He pulled in his wings tight to his body and sliced through the water in a shallow dive. The boy, one of Halling's brood, had gone under near where the river narrowed and the current picked up speed. He moved through the water quickly, the near freezing temperatures seeping through the protective shield he had woven around himself. With two more strokes he was able to take a firm hold of the boy's arm. A couple of swift kicks and they were bursting through to the surface where helpful hands relieved him of his sodden burden.
Teyla quickly carried Jinto's frightening still form to the riverbank and returned to extend a hand towards him.
"Take my hand, Jian, hurry."
The urgency in her voice carried her words to him above the noise of the encroaching rapids.
"Get back Teyla, go back."
He evaded her attempt to lift him to safety, because as much as she was loathe to acknowledge it, such a maneuver was beyond her. She hovered uncertainly and their eyes met and Jian could see the moment Teyla acquienced to his authority.
He began to swim for the river's bank, angling towards the shore, taking long broad strokes. He was a strong swimmer and he might have made it if this were another place in another time.
He felt the rift overtake him as it progressed along its inexorable journey down the river. He had been too slow and a moment too late. With the cries of his kindred echoing in his mind he was swept helplessly through the shimmering veil. He had one thought: that he had barely embarked on the journey of life and discovery that lay before him. Curses, he wasn't ready to step out with the Ancestors, not yet, he had too much left to do.
He awoke to the sound of the water gently lapping against the bank of the river. He could feel the welcome warmth of the early morning sun on his back and wondered briefly if he had time for a cup of tea before Ronon dragged him out for their daily training exercises. Jian was a firm believer in keeping his ground skills as sharply honed as those he employed in the air. The reality of the situation crashed down on him as the memories of the daring water rescue came flooding back to him. Jinto had been in trouble, had become caught in the river's current but Teyla had arrived just in time to lift him to safety.
Jian moaned as the disjointed memories of the tumultuous passage through the rift returned along with the awareness of his bruised and battered body. Fortunately he had been lucid enough to drag himself out of the water and onto the river bank before he had given into the darkness. He would have been in dire straits otherwise as the water was just as frigid here as it had been on the other side of the veil.
The other side of the veil. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Only a few of the proposed expeditions to this world had ever been sanctioned and they had the benefit of months if not years of preparation. No one just walked across to the other side, or in his case was swept through by a raging current of water. He couldn't have picked a worse site to cross over if he had tried. It was what the patrols were meant to prevent, this accidental and potentially deadly crossing.
He should have just stayed in the City, possibly not even gotten out of bed. Keeping his eyes closed Jian took several deep shuddering breaths and concentrated on finding his inner space just like Teyla had taught him. Well, tried to teach him anyways. The deep soul searching introspection that the Athosian meditation rite demanded just didn't suit his nature.
He ran his hand through his hair, grimacing as he encountered patches of drying mud. Well, at least the unruly mop he had inherited from his mother should stay down at least for awhile. By the Ancestors, nothing else he had tried except for keeping it shorn close to his head had worked. Jian exhaled sharply as his attempt to gain his feet sent a sharp jab running across his shoulders. He waited until the pain had subsided to a dull throb before he shifted his weight and pulled himself up first onto his knees and finally to his feet.
He had been surprised to find himself still of this world - or at least alive, he corrected himself - as he surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings. He recognized this part of the valley where the river widened and the current that had been so deadly further upstream gentled and slowed down to a crawl. Gone however were any sign of habitation as the mixed forest stretched along either side of the river towards the mountain range beyond. Gone were the small, precisely placed farms and cotholds, not even a wisp of smoke reaching up to the sky.
He unfurled his wings and stretched them out carefully, reaching out with his magic to assess the damage that had resulted from the wild tumble through the rift. The small tears would heal quickly but he could sense a fracture in two of the fingerling bones that would require more time. He needed sustenance and shelter so that he could use what little magic was left to him in this world to weave a simple healing spell.
There was no question that he had been pulled all the way through to the other world. Whether it pleased him or not, he was no longer on Terra and unless he was able to find his way to the rift before it closed he would remain here for some time to come. He had listened to enough stories told by the Elders around the evening meal of those explorers and scholars who had been to the other world and back again to know that his kind were unknown on this side of the veil. If he was careful and kept his wings tight to his body he should go unnoticed to the casual observer for he was in no condition to weave and maintain the spell of obscurity.
