by Stephen King
“ ‘Now, standing before Danny Glick’s…Danny Glick’s mourners, that old credo…that old credo returned.’ ”
The hand holding the book sagged. If Jake hadn’t caught it, it probably would have tumbled to the floor of the cave.
“You had it, didn’t you?” Eddie said. “You actually had a sampler saying that.”
“Frankie Foyle gave it to me,” Callahan said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Back in seminary. And Danny Glick…I officiated at his funeral, I think I told you that. That was when everything seemed to change, somehow. But this is a novel! A novel is fiction! How…how can it…” His voice suddenly rose to a damned howl. To Roland it sounded eerily like the false voices that rose up from below. “Damn it, I’m a REAL PERSON!”
“Here’s the part where the vampire broke your cross,” Jake reported. “ ‘ “Together at last!” Barlow said, smiling. His face was strong and intelligent and handsome in a sharp, forbidding sort of way—yet, as the light shifted, it seemed—’ ”
“Stop,” Callahan said dully. “It makes my head hurt.”
“It says his face reminded you of the bogeyman who lived in your closet when you were a kid. Mr. Flip.”
Callahan’s face was now so pale he might have been a vampire’s victim himself. “I never told anyone about Mr. Flip, not even my mother. That can’t be in that book. It just can’t be.”
“It is,” Jake said simply.
“Let’s get this straight,” Eddie said. “When you were a kid, there was a Mr. Flip, and you did think of him when you faced this particular Type One vampire, Barlow. Correct?”
“Yes, but—”
Eddie turned to the gunslinger. “Is this getting us any closer to Susannah, do you think?”
“Yes. We’ve reached the heart of a great mystery. Perhaps the great mystery. I believe the Dark Tower is almost close enough to touch. And if the Tower is close, Susannah is, too.”
Ignoring him, Callahan was flipping through the book. Jake was looking over his shoulder.
“And you know how to open that door?” Eddie pointed at it.
“Yes,” Roland said. “I’d need help, but I think the people of Calla Bryn Sturgis owe us a little help, don’t you?”
Eddie nodded. “All right, then, let me tell you this much: I’m pretty sure I have seen the name Stephen King before, at least once.”
“On the Specials board,” Jake said without looking up from the book. “Yeah, I remember. It was on the Specials board the first time we went todash.”
“Specials board?” Roland asked, frowning.
“Tower’s Specials board,” Eddie said. “It was in the window, remember? Part of his whole Restaurant-of-the-Mind thing.”
Roland nodded.
“But I’ll tell you guys something,” Jake said, and now he did look up from the book. “The name was there when Eddie and I went todash, but it wasn’t on the board the first time I went in there. The time Mr. Deepneau told me the river riddle, it was someone else’s name. It changed, just like the name of the writer on Charlie the Choo-Choo.”
“I can’t be in a book,” Callahan was saying. “I am not a fiction…am I?”
“Roland.” It was Eddie. The gunslinger turned to him. “I need to find her. I don’t care who’s real and who’s not. I don’t care about Calvin Tower, Stephen King, or the Pope of Rome. As far as reality goes, she’s all of it I want. I need to find my wife.” His voice dropped. “Help me, Roland.”
Roland reached out and took the book in his left hand. With his right he touched the door. If she’s still alive, he thought. If we can find her, and if she’s come back to herself. If and if and if.
Eddie took Roland’s arm. “Please,” he said. “Please don’t make me try to do it on my own. I love her so much. Help me find her.”
Roland smiled. It made him younger. It seemed to fill the cave with its own light. All of Eld’s ancient power was in that smile: the power of the White.
“Yes,” he said. “We go.”
And then he said again, all the affirmation necessary in this dark place.
“Yes.”
Bangor, Maine
December 15, 2002
Author’s Note
The debt I owe to the American Western in the composition of the Dark Tower novels should be clear without my belaboring the point; certainly the Calla did not come by the final part of its (slightly misspelled) name accidentally. Yet it should be pointed out that at least two sources for some of this material aren’t American at all. Sergio Leone (A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, etc.) was Italian. And Akira Kurosawa (The Seven Samurai) was, of course, Japanese. Would these books have been written without the cinematic legacy of Kurosawa, Leone, Peckinpah, Howard Hawks, and John Sturgis? Probably not without Leone. But without the others, I would argue there could be no Leone.
