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James and the Magic Door

A Short Story

By Rob CunliffePublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 10 min read
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James Patterson was a simple, quiet man but introverted by no means. James grew up on his family’s farm in rural Maine. After his parents passed he realized how important community was to him and so he transformed the modest acreage of his inheritance from a working farm into a venue for weddings, gatherings, parties and retreats. He loved providing a place for people to gather, to be in community with one another and to share life’s joy around a table or a fire pit. James found that when he was able to do so, he felt completed. He would throw lavish parties, spending too much of his own money to make sure that everyone had the food, drink, entertainment and atmosphere that would serve to bring them all a little closer together. Then he would sit back with a big smile on his face and watch them talk and drink and smile, listen to their laughter and their raucous enjoyment of one another’s company. He would participate too, sure, but his true happiness came from providing the space and watching his friends and family and loved ones enjoy one another.

The Patterson Hill Farm, as it was called, always meant a great deal to James. Much of his personal identity was connected to what it had meant to grow up there. There were secrets that only James knew about the farm - places to hide, good spots to pick berries - the sort of things that only a young boys adventures growing up in a particular place could reveal. James’ favorite spot on the farm was the barn. The barn had been built when he was a boy, seven or eight years old. He could still remember the excitement of it, the machinery, the workers, the smell of the freshly hewn lumber and the tar as they finished the roof, the pounding of hammers and the zzz-ing of saws. It was a magical addition to the family’s property. James was immediately taken with it. The high loft, the stalls that held his father’s machinery, the smell of earth and oil and sawdust all mingling to create a space that offered endless depth to a child’s imagination. And so began James’ lifelong love affair with the simple, rustic building.

Life was good to James. He had a joyous and magical childhood, lived a full and mostly happy life, and had grown, changed, loved and lost like most young men do. As a grown man James had been mostly content, finding that he needed little else beyond the simple joys of his rustic life. He spent his days caring for the property, his few animals, and enjoying the passing of the seasons. However, more and more, of late, James found he felt a sadness whenever there was a wedding or an event at the farm. He loved hosting for his small community but the private events had begun to make him realize just how alone he really was.

As a young man James had lost the love of his life, Margarette Willoughby, in a tragic accident. After her death he decided never to marry. He had never had any children, or pursued having a family in any way. There were times that those decisions made his current solitude feel nigh unbearable. The peace and quiet sometimes felt like that of a grave yard, his grave yard, and it made him feel forgotten and alone.

But regardless of his bouts of sadness, everyday, much like in the days of his early youth, James would finish his chores and spend most of his hours working, playing, tinkering and relaxing in his favorite place, the old barn. Now, James was fifty eight years old, which meant the barn was fifty years old, and much like its owner, it was beginning to show its age. You might call it old, or run down, but in James’ eyes it hadn’t lost even the tiniest bit of the magic and potential it had held on its first day standing. It still smelled of earth and oil and saw dust, although much of the machinery was now gone. Where once stood perfect weather proof walls now here and there sunlight would stab through cracks and splits and openings between boards, sending shafts of light reaching down through the dusty, still air. James had a small workshop where his fathers combine had once been parked. The hay loft he had long ago converted to his afternoon reading room, rebuilding the staircase and laying some old carpets down. There was a pair of old wing chairs, and a poof ottoman. For light in the evenings there was a single stained glass lamp on a small table and some string lights hanging from the ceiling. Every evening he would spend a couple of hours up there, pour himself a small glass of Scottish wine, as he called it, sit in one of the chairs and read.

This night however, something special happened. Something very different. James finished his dinner and went out to the barn to have his whiskey and lose his lonely sorrow in the pages of his most current book, but as he climbed the stairs up to the loft something was different and it stopped him in his tracks.

