As I turned the car slowly onto Glenda's road, I took another glance at the address number on Glenda's driver's licence. "Forty-six," I read aloud, the numbers rolling off my tongue as if trying to familiarise themselves with the surroundings. "Probably about halfway up," I mumbled to myself, the sound of my voice a soft murmur against the hum of the engine. I could feel the tension in my fingers as they gripped the steering wheel, the leather cool and slightly worn beneath my touch.
Looking up, I observed the steep incline that lay before me, the hill stretching upwards like a giant, slumbering beast. The car seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if gathering its strength, before I nudged the accelerator and felt it begin to climb. The wheels protested as they bumped over the low gutter, the jolt sending a shiver through the chassis and into my spine. I brought the car to a stop, positioning it in a way that left it somewhat off the road, as if it too needed a moment to catch its breath.
Gripping the steering wheel, I leaned forward, my eyes drawn to the view that unfolded beyond the windscreen. It was as if the world had opened up before me, the expanse of Sandy Bay stretching out like a vast, intricate tapestry. There, nestled among the verdant green that clung to the hillside, was the De Bruyn's house. It was a thing of beauty, its lines clean and elegant, a testament to meticulous care and attention.
Beyond the tranquility of the residential haven, the harbour lay glittering under the caress of the sun, its waters a mirror reflecting the azure of the sky. Ships, tiny from this vantage point, glided gracefully across the surface, their sails a ballet of white against the blue. And there, standing proudly along the shoreline, was the Wrest Point casino, its hotel tower a beacon amidst the landscape, its prominence undiminished even from this distance.
I could not help but feel a sense of awe at the scene before me, a moment of beauty and serenity that seemed almost at odds with the purpose of my visit. The juxtaposition was not lost on me—the elegance of nature and the opulence of human endeavour, coexisting in a delicate balance. It was a reminder of the complexities of life, of the myriad experiences that shape our existence, each one a thread in the intricate weave of our narratives.
For a moment, I allowed myself to be lost in the view, in the tranquility and the grandeur. But then, the reality of my purpose here tugged at the edges of my reverie, pulling me back from the brink of contemplation. With a deep breath, I gathered my thoughts, steeling myself for what was to come. The house before me, with all its beauty and charm, was not just a backdrop to admire—it was the stage upon which the next scene of my narrative would unfold.
I slipped Glenda's keys into the deep recesses of my trouser pocket, feeling the cool metal against my thigh through the fabric, and firmly closed the car door with a soft, yet decisive click. The sound seemed to echo slightly in the crisp mountain air, a subtle reminder of the solitude surrounding me. I stood there for a moment, taking in a deep breath of the fresh, almost tangy mountain air. "Tasmania has the cleanest air in all of Australia, I'm convinced of that," I whispered to myself, the words floating away on a gentle breeze.
The mission ahead was etched clearly in my mind: Use Glenda's keys to enter her house, gather a selection of her clothes, and leave unnoticed. It sounded straightforward in theory, but the sleek silver BMW parked in the driveway spoke of unforeseen complications. My eyes lingered on the car, its polished surface reflecting the muted colours of the surrounding landscape, a silent sentinel that signalled the possible presence of Pierre, Glenda's husband. A knot of apprehension began to form in my stomach—I had not planned for this contingency.
With a measured pace, I approached the front door, my footsteps muffled by the lush grass underfoot. The house loomed before me, its façade a blend of charm and foreboding, as if it were aware of the intrusion I was about to commit. I reached out, my hand slightly trembling, and delivered several loud raps of my knuckles against the dark, hardwood door. The sound resonated deeply, more ominous than I intended, echoing through the silent expanse around me.
As I stood there, waiting for a response, I couldn't help but notice the intricate grain of the wood, each line and swirl a testament to the tree's long history, now serving as the barrier to my objective. My mind raced, contemplating the myriad outcomes this encounter could yield. Was Pierre already striding towards the door, his footsteps silent on the plush carpeting within? Or was the house as empty as it appeared, the car a mere decoy left to deter would-be intruders?
