Amidst the Mists

He put out a hand and leaned it against a tree trunk, while he gasped. He had been running,

and he was sweaty and breathless. He had run and run, and finally ran into a fog bank, and

after that he was finally able to stop to catch his breath.

He couldn’t remember why he was running. Was he running to, or running from? He thought

it was probably from, because he had run into the White for safety and reprieve. 

But who or what was he running from, and why?

Was he a child, running from punishment? 

Was he a man running from some natural disaster?

Was he running from a person or a thing? Or maybe even just a thought, or a fear?

Why didn’t he know the answers?

And where was he? While he had been running, his feet had known where they were going,

so he was on home territory, but oddly enough, he couldn’t remember where home was, other

than

where he was. 

Maybe he was dreaming? 

Maybe it was the fog? Fog could do weird things, not just to sight, but also to sound, to  

            time, and to the very feel of the air.

His breathing slowed, but remained raspy. He leaned forward, hands on his thighs, feeling the

muscles there. He had to keep moving, but he no longer felt the need to hurry. Here, in the white,

he was not being chased anymore.He could take his time, catch his breath as best he could, and

go forward – where? – to find – something. What?

Or where, or who?

More importantly, why?

His breathing slowed, quietened. His skin still beaded with moisture, but he was pretty sure that

was the fog, not the awful hot/cold sweat that had formed while he’d been running, so fast and so

far.

He started moving forward again, walking. The slower pace was soothing, and he was able to see

if he could see any familiar landmarks. The path he was walking still felt familiar, and he knew he

was heading to somewhere specific.

To a special place, special to him and to the object of his search.

Because he did have an objective.

He wasn’t running from, now, as he had been before the fog.  

He was approaching something, something that was his. That was waiting for him. 

He stopped again, as something in the sound changed.  Echoes weren’t reliable in an ordinary

fog, and this was the thickest, densest, whitest fog he had ever seen.

He suddenly knew he was near a bluff, an abrupt drop-off. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he

trusted the feeling as he had trusted his feet to run safely and to safety. 

Wherever he was, it was home.

Wherever he was going, it was home.