Part 1: We Are Strangers
Chapter 3
(Note that if you’re new to The Mist Folk, please begin with the Prologue. From there, you can click through, one chapter to the next. And if you’ve started reading but haven’t caught up, you can find where you left off by going here.)
PART 1: WE ARE STRANGERS
CHAPTER 3
Daniel’s throat tightened up. The nervousness came up in his stomach. The car kept going, not slowing down. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just don’t worry, it’s going to be OK,” the driver said.
The car turned onto a dirt road. No houses or people were anywhere nearby. For almost a minute, the car made its way down, between two hills, winding left, then right, then left again. The driver pressed the brakes and didn’t let up as they went down, and down.
At the bottom, they came to a cottage made of stone. Around the cottage were old trees, old trunks, thick, with branches high above.
They came to a stop. His heart was still beating fast, his throat was still tight. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
The driver shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe it. “You thought that I came here just to drive you wherever you want, like a servant?”
He didn’t pull out a gun, he didn’t get out of the car. He left all the doors unlocked. He stayed in the driver’s seat and waited for Daniel to say something.
Several seconds passed.
“Ellen?” Daniel asked.
“She had nothing to do with this,” the driver responded. “You should know that. She just called a car service to pick you up at the train station and drop you off at your cousin’s house.”
“Your car service?”
“The car service isn’t ours, but we found out you were coming. Believe me, we really aren’t here to harm you.”
Daniel said nothing.
The driver went on. “If I were even remotely interested in doing something, wouldn’t I have done it already? We were able to pick you up at a train station, drop you off at your grandparents’ house, and pick you up again—all without raising the slightest suspicion. Do you really think we couldn’t have gotten to you a long time ago if we’d wanted to?”
Daniel still stayed quiet.
“There is someone here who wants to see you,” the driver said. “She knows of you. She would like to talk to you. That’s all.”
In the rear-view mirror, he saw Daniel looking around. “Again: If you had anything to worry about, it would have happened already.”
Daniel got out of the car, and so did the driver.
They walked together down a path. As they came closer, Daniel saw the stones in the walls of the cottage, how they were placed, fitted together tightly without any mortar. The windows were wooden and small.
The driver walked ahead, and opened the door. It was short enough that he had to duck as he stepped in. Daniel came closer, and saw the dried herbs and flowers hanging by the door. He stepped inside.
It was dark, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see that the cottage was just one room, with one fireplace. And all around were the people.
There were seven of them, four women and three men, dressed in regular clothes. They were standing together.
“Welcome,” one of the women said.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Welcome to our place,” she said. “I gather that you’re on your way to find out something new? Something about your family?”
He stayed quiet.
“You have a cousin who’s prepared to tell you something about the Strathburns?”
Silence again.
She walked toward him. “We’re not here to harm you,” she said. “I promise.”
He looked around at the others, looked at his feet.
“You’re wondering who we are,” she continued. “Well, you might wish to know that we’re not quite like you. It would be good of you to see that we’re not quite like you. We don’t accept your accounts of what happened.”
She turned and walked back to be with the others. “It would be good if you could know that we’ve stepped aside from so many. We stand apart from your lineages.”
The others responded, “We are strangers.”
“We’ve always stood apart from your lineages.”
Again, the others said it. We are strangers.
“We stand apart,” she continued, “from your lineage of the bent knee, your lineage of burning and settling.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage of the well-planned stab, of swords and plows meeting their target, of well-planned laws meeting their target.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage of cottages beside fields, of the thatched roofs of villages burning away into the air, the chivalrous knights on horseback watching the roofs burn away into the air. Your lineage of chivalrous knights receiving forgiveness, the priests giving forgiveness. The children crying as the roofs of their homes burn into the air.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage of the approved road, of approved and well-engineered thoroughfares, the approved clearing of villages. The crushing of ancient towns, the paving over of the graveyards, the flooding over of the gravestones.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage made of beloved women, the well-remembered women. But a lineage made of condemnation, too, of excruciation. A lineage built upon those other women, the old ones and young ones who were left hanging in the air, dangling as watchful bait. The women who were called witches, who looked down into their grandchildren’s eyes and screamed as the flames came up around them, the old and sick women who were taken into the woods and left behind in winter.”
We are strangers.
“We are remembering today the one called Mariona, of the village of Cervera in Catalonia, who went out into the country on her own in the mornings, and sang the old songs in her own way beside the fire in the evenings, and kept watch over her sparrows and her grasshoppers. She was called a sorceress on this date in 1274, and they burned her.”
We are strangers.
“We are remembering today the one called Catherine, who stayed alone in her cottage on the moor above Westerdale. She knew remedies for headache and rheumatism and melancholia, and she laughed to herself in the sun, when the drops of rain glistened on the ferns. She was called a sorceress on this date in 1549, and they hanged her.”
We are strangers.
“And we are remembering today, again, your lineage. Your lineage of Strathburns and Beekmans, your lineage of Roosevelts and Van Rensselaers, your lineage of Millers and Fishers and Masons, of Farmers and Weavers and Hunters. Your lineage of farmers farming for bayoneting regiments, weavers weaving the officer’s insignia and the merchant’s cloak and the embroidery of the priest, the hunters following the herd over the cliff, the hunters corralling all the animals into cages.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage of the constant going, the never pausing, the sparkling locomotive, the locomotive signaling betterment, the locomotive always bringing growth, the locomotive powered by coal miners’ broken spines, the bison shot down from the passing windows, the unpronounced names buried beside the tracks.”
We are strangers.
“Your lineage of the disarming grin, the laughter of hinted malice, the hollowness in the breath when walking away from a goodbye. Your lineage of citadels, your citadels of pointlessness, your cities decaying with well-planned flowers, your masses forgetting how to breathe free.”
The others paused, and the woman joined them in saying it.
We are strangers, forever.
She remained unmoving in the center of the room, looking down, silent. The others stayed quiet, too.
The driver put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and led him out.
The door of the cottage closed behind them, and they walked back up the path toward the car. When they got there, the driver gave him the keys.
Because he should just go ahead to James’s house on his own. Just drop off the car at the car service company tomorrow, treat it as a free rental. Just find whatever it was that he needed to find.
Just, go from us.