Welcome, the mist is rising, please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own. The seat by the window gives the best view, allows for the easiest of hearing.
Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the crows.
I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door.
If you enjoy these River Mist Tales do stop by and tarry again. Until then, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.
For three days, the dark fog, resembling an endless blanket of soft sheep’s wool, had shrouded the island. Satisfied, the fog was lifting, moving back out to sea.
Most visitors stayed indoors on those low-lit days. The islanders, resembling ghostly wraiths, worked their chores, on shore, staying away from the creaking piers, the pebbled beaches, the hidden water.
As the early morning grew lighter, gray haired Emily Hargrove pulled on her well-seasoned wool coat. She called to Lily, a round mutt of a dog, ever faithful, as old as Emily herself.
Grabbing her deep basket, Emily walked, stiff and slow, out her back door, along the shore path, moving down to the beach below.
Out of the house once more, both woman and dog were glad, glad for the brush of an easterly wind and the warming touch of a rising sun on skin and fur.
Lily reached the rock first, giving a loud bark. Emily smiled. She knew there would be shoes left behind. She had heard the music, the ebb and flow of voices, the soft creak of wood and the slap of rope.
With the shoes in her basket, Emily turned back towards home, towards hot tea and honeyed biscuits, and a closet filled with the shoes of unwitting travelers.