Lockdown Special: Enough to Share

Equilo Special Episode Enough to Share Let me tell you about the weirdest day of the weirdest month of the weirdest year in Akewillow. You all know what year I'm talking about. The whole world went crazy that year. Not in a century had we, as a collective species, experienced such a thing. Of course, I'm talking about the year of the pandemic. Severe acute respiratory syndrome.

As a town straddling the border between two countries, and a city that's already lousy with the strange and unusual, it was easy for everyone here to see that Akewillow was not going to handle this situation like everywhere else. It took a while for the disease to step off the pages of newspapers and materialize out of articles on the internet. Aquilo isn't remote, but it's a town half-forgotten by the rest of the world.

No one in Montreal or Boston or New York ever stops to ask themselves, I wonder what's going on in Aquilo. I remember when we had our first case. I won't pretend that Quebec had the best reaction to this pandemic. Montreal and the eastern townships saw terrifying numbers early on, and offering a backdoor to the United States on top of that, it was only a matter of time before someone came down with the dreaded disease. When we went into lockdown...

All I remember thinking was, not again. My dining room was empty, and there was no lineup in front of my door. My refrigerator was filled with sandwiches. I had a pot of soup ready and fresh bread in the oven. The coffee was ground and the tables were clean. The weather was going to be cold and rainy, and I was ready to welcome anyone that needed a dry place and a warm cup.

It was going to be a good day. Instead, I sat around the Aquilo Cafe, leaving the back door open and eating sandwiches while reading books. The raccoons came and went, helping me with the food so that none would go to waste. But not a human soul walked in. The next day, Mayor Lagasse came in, wearing a surgical mask and gloves. At the time, I knew little about what Mayor Byrne and Mayor Lagasse did for AQUILO outside of their political and legislative duties.

It always seemed to me that running a town that dealt with both the Canadian and U.S. legal system was trouble enough, but there was also the matter of the Hellgate opening in the woods twice a year. The thing is, though... You don't fend off a demonic invasion every equinox without developing a unique style of troubleshooting. One that could be described as draconian, to say the least.

We are implementing drastic and immediate lockdown procedures, Mayor Lagasse explained. I'm going door to door to make sure everyone understands perfectly what it is we expect. The Aquilo is one of three privately owned establishments that sits on the border with our neighbors to the south. Everything, I ask, goes doubly for you. She explained, in no small detail.

That I was not to have any customers in my establishment. I could make deliveries, but I had to basically cover myself with a biohazard suit. Okay, fine. A mask and gloves. But still, I wear less when I paint the walls. I was not to leave the cafe or my apartment except for essentials, and I couldn't visit any friends or family until further notice. But you all know the drill. We all went through it to some extent. Except...

Here in Aquilo, we went from zero to full confinement in less than a day. All because of one case. Which sounded absurd at the time. One case. And they were already confined to the hospital. Everything was under control. Until there were two cases. And then another seven. By all accounts, those were still rookie numbers. But while the world kept spinning without noticing that Aquilo existed,

we still saw what happened on the rest of the planet. And what we saw wasn't reassuring. At least, not for a while. The next three days I spent like the first.

Wasting time in the cafe, eating and hanging out with Brioche, my favorite raccoon. To be perfectly honest, I kind of enjoyed that first week. I could indulge in my crazy raccoon lady fantasy of snacking, baking, and reading all day, surrounded by enough wildlife to make a health inspector lose all their hair. And I made the most of it, too.

I'd been wanting to play around with some fancy chocolatier toys I'd ordered online, and there was a poached egg on a quinoa cake recipe I'd dreamed up that I still had to try out. There's always plenty to do if you're the creative type. One thing they forget to mention in the biographies of the typical insane loner artists, though, is the stunting effect a lack of stimulation has on creativity.

There's only so many chocolate raccoons a girl can make before she gets bored and starts wasting hours on the internet instead of being the consummate artist. My ego also felt a little wounded. Four days and not a single order? No phone calls to see if there was any way to still savor my incredible cinnamon rolls, or if my incomparable roulades could be purchased to go?

Is the Aquilo Cafe so easy to erase from the city's experience? My cooking is unforgettable, yet people seem to be fine living without it. Well... I yelled my empty café. Who needs them, right? Brioche, who had curled up on top of a table, basking in a beam of sunlight, raised her head to hear out whatever proclamation I was about to utter.