The uncertainty gnawed at me, a stark contrast to the serene beauty of Tasmania's landscape that enveloped me. Here I was, caught between the tranquility of nature and the tumult of human affairs, a lone figure standing at the threshold of decisions whose repercussions were as unpredictable as the wind that rustled the leaves overhead.
A middle-aged European man opened the door, his appearance strikingly neat, with every hair in place and a hint of a day's stubble framing his jawline, lending him an air of rugged sophistication. "Hello," he greeted, his voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of a French accent, each syllable pronounced with precision and a touch of curiosity. "Can I help you?"
Standing there, I sized him up quickly—this had to be Pierre. I'd never met him, but there was an unmistakable air of familiarity about him, something in his demeanour that matched the fragmented descriptions I'd pieced together from Glenda's occasional mentions. Despite the circumstances, there was a certain softness in his features, a kind of unspoken welcome that momentarily disarmed me. "Is Glenda home?" I ventured, my voice steady, aiming to bridge the gap between us with a question I already knew the answer to.
The transformation was almost immediate. The warmth that had momentarily flickered in Pierre's eyes extinguished, replaced by a veil of caution, a subtle hardening of his expression. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," he responded, his tone shifting, the congeniality evaporating as he began to push the door closed with a firmness that left no room for further discussion.
"Pierre, I know where she is," I blurted out, the words escaping me in a rush, driven by a mix of desperation and an instinctive need to halt the closing of the door. In a swift motion, I wedged my foot in the narrowing gap, preventing the door from shutting completely.
What happened next was a blur of motion. With a swiftness that belied his earlier composure, Pierre's hand shot out, his grip firm and unexpectedly strong around my arm. He pulled me inside with a force that caught me off guard, the world inside the house spinning into view as he dragged me across the threshold. The door slammed shut behind us with a definitive thud, the sound echoing ominously through the space, marking the transition from the outside world into a realm of unpredictability and impending confrontation.
Wincing, the sharp twist in my left arm was a stark prelude to the sudden force with which Pierre shoved me against the wall of the entryway. My free hand, in a desperate attempt to find balance, sent a small vase teetering off its perch on a low stand beside me. The sound of it shattering on the floor seemed to punctuate the chaos of the moment, fragments of ceramic scattering like the pieces of the calm façade that had just been shattered.
Pierre, his face a mask of determination, seemed entirely unfazed by the collateral damage. "Speak!" he demanded, his voice a harsh command that brooked no argument, his forearm pressing against my throat with a pressure that threatened to steal the air from my lungs. The cool wall against my back offered no comfort, merely a solid reminder of the precarious situation I found myself in.
In the vice-like grip of Pierre's arm, my struggle for breath became a tangible representation of my fight for control. The bile rising in my throat was a bitter testament to the tension that gripped me. With a desperate wriggle, I managed to free my left hand, extending it with trembling urgency towards my pocket. The fabric seemed to resist for a moment before yielding, allowing my fingers to close around the cold metal of the Portal Key.
Clutching the Portal Key, I extended my palm outward, careful to keep my movements slow and unthreatening. "She's in Clivilius," I managed to choke out, the words gasped in haste as I glanced down at the device resting in my hand.
“Merde!" Pierre exclaimed, his arm retracting from my throat as he turned his frustration on the inanimate wall beside him, his fist making contact with a thud that echoed through the entryway. The sudden release allowed air to flood my lungs, the sharp intake a sweet relief after the oppressive constriction.
I flinched, not just at the force of Pierre's outburst, but at the raw emotion it conveyed. The French curse, a sharp exclamation in the midst of our English exchange, seemed to underscore the intensity of the moment. In the space of a few heartbeats, the dynamic between us had shifted, the balance of power oscillating wildly as we stood, two men caught in a maelstrom of unforeseen consequences and revelations.
"What the fuck were you thinking? Who the hell are you?" Pierre's voice was a tempest of confusion and anger, his words slicing through the tense air between us.
"Luke Smith," I responded, my voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within me. At this juncture, transparency seemed like my only ally.
At the mention of my name, a noticeable shift overtook Pierre. He stepped back, his posture loosening as a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes, transforming his expression from one of hostility to something more contemplative, almost understanding. "What do you need me to do?" he inquired, his tone softening, now edged with a willingness to listen.
