The Door to Lost Pages

Chapter 3 - Dregs





Aydee had stepped outside with Lucas and the dogs. She enjoyed the misty not-quite-rain and the faint glow of the morning sun attempting to pierce the flimsy cloud cover. When the weather was like this, she felt the world reflected her sense of place in life: neither this nor that; neither here nor there; perpetually on the brink of transformation; unwilling to settle for just one potentiality. The dogs turned the corner, and Lucas vanished after them.

Aydee dug her fingers into her frizzy hair, the dampness comforting her with unarticulated impressions of a nostalgia for a past entirely different from the one she had known, of a primordial memory of the essential moistness of life. She filled her lungs with the finely humid air, felt the contended smile spread on her face, and turned back inside to open Lost Pages for the day.

She was engaged in her futile morning ritual, attempting to put the perpetually chaotic shelves into at least a semblance of order, when the mail arrived. The mail carrier tended to avoid stepping too far inside the store, habitually leaving the mail on the nearest stack of books without making eye contact with either Lucas or Aydee and knocking loudly to announce the day’s delivery. But today a package needed to be signed for, so he nervously approached Aydee, darting a sharp whisper at her: “Signature.” The parcel was for Lucas; except for the occasional correspondence still addressed to Mister Rafael, the mail always was always addressed to either Lucas or the shop. Never to Aydee. Even though she worked here and lived here.

Nevertheless, Aydee sifted through the day’s mail, curious about the exotic stamps—many from countries that might not even exist, as most people reckoned things. Some of the envelopes were illuminated with strange drawings she could not quite make sense of. But it was a thick, plain, oversize white envelope with mundane stamps and no return address that most attracted her curiosity. It was addressed simply to Lost Pages. Its stark austerity intrigued her, commanded her attention.

She heard the sounds of the dogs coming from near the door. Without thinking, she stuffed the letter inside her clothes just as Lucas burst into the store with his pack.

She showed Lucas the day’s mail—minus the purloined white envelope—and, without another word, stepped through to behind the store, to the part of the house where she and Lucas lived. He was so entranced with that parcel Aydee had had to sign for that he didn’t notice—or at least comment on—the girl’s nervousness.

Aydee didn’t know why she’d hidden that envelope. Had she asked, Lucas would have shown her its contents; he wouldn’t have minded if she’d opened it without asking first. It wasn’t his way to be secretive or authoritarian with her. He might be coy, or have a flair for dramatic mystery, but he never out-and-out hid anything or deceived her.

But she wanted this letter to be hers, and hers alone. She wanted something—anything—to be hers. All this—Lost Pages, and all the wonder that came with it—it wasn’t hers. Most of the time, it all felt right, like she belonged here and nowhere else, and certainly not in the world of her nightmares. But sometimes the sensation of being a guest or even an intruder, of this new life being transitional, crept up on her and she would have to fight the panic that threatened to seize her.

Up in her room, she minutely scrutinized the letter. There was nothing to observe. Save for the address of the shop, the envelope was blank and plain. Delicately, she peeled it open and slid out the contents: a thick pile of handwritten pages, torn from a notebook, clipped together with an unsigned typewritten note.

Dear Lost Pages,

I yearn to share this story of my life with someone who will believe me. And I suspect any of you know more of the truth of this tale than I do or ever will. Initially, I thought that writing out the story as a long diary entry would suffice me, but it did not. And so, finally, I decided to send these pages to you.

I need someone to know of, and perhaps even care about, these unusual events that moved me so profoundly—some might say scarred me, but I treasure these memories too much to belittle them so.

Please forgive the anonymity—you will notice that I was careful to avoid names of people and places that might lead to my identity—but this impulse to expose the story of my life does not trump the urge to protect the contemplative privacy that finally allows me a measure of serenity that had long been denied me.

My thanks—for indulging me, yes, but for much else besides, as this tale will make clear to you.

