Through the Gate of Dreams 7:3 & 8

​



​“All will be made clear in its time.”

“Then I will begin my search for him, how hard could that be?”

“Difficult it will be.”

“Why?”

“He could be anywhere in this realm.”

“Oh.  How big is this place?”

“We are in the central city. Across the Cerenian Sea lie the lands of northern and ancient Leng, and beyond that in the high misty mountains lies hidden Kaddath of the cold waste where it has been said gods choose to dance. Far off to the east beyond the middle ocean can be found the City of Id on the shores of deep lake of Sarnath where doom crept up and came upon its inhabitants or it will. There is the pillared city of Irem lost amongst the burning sands of time deep in the Eastern desert, to the south is the lush jungle of Parg, the wicked sea port of Dylath-Leen, and the deadly lands of Zura and Zar; to the west the cities of Meroe, Khem, Oonai; and at the edge of this whole realm lies the basalt pillars.  They are tempting and dangerous to seek or transgress. Vast is this realm. You could spend several lifetimes exploring its wide expanse.[1] As we said, this land is vast.”

“Can you give me a little hint?  Drop some bread crumps for me to follow?”

“When the time is right, you will be able to pick up his trail. The time for searching is not now. Now is the time for you to bring your mind to focus on our will. We will make those two who prompted you to come, fade from your memory. You need only concern yourself with us and our needs. That task will fade from your memory till we deem it right for you to take up the search. For now, simply forget. You will now leave our presence Lamont, and know that you have been blessed by us and are thus always welcome here at our home.”

I want to know more, want to ask more questions, I know I should be asking more questions…but…about what?  Something has happened…I’m not sure what.  I feel odd and confused.  Something is not right, but the tone in Tezcat’s voice says clearly, ‘don’t mess with me.’  I don’t think this is the time, or the place, to confront her.  I’d just better go with the program.  Even though I don’t have much more information than what I came in with.  I bow to Tezcat and kiss her outstretched hand.  She curls back up on her couch, closes her eyes and I hear a faint purr of pleasure as she drifts off into some astral plane.

 
CHAPTER EIGHT

“OH GREAT.  THE FOOLISH MALE GOT HIMSELF INTO A REAL MESS.”



​
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1979
LAMONT

Upon leaving her throne room, I’m met by a jaguar, which escorts me to a small chamber that has a statue of Tezcat against the back wall.  Its set upon a bare altar covered with thick accumulation of dust and spider webs.  No one has been here in years, hundreds of them.  I clean up the altar, light some incense and give one of those all-purpose-thanks-offerings to Tezcat.  I leave the temple and return to my explorations of this amazing city.

The busy streets are filled with people who are dressed for other times and other places, as if they were all plucked from out of time and space and brought whimsically together.  Here, it’s a never-ending carnival or costume party.  Where did they all come from?  Could any of them be my neighbors?  My parents?  No.  Not my parents.  Somehow, I feel that could not be.  Their fervent minds filled with the sharp white of True Faith and True Darkness would not be able to wander freely in their own dream space to ever find the gateway to this place.  If this is a place and not just my own imaginings.  How can I really tell?

A sound catches my ears.  I attach a picture to the sound as I spot a messy longhaired youth in black boots, frayed jeans, and a garish Alice Cooper tee shirt running away from a Victorian-dressed women who appears as if she’s out for a Sunday stroll.  The woman says something about her parasol.  As the punk runs past me, I see in his hand a white parasol with pink trim.  All around me agitation ripples through the people in the street, offended by what’s transpiring.  Yet, no one’s doing anything.

A Quixotic sense of justice and fairness begins to overcome everything else.  I turn and run after the punk.  I pursue him through the twisting streets, following in his wake as he pushes his way through the milling shoppers.

“Hey!  Come back with that parasol!”  I shout.

As if that is going to get results. Oddly it does.  He turns.  Stops.  And glares at me with amused contempt, as he waits for me to catch up to him.

“Who the hell do you think you are motherfucker?  A no-clothes cop?”

The rashness of my actions catches up with me, as does my breath from the chase.  I can’t think of much else to say in response, so I blurt out, “Why don’t you give me back the parasol and let’s forget the whole thing?”

Unfortunately, as I have a chance to really check him out, he doesn’t look like the forgetting type.

“What the fuck is a par-ass-ol?”

“It’s what you have in your hand.”  I reply like a teacher talking to a five-year-old.

“Oh.  You mean this stupid um-brell-ah.”

He holds it up and begins to shake its point at me.  “Listen motherfucker, nobody messes with us.”

“Us?  You appear to be alone.”

“Jee-sus, you are one butt ass dumb newcomer aren’t you?”

“Newcomer yes.  I resent the rest.”

“Ree-sent?  I’ll show you ree-sent!”

With that, he gazes at the parasol in a malevolent grin and it begins to glow.  The top half of it reforms itself into a rapier blade.  I continue to watch with fascination as he very deliberately and skillfully shoves the blade into my chest.

“Hope you like your fucking pair-ass-hole!”

I guess he walked off.  I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was too busy watching my blood run down the glistening metal surface of the sword and soak into the white fabric of the parasol.  Red becomes my world again.  Through this red haze, I see a medium sized black cat with white paws bound toward me.  I feel her small sandpapery tongue licking my face.  I hear someone say, “I found him.”  I hear more people coming up around me.  Their voices are above me which I guess means I must be lying flat on my back.  As the world swirls like water going down a drain, I hear a women’s voice.
​
Her voice has the pretense of annoyance.  “Oh great.  The foolish male got himself into a real mess.”


[1] Most of these locations have been recounted in The Dream-Quest of the Unknown Kaddath a record of the explorations of Randolph Carter was published by Howard Philip Lovecraft in 1927.