A Tale of Two Cities, October 25th of 1948

“Why . . . is everything . . . so stinking . . . difficult . . . in . . . Alaska?” Reverend Hugh Gregory complained between gasping breaths. He was hiking, as he had every day since arriving in Birbour, to visit the locals. The rain pooled in his shoes, completely soaking his socks as it ran into and over them. The weather was fighting his mission, Gregory speculated, and was trying to sweep him back into the ocean. The steady incline of twenty or so degrees proved easy enough the first day, but as the weather continued to sour so did the Reverend’s attitude toward travel. 

But his conviction stayed firm.

The orange light of a lantern cut through the gloomy weather as he turned around the first pinnacle of Birbour’s switch-backed street. All of Birbour existed around this street as it snaked upward from the docks to the edge of the Plyset Forest, which is the area that collars the entirety of the Plyset Mountains. The post office lay inside the curve of the second bend, just ahead of Gregory. As the wind howled, tossing the Reverend’s flowing vestments wildly about, he hurried atop the office’s stoop and into the relative safety of the building. 

The door chimed as it closed. The Reverend placed his trilby upon a stand beside the door. 

“Good morning, stranger!” A cheery, musical voice greeted the Reverend.

He almost jumped, suppressing his nerves. The men and women between here and the dock, those that he had already visited, were usually old, heavily accented, and left much to be desired in terms of friendliness. It was obvious that visitors were rare and unwelcome in Birbour. 

The Reverend faced the sound—a woman with bright blue eyes, long red hair pulled into a tight bun, and sharp facial features. Her thin, pale pink lips were spread in a dazzling white smile, her hand held up in a half wave. It was her voice that caught Gregory so off guard . . . it was full of hospitality and warmth . . . the kind that you find on southern nights in the bayou. The drip of rushing water as your line first breaks the swamp’s surface, the hum of cicadas, the singing of birds, and—to the Reverend’s discomfort—the beauty of twinkling fireflies.

He was instantly back home to a place that he didn’t want to revisit. 

He could almost hear, almost smell, almost see . . . her.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m-”

“That Reverend folks have been talking about?” The woman interrupted. 

Gregory nodded. “Y-yeah. That’d be me.”

Her brow crinkled in confusion. “You all right, Pastor? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I-”

“Well, we don’t take too kindly to ghosts out here. Too many roam the Alaskan coast. We don’t need any more.”

He stared at her with his mouth open. 

She frowned, then started laughing hysterically. “Haha! I’m just messing with you, what can I do you for, Reverend? Looking to send a letter?” She gestured to the counter that she stood behind. “Maybe read a little of our local lore?” She motioned to a side room full of well organized books. “Or to bid farewell to the past?” She threw her thumb over her shoulder, indicating a stairway that led down to a basement. 

Gregory hesitated. “I-I apologize. I just wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome.” He smiled weakly. 

The woman beamed. “The folks here will get used to you, Reverend. Don’t pay them any mind, they aren’t ones for first impressions, but I can tell that they like you well enough.”

“I understand,” he fought his urge to run and joined her at the counter. The room was warmer toward its center, but the woman still shivered slightly. “You run all this yourself? That’s quite admirable.”

She nodded. “That I do. I’m the postwoman, archivist, and mortician.”

Gregory raised his brow. “That’s quite the resume. How did you get roped into all that?”

“Oh, my father owned the post office before me. He passed away ten years ago and I took over. My mother was the local doctor and mortician, so I picked up her profession as well. As for my little collection of books? That’s my own project. I’ve always had a passion for literature, especially history. It took a while to collect them all though.”

“How large is your collection?” Gregory asked, strolling toward the door to the archives. The woman followed him closely. 

“I’ve got around five hundred articles, journals, newspaper clippings, and reference books. Not much in the way of fiction, though. Folks around here live a fantasy, they don’t need to read one.”

“Hah! Fair enough. This is quite the library. Did you source it all from Juneau?” The Reverend observed various papers and posters strewn across a side desk. Picking one up, he thumbed the brittle page.

The woman placed her hand on his, pushing it gently back down to the table. The Reverend’s cheeks grew hot. 

“I ask that you look, but do not touch,” she chided softly. 

Gregory nodded. 

“Apologies,” he whispered weakly. 

“As for your question, I collected them from here. In the early days of the archives, I visited almost every family in Birbour and asked for donations. You’d be surprised how much literature folks have tucked away in their cabins.”

  The Reverend backed away from her, moving instead to some posters that were tacked to the wall. The black and white papers were covered in printing-press text, bold and slightly smeared as if pushed out in a hurry. 

“Does Birbour have a newspaper?” He asked.

She watched Gregory closely. “We used to. It was shut down by Rottenburough some time ago.”