The abrupt change in Pierre's demeanour left me momentarily disoriented. My initial assumption—that Glenda had shared nothing with her husband—seemed to crumble before my eyes. But the rapid succession of questions in my mind did little to clarify the situation. Why the sudden change? Why did he recognise me? What did he know, and why was he suddenly so amenable to assisting me?
I found myself at a crossroads of suspicion and necessity. Pierre's sudden shift from aggressor to ally was jarring, yet it opened a door to the very assistance I needed. Despite the whirlpool of questions threatening to drag me into further confusion, I recognised the need to focus on the purpose of my mission.
"I need you to pack Glenda a suitcase," I stated, my voice firm, masking the whirlwind of confusion and curiosity churning inside me.
"Of course," Pierre replied, his acquiescence almost too swift, leaving a trail of ambiguity in its wake. "Follow me."
He led me into the living room, a space that exuded an air of understated elegance, its spaciousness speaking of comfort and a life well-lived. The command to stay put as he exited the room left me in a temporary limbo, the sudden solitude amplifying the strangeness of my situation.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, a quiet release of tension, my fingers instinctively rising to massage the tender skin of my throat, a stark reminder of the physicality of our earlier encounter. The welcome I had envisioned, if one could call it that, was far from the reality I now faced. I took a deep breath, attempting to anchor myself in the present, to quell the rising tide of adrenaline that had yet to ebb.
My gaze wandered, taking in the details of the room. The living space was tastefully adorned, with plush furnishings that promised comfort and walls that bore art which spoke of refined taste. Behind me, the kitchen sprawled, its modernity and scale almost imposing. The double oven and oversized fridge hinted at a lifestyle punctuated by gatherings and culinary pursuits. "Doctors," I uttered with a soft chuckle, the irony not lost on me—the opulence surrounding me a striking contrast to the turmoil I felt within.
To my left, as I faced the kitchen's culinary expanse, the division between the interior's warmth and the outside world was marked by a large glass door. It offered a transparent threshold to the deck area, blending the boundary between inside and outside. The deck itself, reasonably sized, boasted an elegant outdoor setting capable of accommodating ten guests, arranged under a cover that promised refuge from the capricious weather while still inviting an abundance of natural light to drench the area in a welcoming glow.
My attention, however, was momentarily diverted from the architectural harmony of the space by a dainty water feature, its gentle burble a soothing counterpoint to the day's tension. Nestled among a clutch of delicate ferns, it beckoned me closer, an invitation to momentarily step away from the whirlwind of my current predicament.
As I moved toward the door, drawn by the tranquil allure of the water feature, a sudden movement caught my eye. A golden retriever, embodying the essence of joy and uninhibited enthusiasm, bounded up the outdoor stairs, its approach a blur of golden fur and wagging tail. The dog's arrival was a startling contrast to the refined calm of the deck
Crouching down to meet the dog's eye level, I waved through the glass, a silent greeting to this unexpected companion. The dog responded with a friendly bark, its voice muffled by the barrier between us, yet its message of welcome unmistakably clear. In that moment, the connection, though silent and simple, offered a fleeting respite from the complexities of human interactions, a pure exchange untainted by the earlier confrontations.
"You know she'll be wanting to find her father," Pierre remarked, re-entering the room with a suitcase in hand, breaking the brief interlude of solitude that had allowed me a momentary escape into contemplation.
"Her father?" I echoed, rising to my feet, the question laced with a tinge of surprise. "I thought he had passed away."
Pierre's scoff was a sharp retort to my assumption. "Glenda doesn't believe it. Not at all," he stated, his words carrying a weight that hinted at deeper, unspoken stories.
I was momentarily adrift in thought, pondering the complexities of Glenda's beliefs and the mysteries surrounding her father. The silence stretched between us, laden with unasked questions and unspoken answers. How should I navigate this revelation? Was it prudent to delve deeper into the enigma of her father's fate with Pierre, who might hold pieces of the truth Glenda had never shared with me?
As these questions churned in my mind, I hesitated, on the verge of voicing my curiosity. But before the words could escape, Pierre shifted the conversation's trajectory.
"Can I see it?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the object that had inadvertently become the pivot around which the day's events revolved.
