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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 dark, dripping to nothing.
Most of the carriage interiors exploded in light, pairs of doors slid open by the accompanying women who paraded out. They began to construct a multitude of games on the platform before them. Decks of cards were placed alongside piles of chips, whilst stools and chairs were laid out for backsides. One of the carriages threw up its windows, advertising a well-stocked bar.
The Hare swelled with delight, her smile fed by excited cheers, taking a respectful bow to all. The night sky cracked overhead with flashes illuminating the suffocating buildings around the tracks with reds and blues and greens. Pleasure dictated every word. The spectacle she created, her spectacle, was flawless. It had to be so.
‘I am the purveyor and licensee of all you see before you, every bottle you pour from, every dice you ask fortune of, every woman who deals from the pack. To you, I am charity. We are here to give you entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to put on a show of the highest accord. Landusk! Tonight, revelry is paramount! Tonight, your prayers have been answered! Give yourself time, and whet the appetites that the toil of work has subdued, until the morning stars themselves disappear!’
Explosions erupted overhead, a bevy of sparkle. Sparkle also punctuated the words with suitable bravado. The customers revelled as much as they allowed themselves to, relieving themselves of long-drawn monotony. Joyous singing spread across the train platform, washing over various games at the tables, and mixing with the striking of full glasses in cheer.
Poker and blackjack were played by the score, the curse of the hand sighed by some, fortune praised by others. Roulette balls skipped into pockets, with a cheer exploding from one particular patron who took a risky bet on Number 17. Record players croaked out crackling music, encouraging a score to leave their seats and dance with the first pretty, or indeed handsome, thing that met their eye. Celebration was in the air and the money, much like the booze, flowed without restraint.
The Hare was a disciple in the art of entertainment. Her time as an entertainer for one of the more seedy venues instilled a quality of pride in her profession. Of course the showgirls were employed for their smiles, but that was not all. Any woman has a pair of breasts, the Hare would lecture, but a woman is a powerful, bright being. If a woman was to entertain, she would need to do so with her entire heart. She encouraged each to use her charms, to smile when she needed to smile, to banter and dance and flirt as she deemed fit. When the cards were dealt to each player, every hand motion was delivered with utmost care. The Hare had taught them an art and her disciples had been perfect students.
It had only been a few months since the train was on the rails, as the venture was in its relative infancy, though the trade was more than familiar. The Morning Star, despite being shockingly new to observers with its dazzling, untarnished decor and patina knew the routine well. Those in its carriages had walked this walk before, and were already accustomed to their roles in this grand extravaganza. This life – this nomadic life of fulfilment – was not for everyone, but for its occupants this was normal. The Morning Star was home.
As the Hare sauntered between tables and chairs, she shook hands with the keen, embraced the joyful, and wished the luck of the dice to those who carried favour. She said the words people wanted to hear. Unbeknown to the listeners, they were pale recordings secretly devoid of enthusiasm, for her mind was elsewhere.
The Morning Star hosted a plethora of attractions to create brilliant escapism. The gaming tables did plenty to keep punters transfixed, but it would be impossible to rely merely on such things as losing one’s money only kept them in a seat for so long.
The Hare struck her hands together and called for everyone’s attention. When gained, she strode beside one of the carriages and waved her cane in the air.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, your consideration if you will. It is time to showcase a distraction. When the day comes to a close, prey once hidden in den and hovel believe themselves safe. But the night brings out its own hunters. At this hour it is only fitting that I introduce to you the Owl of the Morning Star.’
One of the accompanying women took her place alongside the host. She bowed in three directions, quite respectfully, a shock of shoulder-length tawny hair in bloom behind her mask. From inside the boxcar behind, a large length of wood was withdrawn, painted with brilliant white and black concentric swirls, its surface bearing the scars of previous damage. It was set up against the carriage side by an assistant who ensured the feet of the display were quite well anchored.
‘The Owl here is a hunter of the night. A sharp beak and sharper talons hide behind the beauty of its flight. These things are useless without prey,’ the Hare announced. The cane whipped around before her, its point settling upon one of the showgirls who waited a table with a round of drinks.
‘Little Mouse, if you would be so kind,’ the Hare requested.
The Mouse took her leave with an apology and a curtsey, navigating the chairs until accompanying the pair at the platform’s edge. She set herself flat against the board.
‘Your tools, if you please.’ The Hare stepped aside, letting the pair play out their act. With a snap, a collection of well-polished knives protruded between each of the Owl’s fingers, their perilous edges painted with light.
The patrons mumbled hushed concerns.
The Hare watched, never letting her expression slip, never giving an inkling of her thoughts.
The Owl whipped out her hands, letting the knives fly.
The blades embedded into wood, just inches from flesh, against thigh and forearm, by shoulder and shin. The thumps cracked the night, coaxing a number of loud inhalations. The resulting ovation was plentiful as expected, but this was a trick anyone could perform if they had the talent. More knives were launched, faster this time and seemingly with less care. More metal bit wood. Again the onlookers cheered.
For the finale a well-polished apple was drawn from between the folds of the Owl’s dress and paraded in hand to the onlookers. When content with the display, it was placed upon the Mouse’s dainty head, sitting quite neatly on the parting of chestnut hair.
