The Unforgettul Stranger in a World all Fog-Ridden

Fiction By Bernadette // 4/15/2011


The train carried me and my father on through the night up to the north on a fog-ridden track. I slept the way, and only hold memories of the fog sweeping past us like a veil that was but there to hide something:  something that wished to remain hidden. We finally arrived at a station in a deep cloud. The side where the trains came from was surrounded by pine, full of haze from the steam. But behind the station was an overly crowded city made of stone and bustling with smoke; yet the air was still bitterly cold. We went to the city, and for a day he showed me around it, telling me how great and productive it was. I believed him with blind knowledge. He left me then on the third day. I woke up that dawn and found that he wasn’t there. I went down to the station. I saw him, but it was the very moment he slipped into the train. I heard a voice beside me saying that He was to be my guide and caretaker in the city. Looking to my left, I saw who had spoken:  a man, sitting upon a bench that leaned against the wall of the station, right beside the doorway I was peering through. The cloak He wore was black and went to his knees, and sleeves it also had. His hood was flung up and fingerless gloves warmed His hands.

Strange it came to me that though with all the crowed people and steam there was no warmth. I couldn’t see his face, but a mostly shaved beard, which was turning grey, must have been there. His eyes must have also been grey or black. He was not old, nor was he young; and he was too hardy and worn to be middle age. Or was he?

I looked at Him without a returning gaze; instead he started speaking to me again. I was drawn to him and sat down beside Him. This passed for many days I remember;  He’d wake me up while the morn was still cold, misty, and dark, when all the earth was still quiet. Then the city would waken, and some warmth would gather back into the air. I remember once eating a morsel of food which was bacon wrapped in a roll and smeared with goat cheese. Yet those things were but passing.  Every day a tension was growing within Him, and I always kept seeing more of His face; but it was not of my doing. There were days He would not come for me, but it would not irk me. I would then wander out myself, sometimes to the other side of the station where the pines were dark and the air dusty. There was one day I found a gap between the station and a stone building. I found a lake there, or maybe it was the sea, and it faced the east. I had never seen it before because mist and smoke had always veiled it. There were three times also that I saw the man sitting at the bench surrounded by five others, none of whom sat beside Him. They spoke in hushed tones. I never approached them, but I stood about.  I never heard a word they spoke. I knew though that He knew I was there, but He acted not like it.

A night came when I woke with no reason known. For a moment, I thought I could have heard someone rapped softly at the door, but there was no one.  I switched out my cloths and put on my coat and such. I went out on the streets on my usual way. There was not noise, soul, or even a cricket or a distant sound of water or wind. The air and sky was clear at last. The sky was black, but when I came to the station I saw through the gap a hint of pale light reaching there as the sun was rising somewhere in the cold world like a last breath before a deep darkness.  Indeed, some sort of beginning and end I felt. I saw then that He was upon the bench with His five companions. I heard them say things such as ‘they will find us’ then they agreed on something. He said then in a hoarse whisper for them to go quickly and they all dispersed. He stood alone and I ran towards Him. He looked to the east and spoke to me distantly. My memory of what He said is fogged now, as though He spoke in a language I had once known. Yet there is a memory of them being rebels, while the authorities sought them. He became vivid and tense as He spoke. I asked what was happening. He did not give answer. A companion of His came running swiftly from out of the dark. He spoke that they were coming to kill her, to kill her now. I did not understand what he said. His eyes glossed over for a moment and He tottered. He stepped to me and grasped me. He said then clear words ‘go across the sea and get fighters! They are going to kill my child!’ I could not answer, but looked bewildered at Him. ‘Go please!’ He begged ‘they are going to kill her! Go!’ for a moment I had the flash of a vision of a small fairy child with red hair and a white dress. ‘Go!’ I took off like a bird to the east. A boat was there waiting in the water.

“With God-speed go!”

I rowed to my land, while the fog crept over me. All became like a dream, and I never went back. His image has ever haunted my mind.




Everything that happened here happened in my dream.



A bit too vague, but a good beginning

Julie | Fri, 04/15/2011

Formerly Kestrel

This is amazing!

This deeply impressed me.... I really enjoyed reading it... I loved how you set the type in the center; it gave the story a dreamy feeling. I loved the way the story was presented, the language was wonderful, and the story itself was very rich. It was deep, full.. you know what I mean.... Keep writing, Bernadette! I love you, dearest!

Elizabeth | Mon, 04/18/2011


The Holy Spirit is the quiet guest of our soul." -St. Augustine

You know, that's exactly how

You know, that's exactly how my dreams go. The comprehensive ones, at least. The way you wrote it, the imagery.... everything! Well done for capturing a dream! 

Marlene E. Schuler | Mon, 04/18/2011

Visit yon blob of literary adventureness!

very cool....

I really really liked it!! I know you're working on other stuff, but I wish you would continue writing this into a story! It's creepy and interesting, and I really wanted to know more about the city, and the characters, etc.

Hannah W. | Wed, 04/20/2011


Thanks everyone!

I was actually thinking of continuing it.....but as you said I am working on other stuff (a LOT of stuff) and so its going on the waiting list till I finish something!

Bernadette | Wed, 04/20/2011

I have a love/hate

I have a love/hate relationship for dreams like this. Love because they're just amazing, hate because (like you) I usually have too many stories to do more than jot them down and forget about them.

Anna | Tue, 04/26/2011

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. --The Book Thief


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