The Midnight Hearth

Pt. 1

by Jordan Bianchi

***

The silhouetted mountain range in the distance bent like the spine of a dragon. I imagined the beast, with leathery wings and emerald scales, in a heavy slumber, resting among the evergreen trees of the forest that surrounded it. Their needles held fresh snow that had fallen in the afternoon sun. The clear, frozen lake we were traveling around mirrored its bony back, as well as the clouds that hung overhead.

I rode aboard The Indigo Express, a Victorian locomotive that was painted the color of a regal peacock and decorated with gilded lettering. We’d departed Verlan northbound, over eleven hours ago. My eyes kept closing, even though I tried to fight it. There were still many hours to go before we’d arrive in St. Genevieve. 

St. Genevieve was a walled town, fortified in the sixteenth century, and hidden behind the western side of the Dragon’s Spine. Descendants of its founders still lived within its walls. The only connection it had to the outside world was by train - there were no roads for automobiles and no safe landing zones for airships—trust me, I checked. Apart from the Indigo’s rails, the rocky terrain and dense forests had yet to be tamed. 

I breathed in tobacco. The train chugged on. All around me, the world slept.  

As long as we’d been together, Gabriel had written to me while he traveled. When he was a boy, he dreamt about going to distant lands. Eating with royalty, breathing real air. Leaving our concrete world behind. He was known to many as a folklorist, a man whose fascination was visiting little towns and collecting the music and stories of the people that called them home. To him, nothing made more sense than the slow worlds away from the city. Their stories were more truthful, untainted, truly their own. 

I seldom traveled, apart from the daily metro commutes out to the air hanger, just beyond the edge of town, and the occasional business flights to foreign cities. Metro rides take nearly an hour, high above ground, so I’d work and sketch plans on the way. The commotion in the morning, the evening bustle, every inch of city life fed me with energy that fueled my work. Energy that was necessary to do what I loved.

Then came the Great Reef War that split us apart. We were forced to postpone our wedding once he was conscripted to serve out at sea. But still, he wrote. He always wrote to me. He wrote about who he’d met and what adventures he and his fellow soldiers had seen in the tropics. How large the insects were, the salty water, the dishes they’d discovered in the villages and his love of meeting the locals. It never mattered the situation, Gabriel always found the gems that everyone else overlooked. 

Then, after years of agony and loneliness and the Siege of Serpents Sea, the time finally came—the soldiers were coming home. 

Unknowingly, they didn’t return alone. 

We didn’t know the disease was among them until it was too late. The soldiers were hit first, and hit the hardest. The sickness took its time to manifest, but when it did, their skin dried and turned bleach white. They suffocated slowly, as it constricted their lungs. Those who fought on the reefs in the war said the dead bodies reminded them of the dried coral that washed up on the beaches.  

The papers coined it the Coral Cough. 

And then it spread. 

Some were immune. Many were not. Our cities were plagued, and in time, it spread throughout the countryside. Hospitals all over became war zones. Grief and fear loomed over us. People wouldn’t dare step out of their houses, let alone travel.

I was scared too. But I didn’t feel that I had much of a choice. 

Gabriel was a carrier, but immune. The tragedy struck him in a different way. Many of the soldiers came from and returned to those small towns Gabriel loved so much. They were hit the hardest. The Coral Cough began to wipe them out, a second Black Plague. He understood that if someone didn’t preserve their oral traditions now, they would be lost to the Coral Cough. 

Just as soon as he’d returned from the war, he was gone. 

The last of his letters came two months ago, postmarked from St. Genevieve. I remembered, because there was a breakout at our hanger the week it arrived. He’d written that he’d gathered stories from townsfolk from over a dozen villages, that it was the proudest collection he’d ever made. I promptly replied to congratulate him, but I also wrote that the Coral Cough had been reported in a welder who was working on one of my designs. I was fine, as I wasn’t on the floor, but soon after, another worker showed symptoms. Dr. Alura, the head of the factory, immediately and indefinitely halted production. Our team had been working on my latest Zeppelin design for months, but with an outbreak in the hanger and the war effort fading, I wasn’t certain when, or even if, it would ever fly. 

