7: The Gates of Bleak Pthahil

The world was inside-out, distending, lurching backward, upside-down, tripping forward, winding, twisting, shrinking, bending roundabout, stretching wide, collapsing in on itself, tumbling downward, pitching sideways, silently falling … and Timmy could not pull his wrist free of the pale hand’s iron grip. He tried keeping his eyes closed because if they were closed, then he wouldn’t have to look into the blue light and see the things waiting there, but every time he closed his eyes the blue noise jumped deeper into his head and became so much louder that his dumb old brain felt like it was going to burst. He didn’t have any choice; he had to keep his eyes open.

As Timmy was pulled closer, the blue radiance grew brighter but far less harsh than it was before. The terrible noise it had been making was beginning to fade away, replaced by the sound of a thousand or more voices: some cried out or screamed as if in pain; others were laughing, cackling, or screeching, at times all at once; some quietly whimpered, others groaned; and a few of them – for some reason Timmy could hear these few voices above the rest of the din – were singing. One voice sang:

“In summer I am glad
We children are so small,
For I can see a thousand things
That men can't see at all…”

That was the song Timmy used to sing to himself when he was in the dark locked closet, hands and feet tied with clothesline, his stomach growling because he’d said something the foster family didn’t want to hear. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, trying to rid his dumb old brain of the memories. Another person’s voice grew louder, and this person was singing:

“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I think I'll go eat worms!
I bite off the heads,
and suck out the juice,
And throw the skins away!
Nobody knows how fat I grow,
On worms three times a day!”

Timmy sang that one to himself whenever the dishrags were in his mouth. He sang it because it was funny and kind of gross and helped him to take himself out of his body while the people did what they wanted to do to him. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Once again he closed his eyes and shook his head, demanding that his dumb old brain take the memory and break it apart like a piece of stale bread and scatter the crumbs into the wind.

And then Timmy heard the voice of a little girl and he wondered if she was the dead little girl he’d seen in the trash can so long ago. Her voice was the sound of a clapper striking the inside of a bell:

“… is the song that never ends.
It goes on and on my friends.
Someone started singing it not knowing what it was,
and they'll continue singing it forever just because
This …”

The blue radiance became a ghost-world that was looking into another, older world that shifted and changed and faded into shadows to be replaced by another, firmer ghost-world. All of these worlds resembled each other at first, but then Timmy, as always, began noticing little differences that soon became much bigger, the dissimilarities so prevalent the deeper he looked that soon nothing resembled anything and all of it was so fragile and temporary he barely had time to register something before it changed: there were children laughing, playing, growing old, dying, turning to ashes, blowing away with the snow; there were trees growing, toppling, rotting, turning to ashes, blowing away; mountains rose and crumbled before his eyes, and with them millions of people and creatures so grotesque and extraordinary he nearly wept at the sight.

Timmy saw himself as a sad old man, broken by grief and guided into loneliness by his dumb old brain ... but he also stood across from this old man, young and alive looking as he did now; the two of them met each other in the middle of the room, whispered, “Terrible, just terrible,” and merged into one, growing even younger, losing hair, becoming shrunken and pink-cheeked, an infant vanishing back into Mommy’s womb, and then Mommy stroked her belly, spun back into time, and vanished.

Timmy couldn’t hold it in any longer; he began crying. He was too frightened and too confused to do anything else. He knew that he was going to be here forever, lost, shifting, turning, rising, falling, becoming old and young at once, a baby, an old man in diapers who reached out toward his younger self, only when his fingers touched those of the boy he used to be, they darkened and swelled as though the bones were instantly broken, the skin instantly bruised, and he cried out in pain as the discolored fingertips burst open and trails of gray dust flowed out, piling up around him, sand in an hourglass, and Timmy both saw and felt it as this body of Old-Him began to implode, dripping to the ground wax down the side of a candle, liquefying skin, dissolving muscle, softening bone and marrow until he was nothing but a puddle of runny, gooey meat.

Timmy closed his eyes to the horrible sight and covered his face with his hands, wishing that he was back with the Reverend and Bob, the three of them sitting down to a nice warm meal that Ethel had set up on the table, and then Sam was there, holding out Ethel’s chair, and they were eating and talking like a real family, but Timmy had never truly know what that was like, a real family, and when he thought about it for too long it made him angry and—

“Welcome to the Gates of Bleak Pthahil, Timmy” said a voice from in front of him. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He opened his eyes and saw that he was kneeling on a gently-sloping hillside covered by dead grass, torn and wet clothes, gravel, broken glass, and discarded objects ranging from shattered wristwatches and tattered purses to cracked baby rattles and ruined wheelchairs. Everything shone of the soft blue radiance that had been the color of his life since the day he first saw the Fancy Man.

