The Door to Lost Pages (9 page)

I woke up with a debilitating headache, having no idea how long I’d slept—if I’d slept at all—profoundly disgusted by my . . . hallucination? . . . nightmare? . . . whatever that had been. I was terrified by its oppressive self-loathing. And what was I to make of the monstrous hermaphroditic creature “I” had turned into? Cold dread spread through my bones.

I had fallen on the floor, and I’d bruised my head and elbows. Reluctantly, I propped myself back up. The mirror revealed I was myself again. Not a monster, and not my mysterious lover either.

It was that bottle. That strange liquid was some sort of drug that produced powerful hallucinations. Of course—I thought—I had never turned into anything or anyone else.

Ignoring my aches and bruises, I stomped to the shelf where I kept the bottle. I picked it up, considered smashing it. Or just throwing it away. Instead, I put it in a box in the broom closet, unable to deal with it decisively.

I spent the rest of the day dawdling—doing this and that, not really accomplishing anything, distracting myself with little pleasures: listening to favourite records, rereading cherished stories. In the end, it was another long, dreary day. But I managed to dismiss that frightening vision as nothing more than the result of that awful potion combined with my fragile emotional state.

A few days later, I ran into my young blond lover at the university; but her eyes avoided mine, and I had to acknowledge what, I suddenly realized, I already knew. Ah well . . . I had claimed not to want serious attachments, hadn’t I? I’d promised her sexual fun and ended up needing emotional comfort.

I broke off all my sexual liaisons and for a year or so mainly kept to myself. I needed that year to redefine my identity, to dig within myself, to discover the tools with which to rebuild myself.

I pushed the bottle—its contents and its disturbing visions—far from my thoughts, relegating it to a neglected corner of my consciousness.

I took to solitude rather well. It reminded me of my childhood, when I spent days sequestered in my bedroom, content with the company of my books.

Eventually, I made new friends, or rather acquaintances. I met no-one significant. I shared lunches, occasionally went out to the theatre and such. I surprised myself by staying celibate. My sex drive had simply faded away. Years passed. I took a position as Associate Professor in my department.

One spring, I flew to my hometown, dreading a family event that I couldn’t avoid—a cousin’s wedding—and my parents died in a fire. The house burned down—a kitchen accident, the investigators later established. The street was sealed off; my cab had to drop me off a block away. It was an impressive, angry blaze. After it had spent its fury, nothing from the house was salvageable. I was told my parents died quickly. The wedding wasn’t postponed. I didn’t attend.

Mom and Dad had always been so kind to me. Ours had been a peaceful and supportive household. I didn’t have a single resentful memory, and yet I found myself unable to grieve. Not numb, not sad, not even relieved; just—and I hate to admit this—indifferent.

A year later, I used the money from the estate to buy a new house. I was charmed by the building upon first seeing it. The deal was quickly concluded, and within weeks I left my old apartment. I successfully arranged the main floor in a few days, making it fully operational and pleasing to inhabit.

The upstairs of the house remained in complete disarray. I had been renovating, organizing, and unpacking for weeks, but I just couldn’t seem to make things gel. I was too excited at the prospect of creating this dream space. I wanted to do everything at once, with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy, but the dwindling energy of a man nearing forty. The box now before me had not been opened in years, judging by the brittleness of the packing tape. A box my mother had packed many years ago when I had left my parents’ home for university. Despite the mess around me, the pull of curiosity and nostalgia overwhelmed other concerns, and I tore open the box with an eagerness I hadn’t felt in years, maybe decades.

It was filled with semi-forgotten books—all books I’d purchased at Lost Pages. They had such sensationalistic titles:
The Transfiguration of Gilgamesh
,
Antediluvian Folktales
,
Intrigues and Scandals of the Lemurian Court
,
The Trickster among Us
,
Great Migrations of Extinct Branches of the Genus Homo
, and so forth. Just the kind of thing to excite a lonely boy’s imagination. The more scholarly titles on the shelves of Lost Pages, many of which featured names and words—not to mention languages—that were, to me, alien and unrecognizable, had always intimidated me, though the serious young boy I had been would never have admitted it.

Antediluvian Folktales
exerted a particular pull on me. Why had I never unpacked these before? They’d lain forgotten for so long. I grabbed the folktale collection, and the shop’s distinctive green, blue, and brown bookmark fell out. Ignoring the huge task before me, I opened the book and started reading. After the first half-dozen short tales, I started remembering when I’d first read the book at age fourteen, in late August, just before school started. And then an image lodged itself in my mind, from a story I now remembered for the first time since then. I flipped through the book impatiently, trying to find a particular passage to confirm my memory. On my fifth or sixth run-through, I found it: “. . . the rich fullness of his wings, the shifting colours of his feathers, the bright sparkle of his scales, the sharpness of his beak . . .” My heart beat anxiously against my chest. I had to take several deep breaths to calm myself. I flipped back to the beginning of the tale, “Why We Dream Nightmares.”

Long ago, in the time before the Earth had taken the shape of a globe and so night was night and day was day throughout the world, the Shifpan-Shap flew every night, battling nightmares with their mighty weapons. After the sun disappeared over the horizon, the nightmares covered the whole sky with their great number, determined to descend into the dreams of women, men, children, and animals. Every night, the Shifpan-Shap fought them to a standstill, never letting a single nightmare break through their ranks. If only one of them entered the realm of dreams, the war would be lost, and nightmares would plague the land of dreams forevermore. In those days, the night sky was pitch black; no stars could shine through the dense darkness of the attacking horde. When the morning sun rose on the horizon, the nightmares cowered back into the dark embrace of their creator, Yamesh-Lot, who yearned to rule the land of dreams.

