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The Creeping Fog
The fog came that aftemoon, rolling over the hills in a lazy, dank heaviness, its long, curling fingers reaching out to smother and strangle the moors, to choke the hills with its murky poison.
The sheep huddled at the top of the hill, the young ones bleating with fear of this strange monster that covered them with his clammy swathes. Lad, the sheltie, watched his charges closely, darting around the huddle to make sure that none of the sheep tried to wander away.
Harry Hoseason settled down with his sheep to wait out the fog. In the distance, Harry heard the deep bass waming of Sumburgh Lighthouse. He liked the sound--it made him feel as though he were not alone in the hills. At home now, Margaret, his wife, would besetting the table for tea. Harry moistened his lips. A peerie cup of toe and a hot buttered scone would taste good out on these hills in this fog. Harry drew his scarf closer around his neck; the fog had the knack of creeping into everything. His pipe wouldn't even draw properly. Harry swore under his breath as he peered through the fog •
The woman walked through the heather, her coat buttoned and her colior up against the fog. It seemed to her that she had been walking for years. The fog had come down on her as she walked alone on the hills. She had no sense of direction now, but she did not care. She did not care if she didn't get back to the hotel that evening. It did not matter to her if she never got back.
The fog was rather pleasant, she thought, smiling to prove that it was. She shook out her hair that clung tightly to her head in the dampness. She felt the tiredness creeping into her legs, so she sat down for a moment on the damp, coarse heather •.
Great idea of John's she ruminated drily. Lovely way to spend a holiday--patching up one's marriage in the God-forsaken Shetland Islands. Why not Paris? Or Rome? Anywhere but on these barren moors. Yet, the Islands were far nicer than she had expected. The hills were enchanting in their own way. The cliffs, dropping hundreds of feet into the angry, green sea, were forbiddingly beautiful. And now, walking in this fog was a new and rather fascinating experience. When she got back to New York, she could say to her friends, "And you know, one day I spent hours walking in a fog, so thick you could feel it clinging to you."
She lifted her head and laughed suddenly. Some strange madness was creeping into her, just as the fog had crept through the valley.;. She got up from the wet heather and began to dance. She laughed, the madness creeping into her laughter. She took off her coat, swirling it about her in her dance. Then she collapsed in a laughing heap on the ground.
"Idiot!" she said aloud, "Anyone who saw you wruld swear that you were quite mad."
Her face felt hot as she touched it with her hands. The exhilaration was still strong within her but she forced herself to walk demurely .
Harry Hoseason stirred uneasily. A moment before, he could have sworn he had heard a woman's laugh. But, what woman would be out on the moors in a fog like this? Therefore, it could not have been a woman. Nothing stirred on the moors this evening but he, his dog, his sheep, and the fog. Of course, the fog could play queer tricks with a man's hearing.
Just.then, a patch of fog lifted to reveal the misty outline of a woman's figure. So there had been a woman after all; or was she a ghost? The fog came down again.
Harry laughed at his momentary thought, then called, "Hey there, Miss I "
The woman paused. It had sounded like a man's voice had called her. Was it John? For an instant she felt angry. Couldn't John leave her alone in peace? Did he have to follow her on her walks to spy on her? The voice came to her more strongly. Harry had left his sheep to follow the woman.
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