And now the Fancy Man, Trismegistus, stood over him, still dressed as he was on the day Timmy had met him; same shirt, same tie, same black suit, and the same bowler hat. (“ Derby, goddammit!” echoed the ghost of his father’s voice. “It’s called a derby!”)

“It’s important that you not move for a minute or two,” said Trismegistus. “I can cross between the planes with little or no physical or psychological trauma. You, unfortunately, are rather weak and fragile. That trembling you feel deep inside you? Those are your cells crawling back into place. If you make any sudden moves, you’ll be reduced to a pool of primordial slop. Humpty-Dumpty time, if you follow my meaning.”

Timmy understood. He’d seen it happen. He’d felt himself poured out of his body like water, all of his bones snapping out of joint before they, too, melted. He did not move, did not speak, and breathed as slowly as he could.

Trismegistus smiled and knelt down next to him. “You may not realize it, my boy, but your presence here is something of a gift for me. It proves that my instincts are still as sharp as ever. I knew you were a child of quality character, that you would not forget your promise to me – and you needn’t tell me, my boy, I already know that you delivered the card and my message to the right … individual. Had you not, you wouldn’t be here.”

Timmy stared past Trismegistus; in the distance, walking around under a dark-blue sea of opened umbrellas (Just like Mr. Steed, Timmy thought for a moment), dozens, maybe even hundreds, of other men were dressed exactly the same way, as if the outfit worn by Trismegistus was some kind of school uniform.

“You’re admiring our choice of wardrobe, aren’t you?” asked the Agathosdaimon, straightening his tie and brushing something off the shoulder of his jacket. “Funny story how this came to be. I was – no, no, you still mustn’t move yet. I’ll let you know when it’s safe. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.

“The first time I dared slip through one of the gaps in the multiverse – in overly-simple terms, ‘between’ your world and this one … as if the illusion of ‘between’ actually enters into it – anyway, the first time I did this I emerged in, of all places, a novelty store in one of your shopping malls. It had been so long since I’d had any direct interaction with human beings that – and I’m embarrassed to admit this – I had forgotten how people went about presenting themselves to one another. The very first thing I saw was a framed print of René Magritte’s The Son of Man . ” He gestured at his suit, tie, and hat. “I rather liked it – floating green apple notwithstanding – and decided that was how I and my followers were going to present ourselves so that we would blend in. The topcoat worn by the subject of that painting struck me as rather clumsy, so I decided on this variation. The hat’s a bit anachronistic but, eventually, all things become an anachronism. Besides, I like the way I look in this. But where are my manners? Fell free to move and speak, your cells are all back in their places with bright, shiny faces.”

Timmy sat down, pulling his knees up against his forehead, rocking back and forth. “Terrible, just terrible,” he whispered.

Trismegistus sighed. “So you’re back to that, are you? Fine.” He reached down with his pale but powerful hand and yanked Timmy to his feet. “Do you want to see something truly terrible, just terrible?” He made no effort to hide the contempt in his voice. “Then come with me, little man. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Timmy was still too weak to refuse to go along with whatever it was Trismegistus had in mind, so he lowered his head and watched his feet move one in front of the other, shuffling along as if he were a child who’d just been severely scolded.

“Heads up,” said Trismegistus. “You might want to get the lay of the land, so to speak, and see what you’ll be dealing with.”

Timmy raised his head. They were now at the bottom of the hill, standing on the far side of a road constructed from thousands of silently-screaming faces, all of them having been cut away from the skull, stretched, and sutured to the faces above, below, and on either side. So tightly were the faces stitched together that it was impossible to tell where the flesh of one ended and that of another began. A powerful, wide stream of water surged over the faces, carrying enough force that it continued to flow even as some of it vanished down the chasms where eyes and mouths used to be. Some of the mouths stretched wide open while others pressed their lips firmly together. Eyelids, now useless, snapped backwards and were farther stretched by the churning force of the water; every so often one would be torn free and pitched about by the small but potent swells, tumbling along, mixing in with bits of fingers, chunks of tongues, bundles of broken teeth, and sections of scalp holding firm to the few clumps of hair that remained attached to them. It smelled like congealed grease, and Timmy had to cover his nose and mouth with his free hand to keep from vomiting.

“Over there,” said Trismegistus, pointing to a massive black wrought-iron gate that stood higher than any of the buildings in downtown Cedar Hill. A dozen horizontal frame members reinforced the gate doors and the dark fencing that spread out on either side. Atop the gate and fencing, sharpened spear-point finials glittered with what could have only been blood. Still-moist pieces of shredded flesh dangled from the sides of many of the spears, and Timmy wondered why anyone would try escaping that way; even if you managed to climb all the way to the top and not stab yourself on a spear, the thick knots of barbed-wire woven through the finials would tear you to pieces when you tried to push yourself over the side.