Every morning, the Shifpan-Shap uttered a great cry of victory, mocking the retreating nightmares and rousing humanity and other animals to wakefulness. The Shifpan-Shap then flew back into the city of Shifpan-Ur—the lustre of their green, blue, and brown feathers revealed by the morning sun—to rest and prepare for the next night’s campaign.

One of the Shifpan-Shap, Behl Jezath, was a proud and fierce warrior. Many of the Shifpan-Shap admired his youthful beauty, and the delights of his body were much coveted. Although Behl Jezath knew the love of many, he had only love for himself. Often he would hover over still water to glance at his reflection. How he admired the rich fullness of his wings, the shifting colours of his feathers, the bright sparkle of his scales, the sharpness of his beak, the smooth girth of his phallus!

Behl Jezath grew older, as all Shifpan-Shap did in those days. His wings thinned out, his scales lost some of their sheen, his beak acquired a certain bluntness, and wrinkles appeared on his phallus. Before, his splendid beauty had been so dazzling that it outshone his great vanity. Now that his beauty was dimming, the harsh glare of his pride drove his lovers away.

Embittered, the aging Shifpan-Sho spent more and more time away from his people. In broad daylight, he flew far from Shifpan-Ur. From high above he spied on the women, men, and children that the Green Blue and Brown God had entrusted to the Shifpan-Shap’s protection. The lustful eyes of Behl Jezath fell on the young men just old enough to no longer be called boys. He saw them play with their burgeoning genitals, enjoying themselves and each other.

The Green Blue and Brown God had forbidden the Shifpan-Shap from fornicating with mortal animals, upon punishment of having their wings torn from their backs, but Behl Jezath’s lust was overpowering. Day after day he flew high in the sky spying on the young men, desiring their muscular bodies and their smooth phalluses, tempting himself with this forbidden passion.

One day, Behl Jezath decided to hide behind some trees, near a spot where the young men often gathered for their sex games. He wanted to be close to the young men. He wanted to be able to smell their muskiness and to see their beautiful bodies up close.

The young men came as expected, and the hidden Shifpan-Sho smelled their young manliness and admired their muscular bodies. Their proximity was intoxicating to the old warrior. Behl Jezath took his wrinkled phallus in the palm of his claw and rubbed himself to ejaculation. So intense was his pleasure that his wings unfurled in splendid glory. He uttered a great shrill cry. The young men scattered in fear.

Behl Jezath flew away, back to Shifpan-Ur to rest in preparation for that night’s battle with the nightmare legions of Yamesh-Lot. And, as he had been doing with increasing frequency, he dreamed of the young men and the sex games he yearned to play with them.

That night, a nightmare embroiled in close combat with Behl Jezath smelled the lingering aroma of his dreams. The nightmare whispered into Behl Jezath’s ear and said to the Shifpan-Sho: “Warrior! My master, Yamesh-Lot, can make your dreams come true. Let me go to him now and let us meet again tomorrow night in this very spot. I will bring you the means to fulfill your dreams.”

The lust coursing through Behl Jezath’s veins was very powerful, and he let the nightmare return to its dark master.

The sun rose. The nightmares retreated. The Shifpan-Shap uttered their cry of triumph and returned to Shifpan-Ur to rest in preparation for the next night’s battle.

Behl Jezath could not sleep all day, restless with conflicting impulses and emotions: anticipation, lust, pride, honour, loyalty, betrayal, shame.

The following night, the nightmare returned as promised, clutching a bottle. The creature whispered in the old warrior’s ear: “Let me pass, and you can take this bottle, the cornucopia of ambrosia. This drink will transform you into your heart’s desire. One sip, and you can disguise yourself as a young human male—or whatever you desire—veiled from the wrath of the Green Blue and Brown God and free to enjoy the bodies of young men. As long as one drop remains, it will forever replenish itself. This bottle is Yamesh-Lot’s gift to you, warrior, if you let me pass and enter the realm of mortal dreams.”

Behl Jezath replied: “How do I know this is not a trick, nightmare? You could easily be lying in order to win the war for your dark master.”

The nightmare immediately answered: “Warrior, I propose a test! Form a clear picture in your mind of your heart’s desire, and I will let a drop of the ambrosia fall on your tongue. One drop will transform you only for a short time, but it will be enough for you to believe in the power of this beverage.”

Behl Jezath agreed to this test. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a young Shifpan-Sho with his wings rich and dense, his scales bright as little suns, his phallus smooth and large, for that was his true desire.

The nightmare let a drop fall on the tongue of the aging Behl Jezath. The Shifpan-Sho felt his wings fill out, he could see his scales glitter even in the darkness of night, and his phallus was restored to its full girth.

He remembered the smell of the young men and his newly young body was filled with lust for them. Then, the effect of the one drop of ambrosia wore off, and the body of Behl Jezath regained its true age.

The nightmare said: “Warrior, that was the effect of only one drop! Are you convinced? Are we agreed?”

Behl Jezath hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we are agreed, nightmare.”

The next day, the Green Blue and Brown God was furious with the Shifpan-Shap for letting a nightmare into the land of dreams. He punished them by turning them all into immortal skeletons, forever denied all sensual pleasures. When the Green Blue and Brown God meted out his punishment, Behl Jezath was hidden from the god’s view. Thanks to the properties of the nightmare’s bribe, he was disguised as a young man, trying to find other young men with whom to play sex games. However, the young men no longer played sex games amongst themselves. Their new nightmares taught them to fear such things. Frustrated, Behl Jezath flew back to Shifpan-Ur. His punished brethren saw his unspoiled form. They knew then that he had betrayed them to Yamesh-Lot, and they banished him from their midst for all time.