The Portal Chapter Two

The Ancient Story

The old man’s house sat at the edge of the trading post parking lot, its porch half-swallowed by the shadow of a leaning juniper. Maya had knocked once, certain he wouldn’t answer. He had the kind of presence that suggested visitors were an intrusion. But the screen door creaked open, and Thomas stepped out as if he’d been waiting. He was small framed, his back straight despite the years. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked over her camera bag, then to her dust-scuffed boots. “You are the one asking questions,” he said. It wasn’t quite an accusation. “I’m trying to document the old petroglyph sites,” Maya replied, careful to keep her tone respectful. “And… the stories connected to them.” Thomas was silent a long moment, gaze drifting past her toward the plateau in the distance. When he spoke, his voice was slow, the cadence deliberate, as though he measured every word before letting it out. “The stories are not just stories,” he said. “They’re a kind of map. But not the kind that shows roads.” 

He gestured for her to sit. The porch boards creaked under her weight. “Our people knew of the place for longer than the memory of names,” he began. “They called it the Breath of the Earth. It is not here, and it is not somewhere else. It is both. A thin place, where the world you know is close to other worlds.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The young ones went there when it was time to see their path. Warriors, hunters, healers. Some came back with eyes that saw farther than before. Some came back and could not speak of what they saw. And some…” He shook his head. “Some, like my brother did not return at all.”

Maya shifted, her throat tightening. “What happens to the ones who don’t come back?” “They walk another trail.” His eyes fixed on hers, dark as obsidian. “One that does not lead home.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stone, no larger than a coin. A spiral was carved into it, worn smooth by time. “This is the sign of the path,” he said, placing it in her palm. “If you see this in the canyon, turn back.” The stone was warm against her skin, warmer than it should have been in the cool shade. She glanced up, wanting to ask more, but Thomas had already turned his gaze toward the plateau again, signifying that the conversation was finished.

When she finally rose to leave, the wind shifted. It carried the scent of sage, dry and clean, and under it the faint metallic tang she had noticed before. From somewhere out among the rocks came the soft, distant sound of chimes.