episode 3: The Gate Opens

-David -

Jittery with caffeine, I crawled out of the third-story window of my house onto the flat section of the roof over the kitchen. I’d just finished a complete re-write of the Wiccan article and the sun had risen and set on me and several pots of coffee. By the time the ‘whoosh’ of my email program had told me I was done, it had been after eleven.

My long day had been the result of my editor's profound displeasure with my first draft. "A gutless rehash of your first piece," they’d said. "Give me something with edge, goddamnit."

Well, if they’d wanted something filled with magic and strangeness, then by God, they got one. I’d written about Alan and Jean’s experiences, about Louise’s spookiness, about the apathy of the cafe patrons, despite our talk of magic, and finally, about how disconcerting it all was for a boy raised in a conservative church.

Thing a deep breath of the cold winter air, I opened a small cupboard under the eaves and collected a pack of cigs and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Originally, it had held a fine single malt and imported cigarettes; intended as supplies for an impromptu night-cap on some idyllic post-coital evening. Lately, though, there’d been a profound dearth of these and I’d been reduced to Jack Daniels and duMauriers by myself.

I took the first drag of my stale cigarette and exhaled a profound sense of relief. Pouring myself a glass of hooch, I wandered to the back of the house and looked down at the backyard, covered in a layer of snow; disturbed only by the repeated tracks of my fox. It looked like she’d visited several times, all approaches terminating at Babe’s fence. Very odd.

Another sip, and my gaze wandered skyward. It was a spectacular winter’s night, the full moon shining through the branches of the ancient neighbourhood trees, and though they were bare of leaves, they still gave my backyard a dappled light. The shadows dark; the light eldritch, I smiled. I figured I was owed a sense of melodrama, given my hectic week.

As the patches of light and shadow crept across my backyard, I had a second cigarette and savoured the contrast between the still winter air and the comfortable burning of the whiskey in my stomach. Then the moon rose high enough so that its rays hit the fence, Babe’s fence, and it… changed.

It looked like an old film; a flickering and grainy image of the hosts of faerie mounted on magnificent steeds; some incredible silent film era rendition of Spenser’s Faerie Queen, with an eerie musical accompaniment.

Indeed, after the initial shock, I thought that was what it must be. I looked around, hoping to discover who was projecting the image. As I moved to get a less obstructed view, I realized the image wasn’t projected onto the fence; it had replaced it. As the moon rose higher, the image grew clearer and I now could hear the sounds of hooves and smell the fresh green of spring.

I stopped looking for a projector. I’m sure that the effects of horses and riders could be mimicked by a determined special effects expert, but not the smell of greenery. And why would anyone do this in my backyard? And, in truth, I knew it wasn’t some CGI wizardry, for nothing human could produce such a voice. It was truly unearthly. The music urged me to join the procession, and without thought, I moved forward, my feet compelled to move to the rhythm, until…

There was a discordant sound between a howl and a yelp that seemed to shake me from the music’s spell. I came to myself, flapping my arms frantically, for I was midway through a step that would take me off the roof. I flailed, one foot off the roof, balance forward, suspended, mid-air, like some cartoon character, just before a fall to the patio stones, eighteen feet below. A thrill of adrenaline shot through me and I gasped. My fingers grazed the side of the old kitchen chimney, no longer in use, but it saved me from my folly.

Tales of the loss of reason in the presence of the Fae came back to me, reminding me of the age-old arguments for the prohibitions against magic. I thought briefly of the many faded cornerstone sigils in the neighbourhood, how no-one would consider replacing them for fear of the cost of messing with a building’s foundation; of how many of the old sigils carved into the lintels of the exterior doors had been replaced by artistic interpretations, or ‘Welcome,’ or some variant of the ubiquitous ‘Live, Laugh, Love’.

The words ‘Perilous Beaty’ came to mind. An overwrought poetic flourish that now resonated powerfully enough to crack the faith I had that I lived in a world I understood; for despite my desperate embrace of the chimney, my feet still tapped to the piper’s tune. I clung desperately to the crumbling brick of the chimney as though it were a life buoy.

As I capered there, unwilling, shaking, my mind replayed the sensation of stepping into empty space over and over. I looked down to seek the origin of the discordant sound that had broken the music’s spell and discovered the fox hidden in shadow, her green-gold eyes glowing in the dark. She looked up, her eyes catching mine, and I felt the siren call from the other side of the fence fade to a distant background. She gave forth one more yelp, filled with derision and impatience, and then disappeared into the bushes.

I closed my eyes then, and turned away, muttering to myself, as much to counter the sounds of the slowly fading music as anything else. "It’s just stress, it’s just stress," like a mantra. But still I could not leave the roof’s edge, pulled between the lure of the music and the warnings in my mind until clouds occluded the moon and, daring to look through squinted eyes, I saw the image fade and my fence return.

It was only then that I finally noticed that an icy wind had risen, freezing the sweat of my panic.

A profound longing still burned within me; for delights beyond the bearing of a mortal body and mind. Pleasures that I would gladly give myself over to; accepting my own destruction as a fair payment for the faintest hope of fulfilment. I felt tears of frustration freeze to my cheeks as I gulped the chill and sterile air, trying to will my mind to overturn the treacherous promise of the music that still moved my feet and burned in my heart. Finally, the pain of the cold and my shivering displaced the last vestiges of the bewitchment.

Only then was I able to retreat indoors, body shaking, whether from nerves or the cold, I did not know. I didn’t sleep that night, just rested fitfully on the couch, watching late night TV and dripping melted snow on my throw rugs and couch as I tried to dismiss what I had seen. I tried to ignore the impulse that still wanted me to get a closer look, despite the peril. I had almost succeeded too when I wandered, once again, into the kitchen, trying to decide on coffee, tea or more whiskey as dawn crept up the horizon.

And there she was, staring at the fence. Once again, just a fence.

She turned then to look at me, a red-gold fox with uncanny intelligence in her eyes, her gaze evaluating. Then with a leap she disappeared, with unnatural agility, down the squirrel highway formed by the neighbourhood’s backyard fences.