Roland considered. It was a good question. He looked at Callahan, who stood on the top step in blue jeans and a plaid shirt rolled to the elbows. His hands were clasped in front of him. Roland saw good muscle on those forearms.

The Old Fella shrugged. “It sleeps. There should be no problem. But—” He unlocked one of his gnarled hands and pointed at the gun on Roland’s hip. “I sh’d ditch that. Mayhap it sleeps with one eye open.”

Roland unbuckled the gunbelt and handed it to Eddie, who was wearing the other one. Then he unslung his purse and handed it to Susannah. “Five minutes,” he said. “If there’s trouble, I might be able to call.” Or I might not, he didn’t add.

“Jake should be here by then,” Eddie said.

“If they come, hold them out here,” Roland told him.

“Eisenhart and the Slightmans won’t try to come in,” Callahan said. “What worship they have is for Oriza. Lady Rice.” He grimaced to show what he thought of Lady Rice and the rest of the Calla’s second-rate gods.

“Let’s go, then,” Roland said.

Nine

It had been a long time since Roland Deschain had been afraid in the deeply superstitious way that goes with a believed religion. Since his childhood, perhaps. But fear fell upon him as soon as Pere Callahan opened the door of his modest wooden church and held it, gesturing for Roland to precede him inside.

There was a foyer with a faded rug on the floor. On the other side of the foyer, two doors stood open. Beyond them was a largish room with pews on each side and kneelers on the floor. At the room’s far end was a raised platform and what Roland thought of as a lectern flanked by pots of white flowers. Their mild scent pervaded the still air. There were narrow windows of clear glass. Behind the lectern, on the far wall, was an ironwood cross.

He could hear the Old Fella’s secret treasure, not with his ears but with his bones. A steady low hum. Like the rose, that hum conveyed a sense of power, but it was like the rose in no other way. This hum spoke of colossal emptiness. A void like the one they had all sensed behind the surface reality of todash New York. A void that could become a voice.

Yes, this is what took us,he thought. It took us to New York — one New York of many, according to Callahan’s story— but it could take us anywhere or anywhen. It could take us…or it could fling us.