Aydee had to control herself so as not to scream with excitement. Here was a story she needed to read: an opportunity to learn how other people, besides Lucas, besides herself, had been affected by their contact with Lost Pages. A chance, maybe, to better understand this strange life and her place in it. She bundled herself in her reading chair, enraptured.



According to an old folktale, nightmares once covered the night sky, blotting out the stars. When those creatures of darkness invaded our dreams the night sky opened up, and the stars revealed themselves.

I found the book that contained that particular story at one of my favourite teenage haunts. Lost Pages wasn’t the only bookshop I frequented, but the books I found on its shelves were . . . unique. I never saw any of these books anywhere else. Bizarre bestiaries. Dictionaries of dead, obscure languages. Maps to lands that may never have been. Essays on religions with unfamiliar names. Obscure mythologies. Accounts of wars no history teacher had ever mentioned. Such were the wares of the bookshop that fed my teenage dreams. But I left my hometown after high school, when I took my first trip overseas, and, shortly after that, went to university in another city. Lost Pages was left behind—a passing fancy of adolescence.

My parents had offered me a two-month-long voyage abroad for, as far as I could tell, two reasons. On the surface, they felt they could afford this luxury because, unlike most of my graduating class, I showed no interest in automobiles; many of my classmates were rewarded with a shiny, fashionable car for coming out of high school alive. Unspoken, however, was that my mother and father worried that I was spending too much time in my own head. They often commented, with varying degrees of tact and concern, on my lack of friends. They judged—as it turned out, wisely—that being dropped alone in the middle of foreign lands would make me notice the world around me.

And so I did. I stood next to the sea at dawn, inhaling its pungent aroma. I walked through streets too narrow for automobiles, yet bustling with human activity, loud with foreign languages and cacophonies. I ate delicately spiced foods, enjoyed an undreamt-of variety of meats, vegetables, and fruit. I wandered city avenues where lovers danced and kissed in the moonlight to the tunes of street musicians or of their own hearts. And there was so much more that I experienced. This whirlpool of exotica awakened in me unfamiliar lusts.

Two weeks into my trip—on a hot summer night at times tempered by an elusive cool breeze—I was in a port city whose hectic nightlife clustered in a busy quarter next to the docks. Club music blasted through open doorways, mixing with the sounds of outdoor performers. The women wore short, tight dresses, advertising their physical charms to potential suitors. The men, overdressed in the heat as was the fashion, sweated the night away dancing athletically, careful never to let their eyes wander from the women they coveted. I was mesmerized by the nimble performances of these dancers, the precision of their movements, the sway of their hips and shoulders, the sweat spraying from their brows as they swirled to the rhythms of the dance music.

I was tempted to dance myself, but there was no-one I wanted to impress or seduce. It was a notion I could barely contemplate. My new experiences had yet to include sex—I had never even masturbated! The sexual energy that, unknown to me then, was yearning to break free was intensifying the self-consciousness I felt over my awkward body. Not being a fashionable young man, I was dressed to be comfortable in the heat: thin cotton pants and a T-shirt. My awareness of the inadequacy of my appearance emphasized the notion that I was a child among adults; I remained a spectator.

I had been in this city for three days. Each succeeding night, I was further entranced by its vigorous nightlife, by the soulful music, by the simmering sexuality.

As the evening wore on, I grew increasingly frustrated at my inability to join in the festivities. I felt cheapened by my voyeuristic role, and I was tortured by an inner conflict—the desire to abandon myself to the surrounding merriment clashing with an unshakable fear of embarrassment. Burdened with self-loathing, I decided to return to the inn where I was staying, hoping to calm down enough to fall asleep.

On my way back, I was overtaken several times by an extreme dizziness and had to brace myself against walls or lampposts to keep myself from stumbling. I was not tired—quite the opposite! I was a nervous mess: exhilarated at the intensity of my experiences and angry with myself for my cowardice.

