"Damn it!" The exclamation tore from my throat as frustration surged within me, my eyes tracking the turn-off I'd just missed, which now retreated into the background like a missed opportunity. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, a physical manifestation of my irritation.
I eased off the accelerator, guiding the car to the roadside, a temporary retreat to gather my bearings. The world outside seemed to pause momentarily. I waited, watching as several cars whizzed by, their passengers oblivious to my minor predicament.
With a deep breath, an attempt to quell the rising tide of annoyance, I steered the car back onto the road, retracing the path I had just travelled. The landscape unfurled around me, familiar yet distant in my current state of mind. After a brief journey, I veered left into a wide laneway, the scenery blurring as I hastened to correct my course.
The transition was abrupt as I reached the end of the laneway, confronted by the necessity to turn onto a narrow dirt road. It was less a road and more a testament to nature's indifference, scattered with pebbles, rocks, and daunting potholes that made the car dance an awkward, jarring ballet beneath me.
I've always had a penchant for adventure, for the unpredictable paths and the stories they hold. Yet, as the car jostled and jerked over the uneven terrain, a wave of unease washed over me. Driving on such roads wasn't just about the physical discomfort; it was a relinquishing of control, a surrender to the whims of an untamed path.
The car's motions echoed in the pit of my stomach, a queasy reminder of my empty state. It wasn't just hunger; it was a gnawing realisation of my vulnerability in this moment, a lone traveller on a road less taken, driven by a mix of determination and an underlying thread of apprehension.
I exhaled suddenly, relief washing over me as the confining dirt road unfurled into a spacious, welcoming clearing. "I've finally arrived!" The words echoed softly in the solitude of my car, a silent affirmation of the journey's end.
Gently steering the car under the bare, reaching branches of a Tasmanian oak, I cut the engine, allowing the silence of the clearing to seep in. The car's gentle hum faded, replaced by the subtle whispers of nature that enveloped the area. I stepped out, my shoes crunching on the mix of gravel and earth beneath me, the crisp air filling my lungs.
Before me stood the old stone and cedar cottage, its modest size belied by its unmistakable charm. It was quaint, unassuming, and radiated a sense of timelessness, as if it had grown organically from the very earth it rested upon. I couldn't help but smile, recognising the harmony between the cottage and its occupants.
It suits Karen perfectly, I mused internally, my gaze lingering on the structure's simple elegance. Karen, with her tall, lanky frame, always seemed to move with a grace that was as natural and unpretentious as the cottage before me. I could hardly picture her dabbling in the artifice of makeup; her beauty was as authentic and unadorned as the landscape surrounding me.
My mind's eye painted a picture of Karen, her shoulder-length dark blonde hair perhaps the single concession to any form of embellishment. It cascaded in a way that seemed both carefree and meticulously placed, a paradox that embodied Karen herself. Her skin bore the testament of countless days under the sun, each line a story, each freckle a souvenir of adventures past. Yet, despite the evidence of time, she exuded a vitality and freshness that defied her years.
As I stood there, taking in the scene, I felt a surge of anticipation mixed with a poignant sense of admiration. Karen, much like this cottage and the rugged landscape that cradled it, possessed a resilience and purity that was increasingly rare in our world. Here, in this moment, I was not just arriving at a physical location but was also stepping into a realm that felt almost suspended in time, a place where the essence of a person and their environment were in perfect symbiosis.
Stepping up to the front door, my heart thudded in a rhythm that matched the three sharp knocks I delivered with the back of my knuckle. The sound seemed to resonate through the quiet, almost as if announcing my tardiness to the world.
"You're late," Karen's voice cut through the brief silence that followed my knock, her tone carrying a mix of reprimand and resignation as she swung the door open. Her presence was as commanding as the natural landscape that surrounded her home, her eyes reflecting a blend of welcome and censure.
"I know. I'm so sorry," I responded, my words infused with genuine regret. Time had slipped away from me, as elusive as the winding roads I had navigated to get here.
Karen's expression softened slightly as she stepped aside, her movements fluid, inviting me into her sanctuary. The door opened wider, as if symbolising her acceptance of my apology, albeit grudgingly.
"Don't mind the clutter," she remarked, a hint of defensiveness lacing her voice as she gestured towards the interior. Her home, like her life, was a testament to her passions and preoccupations. "Most of it is research papers and journals.”