There, set against the back wall of the loft, was a door. It was a simple thing with thin iron straps and a basic latch and handle mechanism. James forgot all about his book and his drink and went directly to this strange door. Without realizing what had happened his quiet sorrow faded as the magic that made this old barn so special to him in his youth came flooding back with a rush. James reached out and laid his fingers on the rough, old wood of the door. Above the latch was a marking, like a cattle brand or a wood burner had been used to etch an image into the wood. It looked like a clock with no hands set inside of two opposing triangles, almost like the Star of David with a clock inside. He traced the burnt marking with his callused fingertip and then, without pausing so much as a beat, James reached for the handle and pulled the door open towards him. He stared in awe as he looked through the door at an exact mirror image of his barn, but without the chairs and lights and books that now crowded the loft. It was the barn of another day, a different day, and it was daytime through the door. There was no question in his mind what must be done and without hesitation he stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

He stood in the silence of the loft for a moment taking in the familiar smells of days gone by when he suddenly heard the laughter of children. He ducked instinctively as two kids about ten years old tore into the barn below yelling, laughing and chasing each other around an old green tractor. His father’s old green tractor he realized. Eventually one tagged the other and they ran out again. He struggled to remember this day and who he might have been playing with when the side door of the barn opened and his slightly younger self walked in. James immediately teared up realizing that the child he saw was not himself with a friend but in fact his own child, or children. He was staring into his life, but it was different. He watched silently as his counterpart worked at a bench against the far wall beyond the tractor, and then turned and retraced his steps back out the side door and away towards the house.

Weighing his emotions and his curiosity, James decided he had to see more. He descended from the loft and made his way, carefully, out towards the house. As he approached the porch door swung open and a woman in a summer dress emerged carrying a basket of laundry. James’ heart nearly stopped as he looked on. It was his long lost love Margarette Willoughby. James would have married this woman long ago were it not for her untimely passing. He was frozen, tears streaming down his cheeks as he watched her walk towards him, all full of life.

“There you are my love,” she said, joyfully, and moved as if to come hug him. James began to put his arms out to receive her just as one of the children from the barn ran past him and met her hug with the full energy of his youth. They laughed as she lost her balance and they tumbled to the ground, hooting hysterically as they upended the basket of laundry. The young boy’s friend called to him from back by the barn and with renewed purpose he untangled himself from his mother and ran back to his hide and seek nemesis. She watched lovingly as he went, giggling still.

“What in the world Maggie Patterson?” A slightly younger James said as he emerged once again from the farmhouse.

“Oh, your son!” She said laughing.

Young James walked over and took her hands, lifting her up and into his arms.

That boy is your son, mine is the quiet, bookish one who shows up at bedtime. Mischievous Margarette is that boys mother.”

They chuckled and shared a brief but tender kiss before picking up the laundry and returning it to the basket.

“Okay, I’m back to work.” Maggie said.

“Me too, I love you.”

“As you should,” she replied with a wink.

They went about their chores and left James standing in the grass, his mouth agape trying to take in what he had just witnessed. He felt light headed, knelt to catch his breath, and wept as the weight of what he had just witnessed settled on him. This man, this version of him, had all the things that James felt he was missing, and while James knew this was not his reality, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was real. In this world, in this place, his Maggie was alive and well. They had a son. He knew that he was beyond happy here. And James found that through the tears, he too, was suddenly beyond happy. All these many years he had mourned what was lost, what was gone forever, and while he kept the pain at bay with the simple joys life still offered him, he had been profoundly sad deep down for a long, long time. But now, seeing this, James understood that nothing was ever truly lost, just hidden, tucked away within the folds of realities too varying and complex to bear witness to. He wept, but now he wept with joy.

After a while James felt pulled to return to the door. He could have stayed and watched for hours as Maggie went about the mundane task of hanging laundry on the line in the side yard, but he knew it was time for him to return. He had seen what he was meant to see. He made his way to the old barn, pausing to look back at this other James’ life one last time before climbing the stairs to the hay loft and stepping back through the door.

James paused in the stillness of his barn as the door clicked shut behind him. He could hear the gentle patter of rain falling on the old barn’s roof. He turned back to the door but it was no longer there, just the rough old boards of the hay loft wall he had always known. He laid his hand on the wall and silently gave thanks for whatever magic had just allowed him to experience what he just saw. Then with a broad smile on his face, he turned, poured himself a Scottish wine and sat down to read his book.

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About the Creator

Rob Cunliffe

I am currently working on my first novel and writing as much as I can. I hope you enjoy my stories. Give them a like if you do!

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