"This?" I responded, lifting the Portal Key into the air, its form catching the light, casting small reflections around the room.
Pierre's nod was an affirmation, a silent acknowledgment of the object's significance. My shoulders relaxed slightly, a nonverbal acquiescence to his request. There seemed no harm in granting it; after all, the Portal Key was central to the mission at hand—a mission that now, unexpectedly, included Pierre.
Surveying the room for an appropriate surface to activate the Portal Key, my gaze swept across the walls, encumbered with shelves and adorned with picture frames of various sizes, each capturing a moment, a slice of life within this house. The options were limited, every inch occupied, telling stories in silent, frozen imagery.
The dog's restless bark sliced through my concentration, her excitement palpable. Then it clicked—the glass window of the sliding door. It wasn't just a barrier between spaces; it was the canvas I needed. I aimed the Portal Key at the glass, a conduit to the unimaginable.
As I activated the device, a small ball of energy burst forth, racing towards the glass and erupting into a spectacle of vibrant, swirling colours that danced before our eyes. The display was mesmerising, a kaleidoscope of hues that seemed to defy the mundane reality of the room.
Pierre's gasp was a testament to the wonder and disbelief that the phenomenon evoked. "Lois, stop it!" he admonished the golden retriever, her excitement undimmed by his command, as she jumped and barked at the glass, drawn to the spectacle of light and colour.
With cautious steps, Pierre approached the swirling vortex, his eyes fixed on the spectacle. "I've listened many times when Glenda's told me stories about her father and a strange Portal to another dimension. But I had always thought they were just the made-up stories of an imaginative man who was doing his best to raise his daughter. Despite Glenda insisting they were true, I never did believe any of it was real," he confessed, his voice a mixture of wonder and introspection. "But now..." His words faded into the charged air, leaving an unspoken acknowledgment of the reality unravelling before him.
I navigated my way across the room, my steps measured, to retrieve the suitcase that stood solitary, an inanimate witness to the unfolding events. "Come with me," I urged Pierre, returning to where he stood, transfixed by the portal's display. Together, we faced the vibrant spectacle, the energy before us a pulsating beacon to Clivilius.
"I can't," Pierre responded abruptly, his refusal laced with a sense of urgency. "Not yet. I have other urgent things to deal with first." His words hung between us, weighted with unspoken implications.
The memory of his arm pressing against my throat was still fresh, igniting a flicker of discomfort as I unconsciously rubbed at the sensitive skin. Pierre's actions and his sudden urgency to remain hinted at deeper involvements, connections that perhaps lay hidden beneath the surface. They’re both doctors, the realisation dawned on me. It would make sense that Glenda and Pierre were both members of The Fox Order, given Glenda’s familiarity with ‘The Testing’.
Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to understand, I ventured a question, my voice laced with caution. "Are you The Fox?" The inquiry was a shot in the dark, an attempt to untangle the web of mysteries Pierre seemed to be enmeshed in.
"No," he replied promptly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"But you know who is?" I pressed, seeking clarity amidst the enigma.
"No," he repeated, shaking his head, a gesture of denial or perhaps a warning. "Go," he insisted, his tone firm. "I'll be in touch."
The air was charged with a palpable tension as we stood there, each assessing the other, an unspoken acknowledgment of the precariousness of our respective positions.
My curiosity piqued again, I couldn't help but probe further. "Are you going to ask me for my number?" I asked, half-joking, half-serious. "How else will you be in touch?"
"No. It's not safe for us to talk on the phone," he countered, his voice low, imbued with a seriousness that brooked no argument. "Meet me here next Friday at ten sharp.”
His words settled over me, a directive that offered no room for negotiation. The stipulation of time and place was a tether, linking us through a commitment to reconvene. As I stood there, facing Pierre, the portal's energy crackling in the background, I was acutely aware of the intricate dance of trust and suspicion in which we were both unwilling participants.
My brow furrowed in concern. Reflecting on the news of a new virus sweeping through the community that had begun to trickle through the media over the last few months, I couldn't help but ask. "What the hell are you involved in, Pierre?"
"No, not now," Pierre dismissed, a flicker of urgency passing through his eyes before they brightened with a sudden realisation.
