The Fog - James Herbert [8]
The words ran vigorously through his mind. He knew just how he would tell his congregation that Sunday morning, just when his voice would soften almost to a whisper, to allow him to build up to a loud, heart-stirring climax. After thirty years as a clergyman he now knew the subtle inflections his voice could use, and the times he had to boom out to reach his parishioners. At fifty-two he had not yet quite despaired of human nature. There was good in the worst people, just as there was hypocrisy in the most devout, but sometimes –
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He usually enjoyed his early Sunday morning walk across the fields, his pace brisk, his mind running through the sermon he would deliver that day, but he supposed the tragedy of the eruption still bore heavily on him. Having heard the news, he’d driven to the village to try to help, to administer the Last Rites to the dying, to comfort the injured. The last war had been the only experience he’d had of death and injury in these proportions and he had believed he’d got over the horror of it, but old memories had been resurrected, scars he’d thought healed were opened freshly.
He looked up from the ground abruptly, realizing he’d walked into a mist. Early morning mists were familiar to him but this seemed different. It had a yellowish tinge to it and was thick, suddenly very thick as it swept over him. Strange smell, too. Goodness, he thought, better retrace my steps and get clear of this. Wouldn’t want to get lost and be late for service.
He walked back in the direction he’d come, for some reason becoming nervous as his steps didn’t bring him clear of the dense mist. No, this wasn’t a mist, he thought. It was fog. How strange to run into fog on a summer morning as brilliant as it had been when he’d set out. This was as bad as some of the old London ‘pea-soupers’. He looked skyward and could just make out the faint haze of the sun. He wondered now if he were walking in the right direction.
‘Goodness,’ he muttered aloud, ‘I’m lost!’ What was that? His heart pounded as a dark, nebulous shape approached him.
It was large, not as tall as him, but bulky. And silent.
It seemed to drift towards him suspended in mid-air, its size increasing as it drew nearer. Then, oh God! – another. Another joined it, seeming to dissolve into it, becoming one huge shape, still approaching, almost on top of him. It, whatever it was, knew he was there! He backed away steadily, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He began to move faster, not turning but walking backwards, afraid to take his eyes off the shapes that loomed larger before him.
Suddenly, he bumped into something solid. He whirled, falling to his knees in his fright. Another black shape hovered over him, menacingly silent.
And then, he laughed. Tears of relief ran down his face and he pounded the earth in near-hysterical amusement.
He had walked into a herd of cows. He laughed louder, occasionally choking as he breathed deep mouthfuls of the murky air, the cows observing him in dumb vacuity, an occasional restless ululation their only comment.
It took him a full five minutes to recover his wits and admonish himself for his foolishness. Frightened by a herd of cows! Old George Ross, who owned them, would roar with laughter when he told him the story. No wonder he thought the shapes had been floating above the ground. The fog was so thick one could hardly see the cows’ legs!
Yes, he’d learned a lesson himself today. The unknown was always more fearful than the reality.
It took him another twenty minutes to find his way clear of the fog.
The man crouched low in the bushes when he heard a rustle of leaves to his left. Human or animal? Tom Abbot had to be careful. If he was caught poaching on the Colonel’s land again he’d be in serious trouble. Colonel Meredith had caught him red-handed last time and given