Den of Smoke

by Christopher Byford

  The clearing crews that he was managing were a grand bunch of labourers, hardy and reliable. When word was out that he needed some good people who could handle a job this size, numerous contractors approached him. Their rates were pleasantly low and the work could, admittedly, be done much cheaper, but something Cole said lingered with him. Something about surviving in the Sand Sea.

  Instead of scraping up the dregs, Jack ensured that the crew was comprised of Settler folk. Not only that, he ensured they were fed appropriately and assigned decent living quarters. It made his investment more pricy of course. The small village that was built outside for those working the site was an expense anyway but a little extra wasn’t something Jack implied that was up for negotiation. They deserved to carry out their roles with dignity.

  ‘I’ll buy drinks for my crews tonight out of thanks,’ he stated.

  ‘Be careful not to ruin their good work. Hangovers do little for productivity,’ she warned. Franco quirked a brow at the situation, in clear opposition.

  ‘I keep telling you, those under me are on schedule,’ Jack protested. ‘Clean-up is going well. The welders are maintaining speed. Even the excavation crew who are landscaping the caves at the bow are doing well despite the heart in there. Check the shift boards once in a while. They’re covered in green. Green is good. Green means on target. Green is, the last time I checked, not red.’

  ‘And I would hate for that to change on account of a piss-up –’

  ‘Have a little faith, Misu,’ Franco stated, ending any further debate. ‘Better to leave him to it. Jack knows what he’s doing.’

  Misu swallowed down her objection until her fiery words fizzled to naught inside.

  ‘You two playing nice … whatever did I do to deserve such chaos?’ The woman smirked in defeat.

  ‘We don’t have that much time, dear,’ Franco stated as if the cause was blindingly obvious. Misu playfully landed a punch upon Franco’s arm, having him bob back momentarily from the force. The moxie was interrupted by someone from the lowest part of the new atrium, calling to the three with a copper bullhorn to the lips.

  Corinne, substituting her show attire for something less lacy and more hardy, had insisted on getting her hands dirty during the vehicle’s renovation. In fact, all of the showgirls had found themselves roles, insisting that they do what they could to turn the sand ship into something grander. Their input was considered in all aspects and, for the most part, included. Individual unique flairs were being integrated into the very plans of the build, something Misu was exceptionally proud of.

  ‘Franco! They’ve all finished off-loading outside – the loaders are ready to bring her in. What do you want to do?’

  Misu’s eyes bulged in delight.

  ‘Get everyone gathered by the doors,’ Franco called out through a bullhorn of his own, loud enough to ensure he was heard. ‘Pull the whistle. I want everyone to down tools. Not a soul gets to miss this,’ he ordered. The cone was put back down and immediately he locked eyes with Misu.

  ‘Is it time?’ she eagerly asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  A signal whistle blew twice at full pitch, indicating the request for an assembly. A flock of finches that had found their way inside in the recess burst upwards and into the sky, chattering in alarm. The hammering stopped. The sawing gave way to silence. Franco excitedly claimed his suit jacket and buttoned it up. This was a moment that he and, indeed, many others had been waiting for since its conception.

  He withdrew some paperwork from his desk, before having to return a second time to claim his well-used pocket watch. Misu stopped him from hurrying to the elevators by placing both hands upon his person. She quickly yanked away his jacket collar, flattening the lapel straight where it was previously folded against his neck. When done the woman rose upon her toes and lightly pecked his lips, before grinning as if his excitement was contagious.

  They ran hand in hand, passing the elevators at speed and rushing to the stairwell, thundering down the flights of stairs like love-smitten teenagers. Every floor was met with whoops and laughter before reaching the bottom.

  As they raced out into the lobby, Jack, who had taken the elevator instead, found himself bemused at the pair’s antics. Expensive shoes skidded to a stop, their owners flushed and sunny, before noticing that things had become deathly quiet. There was not a stray word to pierce the atmosphere that had swelled with expectation.

  Franco inhaled a deep breath to steady himself and exhaled it loudly. Misu hooked an arm around his, whilst the black hair fell over her eyes, having become wild on account of their speed. Jack put himself alongside them and together they walked inside, passing the frames of new fortune; the lounges. The casino. The bars. The theatre and more, all of them yet to be completed and flourish. Skeletons of decorations were in place, some more complete than others, spectres of grand ambitions that required the work of all three of them to realize. Of majesty yet to pass.

  The lobby was swamped with every person on site, every contractor of every role. They all stood aside, a mass of onlookers waiting expectantly. A number had climbed upon the scaffolding for a better view of proceedings rather than jostle or have to compete with someone taller than they.

  And within that collection of people it was as if two lines cleaved the collection in twain and split it, to allow the trio passage through. The showgirls of the Morning Star and its driver were a static procession, saying nothing but instead politely bowing, most swollen with emotion. Each one had put the time and the work in to be considered as much as the show as the vehicles that had carried them across the region. Without each one of these individuals, there would be no show and the train that pulled them commonplace. They were a family thrust together out of a desire for something once individually believed to be unobtainable; Freedom. Glory. Desire. Ambition. Now each woman who stood shoulder to shoulder to witness this was the very authority on what one’s heart desired, even if their owner was not fully aware of this.