For the first time ever, Gabriel didn’t reply. I sent another letter. I sent telegram after telegram. He never wrote back. He had never been silent this long, not even during the worst times of the war. 

A ticket on the Indigo Express was the only path I felt I had left. I was afraid. Afraid of the Coral Cough, afraid of traveling alone, and worse, what I’d find when I arrived in St. Genevieve. What if Gabriel wasn’t immune after all? 

  I tried to keep myself awake by going over my plan to search for him once I reached the city, but my eyes were so heavy...

I was jerked awake by a bump on the tracks. Dusk had slipped away. It was fully dark outside the window. Midnight was approaching. The muscles in my neck and below my jaw throbbed. In the train’s bathroom, a tight fit in the corner of my cabin, I splashed water on my face, a feeble crack at staying awake. 

  I put away my blueprints and bundled up in my camel cream coat, for the winter air was stronger than the dry heat pumping into the train. I walked back to the dining car, restless and lonely. Cabin doors were closed, their lights off. Few had boarded the train to begin with, now only a handful were left on board. Fear of the Coral Cough had become so great people seldom rode the Indigo Express anymore. The beautiful vessel had been almost abandoned.

The dining car had rows of booths with tablecloths and high leather seats that framed each window. Apart from the waiter at the far end, who folded napkins as he listened to a small radio, it was empty. 

I slid into a booth and clicked on the table lamp. I ordered Turkish coffee and a scone, when the waiter asked. A paper, too, if they had one.

I took the cigarette box from the inner pocket of my jacket. The weight in my fingers told me I was down to the last of the pack. I lit one, tossed the carton onto the table, and cherished each puff in long breaths. I had no idea where they’d be sold in this part of the world. Maybe I’d be lucky. Maybe I’d have to barter. 

My drink let off steam as the waiter poured it into my cup. The scone had raspberries in it. The stories in the paper were from back before I first boarded the Indigo, but I read them anyway. The coffee was bitter and heavy. 

The car door slid open. From out of the shadows in the corridor came a thin, tall man.  He was in his fifties, and dressed in a fine tweed suit that was as grey as his hair, which was held perfectly in place. He glanced at his watch. Then, his eyes fell on me.

My apprehension rose as he glided toward my booth. I looked for the waiter, but he had gone back into the kitchen. I was on my own.

Before the man opened his mouth, he flashed an unforgettable smile of composure and charm. His eyes were shiny—the color of amber.

“Pardon my intrusion, my dear. My matches fell into the sink while I was shaving. A terrible misfortune.” He removed a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket. “Would you mind?” 

“Oh. Not at all,” I said cordially. I set down the paper and passed my lighter to the man. From the aisle he fired up his cigarette and took in a deep breath of relief. 

“Mhmm, much obliged,” he said, content. He extended his hand. “Darius.” 

“Thalia.” 

“Child, you’re exhausted.” 

“Is it that obvious?”

“Some things a person can’t hide.” 

“I can’t get comfortable enough in my cabin to sleep for more than five minutes.”

“I understand. I’ve been there. I’ve been riding trains most of my life, since I was even younger than you. Sometimes the best medicine is the one that keeps you awake.” He gestured to my coffee. “Long ride ahead?” 

I nodded. “St. Genevieve.”

“Ah, end of the line.”

“Ow!” I said. 

Coffee spilled out and burned my hand as the train thumped against the rails. But Darius didn’t lose his balance, nor did he need to grab hold of the seats. He simply shifted his balance between his legs, cool and unfazed, and breathed out smoke.

"Do you know how much longer it’ll take?” I asked, agitated. 

“We won’t reach the walls ‘till dawn, I’m afraid. We still have to go through the forests and around our friend the Dragon over here. This journey’ll take you some time.” [sound: train on tracks] “Will your husband be joining you?”  

I tensed and shook my head. “I’m meeting my fiancé.” 

He took a long drag of his cigarette. I regretted saying anything. He was outwardly calm and charming, but it felt like he was wearing a mask that I couldn’t see through.

“That’s quite a while for one to be alone.” Rather politely, he asked, “In that case, may I sit with you, my dear?” 

“You have the pick of the lot and you wanna sit with me?” I said, dryly. 

“Oh, of course. I have no sinful desires, I assure you. It’s just not often I see new sets of eyes on this train,” he said. “One smoke and I’ll be off.” 

