CHAPTER 17: Into the Wild

The charter flight from Bar Harbor carries us north through afternoon skies that grow progressively darker as we approach the Quebec wilderness. Below, the autumn landscape transforms from familiar coastal Maine to endless stretches of forest broken only by pristine lakes and the occasional logging road cutting straight lines through the wilderness.

Our pilot, a weathered French-Canadian named Henri, maintains professional calm despite the unusual nature of our cargo—crystalline communication devices, rare herbs, astronomical instruments, and other items that raise questions he's tactful enough not to ask.

"Weather's been strange up there," he comments as we approach our destination. "Satellites show cloud formations that don't match any normal patterns. Whatever you folks are studying, it's definitely affecting the local climate."

Through the small window, I can see what he means. The clouds ahead swirl in geometric spirals too regular to be natural, and the forest canopy below shows patches of color that don't match any autumn foliage I've ever seen—purples and silvers that seem to shift as we pass overhead.

"How far is the drop zone from the actual Convergence site?" Mrs. Holloway asks, checking her maps against the landscape below.

"According to your coordinates, about fifteen miles," Henri replies. "But I can't get any closer. The electromagnetic interference starts affecting my instruments around the twenty-mile mark."

Twenty miles of hiking through increasingly corrupted wilderness. I try not to think about what we might encounter along the way.

The landing strip turns out to be little more than a cleared meadow beside a remote research station—apparently a legitimate climate monitoring facility that provides convenient cover for more unusual activities. Dr. Sarah Winters, the station chief, meets us as Henri unloads our equipment.

"You must be the Moonhaven team," she says, her relief evident. "We've been hoping someone would respond to our transmissions."

Dr. Winters appears to be in her forties, with silver-streaked brown hair and the kind of calm competence that comes from years of working in remote locations. But I notice the subtle signs of strain—dark circles under her eyes, hands that tremble slightly when she thinks no one is watching, and an emotional aura that speaks of sustained fear and barely controlled panic.

"What's the current situation?" Mrs. Holloway asks as we gather our gear.

"Deteriorating rapidly," Dr. Winters replies, leading us toward the station buildings. "The corruption has spread twelve miles from the epicenter as of this morning's reconnaissance. The forest within that radius is... no longer recognizable."

She ushers us into the main building, where banks of monitoring equipment display readouts that make little sense to normal scientific interpretation but speak volumes to those who understand dimensional energies. The patterns are chaotic, violent—like watching a three-dimensional storm system from the inside.

"Three of our team made it out when the breach first occurred," Dr. Winters continues. "But we lost contact with the other two." Her voice wavers slightly. "Marie and Thomas were our most experienced practitioners. If anyone could survive in there..."

"We'll look for them," I promise, though privately I wonder what chance anyone has of surviving extended exposure to the kind of corruption these readouts indicate.

"Tell us about the local Convergence," Cain requests, studying the monitoring displays. "How does it differ from other sites?"

Dr. Winters pulls out a well-worn journal filled with notes and sketches. "The seventeen-year cycle is unusual—much shorter than most documented sites. We believe it's related to the specific geological formation here, a natural crystal matrix deep underground that amplifies dimensional resonance."

She flips to a detailed diagram showing cross-sections of the local rock formations. "Previous Convergences were manageable because the practitioners here developed a sophisticated containment system using the natural crystal deposits. But the accumulated pressure from multiple containments finally overwhelmed their defenses."

"Do you have a focusing tool?" Mrs. Holloway asks. "Something equivalent to our Lens?"

"The Constellation Sphere," Dr. Winters confirms, producing a small wooden box from a locked cabinet. "Though it was damaged during the initial breach."

Opening the box reveals a crystalline orb about the size of a softball, its surface covered in intricate engravings that echo star patterns. But unlike our Lens, which glows with steady internal light, this sphere appears cracked, dark veins running through its structure like lightning frozen in crystal.

"Can it be repaired?" Rowan asks, examining the sphere carefully.

"Unknown. Marie was our expert on the Sphere's construction and operation." Dr. Winters's expression grows pained. "Without her guidance..."

"We'll work with what we have," Cain says firmly. "First priority is reaching the site and assessing the situation directly."

Dr. Winters spreads topographical maps across her desk, marking known safe routes and areas where the corruption has made travel impossible. "The old logging road gets you within five miles before becoming impassable. After that, you're hiking through territory that changes unpredictably."

"Changes how?" Luna asks nervously.

