Christopher Byford - Den of Stars

The Hare gestured with a grey-gloved hand to a man lighting his cigarette with a silver flint lighter.

‘If you would be so kind as to do me a favour,’ she requested, quite politely.

Confused and intimidated in equal parts, he held out his lighter still aflame, the snifter of fire bobbing this way and that.

The Hare pinched it as one would pinch from a bowl of spice, raised her hand, with the flicker of light now in her possession. The hand offered it to the other, which pinched at it, stealing the flame for its own. The Hare twisted her wrists so they were upturned, raising her arms now in a wide circle. The flame was returned to the opposite hand. The fingers snapped open, revealing the fire now adorning her thumb and every fingertip. They closed once more, transferring to a single flame, snapping wide once more showing just the one balancing on an index finger.

This was repeated in the other hand, identically. As the hands jabbed at one another the flame transferred back and forth, then it became two, one for each hand, rolling in the palms, appearing, vanishing, appearing, vanishing, with every flex and thrust of the limbs. Then the flame separated, adorning both sets of fingers, was conjoined into one before being brought to the woman’s lips, balancing on the black and grey fabric of the glove.

Tilting her head to the heavens, the woman spat a puff of air, jetting the flame out just a hand’s length but still enough to make the onlookers recoil in their seats. It faded away into nothing, leaving those watching in awe.

The Hare took her applause graciously.

The bar began to populate with drained glasses, and sales of fine alcohol eventually dwindled to naught. Cards were folded and final pots given. Those who gambled with too much of their pay had not the heart to try and win it back, embracing their defeat with dignity. Others who were up on their luck sauntered away with glee.

As is true of any enjoyable experience, the evening went far too quickly for the people of Landusk. Midnight passed, forcing a good number of those to retreat to their beds. As time went on even the most avid card player reluctantly made their way home, walking, and in a good number of cases staggering through the streets in drunken song. The last of the most stubborn residents were escorted out of the station and stillness became the norm once more.

The Morning Star sat at Platform Three, with its cargo and companions, quite alone.

The furniture and games were efficiently loaded back onto the carriages, packed for transport as had been done time and time before. The clatter of clean, stacked glasses finally ebbed away and the showgirls’ banter now moved into the carriages with not a scrap of evidence remaining as to what had just happened at Redmane station.

The Hare sat upon a carriage, embracing her legs and gazing down at the rooftops before her. Her focus wasn’t on the spotless rooftops but instead on the tracks that ran into the darkness to the city gate, which was now very much closed. Still she looked, with dulled hazel eyes and enough make-up beneath her showpiece to cover the evidence of too little sleep.

The man beside her was ensuring that.

‘Forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he stated, mimicking her posture and absent stare, ‘but I distinctly remember us having a conversation about avoiding cities like this. Too many powerful folks with moneyed connections playing power games. Experience has proven that crap is bad for business.’

‘I know.’ She turned to him, taking in the splendid black and gold show suit. The mask on his own face, that of a stag with grand horns, was significantly imposing. ‘And like most of your advice, I decided to ignore it. The profits speak for themselves.’

She stared at the mask’s eye sockets, the owner’s pupils quite invisible in the darkness.

‘It’s not all about money you know.’

‘Obviously. Not that you’ve ever admitted that to me before, but I know.’

The stag exhaled. ‘I remember a time when you would listen to me. I miss that.’

‘Things change.’

‘I was never under the illusion that they didn’t. The Morning Star is evidence of that. Speaking of the train, you’re going to run it in to the ground aren’t you?’ He sighed, steering the conversation to something he dreaded.

The Hare didn’t attempt to refute this accusation.

‘If I need to. I’m doing what’s necessary. You of all people can’t chastise me for following that creed.’

‘Obviously not.’ The stag lowered his head, putting a bold statement forward: ‘But everything I did was to keep people safe. Even you. What you’re doing is the exact opposite. It’s dangerous. Are you honestly willing to sacrifice –’

‘I know full well what I have to give up,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t attempt to lecture me on that front.’

‘That’s always been your problem. You take advice as an insult. If you stopped for just a moment you would realize that, even if you achieved a miracle, even if you somehow pulled this off , things won’t end well for you. Is it actually worth it?’

‘Yes,’ she responded bluntly. She stared at the man’s disguise. It was a question she had asked herself so many times that her decision was borderline reflex.

He turned back, slowly nodding. He finally spoke. ‘I don’t approve.’

The Hare shrugged her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t. He never would have. It wasn’t his choice to make.

‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not real, isn’t it?’ the Hare confessed.

An interruption came in the form of noise, welcome noise, but enough to derail her thinking.

A burst of sudden heel clicks was followed by one of the more senior showgirls calling for her attention.

* * *

All the while the showgirls attended to the clean-up, the Hare had not moved in posture or averted her gaze. It concerned the one referred to as the Owl. Truth be told, this oddly stoic behaviour concerned the others too, who dared not begin a conversation with her in fear of where it might lead. Some whispered among themselves about what she was doing. One pointed out that she resembled a gargoyle atop a church buttress, playfully of course but nobody laughed.

‘Who are you talking to?’ the Owl put to her, quite confused. ‘I heard voices.’

The Hare slowly looked to the empty space beside her. The phantom her imagination conjured had vanished, a construct that had been increasingly haunting her as the days went by. Its appearance was almost routine now, not that such a thing subdued the pain she felt in its presence.

‘Apparently nobody,’ the Hare confessed with a pained sigh.

‘What’s the plan? Are you going to spend all night up there?’ the Owl, Corinne, called with her hands on slanted hips. A shock of her raven-black hair stirred gently with every motion. Like the others, she had removed her mask when the last of the patrons had left, leaving no need for such things. ‘There is a perfectly comfortable bed in your carriage you know.’

‘I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.’

‘May I ask what it is you’re even doing?’ Corinne sheltered her eyes from the gaslight’s glare with a raised hand.

The response was slow. ‘On the lookout for troublemakers.’

Surely she jested? Corinne took stock of the platform, and their own security – or what passed for it – who had begun to retire for the evening. What possible trouble could there be?

‘There’s nobody here, much less anybody who would cause a ruckus. Even if there was, the station has enough muscle around to deter would-be chancers. I keep saying that we need someone to provide some protection, not a part-timer like you’re satisfied with. Listening to me will allow you to spend time in that comfy, comfy bed of yours.’