His smile was wide and his eyes were shiny. He slid into the booth and leaned forward. “You should know, never burden the wait staff around here,” he said in a hushed tone. “Even to set a table when they’re groggy. That sets them off. But they’re trained, quite well I’ve found, to hide it. Ask too much of them and getting spit in your drink’s the least of your concerns.”

“Don’t trust them. Got it.”

He took out a fresh cigarette. 

“One for you,” he said. 

“How kind.” 

“We need to look out for one another out here,” he said. 

As he reached to lightly tap the ashes of his cigarette into the tray on the table, his cufflinks showed. They were unsettling, unlike anything I’d seen before: twin yellow almond-shaped eyes that I felt were watching me. 

“There isn’t much life around here this late, is there?” I asked. 

“Never is this far down the line. Most get off by now, or they’ve been on so long they finally get used to sleeping on the bumpy ride,” he said. “Used to be different. Used to be gents, regulars, that I’d play cards and drink with ‘till late. Couples came out here to talk, families to play games. These days though, not a lot of that going around.”

“I hope it changes.” 

“I’d imagine it will. Not everyone’s sick, at least presently.”

We shared an uncomfortable silence. I could tell he was lonely, which turned my thoughts back to Gabriel. 

The man seemed to sense my discomfort. He changed the subject. “Do you know why the Indigo Express got its name?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “No.” 

“Before your time, even my time, they say the tracks were first laid through fields of true indigo. The farmers out here used to grow it, before they abandoned it for grains. Some say the locomotive factory that birthed this train had indigo-dyed stained-glass windows, and that each morning, the sun cast its hue on the sheets of metal the workers were preparing.  They say the workers painted it that way to immortalize those dawns,” Darius said. “My guess? The paint was cheap.” 

The train began to curve around the lake. Moonlight broke through the clouds and reflected off its surface. 

On the other side of the lake, I saw flames. 

I pressed my face close to the window to get a better look. 

There were figures around the flames, concealed in the shadows. The silhouettes heaved barrels forward, tossing the liquid that was within them onto the tracks. The flames kicked up high as it made contact. 

“What’s happening out there?!” 

His cigarette dangling from his lip, Darius looked out.

“They’re setting the tracks fire.”

“They’re what!?” 

“They’re heating the switch points. It’s getting too cold out there. If they freeze, the metal will snap. Even tracks have a breaking point.”   

“The workers must be freezing.” 

“They’re paid to be cold.” 

The figures grew larger as the Indigo Express rounded the lake. The train straightened its path and, for a moment, they could not be seen. 

Then the Indigo Express drove through the flames. 

The windows glowed red hot. The air was putrid with the smell of burning oil. Empty barrels of the flammable liquid were scattered in the snow. For a moment I glimpsed the men around the rails, on each side of the tracks, their faces lit by the flames. Furry hoods covered their heads and darkness concealed the rest. I wondered who they were. I wondered how the cold didn’t push them to their breaking point. 

And in this grim part of the world, I wondered if I would soon reach mine. 

Suddenly, the train heaved away from the lake, and we returned to the pitch black of the night. 

“Why did we change course?” I asked. 

A man wearing a fur-hooded indigo jacket stepped into the car. The lantern he held illuminated his wide, grey mustache and his tired eyes. He brushed back his hood, under which he wore a front-brimmed cap. I remembered him. He was the conductor. 

“Good evening,” he said. He tipped his cap. His eyes were tight and tired. 

“Good evening. Sir, what’s happening?” 

“The next station up sent us a dispatch. There’s been an accident. A blizzard’s formed behind the western side of the Dragon’s Spine. It derailed the freight train ahead of us.” 

“Oh no!” I said. 

“Well I’ll be...” Darius said.  

“Was anyone hurt?” I asked. 

“We don’t know. We haven’t made contact with their crew yet.”

“That’s horrible,” I said. 

“No need to worry. We’re trained to handle such situations. Local authorities have been alerted. They’ll reach the tracks before our crew can get there on foot. Unfortunately, it’s forcing us to reroute. We can’t get around the mountain until the train’s cleared.”  