He looked up to the sky where the sun had not yet reached its zenith and to the mountain peaks beyond the forest. He would follow the river until he reached its end and hopefully he would get there before the rift hit the mountains and was dissipated beneath the rock.
Rodney breathed a sigh of relief as the pickup skidded to a halt a few inches short of Caldwell's mailbox. To take out the neighbour's mailbox, again, that's all he needed to end his far from perfect day. To give the man credit, he hadn't reported the incident when it had happened the first time, just accepted the new box Rodney had dropped off the next day with a nod of his head and an invitation to share a cup of coffee. Rodney had stayed because, hey coffee, and really he had sprung for one of the good ones; the boxes that usually only the tourists bothered with buying.
Not everyone was as supportive though and Rodney had no doubt Emma had already heard about the incident with the shopping cart and Mrs. Dickson. It was a perfectly reasonable mistake; after all he liked everything she had picked out. All of the easy and convenient processed foods that he seemed to live on these days. Tinned soups and boxed pasta, frozen dinners and pizzas and sugary cereal and milk and of course lots and lots of coffee. Well, now that he thought about it, that should have been his first clue because Rodney never bought store brand beans. It was pathetic, really. What was the woman thinking feeding her family that crap and who left their shopping cart unattended in the middle of the aisle like that? He had given it back so he didn't understand what the whole hullabaloo was about.
He lowered the visor against the glare of the setting sun and examined the woods that lined the roadside. It had taken him weeks but he had managed to strategically place markers on the trees lining the route from the town right up to his front yard. Once that far even he couldn't miss the bizarre sculpture cum weather vane that rested proudly at the end of his driveway. All that work because he had become confused on his way home last month.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he would get lost on his way back to the cabin, hence the visual aids. It was just a normal part of aging, he muttered under his breath as he shifted into reverse and carefully backed away from the offending mailbox. He had never been good at remembering peoples names, that had been Sam's job and so what if he had forgotten his last two doctor's appointments. He was a very busy man and really he had never been very good at balancing the checkbook but that wasn't because he had forgotten how.
Oh God, who was he kidding? He was losing it and losing it fast. He had gone from an eccentric artist to crazy old man McKay. He had progressed from forgetting where he had left his keys to forgetting what the keys were for, from misplacing a recipe to forgetting how to follow it, from inadvertently taking a wrong turn to getting lost on the way to the cabin in which he had lived in these past ten years.
He carefully shifted into forward and pulled the pickup a little ways up the shoulder of the road, taking slow, calming breaths. "Come on McKay, buck up, it's not so bad. You've got a ways to go yet," he told himself firmly as he checked behind him before moving onto the greying asphalt of the rural country road.
He wondered idly if talking to oneself was a symptom of Alzheimer's. Emma had accused him of being in denial but there was a difference between pretending nothing was wrong and refusing to give up.
He had led a good life and was lucky enough to have had more years then he deserved with the most desirable woman on the planet. Her beauty and brilliance had shone like a beacon in his life, always drawing him home. Almost a decade his junior, he never thought she would be the first to go. Considering how he tended to neglect his physical needs, especially when he was immersed in his painting, he really had believed he would escape the pain and grief of losing his best friend and partner in life.
Tomorrow he would head down to the river to sketch and to find what inspiration he could. More like divine intervention at the rate he was going, he thought, pushing back the desperation before it could manifest as a panic attack or worse, tears. This was his last shot, he knew that. His last chance to add to his life's work but, it just wasn't happening. Maybe he didn't have it in him anymore. Maybe he had already lost his artistry to the disease, maybe it had already won and he just hadn't noticed yet.
"No," he huffed "Just stop, stop it, stop it, damn you, McKay, you old fart. It ain't over till the fat lady sings."
It was peaceful down near the water's edge and for some reason his mind was clearer and more focused there. So tomorrow, another day, another chance. He predicted that he had maybe a few more years before he was gone for good or at least as good as dead. Alzheimer's was a bitch and he had promised himself that he would fight her for every hour, every minute; that he would have no regrets and he could think of no better way to keep his mind alive than through his art.