The Lord in the Mist

The Opening

James' feet thudded over the tarmac. The air had the chill bite of a late autumn evening and his breath fogged before him. It blended with the mist which had spread out around the river. The street lamps glowed overhead, a dull orange. Right foot, left foot. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Music pounded in his ears from the Walkman's tinny speakers. He turned right, cutting along the side of the canal. He flicked on his torch as he passed out from under the street lamps. The light bobbed up and down with each step. He slowed his pace as a cyclist whizzed by. There was the sound of paddles from the canal. Two canoes, propelled by laughing men passed him by, heading back up towards the city.

The lights from a car shone in the distance and he picked up his pace. Dodging around the shadows of a walker and their dog he cut across a field and pushed through the gate which would lead to the turning point in his run. Mist was slowly rising over the fields.

The Moon hung between the clouds. He caught its reflection in the river as he began to run up and over a long bridge which curved over the river Exe. His torch bobbed up and down in his hand, throwing strange shadows over the empty path. The railings ran before him, twisting in the shifting light. He adjusted the headphones and the bass thrummed through him. He pushed himself to go faster, willing his legs to pump harder.

A man stood in the middle of the bridge where an instant before there had been no-one. James stumbled. His keys jingled in his hand and he let go of the torch as he stretched out a hand to catch himself. It thumped against his wrist, held by the strap. James twisted, catching himself on the bridge's railing. He came to a stop, breathing hard.

The man swayed, rocking backwards and forwards. His thin face was pale and drawn. James blinked as he looked him up and down. The man was dressed in a long robe of fine black fabric.

'Are you alright, mate?' James asked. The man blinked at him slowly, trying to focus. 'Nice costume, what are you supposed to be?'

The man swallowed and raised an eyebrow, 'Pardon?'

'Are you alright?' James asked, more slowly.

'Yes, yes of course. Where am I?' He said, glancing from side to side.

'Er, Devon?'

'No, no, I was asking you. Aren't you sure?' With an obvious effort, the man focused on James.

'Of course I'm sure,' James said defensively, 'it's just, how come you don't know?'

'I am obviously quite forgetful,' the man said. He fixed James with his gaze. 'Now, what date is it?'

'Thirty-first of October, 1996,' James found himself replying. 'But …'

'Really? How marvellous. This is better than I could have hoped for. Now, my dear fellow. I'm sorry to ask this of you, but I need you to forget all about this. That won't be a problem, will it?' The man clicked his fingers.

James looked around him wondering why he'd stopped. He checked his Walkman, but as he opened it there was a curl of smoke and he let out a cry of disgust as he looked at the molten tape.

'Where is he?' Rasped a voice at his elbow. He jumped and turned to see an elderly lady, straight backed and neatly dressed in a tweed jacket and skirt. In the light of the Moon her eyes were so pale that they seemed almost white.

A fire crackled in the grate; rain lashed against the windows; and around the bar fishermen told tall tales of stormy seas and impossible catches. The Duke of Cornwall's Arms was nestled into the old, low houses which nestled together in the small fishing village on the coast of northern Cornwall. Built in dark wood with an old red carpet and a collection of copper oddments it was a tourist's dream of an English pub.

'Ah, you used to give us far more than this,' the latest winner of the dart's tournament was explaining to a newcomer as he finished off the last of the chips the pub had provided. 'I swear, when I was young they'd have given you enough that you could have drowned a horse in the fat they'd have needed to fry 'em.'

'Sure, Will, and I'd bet you'd have been surrounded by all the booze and women in the town too at that,' his listener, the barman, teased.

'I would have at that, too,' Will said with a wink, 'your ma was especially fond of me as I remember …'

The younger man coughed, almost dropping the glass he was polishing, 'Come on now, I don't need to hear things like that.'

'More's the pity, you should be grateful of a tip or two, Ben. How's that sweetheart of yours, Holly?'