“Hold on. Sir, I’m needed in St. Genevieve.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. For now, the next station’s as close as we can take you.” 

“Where’s that?”

“The Village of Osiris.” 

[sounds of wind, rails, map crinkle ] 

“It’s not on my map.”

“It’s below the eastern side of the Dragon’s Spine. You’ll see it in person, soon, if the whiteout doesn’t wrap around the mountain and catch us. There are kind folk living in Osiris. Travelers pass through, too, and trappers and hunters commonly find themselves there when storms won’t relent. It isn’t a bad place to stay.” 

The conductor reached into his rather deep outer pocket and removed a few items – a ticket punch, loose receipts, a chocolate wrapper, crinkled bills – before he located what he’d been searching for. He took out a business card, blew dust off the top, and handed it to me. Engraved on the faded paper was a dog, as black as licorice. It sat with its arms outstretched, its ears erect. On the back, in gilded, raised letters, it said “Jackal’s Tavern.” An address was printed below.

“Old Man Jackal rents rooms above his bar. If you choose to stay, I recommend you consider it before they’re filled. All costs courtesy of the Indigo Express, of course.” 

“Is everyone getting off there?”

He shook his head. 

“We’ll continue to ride. We have more stops far east of the mountain. You’re welcome to stay on board, but we have a long journey ahead.” 

I didn’t think I could stay on the Indigo any longer. I needed to sleep in a bed that was still. 

“How long would I be stuck in Osiris?” I asked.

“No more than a few days, I assure you. Storms like these are uncommon. We’ll retrieve you when it’s clear and finish our route to St. Genevieve,” said the conductor. “We hope you forgive the inconvenience.”

He straightened his hat, forced a meek smile and left to wake the guests in their cabins.

I kicked back the rest of the coffee and set down a dollar coin for the waiter.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “I’m going to pack up my bag. Thank you for the company, Darius.” 

“The pleasure was all mine,” Darius said. He bent his head, a slight bow. “You should know, before you go to Osiris, it’s unwise to discard coffee grounds,” the man said. “Might you like to have them read?”

I scoffed, skeptically. 

“You think I’m joking.”

“You want to tell my fortune?” 

“I’ve been trained to find shapes with meaning.” 

“I thought people only used tea leaves?” 

“Folks have divined through the shapes of grounds for centuries.” 

“And before that?” 

He paused. 

“There were other ways.” 

His eyes were unyielding. 

“It’s just a parlor trick.” 

“Just because a thing is common doesn’t make it any less truthful.” He reached back inside his pocket, took out another coin and set it down. “Tell you what. If I see things that have no meaning to you, bill’s on me.”

“What’s in it for you?” I asked. 

“I’m merely a humble practitioner, but I can spot when someone is in need of a little clarity. If I can provide that, that’ll be enough for me,” he said. “Besides, I don’t see new faces these days. Not like I used to.” 

I thought for a moment before agreeing. “All right.”

“Pick your cup back up and we can begin,” he said. “Now, this is a crucial part. You must flip the cup into the saucer and hold on tightly! And do as I do.”

Darius demonstrated his technique by holding an imaginary cup and saucer. He kept it level with his heart and rotated it in circles, three times. 

“To open the channels.” 

“All right…” 

I did as he asked. When I finished, he accepted my cup and saucer. 

“Let us see what is in store for you.” 

He leaned in close to study the grounds with his shiny, amber eyes. 

“Oh…yes, yes…look who it is,” he said. “A leopard.”

“You see a leopard in there?”

“She’s sniffing the air. I haven’t seen her in quite awhile. She tells us that a journey is seeking you, and will soon find you.”  

“That’s happening right now,” I said. 

“No. A different journey, one you have not yet seen,” he said. “Draped behind the beast is a curtain. Peculiar…hm. Secrets that have stayed hidden will begin to unravel.” 

“What kind of secrets?

“That is not for me to say. The grounds are not guidebooks. They only offer glimpses of the truth. These secrets will arrive before you notice. But in time, you will see.”

He looked again at the inscrutable mess of grounds and murky liquid on the saucer.  

“I do know who will bring them to you. The one who has gone where he was not welcomed.”

“Who?”

He tilted the saucer. The fingernail of his thumb pointed to a circular shape.

