Settle in and enjoy story #3 from Tales Unleashed.....
A
Walk in Fog and Time
Is it possible to move through
time? Is it possible that certain events are destined to repeat themselves,
never coming to completion? Yes, yes indeed, it is possible. The story below is
one of those events. Possibly a tragic event that would not allow the participants
ever to have rest . . . read on, then decide for yourself.
The twilight was settling in
quickly now. As I peered out the kitchen window, the impending darkness was
bringing with it a thick fog bank, a result of the late afternoon rain and
cooler temperature. The trees on the hillside beckoned me to take a walk among
them, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out the back door, paying little
attention to the wet grass that clung to my scuffed-up oxfords. I’d been up and
down these hills behind the house so many times, it seemed that I knew every
tree, ditch, rock, and gulley that made it so friendly. As I made my way up the
hill through the oaks and maples, their leaves rustled gently as the fog
continued its downward spiral. I sat to catch my breath, feeling a bit faint
from my fast ascent. No hurry, I
thought. Sit and absorb the moment.
Sitting on a stump I knew so well,
I watched the fog gain intensity . . . rolling down the hillside and enveloping
me with a force I could actually feel through my thin summer jacket. I pulled
up the collar around my exposed neck as the fog tried to invade my naked skin,
giving me a chill that was unusual for this time of the year.
I listened intensely thinking that
I was hearing a voice from further up into the woods, but I couldn’t imagine
anyone else being out here at twilight. Zipping up my jacket to the top, I
again headed up the hill, stopping every fifty yards or so to give listen.
Still, a faint voice, muffled by
the fog, was descending to my ear . . . a man’s voice, soft-spoken, but
authoritarian to some degree. I continued on and within a few moments I had
crested the hill enough to look down into a bowl in the terrain. The man’s
voice was slow and deliberate. The words spoken, I could not make out, but it
was clear he was speaking to someone or a group. I moved between the large
oaks, trying to hide behind trunks as I moved closer to make my discovery. And
there before me, maybe a hundred yards ahead in the fog, were four figures
cloaked in long grey capes with very large sleeves, almost choir robes. They
all wore hats. The three shorter figures I presumed to be women, had bonnets
tied at the chin, and the taller figure wore a wide brimmed, pitch black hat.
He had in his left hand a seven-foot staff which towered above all four of the
figures. Who were these people?
I moved closer . . . trying to look
through the now very thick fog which was cloaking my view. Within another
thirty yards or so my position had changed and my neck strained as I peered
around the tree which hid me. On the ground in the middle of the group was a
wood box, looking to be three feet long—perhaps a storage box for valuables, or
a child’s casket.
All of a sudden the taller figure
looked my way, sensing that he was being watched. I froze, hoping his eyes
would not pierce the thick fog veil which surrounded me. He looked down at the
book he had in hand and continued his speech to the group.
I’d had enough. My flight sense
told me it was time to move away.
Slowly I backed away from the
solemn scene, retreating back down the hill, my mind quickly trying to
understand what I had just witnessed. The forecast was for clearing weather
overnight, and tomorrow I would return to the bowl to see what I could find. In
the meantime, I went to my encyclopedia and started to scan through examples of
period clothing worn through the ages. When I got to the page of Quaker
clothing my jaw dropped. Yes, this was the type of clothes these figures had
on, right down to the length, cut and color. Now I had to know more.
The next day, the weather had
cleared and I made my way to my local historian’s office. She was a gal just
shy of being a hundred and she would know about my house, my town, and my hill.
Sure enough, upon inquiry, she told me that Quakers indeed were some of the
first settlers here. She asked me why I wanted to know, but I was not ready to
relate to her my story of what I had seen.
Later that morning I retraced my
steps to the bowl. The birds were singing. One lone turkey scratched for food
as I entered the oaks that led to the bowl. I located the spot at which I
thought I had seen the figures hovering over the small wooden box. The
immediate ten feet of ground there was completely bare. There were no leaves,
no twigs, no grass . . . just rich black earth. I had seen many times before
spots in the woods that would be scratched by turkeys as they sought their
daily feed, but this spot was beyond that. Not wanting to leave the ground
looking so bare, I gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and covered the spot,
trying to blend it in with all that was around it. The spot felt very lonely
and strange, even with the mid morning sun now finding its way onto the site. I
left the bowl and found that tree stump I had sat on the night before in the
fog.
What had I seen last night? In the
fog, a group of four in the forest standing around a small wood box. I had to
think I had somehow been lost in time, or perhaps they had been lost in time.
My conclusion was that I had witnessed a Quaker burial, but how could that be?
It made no sense at all to me.
Now I’ll have to give serious
consideration about going back to that same spot again. I won’t give up on the
hill, it’s a fantastic place . . . but I know I will not return there in the
twilight, and definitely not in the fog.
