Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (XXXII)

XXXII

Jack replied with an ambiguous answer (as if never bothered into answering it very deliberately; he talked incessantly and nothing would ever follow), of which Micael could not decode at that very moment, and then they continued walking, this time the bridge was gone. Micael was shocked, for it had turned from tan to steel with just his hands on the piano and eyes and the thoughts of the open gates, and now pitch black. It looked like the bridge was enveloped by a dirt-sprinkled path, and the very same dead trees were arrayed on the sides. The dead trees had locked their eyes into Micael, of which he himself was not aware. They were static, but his mind was dancing with his thoughts, and they soon appeared moving, millimeter by millimeter. He could feel the touch of their sight into his skin, like winds who caressed him since his very existence in the irrelevant world. He was so conjured by the mere illusion he was seeing, and then they continued walking.

While walking, Micael could feel the dirt sticking into the soles of his footwear and the brush sound it was making which enveloped his very ears for it was silent that time. Jack never bothered him, either. The child? He shapeshifted back to a crow, and he rested gracefully and silently into Jack’s shoulder and he seemed found his very freedom beside his head, and quiet he went.

“Where are we headed?

“We are heading to a part of the open gates, my child. Why? Are you tired?”

“A part of me, at least. My fingers are exhausted, and maybe we should find ourselves comfortable after a hundred yards or two,” Micael replied as he brushed his foot against the dirt path, and Jack smirked under his mask and they continued walking with a slow pace. This time, the moon was different. Upon Micael checking, he could see that the moon had turned pink in color and it was floating closer than it was floating when it was waning, and the path had become much clearer from afar. And beyond the best of Micael’s eyes, he could see a village downhill, but there was no light inside the houses. The only light that he could see was a light beside the village’s what it seemed to be a water well of some sort. Of course, the detail was vague and ambiguous for Micael as his eyes were not getting any better, but the light was incandescent, too, like the incandescent nebula which one could see at the farther continuum of the black sky. “The light—” said Jack curiously and the suddenly Jack cut his tongue and answered: “The light will show us the way back, Aleck. It will show us what’s with EIGHTEEN.”

Micael looked back at Jack’s eyes as he was leaning towards his body. With his back arched, one could see what had impaled into his back. It was more than just a wood, more like what Micael thought of in the very beginning. Behind him was spears, of which had been seriously stuck on his back. It had a silver head which looked very sharp for though it was glue-tight on his back, only half of its head had impaled his back. The color of Jack’s eyes turned green, which looked so indifferent but Micael did not had any meaning of the change of color in his eyes, but they continued.

“It had never really bothered me,” he replied, and Jack leaned back to his posture. “I know when you are lying, my child, but I have thousands of hearts to forgive your very being, for I know you more than your parents do,” he uttered, but Jack never looked so angry. He just shrugged his shoulder for a little, which disturb the black, gray crow on one of his and winced, and he never cried something aloud, then they continued walking. “Jack? Please do tell me more about the open gates and why everything seems to be irrelevant of some extent,” he asked loudly while he was still brushing his feet on the dirt path. The noise was similar to the one which made by sweeping leaves. There was rustling but in a non-numerical decibel, and the touch was never the same, either, as if they were walking at no dirt at all. A mere resemblance, or maybe just a very delicate happenstance, for what Jack had said a lot of times. Irrelevance. It was cold that time, even there were warm hugs from the cold air and the hot looks from the dead trees, and he could feel how he could experience a very mild hypothermia if one would not want to have a rest or find a decent shelter.

Only if Amy was here, too, we could’ve done something much warmer than these trees, and then Jack finally came to start a reply.
“I have never been into the open gates, Aleck. The only thing that is known in this irrelevant world is the fact that it is independent, and more than just being irrelevant. The place ceases to exist, not on those who grasp the real possibility that it is more than just the open gates.” “But we’ve already seen the open gates, right?” Micael replied with a voice of ignorance. He was now trying to fight what had been forbidden unto him since there acquaintance: an answer of unparallel curiosity. “Be not hasty, Aleck.

Yesterday, the open gates had shown an appearance of a pyramid, and today’s a village. The open gates’ way too unpredictable. It might be a building tomorrow, whom its peak could touch the blackest skies,” Jack replied, with confidence beyond his mask and grin felt on the color of his eyes.
“And I will never be tired of reminding you that eighteen is the only relevant thing in this irrelevance bullshit. Be sad not, Aleck, the journey is long, but the open gates closer,” he followed and tapped Micael’s shoulder, and they continued.

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