A firm hand on Zachary’s shoulder halts their movement. The storyteller leans closer.
“In the heavens, the stars sighed, twinkling and fretting. They asked the moon her advice. The moon in turn called upon the parliament of owls to decide how best to proceed.”
Somewhere in the darkness the sound of wings beating, close and heavy, moving the air around them.
“The parliament of owls convened and discussed the matter amongst themselves night after night. They argued and debated while the world slept around them, and the world continued to turn, unaware that such important matters were under discussion while it slumbered.”
In the darkness a hand guides Zachary’s own to a doorknob. Zachary turns it and the door opens. In front of him he thinks he sees a sliver of a crescent moon and then it vanishes.
“The parliament of owls came to the logical conclusion that if the problem was in the combination, one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important.”
A hand pushes Zachary forward. A door closes behind him. He wonders if he has been left alone but then the story continues, the voice moving around him in the darkness.
“The parliament of owls told their decision to the stars and the stars agreed. The moon did not, but on this night she was dark and could not offer her opinion.”
Here Zachary remembers, vividly, the moon disappearing in front of his eyes a moment before as the story continues.
“So it was decided, and Fate was pulled apart. Ripped into pieces by beaks and claws. Fate’s screams echoed through the deepest corners and the highest heavens but no one dared to intervene save for a small brave mouse who snuck into the fray, creeping unnoticed through the blood and bone and feathers, and took Fate’s heart and kept it safe.”
Now a mouselike movement scurries up Zachary’s arm and over his shoulder. He shivers. The movement stops over his heart and the weight of a hand rests there a moment before lifting again. A long pause follows.
“When the furor died down there was nothing else left of Fate.”
A gloved hand settles over Zachary’s eyes, the darkness grows warmer and darker, the voice closer now.
“The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great sight, greater sight than any that had been granted to a mortal creature before. The parliament crowned him the Owl King.”
The hand remains over Zachary’s eyes but another rests briefly on the top of his head, a momentary weight.
“In the heavens the stars sparkled with relief but the moon was full of sorrow.”
Another pause here. A long one, and in the silence Zachary can hear his breathing along with the storyteller’s. The hand does not leave his eyes. The scent of leather mingles with lemon and tobacco and sweat. He is beginning to get nervous when the story continues.
“And so Time goes on as it should and events that were once fated to happen are left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long.”
The storyteller guides Zachary to the right, moving him forward again.
“But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.”
Here they stop.
“Occasionally Fate can pull itself together again.”
The sound of a door opening in front of him, and Zachary is guided forward again.
“And Time is always waiting,” the voice whispers, a warm breath against Zachary’s neck.
The hand that had been covering Zachary’s eyes lifts and a door clicks shut behind him. Blinking against the light, his heart pounding in his ears, he looks around to find himself back in the hotel lobby, in a corner half hidden by a potted palm.
The door behind him is locked.
Something hits his ankle and he looks down to find a fluffy grey-and-white cat rubbing its head against his leg.
He reaches down to pet it and only then does Zachary realize that his hands are shaking. The cat does not appear to mind. She stays with him for a moment and then walks off into the shadows.
Zachary heads back to the bar, still deep in story daze. He tries to remember if he has heard this particular tale before but he cannot despite the fact that it feels familiar, like a myth he read somewhere and subsequently forgot. The bartender mixes him another Drowning Ophelia but apologizes as they’ve run out of the fennel syrup. He has substituted honey and added a prosecco float. It’s better with the honey.
Zachary looks around for the woman dressed as Max but he cannot find her.