  The reception led them to the cargo bay doors, which were yet to be converted into something more practical. At the moment they served their purpose, passing pallets of materials.

  The owners of the Morning Star and the former career criminal took their places before them.

  Misu held her partner’s arm tighter. Franco placed a hand upon hers, equally sincere.

  ‘Open it up,’ Franco called.

  The inner cargo bay doors were unbolted, their large pins dislodging from their housing with echoing shunts. A rush of warm desert air moved through the interior, met by daylight bleeding across the floor and washing them each in luminescence. The azure desert sky was beautiful, only partially obstructed by a single wisp of white. The outer ramp had already been extended and reinforced, leading to a storage yard, providing a perfect space for materials yet to be utilized in the renovation.

  Before them, eight muscular draught horses who hauled pallets and trucks in the yard itself were reined up together, cladded in collars to share the burden of the colossal weight of their load behind. They were bound together to a large flatbed truck, designed for moving large quantities of goods – or in this case, modified to accommodate machinery. And what a load it was.

  Sitting in the daylight, old, beaten and peppered with holes, was a colossal heap of what some would call scrap. Some might declare it as an eyesore. The naive might even court it as being fit only for scrap yet everyone inside knew better. Its sight was enough to send some in attendance spluttering into tears, a number embracing one another. It was the corpse of a train, its boiler split with internal piping sprayed out like stretched fingers on a hand. The once brilliant patina was worn almost to nothing, exposing the various layers of paint to the bare metal. Despite this, its appearance was difficult to accept.

  The battered remains of the first show train Franco had utilized, the Gambler’s Den, was pulled inside, out of the harsh desert climate. All the while it was given insurmountable respect, a hushed reverence reserved only for
a funeral. The atmosphere was fitting being that it had been years since the wreckage of the Gambler’s Den was left trackside after it had slipped the tracks and its boiler had exploded. It hadn’t been long enough to prevent the sting of the criminal Wilheim Fort parading the debris about as a cruel trophy of his undertaking. The past could remain there though, for none of that mattered since the vehicle had been reclaimed for good.

  Misu wiped her eyes, overcome. Her years of work as Franco’s second urged sentiment, with not an inconsiderable amount of guilt, seeing that she was responsible for the original show’s destruction in the first place. The showgirls were just as overcome. Prayers to the Holy Sorceress were spoken. Words of love were mumbled to oneself and others. Tears flowed, the experience simply too much for some.

  Franco, apt at holding bothersome sensations behind a stony façade or jokey showman persona, depending on the situation, broke his tradition as he stepped aside as the horses passed. Even someone as stoic as him was moved at being in the vehicle’s presence again.

  ‘I distinctly remember voting against cluttering up the lobby with this,’ Jackdaw declared, frowning as he recalled the proposal for the Gambler’s Den inclusion.

  ‘You did. And you were outnumbered in the count. Two to one if my memory serves.’ Franco beamed, in danger of releasing a rolling tear down a cheek.

  ‘I did say I would get it back. A shame that it looks like trash, but there you go. Promise kept.’

  ‘Oh yes indeed it does,’ Misu said, resting her head on Franco’s shoulder and brushing her tears into it, careful not to catch herself on a silver lapel pin depicting a stag’s head. ‘Our beautiful piece of trash. And she’s finally home. Thank you.’ Franco squeezed her in reassurance.

  ‘Humour me a moment. People unanimously declare the Morning Star the greatest show that ever existed, if we put anything in here, it should be that,’ Jackdaw contested once more.

  ‘The Gambler’s Den serves as a souvenir of history, both to us and the good people who will be enjoying our hospitality. To see this beauty every day … it’ll remind everybody walking through our doors of where our journey started. The first footfall in an undertaking. It will be an acorn placed before a grand oak tree. Sure, it’s broken down, beaten, damaged and seen its fair share of violence.’ Franco smirked. ‘But it’s apt … don’t you think?’

  Jackdaw shrugged quite nonchalantly. It had been quite the undertaking to retrieve the wreck from its resting place, requiring the good grace of the regional marshal and not a small amount of negotiation – or money.

  ‘Your memento of the past has put a sizable dent in the costs this month,’ Jack flatly replied.

  ‘Don’t speak like that, not no more.’ Franco waved his hand in the air in defiance. ‘We’ve had months of grey-faced chats about figures and costs. You’re not just the moneyman behind all this, we can put that to bed right now. You didn’t obtain the Messiah, nor make this offer of going into business to just line your pockets. You didn’t propose to bring the Den back to gain leverage with us. You’re no crook. You were once – I’ll shower you with that title when describing that time – but in the here and now, you’re something else.’

