Prologue

The city was deep in its slumber by the time the Mistling got on the move. The streets were empty and the lights were out on McBride avenue as he made his way down the road. In the old days these roads would be lit up with streetlights and car lights. The city would have been a mass of churning noise and colour, but It was quiet now. The cars gone from the paths. Their lights gone out like breaths. It was Like it had returned to a natural state, an environment where something alive would dwell, if such a though existed. The houses were still occupied of course, the Mistling knew that well. He had the privilege of being turned away from each and every one of them. They took one look at his wispy features and boyish good looks and they at once expelled him to the night. Not that it mattered, not that they were wrong to do that. But well…

He smiled to himself and began to sing the words of a tune he knew long ago. Back when he had spent his time in fields and trees, playing his pranks on lovers and old farmers alike. The words were disconnected and wild and strung together with barely any intent, but he sung them with the fervor of a drunk man.

The whispering beggar has not got a gruel

His bowl is quite empty he looks quite the fool

And folk pass him by without ever a word

‘I beg you my darlings for soon I’ll be dead

If only you give it, my soul for some bread’

But they do not hear him their hearts are too cruel

They drop in a coin, but never any gruel

The song echoed though the streets. Reverberating in the suffocating silence and adding to its layers. The Mistling had a sweet voice, melodic and charming but around him curtains tightened and doors clicked their locks. He could almost hear the fear, he could almost taste it in the air. The city was his. Galway belonged to the mist; Galway belonged to the quiet ones.

Suddenly he turned at an open gate a twisted smile stretching across his face. The house was like the others for all purposes, bland and simple with white-brown paint and a pleasant well-kept garden. A set of fresh painted red gates opened up to a patio of red laid bricks. The Mistling stepped forwards onto the patio and the street seemed to hold its breath.

“Lucccasss” he said playfully. His voice greeted only by silence. A long moment passed, and nothing happened. The Mistling shifted on his toes, suddenly annoyed. “Lucas,” he called again, this time angrily. “You know what will happen if I am made to wait.”

There was another long pause and finally the door made a heavy, solid click. The Mistling smiled and reached into his coat. With a flourish he pulled out a long and elegantly simplistic knife, it glimmered in the moonlight and the Mistling stepped towards the door. He pushed it open with one hand and stepped inside. The knife held at his side.

He was standing in a corridor. A set of stairs to his left and a number of happy relatives staring out from the frames on the wall. The man who had opened the door was hobbling down the corridor away from the Mistling, his back showing as he walked towards a faint glow at the end of the corridor. He turned when he reached the door and looked back. His face old and worn with wrinkled flesh that looked like the cover of an old leather bound book. His glasses shadowed deep brown eyes.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He said, his voice betraying no emotion.

“What do you have?” the Mistling asked cheekily.

“Not much, but tea is tea these days can’t be fussy.”

“Give me whatever you usually give to travelers at your door. And I will let you know if I’m impressed.” The Mistling said, his grin now stretching from ear to ear.

The old man nodded. It was an accepting nod. The kind of nod you make when you look down at your crashed car and realize that its broken beyond repair. He turned and hobbled into the kitchen, the Mistling close behind. The kitchen was a simple affair, a bare bones wooden table with only two chairs sat opposite battered hob. A single candle sat on the table illuminating the room with a faint yellow light. The candle had been freshly lit, barely any wax had fallen onto the table. Lucas lit the hob and placed the kettle over it. Gas was valuable indeed and his willingness to part from it was admirable. The Mistling sat on the table and with a fluid movement stabbed the knife into the wood with a thud. Lucas looked at it with squinted eyes.

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“You going to kill me with that?” he asked tiredly.

The Mistling only shrugged. They said nothing else as the kettle grew closer to boil. It whistled and Lucas turned to pour the tea.

“The boy?” he said, almost absentmindedly over his shoulder as he poured.

“Dead, but not by me. Wife caught him in bed with another woman you know how it goes.” He put on sudden high-pitched voice “you bastard everything we built together! I’m going to make you pay”

“don’t…” Lucas interrupted suddenly “I don’t, want to know.” He said finally.

The Mistling smiled wider “why not?”

Lucas sighed deeply “I just don’t”

“She blew his head off with a shotgun,” the Mistling said with a grin. “obviously folks in the town weren’t happy with that. They dragged her out into the street and hung her from an old telephone post for all to see.”

