Gate to Htrae (eBook)

Chapter 1

The first mystery is who built the gate. Old-timers claimed that Mr. Raz who lived in the house at the top of the hill above the gate built it. The story they told was that Raz intended to surround his property but had spent all his money on the elaborate gate, leaving none for a fence. There was no proof of their theory, and no one claimed to have personally witnessed any of that. The gate had been there as long as anyone, including the old-timers, could remember. The story of its creation became popular lore—nothing more than a good story. But it seemed reasonable, and what other explanation could there be?

It was an impressive structure. Its granite pillars rose ten feet high, and its hand-hewn redwood planks were eight feet tall. The latch, forged of hammered blue steel, was elegant in its simple and practical design, with a thumb press the size of a serving spoon. The lever of the latch and the straps binding the redwood planks were flattened iron, fashioned from wine-barrel hoops. Over the years since its construction, the gate’s hewn redwood planks had weathered, their vibrant reds maturing to soft grays. Lichens had taken root and were growing along tiny fissures in the granite and on the mortar between the blocks.

The second mystery is why the gate was locked. There was no connecting fence or wall. Locking it made no sense whatsoever. Any able-bodied person could climb the steep hill to the gate and go right around it. And many did. Curious hikers had worn a path up the hill to the gate. Knee-high grasses, manzanita bushes, and wildflowers grew right in front of it, and on either side of it, several stately, massive live oak trees spread their broad, thick, leafy canopies, offering a shady place for hikers to sit and enjoy the view of the bay. The path divided just short of the gate, one side of trampled vegetation going around the gate’s left column and the other around the right. The paths reunited a few feet past the upper side of the gate but did not continue up the hill. There was nothing up there except for a weather-worn, tired old house.

Over the years, many curious adults and children had tried to open the gate. They would push on the thumb press, but it would not budge. Some even brought keys from home to try in the keyhole above the latch, but nothing ever fit, and no key could turn in it. Everyone simply assumed that the inner workings of the latch were wedded by rust. Yet the thumb press, latch, lever, and hinges were as bright and clean as the day someone had pounded them into life on an anvil. Indeed, rather than rust, the gate’s steel workings had taken on a soft, coppery patina similar to that of aging bronze statuary. The forces of nature that had kindly grayed the redwood planks had been equally kind to the steel of the gate.

Unlike the gate, Raz’s house, however, had not weathered well over the years. Paint peeled here and there, moss grew on the shingled roof, and the double-paned window that commanded an unrestricted view of the bay and ocean leaked, allowing moisture to condense along the inside surfaces, creating a mist on the glass that came and went with changes in the weather.

Mr. Raz was a giant of a man, six feet four inches tall, weighing about 230 solid pounds, sporting a well-trimmed, bright white beard and head topped with thick, wavy white hair. Raz and the gate without a fence were keen topics of conversation for the people living in the neighborhood below the hill. Most of the adults surmised that Raz was just a harmless old eccentric, perhaps a bit loony. No one really knew anything about him, and that ignorance made him a fearsome figure, at least to the younger kids. Older kids, like fifteen-year-old Alex Naman, invented wild stories, imagining him to be a kindly, magical man, the likes of Albus Dumbledore in the Harry Potter books.

Often two or three of the children would gather at the gate and push and pound on the latch, growing increasingly frustrated and soon bored with trying to open a gate that led nowhere. Alex was one of those kids. He had pounded on the latch many times, striking it with his dad’s ball-peen hammer. Discordant sounds would bounce off the hillside, echoing down to the subdivision where the boys lived and up to Raz’s residence. Some of the boys swore that when they were pounding on the latch, Raz stepped out on his deck and watched, his face lit up with a kind and knowing smile, his eyes sparkling like diamonds. He always disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared. Unlike some in the neighborhood, Raz never complained about the racket. He was a patient and kind man, and if his neighbors had bothered to knock on his door and offer to get acquainted, they would have soon realized he was someone who could always find something of value in everyone, especially youngsters.

