The Fog

Howdy, Stranger. Yes, indeed, you are very lost.

Now, don’t you start. Sure, we might speak with an accent, because English isn’t our first language. Our linguistic chain goes farther back than yourn, youngling, the least you can do is be polite to the person trying to assist you.

I am also familiar with that pernicious movie. At the first mention of banjos, I shall forget that we are a peaceful people, and spank thee like I wouldst my own wayward child. We are not a “spare the rod” type, but we will not be insulted on our own land. That you stumbled into. And now need our help removing yourself therefrom.

It is a word, in our language. The opposite of thereto. Lost in your translations; not in ours. We like the old forms. More descriptive.

We teach our own, in both languages. My mother was beaten by the school marm for speaking our language, to make us more like everyone else. There was no melting pot, not here. There was enforced conformity – in thought, in dress, in manners, in falsehoods taught as truth. We resisted, and now those who would impose their beliefs on ours find themselves most unwelcome. They cannot seem to locate us. Pity.

Eh. We are not supposed to have “internet connectivity,” but some of us do. It behooves us to keep tabs on the outside world, and its hijinks. Some few of us volunteer to do so, to keep the rest of the community innocent. No, not naive. ‘Tis well that you encountered me, instead of some of the others. They would have ignored your pleas, thinking you’d be like the last lot, rude and obnoxious to our womenfolk. They did not appreciate the crudeness of the commentary. What is the world like today, to make suchlike noises, and expect to, how do you say it, “get laid?”

Such vulgarity. The art of wooing has been abandoned. If you wish to seduce one of ourn, then put sweet words in your mouth. Study the Song of Solomon. Employ love gifts. Touches that give rise to her blood, as well as your own, to make the coupling a meeting of equals. Such a mannerly meeting makes for strong, lusty, sons and daughters.

Well, we prefer that the wanderer stay and adopt our habits. Of course. But there are those that are transient, like yourself. We do not mind the mingled bloodlines. It strengthens our own. We are muchly aware of the perils of stagnation, and take great pains to freshen it. You are aware that some women are not made for one man, as every community has one or twa. Not cut of a cloth for the sanctity of holy marriage. Our bachelors help raise the littles, as do we all, for the preservation of our future.

You are not one who will stay, so do not fear. I see the look in your eye. We do not restrain the unwilling. Why bring that discord into our midst? Rather to let you go willingly, thinking you’ve escaped a great trap. We will keep the best of you in the child you might leave behind. And if, later, the (please forgive the phrase) “Gypsy foot” gene breeds true, then we prepare them as best we can for life outside our lands.

It does not happen often.

Directions? At this time of night? Stranger, you do not know our uncanny lands. You cannot leave tonight. The directions that I can give you, easily, under the midday sun, will lead you terribly astray at this hour. It is the nature of this area, towards one who is not known to the earth itself. Besides, what of your infernal combustion machine? I can hitch it to the horses come morn, and I offer to drive you to the nearest gas station.

Hmm. Blood spilled, I reckon. Oh, do not look at me thusway. Blood spilled at the birthing, blood letted during the ritual of the marriage ceremony, blood and sweat given willingly as we till these fields, bind our woulds, shed our tears. I do not know if our brand of magic would mix with yours, so beware. Spill your sweat as you will, better yet, spill your seed, but performing a magic here might backfire horribly, so tread lightly.

Our magic? Aye, we have some. We call it hexerei, and I know little of its workings. That would be Jacob-Johannes you’d needs talk to, and he’s assisting the local midwife with a birthing the next hill over. Best not disturb him, or them.

Besides, most of his “spells” use urine as a component. Most? Well, all, really. Do not seek him out, and especially do not inquire about witch bottles. You will most certainly be trapped for days, nay, weeks, learning all the secrets of a witch’s bottle. ‘Twould be best to run blindly through a corn field at midnight than be bound in that conversation.

Corn field? Never, stranger. Those silly movies would like to murder you painfully. Corn stalks are razor sharp, and slice skin accordingly. ‘Tis a blood sacrifice you would not live through. Pick an oat field, or timothy, or wheat, for an existential crisis.

Turn here, stranger. Nay, trust me, there is a path.

Not to my own. My wife and I have entertained the occasional stranger, ‘tis true, but we have children now. My girls are almost of an age, but think they are older and more mature than they truly are. They pronounce it “matchur” while they bat their eyes. The local boys, they know to steer clear for a few more years. The local men flee at the sight of them, as they should. They are quite the handful. But we firmly believe in Consent, and Adult. And they are not adults, not by any reckoning, and therefore we keep them close to home. And away from temptation. Trust me.

Ah, here’s the door. Sarah, are you available?

Good even, Sarah, are we interrupting? No? Excellent. Sarah, this is a stranger, come to town, and quite interested in leaving tomorrow. He is most comely, but don’t allow him near you unless he’s polite. I’ll come ‘round after breakfast to collect him for the ride to the outside world, with his vehicle. Stranger, this is Sarah, if you treat her nicely, she will feed you. She has many ways to feed a person, depending on your disposition. Recall, please, that either of you can say no to any proposition deemed unacc-

And the door is shut before mine eyes. Welladay.

I should have known the fog would bring something strange to us.

It always does.