Dancers in the Rope Pub October 29th, 1948

“Oh, so that’s why it’s called the Rope Pub!”

“Haha! Yep, you betchya!” Iris Henness pulled the Reverend into a darkened room, her arm looped around his. He followed hesitantly, letting her lead him. The sight of her red hair, now in a messy bun, bouncing as she marched elated his spirits more than his surroundings.

The Rope Pub was a large, matte black building inside and out. Through its large wooden doors, the only remnants of its past as a storage barn, lay a dimly lit dance floor. The lighting was difficult to adjust to, but as his eyes did, the Reverend took note of the pub’s layout. To the left of the entrance was a bar that spanned the entire length of the wall. A shelved display rose to the ceiling behind it holding all manner of liquors, all of which were half empty or more.

The people of Birbour sure do love their drinks, Gregory thought, secretly wishing that he did as well.

The seating was sparse with only a few benches pressed against the other three walls. Behind the bar, on the corner opposite the main door, was another exit labeled with red paint as the bathroom. Tall tables for resting drinks were scattered throughout the building, and no seats were provided. The mismatched furniture was arranged so that a square section of the room’s center was cleared for dance. From the ceiling rafters crossed thick swaths of rope, the kind used on massive sea vessels, with electrical wiring and bulbs running along their length.

“Wow . . .” the Reverend breathed, mesmerized by the twinkling firefly bulbs as Iris led him onto the dance floor. A record player behind the bar played gentle music, the romantic sounds of Glenn Miller, Kay Kyser, and Bing Crosby. A few people mulled about, mostly at the bar or standing at tables, and the dance floor was completely vacant.

Iris stopped and the Reverend, in his absentminded state, bumped into her. She grabbed his arms and spun him softly.

“Woah there, big fella. Never been in a bar before?” She laughed.

The Reverend’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, uh, actually . . . no. No I have not.” He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. It was rare for him to dress in anything other than his pastoral vestment, but when Iris asked him to go out tonight, he scoured his trunk for some casual clothes, eventually settling on a leather jacket, plain shirt, and semi-formal dress pants. His shoes, however, were the same stiff dress shoes that he always donned. All of this unusual wardrobe paired with the new environment to put his hairs on end.

Iris’ eyes widened a little, her brow arching. “You can’t be serious?”

The Reverend looked away in embarrassment.

She pulled his cheek to face her gingerly, like one of her precious books. “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s a first time for everything.” She smiled reassuringly.

The Reverend returned a shy grin.

“Care to dance?” Iris asked as the record switched to a slow, lovely song about summer love.

“I probably shouldn’t,” he responded, “It’s not very priestly of me to even be here . . . let alone to dance.”

There was disappointment in his voice, Iris thought, and a certain longing to try it. She could tell that he liked the song and hoped, somewhat reasonably, that he felt similarly toward his company. “Hey, Hugh-”

His dark eyes, shrouded with bags and worry, stopped their searching and fell on her. “Yeah?” He whispered, unused to his own name.

She guided his hands to her sides and looped her own hands around his neck. “Why don’t you put the weight of the world away for a while? Hmm? Be here with me, just me, and show me you.”

Her eyes were pleading, the Reverend frozen in place. They had only known each other for a few days, spending most of their shared time in the archives with Trenton, but, on the frequent occasion that Iris needed reprieve from the Doctor’s arrogance, she’d join him on visitation. With her, the hike up and down Birbour’s only street was not nearly so daunting and the locals were much friendlier. In addition, the woman herself made pleasant company. Her family was southern, hailing from South Carolina, and her accent reminded Hugh of home. Iris’ crystal-blue eyes were oceans in and of themselves, telling stories reminiscent of Hugh’s time with Captain Malcolm traveling to her from Juneau. As he’d stand at the bow of the M.M.S. Monet, staring out over the frothy blue waves, he’d find himself completely overwhelmed with the love of God’s creation. Likewise, he felt similarly when looking at her.

“Okay,” he finally relented, and the two were off, swirling in slow circles around and around the dance floor. Her feet matched his as they discovered Hugh’s natural rhythmic aptitude. He led in a series of four, not so much concerned with the music as with the woman he now tightly held. She was positively breathtaking, glowing even in the dim light of the Rope Pub. As they twirled, the patrons of the bar abandoned their drinks to watch. Even the bartender, who was dutifully wiping the counter, paused to observe the spectacle.