I smiled, stepping into the warmth of her abode, my eyes scanning the short stacks of papers that bordered the hallway like silent sentinels guarding the world of knowledge they contained. The scent of a freshly cooked omelette teased my senses, drawing me deeper into the house, a cruel reminder of the meal I had missed.
"Mmm, something smells good," I commented, trying to infuse a lightness into the atmosphere, an attempt to bridge the gap my lateness had created.
"We ate without you," Karen replied, her bluntness wrapping around the words like a sharp-edged cloak. There was no malice in her tone, just the unvarnished truth, served up with the same straightforwardness that defined her.
The disappointment settled in my stomach, a tangible presence that mingled with the pangs of hunger. I wasn't taken aback by her directness; this was Karen, unapologetically authentic, a woman who lived by her own rules and timetables. Her straightforward nature, often perceived as brusque, was also what I admired about her. In a world filled with pretences, Karen was refreshingly real, her honesty a beacon that, despite moments like this, always drew me back to her.
"Chris is out in the garden. You can cook something for yourself if you like," Karen offered, her voice carrying a hint of hospitality that slightly softened the earlier bluntness.
"Nah, it's all good. But thanks for the offer," I replied, trying to brush off the lingering disappointment of missing the meal. My steps took me into the open kitchen and dining area, a space that seemed to blur the lines between functional and personal, much like Karen herself.
"Please, sit," she gestured towards the lone kitchen chair that wasn't buried under an avalanche of old books and scattered papers. “I’ll make us a pot of tea.” Her voice held a warmth that was often reserved for her moments of teaching or sharing knowledge, a side of her I deeply respected.
I accepted the invitation, pulling up the chair and settling into it. The room was cozy, filled with the evidence of lived-in comfort and intellectual chaos. My fingers began to twiddle with anxiety, betraying my inner turmoil. I was here on a mission, yet the path forward seemed as cluttered as the room around me.
Karen busied herself with the tea, the clinking of the kettle and cups a comforting background to my racing thoughts. I glanced around, taking in the essence of the home she shared with Chris. Karen, with her sharp intellect and unwavering commitment to environmental protection, was a pillar of the Tasmanian entomological community. Chris, on the other hand, with his laid-back approach to farming, complemented her intensity, grounding her in the practicalities of rural life.
Their life here was a testament to sustainable living, a balance of science and simplicity that supported their off-grid lifestyle. The small Bixbus settlement would benefit immensely from their presence.
As I sat there, enveloped in the warmth of their kitchen, the weight of my purpose pressed down on me. How was I to broach the topic that had brought me to their doorstep? The conversation that awaited was more than just an exchange of pleasantries; it was a bridge to a discussion that would have significant implications for their lives. My mind raced with possibilities, each scenario playing out with varying degrees of success and failure.
"Would you stop fidgeting!" Karen's voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the cozy kitchen ambiance, making me instantly aware of my own restlessness.
I immediately stilled, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface of the wooden table as if anchoring myself to the moment. "Sorry," I murmured, a mix of embarrassment and tension threading through my voice.
"Why are you here?" Karen's inquiry wasn't unkind, but her forthrightness, typical of her nature, didn't ease the growing knot in my stomach. "You've only come here once before and that was only because Jane brought you along." Her words, factual yet probing, hung in the air between us, a reminder of my rarity in these surroundings.
I cleared my throat, buying time as I organised my thoughts, acutely aware of Karen's penetrating gaze. Her directness was not meant to intimidate, yet it had an uncanny ability to amplify the pressure of the situation.
"Is there something you want?" she asked, her tone flat, almost clinical, as she set a steaming cup of tea before me. With a practiced hand, she shifted a few piles of books, carving out space in the cluttered kitchen to sit down.
I hesitated, the weight of the impending conversation pressing down on me. Leaning over the cup, I inhaled the sharp, distinct aroma of peppermint. "Mmm, peppermint," I commented, mustering a semblance of appreciation despite the internal grimace. Peppermint was far from my preferred choice, a minor detail that nonetheless felt like another layer of discomfort in an already strained setting.
Karen's eyes, sharp and inquisitive, followed me over the rim of her cup as she took a sip of her tea, its heat seemingly no match for her. Her gaze was a silent nudge, a reminder that my evasion had not gone unnoticed. The weight of her expectation hung in the air, dense and palpable.
Feeling the need to escape her scrutinising stare, I pushed myself up from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. My movement seemed to echo in the kitchen, amplifying my unease.