You and I will just make our own feast. Just you and me. And when they smell the aroma of sweet delights fill the air of Aquilo, they'll make that phone ring off its hook. They'll plead and they'll beg to have some of whatever it is I'm making delivered to their door.

Some will even brave the pandemic just so they can experience the delicious aroma from my kitchen at close range. They'll say, please, Miriam, share your fabulous bounty. And I'll whisper, no. If you think that little speech sounded corny, well, you'll be happy to know that Brioche agreed with your judgment.

After patiently hearing me out and pausing to consider my arguments, she put her head back between her paws and closed her eyes once again. Even my pet raccoon had lost her respect for my cooking.

On the fifth day, the phone did ring. I'm a modern girl, so all conversations with my parents and brother Eric, along with the two or three friends I keep in touch with from Montreal, I do through the internet. Mostly text messages, maybe the occasional video chat. Phones feel like a relic from the past, which, I suppose, was the most adequate way for Ian to contact me. I don't have that many conversations with Ian.

He's probably my most regular customer, and by far the most lucrative one, too. When he's not picking up his almost daily order of half a dozen croissants, he's grabbing lunch or breakfast for the members of his weird little cloud-worshipping cult. It's tempting to ask where people who spend the bulk of their day walking the streets of Aquilo, passing out tracts, and discussing the finer points of their own made-up religion get the money for all these sandwiches and croissants. But...

I wasn't going to look a gift zealot in the mouth. Aquilo Cafe, Miriam speaking. How can I brighten your day? My voice felt a little rusty, talking to a human being for the first time in over 72 hours. But thankfully, I'd just gotten it good and warmed up yelling at a bored raccoon. Ah, Miss Dufour. Ian's perfectly manicured voice replied. I'm calling to inquire about purchasing some croissant. I'm sure this comes as no surprise.

And it didn't, of course. The only thing that was a shock is how long the little cult had held on without their favorite breakfast of choice. Along with the white robes, unnatural sunny dispositions, and braided hair, fluffy croissants were, and remain, the hallmark of Ian's faith. The fluffier the better in a strange imitation of the cloud they worship. Not at all.

Should I make more to help tide you over? There's no telling how long we'll be asked to stay quarantined like this. We discussed back and forth about the finer points of the order. Two dozen croissants. I offered... as I feel it is my duty to make different flavors. Maybe some with chocolate or almonds. Perhaps the faithful would enjoy some cheese croissants? But no, only plain, old, light and buttery, normal croissants. Well, as normal as Miriam Dufour can make them. It was a good deal.

Ian insisted I charge a premium for the delivery in short notice, but more than that, I hung up the phone with something precious that had been missing since the beginning of my confinement. Purpose. I had 24 hours to prepare and deliver 24 croissants. And although it's a light task in all respects, it was the kind of busy work that keeps a mind sane.

Although I finally had an order, and something to entertain myself with besides imaginary arguments with Brioche and the other raccoons, I still took a moment to tidy up the Aquilo. Perhaps not to the extent that I should, but enough that I felt comfortable cooking in it. Not just cooking for myself, but cooking for others. They were just croissants, with nothing magic or even particularly complex about them.

But being the only order on the docket, I decided to make a meal of it. I pulled out the fancy flour and even made my own butter to celebrate the occasion. Ian never asked for anything special in his croissants, but what's an extra dozen on top of two? Why make 24 when I could make 48? And if I'm making extra, I might as well have a bit of fun, right? I'm not yet so delusional to think that my precious little brioche is a gourmet.

Aside from an arbitrary preference towards her namesake pastry, she's shown no more refined palate than any other garbage-dwelling vermin. But I like to toss her the occasional scrap of dough and see her reaction. I figure, anything she won't eat. I won't give a client. It's a low bar, but it's enough to amuse me as I work. I finish the croissants and box them while they were still warm. I remember the steam off them fogging up the acetate on the box.

Aquilo is a bizarre little city on the most mundane of days. Slathering a layer of self-isolation and lockdown on top of that rich slice of pandemic did nothing to make my adopted hometown any more normal. Sidewalks as empty as my dining room greeted me when I stepped out. Leaden skies and a thin veil of fog spilled into the streets, as if the great cloud that hovers over Aquilo had descended to walk the deserted road.

Not a car, not a soul, not even a stray animal disturbed the stillness of Rue Principale as I made my way down to the temple. As I waited, pointlessly, at the corner, I could hear the clicking of traffic lights as they switch from red to green. That's how quiet the day was. More silent still than it would be at night. I've grown wary of Akewillow at night for that very reason. It's not so much the dark, but the solitude. Bad things happen to the lonely on the streets of Akewillow.