“The one with whom you wish to share twin rings.”  

“That call’s for you. Again, thank you for the light.”

When we reached the station, the conductor held my bag as I stepped down onto the foot ladder and into the knee-high snow. I was the only passenger to leave the train.

“Isn’t anyone else getting off?”  I asked. 

“The other passengers opted to stay aboard and make their way back when the storm clears,” said the conductor. “My apologies again, ma’am.” 

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.” 

“Regardless, I’m sorry to have interrupted your plans. We’ll be back in a few days.”

I’m not one to pick an argument, even though deep down, I wanted to say something smart. But before I had the chance, the train kicked into gear and began to pull away. 

As it did, I saw that the gilded lettering and the bottom of the indigo train had been left unscorched. I also saw a grey figure, smoking, inside the arched window of the caboose. He waved, unmistakably to me. He dragged the curtains across, and he was gone. Then the train was gone too.

I didn’t know whether to believe Darius or not. I didn’t want to, but I shouldn’t shake his reading. 

Underneath the glow of a copper lamp post, a young man shoveled a pathway to the station. He wore an old ski suit and a hat with flaps that hid his ears. When I asked, he pointed me in the direction of town and told me how to find the tavern.

The road had not been plowed. It was buried in snow, nearly up to my knees. I was forced to trudge on through the carriage road as it fed into the forest. 

I covered my face with my scarf as best I could, but the wind still stung. I anchored my boots in the snow with each step to try to keep my balance.

The forest was dense and dark, and it was silent. There were no owls, no birds, and, thankfully no howls of wolves. There were still wolves here in the north. They appeared in many of the stories Gabriel had collected. The carriage road I walked on was just a minuscule slice amidst the endless acreage of wilderness. I felt the towering trees constrict my loneliness into dread. The isolation was inescapable. 

After a time the forest opened up to a clearing, where it met a billboard that spelled out “The Village of Osiris Welcomes You!” It was clear that this was a celebrated beacon, in the past. But time had had its way with it. Unlit bulbs, mostly broken, surrounded the structure. Each letter, painted with regality in orange and turquoise, had faded and peeled. Twin, winged lions struck poses on either end. Each had chips in their feathers, yet they still looked up at the sky. 

When I passed the welcome sign, I thought I heard something. An animal? There had to be something in the woods. I looked out past the trail, and I saw a figure. She seemed to glide as she walked alongside the trees. She was covered in robes that were as wispy and delicate as falling snow. 

A white shawl covered her face. In the lack of light I swore her skin looked blue. 

I realized then that she was crying. 

I called out to her, to see if she needed help. But as soon as I did, I couldn’t see her.

Was she hiding from me? I looked for her around the trees. The snow around the roots had no footprints in it. I called again, but received no reply.

She was gone.

Confused and cold, I walked on. 

And then I saw it. 

The Village of Osiris. 

Osiris was a quaint village of houses and huts in a pocket of the forest. The buildings, made of brick and lumber, were clustered together, as though they huddled for warmth and security from the surrounding woods. I walked down a wide central road that was filled with shops on either side, each one either closed up for the night or boarded up entirely. Crooked brick roads connected them all, feeding into the heart of the village.

I reached the village’s center. Instead of a clock tower or a fountain as many towns had as their centerpiece, stood a statue, some twenty feet high, of a man. His skin was green from the exposure of the copper to the air and time. Robes had been painted onto him with white paint. It reminded me of a statue of Paul Bunyan that Gabriel adored. The copper man’s goatee was braided and he held two instruments across his chest. 

I knew who it was. We’d learned about him since primary school. 

This was Osiris of ancient Egypt. The deity of death.

Behind the statue there was a corner building with rows of frosted windows. Through them, I could see the shapes of people and the flicker of a fire. Painted onto the brick side of the building were a pair of golden eyes. When I approached, I saw they belonged to the mural of a dog with a golden collar and skin as dark as night. It was as slender and dignified as it was on the business card I was given. This Jackal was guardian of its den, inherently attentive to whoever passed through these streets. As though it were waiting for someone. 

A gust of wind kicked me against the wall. I rubbed my shoulder and forced myself inside, underneath the hanging sign with lettering that read “Jackal and Sons.”