A block or two from the inn, while I was suffering another bout of dizziness, my hand failed to find a steady purchase, and I fell. A young man—he looked about my age—rushed to my side to help me. The skin-on-skin contact—my rescuer’s hands clasping my bare arms—was such an intense shock that I almost fainted.

I took a deep breath, and, with the stranger’s help, I got up and steadied myself. He looked vaguely familiar: slightly taller than I, dark eyes, olive skin smooth and dry despite the heat, strong sharp features, a pronounced nose, stylish black pants and white shirt. I was dazzled by what I took to be a trick of the light: highlights of green, blue, and brown shimmered in his dark hair. Probably I had seen him at one of the clubs, or in the streets among the strollers and dancers.

His gaze locked with mine as he asked me something in a language I could not understand—he spoke so fast I couldn’t even be sure which language he was speaking. He seemed genuinely concerned. I tried to mime that I was all right, livening up my risible performance with a few simple English words.

He laughed at my antics. I surprised myself by laughing along with him. I was such a serious young man. Laughing at myself was a novel experience. It somewhat attenuated my self-loathing.

Looking at my companion, I remembered the handsome men dancing to seduce the eager young women watching them. I was overcome with a vision of my new friend dancing as I had seen those men dance: his hips and shoulders swaying confidently, his seductive smile directed toward me, his eyes never straying from my body. . . .

The next thing I knew his lips were closed over mine, his tongue exploring my mouth, just as my own tongue tasted the wetness of his.

I panicked. I shoved him away. The dizziness was stronger than ever; again, I felt faint, but I struggled not to succumb to this weakness and ran to the inn.

Inside my room, I fell into the chair, closed my eyes, and took long, slow breaths. I was confused, my panicked heart thumping wildly. But I was also exhausted. I got up and started to undress, eager to climb into bed.

Taking off my pants, I was startled by the sight of my erect penis. Of course, I’d had erections before, but I’d never paid any attention to them. This one, huge and dripping, refused to be ignored. At that moment, it occurred to me that I had felt its pull all evening. Nevertheless, out of naiveté and habit and ignorance, I still neglected it.

Why had I never masturbated? Even now, I can’t really say. Not out of prudishness, and certainly not out of some strange belief that it could be evil or bad in any way—I simply hadn’t.

I crawled into bed, determined to fall asleep—despite my overengorged penis—and put this troublesome evening behind me. Tomorrow, I thought, I would check out and head for another city. I felt compelled to flee. I was too young to know that, no matter how far I fled, I could not escape myself.

The erection made it difficult for me to get comfortable. Nevertheless, I did succeed in falling asleep.

I awoke trembling with violent pleasure, and, before I could take stock of the situation, an inner explosion sent aftershocks of ecstasy rippling through my body. I was unable to make out any distinct sensation. My sense of touch was now so acute that all contact with my skin—air, sheets, anything—contributed to the sensation of being enveloped by a warm sea of delicious comfort, like a fetus blissfully floating in its world of amniotic fluid.

Slowly, I regained the ability to distinguish sensations. I felt my back bathing in a pool of sweat. I felt the cool breeze from the open window next to my bed. I felt a warm mouth around my spent cock.

My fellator was the gorgeous young man I had met earlier in the streets. His kiss had been my first. And now he had given me my first orgasm.

He must have sensed a shift in my posture; he took his mouth off my penis and stood up, examining my face. There was enough moonlight coming in from the window for me to make out his seductive, mischievous smile.

I recalled how he had so easily succeeded in making me laugh at myself. Seeing this strange and brash boy towering over me with his proudly erect cock, I could not help but recognize the comical nature of my behaviour earlier that night. What a burlesque figure I must have cut! Running scared from my own body, from my excitement, from its fulfillment, from my new friend’s beauty, from the possibilities his body offered me.

As he smiled at me, I laughed. Instantly, he was infected by my outburst. He leapt on me, and we hugged fiercely, still laughing.

