A door to Avalon
(publié chez Fantasy Art and Studies)
So there it is. Right in front of them, the great door to Avalon. The passage to the world of magic and faeries. It is not so much of a door, there is no lintel, no panel nor handle. It is only a vague arch formed by green and luxuriant vines over a very, very old stonewall. Most of its masonry is now loose, it is a wonder that it stands so high, feels so strong and still holds up.
“It must be the magic,” the boy says in admiration next to the old man.
They observe it and after some time sit on the ground right in front to recover from their travelling. They share in silence some bread and cheese from their small backpacks. Strangely, they did not have to travel very far to find one of such doors. It seems that the faeries keep many of these accesses to their realms. One can find them without to much effort if that person knows the signs to look for. A clearing in the woods covered with amazing deep purple forget-me-not filling the air with their delicate fragrance. Bushes beside a trail dressed permanently in their red, orange and yellow leaves of autumn. A crooked tree housing a large band of ravens crying the word door instead of croaking. Or like now intricate thick woven vines like delicate girl’s braids forming a sort of complex pattern. Such special places are always next to very old stone structures or ruins with an aura of history and mystery. Faeries like stones very much, especially the square ones, because it is where they store the most precious of their secrets. Stones with straight faces and sharp corners are believed to hold up more of them than the round ones. Like our books the old man had explained to the young boy.
It is a strange concept to consider, thought the boy while they travelled. That the faeries depend on man made structures to store their secrets and their magic. It might show that faeries and mankind are more entwined than most people believe. He thinks that they could be two sides of the same coin, one pragmatic the other of magic. And more than anything else, the old man told him, that connection resides in the existence of these doors to Avalon: faerie magic in man made structures. As to know if they were ever used recently is a hard question to answer. Only the oldest of the old books refer to them. Obscure passages with awkward words and veiled descriptions in the old English. The adventure is more to decipher these texts than to actually run the country to find one of these doors.
“Grampa, do you really think Mama is over there?” The boy asks frowning.
“As I’ve told you so many times,” his grandfather answers stopped by a few coughs. “There is no doubt. I’ve seen that cunning pixie pour something glittering in that,” he coughs again. “In that cup of tea that I served her that night. I didn’t have the time to stop your mother from drinking it,” he adds growling.
“This dirty pixie has thrown a spell on you to prevent you from acting. But are they truthfully real, grampa?”
“Of course they are. See that wall with this door. This is genuine proof of their existence.”
“Maybe for so long, long ago, grampa. But what of now?”
“There’s only one way to check this out.”
The old man rises from the ground with the help of the boy, levels his cane, put his hand on the shoulder of his grandson and pokes at the wall with his crooked stick. The stone he touches moves a bit but all seems pretty solid to the eyes of the boy. The old man puts down his cane and stares at the wall with strong deception on his face.
“Maybe we have to touch it with our hand,” the young one offers.
“The books don’t tell much on how to activate the gates.”
“They’re only old shmoo with bad written stories.”
“Yes, yes indeed, those books were quite hard to understand and tell so little. Here we go.”
The old one takes a few careful steps, holding his faltering balance with his cane. He reaches for the wall with a trembling hand and not as so much as flutters one finger over a stone.
“Oh! Look, grampa!” The boy exclaims with awe.
The old man proceeds backward next to the boy when shimmers run along the green vines forming the arch. Starting from the ground, they speed and speed up, one glimmer after the other, running over the greenery, like jumping one leave to the next. Both arms of the arch are illuminated, filled with sparkles reaching fast to the top where they meet. And when it does, the whole stonewall in between shines in a somewhat golden light with small lightnings crawling its surface in spirals.
“It's so beautiful," the young boy mentions with gleeful wonder.
“Yes, marvellous,” the old man acknowledges in disbelief. “And who knew it could be true, even I had a few doubts.”
“Come on, lets go,” the boy decides and reaches the hand of his grandfather. “Lets go find Mama.”
