The taxi's abrupt manoeuvre around the sharp corner violently jerked me back to reality, brutally interrupting the fragile peace of my light slumber. With the remnants of sleep barely clinging to me, my mind waded through a fog of exhaustion, a direct aftermath of the night's escapade at Big W. The events had unfurled into the wee hours, leaving me ensnared in a state of mental fog and physical lethargy.
Due to the early hour of the morning, the logistical impossibility of using the Portal location at the Big W store for my entry point to Adelaide had forced me to adapt. The store remained closed, a barrier to the seamless transition I had hoped for, and hence, I wouldn’t have been able to leave the store upon arrival. So, I had settled on emerging from the cleaner’s cupboard at the Adelaide Airport, a less than ideal but necessary choice. From there, I had decided to catch a taxi, a mundane continuation of a journey that had started in anything but ordinary circumstances.
"Thank you, have a good day," I mumbled, my voice barely more than a whisper as I clumsily disentangled myself from the confines of the back seat. My hand lingered on the door for a moment longer than necessary, the act of closing it behind me felt like sealing off the outside world. As the taxi faded into the distance, its engine's grumble dissolving into the early morning, the air around me felt heavier, laden with a misty drizzle. It caressed my face with cold, wet fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth I longed for but knew I wouldn't find here.
There it stood, the house I once called home. Its familiar silhouette loomed through the veil of drizzle, yet it felt alien, as if the years had erected an invisible barrier that time alone couldn't dismantle. The memories, bitter and jagged, clawed their way to the forefront of my mind, each one a reminder of the turmoil that had driven me away. The taste of those recollections was acrid, coating my tongue with regret and unresolved sentiments.
Shaking my head, I attempted to scatter the gathering storm of emotions, much like one would try to dispel the morning fog with a mere gesture. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, I sought to anchor myself in the present. "Let's do this," I whispered, my own voice a lifeline in the tempest of my thoughts.
"The plan is simple," I muttered, the words a mantra against the rising tide of apprehension as I trudged up the driveway. The concrete beneath my feet felt unyielding, a reflection of the resolve I was desperately trying to muster. "Keep the visit short and simple. Play to the absurdities of their religion, although don’t tell them that." The irony of my own intentions wasn't lost on me, a bitter chuckle escaping my lips at the thought.
Standing at the threshold, I paused, allowing myself a moment to compile a mental checklist. It was more than a mere strategy; it was a survival guide for navigating the emotional minefield that lay beyond the door. The plan was to start with Dad, to reveal the Portal's secrets in a way that would bridge not just the physical gap between our worlds, but perhaps, on a more optimistic note, the emotional chasm that had widened over the years.
Yet, as my hand hovered over the doorbell, a silent admonition whispered through my mind. Don't tell them it's a one-way trip. The weight of this secret, heavy and ominous, settled on my shoulders. It was a burden I had chosen to bear alone, a testament to the lengths I would go to ensure they journeyed to Clivilius, even as I stood on the precipice of revealing a truth that would forever alter the fabric of our family.
Knocking loudly, the sound echoed like a thunderclap in the still morning air, slicing through the veil of silence that shrouded the house. My heart hammered against my ribcage, a frenetic rhythm that mirrored my escalating nerves. The suspense stretched into an eternity as I stood there, my breath suspended in a tight hold within my chest, the anticipation coiling tighter with each passing second.
Then, the door creaked open, a sliver of the familiar interior peeking through the widening gap. The sight of it, so unchanged, momentarily transported me back in time, blurring the lines between past and present.
“Luke!” The utter shock in my father's voice was palpable, his features contorted in a mix of astonishment and disbelief, as if he’d seen a ghost rather than his estranged son. His jaw slackened, hovering precariously close to the threshold, a physical testament to his stunned state.
“Hi—” I stumbled over my greeting, trying to cloak the whirlwind of emotions under a guise of nonchalance. It felt like walking a tightrope, balancing between the desire to reconnect and the raw edges of past grievances.
“What are you doing here?” Dad's voice broke through my reverie, his question laced with a confusion that mirrored the scattering of my thoughts. His eyes, wide with awe, searched mine for an answer, as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
Stay calm, Luke. The internal command was a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink of emotional turmoil. “I know it’s been a few years, but that’s hardly the warm welcome I was expecting,” I replied, my laugh tinged with nervousness. It was a brittle sound, one that barely masked the undercurrent of bitterness that time had failed to erode completely.
“I’m sorry,” Dad stammered, a sheepish acknowledgment of his unintended brusqueness. “I just wasn’t expecting it to be you at the door.”
“Is it Charles?” The sound of my mother's voice, distant yet unmistakable, a distant echo from the hallway, sought clarification.