"What is it?" I probed, treading carefully, sensing the weight of the moment.
"We may need to do a mass evacuation," he declared, the words catching me completely off guard.
"But we can't," I countered, my mind racing through the logistics, the impossibilities. "They can't leave Clivilius."
"No," Pierre corrected, his gaze steady, "Evacuate Earth."
The words struck me like a thunderclap, echoing absurdly in my ears. "Shit!" The expletive burst from me, a knee-jerk reaction to the staggering scale of Pierre's proposal. "Are you serious? Like how many people are you talking about here? A few hundred?"
Pierre's response was measured, his voice eerily calm amidst the storm of implications. "Maybe a few thousand. Maybe a few million," he stated, each word heavy with the weight of countless lives.
The enormity of the idea was paralysing. Clivilius, with all its promise and potential, was still in its infancy, a nascent civilisation not yet ready to shoulder the burden of Earth's teeming masses. The vision of what it could become was clear in my mind, a beacon of hope and progress, but the reality of the present was starkly different. The thought of transporting even a fraction of Earth's population was daunting, an undertaking that stretched the limits of imagination and possibility.
"Pierre, I..." My voice faltered, the words dissolving into the charged silence. The enormity of the challenge, the sheer scale of what was being suggested, left me grappling for a foothold in a reality that seemed to be slipping away. How could we possibly orchestrate such a massive exodus? The resources, the logistics, the sheer audacity of the plan were overwhelming. Yet, amidst the shock and disbelief, a part of me understood the desperation that drove such a radical proposal—the instinct to survive, to seek refuge from a threat of unprecedented scale. But the practicalities, the implications of such an action, were a hurricane of complexity and uncertainty.
Pierre's head shake was vehement, a clear signal that the boundaries of our conversation had been reached, if not breached. "Forget it. I've said too much already," he declared, a firm finality in his voice as he nudged the suitcase toward me, a tacit acknowledgment of the weight of the task at hand. "Tell Glenda that I love her and miss her, and that I am safe."
The words hung heavy between us, laden with unsaid emotions and unexplored depths. I felt a tug at my heart, a silent wish that Pierre would choose to accompany me, to face whatever awaited together. Yet, his decision stood firm, etched in the set of his jaw and the resolve in his eyes.
"Is she lonely?" Pierre's question caught me off guard, halting my movement and drawing me back into the moment.
I paused, the reality of Clivilius's nascent state pressing upon me. "The settlement is only a few days old, population..." My voice trailed off as I tallied the inhabitants, a meagre count that underscored our vulnerability. "Population seven. Still no plants or wildlife, but there are a few pets," I admitted, the words leaving a bitter taste as they highlighted the starkness of their existence.
Pierre's next action was unexpected. He strode to the glass door, sliding it open with a swift motion to admit an eager Lois, her energy undiminished by the complexities of our discussion. "Take Lois with you," he implored, a subtle tremor in his voice betraying the emotion behind the gesture.
I hesitated, the responsibility of another life, especially in such uncertain conditions, weighing heavily on me. Yet, the thought of Duke and Henri's resilience sparked a flicker of hope. If they could adapt and thrive, perhaps Lois could too. With a slow, deliberate nod, I accepted the charge, my hand closing around Lois's collar, feeling the warm pulse of life beneath my fingers, a reminder of the fragile thread of hope that we were all clinging to.
"You'll need her food too," Pierre's voice redirected my focus as he headed towards the kitchen, his movements swift and purposeful. He pulled open the pantry door, revealing shelves laden with various supplies.
I followed, still somewhat tangled in the logistics of our immediate concerns. "It's okay. They've got plenty of food for now, unless there's something specific Glenda likes?"
Pierre's chuckle broke through my muddled thoughts. "I wasn't talking about Glenda." He stooped to access the lower shelf, his movements revealing his intent. "I was talking about Lois," he clarified, as he began to load large cans of dog food onto the bench, each thud echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks with warmth. Of course, he was referring to Lois. I mentally chided myself for the oversight. "You've got an enclosed garage?" I inquired, shifting gears as a new thought struck me, considering the logistics of transporting the supplies through the portal.