I knew that, before even setting foot here, I've yet to be shown otherwise. God damn it. The words felt loud escaping my lungs, but were swallowed whole by the fog before they could bounce off the surrounding buildings, the same way sounds are devoured by thick snow in chill Canadian winters.

The source of my annoyance was remembering that I'd left the back door to the Aquilo Cafe unchained. It was closed and locked, but without the chain, there was little obstacle to keep the raccoons from coming in. Brioche and her family aren't ordinary raccoons. Someone, an ancestor, made them immortal, and some of them took the extra years to learn to pick locks.

I knew at that moment that, when I got back to the Aquilo, there would be pastries missing and paw prints on the counters. You should be careful what you ask of gods, a voice interrupted my musings. They're quick to oblige if it amuses them. I like to think my cafe is the social hub of town. I'm not wrong. On a good morning, the place is packed. The freaking mayors eat there.

Things being what they are, I'm pretty sure I've learned the voice of every resident of Akewillow. On a fog-covered day, in a completely silent street, a strange voice was all I needed to feel my heart rush up into my throat. The stranger's looks did nothing to reassure either. Tall and dressed all in black, with gaunt features and sunken cheeks, he hid his face under the rim of a large hat.

What I could see of his smile presented rows of perfect white teeth, almost as white as his skin, which was the color of quartz. In his hand, he carried a large leather bag the hue of sourdough bread. big enough for a hockey player to carry his gear, but with the aesthetics of a surgeon's satchel. Yet, of all that, it was that he was a stranger at all that put me on guard.

Aquilo's not that big a town, and I thought I'd seen most people, especially people that stand out. With his mortician's aesthetic, I'm sure I'd remember if I'd seen this man before. With the city under quarantine, and some... Ahem. Previous experiences. Running into a weird stranger on a day straight out of a horror movie? It made me long for the cold, menacing company of my fillet knife. Um, I guess?

I struggle to keep my voice steady. I don't expect gods to be eavesdropping on me. With much effort, the stranger hefted his bag over his shoulder, crushing his already hunched posture down further. Then, with his spare hand, he closed the door of the house he'd just come out. I knew this house. One of a long row of duplicate townhouses that covered two blocks of Rue Principale.

Right where downtown melts into a residential area. While their architecture was identical, each house had its own color. And I knew the owner of this one. The white one. And it wasn't this man. Are you a friend of Ms. Lowry? I asked the question, expecting a lie. Ms. Lowry had no friends.

Hovering at around 80 years old, her peers were the other women of her bridge club and whoever would listen to her at the cafe when she dropped in for a scone and some tea. With the lockdown in effect, it would have been a surprise if this man was an out-of-town relative. In Aquilo, every stranger could be a killer. And that's sometimes a best-case scenario. Hmm.

Edith Lowry and I have been on and off friends for the last few years, yes. The way he patted his bag with an easy affection sent a spider crawling up my spine. I must have taken a step back or drawn in a breath, something to betray my distress, but the man broadened his smile in response. Oh, you worry for her, he said, leaning in and cocking his head.

Who are you to Edith? Would she have mentioned you? My eyes traveled back and forth from his grin to his bag, making little secret of my suspicions. The stranger didn't bother to acknowledge the obvious. I don't think so. I just run the cafe where she eats sometimes. I wanted to erase myself from his sight. I've confronted killers and demons.

I'd even dealt with the restless dead on a few occasions by that point, but I always had some kind of backup. Or luck intervened in my favor. I was short on the first, and I didn't want to rely on the second. and I still had no idea what it was that stood before me. A bony hand reached up to the brim of his black and tattered hat, lifting it a few inches. Eyes, so pale and blue they looked like full moons, inspected every inch of me, finally settling on the box in my hands. Ah, the Aquilo Café.

Did Doris have an offspring after all? I'm her great-grandniece. The statement came with an unprecedented level of pride. Like that slim family tie would be enough to shield me from whatever this stranger's intentions might be. Yes, of course. Doris wouldn't have burdened herself with a child. You knew Doris? Personally? The question gave the stranger pause. Everyone in Aquilo knew Doris. Of all the things that I've learned about my predecessor.

The one thing that still stands out is how she touched the lives of everyone who ever visited the Aquilo Cafe. Hers were big shoes to fill. In fact, I never did manage to take her place. Instead, I've had to carve my own. I did. His eyes clouded over with melancholy. Though never as much as I wanted. Your great-grandaunt.