Alex was obsessed by the gate and relentless in his determination to open it. His friends laughed at him, walked around the gate, and mockingly chanted an age-old song verse, “We hear you knocking, but you can’t come in.” One Sunday he decided to try once again. There was a small problem: he had promised his mother that he would keep his eleven-year-old brother, Drew, entertained and out of her hair while she prepared lesson plans for her fourth-grade class.

Drew was busy in the den assembling his newest Lego set, a model of the Mars colony, where fifteen astronauts had been living since establishment of the base in 2035. The family pet, Otis Roosevelt, a black and white Labradoodle who seldom left Drew’s side, lay next to him, seemingly intent on observing Drew’s activity. Alex figured that Drew wouldn’t bother Mom if he just took off. When Drew was busy working on a Lego model, he often didn’t stir for hours. But, Alex mused, he would really be in trouble if Drew were to discover that he had left. He could just imagine Drew yelling, “Hey Mom, where’s Alex?” He didn’t want to get in trouble. Why not take Drew with me?

“Hey, Drew,” Alex said, as he poked Drew in the shoulder to gain his attention, “let’s go up the hill to the gate. I want to try something.”

Drew had never gone to the gate, but he had heard Alex ask their father, Matthew, about it, who put it there and why was it locked. Matthew went up to the gate with Alex once, tried to open it, and failed. “Well, Alex, it is just one of those strange mysteries,” he said. That answer did not satisfy Alex, who was very, very curious and did not give up once he set his mind on a project.

“So come on, let’s go, Drew.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“If you come with me, I’ll help you build the Mars colony when we get back.”

“Old Mr. Raz lives up there, and he’s scary.”

“Don’t be a scaredy-cat. Raz never hurt anybody, and I’ve been up there a hundred times,” replied Alex. “Come on! It’ll be fun.”

Alex went to his dad’s workbench in the garage and rummaged through his toolbox, searching for the ball-peen hammer that he always used to pound on the gate latch. He found the hammer.

“Let’s go, Drew.” Alex set off for the gate.

“Wait for me!” Drew yelled, running to catch up. “Come on, Otis.” Always delighted to get outside, Otis jumped up and scrambled out the door right behind Drew.

The three adventurers hurried up the hill to the gate.

“What are you going to do?” asked Drew.

“I’m going to get this gate open if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Alex put both thumbs on the latch and pushed down as hard as he could, but as usual the latch would not move. Then he struck the thumb press firmly with the little hammer and produced piercing, clanging sounds that rang unpleasantly in his ears. He soon angered and struck the latch repeatedly, pounding on it as fast and hard as he could. Discordant noise bounced against the houses at the bottom of the hill and resounded back up to Raz’s house at the top.

Otis began to howl and then lay down and covered his ears with his paws.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” yelled Alex in synchrony with each strike of the hammer.

“That’s awful!” yelled Drew. “Stop it, or I’ll tell Dad you said damn it.”

“Dad swears when he’s angry, and I’m angry so I can swear!” Alex yelled, still swearing and pounding on the latch.

“Quit making that awful noise. You’re hurting my ears. Look at poor Otis. He can’t stand that noise, and neither can I.”

Alex stopped and sat down. Over the many times that he had visited the gate, he had become strangely fond of it, in spite of its stubborn refusal to open. Alex was equally stubborn. He regarded his assault on the gate as friendly combat and was determined not to give up. In some ways, the gate was his friend—an obstinate friend, perhaps, but nevertheless a welcome challenge. He felt drawn to it, like a bee to a sweet blossom. He had a recurring, nagging feeling that the gate wanted to be opened. He was so frustrated that it would not unlock and swing open on its ancient hinges.

Alex was ready to give up. “OK, let’s go home.”

“Wait. Let me try. I think you hit it too hard,” Drew said. “Dad says losing your temper never gets you anywhere. Just...