From Lady Oriza’s rice came a second scream of grief. Which had been Slightman, which Vaughn Eisenhart? At a distance, Jake thought, you couldn’t tell the rancher from the foreman, the employer from the employee. Was there a lesson there, or was it what Ms. Avery, back at good old Piper, would have called FEAR , false evidence appearing real?

The palm pointing up to the brightening sky, that was certainly real.

Now the folken began to sing. Jake recognized the song. It was a new version of the one Roland had sung on their first night in Calla Bryn Sturgis.

“Come-come-commala

Rice come a-falla

I-sissa ’ay a-bralla

Dey come a-folla

We went to a-rivva

’Riza did us kivva…”

The rice swayed with the passage of the singing folken, swayed as if it were dancing for their joy, as Roland had danced for them that torchlit night. Some came with babbies in their arms, and even so burdened, they swayed from side to side. We all danced this morning, Jake thought. He didn’t know what he meant, only that it was a true thought. The dance we do. The only one we know. Benny Slightman? Died dancing. Sai Eisenhart, too.

Roland and Eddie came over to him; Susannah, too, but she hung back a bit, as if deciding that, at least for the time being, the boys should be with the boys. Roland was smoking, and Jake nodded at it.

“Roll me one of those, would you?”

Roland turned in Susannah’s direction, eyebrows raised. She shrugged, then nodded. Roland rolled Jake a cigarette, gave it to him, then scratched a match on the seat of his pants and lit it. Jake sat on the waggon wheel, taking the smoke in occasional puffs, holding it in his mouth, then letting it out. His mouth filled up with spit. He didn’t mind. Unlike some things, spit could be got rid of. He made no attempt to inhale.

Roland looked down the hill, where the first of the two running men was just entering the corn. “That’s Slightman,” he said. “Good.”

“Why good, Roland?” Eddie asked.

“Because sai Slightman will have accusations to make,” Roland said. “In his grief, he isn’t going to care who hears them, or what his extraordinary knowledge might say about his part in this morning’s work.”

“Dance,” Jake said.

They turned to look at him. He sat pale and thoughtful on the waggon-wheel, holding his cigarette. “This morning’s dance,” he said.

Roland appeared to consider this, then nodded. “His part in this morning’s dance . If he gets here soon enough, we may be able to quiet him. If not, his son’s death is only going to be the start of Ben Slightman’s commala.”

Nineteen