After hours of exploring each other’s bodies, we lay silently in bed, my head on his chest while he stroked my hair. The first light of dawn was seeping through the window. He kissed my forehead and disentangled himself from me. I closed my eyes, savouring the lingering sensations of his touch.

I heard him fumble around the room, and, moments later, I felt his hand on my stomach. I opened my eyes to see him offering me a drink from what I took to be a bottle of wine. It was transparent, clearly revealing the amber fluid within.

Seeing me hesitate, he took a sip himself. Overcompensating for my timidity, I grabbed the bottle away from him, more roughly than I’d intended. I kneeled on the bed and, theatrically, raised the bottle to my mouth. I swung my head backward and let the dark liquid cascade down my throat, nearly gagging as a result of my eagerness to show off. Rivulets of amber flowed through the burgeoning hair of my adolescent chest. He snatched the bottle away from me before I spilled the entire contents.

I coughed to regain my breath but found myself dizzy and drowsy. The shapes around me were losing their definition. Once more, my seducer kissed me. His tongue playfully explored my mouth as I felt his fingers gently tighten around my scrotum.

I did not lose consciousness; but my sense of self dissolved into—

Fabulous creatures emerging from exploding stars. I myself am one of many laughing monsters frolicking amongst the flames of the sun. I witness great migrations of majestic undersea beasts. I am the great primeval ocean in which they thrive. I undergo uncounted metamorphoses, limbs turning into wings turning into tendrils turning into leaves turning into ripe fruit turning into stone turning into molten lava turning into dark ambrosia trickling down the throats of unfathomable deities turning into a thin old man wracked by ceaseless physical pain turning into a glowing snake changing colour with every flick of its tail while negotiating a path through high and dense grass turning into a pantheon of gods smashing planets asunder for their amusement turning into a stomach growling to be fed turning into a baby suckling at its mother’s teat turning into a host of dark shapes writhing in the sky.

I was struck silent, stunned by this torrent of hallucinatory visions—if visions they were.

My companion kissed my chest, and then rose from the bed. He drank the amber liqueur down to its dregs. He looked at the bottle longingly, then bent down to kiss me. I tasted his tears. He carefully positioned the bottle on the night table. Did his feet and hands turn into claws? Did scales sprout from his flesh? Did his moist mouth take the shape of a beak? Did wings with feathers of green, blue, and brown rise tall above his shoulders? Did he fly through the ceiling and into heavens as strange as those I had just glimpsed?

I lay in bed immobile, listening to the furious sound of beating wings.

When I could move once again, I stared at the nearly empty bottle. Were it not for the evidence of that bottle I might have dismissed the events of the last several hours as feverish delusions. No, my erotic adventure had been real enough; the delightful tingling that lingered on my skin and the musky smell of sweat and semen attested well enough to that. But as to what came after I drank the mysterious liquid . . . had my lover slipped me a powerful hallucinogen? To what purpose? Stupidly paranoid, I immediately convinced myself that he had robbed me.

I sprang from the bed in search of my pants. I found my wallet undisturbed. I rummaged around the room and calmed myself down. Nothing was missing.

It would be many years before I made any sense of my bizarre encounter.

I enjoyed the remainder of my holiday more than I had previously anticipated, as I eagerly explored myriad new worlds of taste, smell, sound, beauty, and sex. I returned home only briefly. University was a few days away.

My parents immediately noticed a change in me. I was more alert. My eyes were brighter, and I smiled much more easily. My parents deluged me with questions about my trip.

Ordinarily, I would have fled from such a barrage of attention. But I knew they were only happy to see me, and that they would miss me once I was gone to university. Also, I was very grateful for their gift to me, that vacation that I couldn’t have known how much I needed. Of course, I would answer their questions. But I also knew that I could not be entirely candid.

