Through The Rift (as told by Scotty), John Stormm [e book reader free txt] 📗

     “We’re on!” I exclaimed to a room empty of all but a flickering computer monitor. However he did it, Stormm had assured me it would be worth the trip to attempt a crossing of worlds.

     Be it history or mythology, it is a common tale among most of the Celtic cultures, that in ancient times there were other races that were displaced when our ancestors made their way to our hallowed isles. There were the Sidhe who moved into the lands beyond their hollow hills also called `sidhs´. Or the Tuatha De Danaans (literally the Children of Danu) who were a tall, Nordic looking race of near immortals but could be killed in battle. All of whom were behooved to move beyond the reach of mankind. A thousand races represented in the Fair Folk or the Gentry of ancient times who possessed a knowledge of wizardry that far surpassed anything known to man and capable of great feats of strength, wit and wisdom.

     Armed with the fairy tales I learned as a wee lad I met a strange man that demonstrated those strange qualities that are said no longer to exist amongst the race of men. The very substance of old superstitions wrapped in flesh and blood and magick. He, like the old wizard a thousand years his predecessor, has no earthly father and therefore the nature of two worlds in his blood and bones. This is why I flew all the way from Edinburgh to Rochester, New York on Lammas to traipse through a bloody steaming jungle on the edge of a city.

     It was bloody hot and had to be the hottest day of the year when I picked John up at his house. He came down to my rental car looking the penultimate Celtic barbarian with his long, blond ponytail adorned with raven’s feathers and his tall, athletic build barely contained in shorts and sandals with a collection of amulets and charmed silver rings on his fingers. Though I am ten years his senior, I am at least a foot shorter and of a stockier build. What a contrast we were. I in white shirt, shorts and sneakers and Stormm in his traditional black on black. He tossed a backpack and a kit into the backseat and we drove the few blocks to a cul-de-sac where we could park the car and start our hike into the woods at Durand Eastman Park.

     Getting out of the air conditioned Lexus it hit me like a brick wall. The air was so humid and sticky it was hard to breathe and I thought I might be taking my life and health in my hands with this trip into the forest. But we had planned this for months and it had to be Lammas if we were going to be assured of making the crossing or it was going to be the same kind of dumb luck we had trusted in past attempts where Stormy had tried to show me some rift areas.

     “Could it just possibly get any bloody hotter than this?” I asked in exasperation.

     “Only in hell,” he replied with a grin, “but we’ll be avoiding that neighborhood on this trip.

     “Can I help you carry any of that?” I asked, indicating his backpack and kit decked out like Batman’s utility belt.

     “Nah,” he replied, “I’ve got this part alright. You just concern yourself with keeping up with me and getting through this in the best possible shape. Along the way, I’ll see what I can do to make the trip a bit more bearable.”

     I suspected that he had made some kind of contract with someone on the other side for this trip the day before. It is well known in his family that on his birthday he disappears and no one sees or hears of him until late in the day. I was going to learn where he goes and maybe why he is the impossible kind of man he is. But God, the heat was oppressive and the bugs were eating me alive. They don’t seem to like Stormy though. He seemed to take it all in stride without even any visible sweating.

     “I swear I’m going to lose a pint of blood to these six-legged vampires before we get a full mile,” I complained, swatting at a swarm of deer flies and mosquitoes. “Don’t you ever worry about getting West Nile virus or something?”

     “I’ll fix that for you,” he said, looking about for his solution.

     As we walked down towards the brook he calls Kidron, I notice he is picking some large leaves with a thick milky sap and putting them into a plastic shopping bag he had pulled from a pocket in his backpack. Getting to the water, he fills it out of the brook and twists the end shut, shaking it vigorously.

     “Here, old timer,” Stormm says, holding out the water bag. “I want you to douse yourself thoroughly, from head to toe with this water. It’s milkweed sap, and there’s only one kind of insect that can tolerate it and the Monarch caterpillar won’t bite you, but because of the strength and poison in these leaves, even the birds won’t eat them.”

     “What will it do to me?” I ask nervously.

     “It will cool you down and make you very unappetizing to anything that might want to bite you,” he replied.