Trismegistus let go of Timmy’s arm and then patted his shoulder. “How very astute of you to figure that out.” He looked down at Timmy. “Yes, I can sneak into your dumb old brain if I want, so let’s not get any bright ideas about trying to get away before you do what I brought you here to do.”

Timmy only stared.

“Loquacious as always.” Trismegistus pushed him forward, onto the surface of the road. “I think you need a closer look. In fact, I know you do.”

Timmy balled his hands into fists and had to keep swallowing so he wouldn’t get sick. Each step he took was like planting his foot in a thick, spongy mound of fungus, and every time he lifted his foot to take another step, the faces made this soft, pained, wet rattling sound.

Don’t look down , he told himself. Don’t you dare look down.

Much to his surprise, he didn’t, only kept walking across the road that seemed like it never ended, didn’t have an other side. The faces kept moaning, kept releasing that soggy rattle from the backs of throats that weren’t there anymore, so how could they make any sound at all?

“I can tell you, if you’d like,” said Trismegistus. “But I don’t think you’d ever be able to breathe through your mouth again.”

Timmy peered toward the distance and realized that he wasn’t imagining things, it wasn’t just his dumb old brain plying tricks on him: the more they walked, the wider the road became. He saw movement behind the black gates but couldn’t make out who or what was moving because of a gigantic rock that blocked his view. He didn’t remember seeing that rock before, but in a place where a road made of faces went on forever and everything shimmered with blue radiance, it didn’t surprise him.

It probably fell through one of the gaps, he decided.

Abruptly, the other side of the road appeared. Trismegistus stepped over onto solid ground first, pulling Timmy after him. The prisoners behind the gates began to move forward, pressing their bodies against the bars, trying to get a better look at whomever was approaching. On each corner of the gate’s double doors, a camera-creature squatted on hairy legs, wings folded back, staring down, unmoving and impassive; they reminded Timmy of the gargoyles that sat on the stone archway over the old Cedar Hill Building and Loan downtown.

Onlookers , he remembered. The Reverend and Bob called them Onlookers. Like the Reverend, though, Timmy didn’t think he was too keen on them, either. How could they just sit there and watch? Didn’t they ever do anything? Help someone? Pet a cat? Anything at all? Why would God have them do nothing? That didn’t seem fair, or good, or kind.

Trismegistus smacked the back of Timmy’s head. “You really must stop that mind of yours from wandering toward places best left alone.”

The gigantic rock began moving, coughing, breathing with the same soggy rattle made by the faces in the road, only this was a hundred times louder and thicker.

“Timothy Oberfield,” said Trismegistus. “I’d like you to meet my loyal assistant, formerly of the Angelic Order of Archons – Pthahil.”

Pthahil was a massive, towering, gourd-shaped monster that had only stumps for legs, but its arms were as long as trees were tall, and its hands were gigantic, with long, powerful thin fingers. It pulled in another deep, soggy breath, and then released a howl of fury so awful and so loud that Timmy thought it would make his teeth shatter and fly down the back of his throat, choking him to death.

Pthahil turned toward the black iron gate and slammed its body against the doors, shaking the entire structure down to its foundation. The beings on the other side of the gate, the people/animal/metal/wood/plastic/glass things, all shrieked in unison and backed away as the monstrous sentry gripped the bars in a colossal fist and rattled the doors, letting the prisoners know that it could rip away the bars with no effort at all, stomp in there, and crush them into twisted masses of seeping meat and broken pieces.

“You’re lucky,” said Trismegistus. “He’s in a good mood today. Not an easy job, guarding these bleak gates and those dwelling behind them.”

“Wh-who are they? The … the p-people in there?”

Trismegistus laughed. “‘People,’ is it? What a charitable fellow you are. Take a good look at these ‘people,’ then, and see if you can’t tell me – but be careful, Seer; look at them for too long and your mind will be ash.”

Faceless children with triple-jointed arachnid legs scuttling up the sides of creatures that were part rhinoceros and part human being; machine beasts with metallic manes and thick golden fur that they combed with the long, luxurious, painted fingernails of their delicate feminine hands; dwarves with the heads of leopards and an extra pair of arms; something that looked like a gorilla with the bell of a sousaphone jutting from the place where its head should have been; an oxen that burst into a murder of crows when its gaze met Timmy’s; an old woman with milky piscine eyes and crusted gills on both sides of her neck, only a few of which were functional, and then only enough to make her wheeze and struggle for air; a teenaged boy with dozens of membranous Man O’ War tentacles slopping out from his body in luminescent clusters; a pair of conjoined twins with gelatinous faces that constantly shifted and writhed as they searched for identity; a dolphin that pushed itself along the concrete ground with twisted legs; things of beauty, things of pain; beings of wonder, beings of decay; and all of them so terribly sick as they staggered into one another, vomiting and groaning … while a few of them, unseen, continued to sing: “… is the song that never ends … It goes on and on my friends … Someone started singing it not knowing what it was … and they'll continue singing it forever just because This …”

“Care to guess now, Seer?” asked Trismegistus, his eyes filled with blue-tinted fire.