They asked about the bottle I had brought back as a souvenir. I answered coyly that it was to remind me of someone special. They did not press the issue, not wanting to embarrass either me or themselves. Their thoughts were transparent. They were imagining some exotic girl, nice but not too nice, who had deflowered their shy son. The reality would have shocked them, as, in fact, would the extent of my sexual escapades. So I gave them a nice, polished version of my travels: enough details for them to know that their idea had been a success. But I was also vague enough to let them to understand—by omission—how much of one it had been.

Yes, I had kept the bottle. It was not quite empty. There were some dregs, some few lingering drops. I was both tempted and scared to sample the liquid again. I did not know what to make of its effects—if indeed it had been responsible for my vivid hallucinations—and I was loath to waste what little there was left. I thought of diluting the remains in water. Drinking the results only occasionally, slowly learning to understand the visions it bestowed upon me. It was too soon. I put the bottle away, intending to leave the decision to a later time when I would have the leisure to think properly.

The few days between the return from my voyage and my departure for university went by with alarming rapidity. Did it occur to me at the time to visit Lost Pages? I can’t remember—but, even if it had, I would not have been able to find the time to go. And how could I have known what to look for?

To facilitate my preparations, my mother had already packed most of my personal effects. My clothes were neatly folded into old suitcases. My books had already been stored in boxes, ready to be shipped to my dormitory.

In this new life, my time and mind were now occupied with my studies and the string of tedious jobs I had decided to take in order to afford an apartment that would secure me the privacy dormitory life failed to provide. I was discreet and avoided permanent entanglements. I attracted—and was attracted to—those who yearned for an intimacy that would not shatter their daily lives or their other, more public, attachments. Mostly men, but also occasionally women.

I rarely returned home to my parents. They saw me for some, though not all, of the customary holidays and requisite family events. Those visits were short and never included enough time to visit my old haunts. It was as though my previous identity had been supplanted by a new one that recognized no continuity with the past. Everything I had experienced before university—more precisely, before that fateful summer trip—might as well have happened to someone else.

Eventually, teaching assignments supplemented the scholarships I earned, and the two sources of income allowed me to quit migrating between minimum-wage jobs to support myself.

One night a young woman—a mischievous student whom I had met the previous semester while teaching an undergraduate survey class—noticed the bottle on a shelf among other knickknacks nestled between piles of books.

On the floor of my living room, we were naked, the sweat of sex clinging to our cooling bodies. We were laughing at everything and nothing until the laughter escalated into a wrestling match. I had her pinned down between my legs, mercilessly digging my fingers into her ticklish belly, but, in a surprise manoeuvre, she managed to squirm and jump away from me.

She ended up on the far side of the room, staring at the bottle. She called me over to her. “Look at how the light catches.” She pointed with one hand and squeezed my buttocks with the other. “It’s beautiful.”

At the bottom of the bottle, where light hit the amber liquid, miniature rainbows danced. If I tried to concentrate on any particular aspect of this tiny spectacle, it hid from my sight. I had to absorb the phenomenon in its entirety, or not at all.

Why had I never noticed this? Had this effect been going on unnoticed all these years?

How could I know? I had found it simpler to ignore my memento. I suppose I passively cherished its presence, but I had yet to pursue—or even to contemplate pursuing—my investigation of its contents. A council of unacknowledged, intertwined fears sat at the heart of my negligence: that my life of pleasure would be shattered by the revelations awaiting at the conclusion of a successful investigation; that there were no answers to be found; that the liquid would turn out to be nothing more than wine or some other mundane beverage; that I had those many years ago lost my grip on sanity and been besieged by delusions; that my great moment of epiphany rested on an instance of madness; that the foundations of my personality were too fragile to withstand close scrutiny. However, these personal insights were still in my future, some time later than that evening, when I stood in my living room, my naked body pressed against my lover’s soft back, as we both stared at the contents of my precious bottle.

The dregs appeared somewhat more substantial than I remembered. Hadn’t there been but a few drops? There was now a pool at the bottom of the bottle.