She's an elusive one. The longing in his cold voice was unmistakable. I was fooled at the time to believe the stranger might have been a lover of Doris, or a suitor at the very least. The very idea that I'd found someone who might have known a side of Doris that no one, not Olivia, not Helen, might have known, made me forget the threat this man represented. It made me careless.

So I hope you'll understand some of the choices I made as the day moved on. Was, I specified. Doris passed away. Of course. I wanted to know more. What was this man's relationship with Doris? She was over a hundred years old when she died, but no one has ever given me a definitive cause of death. Helen Edna, notary public, says it was natural causes because that's what's in the paperwork.

But others have intimated that there was more to it than that. Not to mention, maybe this stranger can explain the family connection. I can trace the lineage. I know whose sister Doris was, but not why I'd never heard of her. Here was this man, who definitely looked like he might have been a contemporary of Doris, and talked like he'd known her. Sure.

He looks as threatening as any demon I've run afoul of, and as dangerous as any killer I've met, but if he knew Doris, maybe I could ignore what's probably in that heavy bag of his.

You know what I miss about your aunt? The stranger asked, sniffing the cold air. Her cooking. Do you cook, Miriam? Miriam. The stranger said my name like he knew me. And while now I know how he pulled that trick, how he knows everyone's name and has always known them, at the time it felt like every drop of moisture in the air turned to ice. I cook. I cook the way most people breathe.

with an ease I was born with. His already broad smile stretched further to the sides of his face, reaching for his ears and revealing more of his chalk-white teeth. Of course you do. All you do for women cook like you are blessed with it. You, um, you have me at a disadvantage. For a moment, the stranger seemed confused.

Smile turned to frown and a stray finger, gnarly and thin, scratched at his cheek. Then, as if hit by the thought, his eyebrows jumped up and his grin returned. The short moment of expression did nothing to reassure me. Ah yes, the name. He leaned in further, highlighting our difference in height. I go by many of those, but I think you can already pick your own. Whatever you choose to call me.

I think you already know who I am. I did, and I didn't. Akewillow has taught me to believe in many a thing that would make the skeptical mind scoff. Creatures of mystery have a knack for keeping the veil over their nature. Some better than others. So, Edith? I asked, my voice colored by suspicion. Edith? is where edith should be the brown leather bag over the stranger's shoulders called out to me again the way the weight of it pressed down on him forcing a painful hunch to his back

He reminded me of the traditional caricature of a robber with a heavy sack of money slung over behind him. Though what I suspected the stranger to have stolen was so much more valuable than the contents of a bank vault. My scrutiny didn't go unnoticed, and the stranger stood straight for a second, just long enough to decide it was uncomfortable for him. It was sufficient for me to get a measure of the man.

I'm not a tall woman, but this stranger must have been upwards of seven feet. He towered over me so much it seemed like the fog obscured his features. You're afraid, Miriam Dufour? He patted his bag once again. I am, I admitted. No need. I came for Edith, one of so many stops in a day. Quite tiring. especially in these difficult times. So she is dead. By that day, I'd already fought a hunger demon, seen a demon of wrath get eaten, and matched wits with a succubus-incubus duo.

Trading pleasantries with this stranger carrying what I expected to be the mortal remains of Edith Lowry was terrifying, surely. There would be nightmares, of course. But in the moment, I was more fascinated than afraid. I thought I'd gotten unusually comfortable with the concept of death, but never enough to have a conversation with it. That is a morose tale. She died, cold, alone.

and largely unloved. Wouldn't you rather we talk about your great-grandaunt? I did. With every fiber of my being, I did. That my curiosity outweighed the tragedy of Edith Lowry's passing is a shame I'll forever carry with me. It also highlighted the profound sadness of the stranger's words. She had died cold, alone, and unloved. But all I wanted to hear was about Doris. Help.

I still do. So much about Doris remains a mystery. The same can be said about all the Dufour women who came before me. The kicker is... Philemon was a mystery to Doris and Amelia to Philemon and so on and so forth up the family tree you climb. The only thing ever to be passed down, as far as I could tell, is the cafe and a recipe book.

each woman leaving a wooden spoon as the final marker of their lives. There was also the care of Akewillow, of course, in whatever form that might have taken through history. Whatever had transpired in Edith's home... The stranger seemed no more agitated for it. The moment was past, and that nonchalance infected me. Edith Lowry was dead, maybe killed by this stranger.

