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 o
n 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.
And so it came to pass that Yamesh-Lot won the war over the land of dreams. However, his nightmares no longer covered the night sky, and the shining stars were the source of new dreams for humanity, dreams outside the reach of the dark lord.
Trembling slightly, I sat on the floor, silently but nervously pondering this story. After awhile, I calmed down again and read the rest of the collection. There were no other references to these characters, to this tale. In an appendix, the author quoted some sources and suggested further reading for each story. “Why We Dream Nightmares” had but one reference: Ambrosia: The History of a Cornucopia of Transformation.
I picked up the bookmark from the floor, remembering the many hours spent at Lost Pages. I knew I would not find the volume anywhere else. The book was on the shelves of the shop, waiting for me. It had to be.
It would have to wait, I thought. The next few days were filled with engagements from which I could not, in good conscience, extricate myself. I was also dimly aware of, although not dealing with, the anxieties that gnawed at me: about where all this might lead and the possibility that it would, in fact, lead to nowhere. Almost any excuse was good enough to cause a delay. I suppose I could have called the bookshop in advance to make sure they had the book, or to ask to have it put aside for me, or to ask to have it delivered to me. But I needed the quest, the adventure of visiting the place once again, of finding the book myself.
I knew in which box to find the bottle. I took it out and held it up to my face. The pool of liquid was now several centimetres deep, the bottle nearly half full.
Three days later, tense and anxious, I was on a plane to my hometown. The last time I’d been there was to settle the last of my parents’ affairs, about eight months ago.
As I had hoped, I found the book at Lost Pages.
Inside the bookshop, I recognized the young boy who had once been the shopkeeper’s assistant, now grown up. He appeared now to be running the place with an assistant of his own, a girl in her early teens. I did not attempt to identify myself to him as a long-lost customer. I quickly made my purchase, promising myself to return one day and take the time to enjoy the experience. This short trip was an indulgence my schedule could barely accommodate.
I took a cab to the airport. The terminal was bustling. Long lineups writhed in irritated impatience. Indecipherable announcements fizzled from unseen speakers. Travellers and personnel crisscrossed the huge room every which way.
A hand brushed against mine. I was aroused by the intensity of that elusive touch. I looked around, in vain, hoping to find the source of this furtive sexual thrill. I shivered—like an eager teenage boy.
Frustrated, I joined the lineup for my airline and eventually secured a boarding pass. My plane was scheduled to start boarding in fifty minutes. I settled on a bench and savoured the anticipation of cracking open my new acquisition, eager to find answers to questions I’d long neglected.
About ten minutes later, I suddenly felt very dizzy, as if all the blood had rushed out of my head. I had to brace myself on my neighbour. At the contact, he turned his head toward me.
His face was beautiful. He now appeared to be about my age, but how could I not recognize the features of the boy who had been the first to kiss me? His greying hair had lost some of it lustre, but I thought I could still glimpse hints of green, blue, and brown.
Staring at the bulge in my pants, he laughed. With the embarrassment of a boy, I noticed my conspicuously large erection.
I regained my composure—partly because of the pleasant nostalgia his good humour called up, but also because I recognized the comical nature of my situation. I chuckled, but then a spiky chill tore down my chest.
I knew who he was, now. What he was.
I opened my mouth, ready to . . . interrogate him? Plead with him? Or . . . I never found out what I would have said. He placed two fingers on my mouth, tenderly silencing me. He looked hurt. No. Something else. Some emotion I couldn’t grasp. I longed to know him better, to understand his every gesture, his every expression.
He seemed to shrug off whatever he was feeling, and he smiled. He gave me a look—of deep compassion, perhaps? It made me feel profoundly lonely.
I realized then how, these past few years, I still hadn’t learned to care about anyone. I still protected myself against intimacy. Now, I was overcome by how much I wanted to care about him, care for him. It suddenly seemed so obvious to me that I’d spent all these years trying to recapture the transcendence I’d experienced when he’d seduced me and, failing to ever again reach those heights of ecstasy, how I’d shielded myself against my inevitable disappointments.
He clamped his hand behind my neck and gave me a fierce kiss. He released me, and nodded upward, silently telling me that I should go. My flight was being called.
I looked into his eyes, but they refused to yield any answers. Stifling tears, I nodded back, got up, and walked toward the gate. I didn’t look back. I was afraid to see in his eyes the gaze of a stranger. The sound of beating wings drowned out the ambient noise around me. Did I imagine that?
I told myself that it was his wish that I leave.
Two days later, in my house, in this upstairs room that was still not organized to my satisfaction, I sat with my eyes shut; the book, Ambrosia: The History of a Cornucopia of Transformation, closed on my lap. I studiously read every word. How had the author found all that information? I felt a surge of envy at his ability to uncover so much about my seducer’s mysterious life.
The book revealed many of the identities Behl Jezath adopted and speculated on many more. It detailed years, centuries, millennia spent in solitude—hiding and fleeing from the pride of his youth and its consequences. It told of epochs wiped from human memory. It described how Behl Jezath’s continued life depended on the bottle of ambrosia, the memento of his terrible moment of weakness.
What would happen to him now? Why did he give me the bottle? Why had I been such a coward at the airport? Too many unanswerable questions. . . .
I stared at the bottle. It rested on the side table next to my armchair. The light from the window caught the slowly rising pool of ambrosia. Rainbows danced and swirled, flowing and erupting from the amber fluid.
That night, I sat on the roof and tried to look at the stars. But it was
overcast. I closed my eyes, felt the chill of the early autumn wind against my cheeks, and dreamt of the furious beating of multicoloured wings.
When Lucas called out to her as he knocked on her door, Aydee realized that she was crying, and had been doing so for a while.
“Are you okay, Aydee? You’ve been cooped up in there for hours. Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”
She hesitated before replying, worried her voice might betray her tears. “I’m fine. I just have a lot of thinking to do today. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“You know I always will, though. Come down whenever you’re hungry. I’ll leave the leftovers in the fridge, top shelf. But take whatever time you need.”
A dog scratched at the door to be let in. Lucas asked, “Can Gold come in?”
“Sure.”
Lucas opened the door just enough for Gold to barrel in—Aydee noticed how Lucas was careful not to peek inside uninvited—and then shut it again. Lucas trusted her so much.
She never showed him the letter.
Chapter 4 - Dark Tendrils
Kurt was four years old when he found the rock shaped like a star. His grandparents lived next to a little beach. He spent that whole summer there, loving every moment of it. They built fires, waded in the ocean, hunted for seashells. For many years, even into adulthood, whenever he held the star-stone and closed his eyes, he would smell the ocean the way it had smelled to him then: like another world. Like the promise of magic. If such a majestic thing as the ocean were possible—if the world contained such an immense creation, and if that creation’s fragrance could be so intoxicatingly complex—then anything could be possible.
The Door to Lost Pages Page 6