"Where are you going? Is everything okay?" Karen's voice trailed after me, tinged with a blend of concern and curiosity. "The bathroom is down the hall and to the right, if that's what you're looking for," she added, her offer practical, yet laced with an unspoken command for clarity on my abrupt departure.
I didn't respond immediately, my mind racing with the urgency to convey my message in a manner that would resonate with her. The living room, a reflection of Karen's world, was cramped with the artefacts of her interests and passions. Every inch of wall space was adorned with images of the natural world she so fiercely championed or packed with shelves groaning under the weight of knowledge.
The lack of a television was not lost on me—a testament to her dedication to the environment and perhaps an aversion to the distraction of modern technology. It was a space that echoed her essence, yet offered no canvas for the demonstration I had in mind.
With a mix of resolve and resignation, I nudged aside a stack of nature magazines to access the door, sealing us off from the hallway. The room's confines were tighter than I'd hoped, yet it had to suffice. It's not as wide as I'd hoped, but it should still be spectacular enough for my needs, I thought, a flicker of determination igniting within me.
The act of closing the door felt symbolic, a sealing off of external elements to create a space where reality could be bent, even if just slightly, to illustrate my point. I was about to embark on a display that I hoped would capture the importance of my visit, a visual testament to the urgency and significance of the conversation I was here to have. In this room, surrounded by the essence of Karen's life's work, I prepared to bridge the gap between our worlds, hoping the impact would resonate with the same intensity as the passion displayed on the walls around me.
"Karen," my voice emerged, rougher than intended, betraying the nervous energy coursing through me. "Come here for a minute."
I heard the chair's legs screech against the floor in the dining room, a sharp sound in the quiet of her home. "Everything okay?" Karen's voice carried a blend of concern and curiosity as she approached the threshold of the living room.
"Just watch," was all I could muster, my tone more commanding than I had intended, a reflection of the tension gripping me.
Karen's brows knitted together in a frown, her scientific mind already trying to decipher the unknown before it was revealed. "What am I looking for?" she inquired, her voice laced with a skepticism born of years of empirical thinking.
With a deep, steadying breath, I reached into my pocket, feeling the familiar shape of the small Portal Key. Its cool metal surface was a silent reassurance as I grasped it firmly and pointed at the door's unassuming surface.
The moment the Portal Key was activated, a small orb of light darted from its tip, striking the door. The impact birthed a kaleidoscope of colours, a radiant display sprawling across the wood in a dance of hues and brightness. It was as if the very essence of light had been distilled into a singular, mesmerising spectacle.
Karen's gasp sliced through the air, a rare sound of astonishment from a woman who thought she had seen all the marvels her world had to offer. "That's incredible," she whispered, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief, her eyes wide as they absorbed the phenomenon before her.
"I know," I responded, a gentle smile curving my lips. The Portal's effect never failed to captivate, its serene beauty drawing in the observer, easing the initial shock of its impossibility. I recalled Gladys's reaction, similar yet uniquely her own, affirming the Portal's universal allure.
Intrigued, Karen moved closer, her scientific fascination propelling her forward. "Can I touch it?" she queried, her hand inching toward the vibrant display, eager to explore its mystery.
"Not yet," I cautioned, my voice firm, halting her advance. "Don't touch it yet."
Her head swivelled toward me, her eyes searching mine for an explanation. "Why the hell not?" The challenge in her voice was unmistakable, her impatience for understanding clashing with her sense of wonder.
"Because..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. The Portal wasn't just a spectacle; it was a gateway, an entity that demanded respect and understanding. I needed to convey the importance of what stood before us, to bridge the gap between her world of known science and this glimpse into the profound unknown. The explanation had to be clear, concise, and compelling, for what lay beyond this door was as beautiful as it was dangerous, a paradox I was only beginning to understand myself.
"Karen," Chris's voice echoed through the house as he entered, his tone casual, unaware of the extraordinary scene unfolding in the living room.
"In here, Chris," Karen's voice responded, steady and clear, inviting him into a situation far beyond the ordinary.
A pang of uncertainty gripped me as I considered the unfolding scenario. Should I close the Portal before Chris witnessed it? Karen's awe-struck reaction hinted at a possible acceptance from him, too. The idea formed quickly, a plan born of necessity and a touch of desperation. Once they'd both seen the Portal, I'd have the opportunity to explain. In my mind, I framed it as an extraordinary field trip, an adventure akin to their environmental expeditions but far beyond their wildest dreams. They'd go if I told them it was a field trip to save bugs! I thought, a flicker of hope igniting within me.
