Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

      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.