The Door Beyond the Pines

The air was sharp with alpine chill when Nathan Keller zipped up his sleeping bag. Lake Louise gleamed a silver-blue beyond the treeline, moonlight flicking across its surface like thrown coins. It was supposed to be a quiet, solitary weekend—just him, his battered rucksack, and the Rockies. He’d driven up from Calgary the day before, craving a reprieve from the hum of fluorescent office lights and email pings.

Now, in the hush after midnight, the forest pressed close. Lodgepole pines lifted like black spears against a sky pricked with stars. Somewhere, water gurgled over stones. Nathan closed his eyes and tried to let the sounds soothe him, but his nerves buzzed instead, as if waiting for something unnamed.

A faint glow seeped through the tent wall.

He unzipped the flap. The moon was still high, yet the light came from deeper in the woods—a flicker, yellow-white, like a candle held aloft. He hesitated, boots half on. Curiosity won. He grabbed his headlamp, shrugged into his jacket, and stepped out.

The glow drew him along a narrow game trail, moss soft beneath his boots. Branches arched overhead. He walked farther than he meant to; the lake and campground noises faded behind him. The light pulsed gently ahead, beckoning.

Nathan reached a clearing. In its center stood an immense pine, bark silvered with age. At its base yawned a door—an honest, man-sized door fitted into the trunk, bound with black iron. Beside it swept an old woman clad head-to-toe in white. She held a broom of birch twigs and a tin dustpan, methodically sweeping fallen needles as if tidying the forest floor were the most natural task in the world.

Nathan froze. “Uh… hello?”

The crone looked up, face a map of deep lines. Her eyes gleamed pale as glacier ice. “You’ve come.” Her voice was low, rich, almost like a cello. “I thought it would be tonight.”

“I—what?” He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see pranksters with cameras. Nothing but the night.

She leaned the broom against the tree. “Best not to linger between places. Come.” She pushed on the door. Hinges groaned softly.

Warm light poured out, smelling faintly of sap and frankincense. Against all sense, Nathan felt no fear—only a tug of inevitability. He ducked his head and stepped inside.

The chamber was vast, ceiling lost in shadow. Sunlight—no, rainbow light—streamed through windows of stained glass: prismatic swirls depicting stags, rivers, constellations. Yet there was no stone, no mortar. Pillars of living lodgepole pine lined the hall, their roots drinking from dark soil, their crowns vanishing upward.

Nathan’s breath caught. The place felt alive, as if the trees hummed in a register just below hearing.

The woman shut the door behind them and padded across the earthen floor. “Keep close,” she said. “The corridors shift if you wander.”

He followed, boots crunching on spruce needles. Through a side arch they entered another chamber—smaller but still echoing with quiet. At its heart stretched an Olympic-sized pool, water smooth as glass, reflecting the pine-vaulted ceiling.

Stone stairs descended into the pool’s depths, vanishing in darkness.

Nathan halted. “What is this?”

“Your way forward,” said the woman. She rested gnarled hands atop her broom handle. “Down you must go, if you’re to find who you are.”

“I’m not much of a swimmer.”

“You won’t drown.” Her smile was oddly gentle. “The water there is not what you think.”

Nathan peered at the pool. Its surface shimmered with faint light, as if holding a second sky beneath. Every sensible instinct screamed to stay on dry land. But something older—a whisper beneath thought—called him onward.

He pulled off his pack, set it on the flagstones, and stepped to the edge.

Cool air brushed his face. He placed one boot on the first submerged stair. Water lapped against the leather—but it didn’t soak. He took another step. Still dry. Heart hammering, he descended, stair after stair.

By the fifth step he was entirely beneath the surface, yet he felt no wetness, no pressure on his chest. He breathed, and the air tasted faintly of pine resin.

He laughed aloud, bubbles of wonder that didn’t rise.

Down he went, stair after stair, until the bottom spread out, flagstoned and gleaming dimly. Across the expanse waited another flight leading upward. At their base stood an ornate mirror taller than a man, frame wrought in curling vines of silver and bronze.

Nathan approached. In the glass he saw himself—but not as the weary IT consultant who’d come camping to escape spreadsheets. The figure wore chainmail beneath a surcoat of midnight blue, a silver stag leaping across its front. A sword hung at his hip; a polished helm dangled from his arm.

He touched the mirror. Cold rippled up his fingers, then warmth.

A voice unfurled inside his mind, deep as roots: Champion, the realm calls. The Abyss wakes, and only you may bar its jaws.

His reflection nodded gravely, as if confirming the words.

Nathan swallowed. He glanced at his modern clothes. Already they shimmered, edges blurring. When he looked again, he wore the garb from the mirror: mail, plate, leather gauntlets. The sword’s weight rested familiar on his belt—as though he’d trained with it for years.

He drew a shaky breath. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, then.”

He mounted the far staircase. Each step brightened until, with a final stride, he broke the surface.

Sun dazzled his eyes. He stood on a grassy hill beneath a sky brilliant with twin suns. A warm wind tugged at his tabard. Behind lay a still pool, its water sparkling, ringed by pines. Ahead stretched a valley dotted with cottages, fields, and, far beyond, a citadel of white stone clinging to cliffs.