Oil lamps and candles lit the tavern. Old wood, apples and wet leather and wool scented the air. A collection of what I assumed were villagers or travelers were scattered along the long wooden tables. The tavern was decorated in a bizarre clash of styles. Jumbled on the walls were the heads of elk, boar and deer, beside prized fishing poles and pennants from sports teams. There were also human-sized statues of women by the bar who wore braided wigs and had wings between their arms. Beside them hunting spears from a bygone era. Suspended from the ceiling was a gargantuan golden river boat, surrounded by miniature models of airplanes. There was a middle aged couple sitting across from each other, talking to themselves, some individuals drinking and tapping their feet as they listened to a fiddler play, and a group of men who laughed heartily, steins in their hands, as they sat around the fireplace. Its flames danced high, the only source of heat in the room. 

Reality felt thin in Osiris. Jackal and Sons felt like the bastard child of a casino and a hunting lodge. It was the sort of collection I would expect to find at a roadside attraction or the home of an eccentric industrialist with no taste. 

“Bonsoir, Madame,” said a man tending bar. 

“Good evening.”

The man was large and so tall that he reached for a bottle of spirits from the top shelf without straining at all. He uncorked it and poured it in the glass of a man whose elbow sleepily rested on the countertop. The bartender wiped the counter with a rag, which he then slung over his shoulder. His beard was thick and scruffy, deep brown with specks of grey, but underneath it was a gentle smile. 

“How can I be of service?” he asked. 

“I had accommodations in St. Genevieve tonight – the Indigo Express was supposed to take me there – but we had to change course.”

“Aye, the storm. I can’t say it’s your lucky night. The heavy clouds have started to move toward us. We hoped they wouldn’t. (beat) You’ll be needing a room while you’re here.”

“Our conductor said you had some?” 

“One room recently opened up..”

“Am I too late? There are so many people here already…”

“These folks ain’t here for lodging, they’re locals. No one’s coming in with the storm, I’m surprised you managed to. They’re here for the Midnight Hearth.”  

“Bonsoir, mes amis,” he said to the new arrivals. “In the village of Osiris, Madame, storytellers are richer than the best of thieves. When the witching hour falls, friends and strangers gather here to warm themselves and tell mysteries of phantoms and specters. Of lovers and fears, delights and tremors. Tales to fend off the long night. That’s them, coming in already. You’re welcome to join us.” (beat) “Kitchen’s closed, I’m afraid, but there’s some stew left over. Can I get you a bowl? You’re shaking.” 

“As long as it’s warm.” 

“Sit down, relax,” he said. 

“Thank you so much,” I said, relieved.

He set his rag down and went into the kitchen. I took off my gloves, rubbed my hands together and blew air into them. Soon he returned with stew and bread. Steam lifted off the broth and vegetables that poked through the top. He poured me an ale that was tall and golden brown. 

“What do they call you, Madame?” he asked. 

“Thalia,” I said.

“Welcome, Thalia, to my humble establishment.”

“You must be Jackal."

“Old Man Jackal was my father. Lionel’s what folks around here call me.” 

“The sign says, ‘and Sons’,” I pointed out. “Do you have a brother?”

“He used to tend bar,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.” 

“This place, I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s brilliant,” I said.

“Osiris has had a love affair with the world of the ancient Egyptians for many years. Back when my father was young, Osiris was just an idea. Pelts and logs were all they had to sell. Once he was old enough he helped them adapt.”

He removed a black-and-white photograph that hung above the bar and showed it to me. It was of the village many years ago. I could tell its age by the vintage clothes the subjects wore and cracks in the film. But instead of being on the brink of a ghost town as it was now, it was filled with people. Hundreds of people. Carnival lights were strung from rooftop to rooftop, while vendors and carnies lined the streets. Families joyously bustled up and down the streets as signs for rides blinked “Arabian Frights” and “Chariot Bumper-Cars”. A robed man twisted balloons in the forms of birds, crocodiles and cats. Osiris’s statue was covered in flowers. 

It was almost unrecognizable. 

“This isn’t Osiris? Is it?” I asked, bewildered.

“Indeed, it is. In its heyday,” Lionel said. “This was the Carnival of Sister Egypt.”  

