A story from The Witch Cord

There was something peculiar about the man who knocked on our door that morning.

I was closest to it and so I pulled it open, my father shouting “You won’t be missed” as I did.

“Who won’t be missed?” the man asked, bowing his head below the top beam of the door in order to look in at our cottage. He didn’t wait to be invited in either, and just breezed past me. As I said, peculiar. It was near dawn and so maybe that was what made him seem so, or maybe it wasn’t. Either way he was indistinct, like a far off hill – there and not there at the same time.

“I… what?” I answered.

“Who won’t be missed?” he repeated. “I heard someone saying somebody won’t be missed.”

I scratched my head, partly because I wasn’t sure but also partly because he had set me on edge with his sudden entry and his questions. Father stepped in at that point, entering the tiny living room where the fire lay dying in the open grate. He may have wondered why he hadn’t heard the front door close or maybe he heard the man’s voice. “He won’t,” said my father.

The man looked around at the brass plates on the mantle, at the two shabby chairs covered in dog hairs, and down at the rumpled rug which I’d tripped over earlier. He unwrapped a white scarf and pushed one of the chairs further away from the fire and sat down. “Why won’t he?” he asked.

“Why won’t he what?” said my father.

“Be missed,” the man said.

Now it was my father’s turn to scratch his head. He had a lot less hair than I did but he had many of the same ways about him. I was just starting to fill out, getting my shoulders and my muscles, and people roundabouts were saying once more how I took after my dad. Not mum, never mum. “Because he… because he won’t,” my father replied. I could tell he wasn’t sure but him being him had to give some kind of answer, even if it had no facts in it. “And what’s it to you?”

Now that was a good question. I forgot all about why I wouldn’t be missed – though by then I wasn’t sure I’d known in the first place. Father had taken charge and for once I was glad of it. The man didn’t seem to be phased by it though. He sat there, spilling over the sides of the chair like he could fill the room.

I don’t mean to suggest he was big in any way, just that he was everywhere – imposing, I suppose you might call it. He had pale skin too, paler than I’d ever seen on anyone and we were a pale lot around here. The forest was thick and had everything we needed so we didn’t venture beyond its dark borders much.

“It’s everything to me,” said the man. “Everything. It’s why I’m here, in a manner of speaking.” He had whisper of a voice, cold and yet comforting. When he spoke I felt like sitting by his feet like I was eight years old again, which wasn’t that long ago, truth be told, no matter how I acted.

I looked to my father. He sat down on the other chair and pulled his dressing gown tight around him. His shoulders sagged. “I don’t remember,” he said. “Do you?” He looked at me.

“No matter, no matter,” the man said before I could answer. “I’m sure you will remember. Everyone does, after a time. Tell me something else, tell me…”

But my father interrupted him. I’d been watching his face as he listened to the stranger and wondering when he’d speak up. He didn’t usually take so long, but maybe he’d had enough of talking after last night.

“Hold on. Just… who are you? What are you doing in my house? I don’t mean to be rude, friend, but it’s…” His mouth moved, like he was chewing over his Sunday lunch, and he half stood out from the chair but for a few seconds no words came out. And then he spat out “early” and looked surprised. Was it early? Had we used up the entire night?

“I’m a guest,” said the man. “You invited me in. We are sat by your fire about to share stories. And by that I mean I will tell you stories in return for you giving me something to eat.”

My father sat down again, falling into the thin cushion. “My friend,” he began. And then he stopped to rub his eyes and look at me. “My friend, I am tired. My son and I have been awake all of the night. Please. There are homes further out of the forest. You would be made more welcome there. I have nothing to offer you in the way of hot food at this time.”

The stranger waved his hand and the fire died down a little more. I did not want him there any more. There was something my father and I had been arguing about, something I was meant to do – but I could not remember what it was. “We will get to that,” he said. “I have seen many things you will find of value.”

My father scratched at his head. “Then tell me quickly, stranger. For I am tired and cannot seem to remember much of anything at the moment. Perhaps your stories will revive me.”

I saw the smile on the man’s face then. He did not lick his lips but I would not have batted an eyelid if he had. “No,” I said, stepping between them both. “We have work to do, father. Send him away. Give him apples and send him away. We must be about our business.”

My father might have listened to me then, though something told me he did not usually listen. But he was not fully himself and the stranger had unnerved us both. But the man spoke before my father had a chance, or a mind, to. “What work were you doing, child? You are dressed to go out but your father is not. What work does a child do at such an hour?”

“I was going… I was… There has been a…” Try as I might, the words would not come. I felt an urgency but it was distant, like a adulthood. “Perhaps I was building the fire,” I said at last.

“Go on with your stories,” my father told the man. “Pay him no mind.” And to me he said “Sit down by the fire. See to it later. We must listen to our friend.”

The man sat back, filling the chair and casting a shadow over the drawn curtains behind him. I saw how his white hands flowed over the wooden handles which protruded through the tattered coverings. It had been many years since the covering had been repaired and it still showed frayed knots which someone had tied in an attempt to prevent further unravelling. I fixed my gaze upon them and listened, thinking – or trying to.

“I come from a humble place,” the man began. “Our furniture was meagre and we could not afford much. Yet the forest where we lived was rich with mushrooms, nuts and squirrels so we never went hungry.”

My father’s eyes shone. “I knew we were friends,” he said. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew we were kindred spirits. Go on.” I don’t think I had ever seen my father so ready to listen, certainly not for a long time. His eyes shone and he was actually sitting on his hands at one point. There was something beautiful about seeing him this way, even though it also scared me.