Dad's response was to swing the door wider, an unspoken gesture of welcome that felt as significant as any formal invitation. “No, it’s Luke,” he projected back towards the unseen depths of the house.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I crossed the threshold, a tangible wave of relief washing over me. Stepping into the house felt like crossing into another world, one where the rules were dictated by religious values and familial bonds—their most sacred space. Well, apart from the Temple, that is, I mused, a silent nod to the complex tapestry of belief and tradition that had always loomed large in my family's life. This house, with its familiar corners and shadows, held a sacredness of its own, a sanctity that was both comforting and confining in equal measure.
“Luke!” The sound of Mum's voice, charged with a blend of surprise and joy, cut through the quiet tension like a beacon, illuminating the once familiar passageway. She surged towards me, her arms wrapping around me in an embrace that was both unexpected and overwhelmingly tight. It was a physical manifestation of the myriad emotions we both harboured, a tumultuous mix of relief, love, and the unspoken grievances of years past.
“Where’s your brother?” she asked almost immediately, her focus shifting with the rapidity that I had come to expect from her. It was a hallmark of her demeanour, this ability to pivot her attention on a dime, leaving one feeling simultaneously acknowledged and overlooked.
And there it is, I thought to myself, the echo of resignation soft in my mind. The transitory nature of her focus was a familiar dance, one that I had learned to navigate with a blend of patience and detached acceptance.
“Ah,” I replied, easing myself out of her embrace with a gentle firmness. The need for space was as much about reclaiming my physical autonomy as it was a metaphor for the emotional distance I sought to maintain. Turning to Dad, I found my voice imbued with a newfound resolve. “I need to talk to you in private,” I stated, the weight of my request hanging between us, a silent plea for understanding and discretion.
Mum's response was immediate and loud, her scoff a tangible wave of disapproval that seemed to fill the space. “Anything you need to say to your father, you can say to me too. You know we have no secrets in this family,” she declared, her words sharp, a reminder of the unyielding framework within which our family dynamics operated. It was an authoritarian stance, rooted in the belief of transparency, yet often felt more like a mechanism of control.
My eyes rolled involuntarily, a silent testament to the frustration that bubbled beneath the surface. The familiar dance of matriarchal dominance was unfolding once again, a reminder of the dynamics that had, in part, driven me to seek solace away from what was once home.
“Come into the study with me,” Dad’s voice, unexpectedly firm, cut through the tension. It was a moment of uncharacteristic defiance on his part, a deviation from the norm that caught me by surprise and offered a glimmer of hope that this conversation might unfold differently.
Mum huffed loudly, her displeasure manifesting in the sound of her departure, the soft thud of her ugg boots against the tiles a rhythmic backdrop to her retreat. “So much for a happy return,” she muttered, her words laced with a mixture of disappointment and resignation. Her departure, marked by the diminishing sound of her steps, left a lingering echo of discontent in her wake, a discordant soundtrack to the unfolding scene.
The journey from the bustling life of the hallway to the secluded quiet of the study felt like crossing into another world, where the air was thick with anticipation and the history of countless discussions that had preceded this one. As the door clicked shut behind us, sealing off the outside world, the sound seemed to echo a finality, a demarcation of before and after. The familiar space, with its walls lined with bookshelves and the scent of aged paper, suddenly felt like a stage set appropriately for a pivotal scene about to unfold.
“What’s going on, Luke?” Dad's voice, tinged with a mixture of concern and confusion, cut through the silence. His dressing gown, a worn and comforting garment, clung to him awkwardly, as if trying to offer protection against the unknown.
Caught in a maelstrom of emotion, I found myself at a crossroads. The echoes of Mum’s discontent seemed to bounce off the walls, a ghostly presence that added weight to the already heavy air. The secret I was about to divulge felt like a physical entity, its presence in the room almost suffocating. Yet, beneath the tumult of apprehension, a steady current of resolve urged me forward. It was time to lift the veil on the secret I'd harboured.
"I've had a vision," I confessed, the words slipping out into the tension-filled room. It felt like releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The term 'vision' felt archaic yet apt, encapsulating the profound and otherworldly nature of my experiences. It was a bridge between the mystical and the tangible, embodying the dual heritage of our family's legacy and the forward thrust of my own journey.
Dad’s reaction was a mix of bewilderment and concern, his brow creasing as if trying to decipher a code from my words. The concept of visions wasn’t foreign to us; it was a part of our family lore, a mystical inheritance that had always been more fairy tale than reality. Yet here I was, bringing it into the realm of the tangible, challenging the boundaries between the known and the unknown.
“What was the vision about?” he inquired, his voice steadier now, curiosity piercing through the initial shock.