“I see . . .” Something on the wall caught the Reverend’s eye. A block poster with the lettering practically illegible, but upon the middle of the page was, in a bold box, what appeared to be a blurry photograph of a large, hairy man. “Is that a native?” He asked. 

The woman paused, following his eyes to the poster, and then covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle. “Heavens no! That’s a local legend around here. A creature called Nantiinaq. An anonymous photographer turned in this picture some years ago. Of course, the newspaper had a fun run with it. For a few weeks they incited fear and made a small fortune. I think it’s fake though. Just a man in a suit.”

 “You have to love the press,” the Reverend commented sarcastically. Similar stories and events were common in the bayou. City-slickers loved a good monster story. 

“Speak for yourself,” she replied. 

Turning to his host, the Reverend realized that he had neglected to ask her name. “Apologies for the half introduction, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Don’t worry about it! I can come on a little strong . . . or so Mirabell says. I’m Iris Henness, local all-rounder and dutiful postwoman.” She extended her hand and Gregory shook it carefully. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise!”

The handshake held for a little longer than it should’ve. 

The entry bell chimed and brought a brief interlude of rain and thunder as the front door opened and closed. 

“Oh! Lucky me, two customers in one day!” Iris exclaimed nervously, retracting her hand and rushing off to the front. 

A man greeted her. “Good morning. I’m Doctor Malone Trenton. Is the postmaster in?”

The Reverend followed Iris. She was back behind the counter, hands on her hips. In the doorway stood the Doctor, soaked from head to toe by the storm. He was shaking out possibly the most ineffective umbrella in all of Alaska. 

“That’d be me, thank you,” she responded bluntly. 

Trenton’s eyes widened with surprise and he coughed slightly. “O-oh. Excuse me. I didn’t intend any disrespect, I am just unaccustomed to-”

“Business owners? Females? Or the fairer sex in general?” Iris cut him off indignantly. 

“I-I didn’t mean any-”

She held up a hand to silence him. “Can it. What’s your business?”

The Reverend suppressed a chuckle. He must’ve made quite a fair impression compared to the poor Doctor. Whether or not Trenton’s accused sexism was on display or his question was simply borne from ignorance, Gregory could never be sure, but it was evident that his attitude struck Iris sorely. 

The Doctor replied carefully, “I’m simply hoping to send a letter,” his eyes drifted to the Reverend, who stood in the doorway to the archives. “Oh. You again . . .” 

His deflated shoulders, bagged and reddened eyes, all paired with the gentle aroma of stiff drink told the Reverend that the Doctor’s troubles had begun well before entering the post. 

“Are you all right, Trenton?” He asked. 

The Doctor’s eyes were foggy and his expression distant. “Yes, Pastor. I’m fine. Just here to send a letter back home.”

“Letters are shipped once a month, Doctor, and you missed the last export by a week at the least,” Iris commented, her tone softening as she too noticed Trenton’s troubled state. She quickly added, “But I’ll be sure to place your letter at the highest priority.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He gave her a white-sealed letter, which she tucked into a cubby behind the counter. 

Iris’ blue eyes swam from the Reverend to the Doctor and then back again. “You two arrived together, right? On the M.M.S. Monet?”

“We did,” the Reverend replied. 

She frowned scrupulously. “Is that so?” She hummed to herself softly. “Did you two travel together purposefully?”

“No. Quite by accident,” the Doctor responded a little too eagerly. 

The Reverend frowned. 

“Oh. Ironic that you shared such an obscure destination.”

“And completely unplanned, I assure you,” the Doctor was quick to the draw, obviously offended to be associated with a man of the cloth. 

“Unplanned, but not by accident!” The Reverend smiled. 

Doctor Trenton turned to address Gregory. “What you account to a higher power, I account to myself. You made your decision to come here, I made mine. There was one boat out of Juneau—and that was that. No hand of God required.”

Unfazed, the Reverend responded simply, “The hand of God acts through the hands of men, oftentimes, and He’s playing chess while you’re stuck playing checkers.”

Trenton rolled his eyes. 

“Fate, huh?” Iris mumbled absently. 

Ignoring her, the Doctor strolled past the Reverend. “Is this the Birbour archives? Mirabell seemed quite fond of them.” He walked into the library and plucked a book off a shelf. Gregory and Iris followed him in. 

“Please do not touch my books, Doctor,” Iris stated plainly, taking it from him hastily.

“What’s the point of knowledge if you’re not going to use it?” He replied, flabbergasted.  

She shook her head, returning the book to its place gingerly. “Most of my collection is old and brittle. If you plan on reading something just ask. Don’t mistake the archives as your property to do with as you wish.”

“I understand. My apologies . . .”

Iris’ demeanor softened. “It’s all right.”

“You seem to be lacking tact, my friend. What’s got that scientific mind of yours so discombobulated?” The Reverend inquired, watching the Doctor’s body language carefully. He was swaying as if drunk or perhaps sleepless. Something had obviously shaken him. 