The music swelled, increasing tempo as the two spun ever faster in ever more complex patterns, tossing each other to and fro like wild, elegant animals. As the last note vanished into the rafters, soaking into the wood and ropes, Hugh held Iris off her feet, her weight completely at his mercy, and the two stared into each other’s eyes. His were dark, foreboding, and full of emotion. Contrarily, hers were bright blue stars beneath a cascading fire.

They righted themselves as their audience applauded.

Hugh’s cheeks erupted into flames. “Oh, yes, well, that was-”

“Amazing?!” Iris exclaimed, latching onto him as she stumbled forward, perhaps purposefully. “Sorry! I’m still a little dizzy!” She pushed back from him. “You’re a natural! Are you sure you haven’t danced before?”

He had.

“Nope. Never,” Hugh shook his head, smiling broadly. His heart still danced, matching the rhythm in her chest. “I suppose it was beginner’s luck.”

“Beginner’s luck? Hah! And I’m nine feet tall.” Iris responded disbelievingly. She shook her head incredulously, smiling. “One way or the other, we’re definitely making this a regular thing.”

Hugh nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Hey, you two. That was quite the show you put on there,” the bartender called. “Come get a drink. We don’t get quality entertainment in Birbour often. Most people here wouldn’t know a half-step from a whole note.”

Exchanging grateful glances, the two approached the bar. The bartender was a monster of a man, at least a head taller than Hugh and twice as wide. Hair poked out from beneath a split collar, a beard spilled out across his front. His eyes were brown and his face was wrinkled from exposure like leather. Despite the gruff exterior, he offered a hospitable grin.

“I think that display is worth a few drinks,” he said while pulling two glasses off a rack. “Name’s Morgan. Morgan Muller.” Mr. Muller poured Iris and Hugh a drop of bourbon. Iris downed the shot without hesitation, Hugh pushed it away.

“I appreciate the gesture,” the Reverend slipped onto a bar stool, “But I don’t drink liquor . . . or anything else fermented, for that matter.”

Mr. Muller nodded. “A man of the cloth ought not to anyhow,” he said, taking the glass back and downing the caramel liquid himself. “Iris tells me you’re helping look for Adam?”

A man down the bar lifted his head from a drunken nap, cleared his throat, and slurred, “That’d be me . . .”

“Doctor Trenton! You look like death!” Iris exclaimed. She rushed off to check on him. “Mr. Muller, can you get him some water?”

“Water?!” Muller stifled a laugh. “In my bar? No, thank you!”

“I don’t need it,” Trenton straightened himself, puffing out his chest with pride. “I am a man and can hold my liquor!” He burped loudly.

Iris waved a thin hand before her nose and made a disgusted face. “Oh, Lord! Have you been drinking sewage or liquor?”

“Both!” Trenton slurred again, swaying as he burst into a fit of laughter.

Mr. Muller grunted disapprovingly.

The Reverend joined the Doctor and Archivist down the bar, the Bartender mirroring their movement across the counter.

“So you’re the investigator. I took you as just another drunkard seeking refuge Alaska, thinking they’d find peace in the wilderness out here as the Sheriff did,” Muller commented.

Trenton raised a finger to protest but shook his head. “I am here for science, my good man.”

“Then all hope is lost.” The Bartender's was was already set in a deep frown but, despite all laws of physics, it grew even deeper.

“Not at all!” Trenton objected. “I’ve been pouring over the archives all week while these two,” he gestured to Hugh and Iris, “flirted across town!”

They blushed, exchanging nervous glances, but did not respond.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Regardless, I have been fortunate in my findings.”

“What’ve you got? A lead?” Muller asked excitedly, remembering his fond conversations with Adam Peterson, the missing meteorologist and Trenton’s old college friend.

“All roads lead to one David Rottenburough. From the closing of the newspaper, the opening of the mine, and the disappearance of the natives . . . all of it points to him! I ought to march right up to his estate right now and . . . and . . .” As the alcohol reconquered his brief sobriety, Doctor Trenton lost consciousness, slamming his head against the bar as he descended into a dizzying slumber. Iris tried to catch him, but failed, curling into herself and gasping.

“Rottenburough?” Muller mumbled.

“Blaming other’s for your problems again, Muller?” A young man entered the bar followed by three others.

“No, Johnny.” Muller tensed up. “You boys here to cause trouble again?”

“I sure hope not,” the Reverend joked, extending a hand to the men as they approached. “I’m-”

“The bastard trying to steal my Iris?” The youngest of the group, barely a man and with short red hair, slapped his hand away.