"The building of a new civilisation," I announced, the words resonating in the space between us. It was more than a statement; it was a declaration of a newfound purpose, a vision that stretched beyond the confines of our reality into the realm of possibility. The excitement that vibrated through me was palpable, a stark contrast to the apprehension that had clouded my thoughts just moments before. I was poised on the edge of revelation, ready to share the blueprint of a future that was already unfolding in Clivilius, a future where the dreams of today were becoming the foundations of tomorrow.
Dad's gasp sliced through the charged atmosphere of the study, a sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls, amplifying the gravity of the moment. "The New Jerusalem," he whispered, the words imbued with a reverence that filled the room, echoing against the backdrop of our family's deeply rooted religious convictions. His eyes, wide with the dawning of realisation, searched mine, seeking confirmation, validation, perhaps even salvation.
"You could call it that," I replied, carefully choosing my words to bridge the vast expanse of our beliefs and hopes. It was a delicate dance, indeed, threading the needle between the tangible and the spiritual, between the visions of a new civilisation I harboured and the prophetic imagery that resonated with him. This interplay of truth and interpretation, a subtle manoeuvring to align our perspectives, felt like navigating a labyrinthine path toward mutual understanding.
The spark of hope that ignited in Dad's eyes was unmistakable, a glimmer of belief rekindled in the face of my revelations. It emboldened me, urging me to press on, to leverage this newfound connection. "I know you believe in miracles," I said, our gazes locking in a moment of profound connection. The history of faith that wove through the fabric of our relationship provided a backdrop to my words, a reminder of the common ground we shared despite the years and differences that lay between us.
Just as Dad seemed poised to share something pivotal, a piece of news from the Temple that hung in the air like a promise, the tide of the conversation took an unexpected turn. My sense of urgency, a pressing need to keep the focus on the revelation I was about to unveil, spurred me to cut in. "I have a miracle to show you," I declared, redirecting the flow of our exchange with a determination that felt foreign yet necessary.
His response, laden with emotion, "You being here is a miracle enough for me," was a balm to the years of distance and silence. It was an acknowledgment of the momentousness of our reunion, yet beneath the surface, it hinted at the layers of complexity, the unsaid words, and the shared history that shaped our relationship.
The swift motions to clear the study for what I was about to reveal seemed to beat in time with my racing heart, each action heavy with the urgency of the moment. As I gripped the edge of the computer desk, a sturdy fixture that had witnessed countless hours of work and contemplation, I felt a surge of resolve. "Help me clear some space," I commanded, my voice more assertive than I intended, as I wrenched the desk from its longstanding position against the wall. It felt symbolic, like I was physically tearing down the walls of secrecy that had long stood between us.
The desk moved with a reluctant scrape, its bulk resisting before giving way to our combined effort. Loose papers, remnants of past projects and forgotten tasks, fluttered to the floor in a chaotic whirlwind, their flight a visual echo of the upheaval I was about to introduce into their lives. It was a mess, yes, but a necessary one, reflecting the internal turmoil that had been brewing long before this moment.
Dad joined in, his movements syncopated with mine as we pushed and pulled at the furniture. The physical strain of the task was mirrored in the strained contours of our relationship, yet as we worked together, a small, almost imperceptible smile found its way to my lips. It was a complex smile, woven from threads of determination, nostalgia, and a faint hope for reconciliation. For a brief spell, as we shared the labour, there was a semblance of unity, a fragile bridge being built over the chasm that had widened between us over the years.
With the space cleared, the wall that had once been obscured by the trappings of everyday life now stood empty, a blank slate awaiting the ultimate revelation. My heart hammered with anticipation as I retrieved the Portal Key from my pocket. This small device, seemingly mundane to the unknowing eye, was the key to unlocking the visions that had haunted and inspired me. Holding it in my hand, I felt the weight of the moment, the precipice on which I stood between the known and the unknown.
Activating the Portal Key, the wall before us transformed, the once mundane surface now alive with an otherworldly display of swirling colours and pulsating energy. The portal, a mesmerising spectacle of light and motion, beckoned to realms beyond, a visible breach between worlds.
As Dad's arms encircled me in an embrace that was both unexpected and overwhelmingly tight, I found myself momentarily breathless, caught off guard by the intensity of his reaction. His grip was fierce, as if by holding me closer, he could somehow anchor the fleeting, magical reality that had unfolded before his eyes. "I always knew you would be the one to lead our family to the New Jerusalem," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The fervour in his words was palpable, echoing with a blend of prophecy and pride that I found both bewildering and hopeful.
The concept of the New Jerusalem had always been a fixture in our family's narrative, a symbol of ultimate salvation and redemption. Yet, hearing it invoked in this moment, against the backdrop of the portal's swirling energies, lent it a new weight, a new urgency that I couldn't fully grasp. I hugged him back, my own arms wrapping around him in a gesture that was as much about seeking comfort as it was about offering it. Within me, a whirlpool of emotions churned, love, confusion, and a dawning realisation of the vast chasm that lay between our understandings of destiny.