In the photo, a parade masquerading as a royal procession was coming down the carriage road. Attendees waved their straw hats and paper mache headdresses joyously to a man who was seated in a throne atop a Sphinx shaped float, as it was pulled by a team of donkeys. Atop his head was a white bulbous crown, adorned with tall feathers the shade of red desert sand. He held instruments of the same shapes that I’d seen in the hands of the statue outside. 

“That’s my father, Old Man Jackal. He was a brilliant businessman. All of this, he dreamt up. He gave so much to a generation of people of this town. People started to visit from all over, and with them they brought their money, attention, and praise. They all voted him as Carnival Pharaoh; he didn’t appoint himself.”

Lionel hung the photograph back on the wall. Above it was one of the instruments his father had held.

“This is his Crook. It represents leadership. It’s been in the family ever since. It belongs to whoever’s in charge of Jackal’s Tavern, where the Parade of the Pharaoh began every year.”

“What about the other?”

“The flail. Fertility, growth, rebirth. All of which you’d be hard pressed to find here these days,” said Lionel. “The flail hasn’t hung here in Osiris for quite some time.” 

“What happened to the Carnival?”

“As it was for the Ancients, all good things shift and change in time and lose their focus. The idea of an Egyptian getaway went out of fashion well before he passed. Travelers dwindled. Most don’t even know our village exists anymore, except for those who find it by accident. Which makes me wonder, what brings you to Osiris?” 

“My fiancé.” 

“Don’t suppose he’ll be joining you tonight?”

I shook my head. 

“He’s been in St. Genevieve. I’m traveling to find him.”

“Why?” 

“I’m afraid something’s happened to him. His work requires him to travel often, but no one’s heard from him since he last wrote me.”

“When was that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Two months ago. I telegrammed the hotel he stayed at, but they hadn’t seen him.”

“So this is a rescue mission.” 

I nodded. I’d only just met Lionel, but he was kind and it felt natural to speak my mind.  

“I know what it looks like. My friends think I’m being foolish. I just need to know that he’s alive.” My voice trailed off. I took off the locket that hung around my neck and unhinged it. There was one picture on either side. On the left, Gabriel and me, as children, laughing together at a Christmas party. The other, us captured in a whirlwind of happiness the moment after he proposed. “His name’s Gabriel.  We grew up together, on the same avenue, but didn’t start seeing each other until college.” 

Lionel held the photograph up to the light of the oil lamp on the bar. 

His face grew hard. 

“This face, I know.”

“Did you serve with him?” 

“Not at my age. Your man stopped in Osiris on his way home. Back to you, I presume.”

“He was here?” 

“An avalanche blocked him in, so he stayed awhile. Boarded in the vacant room out back. Chipper fellow. Good listener, bad at craps. At Jackal’s Tavern, no stranger goes hungry, no thirst left to taunt him, no cold will freeze his toes. All a stranger has to do is tell a tale.” 

“Tell a tale?”

He handed me back the locket.

“Gabriel was a frequent guest at the Hearth,” said Lionel. “You’re welcome to his room if you’re in need of it. You won’t find another in town, not this time of year. It’s yours, as long as you tell a tale by the time you’re ready to leave. That’s the price.” 

Lionel unwound the rope binding of a journal. He took down my name, we shook in agreement, then he gave me a key. It was old and made of brass, with flourishes on the handle that shaped it like a hieroglyphic reed.   

“This is the key Gabriel used,” I said. 

“No, Madame. He never returned his. Had to have a new lock made.” 

“What do you mean?”

“He never checked out.” 

“He just… left?” 

“He vanished.” 

A grandfather clock began to chime. 

“The time has come,” Lionel said. “Come. Join us at the hearth.” 

All the guests in the tavern began to shuffle toward the fireplace. I picked up my stew and stein and followed him over. I sat in a hand-carved wooden chair with an eye carved into the back. An assortment of men and women sat around the fire with their bowls and mugs. Some were dressed in flannels, others wore rough-cut deer-hide jackets. Some had dirty hair tied back in bandanas, others overgrown beards. Lionel smoked from a pipe. The fire danced and burned.

“It’s no surprise to be seein’ so many of you tonight, on the eve of another storm. You’d all do best not to challenge her.” 

