Chapter 2: The Arrival

        The hours riding through the wild west were twisted up in wonder for Mist.  He held in his hand the mysterious coin given him by the ticket master.  What had appeared to be a strange silver coin was actually much more than that.  As Mist flipped the coin over in his hand and to his surprise the opposite side of the coin was gold!  What a find.  He had never seen anything like it.  As he continued to study the coin he saw a Latin inscription on each side of the coin.  On the golden side, which had a picture of a cat’s eye very close, were the words “Tempore Cresere”.  And on the silver side where there was a tiny tiger peeking from behind some tall grass were the words “Minor Est Milius.”  If only Mist had paid more attention during his Latin lessons!

            Time slipped by and soon enough the train was preparing to pull into the station in Astoria, Oregon.  Mist had only met his great aunt Agnes that one time.  And now he was going to be living with her!  So many worries coursed through Mist’s mind.  Mist fiddled with his wool jacket and his hat.  His feet tapped an uneven rhythm on the floorboard of the train. 

            As then engine of the train slowed and he began to feel the brakes grabbing hold, Mist’s eyes darted to the people waiting on the deck and the train station.  He would remember what his great aunt Agnes looked like, with all her wrinkles, and surely her cat in tow.  But as the train stopped and people began filing off and hugging each other, Mist saw no familiar faces. 

“I’m sure she is there, I just missed her,” he thought out loud.  And so Mist picked up his carpet bag luggage and waddled toward the exit of the train.  Once on the landing, he made his way quickly over to the small covered area near the ticket counter, as the Oregon rain had started to fall.  She will get here, she is just a little late.  His mind continued to whirl as the people slowly filed off the landing and out into the dirt streets of Astoria.  The smell in the air was different here.  There was a hint of sea air from ocean that was just out of sight along with the fragrant smell of pine logs that had been cut from the towering forests and floated to the town to be milled.

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  The rain dripped off the roof as Mist pulled up the collar on his coat and his hat down to fight off the chill that was penetrating his bones.  Mist slowly slumped down against the wall with his eyes low and his bags blocking the April breeze blowing off the Pacific.

Mist’s thoughts began to turn sour.  What if she forgot about me?  What if this isn’t the right place after all?  What if she didn’t really want me?  Shaking him from from the confines of Mist’s darkening heart came the sweetest words that he had ever hear.

“Well don’t just sit there feeling sorry for yourself, let’s get moving.  Me and ChaiTea are getting cold and damp out here.”

Mist’s eyes snapped up to the figure of a woman in a long black coat with her hair pulled back under a head scarf to keep the rain off of her curls.  The scent of mothballs wafted over Mist as he heard a cat complaining from the inside her carrier.  And there were deep wrinkles of years of sour attitudes.  Yep, this was Aunt Agnes.

“I guess I’m late.  Seeing as I don’t see anybody else here, “grumbled Agnes, “but I told the men from the factory that ChaiTea doesn’t like to leave the house too abruptly after dinner.  It upsets her delicate demeanor.  And she always eats at 6:30.”

Agnes shuffled off the landing and down into the street that was now becoming pock marked with puddles.  Grumbling something about the weather, Agnes would occasionally glance over her shoulder as she shuffled toward home.

“And that is my library.  I practically built it with my own hands.  This summer you can work for me sorting out the basement.  It will be lots of fun.”

And so the comments continued as the old lady wove her way among the squared off homes and businesses.  She wound her way up on to the hill and there sitting on a little stone outcropping was Agnes’ ancient house.  The wood was all grayed from countless years of Oregon rain, the roof sagged a bit here and there.  The fence, that had at one time been whitewashed, was leaning in many places and was totally gone near the edge of the rocks.  Agnes stepped up onto the porch and adeptly swung the cat carrier through the creaking door.  She plopped it down on a small table with a set of tiny stairs leading to the floor.  The house was a model of perfection.  Every little trinket and picture had its spot.  Nothing seemed out of place or tilted.

Agnes unlatched the cat carrier and out strolled ChaiTea. The cat’s face resembled a Siamese cat with darker ears and slightly crossed eyes.  But ChaiTea’s fur was long and luxurious.  It appeared to have been brushed every day as she swooshed across the floor and climbed another little let of stairs that led to the floral high backed sofa.  Once on the sofa, ChaiTea twirled around, trying to ready herself for a nap.  She spun to the right, then back to left, and shot an angry glance toward Agnes. 

“See, she doesn’t even know what to do with herself.  Leaving after dinner time.  What a time for a train to arrive. “

Mist watched in silence as the spoiled cat swung her tail around and finally figured out just how to arrange herself on the couch.

“Your room will be down the stairs.  It used to be an old cellar, but I had it made into a room for ChaiTea.  But she never took to climbing up and down the stairs, so I had to make her room up here.”

Mist shot a wondering glance toward the old woman,.  Who actually builds a room for their cat?  He picked up his bags and headed in the direction that Agnes had nodded toward the stairs.  As he passed the couch he nearly dropped his bags and jumped out of his skin as the cat exploded into a ball of claws and hissing. 

“Oh, be careful!  ChaiTea doesn’t like people walking too close to her at nap time.” Agnes warned.

Collecting his wits, Mist made his way down the creaking stairs and into his room.  It was painted white and there was a bed with a pink quilt laid on top.  And again, the tiny cat stairs leading up to the bed. 

“You don’t have to use the little stairs if you don’t want to.  ChaiTea goes to bed at 7:30.  That will be your bed time too so as not to bother her.  You can put your bags in the closet over there, just don’t mess up the cat carriers.”