"Yes, why?" Pierre's response was laced with curiosity, his gaze shifting from the dog food to me.
The portal's vibrant display receded, drawing back into itself until the glass regained its usual transparency, signalling the temporal nature of our gateway.
Lois, released from my hold, wasted no time in bounding back to Pierre, her tail a blur of motion, her loyalty undivided despite the impending journey.
"May as well take the car," I suggested, the practicality of the situation dictating a need for more efficient transport, especially with the additional canine passenger and her provisions.
"Take Glenda's," Pierre proposed, his voice steady, a hint of resolve underlying his suggestion. "I'll get you the spare key."
A small, knowing gesture was all it took to show I was one step ahead. "No need," I replied, a slight lift in my tone as I brandished Glenda's keys in front of me, the metal jingling a soft but poignant sound in the quiet of the room. "She's already given me her set of keys."
"Of course," Pierre acknowledged, a trace of a smile briefly softening his features, a reflection of shared memories or perhaps an appreciation of Glenda's foresight. "She's always thoughtful like that." His attention then shifted, his hands reaching for a large bag of dog biscuits, an action that instantly captured Lois's undivided attention, her body language shifting to one of eager anticipation.
"Okay," Pierre addressed Lois, his voice a mix of affection and command as he opened the bag. "But just a small handful." The simple act, a routine exchange between owner and pet, momentarily pierced the veil of the day's tension, grounding us in a moment of normality.
"This way?" I inquired, positioning myself in the doorway, my finger pointing down the corridor, seeking confirmation of the path to the garage.
"Yes," Pierre confirmed, his gaze following my gesture. "The door at the very end will take you into the garage."
Guided by his directions, I navigated the passageway, each step echoing slightly, a reminder of the solitude of the space. Reaching the garage, I opened the door to reveal the familiar sight of Glenda's car, a silent testament to the life she had permanently left behind. With a sense of purpose, I hoisted the suitcase, a tangible connection to Glenda, onto the backseat of her car, the action imbued with a sense of preparation and departure, a prelude to the journey that awaited.
Shortly after I settled the suitcase, Pierre appeared, his arms laden with biscuits and bags of cans, his steps heavy with the weight of both the provisions and the unspoken emotions swirling between us. He methodically placed the items in the back with the suitcase, each movement deliberate.
"Are you sure?" I found myself asking, glancing down at Lois, whose eyes sparkled with the anticipation of an adventure, her tail wagging a rhythm of excitement. Her joy was a small beacon of innocence and simplicity.
"Yes, take her," Pierre affirmed, his voice steady, yet beneath it lay an undercurrent of something more complex, perhaps resignation or a deeper concern masked by the necessity of the moment.
When I opened the driver's side door, Lois didn't hesitate. With the agility and enthusiasm characteristic of her breed, she vaulted into the car, settling herself on the passenger side as if she'd claimed that spot many times before. She sat poised, facing forward, her breaths quick with eagerness, ready for whatever lay ahead.
Observing this, I saw a softening in Pierre's expression, a momentary easing of the tension that had etched lines into his face. It seemed that the prospect of Lois being with Glenda, even in a place as uncertain as Clivilius, offered him a sliver of solace. It was a bittersweet tableau, a man bidding farewell to a loyal companion, perhaps clinging to the hope that she would bring comfort to Glenda in a way he currently could not.
As Pierre leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on Lois's head, a simple act laden with affection and perhaps a silent apology for the upheaval, she responded with a soft bark, a simple acknowledgment or perhaps her own way of saying goodbye. In that brief exchange, there was a palpable sense of transition, of passing the torch of care and companionship from one trusted guardian to another, underlining the interconnectedness of their lives, even as they stood on the brink of separation.
"Glenda will keep her safe," I offered, reaching out to tap Pierre on the shoulder, an attempt to knit a thread of comfort into the fabric of our farewell.
"I know," he acknowledged, his voice carrying a trace of resignation, a testament to the trust he placed in Glenda's care.
"Hang on!" The urgency in Pierre's voice halted my preparations. "One more thing," he added, before quickly vanishing back into the depths of the house. His figure, momentarily silhouetted against the interior light, seemed to carry the weight of unsaid fears and hopes.
