No one knows who built the Gates. They are older than Stonehenge. Older than the Pyramids. Older, even, than the earliest fossils that have been unearthed. They seem to have begun at the beginning of time, woven into the nature of the fourth dimension – as much a part of it as the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the years.
I had grown up seeing photos of them, taken from afar. There’s an enormous Gate in the Canadian Arctic, its high stone arch rising out of the ice and snow. There’s also a Gate in the Scottish Highlands – a tall, lonely arch within a landscape of mountains. And then, there’re the ones closer to home; a Gate made of red stone tops the spiraling rock formations of Bryce Canyon in Utah. And closer still, there’s a relatively small Gate, perched precariously on an angry precipice along California’s shoreline.
There are nine known Gates in total, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, one day, someone finds more in some deserted corner of the world. Looking at the photos, the Gates always seemed like simple, harmless structures. Each was only a stone arch, a single curve over the land. But everyone knows that if you passed beneath that arch, you would disappear forever. Many archaeologists and scientists have perished that way, extinguished by their obsession with the Gates.
That was what happened to Daron’s father. His father was a scientist, absorbed in Gate theories and measurements. One day, he simply vanished, and everyone assumed that, like many before him, he had ‘fallen through’.
Daron was the one who brought me to see my first Gate in person. After all these years, I still remember. How could you forget the moment when your whole world changes?
It was the summer after our final year in high school, and we had been dating for two years. Two years is a lifetime when you’re that young. People told us that we were too young to know love. But even at that age, I knew I would love him for the rest of my life. And I was right.
When he told me that he wanted to go to Pebble Beach, to celebrate the end of high school and a new beginning, I knew it would be a trip to remember.
It was a sunny day in California, when I hoisted my luggage into the back of Daron’s car. My 16-year-old sister, Ashlie, had just gotten her driver’s license and was eager to have our car all to herself for the weekend. She came racing down the stairs after me, car keys already in hand – the distinctive curls of her hair bouncing on her shoulders. “Don’t hurry back!” she called to me. And then, she was gone, clunking down the street in the used VW Beetle that our parents had bought for us to share. It would probably be a weekend of malls and party-hopping for her. And no doubt, my parents were looking forward to having the house all to themselves – ‘peace and quiet,’ as they like to say.
“Seems like it’s going to be a good weekend for everyone,” Daron remarked, as he gave me a quick kiss.
I helped him pack away the rest of the camping gear. Then we were off, snaking along the Californian coast, with the windows down, the wind in our ears and the smell of the sea in our noses. We spent most of the day winding across the shoreline, stopping and taking photos here and there, or hiking through the forests, near the sounds of the waves. We made a picnic on a beach for lunch, before continuing our scenic drive.
After awhile, as the sun was setting, Daron asked me the question that I knew would come, “So, where do you want to make camp for tonight?”
I knew what he wanted, ever since he had first mentioned Pebble Beach. The beach was a popular tourist destination. But usually, when people said they were going to Pebble Beach, they meant driving along the 17-Mile Drive, taking photos safely from afar; many times, they wouldn’t venture close enough to the beach itself to even take a picture of it. However, I knew that Daron had never intended to stay safely afar.
***
to read the rest of ‘ingress’, get it from amazon by clicking here.
happy reading!
I had grown up seeing photos of them, taken from afar. There’s an enormous Gate in the Canadian Arctic, its high stone arch rising out of the ice and snow. There’s also a Gate in the Scottish Highlands – a tall, lonely arch within a landscape of mountains. And then, there’re the ones closer to home; a Gate made of red stone tops the spiraling rock formations of Bryce Canyon in Utah. And closer still, there’s a relatively small Gate, perched precariously on an angry precipice along California’s shoreline.
There are nine known Gates in total, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, one day, someone finds more in some deserted corner of the world. Looking at the photos, the Gates always seemed like simple, harmless structures. Each was only a stone arch, a single curve over the land. But everyone knows that if you passed beneath that arch, you would disappear forever. Many archaeologists and scientists have perished that way, extinguished by their obsession with the Gates.
That was what happened to Daron’s father. His father was a scientist, absorbed in Gate theories and measurements. One day, he simply vanished, and everyone assumed that, like many before him, he had ‘fallen through’.
Daron was the one who brought me to see my first Gate in person. After all these years, I still remember. How could you forget the moment when your whole world changes?
It was the summer after our final year in high school, and we had been dating for two years. Two years is a lifetime when you’re that young. People told us that we were too young to know love. But even at that age, I knew I would love him for the rest of my life. And I was right.
When he told me that he wanted to go to Pebble Beach, to celebrate the end of high school and a new beginning, I knew it would be a trip to remember.
It was a sunny day in California, when I hoisted my luggage into the back of Daron’s car. My 16-year-old sister, Ashlie, had just gotten her driver’s license and was eager to have our car all to herself for the weekend. She came racing down the stairs after me, car keys already in hand – the distinctive curls of her hair bouncing on her shoulders. “Don’t hurry back!” she called to me. And then, she was gone, clunking down the street in the used VW Beetle that our parents had bought for us to share. It would probably be a weekend of malls and party-hopping for her. And no doubt, my parents were looking forward to having the house all to themselves – ‘peace and quiet,’ as they like to say.
“Seems like it’s going to be a good weekend for everyone,” Daron remarked, as he gave me a quick kiss.
I helped him pack away the rest of the camping gear. Then we were off, snaking along the Californian coast, with the windows down, the wind in our ears and the smell of the sea in our noses. We spent most of the day winding across the shoreline, stopping and taking photos here and there, or hiking through the forests, near the sounds of the waves. We made a picnic on a beach for lunch, before continuing our scenic drive.
After awhile, as the sun was setting, Daron asked me the question that I knew would come, “So, where do you want to make camp for tonight?”
I knew what he wanted, ever since he had first mentioned Pebble Beach. The beach was a popular tourist destination. But usually, when people said they were going to Pebble Beach, they meant driving along the 17-Mile Drive, taking photos safely from afar; many times, they wouldn’t venture close enough to the beach itself to even take a picture of it. However, I knew that Daron had never intended to stay safely afar.
***
to read the rest of ‘ingress’, get it from amazon by clicking here.
happy reading!