But the old man does not budge a step and restrains himself from going any farther. The boy pulls at his arm again and again, then turns around to look at his face. It is covered with streams of tears.
“Grampa, why are you crying so?”
“All these years trying to reach her and maybe bring your mother back. I’ve lost faith so many times, but you were there my grandson, you kept me going on and all this seems to come to an end, finally. Almost fifty years I recon and now it becomes reality.”
“So why stop now?”
The old man looks into the eyes of the child, strange eyes, wild eyes, glimmering, magical.
"This door is not meant for me, grandson. It is for you, only you can pass through without harm. I’m only a man, but you…
"What do you mean, grampa?" The boy asks a bit frightened.
“Didn’t you find it so strange to be still about ten years of age after so long the time passed by? It’s because you’re one of them, you’re a faerie, my grandson. Now, now, don’t be so sorrowful, you’re a good faerie, a very, very good and kind faerie. But see, you can’t go on in this world of mine, so far away from your kinds. What will happen to you when I’m gone, dying of old age, not so long from now?”
Like a cold shower, the boy understands all this and knows it for being the truth. He looks toward the bright wall and back at his grandfather with tears in his eyes. Suddenly he let go the hand and grabs the old man so tightly in his arms with pain and sorrow.
“I can’t leave you like this, grampa. I love you,” the boy declares with tears.
“It must be as painful for your heart as it is for mine. But it’s the only way for you to survive. Believe me, my dear, you’ll die when I let go of my life. I think you’re some kind of a prince in your magical kingdom over this door. A faerie brought you here to keep you away for gaining the crown, I guess at my best.”
The old man gently unties the so thin arms of the young and settles himself on one knee to bring himself face to face with him. He takes the small hands in his and strokes them delicately with his thumbs.
“So you must go and remember, you can find and be with your Mama on the other side.”
Such a small and beautiful lie to keep this young boy strong and alive, he tells himself. But a lie he tells him for so long that it seems so real now. From the beginning, from the first time, when he found him in the bed cuddle next to him.
“Are you sure?” The boy inquiries doubful and sobbing.
“Of course, as sure as I was to find this door.”
Which is as sure as the lie he kept up all those years along. He releases his hands and gives him a little shove to share some of his faith. With hesitant pace, the young boy approaches the shining wall. It is now possible to see the details of his figure in its dazzling light. His thin limbs, his triangular jaw, his pointed ears and his cat eyes. There is no doubt of his origins under this radiance. He feels attracted by its aura, by this magic. It feels like home deep inside him. This feeling convinces him although it breaks his hearth to leave his grandfather. He turns one last time towards the old man and waves a goodbye with one little hand, tears glistering his cheeks. Then he makes one backward step into the wall and disappears in a blinding flash.
The wall’s brightness fades, the glimmers over the vines stop sparkling, all becomes as green and sober as it was before.
“Farewell, my grandson. May you be happy,” the old man whispers with his broken heart.
He sheds his tears for he really loves this child like one of his own. The lie was also one he kept alive for himself along all those years and it made him believe it was true. After a very long silent moment, waiting for something else to happen, he decides it is time for him to leave. With deep deception and sorrow, he turns and starts his return home on shaking limbs, climbing the small hill. After several painful strides, he reaches the top and then a light shines from behind him. He takes a sidestep and sees the vines sparkling anew down below, the stones turning to golden light. And through all this radiance a figure appears, so delicate, so beautiful. The door closes when the brightness decreases leaving in front of it a lovely lady, dressed in a night gown with a face lit up by a beaming smile.
“My love,” the woman declares with open arms.
“How long have I prayed for this moment, to see you once more, my true love?” the old man replies.
He makes a precarious step towards her reaching arms. Then another, stronger, more stable. While he proceeds down the hill to catch these arms, to kiss those lips, his features change. His feet are faster, his movements seem effortless, more graceful. He throws away the crooked cane near her and sweeps her from the ground. Turning, turning on themselves, laughing, laughing in joy, both as young as they were when that pixie came so long ago.
Vilmon