There was a clatter as Lucas slammed the kettle back on the hob. He turned, his old hands shaking to glare at the Mistling. The Mistling grinned once more, his teeth as white as bone.

“Can I have my tea please?” he said, “I am terribly parched.”

Lucas grabbed the mugs and wordlessly and placed them on the table. With deliberate slowness he pushed one cup towards the Mistling. The creature reached out and took it and Lucas saw that the Mistling had silver nail polish on. He raised the cup to his lips leaving the knife where it stood, dug into the table like a battle flag. The knife was in reach as the Mistling sipped his tea his eyes playfully fixed on Lucas, daring him to reach for it. The old man glared back at him but did nothing.

“Your kind are so fascinating.” The Mistling said finally. Placing the cup down and turning his head like a puppy begging for food. “But I am beginning to grow bored. So now I will ask you what I wanted to ask your friend.” Lucas said nothing and the Mistling eased up onto his feet. He reached out and delicately plucked the knife from the table, spinning it though his fingers like a poker chip.

Lucas pushed back from the chair and the Mistling could see that he had his hand under his shirt, something bulky was hidden there. “I don’t know anything more than you already know” he said a threatening edge to his voice. “Leave now!”

The Mistling smiled, his eyes darting from the man to the gun and back again.

“Aww come onnn don’t put yourself down,” the Mistling said taking a step forwards, the knife glittering in the candlight. Lucas pushed back in his chair and ripped his shirt up, pulling free a heavy sawn off shotgun. His movements where slow and clumsy. Worn out with age. The Mistling stepped to the side as the gun exploded with a bang. The weapon lurched in Lucas’ hands as shards of wood and pottery exploded in all directions. The Mistling however was untouched. He moved like liquid. Languidly crossing the distance between them in a effortless stride. Lucas tried to bring up the gun but discovered he could not. for The sliver knife had slid forwards like a striking viper and severed his index finger. Lucas screamed. There was another flash of movement and two more fingers fell from Lucas’ hand in a spray of blood. The gun toppled out of his grip and fell to the hard wood floor with a loud ‘thunk.’

Then the Misting was behind Lucas, the bloody knife casually held in his line of vision. His voice like sweet poison in his ear.

 “I’m sure you know lots of things I don’t know. I bet if the two of us really put our heads together all kinds of secrets would spill out.” Sweat appeared on Lucas’ forehead as he clutched his bleeding hand in fear. The Mistiling knelt down till his mouth was beside Lucas’ ear. “So, tell me… what happened that night?”

“You already know!” Lucas wept trying to pull away, but the knife was at his neck again.

“I want to hear you say it.” The Mistling whispered. Eager now, hungry desperation palpable in his voice. “I want to hear what happened when you pulled him from the bog.”

“…he… he” Lucas moaned and mumbled an apology to the prophet. He was weak, he would not walk in the ever fields with his gods. “he… he started breathing…” Lucas said finally, forcing the word out

“There we go!” the Mistling ginned and Lucas cringed away from his breathless proximity. “now here’s the real question.” The knife pulled close, so it was inches from Lucas’ neck. The Mistling’s voice turned suddenly menacing and the room grew cold “where” he hissed “is the Bogman!?”

The neighbors heard Lucas screams for hours that night for the Mistling knew his art well. They cringed in fear but did not come to the mans aid. They were wise folk, used to the ways of the deep west and the intricate dealings of the other folk. So they did what wise folk do, they double locked their doors and touched their iron symbols, then inclined their heads in prayer to the mighty prophet. Their mouths mumbling ceaseless pleading. Behind them in back rooms children watched empty black screens that had once sang and laughed. Their rooms now filled with the echoes of a dying man. And as soon as it had begun, it ended the street returning to its contained silence.

The door to Lucas house eased open and the Mistling emerged once more. he was drenched in blood. His fine black hair now crusted and swept back. carefully He slipped the knife into its sheathe and let out a long theatrical sigh.

“Oh, what a day honey.” He muttered looking up and down the deserted streets. “But the work never does end does it? Goodnight Galway.” He called down the street, smiling when he got to reply. “Tough crowd.” He murmured to himself “rare to get an encore these days.” The Mistling shrugged and closed the door behind him. After all it was very impolite to leave it open.

Then he turned and walked into the night.