Chapter 1

I have been asked repeatedly by my wife (and others) to chronical my experiences on the other side of the portals. I have finally come to the conclusion to create this account once I realized that the number of people I could educate about what I know of the portals could be immense, compared to the outlay of time spent. I have copious notes made of my “Adventures” for roughly the first 2 years following the initial appearance of these portals.

Thank you to my editors Blood Blade and Stone Hammer, as well as those who have shared their own experiences, in particular Short Spear and those warriors of the Cree, Mississauga, Perun and Haudenosaunee nations. A special thank you to my long-suffering wife, without whom I would not be the person I am today.

This history will be written as a novel, and classified as Fiction since nothing can verifiably record our time beyond the Portals

Grant Reader, aka, The “Brute”, The Cursed one, The Unlucky One, and (my favourite) The Guide.

I was one of the first group, cohorts, who received a Weapon. I was in the back of an airplane full of oil workers, heading back to Newfoundland to see my girlfriend and a six month no old daughter. I was almost 20 years old, feeling sorry for myself and stoned out of my mind. The great ride I was on, listening to grunge music on my headphones after having spent $200 on some pills that Pete (another oil worker, but mostly drug dealer) claimed would take me on trip like no other. I felt the high come to a crashing halt and cursed the fucker for his crap drugs. Opening my eyes I saw a swirling cloud of black and red. Assuming this was the leftover of my high, I thought it was nothing more than an imaginary image.

Many people have told their stories of seeing their weapon for the first time, there are just as many theories why a certain person is given a certain weapon.
I just saw a whipped-up maelstrom of colour. I never reached for it, nor did it ever reach out to me (that I was aware of)
I stared at it for some time, as it was my only form of entertainment, and honestly, at that time I was too stupid to do anything else.
Personally, I lean towards the idea that the weapon is an amalgam of the family and cultural history as well as a reflection of their individual personality

I suppose I should explain.

I was definitely what you might call a meat-head. At 12 years old, a was almost 6 foot tall and about 170 lbs. I revelled in my size and strength and used it both in sports and “private” life to get me what I felt I was deserved.
Mom and Dad were fairly normal types, me taking after Dad in the size department. Mom raised me alone after he never came home from the Boat one day. The Captain and the other crew swear he collected his pay and got off the boat. He was never seen or heard of again ... that was what I was told at about 8 years old. Looking back, it was the start of a bad series of events. Mom sold the house and we moved into a run-down area of St. John (well, actually it was a more run-down area than where we had been, which wasn’t great to begin with)
I recall a time shortly after. I was sitting on my window sill, bouncing my back off the screen and falling into a mattress in the floor. I was with some kid from the new neighbourhood, and he and I were taking turns. For all I know, we were pretending to be Wrestlers, “off the top rope!”

I do recall clearly the feeling of the window screen giving way during one particularly strong bounce, and me surprisingly watching my socked feet zoom past the brick-block of the apartment outside wall. We were on the second floor.

From what I gather from my Mom, the boy I was with came running past her in the kitchen yelling “G just fell out the window!”.
I’m told that I went to the local hospital with a neighbour that had a car, and the doctor looked me over and sent me home telling her to “keep an eye on me”. Yup, that was how concussion was treated back then. No observation protocols, no CT scans ... nothing. Just another poor kid with a head injury.

I can’t reliably say that I had a major head injury, in fact I can’t trust my memory of that time at all. What I can say for certain is that from that point on I was a hellion ... nothing my Mom said or did made a lick of difference to my actions. I took up drinking and smoking as fast as I could, took up stealing to support my new pastimes and hanging about with all the wrong crowd so I could move my merchandise and get beer and smokes.
Oddly, other drugs never entered my orbit until much later. It was as if the older kids I hung with were intentionally keeping me away from it, or it from me. Maybe they thought I’d be a threat with drugs in my system, maybe they thought it’d be a waste to pass their weed off to “The Kid” They definitely did me a favor in hindsight.

Strangely, Highschool football and social pressure was my saviour. I found a coach who rode my ass, called me on my bad behaviour and whipped me into shape. I couldn’t keep smoking if I expected to be able to run for any length of time and drinking (excessively) had to go too. The one time I thought I could get away with showing up to practice hung over, the coach made sure to blow his whistle right in my ear every chance he got. I considered quitting at one point, but the bargaining chip of popularity and social power to get me to actually try at something for a while finally won out.

I was good enough. School was a marginal pass, and the guy who was once just another meat-head had a place among the linebackers.

Football became my reason for living, I was never really injured, put up my best, (or close to it) and met girls ... One girl in particular.