"The trees grow eyes. The ground shifts beneath your feet. Shadows move independently of their sources." Dr. Winters's matter-of-fact tone makes these impossibilities somehow more disturbing. "Reality becomes... negotiable."

Mrs. Holloway studies the maps intently. "How long since anyone has been to the actual Convergence site?"

"Four days. The last reconnaissance team reported that the central chamber was still intact but surrounded by what they described as 'architectural impossibilities'—structures that couldn't exist in normal three-dimensional space."

The scope of what we're facing becomes clearer with each detail. This isn't just magical corruption but a fundamental breakdown of physical laws in the area around the Convergence site. The ritual we performed at Moonhaven seems simple by comparison.

"We should rest tonight and start fresh in the morning," Mrs. Holloway decides. "The corruption will be marginally less active during daylight hours."

Dr. Winters shows us to small but comfortable quarters in the research station's dormitory section. As the others settle in for the night, I find myself drawn outside, needing fresh air and quiet to process everything we've learned.

The night sky above the research station displays an impossible array of stars—far more than should be visible at this latitude, in patterns that don't match any earthly constellation. Even at twenty miles distance, the corrupted Convergence is affecting local reality.

Cain joins me on the small observation deck behind the main building, his presence comforting in the face of so much strangeness.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks gently.

"Third and fourth thoughts," I admit. "This is beyond anything we've trained for. The Moonhaven Convergence was contained when we reached it. This... this is like trying to perform surgery on a patient who's already bleeding out."

He nods thoughtfully, watching the impossible stars wheel overhead. "But that's exactly why we have to try. If we can purify this site, we might prevent the same cascade failure from happening elsewhere."

"And if we can't?"

"Then at least we tried," he says simply. "And we tried together."

His calm certainty helps anchor my own resolve. Whatever we face tomorrow, we face it with combined abilities honed through five years of partnership, carrying knowledge accumulated through centuries of study, supported by friends whose loyalty has been tested in literal fire.

The medallion at my throat warms gently, resonating with this recognition. Not with overwhelming power but with quiet affirmation of purpose and connection.

"Get some sleep," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "Tomorrow we hike into hell."

"And come back with heaven," he counters. "Purified, balanced, restored to its proper function."

I hope he's right.

Morning arrives with a crimson dawn that casts everything in shades of fire and blood. Even the normal forest around the research station looks ominous in this light, and I try not to take it as an omen for the day ahead.

Dr. Winters provides us with communication equipment, emergency supplies, and detailed topographical information for the approach route. She'll monitor our progress from the station and coordinate with outside authorities if we fail to return within forty-eight hours.

"Though what the outside authorities could do with this situation, I honestly don't know," she admits with dark humor.

Our hiking group consists of six: Mrs. Holloway and myself, Cain and Rowan, Luna and Marcus. Mrs. Holloway carries the communication crystals and emergency magical supplies. Rowan brings an extensive collection of protective herbs and purification components. Marcus handles practical navigation and survival gear. Luna, despite lacking magical abilities, insisted on coming to provide emotional support and, in her words, "common sense when everyone else gets distracted by cosmic forces."

The first few miles along the logging road pass without incident. The forest appears normal—typical northern wilderness in peak autumn color, the air crisp and clean, wildlife sounds indicating healthy ecological balance.

But gradually, subtle wrongness creeps in. Trees lean at angles that should topple them. Streams flow uphill. Shadows fall toward the sun instead of away from it. My enhanced perception begins picking up emotional resonances that have no identifiable source—fear and hunger and alien joy that seem to emanate from the landscape itself.

"The boundary between normal and corrupted isn't a clear line," Mrs. Holloway explains as we pause for lunch at the road's end. "It's a gradient, with reality becoming increasingly unstable as we approach the epicenter."

"How much worse does it get?" Luna asks, nervously eyeing a nearby pine tree whose needles appear to be watching us.

"Significantly," Mrs. Holloway replies honestly. "But we'll face each challenge as it comes. No point in borrowing trouble from tomorrow's problems."

The hiking trail beyond the road starts normally enough—a well-maintained path through dense forest marked with traditional blazes. But within an hour, the blazes begin changing color as we watch, cycling through hues that don't exist in normal light spectrum. The path itself sometimes splits into multiple routes that definitely weren't there moments before.

"Navigation is going to be challenging," Marcus observes with characteristic understatement, consulting his GPS unit only to find it displaying coordinates that place us simultaneously in northern Quebec and the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

"We follow the energy currents," I decide, extending my perception to trace the flows of corrupted power back toward their source. "Like following a river upstream."