“Mistakes,” whispered Timmy.

“Again, please?”

Timmy wiped his nose on his sleeve, took a deep breath, and turned to face Trismegistus. “Mistakes. These are all of your mistakes. But you can’t … you can’t kill them because you … you only have power when you’re helping to create life. Pthahil can only kill if told to, and you can’t say the words. So when something … wrong happens, when it doesn’t work out, you bring them here.”

“And keep them here, yes.”

“Does that mean that this is your zoo and Pthahil is your zookeeper?” He wasn’t trying to be mean or sarcastic; he simply, sincerely wanted to know. But Pthahil didn’t seem to take it that way; it stormed over, screeching in rage, and slammed one of its colossal hands deep into the ground near Timmy’s feet.

“Terrible, just terrible,” said Timmy, the switch in his head tripping itself, allowing him to say nothing else. “Terrible, just terrible,” he said again and again, feeling himself wet his pants and hating the way his voice sounded so weak, so scared, the voice of someone whose dumb old brain couldn’t do a thing to help him right now.

“Oh, yes, no question about it,” said Trismegistus. “Pthahil’s assumed a terrible shape this time, but that’s part and parcel of his duties. You see, when next he is called to your world – and unlike me, Pthahil must be summoned before he can move through a gap – but when next he is summoned, that is the form in which he will appear. Pthahil is a master of disguise, a shape-shifter of the highest order. It’s a pity that the Archons didn’t realize the full extent of his abilities and power. But he’s mine now. They can do little more than look upon him and tremble, as well they should. His is a face not even the Holy Mother could love. It wouldn’t surprise me if God Himself looked away in revulsion and—oh, he’s taken notice of you, Timmy. Smile and wave to your new friend, why don’t you?”

Pthahil was looking directly at Timmy. His terrible rounded head seemed as big as the moon. Just like the faces in the road, instead of eyes Pthahil had two cavernous dark pits that stared out at the world. He didn’t have a nose, and his blank, unreadable expression was made all the more terrifying by the too-wide rictus grin that spread all the way across his hideous face – one that looked like that of a mummified corpse, only covered in vines and filth and insects and still-seeping veins torn from living bodies. Pthahil’s long, lethal fingers rhythmically and impatiently clawed the blood-saturated ground, sending violent spasms through the muscles of its corpulent and sexless body. Pthahil ’s gray oily skin was covered not only in weeds, trickling veins, and unimaginable filth, but also with hundreds of fist-sized larval eruptions that spurted a hissing phosphorescence of intense heat; it seared the ground wherever it dripped.

“It’s never easy for him,” said Trismegistus, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “Some transformations take millennia before completion. Is it any wonder that he screams so?”

Pthahil loomed over Timmy, glaring down through black-pit eyes, wheezing, groaning, trembling. Timmy couldn’t tell if the thing were angry or sick, like with an asthma attack or something like that.

Trismegistus walked over and touched one of Pthahil’s monstrous hands, stroking it gently, soothing his friend as the two of them moved nearer the gates. “Not long now, I suspect, dear Pthahil. Not long at all.” Then he looked at Timmy. “It’s really quite amazing, all that you’ve been through, and yet here you are, Timothy Oberfield, still standing, still ready for the next dark closet or the next rancid dishrag … and still you find something to hope for, even if it’s just finding a box of day-old crullers in a Dumpster behind a bakery. Amazing; utterly and completely amazing. I had my doubts that you were the one we needed, but now … now there is no question in mind at all. By the way, there’s someone else here who wants to see you.” He looked toward the terrible black gates and the doors swung silently open.

Timmy watched as the crowd of sick beings parted straight down the center, soft butter split by an invisible knife. The muttering, groaning, coughing, crying, and vomiting continued, as did a few voices singing, but over all of it, he could an odd combination of sounds: the clop-clop of hooves against concrete, and a semi-rhythmic metallic thumping.

Later, Timmy would realize that he should have known all along what was happening to him, and why, but it didn’t really start to become clear until he saw the figure for whom the crowd had parted.

And a soul-sick fear born more of sorrow than of terror blossomed in his core.