The Dark Tower (Page 51)

"Well, I suppose you could say it biodegraded.

"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 candystains 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 die 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 10:14AM, 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. Bvit 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."

There was a longer pause. The reel that had been empty was now half-full. "Listen, then," Brautigan said, "and I’ll tell you the story of an unfortunate and unlucky man. It may be a longer story than you have time to listen to; if that be the case, I’m sure at least three of you will understand the use of the button labeled FF. AS for me, I’m in a place where clocks are obsolete and broccoli is no doubt prohibited by law. I have all the time in the world."

Eddie was again struck by how weary the man sounded.

"I’d just suggest that you not fast-forward unless you really have to. As I’ve said, there may be something here that can help you, although I don’t know what. I’m simply too close to it. And I’m tired of keeping my guard up, not just when I’m awake but when I’m sleeping, too. If I wasn’t able to slip away to Gingerbread House every now and again and sleep with no defenses,

Finli’s can-toi boys would surely have bagged the three of us a long time ago. There’s a sofa in the corner, also made out of those wonderful non-stick marshmallows. I can go there and lie down and have the nightmares I need to have in order to keep my sanity. Then I can go back to the Devar-Toi, where my job isn’t just protecting myself but protecting Sheemie and Dink, too. Making sure that when we go about our covert business, it appears to the guards and their f**king telemetry that we were right where we belonged the whole time: in our suites, in The Study, maybe taking in a movie at the Gem or grabbing ice cream sodas at Henry Graham’s Drug Store and Fountain afterward. It also means continuing to Break, and every day I can feel the Beam we’re currently working on-Bear and Turtle-bending more and more.

"Get here quick, boys. That’s my wish for you. Get here just as quick as ever you can. Because it isn’t just a question of me slipping up, you know. Dinky’s got a terrible temper and a habit of going off on foul-mouthed tirades if someone pushes his hot-buttons. He could say the wrong thing in a state like that.

And Sheemie does his best, but if someone were to ask him the wrong question or catch him doing the wrong thing when I’m not around to fix it…"

Brautigan didn’t finish that particular thought. As far as his listeners were concerned, he didn’t need to.

THREE

When he begins again, it’s to tell them he was born in Milford, Connecticut, in the year 1898. We have all heard similar introductory lines, enough to know that they signal-for better or worse-the onset of autobiography.

Yet as they listen to that voice, the gunslingers are visited by another familiarity; this is true even ofOy. At first they’re not able to put their finger on it, but in time it comes to them. The story of Ted Brautigan, a Wandering Accountant instead of a Wandering Priest, is in many ways similar to that of Pere Donald Callahan. They could almost be twins. And the sixth listener-the one beyond the blanketblocked cave entrance in the windy dark-hears with growing sympathy and understanding. Why not? Booze isn’t a major player in Brautigan’s story, as it was in the Pere’s, but it’s still a story of addiction and isolation, the story of an outsider.

FOUR

At the age of eighteen, Theodore Brautigan is accepted into Harvard, whew his Uncle Tim went, and Uncle Tim-childless himself-is more than willing to pay for Ted’s higher education. And so far as Timothy Atwood knows, what happens is perfectly straightforward: offer made, offer accepted, nephew shines in all the right areas, nephew graduates and prepares to enter uncle’s furniture business after six months spent touring post-World War I Europe.

What Uncle Tim doesn’t know is that before going to Harvard, Ted tries to enlist in what will soon be known as the American Expeditionary Force. "Son, "the doctor tells him, "you ‘ve got one hell of a loud heart murmur, and your hearing is substandard. Now are you going to tell me that you came here not knowing those things would get you a red stamp"? Because, pardon me if I’m out of line, here, you look too smart for that."

And then Ted Brautigan does something he’s never done before, has sworn he neverwill do. He asks the Army doc to pick a number, not just between one and ten but between one and a thousand. To humor him

(it’s rainy in Hartford, and that means things are slow in the enlistment office), the doctor thinks of the number 748. Ted gives it back to him. Plus 419… 89… and 997. When Ted invites him to think of a famous person, living or dead, and when Ted tells him Andrew Johnson, notJackson but]ohnson, the doc is finally amazed. He calls over another doc, a friend, and Ted goes through the same rigmarole again… with one exception. He asks the second doctor to pick a number between one and a million, then tells the doctor he was thinking of eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and sixteen. The second doctor looks momentarily surprised-stunned, in fact-then covers with a big shitlicking smile. "Sorry, son," he says, "you were only off by a hundred and thirty thousand or so. "Ted looks at him, not smiling, not responding to the shitlicking smile in any way at all of which he is aware, but he’s eighteen, and still young enough to be flabbergasted by such utter and seemingly pointless mendacity. Meanwhile, Doc Number Two’s shitlicking smile has begun to fade on its own. Doc Number Two turns to Doc Number One and says "Look at his eyes, Sam-look at what’s happening to his eyes."