by Stephen King
"It always comes back to the same thing: we’re farmers, most of us. Strong when our hands are in the soil, weak when they ain’t. I got two kiddies of my own, four years old, and I love em both well. Should hate to lose either. But I’d give one to keep the other. And my farm." Murmurs of agreement met this. "What other choice do we have? I say this: it would be the world’s worst mistake to anger the Wolves. Unless, of course, we can stand against them. If t’were possible, I’d stand. But I just don’t see how it is."
Tian felt his heart shrivel with each of Haycox’s words. How much of his thunder had the man stolen? Gods and the Man Jesus!
Wayne Overholser got to his feet. He was Calla Bryn Sturgis’s most successful farmer, and had a vast sloping belly to prove it. "Hear me, I beg."
"We say thankee-sai," they murmured.
"Tell you what we’re going to do," he said, looking around. "What we always done, that’s what. Do any of you want to talk about standing against the Wolves? Are any of you that mad? With what? Spears and rocks and a few bows? Maybe four rusty old soft-calibers like that?" He jerked a thumb toward Eisenhart’s rifle.
"Don’t be making fun of my shooting-iron, son," Eisenhart said, but he was smiling ruefully.
"They’ll come and they’ll take the children," Overholser said, looking around. "Some of the children. Then they’ll leave us alone again for a generation or even longer. So it is, so it has been, and I say leave it alone."
Disapproving rumbles rose at this, but Overholser waited them out.
"Twenty-three years or twenty-four, it don’t matter," he said when they were quiet again. "Either way it’s a long time. A long time of peace. Could be you’ve forgotten a few things, folks. One is that children are like any other crop. God always sends more. I know that sounds hard. But it’s how we’ve lived and how we have to go on."
Tian didn’t wait for any of the stock responses. If they went any further down this road, any chance he might have to turn them would be lost. He raised the opopanax feather and said, "Hear what I say! Would ye hear, I beg!"
"Thankee-sai," they responded. Overholser was looking at Tian distrustfully.
And you’re right to look at me so, the farmer thought. For I’ve had enough of such soft and cowardly common sense, so I have.
"Wayne Overholser is a smart man and a successful man," Tian said, "and I hate to speak against his position for those reasons. And for another, as well: he’s old enough to be my Da’."
"’Ware he ain’t your Da’," Garrett Strong’s only farmhand—Rossiter, his name was—called out, and there was general laughter. Even Overholser smiled at this jest.
"Son, if ye truly hate to speak agin me, don’t ye do it," he said. He continued to smile, but only with his mouth.
"I must, though," Tian said. He began to walk slowly back and forth in front of the benches. In his hands, the rusty-red plume of the opopanax feather swayed. Tian raised his voice slightly so they’d understand he was no longer speaking just to Overholser.
"I must because sai Overholser is old enough to be my Da’. His children are grown, ye ken, and so far as I know there were only two to begin with, one girl and one boy." He paused, then shot the killer. "Born two years apart." Both singletons, in other words. Both safe from the Wolves. The crowd murmured.
Overholser flushed a bright and dangerous red. "That’s a rotten goddamned thing to say! My get has nothing to do with this whether single or double! Give me that feather, Jaffords. I got a few things to say."
But the boots began to thump down on the boards, slowly at first, then picking up speed until they rattled like hail. Overholser looked around angrily, now so red he was nearly purple.
"I’d speak!" he shouted. "Would’ee not hear me, I beg?"
Cries of No, no and Not now and Jaffords has the feather and Sit and listen came in response. Tian had an idea sai Overholser was learning—and remarkably late in the game—that there was often a deep-running resentment of a village’s richest and most successful. Those less fortunate or less canny might tug their hats off when the rich folk passed in their buckboards or lowcoaches, they might send thank-you delegations when the rich folk loaned their hired hands to help with a house- or barn-raising, the well-to-do might be cheered at Year End Gathering for helping to buy the piano that now sat in the pavillion’s musica. Yet the men of the Calla tromped their shor’-boots to drown Overholser out with a certain savage satisfaction. Even those who undoubtedly supported what he’d said (Neil Faraday, for one) were tromping hard enough to break a sweat.