Mist made his way across the room, pulled open the closet door to find all but the smallest corner filled with carriers of various colors and lace edges.  Mist nodded his approval and Agnes spun on her heel and went back up the stairs.  No “Good night” no “Welcome to your new home”.  No hugs.  Mist felt very lonely already as he flopped down on the pink bed and stared at the ceiling.  He could hear the old lady scooting across the creaky floor heading to bed, because ChaiTea said so.

Chapter 1: On the Train

            Tap. Tap. Tap.  The boy sat with his chin resting on one hand while his nervous fingers tapped out a rhythm with a stubby pencil.  Tap.  Tap.  Tap.  His eyes were blurred and distant as the sagebrush zipped by outside his window.  He hadn’t moved much in the past hour, clutching a little leatherbound notebook and tapping his pencil. 

“Why so sour, boy,” came a startling question from the barrel-chested man with the red striped tie who had been minding his own business since boarding in Helena. 

“I’m not sour.” Came the short reply, “just tired.” 

“Where’s your folks?”

            A thousand thoughts shot through his mind.  He remembered the sound of his mother humming as she laid him in bed, the heavy banging of his father’s boots as he stoked the fire in the early morning, so many memories of their little family.  But in answer to the man’s question, he could only muster, “The people said they bought the farm.”

            “Oh, sorry to hear that.”  Replied the man, now a little more uncomfortable.  The man pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose a bit.

            The boy knew what it meant that his parents had “bought the farm.”  There was no farm.  They hadn’t bought anything.  They were dead.  The men from factory hadn’t given many details, the only thing that mattered to the boy, was that his parents were gone.  An accident, the men had explained.  But the sound of their voices had swirled together with the terror that his parents were gone.  What was he going to do!  Just as he asked himself that question, it was answered.

            “We were able to send a telegraph to your father’s aunt.  Do you know Agnes Terry?  She lives out in Astoria, Oregon.”

            The boy had shook his head, as he did remember meeting the stuffy old lady at a funeral.  She was the only person to bring a cat to the funeral.  The cat had traveled in the train in a little black and red box, that looked more like a ladies handbag, with lace and sparkles stitched to the outside.  The cat seemed to be sadder at the service than the old lady.  The lady’s wrinkled face neither stretched into a smile or broke into tears.  Rather, the wrinkles on her face had scrunched together in a web that never changed.  The cat, however, had meowed nervously throughout the service, causing the family and friends to shoot angry glances over the pews in the church.

            “So, I never got your name, boy.”   It was the man on the train, again. 

            The boy ran his fingers over a pencil-drawn picture in his notebook before lifting his eyes and looking directly at the man.  “My name is Mist.  Mist Terry.”

            “Can’t say as I ever met anyone with a name like that.  You know your name is a noun?  Mist.”

            Mist hadn’t ever met anyone named Mist either.  He supposed that there never was another kid that had to explain his name so much as he did.

            “My folks couldn’t decide on a name for me.  Mom wanted to name me Delwin after her dad.  My dad liked Tarlton.  They neither one would back down.  So my dad sat staring out the window.  Sure enough, he couldn’t see the end of the driveway ‘cause of the fog.  So here I am.  Mist.”  The boy was surprised at his sudden burst of words, but supposed that he liked hearing his own voice talking about his parents.  He missed them already.  It had only taken a few days for the factory men to get Mist a train ticket and to take over the house to collect for his parents’ debts.  He knew that money had been tight, and that the family owed a lot of people.  But couldn’t they have waited for him to be out the door, before coming in to haul off the grandfather clock.  The clock had always stood by the door and clicked out its cadence of time passing by.  Mist had lay next to that clock and listened to the beat of the pendulum swinging on cold afternoons after school.

            “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mist.  Where you headin?”

            Mist shuddered and looked back to the sagebrush.  “My great-aunt Agnes lives in Astoria.  She said she would take me in.”  His mind flashed back to her wrinkles and the smell of mothballs that lingered on her black dress that day at the funeral.

            Mist’s thoughts were interrupted as the ticket master, in his funny looking hat came tripping into the train car.  He made his way down the aisle, reading tickets over the top of his glasses, and then punching them with his hole punch.  Mist had already had his ticket checked a few times since leaving Detroit.  He had seen the flats of the Midwest give way to the stunning mountains of Montana.  Each train stop, his car had emptied and it felt as though he was the only one to get back on.

            The ticket master pulled up beside Mist’s seat. 

            “Still going, eh?”  The ticket master read Mist’s ticket over the top of his glasses.  The man’s eyes were intense blue and seemed more alive than the rest of his aging body.  His bushy gray eyebrows danced up and down as he wriggled his glasses up his nose without touching them with his hand.  He punched the ticket and handed it back to Mist.  He quickly punched the red tie man’s ticket and just as he was about to walk away, he swooped down to the ground and picked something up off the floor.

            “You must have dropped this,” the ticket master held out his hand toward Mist.    A silver coin sat in the middle of his grooved hand. 

            “Oh no, that’s not mine.  I don’t have any coins like that.  Must be his,” Mist nodded toward the big man sitting across from him. 

            “No, I’m pretty sure this is yours,” said the ticket master with a new strength in his voice.  Mist looked again at the coin, and then back to the ticket masters eyes.  There was a flash of strength and urgency that Mist had not seen since the last time his dad was getting serious about something.  Mist looked back to the coin and reached out his hand and scooped it up. 

            “Thanks, mister.”

            Mist held it tightly in his hand, as he felt a strange attraction for his new found prize.  He quietly looked down at the coin.  It was like nothing he had ever seen.  This coin was different.  This coin was special.