The Gate

In the corner of my eye

But not in direct sight

In sunshine deemed a lie

Dismissed as tricks of light

Or shimmers from a star-drenched sky

Moonshadows of the night

Here but not

The archways fade

But on Walpurgisnacht

It stayed

I've become accustomed to welcoming strange creatures into my home. My proficiency for deciphering and learning new languages was always lacking and - try as I might - has not improved with age. Communication between myself and the new arrivals is halting, laboured and limited, leaving me with small pieces to the puzzle of their existence. I resigned myself to being pleased with their arrival, and not focus on how they managed it. Then came the gate.

At first, the archway would briefly appear at dusk on days when the back forest filled with mist, and would vanish by dawn.

On the eve of Walpurgisnacht, it became solid and remained a mysterious fixture in my garden. I circled around it. I tentatively stretched my arm beneath its arch. I walked through it. I tried to discern the symbol of woven branches.

Nothing.

My pack of adopted critters, meanwhile, were thrilled by its manifestation, exuberantly gesticulating and speaking far too quickly for me to catch a lick of their intended message. Once their initial urgency subsided, we began the long and arduous task of communication between differing species, with me jotting notes and drawing diagrams when words failed to translate.

So far, I know the symbol is associated with a being, and that being has punched a hole between worlds to send this gate for creatures to escape some terrible danger in the northern regions of the land on the other side.

I'm convinced the arrivals coincide with the phases of the moon, and the coming of the mists, but have yet to learn their relevance.