Ben's ears were tinged with pink as he put the glass down. 'Holly's well, thank you for asking. She's looking into going to Plymouth for university next year. She says she's saved up enough now for the accommodation and the like. Make things easier, you know.'

'Good for 'er. Bright girl that one. You'd do well to hang onto her.'

The door opened and a tall man with hawk like features entered the room. He was curiously dressed in a long black robe which might almost have been a priest's cassock. There was a certain atmosphere around him which drew the eye. As he slipped between the tables conversation died around him and glasses sank onto the beermats.

'I need a room for the night,' he said quietly as he reached the bar. 'You do have rooms, do you not?'

Ben nodded, 'Yes, we do, but you'd be best to go and ask at the other door. They deal with that sort of thing.'

'There was no-one there. Please, would you be so kind? I'd like to be able to see the road from it.'

'Are you sure? We've got some looking out over the harbour,' Ben asked, picking up a piece of paper to note the details. 'They're only a fiver extra, £85 a night.'

'Certain. I would be very grateful if you'd tell me if anyone comes looking for me. I'm expecting a friend will call at some point during my stay.'

'Yeah, if they turn up and you're out is there anything you want me to tell 'em?'

The man hesitated. 'Just let me know. I'd like to surprise them.'

'And could I take your name?'

'Pilgrim. Thomas Pilgrim,' the man said firmly.

'Unusual name,' Ben muttered as he scribbled it down.

'Indeed? Well one can hardly help one's parents,' Pilgrim said. 'Now if you would show me my room?'

'Yup, just let me get the key.'

'Naturally. Shall I follow you?'

Ben nodded as he slipped out from behind the bar. 'Will, could you keep an eye on the bar? No sneaky pints.'

'Come on Ben! Not even one? I'll be doing you a favour ...'

'Not till I get back. Then you can have a half on the house. Me Ma'll have my hide otherwise,' Ben said. He led the way to the reception desk as Will, grumbling, moved round to behind the bar. He leaned across and hooked the keys from under the desk with a grunt. He turned towards Pilgrim and then slapped his forehead. 'Sorry, ought to have said, there's a one night deposit on the room. Do you mind?'

'Not at all.' Pilgrim reached into a pocket of his robe and drew out a slender leather case. Flipping it open he drew out a few notes and handed them over with a thin smile.

'Ain't seen something like that before,' Ben said as Pilgrim began to close the case.

'Really? It's hardly unique,' Pilgrim said, pausing to raise an eyebrow.

'Nah, the card I mean. That one with a picture of Death. It is Death, isn't it?'

'Oh yes. Just a tarot card though. I carry it for luck,' he shut the case with a snap. Cold eyes the colour of slate regarded Ben for a moment. 'My room.' A statement, not a question.

Ben nodded and led the way up the stairs. They wound deep into the old building. A long corridor, panelled in dark wood later and he opened the door into a small, neat room. Flicking on the light he ushered his guest in. It was decorated in sky blue and white. The double bed was neatly made and the room smelt of fresh sea air and rosemary.

'Perfect. Thank you,' Pilgrim said, nodding sharply.

'Any bags you need a hand with?' Ben asked.

'No. I travel light. You probably want to get back to the bar. Do not let me detain you.'

With that Ben found himself back outside the room and looking at the wood of the door. He wandered back downstairs. A headache had seated itself behind his eyes and he just nodded at Will's questioning glance as the older man poured himself a pint.

'Seems an odd bloke,' Will observed.

Ben popped a couple of paracetamol from a packet and gulped them down with a glass of water. 'He's probably a new ager or something.'

'Don't look it t' me. Robe might be right, but short hair, clean shaven? He looks like a business man more'n a hippy. Where's that accent from? Haven't heard anything like that before.'

'Sounds posh to me. Maybe he's foreign. You know, he didn't even have a bag with him,' Ben said. The bar was emptying and he came around to sit down at the well-polished table. 'I've got a splitting headache. 'Think a storm's coming?'