Now those who have been in the situation might easily understand. Those who haven’t, try to picture this: A pretty young girl impressed by all the attention that her other friends are getting by dating a football jock, a dumb jock who is full of teenage hormones with no experience with women, at all. Throw in the desire by said young lady to annoy her father by dating someone he would never approve of and Bingo!

Ellen and I were a match made for all the wrong reasons, invited to all the right parties, finding quiet places everywhere we could. For my young dumb brain, it was sheer heaven. It lasted almost a full year.

Ellen must have known pretty early, she signed up for summer school just before final exams so she “could get her Highschool credits early”. I had “Remedial English 201” that summer, doing very little else but staying in shape. Mom had a fit with how much food I was packing away, but I ate at Ellens house quite a lot and her mom always seemed to have a lot of extra food at the table.

I’m told that by the time she told me, everyone else knew and her parents had already cooled down some. I was at a loss of what to say (this wasn’t unusual at the time at all). To my credit, I never tried to run or convince her to give the baby up (just as well, if you’d ever met Ellen you could never imagine her being swayed by poorly made arguments, or even good arguments).

That was that. I dropped out the next day on the first of December and never went back. No Football parties, no Prom, no High-school diploma for me.

Her father (Ted) offered me a job at his trucking firm. (I’d thought he was a truck driver, not realizing that he owned the damn company despite eating at his house and seeing all the trappings of modest wealth). I turned him down cold, wanting somehow to stand on my own two feet, and feeling like his perceived charity (it was) was something I just had to throw back in his face.

Remember, 18 years old...

Looking back I’m certain that the job wasn’t for me, but for the protection and provision of his first grandchild (Ellen was his eldest, his son Brian was only 15 at the time) but I was too stubborn and too inexperienced and yes, too stupid to understand this at the time (sorry Dad) nor did I understand the father-son relationship at all, having been raised by a single mom and a bunch of street hoods.

So I did what many, many Eastcoasters have done in the last generation, I signed up to work in the Oil industry, in Alberta, on the other damn side of the country. How my girlfriend felt about that, I didn’t know. I just used what contacts I had (a black market ciggarette dealer/trucker I knew) to get me a telephone interview with a nice sounding lady from Alberta with a mild French accent. She asked me all sorts of questions I cannot recall, and must have laughed at me behind my back as she told me to be at the local airport with my work boots, and a weeks worth of work clothes that Friday.

I somehow found myself in a small office, in what would become the coldest place I have ever been. Joe was the foreman, from my province, and one of the most vulgar men I have ever met. He would turn anything into a swear word, just add the prefix “fucking-” to it, or the suffix “-fuck” and you were off to the races. I have to admit, I was impressed and I liked his truck. A beautiful F-150 with dual axel at the back

The work was brutal. Cold long hours mostly outside hauling hoses and making high-pressure connections to get the Fracking-fuck (Fracking = natural gas) trucks up and running. I honestly had no idea what was happening, or really what we were doing at all. I was just another dumb grunt, they worked us to the bone, but paid us well ... too well for many. Drug use was rampant, although I held off for longer than most. I think the Overtime helped me out there.

The schedule was supposed to be 3x10 hour days then 2 days off, but we started really early and could get extras hours at time-and-a-half. We could even pick up other shifts on our days off for even better money. Every six weeks the company would cycle us off for “R&R” if it was wanted and covered the transportation costs to wherever was home. I declined the return airfare, sending “home” the bonus, plus the paycheque for an extra two weeks of work. Another six weeks on a different crew dragging hose and tools for other guys...
Those first two cycles I worked too much to even think about buying drugs, or do anything else but sleeping and playing the Ex-boxy...
I did the same thing the next time the six-week break rolled around. I was a machine. Up at 5am and dressed and in a rig for 5:30. We’d work until noon and take an hour break, then work until 6pm. Drive back to the yard, tie everything down, inhale something that vaguely resembled food and put my head down after a shower and a smoke. I’d sometimes workout at the yard, but mostly hauling tools and hoses kept me in a near constant state of exhaustion. It was like the hardest day of football training camp that never ended.

I had thought I’d move up the “food chain” out there, driving a truck in a few months then running a crew within a year.

Sent my first two paycheques to Ellen, asking her to buy a home for us (really, I had no clue what was actually possible), then most of the remaining ones too. I guess I was naively optimistic but her parents helped her (behind my back) and she “was set to close” on a cute little 2 bedroom house just inside a middle class town, not far from her parents (or the water), about a 20 min drive in the summer and twice that in the winter.

After a total of 20 weeks away, I took the ticket home for my 2 weeks of time off. Arriving just after the birth of my daughter. Mom brought me straight to the hospital, despite asking me repeatedly to clean up at her place. Somehow, the thought of a child and a house (somewhere) had me thinking I was an adult, large and in charge. The grandparents must have sighed and shaken their heads ... looking back it was stupid, but I’m in danger of using that particular word too much.

