As I stepped back into the bedroom, the act of closing the Portal felt final, a definitive severing of the link between worlds. I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught of questions from Gladys, each one a potential minefield of explanations. However, the room was silent, conspicuously devoid of the presence I had expected to find.
"Gladys!" My call, hopeful yet tinged with a growing unease, echoed down the hallway, unanswered. The silence that followed was a heavy thing, filled with the unspoken fears of what her silence might signify.
Drawn by the sound of a scuffle in the kitchen, I found myself moving towards the noise, each step heavy with apprehension. The familiar sound of Gladys's voice, however, was a relief, albeit a temporary one.
"Where's your father gone?" Gladys asked Duke quietly as I entered the kitchen. She was crouched down with her back to me, her back arched as she presumably played with the dog in front of her.
"Gladys," I announced my presence softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
"Luke!" The surprise in her voice matched the suddenness of her movement as she turned, her balance lost in the moment of recognition.
In trying to prevent Gladys's fall, I had only managed to exacerbate the situation. The unexpected weight of her descent, paired with my ineffective grasp, resulted in Gladys landing unceremoniously on the kitchen floor. The sound of the impact echoed, a harsh reminder of my failed attempt at assistance.
"Ouch!" Gladys's outcry filled the room, her hand moving to cradle her lower back.
In my haste to rectify the situation, I reached for her arm, hoping to help her to her feet. However, my efforts were met with resistance, her voice cutting through the air with a sharpness that took me aback. "Don't touch me!" The steel in her gaze, the firmness of her command, forced me to release my grip almost reflexively.
As I let go, Gladys dropped the small distance back to the floor. "Sorry," I offered, a feeble attempt at an apology, my gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet her eyes.
Duke, ever the opportunist, saw his chance for affection. He leaped onto Gladys's lap, his enthusiasm undeterred by the tension in the air. But Gladys, her patience evidently worn thin, quickly shooed him away and got to her feet, brushing past me with a determination that left no room for further interaction.
I followed her, my concern outweighing the awkwardness of our last interaction, as Duke and Henri, blissfully unaware of the human complexities at play, danced around her feet. Her pace was quick, a clear sign she was eager to put distance between us, or perhaps, to seek answers to the myriad questions that no doubt plagued her.
"What happened to it?" Gladys's question caught me off guard as we entered the bedroom, her finger pointing accusingly at the blank wall where the Portal had once shimmered with impossibility.
Holding the Portal Key in the centre of my palm felt like wielding a piece of the impossible. "I can open and close the Portal with this. It's a Portal Key," I explained, the words feeling inadequate to describe its true significance.
Gladys's response was noncommittal, a simple “Oh," that hung in the air between us, laden with skepticism and the weight of unasked questions.
Without waiting for her to process the revelation about the Portal Key, I handed her the bottle containing Jamie's message. "Jamie wrote a message on the label for you," I said, hoping the familiarity of Jamie's handwriting might lend credibility to the extraordinary claims I had made.
Gladys's reaction was swift, her hand closing around the bottle with an urgency that betrayed her underlying concern, even as her face remained a mask of irritation. I watched, almost holding my breath, as she read Jamie's concise message, searching her features for any sign of belief, of acceptance.
"Believe me yet?" The question was out before I could stop it, a challenge and a plea wrapped together. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the tension of unspoken doubts and the sheer implausibility of the situation.
Gladys's shrug was disappointing, a non-answer that left me reeling with frustration. The impulse to physically shake some sense of urgency, of understanding, into her was almost overwhelming. She's impossible, I thought, despairing at the impasse we had reached. The notion of taking her through the Portal to prove the truth was a gamble fraught with risks, a last resort that I was loath to consider but felt increasingly inevitable.
As we faced each other, the air charged with the tension of our standoff, it was clear that words alone might not be enough to bridge the gap between belief and disbelief. The standoff was more than just a disagreement; it was a test of trust, of the willingness to accept the unbelievable, and of the limits of our own understanding.
The silence that had enveloped us, thick with tension and unspoken questions, was abruptly pierced by the sound of a knock at the front door. The mundane interruption was almost startling in its normality, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of disbelief and revelation that had consumed our conversation.