  ‘Do enlighten me.’ Jackdaw folded his arms defensively awaiting an answer from Franco but it was Misu who provided the reply.

  ‘Why, family, of course. You’re one of us now, Jack. Your days of being an outlaw are long gone; you stopped running and didn’t even realize it. We’re everything you’ve been looking for. Security. Trust. I have some experience in watching these things from afar, all whilst doing wrong, or making decisions that will burn later. I can recognize it even in others. Let me give you a little advice, darlin’: stop looking elsewhere. Your future is right in front of you.’ Misu trailed her fingers over an arm upon passing, her eyes harbouring mischievous sparkles. She slinked on past, welcomed by the showgirls who spoke with relief, a number embracing her tightly.

  ‘She’s a stubborn woman at the best of times. Tends to be considerably more so when she’s right,’ Franco added, sporting a smile in challenge. He slapped Jackdaw on the back and went to join the others in the celebration.

  Jackdaw watched and eventually relented. There was no point in arguing with the pair, especially Misu, for Jack had learnt that she was a tough negotiator in the past and that skill had only grown. The most difficult part was accepting that they were right. The months working together had created a bond that he had never consciously erected out of fear of being cruelly exploited. Jackdaw had lived looking over his shoulder for what felt like an eternity with the Jackrabbits, living his life always expecting betrayal from some unseen facet. His youth had been forged in the fire of necessity, a colossal part of his character and now, when the time had come where such a blaze could be extinguished, he faltered. For all things leave a void when they’re removed and need to be filled with something, for better or worse. Maybe now was the time to let it all go. To seal that void with something better that had poisoned him and live his days how he liked.

  The man who Jackdaw inherited his name from would have preferred that.

  Jackdaw had had enough of conflict and wrongdoing. The group before him were solidified in embraces and cheer. Finally, he perked up his ears to the warm sentiment shared before him from person to person. He listened to freedom calling.

  ‘Well? What are we all waiting for, more hugs? Let’s get her in place and see how the bloody thing looks. We’ve got a ship to do up after all.’ He waved to the loaders, encouraging them to get busy and then paused for a moment, mimicking Franco and Misu’s shared grins before finally adding: ‘And I’ll settle for it being a phenomenon for the ages. Nothing less.’

  Acknowledgements

  I’ve never been a big believer in fate. I’m a free-will sort of a guy. I like to think that actions directly influence consequences, and that we are masters of our own destinies with whatever we decide to do or not do. The idea of things being predetermined simply doesn’t sit right with me.

  That being said, I can’t help but wonder if Jackdaw’s conception was destiny giving me a nudge. Picture the scene. I’m at work one day. It’s that point in the mid-morning where a second round of tea becomes necessary. The guy I’m sitting next to, Stefan, is telling a story. The details are quite sketchy now as it’s been a couple of years since then, but it involved spending the night in some back alley restaurant whilst playing liars dice on holiday. I can’t remember the location. It was Istanbul, something like that at least. What I do remember vividly is my response.

  I nursed my tea and exclaimed that would make for a great introduction to a character in a book. Not a regular character though. A bad guy. A crook. A real nasty piece of work who survives doing bad things with other equally bad people. In fact, I even offered him to name such a character.

  ‘Jackdaw,’ he said with little pause, as if that name was waiting for that moment to spring into existence.

  Like I said. Destiny.

  From that point on, Jackdaw haunted my thoughts. Various revisions of DEN OF STARS saw significant changes, but Jackdaw remained one of the few constants. He never budged as the catalyst for Franco’s rescue and the more I explored his character, the more faith I had in that he could carry his own book. It seems like I was correct otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this now.

  Without Stefan, Jackdaw simply would not exist. It’s that simple.

  And I may not believe in fate but I do believe Stefan kick-started something, special enough to thank him at least. This is my attempt at doing so.

  All shows come to an end. That’s unavoidable. As those aboard the Morning Star take their final bows I wish to thank everyone who has been there from the beginning, who saw a spark of something and saw fit to witness its end. Thanks to the most important people in my life, my wife Emma and my son Abel. All this wouldn’t be possible without their love. Thanks to my family and friends who cheered me on, too numerous to name but no less special. A quick shout out to those
who influenced the series in whatever form it took, especially the ones who will never know of their contribution.

  My eternal gratitude to all those at HQ Digital, especially Helena and the champion that is Hannah. It’s one thing to put on a show. These people worked tirelessly to make it happen.

  I suppose the only thing to say now is that the show’s over, folks.

  You all best be on your way.

  About the Author

  CHRISTOPHER BYFORD was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done.

  In the last few years Chris has penned various tales, DEN OF SHADOWS & DEN OF STARS being his most prominent.

  Away from literary things, his interests include all things VW Campervans, gardening, photography, astronomy and chicken keeping.

  He finds talking about himself in the third person rather pedantic and could murder a cold pint of cider right about now.

  Also by Christopher Byford

  Den of Shadows

  Den of Stars

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