II
20 Miles Outside Schenectady, Upstate NY
April 10th
Yellowed by air and cigarette smoke, newspaper clippings hung neatly from the walls around Fred Gant's cot. James Marcus' picture graced many of the articles, and his old, wrinkled face had the grandfather quality to it that made Fred comfortable. It made Dr. Marcus' appeal go beyond his scientific research, at least to Fred.
With Dr. Marcus' soothing gaze upon him, Fred lay sleeplessly on the small, lumpy cot, wracking his brain for ideas, for answers. The key was just beyond the gates of his imagination, that much he knew, but Fred could not wrap himself around it. He looked with frustration at his desk across the room, knowing that the unanswered equations scratched into the warped pine surface begged for solution that he could not yet provide.
He stroked his rough beard thoughtfully as he left the 10 X 12 wooden supply shed that had become his home. Examining the exterior reminded Fred of his first days there, when he had found it by accident during an aimless walk through the woods. He used to do that often, taking long walks in the secluded woods beyond Interstate-90. Fred would tell his wife that they helped him clear his mind and keep his body strong. But in truth, the trips he took into those woods, known to the locals as "Hell's Gates" was Fred Gant's journey into a place much darker.
Fred knelt behind the shed, and looked closely at an old inscription, running his fingers across it. It read "Heaven's Heroes in Hell's Gates." He recalled scratching it into the shed with his pocketknife, but the details of that day were blurry, and Fred could only presume the feeling of comfort and peace that swept over him as he read it must have been what he felt when he wrote it.
Daylight had a hard time breaking the leaf-and-branch ceiling of Hell's Gates, making a noontime walk through the woods seem like dusk. As a result, it was always much cooler there than outside, and Fred had come prepared. Donning a sturdy old pair of Levis and a heavy flannel coat that morning, he knew he wasn't planning on coming home soon. As he passed through his kitchen on his way out, Fred grabbed the black MagLite from on top of the refrigerator. He kissed his wife on the cheek who told him that his dinner would be in the microwave when he got home.
If he could go back today, Fred would hug Emily Gant hard and long for her returned love and thoughtfulness. He often wondered if she still left him a plate in the microwave at night.
The woods were dark that day, more so than usual due to the cloudy September sky, and despite his warm apparel, Fred immediately felt the cool air rush through him. He left his bicycle at the edge of Hell's Gates, just off of the highway, and began his walk.
Immediately, he felt that feeling…the feeling that hurt his brain so badly but kept him coming back every Sunday. It was a song and a scream, he would have described had he ever shared the story with anyone, and it was as beautiful as it was painful. It was not a pain that made Fred clutch at his head and fall to the ground, but a pain that made his thoughts hurt, where a single memory could trigger thousands of emotions, so of which he had never experienced before.
The first of which he called "Lull." It was a serene feeling, but a disabling one as well. It was like a poison that made you feel good even though you couldn't move. He felt it that day, though he had yet to name it, and it happened when the screaming in his head began.
He stumbled a bit, steadying himself on the nearest tree. The lull hit him hard that first time, and he was happy despite the pain. The screaming slowed, like a tape player when it's batteries are about to die. Fred soon found himself unable to walk away from that tree, but was quite content with popping down in front of it.
From a thick patch of trees a few yards ahead, a young woman appeared. She was singing--or screaming; he couldn't tell the difference--and now Fred knew the source of the pain and strange emotion. He still felt the lull, but as she approached, dressed in a tattered white gown and translucent, Fred felt a sharp pain in his hand and an odd sense of remorse. Later, Fred would name this emotion "Puv."
The woman approached, seemingly floating above the dirt and fallen leaves, and he face became clear. A thin nose pointing to thin lips and a narrow chin. Her eyes very wide and big, almost cartoonish in appearance, but very beautiful. Fred could see no color in them. Fred wondered later if that was because her hair was so black…a black he had never seen before. So deep and penetrating, he could not look away from the flowing locks as they tossed around behind her in the wind that wasn't blowing.
Great things you are obligated to do, Doctor.
He could not believe his ears. Her lips did not break from the screaming song that hurt his brain, but her voice took the foreground and shot into his consciousness like an arrow. He knew what she meant immediately, and the puv grew sharper.
Do not ignore these tasks any longer, Doctor. You disturb the order of things.
She backed away, disappearing as suddenly as she appeared. The puv receded, as did the lull. Fred found himself saddened, though, and wishing he hadn't wasted so much time. A loving wife, a lucrative and satisfying career--all a shroud to prevent Fred from seeing his true goal! Weddings and paychecks, all for what?
Why couldn't he see the truth before? Why did it take months of walking through terrible pain in these woods for Fred to see that he should have been working here, in Hell's Gates, on the very thing he was put on Earth to do?
Beyond the thick patch of trees the young woman had disappeared into, stood a shack. Complete, weatherproof and sturdy, Fred liked it. He liked it very much. He felt a peace and comfort swim through his body, and an inspiration that he hadn't felt in years. Grabbing his pocketknife, Fred knelt behind the shed and carved into the wood.
