Blue Glass and Captain Malcolm Monet, October 21st of 1948

Icy blue waves battered the white hull of the M.M.S. Monet with an unpleasant disposition, warning its three passengers of an impending storm. Malcolm Monet manned the helm with the same cold, stalwart expertise that he had brought into thousands of similar expeditions. The fishing ship obeyed his commands with minimal fuss, its sputtering engine obeying the repairs that safe harbor had only three days prior wrought. The cold northern seas that surrounded Birbour, the destination of Malcolm’s two enigmatic passengers, were tumultuous this time of year, often swaying from the pleasantness of fall into the chilling hostility of deep winter without so much as a gasp. That being said, Malcolm understood that if the sea was warning its sailors, gently prodding them ashore like a mother calling home her children before dark, the weather to come was far more than dark clouds and drizzle.

Malcolm made a silent note to seek safe harbor in Birbour. The opening of a new iron mine just outside of town overshadowed the cannery as the town’s primary source of income, but it still contained adequate docking and board for sailors. They held a reputation amongst seafarers as a hospitable enough refuge. This was mostly due to the sea’s role in transport into and out of town, but also due to Birbour’s long history of salmon canning. Regardless, it’d be nice to see Mirabell. The old bar wench wasn’t the best cook and probably numbered in the bottom ten for Alaska’s hostesses, but she played a good game of cards all the same. Not to mention that she reminded Malcolm of his late wife, Mallory.

He smiled, both hoping and dreading that the oncoming storm would be a long one.

“We almost there, captain?” A young well-dressed man lounged atop his trunk, leaning against the edge of the boat with his nose buried deep in a notebook. He had been scribbling in it daily since they left Juneau, taking breaks only to quickly pace the deck, mutter to himself, and then return to his artistry. Malcolm eyed the book with curiosity, scratching his scraggly beard, and wondered what the tome contained. He’d tried to take a peak during dinner one night, but the man guarded the thing with jealousy.

“You’d know if only you’d look up,” the other passenger commented cheerily. Malcolm shifted his gaze to him. This one stood upon the bow, scanning the shoreline with hawk-like scrutiny, memorizing each bump, each grain of sand, each mighty landmark. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back as he surveyed the entirety of his world, a tiny black New Testament clenched firmly in one fist. Jet black hair spewed out behind him like sea foam blown in the breeze, creating an uncanny resemblance to the billowing tails of his long coat.

“If I am to understand the world correctly, it begins here,” replied the first man, flipping his book with zeal. “Not in the heavens.”

“Hah! Not everything I say demonstrates Godliness, my friend. I’m simply encouraging you to enjoy your surroundings,” He paused, pulling in a hearty helping of salty air. “If not for joy, at least for direction.”

The lounging gentleman stood, pulling his eyes from his notebook with great effort. “Direction is adequate, I suppose, but if I see a split sea I’ll rightly resume my study.” He slipped the notebook into his front pocket, straightening the front of his brown leather jacket.

The older of the two laughed merrily, stepping back to allow his colleague to share the bow. Malcolm smiled. The two men had been bickering back in forth for the entire voyage, debating on religion and science. The younger was an ecologist of some renown, known throughout Europe and the Americas for giving lectures at prestigious universities and conducting research in the Congo. The eldest, however, was some form of Christian theologian. His background was less known, having come from the swamps of Louisiana with no family, no ties, and no history for the wind that blew him.

“I see what you mean,” The youngest commented. “This kind of coastline only exists in the north, rarely the south and God-forbid, delaying some end-of-times disaster, never the tropics.”

“I never took you for an end-times believer, Mister Malone,” the elder commented.

The younger stamped his feet indignantly. “It’s Doctor Trenton, Reverend Gregory. Last name and title, please.”

“And you can simply call me Hugh. First name without the dignation.”

The two began arguing about nomenclature and formalities. Malcolm rolled his eyes, his smile abating as he longed for the silent sloshing of the sea. He had started the journey hoping that the two men would stay below deck in the cabin, but they had graced him with their company each day at dawn and broken fellowship at dusk. It was more companionship than Malcolm was accustomed to. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that their journey was nearing its end within the hour. Mirabell was one thing, but two bickering scholars bred an unusual kind of migraine. Doctor Malone Trenton and Reverend Hugh Gregory’s debate dissipated into the back of Malcolm’s mind as the small town of Birbour appeared around a bend.

A cold wind ripped through the trio, sending Malcolm’s yellow bucket hat flying into the wake of the M.S.S. Monet. He cursed under his breath, pressing forward slightly faster toward Birbour’s two docks. They stretched out in a v-shape from the port master’s office as if asking for an embrace. As the boat coasted alongside the dock, a woman in black wet wear rushed out from a large, foreboding, block building that sat to the side of the port. She loudly rang a bell that stood against the building, gesturing for the Monet to approach. The town of Birbour stood in all its glory with the Plyset Mountains behind it, positioned like jagged teeth that separated Birbour from the greater Alaskan mainland. Fog enveloped their peaks, drifting down like rivers between the houses and swish-backed streets of Birbour. The Reverend, Doctor, and Captain wondered what mysteries lie hidden in the largely unexplored Taiga forests that covered them. The natives had worked hard to keep Birbour from expanding up their slopes and into the mainland. They protested, often violently, to even the smallest incursion. A few years ago, however, they relented to allow villagers to hunt in the nearby forests. It was a much needed reprieve from a constant diet of salmon and other fish. The sea was bountiful, but the tongue craved diversity.