Left in the interim of his absence, I watched the Portal's colours dance across the garage wall, a mesmerising display that felt almost incongruous against the backdrop of our human concerns. Lois, ever attuned to the moment, voiced her approval with a spirited bark, her energy undimmed.
When Pierre re-emerged, his arms cradled an object of unexpected delicacy: a violin case. "Her violin!" he announced, a flicker of something like relief in his eyes as he handed it to me. "It'll be good for her," he added, implying not just the comfort of the familiar, but perhaps the solace of music in a foreign land.
I received the case, its weight a tangible reminder of Glenda's presence, and nestled it carefully among the provisions in the back, a symbolic gesture of carrying a piece of her essence with us. Sliding into the driver's seat, I closed the door with a sense of finality, rolling down the window to maintain our last threads of connection.
“And some pillows,” Pierre's voice reached me again, his figure retreating and returning with the softness of home in his arms, which he then deposited in the backseat. His actions, though simple, were steeped in care, a silent communication of his desire for Glenda's comfort, even in the most challenging of circumstances.
With a light wave, Pierre stepped back, a physical and metaphorical retreat, leaving space for departure. My face tightened, a rush of emotions threatening to surface. I turned away, focusing on the task at hand, not wanting to betray the surge of feelings with my gaze.
The ignition hummed to life at the press of a button, a mundane sound that marked the beginning of an extraordinary journey. Lois, ever responsive, voiced her readiness, her bark cutting through the thick air of farewells. We reversed, the car moving slowly towards the vibrant portal, which welcomed us with a swirl of energy that enveloped and then released us, a transition from one world to another.
As the bright rays of the sun penetrated the front windscreen, a stark contrast to the dimly lit garage we had just left behind, I navigated the car forward, the terrain unfamiliar and the atmosphere charged with a sense of new beginnings. After a brief drive, about twenty metres, I halted, the engine's hum fading into the ambient sounds of its new home.
The moment I swung the door open, the sensation of several heavy paws against my body was immediate, a chaotic whirlwind of fur brushing past my face in a rush of exuberance. "Lois!" I called out, attempting to reclaim some semblance of order, but she was a blur of motion, her focus solely on the camp ahead, her barks a mix of joy and eager announcement.
Paul's appearance was timely, his posture questioning as he watched the golden retriever's enthusiastic dash. His hands, raised in a silent query, mirrored his confusion.
"Glenda's," I explained succinctly, the word serving as both an introduction and an explanation, bridging the gap of understanding as Lois continued her spirited sprint toward what I presumed she sensed as home.
"Nice car," Paul remarked, his attention shifting to the charcoal BMW, an appreciative tone in his voice as he gave the hood an approving tap. "Do we get to keep it?”
The question, though casual, underscored the surreal nature of our situation—resources appearing as if from another world, their origins mundane yet their presence here anything but.
"Of course," I affirmed, stepping out of the vehicle. "The keys are in the ignition."
"Sweet," Paul responded, his enthusiasm evident as he wasted no time taking my place in the driver's seat.
"Have you got Joel's address yet?" I inquired, my tone indicating the urgency of the next phase of my mission. The weight of responsibility felt heavier with each task I undertook.
"Yeah," Paul responded, his casual demeanour contrasting with the situation's pressing needs. He fished out a torn piece of paper from his pocket, its edges frayed, bearing the marks of hasty handling, and extended it towards me.
Taking the paper, I scrutinised the writing, a mishmash of lines and curves more akin to hieroglyphs than legible script. My brow furrowed, a silent testament to the effort required to decipher the message. "Joel wrote it," Paul explained.
"Oh," I acknowledged. Wouldn’t have surprised me if it was yours, I thought but chose to mask my sarcasm with a simple, “Nice.”
Turning, I began my trek back to the Portal, each step resonating with the resolve that my mission was far from over. "Hey!" Paul's voice pierced the air, a hint of reproach laced with expectation. "Are you going to help?"
The question halted me momentarily, the balance between collective effort and individual duty a constant dance. "Can't," I responded with a finality born of necessity, not indifference. My hand lifted the piece of paper, a silent but potent symbol of the task at hand, as I continued my stride. “Joel's waiting.”