As we separated, I found myself confronting the widening gap between us, driven by an urgent need to take advantage of the rare opportunity it presented. "Does this mean you'll follow me?" I asked, my voice laced with a hopeful tremor. The anxiety that gnawed at my insides was almost overpowering, a visceral response to the fear of rejection, of misunderstanding.
Dad's answer, when it came, was like a blow, his eyes alight with a fire that spoke of convictions and paths diverging from my own. He spoke of righteousness, of a pilgrimage to Salt Lake City, his words painting a picture of a journey rooted in the physical, starkly contrasting the metaphysical odyssey I had envisioned. This deviation, this vastly different interpretation of our future, left me reeling, trying to reconcile our shared blood with our disparate dreams.
A lump formed in my throat, hard and unyielding, as the full magnitude of our dissonance dawned on me. The anxiety morphed into a tidal wave of realisation, the profound disconnect between father and son laying bare the emotional and ideological rifts that had, perhaps, always been there, simmering beneath the surface. My stomach churned painfully, mirroring the turmoil within, as I stood on the precipice of this new, uncertain divide, grappling with the implications of my bungled attempt to entice him to Clivilius.
As the study door swung open with a jarring squeak, the fragile equilibrium within the room shattered, replaced by the abrupt intrusion of Mum's presence. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her posture radiating impatience and a demand for inclusion that could not be ignored. “Are you two done with your secret man’s business yet?” she asked, her tone slicing through the tense silence that had settled between Dad and me.
The urgency of the moment, the pressing need to weave a narrative that could encapsulate the profound revelations and the visions of new beginnings, spurred a desperate response from me. "The New Jerusalem is just beyond the Portal of colour," I blurted out, grasping at the threads of their shared faith and the imagery it conjured, hoping it would be enough to bridge the gap between our worlds.
I watched Dad closely as he reached for Mum's hand, a silent plea for unity in the face of the unknown. “Do you love me?” he asked her, his voice carrying the weight of years, of shared dreams and challenges faced together.
Mum’s attention, momentarily captivated by the mesmerising display on the wall, shifted back to Dad as she responded with a softness that belied the strength of their connection. “You know I do,” she said, her words a testament to the enduring love that had weathered much before this moment.
Dad’s next words, “Then we will follow Luke, and he will lead us to the New Jerusalem,” felt like a beacon of hope in the tumult of emotions and fears that swirled within me. It was a proclamation of faith, of a willingness to venture into the unknown, guided by the visions that had haunted and inspired me.
The confusion that clouded Mum's face was palpable as she grappled with the implications of this sudden shift in her reality. “But what about Salt Lake City?” she questioned, her voice tinged with uncertainty, seeking clarity amidst the whirlwind of revelations and decisions.
In that moment, I found myself silently pleading with her to see beyond the physicality of the journey, to understand the metaphysical leap they were about to take. Just touch the colour, I urged in the silent recesses of my mind, desperate for her to embrace the simplicity and the profound transformation that awaited with just a single touch.
But then, Dad’s words about a dream, about being God's elect, buoyed the fragile hope I had harboured. As they, hand in hand, stepped toward the portal, I was struck by the surreal realisation of what was unfolding. Inwardly, I praised the unpredictability of faith and fate, my heart racing as I watched Mum and Dad, united in their decision, walk through the Portal, leaving me grappling with the magnitude of what I had set into motion.
As Jerome's voice, laced with panic and confusion, broke the silence of the aftermath, I felt a resurgence of the urgency that had propelled my actions up to this point. "Mum? Dad?" he called out, standing in the doorway, his figure a sharp silhouette against the backdrop of the ordinary world that lay beyond the study. The sight of him, so suddenly thrust into the midst of this unfathomable journey, reignited my sense of responsibility.
"Quick, you'd better go after them," I urged, my voice a mix of command and desperation. I reached out to him, physically steering him towards the portal's mesmerising display. The swirling colours seemed to pulse with anticipation, a visual echo of the heartbeat of my parent’s leap of faith. Jerome's look of bewilderment, his eyes wide with the shock of what he had witnessed, met mine. It was a silent exchange, a momentary connection filled with unanswered questions and unspoken fears. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he stepped forward and vanished into the vibrant maelstrom, leaving me in the sudden, profound silence of his absence.
Alone I stood there, the weight of the moment settling around me. The portal's colours danced with wild, untamed energy, sparking and colliding in a display that was at once beautiful and chaotic. It was a visual metaphor for the tumultuous journey my family had now embarked upon, a journey into Clivilius driven by faith, hope, and a quest for a New Jerusalem of our own making.
A scoff, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome, broke free from my lips. "Mormons, impulsive and non-questioning buggers when they think they're following the promptings of the Spirit," I remarked, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