"Oh," I muttered, a momentary flicker of realisation crossing my mind. "I forgot I ordered pizza." The admission felt oddly trivial given the circumstances, yet it provided a brief, much-needed diversion.
"Pizza?" Gladys echoed, her confusion momentarily displacing the anger that had previously dominated her expression. It was a small shift, but in that fleeting instance, the atmosphere between us seemed to lighten ever so slightly.
Anticipating Duke's inevitable excitement at the arrival of a visitor—any visitor—I scooped him up before he could launch into his customary frenzied dash towards the door. "Hold him, please," I requested, practically thrusting Duke into Gladys's arms. The urgency of the situation left little room for pleasantries, as I also kept a wary eye on Henri. His tendency for unexpected antics was well known, even if he lacked Duke's zeal for greeting newcomers.
I made my way swiftly down the hallway, the familiar domestic routine of receiving a delivery feeling almost surreal in the context of our earlier conversation. Retrieving the three large pizza boxes from the delivery person, I offered a distracted thanks before shutting the door and returning to the kitchen, where Gladys awaited.
Placing the boxes on the kitchen bench, the mundane action of setting down food felt almost grounding after the emotional turmoil of the past hour. Gladys's question, "You're going to eat three of them?" brought me back to the present moment, her tone a mix of incredulity and, perhaps, a hint of amusement at the sheer volume of food for what appeared to be a gathering of one.
As Duke scampered off, relieved to be back on solid ground, I turned my attention to the more pressing task at hand: setting the stage for an impromptu feast that spanned worlds. Retrieving a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, I placed it on the bench alongside the pizzas. "Don't be silly," I said with a forced casualness, reaching for wine glasses. "Jamie and Paul are having some too."
Gladys's response, a muttered "Of course they are," was laden with a complex mixture of emotions. Her skepticism was evident, yet there was an underlying current of curiosity, perhaps even a grudging acceptance, punctuated by the unmistakable growl of hunger. The situation, surreal as it was, had not diminished the simple, human response to the sight and smell of food.
With a practiced motion, I slipped my hand into my pocket and activated the Portal Key, the living room wall transforming into a gateway, a spectacle of light and energy. "Remember, don't follow me," I cautioned Gladys, the seriousness of my tone belied by the absurdity of carrying pizzas through a dimensional doorway. "I'll be right back."
Stepping into Clivilius, the immediate sense of unease was palpable. The faint smoky scent that greeted me set off alarms in my mind, a visceral response to potential danger. My eyes scanned the horizon, seeking the source of the smoke, until I spotted the telltale signs of a campfire. Relief washed over me, tempered by the realisation of the fire's necessity.
Placing the pizzas beside the Portal, I found myself speaking to them, a momentary lapse into absurdity that underscored the day's strain. "I'll take you down to the river once I bring in the wine," I said, a brief, humourless laugh escaping me as I recognised the ridiculousness of my actions.
The moment I stepped back into the living room, the sight of Gladys perched at the island bench with a glass of wine in hand was both exasperating and oddly comforting. "Gladys!" My complaint carried a tone more petulant than I had intended, the stress of the day making itself known. "That wine was supposed to be for Jamie and Paul."
Her response, delivered with a tartness that matched the wine she indulged in, did little to quell my irritation. "There's still plenty left," she said, her action of sealing the bottle and sliding it across to me an implicit challenge to my frustration.
The urge to roll my eyes was strong, a silent protest against her casual dismissal of what I considered a significant gesture towards Paul and Jamie, trapped in another world. Nevertheless, I collected the wine and glasses, the tools of our intended shared experience, and turned back towards the Portal, my movements brisk with a renewed sense of purpose.
As I stepped through the Portal, the decision to let the vibrant gateway fade behind me was made with a heavy heart but a clear mind. The risk of an inebriated Gladys making an impromptu visit to Clivilius was one I couldn't afford to take. The familiar rush of air, the unique scent and silence of this alien landscape, enveloped me once more, a reminder of the thin veil that separated our worlds.
Approaching the tent with the pizza boxes in hand, the solitude and independence Jamie and Paul were displaying in this landscape were both reassuring and a bit unsettling. "Now, where's Jamie gone?" I couldn't help but express my surprise at their ease in wandering off alone, a sign they were adapting to their new surroundings more quickly than I had anticipated. Their acclimation was a good sign, indicative of the resilience and resourcefulness that would be necessary for our extended stay. They'll be used to their new home in a few days, I'm sure of it, I mused, a mixture of hope and concern threading through my thoughts.