Doctor Trenton found a lounge chair tucked away in the corner, took a seat, and placed his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes vigorously. “Do you remember Mirabell mentioning that my colleague Adam has disappeared?”

“I do,” the Reverend leaned against a bookshelf, not noticing Iris’ curious glance. 

“The kooky meteorologist? I remember hearing about him from Morgan Muller. The poor fellow has had an ill attitude since that scientist vanished,” Iris added. 

“Quite . . . I had a meeting with Sheriff Boris Osipov the day after our arrival. He let me read Adam’s journal . . . or, rather, what remains of it.” He procured Adam’s supposed final memoir and passed it to the Reverend, who flipped through it quickly only to stop on the last page. It read the following;

Those were not fireflies.

“Well, that’s . . . concerning.” The Reverend passed the novella to Iris, who mirrored his concern for its last entry. 

“Exactly,” Trenton stated, “I fear that my friend has met a grisly fate, but Sheriff Boris assures me that there is no evidence to suggest foul play. He and a few of the locals searched up and down the Tempor Stream after finding Adam’s dinghy at the docks, but turned up nothing. No trail. No tracks. Not so much as the campsite at which Adam last stayed. Nothing.”

“Ah . . . the loss of a loved one can be quite daunting,” Gregory mused, “God leaves the good things to us for such a short time-”

“Nevertheless,” Doctor Trenton interrupted him, holding up a halting hand, “I plan to find him. Adam and I have known each other since university, and, to be frank, I don’t think our story ends here. I must remain optimistic. All fantasies of savage natives and bears aside, Adam Peterson must be alive. I am sure of it! And I will find him!” He leaned forward intensely, almost propelling himself to his feet, but swaggered back into the chair exhaustedly. 

Iris and Gregory exchanged a quick and cautious glance. 

“Do you have any leads?” Iris asked. 

“No,” Trenton responded. 

“Perhaps our dear mortician, postwoman, and archivist here can help with that?” The Reverend recommended, gesturing to Iris flatteringly.  

She smiled, cheeks slightly pink, but said nothing. 

“That’s quite the resume,” the Doctor stated.

“That’s what I said!” Gregory exclaimed. 

“All the same, that’s what I was hoping when I heard of this little collection,” he waved his hands to indicate the room, “Could I make use of it? I need to familiarize myself with the locals, customs, and geography if I am to properly search for Adam.”

Iris sighed heavily. “I suppose I can allow that—under my close supervision, of course. However, you should know, Doctor, that a large percentage of the archives revolves around family history and pedigrees, land writs, et cetera.”

“Ugh!” Trenton grumbled, burying his face in his hands. “I have no use for family secrets . . .”

Irish placed her hands on her hips once again. “Is that so? Have you no family of your own?”

“Of course I do! My mother lived in New York, passing away only a few years ago, but my father I know only his name, one Franklin Lower.”

Gregory almost fell over, slumping against the bookshelf and causing Iris to gasp loudly, reaching for him as if to catch him. The response was so projected, so dramatic, that even the swaggered Doctor stood to assist him. 

“Pastor, what in the world is the matter?!” Trenton blurted. 

“You say your father’s name is Franklin Lower? Is this him?” Gregory reached into his vestments, pulling out a folded piece of leather and flipping it open. Within was a spot for a picture and, tucked within four little folds, sat the crinkled portrait of Gregory’s family. A beautiful woman with long, dark hair sat before a tall, strong-looking man with narrow eyes and a harrowing mustache. A little boy stood in front of the pair, looking like a shrunken version of the Reverend. 

Doctor Trenton’s mouth fell open, staring at the picture and then up to Gregory. “Oh, dear God . . .”

Iris looked between the two men as they separated. The Doctor returned to his lounge chair and the Reverend began pacing across the opposite end of the room. 

Malone Trenton pulled out his personal journal, burying his nose in its pages and distracting himself with the study of diligent notes, adding diagrams and possible theses for ecological studies long since started. For a moment, the thought of Adam Peterson wandering the Plyset Mountains or, worse yet, digesting within the intestines of some deranged bear or native were for now drowned out by a very unfortunate realization. 

As for the Reverend Hugh Gregory, he procured a small leather-bound Bible and began reading Psalm 118 aloud. It was a song of joy, thanksgiving, and blessing. As he paced, giving thanks to his Lord, his lips were curled upward in a half smile, his heart fluttering like a butterfly in spring. In his mind, though, he remembered lonely nights out in the bayou. Regardless of the past, present, and in total regard to the future, he was overjoyed by such a wonderful revelation. 

The two men struck Iris as two cities, one of pure faith and one of pure science, two that could never be more different, but as she realized what had just happened, her mouth dropped. “Wait! You two are brothers?!”

Trenton groaned. 

Gregory laughed.