The Mouse did not flinch, as mice do when threatened. She remained perfectly still and patiently waited for the danger to pass.
The Owl slipped the final three knives from within her apparel and had them take to the air above, spinning over and over in a juggle. Faster the rotations came as she checked her line of sight to the Mouse with occasional glances, the sheens of metal now flashing dangerously as they cut light from the station gas lamps.
With a flick of the hand, the first knife slammed to the left of the apple to a cacophony of gasps, touching though not cutting the fruit’s flesh. Those who had covered their eyes withdrew their hands just in time to witness the second knife being launched just as quickly, hitting wood like a crack of thunder, this time on the opposite side of the apple. The motion coaxed the occasional shriek from the more nervous in their midst.
The last knife was thrown in the same beat. With an eruption of gasps the blade was launched through the air. It separated the piece of fruit in half and embedded itself into wood, its thud populating the space that silence had given way for.
The Mouse’s eyes relaxed behind her mask, fingers finally uncurling from clenched fists.
The resulting cheers were deafening. Applause thundered around the station, coupled with whistles of admiration. The Owl strode over to her prey with well-rehearsed pageantry. The knives were each removed and the Mouse’s hand raised with the Owl’s own in triumph. They each basked in the appreciation, though not enough to take the attention away from the host. The Hare gave a soft-palmed applause in congratulation, watching an influx of tips being stuffed into empty glasses or handed to the showgirls passing drinks between patron and bar.
Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.
The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.
‘Aha! Our gracious host! I wanted to extend our sincerest thanks for tonight, from my friends and I … It is a delight that you should visit us! I can’t remember when we had such a grand time.’ This praise was interrupted with a vomit-laden burp, not that it made any difference. ‘All are content, with the exception of my sour daughter Alis, sadly, but she is never one to be pleased.’
The Hare was expressionless, now focusing on the hay-haired pale young woman at the table’s end who blinked in surprise, clad in a quaint butterfly-peppered scarf. She stammered a broken defence.
The mask tilted to the side in question.
‘Boring, I think you said? Hm?’ The man slumped forward, in glee, suds spilling down the grooves of the glass and over his fingers.
The mask tilted again, to the opposite side now.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alis blurted out with a shudder, ‘but all this pizazz, this … this showmanship is hardly befitting of one who promises so much and delivers so little. I am allowed to be bored, as is my right.’ She crossed one leg over the other and turned in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
The gentleman whined, having seen this far too many times. He swilled his drink and wiped the remains with the back of his free hand.
‘The folly of youth, Miss Hare. I feel I should apologize for her. She uses all the long words – and at great length – when a single short one will do. She scoffs at your feats yet has the gall to praise that lacklustre carnival that traipsed through here some months back. I’m at a loss.’
‘Dear sir,’ the Hare said softly, ‘do not chastise one so young for having an opinion. She will grow and realize that all views warp and bend. She must be aware that all things have repercussions and whatever platform one elevates oneself upon are the foundations of ruin. Like you said, it is the folly of youth. We have all entertained the notion in our gentler years that we are above our betters. You are of course allowed to court boredom, and you are also allowed to leave.’
Alis flushed bright pink at the suggestion. ‘I have no reason to go anywhere.’
‘So you remain in my hospitality, quite rooted at this table despite your objections, and I need not wonder why this is so. It is because you wish to be heard above all things. You wish to shout louder so your views weigh more. You slight me to remove the attention from yourself, lashing out to displace whatever it is you wish to displace. You think your self-worth is measured in the burly attention you childishly demand.’
The Hare’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.
‘I forgive you, miss, for I assure you that we have all seen your kind before.’ She licked her lips slowly. ‘And we do very much tire of it.’
Flushed in face, Alis kicked her chair back, her lips tightly bound together in outrage. She stormed off, pausing momentarily to get her bearings and discover the exit, then marched in the relevant direction.
The man erupted in laughter, slamming the base of his glass against the table in jubilation. ‘She has no stomach, that girl. That’s what time away for education does to you. Leaves you with … with a head full of delusions.’
The Hare bowed modestly. ‘I apologize. I meant no offence to your party.’
‘Yes you did.’ The man grinned, gulping down the last of the golden liquid.
‘Yes,’ the Hare corrected, ‘I did.’
‘Will you join us?’
The Hare politely declined, explaining how others were to be conversed with, playfully adding that there were numerous other insults to administer. But before he allowed her to leave, he asked a burning question that had been of some interest to those around the table.
‘Please enlighten us, we have been talking about it endlessly. Everyone beneath you seems to showcase a talent! May I ask what yours is?’
The Hare paused, curious as to how to respond. The others at the table tried not to keep any sort of prolonged eye contact in fear of facing the Hare’s wrath.
‘I keep all what you see here ticking along. That is a special expertise in itself,’ she stated.
‘Nothing else?’ he drunkenly slurred.
The Hare tilted her head. It had been quite the time since someone had challenged her so brazenly and as was her nature, and the nature of all of those aboard the Morning Star, challenges were to be risen to. Without doing so, there would be a danger of word getting around that their most gracious host was bland in comparison to those in her employ. This, of course, would not do.
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.
