Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

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СКАЧАТЬ across the arch bridge, a flicker of light hovered in the black. The spark grew to a single orb of luminescence that approached the city gates, revealing itself to be a headlamp. A locomotive, night-black in colour with red and white detailing rolled along the tracks, its square-panelled casing that sat along its boiler illuminated with every gaslight it passed.

      A motif of playful white stars danced from the engine cab alongside all eight carriages in tow, spotless affairs that mirrored every building it passed. Constant puffs of steam were ejected skyward from its chimney as it drove onward, now slowing on its approach to the platform, its massive wheels and connecting rods falling slower and slower in their rotations.

      The witnesses held their collective breaths, deafened by the slow yawns of steam. Flickers of light lashed across the vehicle’s surface, revealing the profile of figures standing attentively within its hauled carriages. The engine itself belched thick plumes of white, whistling its song once more as it eased its pace and gradually, perfectly, aligned itself with Platform Three.

      The onlookers dared not speak and watched in reverence. A sudden jet of steam against the platform encouraged everyone to take a few steps back.

      Against the engine’s brilliantly painted veneer, its name shone out proudly, in accented red with white flicks on each letter.

       The Morning Star

      The train waited patiently, a skirt of steam creeping over the platform tiling. There was no movement from the blackened interior. The station hands looked at one another in puzzlement. The onlookers waited too, wondering what to make of it. No sooner had the murmuring begun than it was brought to a halt.

      The hands of the station clocks all snapped to 7 p.m. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang to signify this.

      A powerfully bright shock of lights lit up along the carriages in succession. A figure stood poised, dressed in suit tails, a silhouette against the bomb of illumination. A shower of fireworks burst in successions of threes overhead. The sky pulsed with glitter, their erratic flashes casting deep shadows across the platform. The person strolled along the top of a carriage before delivering a long sweeping bow to the applauding spectators.

      A smart dress jacket did little to hide the femininity of the figure, a row of untarnished silver buttons pinning fabric to its absolute best display, lapel perfectly tidy and decorated with a small metal brooch of a stag’s head. The occasional flare of red emphasized pockets, buttonholes, and cuffs. The material, though believed to be a deep grey at first glance, shimmered ever so gently to black depending on the direction one looked, a trick of the light some wrongly assumed. Straight-pressed trousers and smart burgundy dress shoes finished the ensemble, punctuated with a lacquered cane with an engraved metal bulb under palm.

      But what people focused on most of all, was the mask.

      It was that of an animal, a hare, with long, stocky ears. The eye sockets were angled ellipses, so deep and dark that a peculiar inkiness seems to be all that existed where the whites of anything living should inhabit. The mask ended tracing down the cheek line, puckering up just beneath the animal’s embossed nose. The mask itself was ashen in colour, with ornate decoration highlighting every feature in a reddened metal. Packed symmetrical crimson swirls in the recesses of the ears give definition, a sparse contrast to the seemingly bare strip that followed from forehead to nose. Behind the animal’s features was a shock of blonde hair, tied into a lazy braid that flowed with volume in the cool air of the night.

      Atop the carriage, accented by light both natural and artificial, the Hare turned from side to side, taking in the spectators who said not a word between them but watched with awe. When finally satisfied this individual made three loud strikes of the cane end against the carriage’s rooftop.

      From beneath, the next three cars had their doors opened and out stepped eleven women, some gowned, some suited, all adorned with disguises themselves. They all wore the same grey and black colours, each one decorated individually with layers of texture, but all were clad in masks. Animal masks hid the features and faces, lending them a mystique of brilliant disguise. A wild cat and a mountain owl stood side by side. There was a thorn swallow, a mouse and many others, all unique, all waiting for the next command. Only these masks were allowed any touch of red. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were devoid of this vibrant decoration.

      Proudly the Hare spoke, her voice intimate yet assertive. It captivated those who watched from beneath.

      ‘I’ve heard stories about this city. Landusk. A wonder they called you. Grand they all declared, proudly rooted and testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who live in Surenth. Beautiful! Strong!’

      Deafening cheers erupted from the platform.

      ‘But as we approached you, grand as you are, I couldn’t help but see something dissimilar.’

      The noise subsided to nothing; fists raised in jubilation slowly started withdrawing.

      The Hare stood as if she judged all those beneath her with a gaze most piercing, stony and fierce.

      ‘A city overgrown, reaching skyward with steeples and rooftops like stretching fingers, begging to the sun and the moon for audience. Buildings exist where buildings should not be, expansive and your confines are shifting ever outward. This grandiose city is a squalor topped with spires, people living upon one another like cattle. Its poorest are brushed aside to die in darkness, their backs broken in the effort to build the foundations of this city and forgotten when of no use. Landusk grows and thrives and lives, but you all forget its lifeblood: your merry selves.’

      The woman took a stroll along the carriage roof, slow, with her feet impeccably placed, the cane placed before every step.

      ‘What I see are narrow streets. Winding mazes of railings and stone, claustrophobic, the fat-choked veins of city whose very blood is in danger of turning stale. You ever-struggling people. You all flow to mill, to yard, to factory, to office, sustaining a mighty creature with toil. Your factories beat like many hearts. You give this city life. Without you all, Landusk would breathe its last and die most unceremoniously. It is a crime that you each forget a solemn fact. This city is not a wonder of the west. You all are.’

      Glitter burst in sequence in the sky, coaxing awe and applause. The Hare watched, flecks of colours reflecting from the mask, expressionless though far from emotionless.

      ‘I bid good evening to one and all.’ The Hare spoke proudly, never elevating to excitement. ‘What a delight it is to see your faces, bright and cheerful. What a delight indeed. Now you may be asking among yourselves who am I, and why I ride this glorious vehicle into your home. Is it for the intention of hauling cargo? Do I have coal for your factories, for the fires to burn? I say to you all: no. That is not my intention, nor that of any other who rides with me. Your toil is witnessed and respected. If I were to bring you new labour, I would have taken the time to address you. If I were to deposit chores upon you, then I would do so at the breaking of the dawn to ensure ample time for their completion. Rest, friends, for this is not the case. The Morning Star carries something of greater worth.’

      The Hare changed tone, softer, though still loud enough to be intimate to everyone who watched.

      ‘My name is no matter, only what I bring is of importance. Once, in a place far from this, I asked myself two things from the Holy Sorceress Herself. The first was to grant me the wealth to live a dignified existence. The other was to satiate my undying thirst. I was rewarded for my faith and now I pass these bounties to you all.’

      Fireworks popped once more. Glorious tendrils snaked in the costumed СКАЧАТЬ