CHAPTER 1: The Legend

The event occurred but rarely; the last recorded time being the summer of 1850, in central Europe. Even recorded is a dubious designation since, throughout history, the effects of the Mist had been attributed to almost anything except the Mist. It was instead "recorded" as a type of mania, or intoxication. A spell of mass hysteria, induced perhaps by isolation, or religious zeal. Or ergot poisoning – or even witchcraft.

But a few early sky-gazers... and later, a handful of 20th century inquirers... began to piece the puzzle together. It seemed indeed to be a form of intoxication: a most peculiar form —

1) It came upon females in particular (hence the suspicions of witchcraft);
2) the effects were mainly physiological – what the early chronicles described, in somewhat gaudy terms, as "enflayming the passions";
3) many accounts also noted a sort of fugue state: with the women either not remembering, or misremembering, the experience; and
4) it happened only at night.

One of those curious souls was Rowan Donner, an honours student at Edinburgh in the 1960s, with a personal interest in astronomy. He first heard of the "mania" in a history lecture on the Middle Ages. At the time the professor had scoffed at the story as a foolish legend (especially details like the Moon "turning into a rose!") But young Rowan's interest was piqued. In the Main Library at Edinburgh he read about other such cases. Cross-checking the dates with star charts, the paths of comets – and the phases of the Moon. He wondered if factors like these might be involved, instead of mere social contagion.

On consideration, stars simply seemed too distant. And comets coming near enough to Earth, e.g. Halley's in 1910, didn't track with the dates. A closer examination of early records, abetted by modern spectrometry data, finally gave him a working theory: Through the galactic expanses, there drifted certain clouds of plasma and cosmic dust, which occasionally passed through the Van Allen belts in the Earth's ionosphere (the region where Aurora Borealis spawned.) The clouds bore a highly specific admixture of elements which, when charged by the Van Allen radiation – and pierced by full moonlight – would endow the light with a soft rose-colored hue... and with certain other properties.

"Well, it's only a theory right now," Rowan went on, expanding on the narrative he had shared during the ride north. "There's no way to just walk outside and test it. But I believe it happens every five or six years, somewhere on Earth. Usually over oceans, or uninhabited regions – like solar eclipses, though not as often. And only along a very narrow, specific path... again, like an eclipse."

They had arrived at the tree-lined clearing, in the Lake District, where he told Mother the contact would be waiting. He'd begun working at the Ministry the past September – where, as a new recruit, his duties were mostly routine. But he was bright and diligent, and Mother was beginning to take notice.

It was there he met Tara King, who had come up from the training academy at about the same time. Fellow newcomers, navigating the same unfamiliar waters. The two became friends... but as the saying goes, just friends. (Her sails were set higher.) Yet he was so taken by her beauty and spirit, that when he discovered the celestial event was approaching – and would never, for another 100 years, be so near again – he knew that Tara... Tara would be the One. Thus the elaborate ploy to arrange this venture, with her, to this particular woods. At this particular time. On this particular evening in late July.

He had walked with her on other evenings, through the dimly lit streets of London, on other assignments or local matters. He felt obliged at these times to make small talk, about the day, their work, whatever – although during silences he couldn't help watching her, beside him. Watching her profile; her quiet, captivating beauty, as she paced along through the shadows. Once... or maybe twice... she had turned quickly, and met his eyes. But he had played it off with a question about something or other, and she was none the wiser.

Yet all the while, in his mind, was a secret wish to simply stop under a secluded street light – and take her hands in his. To tell her, finally, that he loved her; and say how this could be the beginning of something wonderful. For Tara to hesitate; then to admit, with a tender smile, that she had come to feel the same... and was hoping he would speak. Then they would share a kiss, on that perfect London evening... and walk on together.

But also in his mind, was that she would just as simply pull her hands back; stare at him like a stranger for a moment; then quickly walk on, by herself. With him left alone – in exile – with any chance for any future in tatters.

"But the course of true love never did run smooth," he quoted from his Edinburgh days, to his somewhat bewildered companion (who was expecting to meet an informant at this secluded site.) "Other things interfere. Like cloud cover, for instance. Or smoke... or fog!" he added, with a quick smile, from one Londoner to another.

"And there's modern-day light pollution – the glare from street lamps, houses, buildings. So in populated areas, the Mist does almost nothing nowadays. Maybe enough for a news host to joke about 'a full moon tonight' – which of course IS present. But for it to really work, you need that full moon, on a clear night, in a remote or undeveloped location... PLUS a field of mist wide enough, dense enough, and moving slowly enough, AT just the right altitude, AND with the right mix of elements."

"So the events have always been rare – and even rarer today. But with modern instruments, and if you know what to look for, I think it can be predicted..." He gestured his hand overhead. Towards the open sky.

Tara thought it was a strange sort of joke. She liked her young colleague. And she was aware, of course – it was a poorly kept "secret" – of his romantic feelings for her. But she believed... she had to believe... he was making this up for some reason. "Rowan," she finally said, as they waited by her parked Lotus. "It looks like no one is coming. Maybe we should call it, and head back."

Rowan simply raised his hand higher. And smiled again. "But it's such a beautiful night..."

With a slight laugh, Tara looked up. She looked at the Moon – as the last cirrus cloud slipped past in the high atmosphere... and it fully shone down on the clearing below. Where they stood. She looked up at it, and wondered... and kept looking... at the remarkable pink color of the light tonight (which must have prompted Rowan's odd fancy). She had never seen such moonlight before. What's more, she not only saw the remarkable light, but she, somehow, began to feel it. And could feel something else, too, in her mind... in her body... as she gazed. Something beginning to sway her; to affect her. And too late, she knew... she knew...

Coming next... CHAPTER 2: The Night