“Aye,” said members of the crowd.

“Matter of fact, last time a blizzard like this came around was the night Gabriel arrived. He swore to us at this very fire that through his trek in the woods he’d laid eyes on the Lady of Ice.” 

“I’m sorry, who?” 

“They say there’s a spirit that walks these woods come winter, up along the Dragon’s Spine, from its steep teeth to the spikes in its tail. Matia Darvell was her name. She used to live here. Centuries ago, she and her fiancé, Vincent, along with other colonists, were some of the first to move into this forest. They ran a bakery together. It’s one of the oldest buildings in town  that’s still used. No one in this lot has been gifted sight of her. Not even I. Not yet, anyhow.”

“But Gabriel saw her?”

“He claimed he did.”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s a beautiful woman with long, dark hair. She’s draped in white. She walks in the boots she died in, but she leaves no trail. And to cover her eyes, she wears a – ”

“A white shawl?” 

In a stunned silence, all of the villager’s eyes shifted to me. 

“You’ve seen her, too.”    

“I…I saw…something…someone…”

“Where?” 

“Below the Osiris welcome sign, when I was walking into town.”

“What was she doing?”

“I thought… I thought I heard her crying.”

“And her skin...was it––”

“Blue?” 

“Yes. Extraordinary,” he said. “Why Matia has been seen by your fiancé, and then you, I know not. Perhaps it’s wise I confide to you her story. It’s not a shawl she wears – she dons a veil.” 

( Fiddler breaks in…Melody… 

And then Lionel sings, and the fiddler accompanies… ) 

There once were two lovers, born in lands afar,

who met as they sailed o’er the sea.

Together they crossed, led by stars, sharing hands,  

ashore, he knelt down on one knee. 

For so long they’d wandered, so cold and alone.

together they’d call this their home.

One morn’ he set out, ‘fore the sun ever rose, 

to gather up wood for their fires.

But ne’er did he bake from their oven again,

Ne’er could his body be found.

The sermon of marriage, she never would hear,

but still she searched on, ‘round the Spine. 

Leaves reddened and fell, birds flew high, sun was lost,

Hope snarled and poisoned her mind. 

The snowfall came down and made silent the woods,

So she could make clear of his cries, 

Frosts curled, winds whistled, the snow paid respects, 

and draped a white veil o’er her eyes.

Her lantern did fade and she wept all alone, 

she’d tried, and she felt her heart tear. 

And once her tears froze and her fair skin had blued, 

the blizzard swallowed her whole. 

Come end of the year, keep far from her range, 

or fear to be lost and consumed.

When the Lady of Ice mourns on a winter’s night, 

blizzards stir as she weeps through her veil. 

Forever she’ll wander, so cold and alone, 

and mourn for the heart she called home.

But when her cold corpse tires, spent, and she calms,

The tempests ease back for the day,

She hearkens again, for her lost not yet found, 

Her frozen feet move on a’gain.

The window panes rattled in the blaring wind.

“She’s nearing,” Lionel said. “Off with you, you lot. Until tomorrow.” 

The villagers cleared the fire and put on their coats and fur hats. Many nodded to me as they left Jackal’s Tavern. 

“Your eyes are heavy, Thalia. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to meet all of our townspeople throughout your stay. But for now, let me show you to your room.” 

I had forgotten how tired I was.  I yawned as I followed Lionel. 

Lionel took a lantern and led me up the stairs that were beside the bar to the top floor.  

My room was short and narrow, with a steeply vaulted ceiling that had been shaped by the slant of the roof. The walls, roof and floors were of bare wood, and there was a small braided rug in the center of the room. A twin bed with quilt draped over it was tucked into the corner of the room, next to a cast iron radiator. The rest was furnished with an armoire, a nightstand with a milk glass lamp and a desk beside a window, through which the swirling snow was visible. 

There was a duffle bag on top of the bed. I recognized it immediately. I’d had his initials embossed on the leather luggage tag. 

“I gave him this last Christmas…”

“Maybe he’s on his way back,” said Lionel. “Get some rest, Thalia.”

I locked the door after he left, climbed under the covers and shut my eyes. The windows shook. The wind howled. 

The Lady of Ice’s heart was aching again, in time with mine. 

***