Portals

They exist... quasimodo and otherwise

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a little boy who lived in a little house, with a little garden, on the top of a grassy knoll. This little boy lived all alone for he had no parents. But why, I hear you ask, would the little boy have no parents? The answer is simple, so simple in fact that it would astound you. The little boy who lived in his little house, surrounded by his little garden atop the grassy knoll was never born!

“But how could this be?” you ask, “even if he were a creature bon out of a storyteller’s imagination, wouldn’t the teller of the tale become the parent, him being the creator?” This would be a completely justifiable question on your part, but I would have to advise against; dissuade you from that path of reasoning for you would find yourself at the end of a winding and difficult, not to mention wearisome journey only to discover that you were exasperatingly wide of the mark from the very start. 

Let me save you the trouble. Let me steer you towards a more correct road. See that door over there? Yes, your bedroom door; or the bathroom door or the French windows that your neighbour installed last week, or the door of your car. They all open out onto the path that would lead to the enigma of that little boy who was never born.

These doors are portals to different worlds, though a man would walk through thousands without realising their significance. Of course, Lady luck plays a noteworthy role and so does Chance; depending on their moods.

Go on, reach out and grab the doorknob, twist that handle and know this: if the Lady deems it you may step through into a land ten thousand leagues away. You could be swept away on wings of angels, or doves, or griffins even, to that land far, far away, to the little house, with a little garden on top of a grassy hill. And you will meet the little boy who was never born. You can ask him, if you like, who his parents are, not that you would receive an answer to that question. You might as well ask, “How old is God?”, or “When did time begin?” or even “Where does a circle end?”, yet the little boy is older than any God, yet younger than a man.

Men and beast alike have sensed his presence from time immemorial. Man rejects what he senses using the blessing (or curse) of a “logical” mind; the beasts embrace yet fear his presence. He is the spirit within the wild creatures that many ancient civilisations worshipped and sacrificed to; he is the very lifeblood that pumps through the veins of every living creature; yea, as the sap runs its course through every green thing.

He is powerful. The knowledge he carries on his shoulders encompasses all. Yet he thirsts. As long as there exists the capacity to think; to create; to increase wisdom and knowledge and understanding, he will not be satisfied.

There exists only one being similar to his knowledge and power and that is God. God, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, Zeus, whatever name you may choose to call this supernatural being, with the capacity to “know” all things, to create the animate from the inanimate, to make mortal flesh immortal, to dispense the breath of life.

The boy hated God. Hated this upstart who would take on the name of omnipotent, almighty, all-powerful. This universal travelling ghost who created worlds at his whim and fancy, not giving a damn about cosmic balance or the law of the universe.

This time he had gone too far. This time he created a being with the ability to think, to create, to teach, to expand, to dominate and rule. He had created a being that would eventually become replicas of God. 

What was worse, their thoughts, deeds, inventions and creations, both good and evil, gave him a thirst. Here was new knowledge pouring out of the hearts of men, and that knowledge was a drug to him. A mind-bending, addictive drug that threatened to eventually take over his very being.

God looked down at the little boy and laughed.  And the boy’s anger raged out against this so-called “God”. 

The boy opened the portals to lead the people he had chosen away from God. People with advanced mental capacity, with grey matter filled with imagination and he gave them the ability to create a world �" a cocoon, if you want to call it that �" of protection around the boy. A place where he was god, he controlled. 

Men call this place heaven; some call it hell. 

I have visited this place, because I have been chosen, and I have been sent to bring you there for you have been chosen too. What? You laugh? Well then, laugh all you will, but accompany me to the front door and see me out, why don’t you? 

*    *    *

This old man’s crazy! Why did I ever let him into my house? God’s and little boys my foot. Who does he think he is? I better get him out quick! He belongs in a straight-jacket. 

Good! He wants me to lead him outside. Show him kindness… show him sympathy… just get him the hell outside and away from your house!

Almost at the door… what is he doing? He’s convulsing! Oh, great! Have him collapse right in my own home! What’s that strange noise he’s making? He’s laughing! The old crow is laughing!

Okay, out the door! I’ve had enough I’ve had enough!

*     *     *

Siva Kulatunge was out on his morning “power walk”. Every week Thursday he would announce to every passer by that he had lost two pounds, which people found hard to believe since he was just as fat, or ever fatter, than he ever was. Siva was a egotistic glutton of the first degree.

This was the first Thursday of the month and he was looking forward to his weekly boast. His first receptor came into view. Paul Cooray just stepped out his front door. He looked like he was leading something or somebody out, but Siva couldn’t make out who or what it was. He took off his glasses and wiped them thinking maybe the early morning mist might be obscuring his lenses. Slipping his glasses back on, he peered over the short parapet wall walking closer towards the gate. He could make now make out that Paul was leading what looked like an aged old man, but he still couldn’t focus clearly. 

I better get my glasses checked, thought Siva, squinting now. He was just about to yell out his customary greeting to Paul when he saw the old man suddenly throw his arms around Paul and leap off the top step of the porch.

Paul screamed, and the old man screeched with laughter. Siva stood, mouth open, when they just disappeared into the ground. He opened the gate and walked towards the spot dazed at what he had just seen. There was a hole. No, not a hole… sort of a pool of something. It wasn’t water, heck, it wasn’t any sort of liquid, it wasn’t even mist, it was just a blur of something not quite there.

He thought he heard Paul screaming still. 

“P-Paul?” he stammered out with difficulty, his throat dry. 

Out of the mist sprang the old man, and Siva leaped backwards stumbling over his own fat, chubby legs, now laying sprawled over Paul’s flower beds looking up at the old man. 

He looked at Siva’s fat and ungainly appearance, with his glasses half off his face and his backside muddy with the manure from the flower bed and frowned. Then he grinned and spoke in a taunting, sing-song voice, “I’ll be seeing you…”

He turned and walked back towards the “hole” and stepped down into it. There was a sucking sound and the opening disappeared.

Siva ran. For the first time in his adult life he ran.