And as he watches the large silver salt-cellars whirl around rasping out in a screaching monotone tunes from 60's musicals, he knows this.
"SING-ING-A-SONG. LAUGH-ING-A-SONG. SING-SING-SING-A-SING-SONG-SONG-A-SING." The knowledge doesn't help at all, really.
The announcer, stepping out on the stage looks very familiar, but Old Paddy cannot place him. He claps as the salt-cellars scuttle off, then swings around in Halstead's direction.
"Thenk yew, thenk yew. Let's hear it for the Skelos Glee team!" There is thunderous applause in the empty theatre.
"Now, we have a special treat for you tonight. Here, in the audience, we have a very special young man, who will be our new contestant!" The rest of the empty theatre is thrown into blackness as the spotlight hits him. "Late of his unknown Chantry, student of ancient wisdom, a real bundle of possibility, nom de plum of Patrick Murphy!" A burst of applause. On the stage, a curtain is raised revealing three doors.
"NOW," The announcer is abruptly in Old Paddy's face, giving him a view of white teeth, and sweat streaked stage makeup. "Let's show our new contestant the show of shows, the act of acts, let's have a warm welcome for our newest contestant on the...(drumroll)... WHEEL OF LIFE!" There is a another massive wave of applause from unseen hands.
Squinting past the glare, eyes watering, Old Paddy can see sigils on all of the doorways. He recognizes them and thinks vaguely that there really should be eleven, not three doors.
"Wealth! Fame! Disaster! Romance! Ruin! Any one of these COULD be his lot!" -each word is met with enthusiastic applause. "AND TONIGHT! Mr. Patrick Murphy gets to CHOOSE!"
The light is making his head hurt. He notices that the sigil inside of it also has a complete tree - or rather a ladder extending from below to above his sight. The thought swims up to his consciousness; It's fractal.
"PLEASURES of the FLESH! SUCCESS and WEALTH! CONTENTMENT!! ALL these he MIGHT pick TONIGHT! Unless - he goes STRAIGHT for the top, for the big ABYSS!" And it has to be thus, he realizes. Each aspect of the tree must itself contain the tree, and so on in an infite ladder - his inner eye is drawn down that chain- into an endless refraction of itself- "SO KID! Thank you for Playing! And now, for the big secret, the work of all works, What's it gonna be! The audience is waiting! LET'S HEAR YOUR CHOICE!" And then he is falling through and out, while his body sheds it's dross, base matter falling away in a swirl of dust, or snowflakes, or pollen... Particle by particle, he spreads out into the blinding darkness while his mind billows out and falls free. There is a rush of wings, and fire - there is grit in his mouth, and he is sprawled out uncomfortably on a hard, sharp and rounded surface. He moves his hand and feels sand and pebbles sift through his fingers. Sitting up, sand cascades off of him in rivulets: desert, wasteland. A place that should never see water.
The lake in front of him is as still as an infinite glass sheet, reflecting the bronze sky out to an indistinct horizon. There is no sun, never has been. Light, shadows, and a dryness that sucks the sweat away from him. The veins in his temple throb, as he stands wavering, and slowly turns around, scanning the horizon.
Distant brown mountains ripple in the heat above the gravel and sand plain, and a mound of mud-brick stabs up directly opposed to the lake. Not a mound: a square base, angling up, with a smaller square on top, and above them yet another flat-topped pyramid. A ziggurat, or a centopath perhaps, more perfect then ever done in history.
There is a choice to be made here. Old Paddy considers the still lake, and the silent mound. No wind disturbs the perfect silence, except for the dull hiss of his own blood in his ears. Slowly, he begins picking his way among the stones toward the Abyss. There will be a door on the other side, he knows, and he will enter.