This works for several miles, though the mental strain of constantly perceiving chaos and wrongness begins taking its toll. The corruption doesn't just affect physical reality—it assaults consciousness itself, trying to convince us that impossible things are normal, that directions are suggestions, that cause and effect are optional.

Cain helps by extending his shielding around our group, filtering the worst of the perceptual assault while allowing me to maintain the guidance we need. But even his enhanced abilities strain against corruption this widespread and entrenched.

As afternoon shadows lengthen into early evening, we encounter our first overtly hostile manifestation. What initially appears to be a normal deer emerges from the forest ahead—until it turns to face us, revealing too many eyes, legs that bend in impossible directions, and a mouth full of crystalline teeth that ring like wind chimes when it opens to emit sounds no earthly animal could make.

"Everyone stay calm," Mrs. Holloway commands, stepping forward with a small crystal device that begins emitting high-pitched harmonics. "It's not actually aggressive, just confused by the reality distortions."

The corrupted deer watches us with its multiple eyes for several tense moments before apparently deciding we're either not threatening or not real. It bounds away through the forest with movements that ignore gravity and spatial constraints, vanishing between trees that stand too close together to permit passage.

"That was... unsettling," Rowan comments, adjusting their pack straps with hands that tremble slightly.

"And that was relatively benign," Mrs. Holloway warns. "The manifestations become increasingly dangerous as we get closer to the source."

By evening, we've covered about eight miles, leaving us roughly seven miles from the Convergence site. The forest around our chosen campsite displays reality distortions visible even to non-magical perception—trees that grow downward from invisible canopies, streams of water that flow through the air without channels, patches of ground that reflect star-filled skies despite being solid earth.

"No open fires," Mrs. Holloway decides as we make camp. "Light might attract unwanted attention from entities that don't belong in this dimension."

We eat cold rations by the faint illumination of shielded lanterns, speaking in whispers that seem to carry farther than they should in the strangely thick air. Cain maintains a protective barrier around our small camp, but even that seems precarious against the chaos pressing in from all sides.

"I'll take first watch," Marcus volunteers. "My eyes might not see what yours do, but sometimes normal human perception notices things magical sight misses."

As the others settle into sleeping bags, I find myself too wired for rest despite physical exhaustion. The medallion at my throat pulses with irregular rhythms, responding to energy fluctuations that spike and fade without pattern or warning.

Sitting just inside Cain's protective barrier, I extend my perception carefully outward, trying to understand the nature of what we're approaching. What I sense makes my blood run cold.

The corruption ahead isn't just dimensional bleed-through or reality distortion. It's actively hungry, feeding on the confusion and fear it creates, growing stronger with every moment of chaos it generates. Worse, it's becoming aware of our approach—turning attention toward us with the focused malevolence of a predator that has scented prey.

Whatever performed the original Convergence ritual at this site, it didn't just fail to contain the dimensional breach. It invited something through. Something that doesn't belong in our reality and has no intention of returning to where it came from.

I wake Cain with a gentle touch, sharing what I've discovered through our deep connection. His expression grows grim as he processes the implications.

"We're not just walking into a failed Convergence," he whispers. "We're approaching something that's actively hostile to our existence."

"Should we turn back?" I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.

"And let it continue growing stronger until it spreads to other sites?" He shakes his head. "We came here to perform a purification. That's still what needs to happen, even if it's more dangerous than we expected."

His resolve strengthens my own, though fear remains a cold knot in my stomach. Tomorrow we enter territory where reality itself has been corrupted, to face an entity that has had years to establish itself and grow powerful on chaos and fear.

But we carry tools forged by successful experience, abilities honed through years of partnership, and knowledge accumulated across centuries of study. Most importantly, we carry the determination to restore balance even in the face of overwhelming odds.

As I finally drift toward uneasy sleep, the last thought in my conscious mind is a prayer to whatever benevolent forces might be listening: let our combined light be stronger than the darkness we're about to face. Let our connection to each other anchor us when reality itself becomes unreliable.

Let us succeed not for our own sake, but for all those who depend on the balance we're sworn to maintain.

The forest around us whispers with voices that speak no human language, but carry intentions that need no translation: hunger, malevolence, and the promise that tomorrow will test every limit we possess.

And beyond that, somewhere in the heart of the corruption, waits the source itself—patient, powerful, and very much aware that we're coming.