Overholser, unused to being balked in such a way—flabbergasted, in fact—tried one more time. "I’d have the feather, do ye, I beg!"
"No," Tian said. "In your time, but not now."
There were actual cheers at this, mostly from the smallest of the smallhold farmers and some of their hands. The Manni did not join in. They were now drawn so tightly together that they looked like a dark blue inkstain in the middle of the hall. They were clearly bewildered by this turn. Vaughn Eisenhart and Diego Adams, meanwhile, moved to flank Overholser and speak low to him.
You’ve got a chance, Tian thought. Better make the most of it.
He raised the feather and they quieted.
"Everyone will have a chance to speak," he said. "As for me, I say this: we can’t go on this way, simply bowing our necks and standing quiet when the Wolves come and take our children. They—"
"They always return them," a hand named Farren Posella said timidly.
"They return husks!" Tian cried, and there were a few cries of Hear him. Not enough, however, Tian judged. Not enough by far. Not yet. The bulk of his work was yet to do.
He lowered his voice again—he did not want to harangue them. Overholser had tried that and gotten nowhere, a thousand acres or not.
"They return husks. And what of us? What is this doing to us? Some might say nothing, that the Wolves have always been a part of our life in Calla Bryn Sturgis, like the occasional cyclone or earthshake. Yet that is not true. They’ve been coming for six generations, at most. But the Calla’s been here a thousand years and more."
The old Manni with the bony shoulders and baleful eyes half-rose. "He says true, folken. There were farmers here—and Manni-folk among em—when the darkness in Thunderclap hadn’t yet come, let alone the Wolves."
They received this with looks of wonder. Their awe seemed to satisfy the old man, who nodded and sat back down.
"So the Wolves are almost a new thing," Tian said. "Six times have they come over mayhap a hundred and twenty or a hundred and forty years. Who can say? For as ye ken, time has softened, somehow."
A low rumble. A few nods.
"In any case, once a generation," Tian went on. He was aware that a hostile contingent was coalescing around Overholser, Eisenhart, and Adams. These men he would not move even if he were gifted with the tongue of an angel. Well, he could do without them, maybe. If he caught the rest. "Once a generation they come, and how many children do they take? Twelve? Eighteen? Maybe as many as thirty?
"Sai Overholser may not have babbies this time, but I do—not one set of twins but two. Heddon and Hedda, Lyman and Lia. I love all four, but in a month of days, two of them will be taken away. And when those two come back, they’ll be roont. Whatever spark there is that makes a complete human being, it’ll be out forever."
Hear him, hear him swept through the room like a sigh.
"How many of you have twins with no hair except that which grows on their heads?" Tian demanded. "Raise yer hands!"
Six men raised their hands. Then eight. A dozen. Every time Tian began to think they were done, another reluctant hand went up. In the end, he counted twenty-two hands. He could see that Overholser was dismayed by such a large count. Diego Adams had his hand raised, and Tian was pleased to see he’d moved away a little bit from Overholser and Eisenhart. Three of the Manni had their hands up. Jorge Estrada. Louis Haycox. Many others he knew, which was not surprising, really; he knew these men. Probably
all of them except for a few wandering fellows working smallhold farms for short wages and hot dinners.
"Each time they come and take our children, they take a little more of of our hearts and our souls," Tian said.
"Oh come on, now, son," Eisenhart said. "That’s laying it on a bit th—"
"Shut up, Rancher," a voice said. It was shocking in its anger and contempt. "He’s got the feather. Let him speak out to the end."
Eisenhart whirled around, as if to mark who had spoken to him so. Only bland faces looked back.
"Thankee sai," Tian said evenly. "I’ve almost come to the end. I keep thinking of trees. Strong trees. You can strip the leaves of a strong tree and it will live. Cut its bark with many names and it will live to grow its skin over them again. You can even take from the heartwood and it will live. But if you take of the heartwood again and again and again, year after year, there will come a time when even the strongest tree must die. I’ve seen it happen on my farm, and it’s an ugly thing. They die from the inside out. You can see it in the leaves as they turn yellow from the trunk to the tips of the branches. And that’s what the Wolves are doing to this little village of ours. What they’re doing to our Calla."