I jumped and ran for the Emergency entrance just as soon as the car stopped, I still can’t imagine what I was thinking. Mom redirected me...
“Grant” she yelled “she’s on the second floor ... maternity “
I stopped, it was so strange to be called by my name, the men in Fort McMurray (aka Fort McMoney) called me “Grunt” (as had a number of guys on the football team) or more recently “Brute”.

Mom walked with me, I was stared at by everyone I saw and started to feel out of place. Work boots, stained and smelly coveralls with a 2 week beard wasn’t winning me any friends here. Despite my ill-conceived idea of coming there straight away, to show how good a Dad I was gonna be I guess...

The Hallmark scene, the worried father rushing in, the beautiful new mom, the smiling grandparents ... none of these things happened.

Instead, I schlepped into the room and uttered an overly loud “Hey”
Three heads swiveled toward me in complete silence ... surprise on Linda’s, a frown on Teds, and on Ellen ... nothing.
“Hi” I said, just a bit quieter, thinking that they maybe didn’t recognize me
“Just what the hell are you doing here?” Asked Ted, in an almost yell.
“Dad!” Snapped Ellen, with concern for me (maybe) or for disturbing her baby (much more likely)
With more confidence than I actually felt, I walked right past the grandparents and to the bed, looking at Ellen and the baby for the first real time. “Is that, ya know ... proper?” I sort of gestured to her partly bare chest and a very, very small head covered in sparse black hair, sort of shaking back forth on her breast. She sighed and put her head back on the pillow.

Her mom said “It’s very normal” while her dad said “Where do you get off...” at the same time.

Silence then descended. I stood there staring at Ellen. She’d let her hair grow, and it was now longer than I’d ever seen it. Her eyes had rings around them, like mine got after I’d worked a regular 10 hour shift, then an extra three hours of Overtime. Once I’d done that twelve days in a row.

“You look tired” I said, obviously.

“I was in labour for fifteen hours...” Ellen said, her eyes closed.

“Let me have her” her Mom said.
She took the baby from Ellen’s arm. I jumped when her nipple was exposed, Linda just calmly covered Ellen’s chest and the brought her other arm up, looking like she’d done this plenty of times before.

“Do you want to see her?” Asked my Mom from behind me, in the doorway.

“Can I hold her” I asked in reply.

“You stink of diesel, and kerosine ... And B.O.” Ted interjected through a tight jaw
“Not good for a baby” he continued as I just stared at him.

I dropped my hands to my side, suddenly even more self conscious.
“Mom, Dad, Lin” (my Moms name was also Linda) “Can you take her outside for a minute?” Ellen asked, eyes still closed, head still back on the pillow.

The parents all filed out, taking the baby with them.
“I got on a plane, just after you ... uh, started” I said, hoping that she’d think I did it for her.
“You were gone for the last four months” she countered.
“I was earning money...!” I exclaimed ... this was not happening right, she was supposed to be thankful ... I worked hard ... I sent the money to her.
“I had to live with my mom,” she said “One week ... I even moved in with your Mom...”

I didn’t know

“Nobody told me” is all I could think of to say.

She nodded “That’s what I thought...”
and she closed her eyes. I thought I understood ... I didn’t.

“Can we go home?” I asked, desperately hoping to get away from all this.

“The house?” She paused “The house doesn’t close ‘till next month”

“So it’s open?” I said, never having been involved in real-estate before.

“No, closing means the sale goes through on that day” she replied, sounding a bit like her Mom, or maybe my Mom. “I’ll go to my parents place when they let me outta here. You’d better ask your Mom if you can stay with her”

Ask? I thought Why would I have to ask?

“We can’t stay together?” I’d been looking forward to some alone time, they guys in the team had been talking about it all week long. It was about the only thing they talked about in reality.

She saw straight through my casual tone. “I don’t think I’m up to any of that...” she opened her eyes finally and stared at me uncomfortably.

“No, no or course not, I didn’t mean that” I fired out.

It had occurred to me actually, but for some reason, I was still hopeful. I’d never had a partner before her, then it’d been fast, furious and often for almost a year. For the past four months, I’d had no company but my hand.

“What was it like?” I asked to change the subject. I meant, the birth part thing...
“Lonely” she sighed, after a moment. Looking me dead in the eyes. “Everyone that I saw but Denise either blanked me, or interrogated me about you, me ... baby ... marriage ... abortion...”

“Denise?”