A shout carried on the breeze. Down the slope galloped a horse, rider clad in scarlet livery. The man reined in, eyes widening.

“My lord!” he exclaimed, bowing from the saddle. “You’ve returned! The council feared you’d been lost in the mists forever.”

Nathan gaped. “I—what?”

“There’s no time for questions.” The rider swung down, holding the reins toward him. “The Great Abyss has stirred. Shadows crawl from its rim. You alone bear the sigil of the Stag, prophesied defender. Come.”

The horse’s eyes shone like polished jet. Nathan felt the tug of destiny again, stronger now, wrapping him like a cloak.

He mounted awkwardly, chainmail clinking. The rider vaulted up behind and urged the horse toward the valley.

They thundered through meadows where crystal streams danced, past shepherds driving luminous sheep, past children waving ribbons. Everywhere Nathan looked, people paused to stare, then knelt. Whispers followed: “The Champion… returned… the Stag rides again.”

Part of him still reeled—two hours ago he’d been debating whether to pack oatmeal or eggs for breakfast. But another part, deep and certain, recognized the road, the villages, the scent of blooming heather. He belonged here.

At a stone bridge they met a company of guards clad in green cloaks. Their captain saluted. “Sir Nathan, by grace of the Pines, we are honored.” He gestured to a waiting cart loaded with supplies. “The council readies the ward-circle, but the Abyss grows bolder each dusk. Will you ride to the keep at once?”

Nathan nodded, though his mouth was dry. “Yes. Take me there.”

The keep of Eldergate rose sheer from the cliffside, banners snapping in a warm updraft. Inside, torchlight painted stone corridors gold. Councilors gathered in a round chamber, maps spread across a table carved from living oak. At their head stood a tall woman in silver armor, hair bound back with leather cord.

“Champion.” She inclined her head. “I am Marshal Aelira. We prayed the legend true. If you’ve come through the Pool of Choosing, the pines have named you.”

Nathan adjusted his sword belt. “I… walked through a door, met an old woman, then found a pool. Does that count?”

Aelira’s eyes softened. “The Crone of Needles guided you. Then the Choosing is sealed.” She pointed at the maps: a ragged canyon yawning across parchment. “Here lies the Great Abyss. It spreads each night, devouring forest and field. Only the bearer of the Stag may close it.”

“How?”

“You must reach its heart and plant the Antler-Stone, forged from starlight.” She held up a crystal curved like horn, faintly glowing. “But the Abyss is guarded by shades—born of doubt and despair. They will mirror your fears.”

Nathan took the crystal. It throbbed gently in his palm, pulsing with steady courage.

That night he dreamed of his old life—cubicles, traffic, an empty apartment—but when dawn spilled gold over Eldergate, certainty settled on him like armor. He saddled a chestnut mare and rode with Aelira and her company toward the Abyss.

The journey cut through forests where light fell like coins through leaves. They crossed rushing rivers and wound up mountains scented of snowmelt. Nathan learned the sword’s balance, how to keep his shield high. Muscles remembered what his mind had never known.

On the fourth evening they reached a plateau. Before them yawned the Abyss: a wound in the world, rim fringed with jagged stone, its depths churning with dark mist. A soundless wind rose from it, tugging at cloaks.

Aelira faced him. “From here you go alone. Only the chosen may pass.”

Nathan’s stomach knotted. He looked at the Antler-Stone, at the black gulf waiting. He thought of spreadsheets, of nights scrolling aimlessly on his phone, of how small he’d felt beneath the Canadian stars. Then he thought of the valley people kneeling, of rainbow light through pines.

He straightened. “I’ll finish this.”

He descended rough steps into gloom. Shades slithered from the mist, forming shapes: his own face twisted with fear, co-workers sneering, every failure made flesh. They hissed, promising retreat, comfort, oblivion.

Nathan gripped the crystal tighter. “Not today.” He pushed through.

At the pit’s core a vortex roared, black winds clawing skyward. He planted the Antler-Stone into a socket of rock. Light blazed, antler-branches of radiance spreading. The storm screamed, then imploded, sucked into silence.

When Nathan opened his eyes, stars blazed overhead. The Abyss was gone—only meadow stretched where darkness had festered.

He returned to cheers. Eldergate’s bells pealed as villagers filled the streets. Aelira clasped his arm. “The Stag rides victorious.”

Later, in the great hall, the Crone of Needles appeared at the doorway, broom over her shoulder. She nodded. “You’ve done well, child. But remember—every champion’s road circles home.”

Before Nathan could speak, she tapped the floor with her broom. The hall blurred.

He was standing beside the tree at Lake Louise, pack still on the forest floor. Dawn painted the peaks rose-gold. No door marred the bark now, only rough trunk.

Nathan touched his chest. Instead of chainmail, there was nylon jacket. But his hands still felt the weight of a sword that wasn’t there.

He looked back toward camp. A loon called from the lake, eerily like a trumpet.

Maybe he’d dreamed everything. Yet when he reached into his pocket, his fingers closed around a small shard of crystal, faintly glowing like captured dawn.

Nathan smiled. He shouldered his pack and headed for the trail—ready, at last, for whatever world awaited.