The Dark Tower

“In any case, I believe that this place I’m in is actually a fistula in time, or . . .” Another pause. A sigh. Then: “Look, there are a billion universes comprising a billion realities. That’s something I’ve come to realize since being hauled back from what the ki’-dam insists on calling ‘my little vacation in Connecticut.’ Smarmy son of a bitch!”

Real hate in Brautigan’s voice, Roland thought, and that was good. Hate was good. It was useful.

“Those realities are like a hall of mirrors, only no two reflections are exactly the same. I may come back to that image eventually, but not yet. What I want you to understand for now—or simply accept—is that reality is organic, reality is alive. It’s something like a muscle. What Sheemie does is poke a hole in that muscle with a mental hypo. He only has a needle like this because he’s special—”

“Because he’s a mork,” Eddie murmured.

“Hush!” Susannah said.

“—using it,” Brautigan went on.

(Roland considered rewinding in order to pick up the missing words and decided they didn’t matter.)

“It’s a place outside of time, outside of reality. I know you understand a little bit about the function of the Dark Tower; you understand its unifying purpose. Well, think of Gingerbread House as a balcony on the Tower: when we come here, we’re outside the Tower but still attached to the Tower. It’s a real place—real enough so I’ve come back from it with candy-stains on my hands and clothes—but it’s a place only Sheemie Ruiz can access. And once we’re there, it’s whatever he wants it to be. One wonders, Roland, if you or your friends had any inkling of what Sheemie truly was and what he could do when you met him in Mejis.”

At this, Roland reached out and pushed the STOP button on the tape recorder. “We knew he was . . . odd,” he told the others. “We knew he was special. Sometimes Cuthbert would say, ‘What is it about that boy? He makes my skin itch!’ And then he showed up in Gilead, he and his mule, Cappi. Claimed to have followed us. And we knew that was impossible, but so much was happening by then that a saloon-boy from Mejis—not bright but cheerful and helpful—was the least of our worries.”

“He teleported, didn’t he?” Jake asked.

Roland, who had never even heard the word before today, nodded immediately. “At least part of the distance; he had to have. For one thing, how else could he have crossed the Xay River? There was only the one bridge, a thing made out of ropes, and once we were across, Alain cut it. We watched it fall into the water a thousand feet below.”

“Maybe he went around,” Jake said.

Roland nodded. “Maybe he did . . . but it would have taken him at least six hundred wheels out of his way.”

Susannah whistled.

Eddie waited to see if Roland had more to say. When it was clear he didn’t, Eddie leaned forward and pushed the PLAY button again. Ted’s voice filled the cave once more.

“Sheemie’s a teleport. Dinky himself is a precog . . . among other things. Unfortunately, a good many avenues into the future are blocked to him. If you’re wondering if young sai Earnshaw knows how all this is going to turn out, the answer is no.

“In any case, there’s this hypodermic hole in the living flesh of reality . . . this balcony on the flank of the Dark Tower . . . this Gingerbread House. A real place, as hard as that might be to believe. It’s here that we’ll store the weapons and camping gear we eventually mean to leave for you in one of the caves on the far side of Steek-Tete, and it’s here that I’m making this tape. When I left my room with this old-fashioned but fearsomely efficient machine under my arm, it was 10:14 AM, BHST—Blue Heaven Standard Time. When I return, it will still be 10:14 AM. No matter how long I stay. That is only one of the terribly convenient things about Gingerbread House.

“You need to understand—perhaps Sheemie’s old friend Roland already does—that we are three rebels in a society dedicated to the idea of going along to get along, even if it means the end of existence . . . and sooner rather than later. We have a number of extremely useful talents, and by pooling them we’ve managed to stay one step ahead. But if Prentiss or Finli o’ Tego—he’s Prentiss’s Security Chief—finds out what we’re trying to do, Dinky would be worm-food by nightfall. Sheemie as well, quite likely. I’d probably be safe awhile longer, for reasons I’ll get to, but if Pimli Prentiss found out we were trying to bring a true gunslinger into his affairs—one who may already have orchestrated the deaths of over five dozen Greencloaks not far from here—even my life might not be safe.” A pause. “Worthless thing that it is.”