“Her older sister has a kid, a few years ago but not the same. Her boyfriend split and didn’t contact her ever again”
I felt a little better about it, like I’d done better than that guy... “Umm, she was ... uhh” I started.

“She was ... not with the crowd. She lives near my Mom and Dad. Just about my only friend now” Ellen jumped in. She sounded sad and tired.

I wondered where all our friends had gone? Weren’t we part of the group? The Team?
“I didn’t know”

“You weren’t here...”

“What’s her name?” I asked, desperate to get off the topic.

“Can we call her Linda?” Ellen said quietly.

“That’s Moms name!” I grunted

“Mine too ... I think it’ll help”

I couldn’t imagine what it would help, but at this point I was happy enough to call her anything as long as we stopped talking about me being away.

The parents came back in then, the Moms smiling and crying when Ellen told them the name “We” picked.

Couldn’t imagine why, it’s just a name.

Ted handed me a pen, and a clipboard with some papers on it. I assumed it was a bill, but I sat in the corner and filled out what turned out to be a birth registration. I was somewhat proud that I remembered Ellen’s birthday, but embarrassed to have to ask her middle name, and where she was born. Ellen Linda Mayfair was born in this town, this same hospital about a month before me. I was with an older woman!
The talk continued on around me while I struggled not to smear the pen or grease from my sleeve. I mostly succeeded.

“What about a middle name” I fired off to the chatting crowd.

“What would you like?” Asked one of the Linda’s in the room.

That set me back, the baby was kinda just an idea until about half an hour ago. What did I know about naming babies, come to think of it what did I know about babies at all...

Girl name ... what girls did I know, didn’t want to use any of the “football friends” names, they hadn’t earned anything from us. No superstars or foreign sounding crap either, Christ, the stars were naming their kids Apple, Precious, Fierce.

“April” I said.

To this day, I have no idea where the name April came from, but there were smiles all around out of what had become another uncomfortable silence with “the three” looking right at me. Even Ellen was smiling.

“Makes is easy to remember her birth month then” commented Ted.

Come to think of it, it was April wasn’t it?
“Yeah, right” I huffed, hoping like it sounded like I’d been clever.

And so it was, Ellen and little Linda (who slowly but surely started to be called April by the grandparents since Linda caused confusion, mostly just mine) went “home” to her parents after two days in hospital and I went “home” with my Mom a few hours later that day for a shower, and a shave, and a haircut, and another shower or two.
Between time (that’s visits to see them), I was at loss of what to do. I found myself working around moms place. Lift and carry again, clean and tidy up after the winter. For those who have never spent time on The Rock, winter can easily last past April, but was mild this year.

I spent time with the “out-laws” as a called them to myself, thinking myself clever. Linda and Ted put me to work doing the same stuff I had done at Moms. Linda hollering at me often to “be more careful with that” or some similar garbage.
Ted even took me to his depot (he called it the “Yard”) and showed me around, asking about the trucks and other machines we used in the oil fields. I told him what I knew (which wasn’t much) and my problems getting Dave to give me my own rig to drive.
“You got a DZ designation?” He asked, sounding surprised.

“What’s that” I snorted.

“Air brake designation, ya’ need it to drive a truck”

“I’m pretty sure we don’t use them out there, it’s kinda wild” I said, with my most confident tone.

“Sure” he paused. “You got a car drivers license?”

“Yeah, passed on my first try!” I exclaimed, as though it was a real accomplishment.

“I see, good” he grunted.

I was beginning to wonder what this was all about. We were in the ankle deep mud of his “Yard” with the salty wind in our face. The salt and mud made a nice change from the frozen ground and dry wind of northern Alberta I’d suffered through all winter. Felt nice to be home.

We scraped most of the mud off our boots on the way into a well used trailer / office. Sitting around a fairly worn old desk, I could picture Dave with a smoke in his hand, swearing his head off about something. Teds office looked similar, but felt much different.
“Beer?” Tea asked without much enthusiasm.
“Sure” I mumbled.

We sat trying not to feel awkward and failing miserably. Bottles with pry-off lids make a cool sound. I had used it on my phone for years as a notice that I had a text message, but had never heard it “live” so to speak. Cans were the norm for us since the cheapest beer came that way.
“Thanks” I said as we clunked bottles.

After a few minutes of silence with about half the bottles gone, I was waiting for him to talk as I hadn’t a clue what to say at this point.

“What’s your plan” he asked, leaning back in the chair, arms folded.

Copying him in posture, I fired off “Back to the Oil, move my way up, send cash home and fly Down Home often”

“Not much of a life ... a home life, I mean...” for the first time I heard him stumble for words, but then again, this was the first real talk we’d ever had.

“I like it out there ... the work is good” I threw out defensively.