Into The Fog

The elderly oriental woman walked away from the cabin, shutting the door and fastening the outside latch, a piece of leather that threaded through the door and jamb. The cabin itself was oriental with rising roof corners and extensions on the gable ends. The window screens were rice paper and the glow of the lamp inside gave them a soft yellowish hue. As the woman stepped on each stone that led to the beach, she looked directly at Stephen, smiling and reciting something in Chinese that he did not understand. He looked back at Hoyt Axton. Hoyt was standing there frozen in time, still cranking on the fishing reel, still holding his guitar and then the fog came in and covered him. Hoyt, the wall, and everything else was gone. He heard the woman’s voice and turned quickly back around. She was nearly upon him. He stepped back and looked closely at her as she continued to recite what seemed to be poetry. He was beguiled by her smile and her poem and her voice. She was probably well into her seventieth year but still had a quiet beauty about her. Her face was small and pale. She alternately wove her hands in and out from in front of her as she walked toward him her eyes latched on to his. To his surprise he noticed she had on painter white pants and a black tee shirt with the same type of sandals that he, too, now had on his feet. As she approached within three or four feet of him, she beckoned to him with her finger and slowly turned toward the fog. There was nothing else he could do but follow. He noticed the grayness of her hair and how it hung loose to her shoulders that were straight and supple, as was her back. He could see the strength in her legs as she walked, her hips like those of a much younger woman. Her feet stepped deliberately, accentuating each step as first the heel then the ball and finally the toes made contact with the sand barely leaving any trace of a step. Her eyes were dark and clear and when she came to the edge of the fog she turned them to him again. Her face was beautiful, the lines of age accentuating the natural lines of her face. There was a stark contrast between the pale beauty of her face and the menacing grayness of the fog ahead of them. He looked directly into her eyes noticing the bright points of starshaped light in the center. She motioned for him to follow her into the fog. He hesitated and reached out to touch her. Immediately he was pushed back by a star shaped light that emanated from the palm of her right hand. She was still reciting the long poem but he heard in his mind, “You cannot touch me yet, you must wait until the fog clears.” He started to speak. Another star light sealed his lips and he obediently followed her to the edge of the gray fog wall in front of them. She turned her back to him and walked forward, disappearing for a moment and then reappearing, beckoning to him once more to follow. Darjeeling needed another Mickey’s real bad. “Where’s Hoyt Axton when you really need him,” he thought, and then reluctantly took the first step into the fog.