A new problem arose, however, upon the discovery of a rich iron deposit in the mountains some two miles outside Birbour. When the mine opened, the natives threatened violence. Somehow, David Rottenburough, the mining tycoon responsible for the “mostly” legal purchase of the land, had sustained peace. Coincidentally, natives have not been seen in Birbour since, vanishing into the mountains that they call home.

Gregory and Trenton gathered port side as the woman tossed ropes to each of them. With a practiced precision that made Malcolm proud, they secured their ends to the M.S.S. Monet while she tied the boat to the dock posts.

“Captain Malcolm! It’s wonderful to see you!” The woman exclaimed.

Malcolm shut off the Monet’s engines. “And you as well, dear Mirabell! How are things here?”

“That damned iron mine is running my cannery out of business, but besides that, it’s going well.” She acknowledged the two passengers, who were collecting their things in silence. “And who have you brought me today?” Mirabell pushed her gray bangs out of her eyes, her round face displaying a proud smile.

“Reverend Hugh Gregory.” He spoke as he hopped overboard and onto the docks, offering his hand warmly for a shake.

She took it and squeezed. “Good man! Mirabell F’Lark-”

“Doctor Malone Trenton,” The Doctor interrupted, hopping off the Monet and joining the duo.

“Ah! Someone’s excited to be here!” Mirabell didn’t skip a beat, shifting her attention to Doctor Trenton. The Reverend frowned, his shoulders slouching slightly. Malcolm grinned. Someone’s been honing her hostess skills, he thought.

“Of course,” the Doctor shook her hand professionally.

“Don’t be fooled, Mirabell. The two seem pleasant, but they’ve been at each other’s throats since Juneau,” Malcolm worked to secure the ship a little tighter.

“Is that so?” Her brown eyes scanned the pair suspiciously. “And what brings you two fine gentlemen to our dear Birbour? Here to see Rottenburough, I presume?”

“Who?” The pair exchanged scrupulous glances.

Mirabell let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I cannot stand the man personally . . .” At the two’s confusion, she continued, “He’s the Iron Baron, as some have started to call him.”

“Are these the same that call you the Cannery Kook?” Malcolm hopped onto the docks to join the group, chuckling.

She punched him playfully in the arm, but perhaps a little too hard. It hurt, but Malcolm would never admit it. “The very same.” She returned her attention to the men, who watched in bewilderment. “So? What’s your business here?”

Doctor Trenton answered first. “I’m an ecologist. Doctor Trenton. You’ve probably heard of me?”

Mirabell placed her hands on her hips, staring blankly at the man.

“Or not . . . Well. Regardless. I’m here to study the Plyset Mountains. I heard of them from a colleague of mine, one Adam Peterson.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Adam was a friend of yours?”

“Was?” The Doctor responded with worry.

Mirabell frowned. “Yes. Two weeks ago he went missing. Sheriff Boris sent a group out to find him, but we haven’t had any luck yet . . .”

“That’s . . . upsetting news,” Doctor Trenton replied.

“I agree,” Mirabell’s tone softened. “I’ll tell the Sheriff to get with you tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“I would.”

“And what about you?” She asked the Reverend. “I can tell by your vestments that you’re clergy. Not many of your kind out in this neck of the world.”

Gregory smiled. “I am aware! I’m on a mission to remedy that terrible oversight by the church.”

“Is that so?” She looked from one man and then to the other. Thunder echoed far off over the water. Mirabell frowned. “How about you two head on to the Cannery. You can choose a room in one of the built-ins on the far side. Follow the signs for the wash room. Dinner will be served at six sharp. Don’t be late.”

The two men nodded, gathered their trunks and suitcases, and then hurried off to the built-ins. Malcolm and Mirabell watched as they disappeared inside the Cannery.

“They’ll be an interesting addition to Birbour, don’t you think?” Malcolm commented.

“Mhm. We’ve been getting a lot of visitors lately . . .” Mirabell grumbled.

“Isn’t that good?”

She shook her head, then perked up. “Well, no sense fretting over it. Care to stay a while, Malcolm? I’ve got a fresh deck of cards with our name on it!”

He glanced back at the Monet, then into the sea. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, illuminated periodically by flashes of light. Choppy white-caps disturbed the sea beneath them. The air was pitch with rain, like an impending night that slowly and surely encroached upon the peaceful hamlet. The waters near port were calm, momentarily, a thin blue glass that ached to break.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Malcolm responded.

“Ah! Good! I’ll put on a pot of stew!”

His stomach grumbled, but not hungrily. He knew that stew would wreak havoc on his stomach. Mirabell was a sweetheart, surely, but a cook . . . that was a bit far fetched.

Gathering his things, the two hurried to join the others in the Cannery.

As the door closed behind them, Malcolm turned. The M.M.S. Monet rocked on new waves. The wind howled. It’s all fun and games until the Monet capsizes, he thought. The idea of being stranded in Birbour permanently wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but to lose his boat . . . that was another story. A crack of lightening broke the sky, setting even his seasoned nerves on edge.

A great storm was coming to Birbour.