The Dark Tower - Stephen King [119]
A pause. The reels spun. All four of them could sense Brautigan thinking hard.
“No, that’s not quite right,” he said at last. “What morks don’t like is to be caught in an emotionally vulnerable state. Angry, happy, in tears or fits of hysterical laughter, anything like that. It would be like you fellows going into a dangerous situation without your guns.
“For a long time, I was alone here. I was a mork who cared, whether I liked it or not. Then there was Sheemie, brave enough to accept comfort if comfort was offered. And Dink, who was willing to reach out. Most morks are selfish introverts masquerading as rugged individualists—they want the world to see them as Dan’l Boone types—and the Algul staff loves it, believe me. No community is easier to govern than one that rejects the very concept of community. Do you see why I was attracted to Sheemie and Dinky, and how lucky I was to find them?”
Susannah’s hand crept into Eddie’s. He took it and squeezed it gently.
“Sheemie was afraid of the dark,” Ted continued. “The low men—I call em all low men, although there are humes and taheen at work here as well as can-toi—have a dozen sophisticated tests for psychic potential, but they couldn’t seem to realize that they had caught a halfwit who was simply afraid of the dark. Their bad luck.
“Dinky understood the problem right away, and solved it by telling Sheemie stories. The first ones were fairy-tales, and one of them was ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ Sheemie was fascinated by the idea of a candy house, and kept asking Dinky for more details. So, you see, it was Dinky who actually thought of the chocolate chairs with the marshmallow seats, the gumdrop arch, and the candy-cane banister. For a little while there was a second floor; it had the beds of the Three Bears in it. But Sheemie never cared much for that story, and when it slipped his mind, the upstairs of Casa Gingerbread…” Ted Brautigan chuckled. “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 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.