A fleeting thought darted into my head but before I could grab it, the stranger spoke again. It was as though he was building a path as we walked. “I worked hard from an early age and there was never a doubt that I would step into my father’s boots as soon as I was able.” The stranger began to weave a story of his childhood as the air grew colder in our little room. Occasionally my father would clap his hands upon his knees and exclaim at how he had once felt that way, or that once he had fished by a river like that. Even I settled a little, as the story became more home-like.

“And then I fell for her, of course I did,” the stranger said when my father and I sat lost in his words. “What man my age could not fail to?” We nodded. My father from a sense of recognition, me from a desire to belong.

“If ever the forest walked, it would walk as she did. If ever it had a face, it would be hers. If ever the sun fell in love, it would be with her. Even at night she could light a room, as though the day were reluctant to leave her side.”

My chest tightened at this. He painted a picture of someone I felt I should want in my life. If I had been young enough to need it, I might have held out my hand for my father to squeeze. Instead I caught his gaze and knew he felt the same way. I heard him sob. “Friend,” he said. “You should not be here, parted from such a woman. No work is too pressing that you should leave her side. I will fetch you cold pie for the journey. You must return to her at once.” My father began to rise but the stranger held up a hand, as white and indistinct as a misted window.

“In time, dear sir. In time. I have not finished. My tale turns sad.”

“No,” I exclaimed, not meaning to.

“Sadly so,” said the stranger. “She no longer walks as once she did.” At these words, he began to unwind his scarf but he stopped, quite suddenly when my father spoke.

“I remember.”

My father sagged heavy in his chair. That chair I had grown up watching him sit in at the start and close of each day. That chair opposite the most mended of our sparse furniture. I looked again at the arms and their tiny knotted threads keeping the cloth covering in place and wished to remember who placed them there.

“We are more alike than I knew,” continued my father. “I feel your pain, my brother.”

The white man let his scarf hang loose and sat forward, his hands skimming across the knots. At their touch he pulled back. “Do you?” he said, tilting his head and pressing his fingers together. “How… unusual.”

My father looked puzzled. “Unusual?” he said. “I… I did not remember but I am beginning to.” He looked confused at the idea of recalling his past. I too had begun to feel this way. The stranger’s story seemed familiar but I was gaining an insight into what might have happened next.

“That is where my story ends,” the stranger said. “But if you know more, then tell me.”

“Tell you?” said my father. “I do not know what happened for you, but I am recalling my own story. The length of the night, the weariness of my heart – these things must have robbed me of it until now. Go on with your story, my friend. I will not interrupt again.”

But the stranger hissed at my father’s words. “Tell me your story.” And then he calmed. “I would hear of your own experience. Perhaps your memories will soothe my own desolate soul.”

It was cold by this time. The fire was black, though in the misty air even this was hard to make out. I wondered what memories my father might share. I could not pin down any from the time before the stranger had knocked upon our door.

“I too lost my love in this forest,” my father said. “I left her and my son and my dog. I wanted to go fishing so I sent them on ahead.”

The stranger was panting, his breath like wax from his lips. I found it difficult to separate this from his body.

“Memories,” he rasped. “This is… good. Go on.”

“The mist came down, as it does in this place – sudden and vicious.”

“Only the dog and I made it home,” I whispered. My father looked at me and I saw a sadness which I knew I had never seen before.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I looked and looked but she had gone. There was not even…” He stopped and pushed his head into his hands. “Not even…”

“Tell me more,” said the stranger. “Tell me everything. Every tree you leaned against, every barrow you uncovered. Describe your memories for me.” He had begun to unwind his scarf and remove his coat. He was shiftless now. His body moving in the chair like a rising tide. “Keep talking.”

That was when I heard the sound of a dog barking, a hollow sound like the last cough of a man. I looked around.

“I remember,” my father was saying, standing. “I could not find her. I kept my son close until… until his dog ran off last night.”

“You told me to let it go,” I said. We had argued. A blazing row by the fire. I hated him for wanting me to abandon my dog. I had lost a mother, I did not want to lose a friend.

“I could not lose you,” he said.

“Excellent. Excellent.” The stranger was larger now, spilling over the chair but still recoiling at the knots on the arms. I looked beyond him to the tightly drawn curtains. We never opened them. They too were bound by a knot. This forest has many dangers.

“I understand,” I said to my father.

“And I remember,” my father said, not to me but to the stranger whose face was lost in a mist. “I know you, Niwl. My wife guarded against you, best she could. You are the god of the mist, spirit of the dead.”

The stranger discarded his coat and I saw it for nothing more than a bundle of leaves which floated to the floor. He laughed and again I heard the bark. “Remember all you want,” he said. “I will take all your memories, and the boy’s too. I will consume everything.”

His body swirled around the room, obliterating the fireplace with its dead logs and gathering around our feet. My father leapt up and rushed to the window.

“My wife knew the magic of the cord,” he said. “She knew of those who feed on memories because they cannot have their own. Her magic kept our memories from dying. She bound them to this house. And I remember something else, friend.”

He tugged at the knot binding the curtains and they came loose.

“I remember when day begins.”

The dawn sun, cold and yellow like a sore, flooded through the window as the fabric gave way. It cut through the stranger, burning him. He writhed against the light but there were no shadows long enough in our little room to hide him and his great body began to melt away.

I heard the bark again and from the place where the stranger’s chest had been leapt a dog, brutish and black. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around his neck.

Not everything gets lost in the mist.

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