growled. “Show him and be done.”
Five
They walked down the steps, the rancher’s wife leading the way, Eisenhart behind her, Roland third. Behind them the kitchen door opened and banged shut.
“Gods-a-glory, missus Eisenhart’s gonna throw the dish!” Benny Slightman cried gleefully. “Jake! You won’t believe it!”
“Send em back in, Vaughn,” she said. “They don’t need to see this.”
“Nar, let em look,” Eisenhart said. “Don’t hurt a boy to see a woman do well.”
“Send them back, Roland, aye?” She looked at him, flushed and flustered and very pretty. To Roland she looked ten years younger than when she’d come out on the porch, but he wondered how she’d fling in such a state. It was something he much wanted to see, because ambushing was brutal work, quick and emotional.
“I agree with your husband,” he said. “I’d let them stay.”
“Have it as you like,” she said. Roland saw she was actually pleased, that she wanted an audience, and his hope grew. He thought it increasingly likely that this pretty middle-aged wife with her small breasts and salt-and-pepper hair had a hunter’s heart. Not a gunslinger’s heart, but at this point he would settle for a few hunters—a few killers—male or female.
She marched toward the barn. When they were fifty yards from the stuffy-guys flanking the barn door, Roland touched her shoulder and made her stop.
“Nay,” she said, “this is too far.”
“I’ve seen you fling as far and half again,” her husband said, and stood firm in the face of her angry look. “So I have.”
“Not with a gunslinger from the Line of Eld standing by my right elbow, you haven’t,” she said, but she stood where she was.
Roland went to the barn door and took the grinning sharproot head from the stuffy on the left side. He went into the barn. Here was a stall filled with freshly picked sharproot, and beside it one of potatoes. He took one of the potatoes and set it atop the stuffy-guy’s shoulders, where the sharproot had been. It was a good-sized spud, but the contrast was still comic; the stuffy-guy now looked like Mr. Tinyhead in a carnival show or street-fair.
“Oh, Roland, no!” she cried, sounding genuinely shocked.
“I could never!”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, and stood aside. “Throw.”
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t. She looked around for her husband. If Eisenhart had still been standing beside her, Roland thought, she would have thrust the plate into his hands and run for the house and never mind if he cut himself on it, either. But Vaughn Eisenhart had withdrawn to the foot of the steps. The boys stood above him, Benny Slightman watching with mere interest, Jake with closer attention, his brows drawn together and the smile now gone from his face.
“Roland, I—”
“None of it, missus, I beg. Your talk of leaping was all very fine, but now I’d see you do it. Throw.”
She recoiled a little, eyes widening, as if she had been slapped. Then she turned to face the barn door and drew her right hand above her left shoulder. The plate glimmered in the late light, which was now more pink than red. Her lips had thinned to a white line. For a moment all the world held still.
“Riza!” she cried in a shrill, furious voice, and cast her arm forward. Her hand opened, the index finger pointing precisely along the path the plate would take. Of all of them in the yard (the cowpokes had also stopped to watch), only Roland’s eyes were sharp enough to follow the flight of the dish.
True! he exulted. True as ever was!
The plate gave a kind of moaning howl as it bolted above the dirt yard. Less than two seconds after it had left her hand, the potato lay in two pieces, one by the stuffy-guy’s gloved right hand and the other by its left. The plate itself stuck in the side of the barn door, quivering.
The boys raised a cheer. Benny hoisted his hand as his new friend had taught him, and Jake slapped him a high five.
“Great going, sai Eisenhart!” Jake called.
“Good hit! Say thankya!” Benny added.
Roland observed the way the woman’s lips drew back from her teeth at this hapless, well-meant praise—she looked like a horse that has seen a snake. “Boys,” he said, “I’d go inside now, were I you.”
Benny was bewildered. Jake, however, took another look at Margaret Eisenhart and understood. You did what you had to…and then the reaction set in. “Come on, Ben,” he said.
“But—”
“Come on.” Jake took his new friend by the shirt and tugged him back toward the kitchen door.
Roland let the woman stay where she was for a moment, head down, trembling with reaction. Strong color still blazed in her cheeks, but everywhere else her skin had gone as pale as milk. He thought she was struggling not to vomit.
He went to the barn door, grasped the plate at the grasping-place, and pulled. He was astounded at how much effort it took before the plate first wiggled and then pulled loose. He brought it back to her, held it out. “Thy tool.”
For a moment she didn’t take it, only looked at him with a species of bright hate. “Why do you mock me, Roland? How do’ee know Vaughn took me from the Manni Clan? Tell us that, I beg.”
It was the rose, of course—an intuition left by the touch of the rose—and it was also the tale of her face, which was a womanly version of the old Henchick’s. But how he knew what he knew was no part of this woman’s business, and he only shook his head. “Nay. But I do not mock thee.”
Margaret Eisenhart abruptly seized Roland by the neck. Her grip was dry and so hot her skin felt feverish. She pulled his ear to her uneasy, twitching mouth. He thought he could smell every bad dream she must have had since deciding to leave her people for Calla Bryn Sturgis’s big rancher.
“I saw thee speak to Henchick last night,” she said. “Will’ee speak to him more? Ye will, won’t you?”
Roland nodded, transfixed by her grip. The strength of it. The little puffs of air against his ear. Did a lunatic hide deep down inside everyone, even such a woman as this? He didn’t know.
“Good. Say thankya. Tell him Margaret of the Redpath Clan does fine with her heathen man, aye, fine still.” Her grip tightened. “Tell him she regrets nothing! Will’ee do that for me?”
“Aye, lady, if you like.”
She snatched the plate from him, fearless of its lethal edge. Having it seemed to steady her. She looked at him from eyes in which tears swam, unshed. “Is it the cave ye spoke of with my Da’? The Doo
rway Cave?”
Roland nodded.
“What would ye visit on us, ye chary gunstruck man?”
Eisenhart joined them. He looked uncertainly at his wife, who had endured exile from her people for his sake. For a moment she looked at him as though she didn’t know him.
“I only do as ka wills,” Roland said.
“Ka!” she cried, and her lip lifted. A sneer transformed her good looks to an ugliness that was almost startling. It would have frightened the boys. “Every troublemaker’s excuse! Put it up your bum with the rest of the dirt!”
“I do as ka wills and so will you,” Roland said.
She looked at him, seeming not to comprehend. Roland took the hot hand that had gripped him and squeezed it, not quite to the point of pain.
“And so will you.”
She met his gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes. “Aye,” she muttered. “Oh aye, so do we all.” She ventured to look at him again. “Will ye give Henchick my message?”
“Aye, lady, as I said.”
The darkening dooryard was silent except for the distant call of a rustie. The cowpokes still leaned at the remuda fence. Roland ambled over to them.
“Evening, gents.”
“Hope ya do well,” one said, and touched his forehead.
“May you do better,” Roland said. “Missus threw the plate, and she threw it well, say aye?”
“Say thankya,” another of them agreed. “No rust on the missus.”
“No rust,” Roland agreed. “And will I tell you something now, gents? A word to tuck beneath your hats, as we do say?”
They looked at him warily.
Roland looked up, smiled at the sky. Then looked back at them. “Set my watch and warrant on’t. You might want to speak of it. Tell what you saw.”
They watched him cautiously, not liking to admit to this.
“Speak of it and I’ll kill every one of you,” Roland said. “Do you understand me?”
Eisenhart touched his shoulder. “Roland, surely—”
The gunslinger shrugged his hand off without looking at him. “Do you understand me?”