I should have called the authorities. I should have confronted this man. Instead, all I wanted was for him to describe the hidden branches on my family tree. Yes, I said. I wouldn't mind hearing about Doris a little. I remember a time when me and my dad got along. I mean really got along. We were thick as thieves, he and I, to both the joy and frustration of my mom. After all, she had Eric to dote over, so it was a relief that my father would spend so much time with me. But we were incorrigible.

We'd go on long walks around Montreal. He'd show me where he grew up, bring me to the cafes and diners of his youth or whatever establishment had replaced them. We didn't talk much, but we'd often come back after curfew. My dad having kept me out late into the night chatting with the owner of this tavern or that restaurant. He'd let me eat sweets on our way home, sometimes right before dinner. While we didn't share conversation...

He was happy showing off his smart and inquisitive daughter. And I was a little girl hanging out with her dad, so I was over the moon. Just quietly going down Saint Laurent Boulevard, my tiny hand in his. It was enough to make me grin from ear to ear. I couldn't pin down why, but I had a similar feeling walking down Rue Principal back to the Aquilo with the stranger. He looked like something out of a horror movie.

Thin, tall, and pale, he wore his calm smile with nonchalance, like nothing in the world could hurt him. I didn't share the joy my younger self felt at strolling down the city's avenues with my dad, but the overwhelming sense of safety and security was the same. It was all I could do not to reach out and take his bony hand in mine.

I suppose this is what it must feel like to swim next to a great white shark. As long as the apex predator remains placid, uninterested in your demise, it must feel like nothing in the world can hurt you. At that time... I didn't know, but I suspected I was dealing with the most final of apex predators. The stranger seemed to share my nostalgic wonderment.

As I busied myself with the keys to open the door to the Aquilo Café, he took a step back into the empty street, the better to take it all in. I'd all but forgotten about my delivery to Ian, so enthralled I was with this bizarre man. There was a fondness in his cloud-colored eyes. He'd been here before. Perhaps a year ago. Perhaps a generation ago. The place hasn't changed.

He mused. I swung the door open, inviting him in. Yet it has, I answered, stating fact rather than contradicting him. Except where it matters. We said the last part in unison. The way the stranger cocked his head, I thought he looked amused. Meanwhile, I was reminded that this wasn't just some random customer, or an old friend of my great-grandaunt. If my suspicions proved correct, he was something far greater than man, far stranger and older than even the demons that prowled the woods.

The analogy of the great white shark resurfaced to taunt me. Or perhaps that wasn't an adequate analogy after all. The shark is predictable. We know the shark. A marine biologist can tell you the signs when a great white shark is about to attack, going from quiet companion to deadly killing machine. The stranger was like the virus that had caused the lockdown.

He walked with me in silence, carrying his heavy burden over his shoulder. He seemed harmless, almost familiar, with only a few subtle details to remind me that he could be deadly. Someone less aware might have thought him eccentric. I understood him to be dangerous, but there would be no sign that I would recognize if he turned on me. I couldn't predict the mutation in his mood.

Come on in. I invited the terrible thing into my home. I flipped on the lights, ignoring the tall shadow on my heels. The coffee machine let out a shy hiss when I turned it on. Even it knew that something otherworldly had entered its domain. As I expected, the raccoons had taken advantage of my absence to invade the Aquilo.

Brioche was the most brazen of them, standing proudly atop the display case, a half-eaten croissant in her mouth, her little scarf covered with crumbs. Crimson was on the counter, replying to the coffee machine with a hiss of his own. They both noticed the stranger. The Aquilo raccoons are an interesting bunch. I've seen how they react to demons, and they're not fans.

Usually, when there's a demon about, they'll circle their dumpster with salt, a crude but efficient protection, and they growl. I don't think either of them were comfortable with the stranger. Brioche sniffed the air around him, trying to get a whiff of what he might be. Crimson walked backwards all the way to the kitchen door, never taking his eyes off the gaunt man. Yet neither got belligerent. Wary.

would be what I'd call the reaction. Meanwhile, the stranger didn't seem to notice the animals blatantly parading around the food in my establishment. They might as well have been invisible to him. In fact, When he hauled his heavy sack onto the counter, he almost knocked brioche off her perch. Is there anything special I can get you? He sat, considering the question. As he rubbed his chin, long fingers scratching at his cheek.