"He's gone to bathe in the river," Paul's response came with a smile, his contentment infectious. "I found a nice lagoon just around the bend." The mention of a lagoon, a small oasis in this vast, unknown world, was an insight into the beauty that Clivilius held, alongside its mysteries and potential dangers.
"I'll have to check it out tomorrow," I found myself saying, though the backlog of tasks waiting for me weighed heavily on my mind. Clivilius, with all its potential and challenges, required more than just exploration and adaptation; it demanded creation, effort, and a commitment to forging a life in an environment that would be as demanding as it was captivating.
"Smells delicious," said Paul, wafting his nose across the boxes in my arms. He grabbed them eagerly and together we made our way to the small campfire.
I looked around for something to sit on, but there was nothing. I hadn't brought any chairs through. Yet another thing to add to the growing to-to list, I sighed. I watched curiously as Paul plonked himself down in the dust without, it appeared, giving it a second thought.
"I'll get you some chairs tomorrow," I promised, feeling the dust coat my pants as I gingerly sat down.
"That'd be nice," Paul replied with a shrug, his casual demeanour never failing to amaze me. He opened the first pizza box with an eagerness that betrayed his earlier nonchalance, revealing the steaming, cheesy treasure within. As he grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza, I couldn't help but notice the way the steam rose in delicate wisps, carrying with it the rich, tantalising aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese.
"I didn't realise I was so hungry," he confessed, a hint of surprise in his voice, as if his own body's needs were an afterthought to him.
I smiled, my gaze fixed on the slice as the first pepperoni slid off and landed on Paul's singlet. "You haven't changed much then," I laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the open air
"Nope," Paul agreed, his mouth now full, the words muffled but his grin unmistakable. He shoved half the pizza slice into his mouth.
The two of us sat in the dust, the earth cool and gritty beneath me. I shifted slightly, finding a more comfortable spot as we settled into the silence that enveloped us.
Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to be fully immersed in the moment. The world around me seemed to pause, the only sounds being the gentle gurgle of the river behind me. The small campfire before us crackled and popped, the sound rhythmic and hypnotic, the warmth a gentle caress against my skin.
And then there was Paul's chewing. Unrefined, unabashed, and utterly Paul. It was a sound that, in any other context, might have been annoying, but here, it was just another piece of the tapestry of our brotherhood.
I smiled, a deep, genuine smile that came from a place of profound affection and gratitude. I loved my brother. Despite our differences, despite the paths our lives had taken, this bond, this unspoken pact of brotherhood, remained unbreakable. I knew, with a certainty that grounded me, that Paul would always have my back.
"Oh my God! Food!" Jamie's voice, laced with an almost childlike glee, cut through the tranquility as he emerged from behind us. His eyes, wide and gleaming with a hunger that seemed to go beyond mere appetite, instantly fixated on the spread before us.
"And wine," I chimed in, my tone light, trying to inject a bit of levity into the atmosphere as I lifted the half-drunk bottle of chardonnay. Its contents sloshed gently, catching the fading sunlight and casting a dance of light across Jamie's eager face.
"Well, you two look like you've given it a fair go already," Jamie quipped, his voice rich with amusement as he settled himself beside us with a thud that sent a small cloud of dust into the air.
"Well, Luke has," Paul joined in, his laughter mingling with the sporadic crackles from the campfire, adding to the symphony of the early evening's ambiance.
I looked up, allowing my gaze to drift towards the heavens. The sky, a vast expanse of clear blue, was beginning to adopt a deeper hue as the sun dipped behind the distant mountains. Its descent painted the edges of the world in shades of orange and purple, a breathtaking display of nature's artistry.
Yet, amidst this serene beauty, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. The approaching darkness, while natural, felt laden with a foreboding sense of the unknown. I knew the kind of darkness that was about to envelop us, the kind that seemed to press against your eyes, thick and unyielding.
I know just how dark it's going to get. The thought echoed in my mind, a stark contrast to the laughter and light-hearted banter around me. Jamie and Paul, blissfully unaware, were in for a shock.