"Hear him!" cried Freddy Rosario from the next farm over. "Hear him very well!" Freddy had twins of his own, although they were still on the tit and so probably safe.
"You say that if we stand and fight, they’ll kill us all and burn the Calla from west-border to east."
"Yes," Overholser said. "So I do say. Nor am I the only one." And from all around him came rumbles of agreement.
"Yet each time we simply stand by with our heads lowered and our hands open while the Wolves take what’s dearer to us than any crop or house or barn, they scoop a little more of the heart’s wood from the tree that is this village!" Tian spoke strongly, now standing still with the feather raised high in one hand. "If we don’t stand and fight soon, we’ll be dead, anyway! This is what I say, Tian Jaffords, son of Alan! If we don’t stand and fight soon, we’ll be roont ourselves!"
Loud cries of Hear him! Exuberant stomping of shor’-boots. Even some applause.
George Telford, another rancher, whispered briefly to Eisenhart and Overholser. They listened, then nodded. Telford rose. He was silver-haired, tanned, and handsome in the weatherbeaten way women seemed to like.
"Had your say, son?" he asked kindly, as one might ask a child if he had played enough for one afternoon and was ready for his nap.
"Yar, reckon," Tian said. He suddenly felt dispirited. Telford wasn’t a rancher on a scale with Vaughn Eisenhart, but he had a silver tongue. Tian had an idea he was going to lose this, after all.
"May I have the feather, then?"
Tian thought of holding onto it, but what good would it do? He’d said his best. He had an idea it wouldn’t be good enough—not once Telford got finished shredding his arguments with that smooth voice of his—but he’d tried. Perhaps he and Zalia should pack up the kids and go out east themselves. Moon to moon before the Wolves came, according to Andy. A person could get a hell of a head start on trouble in thirty days.
He passed the feather.
"We all appreciate young sai Jaffords’s passion, and certainly no one doubts his courage," George Telford was saying. He spoke with the feather held against the left side of his chest, over his heart. His eyes roved the audience, seeming to make eye contact—friendly eye contact—with each man. "But we have to think of the kiddies who would be left as well as those who would be taken, don’t we? In fact, we have to protect all the kiddies, whether they be twins, triplets, or singletons like sai Jaffords’s Aaron."
Telford turned to Tian now.
"What will you tell your children as the Wolves shoot their mother and mayhap set their gran-pere on fire with one of their light-sticks? What can you say to make the sound of those shrieks all right? To sweeten the smell of burning skin and burning crops? That it’s souls we’re a-saving? Or the heart’s wood of some make-believe tree?"
He paused, giving Tian a chance to reply, but Tian had no reply to make. He’d almost had them...but he’d left Telford out of his reckoning. Smooth-voiced sonofabitch Telford, who was also far past the age when he needed to be concerned about the Wolves calling into his dooryard on their great gray horses.
Telford nodded, as if Tian’s silence was no more than he expected, and turned back to the benches. "When the Wolves come," he said, "they’ll come with fire-hurling weapons—the light-sticks, ye ken--and guns, and flying metal things. I misremember the name of those—"
"The drones," someone called.
"The sneetches," called someone else.
"Stealthies!" called a third.
Telford was nodding and smiling gently. A teacher with good pupils. "Whatever they are, they fly through the air, seeking their targets, and when they lock on, they put forth whirling blades as sharp as razors. They can strip a man from top to toe in five seconds, leaving nothing around him but a circle of blood and hair. So my own gran-pere told me, and I have no reason not to believe it."
"Hear him, hear him well!" the men on the benches shouted. Their eyes had grown huge and frightened.
"The Wolves themselves are terrible fearsome, so ’tis said," Telford went on, moving smoothly from one campfire story to the next. "They look sommat’ like men, and yet they are not men but something bigger and far more awful. And those they serve in far Thunderclap are more terrible by far. Vampires, I’ve heard. Broken-helm undead ronin. Warriors of the Scarlet Eye."
