two

A purple band of light, glowing from behind a row of trees in the eastern distance, was spreading into the sky. The air was cold but calm and a thin gathering of clouds was dispersing high over the western slopes of the valley that George and Scott called home. It was nearing seven o'clock.

George had spent the previous evening writing a letter to his sister, whom he lived with, feeling that this was the better way of saying goodbye. He explained his decision was not personal, that broadly he was happy in his life, but that if he did not at least attempt to fulfill this deeper desire he would always regret it. The letter came off reading a bit patronizing, but he still considered this better than a tearful parting where he might say something hurtful. He had also packed a bag, and was thankful for his natural leaning towards travelling lightly.

Putting on his boots this morning had seemed very unusual, and as he closed the door behind himself and posted the keys back through the letter box it felt final, like the closing of a piano lid; no more music here.

Walking down the familiar lanes and avenues George felt that his short lifetime's memories were coming back to him, like a montage of old pictures. This was where he had learned to ride a bicycle, this was where he had had a fight once when he was eight, this was where he had been outside during his first thunder storm. So many little details.

Scott was already at the train station. He had gotten there early in order to enjoy as much of his friend's company as possible. At the empty station, that was just two platforms and a small ticket office that was rarely open, he felt a sense of desolation. He looked about and wondered what was here for him now that George was leaving. Should he too be thinking about leaving this place and going out into the wider world?

The two friends shook hands as they met.

'Good morning George. All set to go?'

'I am.' He looked down the tracks and the train was already visible in the distance, its bright lamps arcing around the bend.

'Good luck, and I'd like it if you could write to me occasionally. Just telling me how you're doing.'

'Of course I will.'

They stood in silence then, both watching the train's arrival. It could be heard now, the clattering of the wheels and the shaking of the carriages. The driver sent out a whistle. It slowed and stopped, and a few people disembarked.

'Well then, goodbye Scott. Wish me luck.'

'Good luck George. I hope you find what you are looking for.'

one

'And what is it that you see through the mist?'

'Nothing, except the mysterious face of the future.'

'And what features does it possess, this "face of the future"?'

'It has big eyes to see ahead, its ears stick out to hear what is coming and it smiles in invite.'

'But the invite can not be escaped from surely.'

'That is true, but we still need to welcomed, otherwise we shall be left outside. We must embrace this friend or it will abandon us.'

In the wild woods outside the town the voices fell silent. All that could be heard now was the gentle sound of life; the rustling of leaves, the occassional birdcry or the echo from the woodpecker's activity. It was close to the middle of the day, judging by the shadows and light, for they fell straight down, like heavy curtains, and the air was warm with the smells of nature.

'Tell me George, why are you so obsessed with the idea of mist? It emerges in all of your most careful thoughts, as if it were your signifier for the profound.'

'Indeed, you are correct. It is as i just said, the mist is filled with the mystery of the future; it is the future, seen through vaguely.'

'And you never seem to be satisfied to espy that which is clear and all about you. Would you not rather examine the tree at hand than speculate about the forest outside your vision?'

'Never. Without exploration of the things unseen I would become utterly cessate, insensate and surely soon fade, even from your keen sight.'

'Ha ha. Don't flatter me, and certainly don't be so dramatic. There is more to life than mystery.'

'Is there?'

The question seemed to spread its leaves in the warm sun, and grew in the small clearing the two friends sat in. They often came here on the weekends in order to discuss matters of philosophy, art, politics, science, but lately George had grown more ephemeral in Scott's eyes, as if his friend's mind were drifting off elsewhere. This current discussion was making him uncomfortable.

'Tell me George, what have you been reading lately?'

'What have I been reading? You ask as if the answer will solve all your problems. It's nothing specific that I've read, nothing that I have seen in ink. Rather it is a feeling that has been growing for some time. Are you truly satisfied Scott?'

'Truly? I suppose not, but then can we ever be? I'm happy if that's what you mean.'

'You know it's not. I feel as if I am missing something, something that is more real than what we see before us, something so much more important.'

Scott could think of no rejoinder. He was sat on the grass, looking glummy between his shoes and his friend's wistful face.

'So what will you do?'

'I think I will go travelling. Leave the valley here, and the woods, and simply wander into the wider world, to see if I cannot find a thing to give meaning to everything else.'

Again Scott did not answer. He knew what his friend meant, what it was that he sought, and although he understood it, he could not empathise with it, he could not agree. Worst of all he knew that George was serious.

'I think I will leave tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You can't. What about your job, or your studies in the firm? It will all be lost.'

'These things no longer have importance for me. I will miss you Scott.'

'You're really serious aren't you?'

'Yes. I've been planning it for a couple of weeks now. Will you see me to the station tomorrow morning?'

'What time?'

'Seven.'

'I'll be there.'