"Well," I began, pushing myself up from the ground with a sense of reluctant duty tugging at my heart. As I rose to my feet, I brushed the dust from my trousers meticulously, perhaps more out of a need for a moment's distraction than actual concern for cleanliness. In a playful, yet pointed gesture, I angled my backside in Jamie's direction, a small act of levity in the midst of our parting.
"I better get back. Don't want Gladys to finish all the wine in the house," I joked, my grin masking the undercurrent of sadness that threatened to surface. The humour was a thin veil, a temporary shield against the weight of departure.
"So, that’s it then?" Jamie's voice was tinged with a hint of melancholy, his eyes, those deep wells of emotion, drifting to the floor, unable to mask his disappointment.
In response, I closed the distance between us, my steps slow and heavy with unspoken words. Leaning in, I kissed him gently, a silent testament to our mended bridges and the affection that remained steadfast through our tumultuous times. It was a kiss of reassurance and of unspoken promises.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice carrying a solemnity that mirrored my inner turmoil. My hand lingered on the back of Jamie's neck, a connection I was loath to break. "But I promise I'll be back first thing in the morning."
"Fine," Jamie's voice was resigned, his shrug betraying the disappointment he tried to hide. "I wish we could go with you."
As I turned away, a pang of guilt twinged within me. They'll be fine, I reassured myself, though the assurance did little to steady the tremble of my lower lip. The emotional distance that had once made departures easier was no longer there, making the act of leaving now feel like a small betrayal.
"Good night, Luke," Paul's voice, steady and strong, offered a semblance of normality, a reminder of the enduring bond among us.
"Night, Paul," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. With a final wave, I walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.
As I crested the dune, the cool night air brushed against my face, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire and company I'd left behind. The darkness above was witness to my solitary trek, a silent journey under the vast, indifferent sky, my heart heavy with the promise of return and the unspoken fears of what the new dawn might bring.
"Well, it's lights out in Clivilius," I declared, stepping back into the dimly lit living room where the shadows played lazily on the walls. The statement felt heavier than the words implied, a subtle reminder of the delicate balance of secrets and reality I was juggling.
"Clivilius?" Gladys echoed, her brow furrowing as she squinted at me, her gaze piercing despite the haze of alcohol that seemed to cloud her judgment.
"That's the name of the place where Paul and Jamie are," I clarified, gesturing towards the vibrant, technicolour display that momentarily lit up the wall behind me. With a flick, the wall resumed its usual plain, charcoal guise, the magic of Clivilius concealed once again.
"What about the truck?" Gladys inquired, her words slightly slurred, her hand waving her glass in a loose arc toward the driveway, her interest piqued by the mundane yet somehow integral.
"Nah, not tonight," I replied, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. "It's getting far too dark to take the goods through the Portal. There's very little light on the other side." I paused, the memory of the otherworldly darkness pressing in on me, "I've never seen night-time like it," I confessed, the starkness of the other realm's night still vivid in my mind.
"I'll call you an Uber," I offered, a mundane solution to a night that had strayed far from normality.
"Sure."
The conversation shifted, my tone taking on a gravity that filled the room. "Oh, and Gladys?" I added, my face hardening with the seriousness of the situation. "You mustn't tell a soul about any of this. No one. Okay?"
"Okay," she replied with a shrug, her nonchalance striking a dissonant chord with the urgency of my plea.
"Gladys, I mean it. Promise me, you won't tell anyone."
"Not a soul," she drawled, her assurance punctuated by a loud hiccup into her glass, an incongruous soundtrack to the severity of our conversation.
As I turned away, a grimace flickered across my face, quickly masked by a rub of my temple. The headache pulsating beneath my fingertips was a painful reminder of the precariousness of my situation. Gladys knew too much, and the alcohol loosened the already fragile grip she had on secrecy.
The thought of taking her to Clivilius lingered in my mind, a drastic measure to ensure her silence. She would be trapped, yes, but the sacrifice seemed a necessary evil to protect the nascent world I was nurturing. The moral quandary gnawed at me, the decision between safeguarding a burgeoning universe and compromising a single soul's freedom weighing heavily on my conscience.
Surely, the ends justified the means? Yet, as the room spun slightly around me, mirroring the turmoil in my mind, I couldn't shake the creeping doubt that questioned whether the creation of a new world warranted the confinement of another friend.