The door to the living room creaked open, the sound a sinister prelude to the chaos about to unfold, as Chris stepped in, his demeanour light and unaware of the impending maelstrom. "Karen," he called out, his voice buoyant with a joy that was about to be savagely interrupted. "Look what I..." His words hung suspended in the air, abruptly severed as his gaze landed on the scene before him.
In a heartbeat, the room's atmosphere was violently torn asunder as Karen's figure was ensnared by the Portal's relentless grip. Her body, caught in a stark divide between her familiar world and Clivilius, shimmered with a spectrum of unearthly colours. "Chris!" Her cry, laced with a raw blend of dread and disbelief, pierced the veneer of reality, splintering the momentary peace.
Chris's face contorted with horror and bewilderment, a mirror to my own accelerating pulse. "Karen!" he bellowed, his voice a beacon of despair and determination amidst the tempest of light and colour. His hands reached out, desperate to reclaim Karen from the jaws of the unknown, his fingers locking with hers in a testament to their shared history, their unspoken vows.
Yet, as the door swung mercilessly on, its edge grazing Chris's arm with a brutal insistence, the physical jolt was enough to break their desperate clasp. Karen's presence was abruptly snatched away, her essence swallowed whole by the Portal's insatiable maw.
"Karen!" The agony in Chris's shout tore through the air, a raw echo of loss and defiance. He slammed the door with a force that reverberated through the room, a symbolic seal against the calamity that had just unfolded. Yet, within moments, driven by a fusion of love and terror, he stepped through the threshold into the unknown, a determined warrior chasing after his heart, now lost to Clivilius.
I stood frozen, my mind reeling. What the fuck just happened? The scene before me had spiralled beyond my expectations, far removed from the controlled explanation I had planned. The room, now silent, held the heavy weight of the unforeseen consequences of my actions.
I contemplated following them, offering an explanation, an apology, anything to amend the chaos I had caused. Yet, I remained still, the shock anchoring me in place. The Portal's closure marked the end of this unforeseen episode, sealing away the otherworldly gateway but leaving behind a tumult of emotions and unanswered questions.
Leaving the suitcases I had meticulously packed for Karen and Chris in the car, I pushed open the front door, my movements automatic as I navigated toward my bedroom. The familiarity of the space did little to ease the turmoil swirling within me.
The wooden door of the built-in wardrobe issued a protest, a rattling sound, as I slid it open with more haste than care. Dropping to my knees, the carpet rough against my skin, I pushed aside several pairs of shoes in a frantic search for the hidden compartment beneath. My fingers found the small square of carpet, pulling it back to reveal the cold, metallic surface of the safe.
With a precision that belied my inner chaos, I inserted the key into the lock, the mechanism yielding with a loud, resounding clank that seemed to echo the gravity of my actions. The lid swung open, revealing the dark interior, a stark contrast to the smile that involuntarily spread across my face.
Laying Karen's and Chris' keys and wallets inside the safe, I placed them alongside those belonging to Jamie, Paul, Glenda, and Kain. The sight of these items, each a representation of a person, a life, triggered a surge of conflicting emotions. My collection was growing, a tangible representation of the control I was exerting over the situation, yet the diminishing cash stockpile was a constant reminder of the unsustainable path I was on.
"Mementos," the word slipped from my lips, a whisper that carried a mix of satisfaction and unease. The term, usually associated with cherished memories, now took on a darker, more ominous tone.
As the power of my actions washed over me, a brief, intoxicating rush, I repeated the word, "Mementos." But the initial thrill quickly soured, morphing into self-repulsion. "I'm not a fucking serial killer!" I spat out, the words directed at the inanimate objects before me as if they could bear witness to my internal struggle.
The lid of the safe closed with a definitive thump, a sound that seemed to mark the end of an act yet the beginning of a deeper, more troubling introspection. I turned the key, its click sealing away more than just physical items—it locked away a piece of my conscience.
I covered the safe once more, disguising it beneath the carpet and scattering shoes atop, a superficial attempt to bury my actions. Rising to my feet, I was left to confront the duality of my actions and their justification. The wardrobe door slid shut, enclosing the space in its familiar darkness, a mirror to the shadowed corners of my own morality.
"I'm not," I reaffirmed to the silent room, a defiant whisper against the weight of my deeds, an attempt to reassure myself, to reclaim a sense of identity that felt increasingly fragile. The rattling of the door as it closed echoed back at me, a reminder of the isolation of my secrets, my decisions, my growing burden.
