The Rift

By Adam Hrankowski

The other kids called them knocker rifts, I suppose because they claimed to have seen them in the caves along the northern shore of the fjord where the water meets the rock face of the cliff. In my opinion, you can convince yourself of just about anything when you are thirty metres into a hole in the rock, your only source of light is a flashlight powered by a Radio Shack D-cell, and you are up to your ankles in water. A knocker, according to Luke Vargas, is a not-entirely-human cave dweller. He says they built the rifts and use them as traps.

I don’t believe the nonsense about knockers. I’m sure that’s something Luke Vargas made up. But I think the rifts are real because I’m pretty sure I found one during the summer of 1963. It wasn’t in a cave. It was full daylight in the far back corner of the yard. My yard. At home.

I thought at first it was a single strand of spider silk, extending from the corner fence post. It had caught the sunlight and I was able to trace its path, downward into the tall grass. I plucked a stalk of grass from the ground and probed the translucent thread with it. The grass ran right through it without disturbing it. That’s when I knew I was dealing with a rift.

I showed it to Wally Ferguson the next day.

We were sitting in the kitchen eating chocolate chip cookies.

“I found a rift in the backyard,” I said.

Wally stopped chewing. His eyes widened.

“No way,” he said.

I nodded. “Wanna see it?”

“Those are just in caves,” he said.

“Wanna see it?” I said.

Wally nodded, grabbed two more cookies, and followed me out the door.

When we arrived at the corner of the yard, I thought the rift had disappeared. Wally plucked a blade of grass and waved it up and down the fence post.

“There it is,” he said.

“Where?”

“Look how the grass blade kinda shifts, right along here,” he said. “Like there’s a scratch in the middle of the air.”

I could see it now. Wally had found a spot where he could hold the grass blade such that it appeared to have been cut, then pasted together, but not quite right.

“What happens if I put my finger there?” I said.

Wally dropped the grass blade and took two steps away from the rift.

“You don’t wanna mess with one of these,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Luke Vargas says if you get your blood on it, the knockers’ll come after you.” Wally’s voice broke at “knockers.”

“Luke Vargas doesn’t know squat!” Why was he bringing up Luke Vargas?

“In the caves, there are long crevices where these rifts have eaten away at the rock, Benjamin!” Wally never called me “Benjamin.” He was really freaked out now.

“Have you ever seen one of these knocker rifts?”

“No, but Luke Vargas —”

“Luke Vargas can —”

We both looked at each other and our grave expressions exploded into laughter. He approached me again and we both squatted in the long grass by the fence post. From this vantage point I could see the strand of light extending from the post into the dense grass not far from Wally’s ankle.

“You got your own personal rift, Ben!”

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said.

“Don’t touch it,” he said.

“I won’t.”

The next day Wally showed up with a spade he had brought from home. We carried it to the corner of the yard and took turns digging around the rift, taking care not to actually touch it with any part of our bodies. It was heavy work; the land was rocky and the dirt was compacted. It took about a half hour to clear a space of eight inches or so on either side of the rift to a depth of maybe a foot.

“It’s like finding a hair in your hamburger,” said Wally.

“That’s gross,” I said.

But Wally was right. The strand extended into the hole and disappeared into the earth beneath. “How far do you think it goes?” I said.

“Maybe we’re not supposed to see this,” said Wally. “I mean, if this was a crack in the wall of your house, wouldn’t you paint over it? Or hang a picture?”

“Maybe if it was like, in the drywall, yeah,” I said. “But not if it was part of a retaining wall or the foundation or something.”

“Maybe we should report this to someone?” said Wally.

“Who are you gonna tell?” I said.

Wally’s voice broke again. “Let’s just cover it back up,” he said.

Wally’s suggestion led to a heated dispute between us. We left the hole, the rift and the spade. I returned to the house and Wally went home.

I didn’t see Wally the following day. Neither did I visit the corner of the yard. I wanted to, but I found other things to do. There was a boardwalk downtown with a bowling alley and a ferris wheel and whatnot. (Some of that stuff is still there, I’ve heard.) A few of the other boys were there and we ate ice cream and admired the girls. I stayed until nearly dark so I wouldn’t be tempted to visit that corner of the back yard when I got home.

The following morning I got up early and decided to return to the rift. What I saw puzzled, saddened and angered me in quick succession. The hole we had worked so hard to excavate was no longer there. In its place, the earth appeared to have been completely undisturbed. Even the grass had returned. I inspected the fence post. The rift was still there, glimmering in the morning sun. The spade also was there, undisturbed.

Upon further examination of the area I identified imperfections in the patchwork. The patch of grass around where our hole had been revealed seams which betrayed the repair. And the grass within the patch — was it a slightly different hue than the rest of the grass?

I found Wally at his house. He had his bike inverted on the back deck and was fumbling with the chain.

“The hole is gone,” I said.

“What hole?” He kept his eyes focused on the bicycle chain.

“In the backyard. Where the rift is.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Let’s just forget about it.”

I didn’t tell him that the hole had been mended. I nodded, squatted next to him, and held the central gear while he reinstalled the chain.

Luke Vargas continued in his role as the local authority on knocker rifts. I never said anything to anyone about our find in my back yard that summer. And I managed to avoid that corner until I grew up and moved away. As far as I know, the rift is still there, along with the spade that Wally had brought.

Wally told me later that his dad bought a new spade and a lock for his shed.

“Luke Vargas says that knockers steal tools,” he says.

I know it wasn’t knockers that took the spade.

I don’t believe in knockers.