· 8 min read
Testing the boundaries
“Mistfall” is the codename for a fantasy world (and series) I’ve been dreaming of for a while now, where humanity tried to put a collar on magic and it backfired horribly. This short piece introduces one of the main problems the characters who live in this world have to deal with — the Mistfalls themselves.
This is the same world as Being the Messenger though with a different cast and possibly set in a slightly different time.
The wagon rattles as it moves along the road, jolting with each rock it hits. Tucked between piles of crates and sacks, her view blocked by their goods and the canvas cover, Shela waits impatiently, her leg bouncing from more than just the rough ride.
Suddenly, the air gets cooler, the summer heat undercut by the damp cold of a misty autumn morning. The sounds of nearby livestock disappear as the horses start to snort. Then a shout goes up from the front and the horses whinny as they’re guided to a stop, and Shela scrambles out from under the canvas before anyone can think to stop her, racing along the line of wagons, her eyes wide. Her feet skid in the loose dirt on the side of the road, wildflowers crunching under her boots; she pays them no mind, too focused on the wall of the mist blocking the road up ahead, as tall as the birds fly and almost as wide as the eye can see.
It is her first time seeing a Mistfall. It is everything she had imagined and more.
She barrels past the front wagon. There’s a shout then she is lifted off her feet, an arm wrapped securely around her waist.
“Shela!”
“Hi, Papa.”
Others laugh as she grins up at her father, his beard tickling her cheek. Her legs swing against his, swirling the mist that clings to them both; he groans and lowers her slowly to the ground, his arm sliding to rest gently around her shoulders like a great warm scarf.
“Why are you here?” he asks. “You promised you would stay safe.”
“I am. You’re here.”
More laughter from the onlookers; drivers and workhands who’ve left their own wagons to gawk. Shela knows most of them; she has seen them at least every winter for as long as she can remember, when the caravan would come home to rest and enjoy the fruits of their work.
“She’ll be a menace one day,” one of the drivers says.
Shela shows him her teeth.
“She already is.”
“Papa,” Shela prods, leaning her weight against his arm as if to bolt. She won’t, but it gets his attention. “How big is this one?”
“As wide as a field, and several times as long,” Papa says. “See where it disappears?” He points to their left, where the mist stretches across a rolling grassland, gradually fading away as it creeps up a small hill. The other side continues as far as Shela can see. “It’s like when you tore your shawl; narrow at each end and wider in the middle. It’s why we cross here, where it’s relatively thin, rather than in the middle.”
“What’s in the middle?”
“No one knows. But the middle is dangerous — that’s where monsters appear and people disappear.”
“Like in the stories!”
Papa’s arm tightens. “Yes, darling. Just like in the stories. That’s why you need to stay clear, alright?”
The stories are scary; Shela had night terrors after the most recent one, about a monster that moved so fast no one could see it properly until a knight slew it dead. “Alright.”
“Alright. Then, next…”
Papa sweeps her up again. Shela giggles as she’s spun through the air with several unnecessary twists and deposited on the driver’s bench of the first wagon, squished in next to the driver.
“Stay,” Papa says, then whirls away.
Shortly, a long pole is fetched from the side of the wagon, as well as a tiny bird cage covered in an old, dark cloth. Muffled squeaks come from the cage as it is lifted and attached to the pole.
Old Kel takes the pole, his muscles straining as he keeps it lifted from one end. It is three times as long as he is tall and bends slightly in the middle. Someone takes the cloth off the cage, and the tiny yellow bird inside begins to scream.
Shela claps her hands over her ears.
Papa appears by her side, once again wrapping an arm around her shoulders as Old Kel begins to move forward, towards the mist, the pole and bird held out in front of him.
“Papa?”
“It’s okay,” Papa says. “The bird should be fine.”
Old Kel walks slowly, the cage inching towards the fog. A couple of the men follow him, swords drawn. The rest hang back by the wagons, hands on hilts as they wait silently.
The cage passes into the mist. The bird’s screaming cuts off.
