unknown

Once crossed over the threshold, the door closes with a soft click.

The noise made of the door latching in place has Benny and Vincent turning in time to see the door and its framework simply disappear.  Locked in this world, the two make sure both are in one piece before they take in their surroundings.

It is humid, sticky, the mass of cloud keeping the heat confined to where the warmth is nourishing tall stalks bearing lime green pods and other thriving vegetation. Standing out amongst the growth is a trail that has Benny and Vincent thinking of the thousands before. Of Pete at the kitchen table with his hands around that mug of coffee. Hope is there, holding hands with good wishes that has Benny in the lead until companionship has him slowing to where Vincent is mostly beside him.

Quiet reigns over the hums and flows of the sweltering heat baking the path curving one way and then the other. Along the way, hung from the tips of branches or stuffed in the crotch of a tree are trinkets, mementos left behind with a promise of coming back to. A thoughtful wave of understanding sits around for a while until it slips away after the two reach a clearing.

The air is dense with a scent of burnt wood, charred, and wet. An encampment. A place to gather what is needed before that one last push. Strength is built here, wisdom and goodwill. Proud is that face, shoulders back in acceptance of what will be.

Taking up where the path left off is a staircase made of stone blocks. Giant broadleaves waving in that lazy breeze beckon to them, come hither young man. Vincents mutters, “I lost count after twenty.”

Benny adds, “Quite a drop off, too.” Standing a minute longer, Benny gets moving that has Vincent right after him as the two walk over to the first block of stone.

Chiseled out of the rockface is an inscription.

Death and Life are born from the same womb.

“That’s creepy,” mutters Vincent.

Standing aside him, Benny believes the phrase a clue, important enough to keep in the back of his mind until for some unknown reason Jane pops in. There she is with her mouth set in a fine line with those hazel eyes hiding unreadable thoughts. Disturbed by this, he says to Vincent,

“Better we pay our respects and step over it.”

Upward the two climb, the surrounding foliage dropping back to be more like ground cover when the air turns from wet to dry.  They have come to a flat plateau, a bit of space between a wall encasing a massive door. Upon its face is ancient scrollwork carved deep within the hardwood. A thick cord of rope hangs out of a knothole, and believing it needs to be pulled in a downward stroke to set the gears in motion, Benny reaches out and gives a mighty tug. Creaking on heavy hinges, the massive door swings outward that has the two stepping through.