I also owe a debt of thanks to Robin Furth, who managed to be there with the right bit of information every time I needed it, and of course to my wife, Tabitha, who is still patiently giving me the time and light and space I need to do this job to the best of my abilities.
S.K.
Author’s Afterword
Before you read this short afterword, I ask that you take a moment (may it do ya fine) to look again at the dedication page at the front of this story. I’ll wait.
Thank you. I want you to know that Frank Muller has read a number of my books for the audio market, beginning with Different Seasons. I met him at Recorded Books in New York at that time and we liked each other immediately. It’s a friendship that has lasted longer than some of my readers have been alive. In the course of our association, Frank recorded the first four Dark Tower novels, and I listened to them—all sixty or so cassettes—while preparing to finish the gunslinger’s story. Audio is the perfect medium for such exhaustive preparation, because audio insists you absorb everything; your hurrying eye (or occasionally tired mind) cannot skip so much as a single word. That was what I wanted, complete immersion in Roland’s world, and that was what Frank gave me. He gave me something more, as well, something wonderful and unexpected. It was a sense of newness and freshness that I had lost somewhere along the way; a sense of Roland and Roland’s friends as actual people, with their own vital inner lives. When I say in the dedication that Frank heard the voices in my head, I am speaking the literal truth as I understand it. And, like a rather more benign version of the Doorway Cave, he brought them fully back to life. The remaining books are finished (this one in final draft, the last two in rough), and in large part I owe that to Frank Muller and his inspired readings.
I had hoped to have Frank on board to do the audio readings of the final three Dark Tower books (unabridged readings; I do not allow abridgments of my work and don’t approve of them, as a rule), and he was eager to do them. We discussed the possibility at a dinner in Bangor during October of 2001, and in the course of the conversation, he called the Tower stories his absolute favorites. As he had read over five hundred novels for the audio market, I was extremely flattered.
Less than a month after that dinner and that optimistic, forward-looking discussion, Frank suffered a terrible motorcycle accident on a highway in California. It happened only days after discovering that he was to become a father for the second time. He was wearing his brain-bucket and that probably saved his life—motorcyclists please take note—but he suffered serious injuries nevertheless, many of them neurological. He won’t be recording the final Dark Tower novels on tape, after all. Frank’s final work will almost certainly be his inspired reading of Clive Barker’s Coldheart Canyon, which was completed in September of 2001, just before his accident.
Barring a miracle, Frank Muller’s working life is over. His work of rehabilitation, which is almost sure to be lifelong, has only begun. He’ll need a lot of care and a lot of professional help. Such things cost money, and money’s not a thing which, as a rule, freelance artists have a gre
at deal of. I and some friends have formed a foundation to help Frank—and, hopefully, other freelance artists of various types who suffer similar cataclysms. All the income I receive from the audio version of Wolves of the Calla will go into this foundation’s account. It won’t be enough, but the work of funding The Wavedancer Foundation (Wavedancer was the name of Frank’s sailboat), like Frank’s rehabilitative work, is only beginning. If you’ve got a few bucks that aren’t working and want to help insure the future of The Wavedancer Foundation, don’t send them to me; send them to
The Wavedancer Foundation
c/o Mr. Arthur Greene
101 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10001
Frank’s wife, Erika, says thankya. So do I.
And Frank would, if he could.
Bangor, Maine
December 15, 2002
Contents
The Final Argument
Prologue
Roont
Part One
Todash
I: The Face on the Water
II: New York Groove
III: Mia
IV: Palaver
V: Overholser
VI: The Way of the Eld
VII: Todash
Part Two
Telling Tales
I: The Pavilion
II: Dry Twist
III: The Priest’s Tale (New York)
IV: The Priest’s Tale Continued (Highways in Hiding)
V: The Tale of Gray Dick
VI: Gran-Pere’s Tale
VII: Nocturne, Hunger
VIII: Took’s Store; The Unfound Door
IX: The Priest’s Tale Concluded (Unfound)
Part Three
The Wolves
I: Secrets
II: The Dogan, Part 1
III: The Dogan, Part 2
IV: The Pied Piper
V: The Meeting of the Folken
VI: Before the Storm
VII: The Wolves
Epilogue
The Door Way Cave
Author’s Note
Author’s Afterword
