The Book of Doorways

The Book of Doorways:  A parable and fugue, for one and many voices. From the theatrical piece of the same name.

It’s hard to say where the book came from, now, so many years passed since it was discovered, half submerged in the dust of memories, in an old attic, somewhere.  Or was it out on the outskirts of the barren lands, found in a cave, at sundown?  An unimportant distinction perhaps, still debated by scholars, but of little interest to you and me. 

What is significant is the story of the young man who found it.  Traveling magician, seeker, fool.  In later years, he couldn’t recount exactly what fascinated him.  Perhaps it was the intricately ornamented book, in leather and gold leaf, that when he initially opened it, it lay completely blank inside.  But there was something, recorded there on those pages, that, even if he couldn’t see it with his eyes, he knew it was there.  And was it out of determination, delusion, that he sat there day after day, scouring those empty pages?  Searching for something that caught his attention, something that rang dull bells somewhere off in the distance of his mind.  And it was, with the flicker of candle light, late at night, that he watched as the characters of the book slowly, almost imperceptibly formed under his eyes.  Strange symbols, inscribed in a language long forgotten bloomed on the page, with haunting shapes, intricately ornamented. 

And as it happened, one night the young man left the book in his study, open, on his desk, under the light of a full moon.  And returning, to his room, the man saw a pool of light, cast upwards from the book, dancing on the ceiling of the study.  A golden pool shimmering and shifting.  And as he stared upwards into the light, he felt himself weightless, falling upwards, into the pool and beyond, out into a new world.

The world sparkled, glittered, shimmered around him.  Everything was unbearably light, as if made from the same stuff as dragonfly wings.  And there, dancing around him were delightful beings to soothe him and share wisdom, and foolishness.  After enough time had passed in this new realm the man saw a similar pool opening in the sky, and looking up into it, fell through, back to his own world. 

And in the way of things, this gift became an obsession.  One can well imagine the delight and excitement this young man felt, being allowed to travel, through to other realms. And as he built up a rapport with this world, the keepers of the doorways began to speak with him.  He was informed that he could travel as much as he liked, explore the secrets and mysteries of the entire universe.  Learn anything he wanted about himself, or any other for that matter.  But, he was warned.  In as stern a tone as the keepers of the doorways knew, he was not to take anything, or leave anything behind.  And in similarly solemn response, he gave his word. 

And time went on, years passed, and the riches of the other worlds continued to expand, and expand and expand.  And though he grew familiar with the feeling of travel, he could not ever control just where it was that he would go, exactly.  Some worlds he traveled to repeatedly, witnessing the same events again and again, each time from some different angle.  Other worlds he would only ever get to view once, fleetingly, and no matter how much he desired to revisit them, could not ever find his way back. 

So it was, one night, that the man found himself, though a doorway to a world, unlike any he had ever seen before.  Though his feet told him he stood on something solid, all was black, waste and void.  And then, as he moved on the face of the deep, stepping cautiously forward in the inky darkness, a light began to shimmer, far off in the distance.  A pin prick of light, glowing, growing, and multiplying.  Soon all around him, these pin pricks glowed, and as he walked forward, slowly forward. They came into focus, each was a luminous flower, glowing golden in the darkness.  Looking down, he saw more points scattered below him, as if he walked on a floor of glass, over some undersea forest.  Above him too – shining, shimmering.  And he saw familiar figures,  the hunter with his dogs, the seven sisters, the water bearer and the great bear.

It would be hard to say exactly how long he spent in this landscape, moving about, examining each flower he came to.  Peering into the depths of the petals, he came to recognize that each flower contained an entire world.  Gazing deeply, he saw some of the places that he had journeyed to, and some he had never seen before.  And simply by peering into the flower, he could see everything he needed to.  As he traveled through this strange floating library the man came to recognize that everything, all the other worlds were contained here in these flowers.  He also came to recognize that the flowers formed a pattern unto themselves, curving inwards to some centre, a dense coalescence of these flowering worlds.  He made his way towards the centre, the foliage growing denser, and brighter.  Soon he no longer had space to move around the flowers, and opted instead to swim straight through them – a disconcerting feeling at first, but not wholly unpleasant.  He got closer and closer to the centre, and the flowers got denser and denser, brighter and brighter until he punched through to the dead centre of the spiral.  And there it was black again, pitch black, all around.  It felt to him like the space at the centre of the spiral stretched infinitely outwards, in all directions.  And floating a few feet in front of him, was a single blossom, slowly rotating. 

Peering into this blossom, the man saw the world where he stood at that moment – he saw the immense galaxy of flowers stretching out in all directions.  And he saw a man, he himself, standing at the centre, holding the central flower.  And in that flower, the man could see into any other flower he chose.  Slowly, dimly, a greedy understanding overtook him.  He held in his hands the library of worlds.  Contained in this one flower were all the worlds he could ever wish to see or find, and his grip tightened. 

Timing being what it is, it was at that moment, of course, that above him the man felt the familiar pool open up.  Time to return home.  But to leave the library…?  Anything, everything he could possibly want to know was contained in these flowers, in this singular flower.  And as he felt himself begin to sink upwards, he could not let go.  The flower in his hands offered no resistance,  and came with him, upwards, upwards, upwards.  And then, out, on to the floor of his study.  A sickening sucking feeling stuck him somewhere deep inside, and a dizziness.

But when his head finally cleared, there it was in his hands, the spiraling flower of flowering worlds, crystal clear, dazzlingly luminous.  He locked the flower in an old trunk, and fell to sleep.