     I must say that it worked on both counts. Next he had me take off my shirt and soak it in the creek and then fasten it to the belt loop on my shorts and to occasionally slap the wet cloth across my chest and back to keep cool. This felt VERY good on such a day as this and I was beginning to think it might not be so bad until I saw the equipment Stormy was fastening on while we were stopped at the brook. He was slinging a single edged, ninja style, short sword over his shoulder under his pack so that he could draw it with one hand. He DID say to leave the equipment and victuals to him, and I had to wonder what he thought we might come across that would warrant carrying a sword. He seems a bit strange and eccentric at times, but when you know him as long as I, you learn to reserve judgment as he can be very practical about things too. He had a shoulder slung water bottle with iced tea and a couple partially frozen bottles of water, which we drank freely from along the way, a black bag with some rope and a folding grappling hook, several nectarines, a folding saw, some throwing knives, a slingshot, a cottage cheese container with Italian dressing in it, a pair of walkie talkies which he had given me one to use and numerous other odds and ends that he seemed to think would come in handy for some sort of emergencies as they might happen. He’s not only a wizard but a bloody fine Boy Scout. Still I had to wonder at what he expected.



     “Do you really think you’re going to need all of that?” I asked. “It’s only a walk in the park, you know.”

     “With me,” he said, “it’s NEVER just a walk in the park. I promised you we would crossover today and this won’t be the Durand Eastman Park that you ever knew. You’ll begin to see what I mean a little further in.”

     I know I practically begged for this experience, but I really didn’t like the way he said that. We crossed the brook and moved up a steep incline to a trail he dubs, the Emerald Tunnel. It snakes in a northerly direction along the top of a ridge just east and parallel to the brook. The effect of the sunlight through branches arching over the packed clay floor of the trail give it its name.

     A short ways up the trail from Kidron I begin to notice a couple things. The first is no more mosquitoes or deer flies. Not that they were just leaving me alone, I just didn’t see any. There were some interesting butterflies. I can’t recall ever seeing so many and so many different kinds of them. Then there were a flurry of small and large dragonflies, the largest being the size of a small bird. A group of several large iridescent varieties buzzed close to us. Their jeweled wings humming like cellos.

     “They’re here to check out the new kid,” Stormy indicated, the red, green and blue trio. “Careful not to swat at them. They might not like that and they won’t bite or sting you. They’re just curious.”

     “Just as long as they’re not too curious with how I might taste,” I quipped nervously.

     “Trust me,” he said laughing, “you taste just awful with that milkweed sap on you. Nothing in its right mind will want a taste of you. I didn’t bring you out here to let anything happen to you. But you have to follow my instructions to the letter. Not everything is safe here and little is only as it seems.”

      “We’ve crossed over?” I asked. I really hadn’t noticed anything. I half expected a light show or some kind of special effects heralding our crossing. I was sadly disappointed in this.

      “Just keep your eyes open for things you’ve never seen in your own world,” he said with his exasperatingly mischievous grin. “You tell ME when you think we might not be in Kansas anymore.”

      Stormy is a man who loves the turn of a colorful metaphor. He is also very used to teaching and lecturing, so I found it a bit unnerving that he didn’t seem to want to give me a running commentary as we walked the trail. The next thing I noticed, when we arrived at a clearing on the ridge trail was that there should have been a highway on the ridge just east of us and houses along that road, but no houses to be seen through the trees or in the clearings and no sound of traffic. I would think there would’ve been a lot of traffic going to the beach on such a blistering day. Not a single lawnmower or engine of any kind to be heard. The sound of birds singing and the rustle of squirrels frolicking in the trees and the warm breeze whispering through the boughs was all I heard in any direction. The trail was looking narrower than I remember it, but its been hot and wet here lately. Plants in this hot and humid environment tend to grow wild and fast. I also noticed that some of the hardwood trees along the trail have runes carved into them. Stormy had likely marked this trail in times past. Most things I could explain through normal coincidences and John encouraged that speculation. I could tell he was amused with the whole thing by the way he coaxed me along. The coincidences were about to take a left turn. My camera wouldn’t work and my watch stopped at the same time his had. About 10:27am. Bloody hell.

     The next spectacle were the deer. A well antlered stag and a couple does with fawns browsed peacefully in the shade near the edge of a meadow. They were unfazed