“I am not your property, Matthew! I told you this already!” Iris stepped between Hugh and the men.

Matthew Flurry reached out to grab her, the stench of liquor pouring off him. It was the Reverend’s turn to intercept. He gently pulled Iris’ shoulders, placing her behind him and putting himself between Matthew and her.

“We don’t want any trouble, son, but I think Iris wants some space,” he stated, fighting a rising anger.

Iris huffed indignantly, pushing the Reverend to the side. His eyes opened wide with surprise. “I can handle a bar fight, Hugh!” She proudly proclaimed before smacking Matthew across the face. He was thrown to the side and the sound of skin-on-skin contact filled the bar as the record player scratched to a stop.

Hugh was stunned.

Trenton chuckled sleepily, mumbling something incomprehensible.

The other men, Matthew’s brothers, stared slack-jawed. As they regained their composure, each reddening in the face, they began to clench their fists.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Lucky Flurry, the second youngest, said.

“Bad idea,” Johnny Flurry, the oldest, chided.

“Uh oh!” Mark Flurry smiled dumbly.

Matthew spat, throwing a punch at Iris. She ducked and his fist landed squarely on the Reverend’s nose. He fell back against the bar, his rage taking him.

“Sorry!” Iris yelled, grabbing a glass and shattering it against Lucky’s ugly mug. He fell into an unconscious heap. The other two, now fully understanding of the situation, descended.

The following chaos ensued.

Iris shouted at the top of her lungs, “Bar fight!!” Before dancing around the Flurry Boys, throwing punches and taking them in turn.

Hugh, red in the face, started boxing Mark.

Some strangers across the dance floor, seeing what amounted to be a professional tournament, started exchanging hands. Did they have a reason? Most likely no, thought Hugh as Mark’s massive fist connected with his cheek. He spat a tooth to the ground, wiping his mouth.

Before long, even Muller hopped over the bar amidst the shouting and flailing bodies, intent on protecting what remained of his bar. Doctor Malone Trenton slept peacefully on a stool. Iris fought with the fervor of a Viking. Hugh took more hits than he delivered.

What had started as a romantic evening turned into an all-or-nothing bar fight.

Before long, the Reverend lost sight of Iris, being pushed instead toward the bathroom exit by Mark. As his back met the wall, one last punch sent him flying through the barely secured wood. The Reverend landed squarely in the mud and rain, gasping for air with his vision blurry.

Mark took a step toward him, “I think you should let little Matthew have Iris. You aren’t very good at fighting, Pastor.”

Hugh coughed. “Sorry, I’m not practiced in bar fights.”

“I can tell,” Mark responded menacingly, his voice cold and low as he took a step toward Hugh, preparing to kick him. The Reverend crawled away from his attacker desperately.

SMASH!

Glass cascaded like fireworks from around Mark’s head. The big oaf smiled, swaying on his feet before falling like a board next to Hugh. Behind him stood Doctor Trenton, struggling to stay upright in his drunken stupor.

“Nobody . . . puts a hand . . . on my . . . brother,” he proclaimed before falling with a mighty SPLAT into the mud. Hugh pushed himself to his feet, a subtle bloodied smile on his face, and grabbed his brother. After pulling him to his feet, he placed Trenton’s arm over his shoulder to support his weight.

“And here I thought you didn’t like me,” he chuckled.

Something sounded behind him as he approached the door. There were woods behind the Rope Pub, the exterior lights flickered and plunged the brothers and unconscious fellon into darkness.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The sound came in threes. The hairs on the Reverend’s neck stood on end as he faced the abyss. The rain created a nearly impenetrable sheet that separated the Rope Pub and Birbour from the seemingly endless Plyset Forest. The taiga’s loomed like shadowed giants that lorded over the Reverend and Doctor. Beyond them lay the fate of Adam Peterson and the harrowing tale that was contained within his diary. Mystery and horror intertwined as something grabbed a hold of Hugh Gregory’s soul, vying for it like a menacing spirit.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The characteristic sound of something heavy, a rock or some form of solid earth, connecting with the hardwood of a tree filled the gaps between the rain's pitter-patters. Hugh scanned the darkness, backing toward the Rope Pub slowly with fear in his heart.

Behind the pub, hidden in the darkness about ten to twelve feet above the ground, some tucked between leaves and limbs, others leaning out from tree trunks, floated countless pairs of fireflies that watched the Reverend.