The men muttered. Even Tian felt a cold scamper of rat’s paws up his back at the mention of the Eye.
"So I’ve been told," Telford went on, "and while I don’t believe it all, I believe much. Never mind Thunderclap, though. Let’s stick to the Wolves. The Wolves are our problem, and problem enough. Especially when they come armed to the teeth!" He shook his head, smiling grimly. "What would we do? Perhaps we could knock them from their greathorses with hoes, sai Jaffords? D’ee think?"
Derisive laughter greeted this.
"We have no weapons that can stand against them," Telford said. He was now dry and businesslike, a man stating the bottom line. "Even if we had such, we’re farmers and ranchers and stockmen, not fighters. We—"
"Stop that talk, Telford. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
Shocked gasps greeted this chilly pronouncement. There were cracking backs and necks as men turned to see who had spoken. Slowly, then, as if to give them exactly what they wanted, a white-haired figure in a long black coat and a turned-around collar rose slowly from the bench at the very back of the room. The scar on his forehead—it was in the shape of a cross—was very bright in the light of the kerosene lamps. It was the fellow who had slipped in unnoticed while the Manni elder was going on about Aegypt and sacrificial lambs and the Angel of Death.
It was the Old Fella.
Telford recovered himself with relative speed, but when he spoke, Tian thought he still looked shocked. "Beg pardon, Pere Callahan, but I have the feather—"
"To hell with your heathen feather and to hell with your cowardly counsel," Pere Callahan said. He stepped into the aisle and began to hobble down the center aisle, stepping with the grim gait of arthritis. He wasn’t as old as the Manni elder, nor nearly so old as Tian’s gran-pere (who claimed he was the oldest person not only here but in Calla Lockwood to the south), and yet he seemed somehow older than both. Older than the ages. Some of this no doubt had to do with the haunted eyes that looked out at the world from below the scar on his foreheard (according to Zalia, it had been self-inflicted). More had to do with the sound of him. Although he had been here long and long—enough years to build his strange Man Jesus church and convert half the Calla to his way of spiritual thinking—not even a stranger would have been fooled into believing Pere Callahan was from here. His alienness was in his flat and nasal speech and in the often obscure slang he used (‘street-jive," he called it). He had undoubtedly come from one of those other worlds the Manni were
always babbling about, although he never spoke of it and Calla Bryn Sturgis was now his home. He had been here since long before Tian Jaffords was born—since town elders like Wayne Overholser and Vaughn Eisenhart had worn short pants—and no one disputed his right to speak, with or without the feather.
Younger than Tian’s gran-pere he might be, but Pere Callahan was still the Old Fella.
4
Now he surveyed the men of Call Bryn Sturgis, not even glancing at George Telford. The feather sagged in Telford’s hand. He sat down on the first bench, still holding it.
Callahan began with one of his slang-terms, but they were farmers and no one needed to ask for an explanation.
"This is chickenshit."
He surveyed them longer. Most would not return his look. After a moment, even Eisenhart and Adams dropped their eyes. Overholser kept his head up, but under the Old Fella’s dry and bitter gaze, the rancher looked petulant rather than defiant.
"Chickenshit," the man in the black coat and turned-around collar repeated. A small gold cross gleamed below the notch in the backwards collar. On his forehead, that other cross—the one he’d supposedly carved in his flesh with his own thumbnail in partial penance for some awful sin—glared under the lamps like a tattoo.
"This young man isn’t one of my flock, but he’s right, and I think you all know it. You know it in your hearts. Even you, Mr. Overholser. And you, George Telford."
"Know no such thing," Telford said, but his voice was weak and stripped of its former persuasive charm.
"All your lies will cross your eyes, that’s what my mother would have told you." Callahan offered Telford a thin smile Tian wouldn’t have wanted it pointed in his direction. And then Callahan did turn to him. "I never heard it put better than you put it tonight, boy. Thankee-sai."