“Tell me the story,” demanded my lover, tucking a stray strand of her blond hair behind one ear.

“What do you mean?” Unsuccessfully, I attempted to resume our tickling match.

“Stop it! There must be a story! What are you hiding? Tell me. Tell me!”

I had never revealed the story behind this bottle. Except for my parents upon my return from my fateful voyage, no-one had thought to ask.

I had never told anyone.

Suddenly, I felt the tremendous weight of this secret. In her curious, smiling face, I sensed the potential for release and relief. To finally relate the events that had changed my life.

I must have been silent for longer than I realized. She was gently stroking my chest. I noticed her looking at me, worried.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes?” she whispered back at me.

I led her into the bedroom, and, then, I told her.

I told her everything. My whole life. She listened to my ramblings, paid attention to every word. She never grew impatient—or at least was sensitive enough to my needs not to show it if she did. Somewhere in this great mess of a narrative, the bottle’s story came out. I omitted no detail, no matter how utterly embarrassing or unbelievably fantastic.

Why did I trust her so when I had never allowed myself to open up to anyone in this fashion before? Because I needed to. I do not mean to undermine or diminish the depth of her empathy or her curious intelligence, and certainly not the quality of her companionship. No doubt all of these aspects of her combined to trigger my realization of this great need, this great chasm, in my life. My need may not have necessarily been to share with her, but without her I would not have been able to acknowledge—much less satisfy—it.

I can’t remember how or when, but my confession segued into sex. There is no clear dividing line in my memory between the two. It was all communion—I thought I understood that word more deeply than ever before. I lost myself in my lover and became one with her.

I also can’t remember when sex turned into sleep. One moment I was intoxicated by my lover’s smells, our smells, the pungency of our bodily secretions . . . the next I was waking up, languorously serene, to see her eyes scrutinizing my face.

I took her hand and kissed it. “I—”

“Don’t say . . . don’t say anything. Shh.” She placed her fingers over my mouth. Her eyes avoided mine. “Don’t.”

We had been hugging in silence for a short while when she said, “We should get going. We both have busy days today.” I grabbed her wrist and looked at her watch. She knew that my next class was to start in fifty minutes. I prided myself on my punctuality. I would not make my seventy-five students wait.

I was irritated that she knew my schedule. I wondered—silently—about her own affairs. What did I know of her? I became ashamed of myself, ashamed at my selfishness, my egocentrism. Did I ever inquire into her daily grind? Did I ever show any interest in the details that made up her life? I hid that lack of interest under a veneer of sophistication, under the idea that we met not to encumber each other with the boring minutiae of our quotidian routines but to escape into an oasis of sexual delight. But wasn’t all that a petty excuse to forgive myself for the lack of interest I exhibited in my friends and lovers? I was such a peacock. I was embarrassed; I now saw myself as a clumsy, transparent, ridiculous jester. As someone whose relationships didn’t matter, didn’t mean anything. As someone who didn’t matter, neither to myself nor to anyone else.

I fled to the bathroom, using the time as a convenient excuse. Any notion of communion had been shattered. I heard her walk around the apartment, heard the clinking of a belt buckle as she was getting dressed.

“Gotta rush! See you soon!” she shouted from two rooms away. In my agitated, self-engrossed state, I failed to fully register the uncomfortable and distant timbre of her tone. I heard the door open and close.

I turned my mind away from introspection and, instead, toward the busy day ahead of me. I washed and dressed in a precise hurry and managed to step into my classroom a few seconds early.

That day was interminable. Illusions had been destroyed, and I was in no shape to deal with the wreckage. I yearned to see her, yet dreaded the prospect. I needed and feared her. Was it brave to stay alone? Was it cowardly to not call her, or anyone? Alone, I could hide from eyes that could penetrate my thin carapace. With a lover, I could lose myself in erotic fulfillment. No matter what I did, I was hiding.

