A Story About the Mist
We have always told stories. They existed in the very beginning, and they will exist in the end. They are one of the few constants of the universe. Every culture which has existed have had them, every culture which will exist will have them. Once upon a time, someone sat in front of a fireplace, telling their family a story while their food grilled over the open fire. One day, it will happen again. After, when civilizations have fallen. When they have been wiped out, or slowly been swept away with the wind. After that, someone will sit before a fireplace once again. They will be telling stories to what family they now have, as their food cooks over the crackling flames. And here, dear reader, is a story for you.
It’s dusk. The mist has rolled in over the green fields. It’s spring, and unusually warm for the time of day. The mist is white, almost pearly so. It moves hypnotically, and you cannot help but watch it, smiling at its beauty. Through it, you can see the sky. It’s light blue and white and pink. A few rays of yellow sunshine remain, even after the sunset. People tell stories about this mist. They say it’s fairy mist. Once the night has fallen and it has appeared, the fairies will dance over the meadows. Perhaps they will let you join. If you do, you might return home again after. Or you might not.
An owl hoots in the distance. The grass rustles beneath your bare feet when you walk over it. The gentle breeze is chilly, but you aren’t cold. It whispers in your ear, prompting you to continue forward. You obey. You are curious on whether the tales told are true, and it is a beautiful night. It is unusually warm for the time of day, and you do not want to go inside just yet.
You reach the mist, and it is damp against your skin. It, too, is chilly. Then, you hear it. Singing. It is softer than a whisper, and lovelier than a warm autumn’s day. Enchanted, you continue forward. Your heart is pounding in your chest, both from excitement and from worry. From joy, too, because you feel it bubble in your veins and you want to laugh. The song makes you happy; happier than you have ever been before. Only a few meters away, the shapes appear. They’re fluent, moving with the mist, as light as the breeze. They’re all white, but they sparkle like dew at dawn.
One grabs your hand, letting you join the dance. Perhaps you should’ve felt clumsy next to these graceful, gorgeous creatures, which move more elegantly than a queen, but you do not. Instead, you feel as though you belong. You feel just as lithe and exquisite as them, despite a voice in the back of your mind that tells you it’s impossible. A mere human cannot compare. Nonetheless, while you move along with their singing, following their dance, you do not doubt for a second that you do. The thrill of the dance rushes through your veins. It makes you want to scream in delight, but you don’t. You don’t want to disturb them. Instead the scream rests in your throat, making you move faster and more restlessly as you cannot help but laugh along with their song.
And so, the mist starts to clear away. You realize the sky is clear, that dusk have long left. It is the darkest blue, and the stars are shining. The moon is a crescent, its light washing over you. Around you, the fairies are starting to drop out of their dance. Their singing decreases, and you realize you’re exhausted. Your limbs are as heavy as concrete and your head is spinning. You are gasping for air; your lungs are burning.
When the last traces of mist clear away, the song finally ends. You drop to the ground, too exhausted to stand. For a while, you only kneel there, still panting. Then, the haze in your head begin to clear. You remember the small hip-flask by your hip. When you try to uncork it, your fingers are heavy, clumsy, but you manage. When you lift the flask to your lips, you gulp down the water greedily. It is luke-warm, but it is the most delicious thing you’ve ever had.
You stay for a little while. You allow yourself to rest. Then, you get on your feet again. It’s hard to move, you’re still so tired. Everything is still aching. Your throat is still dry. But your family must be worried. The moon is high on the sky, it’s long past midnight. Slowly, you make your way home.
At home, your family will be. They are sitting in the living room, fretting. Scared. Do they call the Police? Should they go look for you? But what if you come home and they’re not there? When you come in, they will not be scared anymore. Instead their faces will be full of relief. You do not tell them what happened. You do not tell them about the fairies. Instead, you tell them you fell asleep, and you are so very sorry for worrying them.
They accept it. You drink some more water, and you all go to bed. In the morning, you will not even know whether the fairies were real, or if you told your family the truth. Perhaps you did fall asleep. Perhaps it was all a dream. You will never know.
When you are old, and you have grandchildren, you will tell them a story. A story about mist, and about how the fairies will dance over the meadows. About how they might let you dance with them. How you might return home after. Or how you might not. If you dance with the fairies, the mist will decide your fate.
