Ripples propagated from the prow of a rowboat as it made its way slowly across the river’s crystal clear waters. Torance Filn took a break from the oars to survey the river bank up ahead. It was a barren wasteland pockmarked by rotting tree stumps, framed by the jagged peaks of Sawtooth Mountains in the distance. A verdant forest had once stood there. However, the destruction of nature was the furthest thing from the middle aged man’s mind as he searched for the tree he had spotted that had somehow been missed by the townspeople’s previous forays.

At length, he spotted green tips appearing from behind a rise and felt a shaft of ice in his bowels. There was a tree there, but it was a good eight hundred yards from the bank. However, he knew he had no choice. Autumn had just arrived, and the harvest had just been brought in a month ago, but a thin crust of frost already blanketed the ground every night. He needed fuel or his young daughter would not survive the winter.

He closed his eyes and saw Tara’s big brown eyes staring at him from above her plump rosy cheeks and steeled his resolve. He shook off his unease and continued rowing. The sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. There would not be a better time for this. His wife had died in the spring after succumbing to a malady she had caught during winter and now, all he and his daughter had were each other. 

The river’s waters were calm, and a gentle bump announced that he had reached the opposite bank. He looked over his shoulder at the sprawling town of Venton. His house was not visible from the river, but he knew his daughter was waiting for him to return with firewood to make at least some of the frigid nights tolerable. He would not disappoint her.

He turned his attention ahead where his rowboat had beached itself on the loose soil. The soil here and around the town had once been rich, black, and clumpy but had quickly turned a sickly yellow that crumbled like sand after the trees had been cut down. Little grew in their place. Fields had to be moved constantly, and even when planted in freshly cleared land, harvests were meagre. This year, the town would be forced, once again, to rely on merchants to bring grain in at great expense from the more fertile lands to the south.

Torance stood uneasily in the rowboat and ensured that the raised prow was pointing in the direction of the tree he’d spotted from the Venton docks. His stomach leapt into his throat as he sank to his ankles in the waterlogged soil. Before he had even settled in the muck, the air turned still. He looked around and held his breath. The atmosphere had turned oppressive. The lands were hostile to him, and why wouldn’t they be? He and his kind had turned a lush forest into a barren landscape that looked like it could be from another world.

The river marked their border with elven lands, and humans were forbidden to set foot on this bank. However, he, like the others who had come before him had no choice trespass in search of firewood. Every last penny had been spent on stocking enough food to last them through the winter and he hadn’t the money for fuel. Besides, Sir Duglin had little interest in prosecuting trespassers on elven lands and turned a blind eye. It kept his people from scavenging firewood from town buildings.

Despite it being a clear, sunny day, a mist began to form, seemingly out of thin air. The hackles on Torance’s neck stood on end and he struggled to haul the rowboat further onto the shore, being careful to leave the rear touching the river’s water. As the mist rapidly grew thicker, he tied a rope around his waist and secured the other end to the boat’s prow. He had checked the rope carefully before setting out. It was new and had few flaws, but he wasn’t sure if it was long enough for him to reach the tree.

By the time he had tied the rope off, the mist was so thick that he couldn’t see the rowboat even though he could feel it against his leg. He groped around inside the rowboat and found his axe, which he hoisted onto his shoulder. It was an old tool, bought, its handle made from the pure white venwood that came from the trees that had once blanketed these lands. Torance had once been a lumberjack, and he felt reassured carrying his axe. Venwood fetched a high price, and they had all profited from the logging trade. However, cutting the trees had turned the land fallow. Now, deprived of its main source of income, the town had fallen on hard times. Those with the means had long since left. Those who remained had to eke a living out of what little remained.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Torance and his wife’s families had both lived in Venton for generations and were reluctant to leave. The last winter was the last straw, and they had decided to move once the roads thawed. However, his wife had fallen ill and couldn’t be moved. When she died, he had to stay on to finish the funeral rites. Soon, the roads would be closed by snow and ice. Once they reopened, he would take his daughter south. He had relatives in Dinburn who had agreed to take them in until he found work. But first, they had to survive the winter.

He shook his head. This wasn’t the time to daydream. He used his hands to check the direction the prow of his rowboat was pointing in before setting off. The mist was now so thick that he could no longer see his hand in front of his face. Each step he took was measured and when he encountered a stump, he would walk over it to ensure that he was heading in the same direction.

Every so often, he would tug at the rope to ensure it was still attached. However, he was well aware that this was an inexact way to navigate. Little was known about the mists except that they were magic in nature. Likely the result of an enchantment cast by the elves to protect against encroachment upon their borders. They would befuddle those who entered, having those they ensnared unwittingly walk in circles. Numerous methods had been used by trespassers desperate for fuel. However, the mists seemed to erode ropes, and any markings or posts left in the ground seemed to vanish almost as soon as they were laid down.

Many had lost their way in the mists, but all eventually found their way out. A group had found themselves on the shore after wandering blindly for three days. They were starving and dehydrated but otherwise unharmed. A few others hadn’t been so lucky. Just last month, two mangled bodies had been found floating in the river, the first to have died in the mists. Their injuries were consistent with being crushed by a tree. A natural outcome of logging while blind. When the third member of their ill-fated expedition turned up the next day, he confirmed what had happened. Logging was a dangerous job at the best of times, but with no visibility at all, perhaps it had been inevitable that lives were lost. Perhaps it had been a miracle that it had taken that long for a tragedy to occur.

“Stop it!” Torance shouted into the mist. His mind was beginning to spiral into a pit of self-doubt and despair, and he knew that he needed all his wits about him if he was to navigate the mists.

Torance stopped in his tracks, and it took a moment for him to realize why. He had heard what sounded like children’s laughter coming out of the mists. Sweat streamed down his face despite the frigid temperature as he pricked his ears. Nothing.

“There,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Now you’re hearing things. That will teach you to get distracted.”

Then it came again. A child’s laugh from somewhere behind him. He whipped his head around, careful not to move his feet for fear of losing his bearings. However, all he could see was the thick mist. Then, more laughter, this time from in front of him.

“Lord Elves, all I want is a little firewood!” he cried into the mist. “I have a young daughter, and she won’t last the winter without any. Mercy, please, I beg of you!”

There was more giggling but this time it came from all around him. The mists played tricks with the sounds, making it difficult to tell just how far away the source was.

“Fine, I shan’t harm your precious trees, just know yourselfishness is killing us” Torance cried before hurling his axe into the mists. “There! Cease your damnable spell and let me go!”

However, the mist remained as thick as ever. The giggles, however, ceased, and Torance calmed down a little. He tugged at the rope at his waist to find his way back but to his horror, he found that it had been severed.

“What else do you want from me!” he shouted into the mists.

The laughter turned sinister, sending a chill down his spine. Instinctively, Torance knew his life was in danger and broke into a run back to where he thought the riverbank was. His pace was slowed by the loose footing.

He cursed as a tree stump sent him sprawling. Sheer terror overwhelmed his pain, and he scrambled to his feet quickly. He got another three paces when something slammed into his back, knocking him back down.

As he lay face down in the loose soil, he found it difficult to breathe. He heard voices over him and tried to lift his head but couldn’t find the strength. He could feel the shirt on his back grow damp as blood seeped out from it.

“Tara,” he gurgled before another arrow slammed into his back.