Mistville : A Picturesque Starting Line
It has been ten years since I set foot into a town again. I had forgotten how bustling it is, how exhausting. There are shopkeepers calling out to tourists. I see a lot of people from different places on the map. It's surprising, how variegated the town has become, how heterogenous.
It was hardly a settlement when I left, the houses were smaller, the streets were narrower, there were great many trees including the great banyan at the center, now superseded by a fountain and a statue of a man I do not know. The sign reads Chester Ben II. A revolutionary, a blacksmith, and a loving father.
He provided the townspeople with proper schooling and health facilities. Gave them jobs and encouraged tourism. Made life in Mistville worth living. He is the reason for our sustenance.
There are some tourists ambling around the fountain. I left it as soon as I was done reading about this Chester Ben II. I kind of want to meet him, talk to him about what happened to my family but stones are no good at talking. Unfortunately, he passed away a year and half ago.
That makes me kind of not want to meet him. Souls change when they die. They become more aggressive, restless, without memory and a place to rest, they are left alone, wandering, scaping the land until they find someone or something suitable.
Even with all the buzz, the town is still picturesque as it sits highly and hangs off the Misty Peaks. The sun shines from behind the blankets of milky clouds. I have spent last ten years in a hamlet amongst the highest of glaciers. I was raised by an insignificant person to be an insignificant person.
Do not take that as an insult to the man, for there lies tranquility and equanimity in being insignificant. It is the acceptance of matters bigger than us, it is the calm of the sea, except storm will come only if you let it.
These ten years have left me in bad taste, I could really have a haircut. I have also grown a stubble. I should get it cleaned, buy some new clothes, my robe has been making a few heads turn. I first found a salon so I figured that's a good start. There was an old man inside, all by himself, watching the television. It showed some news about a certain archbishop making a statement about something something unfortunate. He had a dark complexion with wrinkles covering his face, with hair that had now lost all its vibrance.
He was mostly indifferent to my presence and after some pause asked me about my business.
“Can you make it… clean?” I asked, swirling my index around my hair and beard. “If, it's not a problem.”
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“Sit down.” he ordered me in a tired and rough voice. “It's not like I get many people coming here.”
He started on his work and moved slowly but quietly. I figured this is as good of an opportunity as I'll get to ask about my family.
“Ahem…” I cleared my throat and asked, “Would you, by any chance, know about the Fairchild?”
On hearing this he giggled lightly, “Would I know about the Fairchilds?” he recited in a mocking tone, “Boy, I used to be their personal barber, besides, everyone knows the Fairchilds. They were good people, it was dismal what happened to them.” He seemed to be lost in his memories, trying to remember events from his past.
“And what happened to them?” I inquired further.
“Boy, shut up, don't be going around making people remember that shit.” he fidgeted a bit and took a pause. After a while he started again,
“They were massacred, in their own home, all of them. Someone lit the whole house on fire. There wasn't much left of them inside. Their bodies were cut into many pieces. At first they thought it was an animal or something, but the whole house was filled with them, it had to be the inhabitants. At last, they just counted the number of skulls found. Their funeral was an agonizing day. There was hardly anything to bury of any of them.” After that he was quiet for the entire time and kept his head down, on his work.
When it was done and I got up he asked, “Why do you ask about them now? You an investigator or something?”
“Never mind that, I am just a traveler. Here,” I gave him two gold coins, “For your service.” He stood still with the coins in his hand, unable to say anything. It was clearly too much money, but it didn't matter much. Money is easy to get.
I left the salon feeling fresher, lighter. Now I could really feel the cool breeze on my skin. I should look for an inn too. It would be wise to stay here for a day more.
I strolled around further and found a men's apparel store with a sizable crowd inside. I reckoned that it would be in my better interest to dress like a modern man. I bought a dark brown suit from the store, three piece, with a fancy vest, two button, and asked for it to be altered for my fitting, and I should receive it by tomorrow morning. For now, I just bought a tweed dark green blazer, pink dress shirt with pin check, a gray trouser, a satin and a knit tie, and two pairs of cufflinks.
I asked the shopkeeper where I could get my shoes and then had to go back the way I came, passing the salon. It was the same as when I left. No activity. I, then, walked straight to the other side of the fountain and got a pair of brown Oxford, and a pair of black monk strap loafers.
Uphill, on that same path was an inn. It was quiet and reserved. Away from the town. I went inside, facing the door was a table, a reception. There was a man in his late thirties, noting something on a register. The room was illuminated with the little sunlight that managed to pass through the clouds.
Taking a closer look, he had dark hair, with a brown complexion, his left eye was smaller than his right, and his hands, his hands were rough, weathered, like he used to work extensively.
I asked him for a room and he just weakly nodded. After a short while, he reacted by closing the register he was writing in and pulling out another one. This was mostly blank with another name on it.
“What's your name?” he asked looking at the register.
“Lawrence Fairchild.”
He stopped writing and looked up at me in disbelief. He put down his pen and straightened his back. “One of those Fairchilds? For real?” he asked me in a shaky voice.
I couldn't help but smile at the resistance presented.
“Indeed. For real.”