Attempt Number 8,128

It still looked like a barn--from the outside, anyway. If you didn't look too closely, you might think it was abandoned, dilapidated. The livestock was long gone; the idyllic piles of hay eaten by generations of industrious mice, beaten down by the elements, or decomposed to nourish a burgeoning crop of weeds.

If there had been a matching farmhouse once, time had stolen it away, or perhaps the forest had reclaimed it. There was still the shadow of a path, if you searched among the brambles and the bracken, a path just wide enough for a fox or a wayward sheep. 

But if you waited until dusk, you might catch a flicker of light through the boarded-up windows. You might smell the hint of smoke, or see a cautious line of it slyly climb from a crumbling brick chimney. And if you snuck a little closer once dusk had decayed into twilight, you might hear the soft whirl of a fan or a persistent tick tick tick. Somewhat like a clock, only too slow to count the seconds. 

Inside the barn, though, was another story. Inside the barn, the inventor had secreted himself away for 29 years, 7 months, and 13 days--give or take. He had lost precise count somewhere around year 16, when a small fire broke out, destroying some of the meticulous records he had been keeping on his dictaphone. 

Inside the barn, he had painted the walls uniformly black so on them he could write his elaborate equations in chalk, which he dug by hand from a cave once used as a storm shelter that lay far beneath the floorboards, beneath the ancient river bed, and into the calcified ocean bottom that provided the bedrock. There he had patiently hidden his supplies before he boarded up the windows and locked away the outside world, so he could conduct his experiments in peace. 

The only thing that broke the black was a small oil painting cradled within a gilt frame he meticulously dusted, a portrait of a woman dressed in a white frock on a field of golden wheat that waved in a tender breeze. Her face was visible as a pale sliver overshadowed by a generous straw hat; the dot of her blue eyes looked to the horizon where a sun hovered, just rising or, perhaps, setting. 

Fortunate for him, he had hit upon a lucky combination in the spring of his 9th year, just as his supplies were starting to give out and his one accomplice showed signs that her rheumatism would soon render her unserviceable. Crippled, the old lady could no longer trundle the biweekly deliveries of fresh staples through the ever-narrowing path up to the grain chute that functioned as his only connection to the outer world. It was that lucky spring day - a day that was otherwise identical to any other inside the barn - that he created his first portal. Even if it was only the size of a large cat. 

Built with the implements of his time, the machines resembled the inside of an enormous clock tower. They were comprised of cogs and weights and wheels and an engine that kept the whole running perpetually, powered by a narrow underground river--all that remained of the magnificent ocean that had once dwelt here. 

During the day, the inventor slept, updated his records, harvested chalk, or did one of the many small jobs necessary for the maintenance of his humble existence. But after darkness fell, his mind awoke, full of visions and schemes and still more plans for how to improve upon the machines so that one day, one day . Well, perhaps today would be the day.

II

"Today shall be the day!" he announced unceremoniously to the cage that stood empty since his parrot had died 6 summers ago. That day had been particularly sweltering inside the barn, and his only companion had squawked relentlessly as the inventor tossed and turned in the interminable heat. When at last she fell silent, he had slumbered sporadically until dusk brought with it a cool breeze through the cracks between the boards. He woke. She, alas, did not. 

"Today shall be the day!" he cried again, no longer discouraged by the lack of reply. It was attempt number 8,128 and the beauty of this perfect number felt like a sign from the only god he still believed in, the only god worth his time and worship: Mathematics. 

At first, his portals had opened without seeming rhyme or calculable reason. One opened deep in the jungle, and an anaconda had slithered most of the way through before he could close it upon the hungry creature's tail. The next opened into a larder, which he'd harvested gratefully, having finished off the anaconda meat a week earlier. 

For the longest time, each portal was a surprise; pleasant perhaps, or terrifying, sometimes even deadly, as when it opened into a giant swarm of killer bees that rushed to fill the relative vacuum of the barn. He shuddered at the memory and unconsciously rubbed his arms where the scars were still visible, nearly a decade later. 

He put all his efforts thereafter into rendering the portals somewhat predictable and easier to close, should he miss the mark. Now, his instruments could say with relative accuracy whether the other end opened into an ocean or in the vicinity of a star, places too hazardous for human life. 

But today, today--he felt almost certain today was the day that he would at last open one large enough to crawl through. 

Despite the growing ache in his bones, he still moved deftly through the overly familiar space, over the floorboards polished by his incessant pacing and tireless efforts. He adjusted a dial here, checked a gauge there. Through the modest widows he'd installed on the roof he could see the sky warming to its last immodest blush before dusk arrived. The metal surfaces glowed as if lit by a rose-coloured fire all around him. 

To him, it felt as though they shared his anticipation. 

As the machines roused to their various tasks, one began to give off a distressing Ping! He hurried to investigate much as a mother rushes to a wailing babe. It took him little time to soothe the sound, to recalibrate to today's task.

The field had just begun to form with its telltale purrrr as the first star peeked in through the glass overhead. Reality within the metal circle bubbled and warped like the surface of a fast-moving stream. Alternatives seemed to ripple over its surface: what could be a brick wall; an open and opalescent sky; the inquisitive faces of creatures with long, furred ears like rabbits but the fearsome, toothy snout of a crocodile.  

Unconsciously he began to purr along, as if to encourage the portal to give birth to a safe destination. The last time it had come so far along - well, the scorch marks across the floor told the tale all too clearly, the wood seared in jagged lines as though a star had exploded there. At least his eyebrows had grown back, so his face no longer frightened him each time he passed the looking glass. 

Now a tiger's purring, the sound grew to fill the barn and he hoped no traveller had gone astray and found themself close enough to hear it. As far as the world knew, he too had died in the terrible storm, which is exactly how he preferred it to be. 

Heat began to shimmer around the machines as they whirled and ticked feverishly. The heat prickled his skin and soon he was slicked in sweat, but he felt only the excitement building in his stomach to a roaring crescendo.

From the center of the field, the portal opened: first a pinprick but soon spiralling out like a burgeoning tornado. Through it, he beheld golden sand; something blue and crab-like that scuttled on stick-thin legs; a lavender sky arced overhead and reflected a deeper plum in the calm water that stretched beneath. The portal trembled uncertainly and then snaped to fill the space encircled by the narrow revolving bands. 

He had finally done it. The portal held and the crab-creature scampered across the sand to investigate. It paused at the threshold, moth-like antennae stroking the alien air. Then it hastened through, its carapace clattering along the wooden planks. With reflexes born of more dangerous enemies, the inventor grabbed his long-handled axe and neatly smashed its head before it could get any further. It should make an excellent dinner.

He stood, admiring his handwork. It had taken nearly 30 years, but at long last, he had created a gateway large enough to take him into other worlds. Parallel, divergent realities. 

With a contented sigh, he closed the portal and returned to his worktable, already pondering the next step, the next objective. How best to find the world where she was still alive? He bent his ageing head to his numbers and figures, dedicated to his task while dreaming of blue eyes that gazed towards a distant horizon.