That evening, I was too restless to read or work. I couldn’t find any comfort in music; the familiarity of my record collection irritated me, and the radio was intolerably banal. I ate incessantly, stuffing food—raw vegetables, crackers, baking chocolate . . . whatever I could find—into my mouth continuously, as if the slightest respite would allow some unnameable threat to invade my innards.

It was only nine o’clock when I decided to go to bed. Beforehand, remembering the previous night, I felt compelled to walk to the shelf where rested the memento from my coming-of-age voyage. I stared at the pool of liquid at the bottom of the bottle, dazzled by its luminous effervescence and haunted by ambiguous memories. I tipped the bottle and let the spectacle of liquid and light cascade up and down the sides of the glass. I uncorked the bottle, brought it to my nose, and smelled its contents. I was no longer the inexperienced, ignorant youth who had first encountered the liquid years ago. Nevertheless, I still could not identify the fragrance that escaped from the open bottle.

I closed my eyes and savoured the exotic aroma. My lips caressed the mouth of the bottle as I recalled—with both wonder and unease—how I had come to possess it. The dampness on the glass ridge shocked me. I clamped down on the memories and emotions the taste evoked as firmly as I recorked the bottle. I licked the trace of liquid from my lips.

And I suddenly felt awake and vigorous. And aroused. So aroused, it pushed everything else from my mind. So aroused, it hurt. I decided to take a shower, planning to masturbate while enjoying the hot steam.

As I entered the bathroom, I saw him in the mirror. His beautiful face. The subtle, mesmerizing colours running through his hair.

But he was wearing my clothes, was standing where I stood.

I had turned into a doppelganger of the mysterious lover who had left only that bottle behind—exactly as he’d looked all those years ago, when he’d kissed me.

I collapsed, tears storming out of me. Then my head exploded, and the bathroom vanished around me, to be replaced by—

I am a boy looking at myself everywhere in the world. I am everyBODY in the world. I gorge on my own flesh, my arm stuffed down my throat. HE is nowhere. I am dancing. There are many of me. I am a boy. I am a girl. I am a man. I am a woman. I am dancing. With each whirl I take off a piece of clothing. The boys, the girls, the men, the women—I, I, I, and I take off my clothes. I and I and I and I have sex. I MAN insert my penis in an anus BOY in a mouth GIRL in a vagina WOMAN. I WOMAN rub my vulva on the stomachs of myself BOYGIRLMAN lying on the ground. I laugh and cry. I am reading a book. Every page is a mirror. I see myself but I do not look like me. I am handsome. I am beautiful. I am charming. I am elegant. I am strong. I am vulnerable. I am everywhere and it is me. It is my body. I am not me. I am a boy. I look down MY HEAD TURNS AND SPINS and there is a boy licking my anus but it is not him. It is not me. He looks up at me. Smiling and laughing, laughing and crying. He kisses me. I taste semen in his mouth. I take off my penis and offer it to him. I run. There are many people. None of them are me. None of them are him. They all laugh but they do not cry. I shout: WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU NOT HIM? Still they do not cry. Where is he? The sound of beating wings. I can see myself IT IS NOT THE BODY OF A BOY running, my cloven hooves hitting the pavement, the amber blood coursing through the thick veins bulging from my hairless naked body, the lack of genitals at my crotch, the huge mouth with thick amber lips and big white teeth gaping from my belly, my full breasts covered with thick amber veins bumping against my chest. My head is spinning out of control. I am not him. On the one side, below the ring of eyes crowning my head, a penis and scrotum protrude from my face, flapping around. On the other side, a wet vulva opens deep down inside my throat. I cannot cry. No tears will come. I am not a boy. I hear the furious din of beating wings. I do not see him. The black shapes come and smother me THE BODY THAT IS NOT A BOY. There is no sound. Swirling rainbows of GREENBLUEBROWN erupt from the darkness. There are bodies everywhere. Of every shape. I recognize no body.

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.

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.