Sunrise(ish)

Eighth Passage

For several days Elena pondered her experiences so far. She was quite convinced that there was some disparity in time with the passages. Knowing that she always made a note of the time both before and after each passage, she checked back her notes and discovered that each passage lasted two minutes. But her experience of each passage seemed to suggest that they took much longer, and increasingly longer with each passage. She decided that she needed a way to time each passage more accurately. She was aware that she couldn't use the stopwatch function of her phone, she never took it through after the first time when the passage completely drained it of energy. She spotted an old stopwatch of her father's on the desk 'perfect, mechanical, that won't run down' she thought.

Autumn returned with its usual riot of colour. But, this autumn seemed different somehow. The landscape seemed to breathe, seemed to have a consciousness that defied the natural cycles. Foliage seemed to glow with colours that continuously shifted, simultaneously gold and crimson, light creating shade that appeared to exist only in memory. Elena stood before the Mên-An-Tol with the feeling of being no longer fully human, not even completely other, but something between. It seemed to her that she was, somehow, only partially rooted in physical reality whilst also being partially anchored in some other reality. It seemed to her that the stone recognised her now - not as an observer but as a contributor in some ancient dialogue.

Elena had the feeling that this eighth passage would be a sort of convergence, a culmination of all that had gone before.

Mist began to roll in across the moorland, moving as if with a purpose. Alive, Deliberate. The stones cast no shadows, and yet they seemed to pulse with an inner light. A light that appeared to suggest memories far older than time itself. Elena was beginning to comprehend that time was the key. By now her preparations were purely ritualistic. Just her recorder, notebook, the sea-glass charm and the pouch of moorland soil. This time she added the stopwatch. Her mode of attire had changed to something between fabric and a living membrane that shifted with her now more fluid movements.

Mên-An-Tol awaited her. No longer a stone. No longer a portal. But now a living entrance to the realm of possibility. 'Eighth passage' she said, the words now a sort of ritualistic chant, a bridge to transformation.

Passing through had become far more than a physical act. It had become more of a transaction with reality itself. Memories, possibilities, all surged around her - futures not yet lived, histories not yet remembered. Boundaries between what is, what was, and what will be totally dissolved. She was becoming something more profound. A bridge between worlds. The keeper of stories.

The moment of crossing was nothing like Elena imagined it would be. No dramatic portal. No thunderous transition. Just the most subtle shifting of reality, like the transition between asleep and awake, that point at which the boundaries bend and blur. One breath she was standing on the Cornish moorland, and in the next breath everything had changed. The landscape remained recognisable. And yet. Colours seemed more alive. Heather, that had not been there, which should have been muted purple vibrated with an almost impossible depth of colour, each individual floret seemingly its own universe. The stones seemed to breathe, to pulse with a rhythm that resonated with memories far older than human comprehension

Her guide was suddenly there without appearing.

Not a physical being in the way that humans understand physicality. But a presence. An essence that took shape around Elena, seemingly shifting between multiple forms. Sometimes human looking. Sometimes other entirely. Eyes of a depth that radiated centuries. Skin of a texture that could have been woven from mist and moonlight.
'You are between.'
The guide spoke. Spoke was totally inadequate. Communication appeared to happen simultaneously in multiple ways. Language, Memory. Emotion, Sensation.
'Between what?' Elena asked.
She was surprised by how calm her voice was in the circumstances. A sound like laughter echoed on the wind through the ancient stones.
'Between everything. Memories. Worlds. Infinite possibilities.'

The guide - if such a word could begin to describe this being - began to reveal the true nature of her connection to this landscape. The Thompson familial connection. Not simply inhabitants. Nor merely descendants. But guardians, translators, the ones who could walk the lines of the many forms of existence.
'Your grandmother was the last true guardian.' the essence explained 'Now that role passes to you.'
Somehow Elena felt the presence of her grandmother around her.

Fragments of her family history unfolded. Living memories. It seemed the Thompson women had always been different. Marked. Selected. Never by choice, by an ancient connection that predated human understanding. They were witnesses. Translators of languages most would never hear. Elena discovered that the faerie realm was not a separate place. Nor a distinct dimension. It was a layer of existence that moved simultaneously with the world of human perception. A realm of memory, of potential, of connections transcending physical boundaries and linear time.
'We are not separate,' the guide explained 'we are different expressions of the same fundamental energy.'

Elena's consciousness was flooded with memories. Not precisely her own memories. Collective memories. Generations of knowledge flowing through the Thompson bloodline. Moments of connections. Of witnessing. Of translating. She saw her grandmother differently now. She was not just the woman who had raised her, told her stories, unconditionally loved her. But as a guardian, a keeper of knowledge. Someone who had understood reality's true nature in ways that transcended academic understanding.

The guide showed Elena the true history of the Mên-An-Tol stone. Not a prehistoric monument. Not an archaeological curiosity. But a deliberate technology. A communication device. A threshold created to allow certain individuals to have perception of the multiple layers of existence.
'The nine passages are not a ritual,' the essence explained 'they are a recalibration. A realignment of perception.'
Elena now knew why her academic colleagues could, nor would, ever truly comprehend this place. She understood that this experience requires far more than intellectual analysis. It demanded a totally different form of knowing - of perception.

The landscape continued to shift around Elena. Memories became living things. Time became fluid. Boundaries dissolved.
'What am I supposed to do?' she asked - knowing the inadequacy of the question.
Another ripple of not quite laughter.
'Bear witness. Translate. Protect the connections.'
Now, her inheritance became clear. Not a burden. Not some mystical calling. A responsibility. The continuation of something far larger than herself. The Thompson women had always been the bridged between different forms of perception. The guardians and translators of a knowledge that existed just beyond conventional understanding.

As this revelations unfolded Elena felt a fundamental shift inside her. Her carefully curated academic identity seemed to dissolve revealing something far more fundamental. More authentic.
'You are ready.' the guide said.

And she was.

Not with any certainty. Nor complete understanding. With an openness - willingness to bear witness. To translate. To remember. The faerie realm surrounded her. Not a separate place. But a different perception of the same fundamental reality.

This time the emergence was not to a transcended landscape, but back to the moorland.
'Eighth passage' Elena whispered, her voice a harmony of multiple realities.
'The world is a conversation. We are all passages. Web are all stories waiting to be told.'
She checked the time, exactly two minutes. But the stopwatch showed one hour and thirty two minutes. This conformed what she had thought the passage was subject to some sort of time anomaly.

The sea-glass charm around her neck had become a key. A bridge. A promise.

Something was about to break open. Something was about to begin.

Eight passages completed. Only one remained.