“Why?” Shela asks.
“Because the Mists aren’t always safe,” Papa says. “We need a way to test them. That’s why we put the bird in first, to check it comes back okay.”
“What happens if it’s not safe?”
“Sometimes the bird disappears. Sometimes the pole snaps. And sometimes, well. Sometimes something comes out of the mist.”
A dozen stories flash through her mind, of strange monsters with claws and fangs and strange abilities. When told around a campfire, or while tucked into bed, they had seemed scary but intriguing. She had imagined not only the monsters but also the knights who fought them, with their shiny armour and fancy swords, battling and ultimately killing the monsters. But there is no knight here now, just her Papa and his friends.
“We need a knight. Papa, we need to go back and get a knight—“
Papa’s arm tightens. “The knights are busy, darling. But that’s why we have swords, alright? So we can fight off anything that comes through. We probably won’t need them though. It’s very rare that anything comes through a fall this narrow.”
Shela watches Old Kel advance. Those near him hang back as he approaches the mist, the pole slowly disappearing. The mists swirl away from where it touches, a tiny ripple in an otherwise placid face. It looks a little like the mist doesn’t like the intrusion.
His steps slow as he gets closer. Half the pole disappears. Then three-quarters. Then there is only a foot left past his hands, and he stops, waiting.
“Papa?”
“Shh, just wait.”
Seconds tick by in silence. Old Kel creeps sideways, stepping no closer to the mist but slowly walking the width of the road. Then he starts to walk backwards, slowly drawing the pole out of the mist, and the men with swords close rank around him.
More of the pole appears. Old Kel’s arms are shaking.
More.
More.
Shela finds herself gripping her father’s arm, her fingertips digging into the muscle of his forearm.
More.
Then there is a hint of fine metal wire amongst the mist and the bird’s shrieks split the air again.
Shela startles, but does not cover her ears this time. She does not mind the screaming as much anymore, as she watches everyone retreat from the mist, someone taking the cage and inspecting the bird.
“That’s good, right?” she asks Papa.
“Very good,” Papa says, as the man inspecting the bird calls out, “Clear!”
Relief sweeps across the crowd. People clap Old Kel on the shoulder, laughing and joking. More people come up from the further wagons to join in with the joy. Papa shares a few words with the wagon driver and with others who come over.
Shela watches it all and wonders why the stories never talk about this.
Someone whistles and the crowd disperses, still merry but now with renewed purpose.
“Alright, time to go back to your wagon,” Papa says.
“But I want to see!”
Papa lifts her off the wagon bench, lowering her gently to the ground. “You can’t see anything inside the mist. It’s like having your eyes closed, but scarier because you know they’re open. You can barely hear things too. It’s better to sit in a wagon.”
Ahead of the wagon, several men space themselves across the road, close enough to each other that their elbows might touch, sticks as tall as them in hand. One, standing in the middle of the pack, is noticeably younger than the rest. The men either side of him start to talk, sweeping the ground ahead of them with their sticks as if to demonstrate something.
“Alright.” Shela watches the men for another moment, wondering what they’re doing, then throws herself into hugging her papa’s knee. “Love you, Papa!”
Papa’s big hand ruffles her hair; she squawks and ducks back, her hands rising to check the damage.
“Love you too, darling,” Papa says. “Now go on, get. Make sure you tuck yourself in well.”
Shela ducks in for one more quick hug then races off, weaving between adults until she finds her wagon, four from the front. The driver grins at her and pulls her up, and she scrambles over crates and bags and sacks until she’s settled in the middle of the wagon once again, the outside world blocked out by goods and the canvas roof. Her leg bounces as she waits for the wagon to move, wondering what it will be like to go through the mist. She’ll listen to Papa and stay in the wagon; it sounds scary enough that she doesn’t mind that. She might take a peak though, just a quick one, when it gets dark. She wants to see the mist for herself; it’s why she spent so long convincing Papa to take her on this run. Surely one little peak won’t hurt.