Category : Stories

Sub Category : Fantasy

I often sat on the porch with Grandmother. She‘d accept Ma or Oma or Gran if you liked. She always liked to dir inherited rocking chair on the porch at night. You wouldn’t catch her there in the daytime, unless we‘d all worked particularly hard in the summer heat and there was iced tea or lemonade. I just liked to sit out there with her hat night. That’s when she was quiet, she seemed to go into herself, she was, more herself, in a way. Softer, truer, stronger too. Sometimes, if you were patient, she’d start talking. As long as you kept your mouth shut or didn’t ask too many questions she’d spin a yarn of a 
color you’d never seen. 

Tonight was one of those nights. 

The air was cool and moist, clammy, my mum would call it. The kind you think you need a sweater for, but then it’s too warm for that. It’s a hard weather to get comfortable in. 

Grandma sat in her rocking chair, sipping the toddy Dad had brought for her earlier. Her old brown skirt hung to her ankles and was so worn it it was a part of her, a white-ish tunic type too with embroidery at the neck and ends of the sleeves topped her. She wore an old hand crocheted shawl around her shoulders, in tones of brown and blue. Might have been a gift, maybe she made it herself, I didn’t know. She had long gray hair, I remember her once saying she wished it had gone all white like her grandfather’s, but it kept some color through these years. She wore it in one thick braid across her right shoulder. All I knew was the presence of her, sitting there, others would probably pass her right by, but if you noticed her, for even a moment, you couldn’t un-notice her. 

I sat on the doorstep as she sat in her chair. The gentle „cree cree“ coming from the rockers was comforting. Looking at the marshmallows in my cup of hot chocolate I contemplated a bit the various shades of brow rings in my cup. I always thought thinking hard on mundane things would make me seem more intelligent, or interesting, or something, but I never told anyone about them, so how could it have. Guess it was just for me. 

I glanced at Grandma and noticed her staring intently, out aceoss the porch, the field, toward the barn. She sqinted her eyes a bit, so I know she was really looking for something. 

„You see that gael?“

She meant „girl“ but it never came out that way.

I waited, it was always better to wait with her than try to answer the question. 

„The Fog“ she says, „comin up on the field, rollin along. They‘ll be along tonight then.“

„Who Grandma?“ I couldn’t help myself but to ask.

„The caravans, they‘ll pass through tonight.“ she looked at me, dead serious, „you see the lights out there, you don’t go chase them, no matter how pretty they are.“ 

„What caravans Grandma?“ 

„Best you know than be led astray. When the Fog comes up at night or even in the early morning, that s when they pass. There‘s worlds that sit right next to ours, with borders most people can’t see. The otherworlders see them and they know how to cross. Sometimes the otherworld caravans cross our space, to get where they’re goin, to sell their wares. The Fog helps them hide from us, so we don’t interfere with their travels.“ 

„What kind of people are the Grandma?“ 

„All kinds, just not human kinds. Goblins and trolls mostly, occasional Ogres. Just other bein‘s.“ she delivered this news as calmly as if she was stating the weather.