He noticed, with surprise, that he was still wearing his hat. Ashamed and hurried, he removed the wide-brimmed black headwear, depositing it carefully on the stool next to his. The top of his head was like a skull. White as moonlight with skin so paper-thin that the veins above the bone could clearly be seen. Purple rivers flowing over the surface of his head. Anything warm will do.

I haven't had my belly ache with hot food in a long while. I thought to myself and figured, what better food than soup to warm one's stomach? With some fresh bread from this morning and some homemade butter. I can't imagine that wouldn't satisfy. I had some leftover butternut squash soup that would definitely do the trick. As I busied myself warming the soup over the stove, no microwave for this guest.

The stranger looked around the Aquilo, drinking in every little detail. His thin smile betrayed no blame for the changes I had made, though I caught a waver in his lips when he saw the spoons. six wooden spoons each representing an aquila witch the last one shattered and then repaired had belonged to doris i had a spoon of my own now just a store-bought wooden spoon. It was next to the warming pot of butternut squash, waiting to stir. Nothing special, yet unique and precious to me.

as were all six of the ones on display to their individual owners. What would you like to know about Doris? the stranger asked. What was she like? It took a while for me to ask the question. After all, there were and still are so many mysteries that surround Doris. Even those closest to her have only been able to provide vague... often contradictory information did she know of any other magic than cooking how far did her powers extend was there once such a thing as an aquilow tree

The steam off my own bowl of soup had long since dissipated and the bread was no longer warm by the time I picked what I wanted to say. But I felt confident that mine was the most relevant thing to know. Kind. The stranger said, thoughtfully dunking some bread into the butternut cream. The last time we met, she apologized to me. And on every one of the few times our paths did cross, she always had something for me to eat.

Something warm and soothing, like this. The stranger was capable of regret, perhaps even sadness. He was a creature of complex emotions, not like the demons I'd met. Each of these had been a raw being, uncomplicated by the whims of the heart. Even Agnes, who burned to feel like mortals feel, was animated by her fundamental nature. She was fire first.

Warmth and light came after. That's a relief, I said, the words long to come out again. Is it? You've only inherited from her. What was she to you in the end? I bristled at the question, but not because he was wrong to ask. She was my great-grandaunt, but why should I care what her nature was in life? I don't know. I think I'm still trying to figure that out.

I suppose that if I'm a part of her legacy, then it's only fair to know what that legacy is. A thin smile pulled at the stranger's lips again, soon obscured by a spoonful of soup. It was no longer warm, but he seemed to relish it nonetheless, perhaps savoring the heat of the spices instead. The one word I've heard used to describe her the most, however, I continued, is formidable.

Is that true? I wanted to add. There was something appealing and intimidating about being the successor to someone like that. Formidable. I wish I knew the word better when I was a child. I'd learned it when in school, but until recently, I'd never truly understood its deeper meaning. If Aquila was a tree, then Doris would have been its roots.

She held this town against the strongest winds, never allowing it to be pulled from the soil. She stood firm against things that make most mortals tremble and weep. He patted his bag, reminding me what I was potentially dealing with. She stood firm against me. Formidable? Doris baked formidable things into her cakes for breakfast. Doris had faced this stranger and held her ground.

My mind raced to form a portrait of what that might have been like. Did he come for her in the night and my great-grandaunt had all the necessary enchantments ready? Did she go toe-to-toe with him as I had the hunger demon in the past? Only a pastry or biscuit to defend herself with? Was it a battle of wits or of brawn? I can't imagine it being the latter. Then again, the raccoons here won't age and Doris lived to be 104.

Who knows what she might have been capable of? I shivered. Whatever I was then is a whisper of what I am now, and even today, I wouldn't dare compare myself to Doris.

You claim, I said, an uncontrollable tremor in my throat. Doris stood up to death and won. There it was. He ate my food with ravenous hunger, but delicate self-control. So another hunger demon he was not. Cool, measured movements and calm. Deliberate conversation ruled out a hellhound, a wrath demon.

Mother knows I felt no attraction to him, genuine or supernatural, so he wasn't an incubus. I still left a catalog of creatures I'd yet to meet at that time. I knew he wasn't a vampire. Henry had made sure that couldn't happen again. I considered for a moment that he might be a ghost. Someone from Doris's past that took advantage of the empty streets to roam Aquilo once more.

Ghosts, I'd learned, were particularly fond of food, usually going to places that were familiar to them, or demanding meals that kept them connected to strong memories. My guts told me this wasn't the case. I'd seen ghosts. They carried with them the scars of their demise, and were more often than not barely aware of their own nature. So what was this stranger? It was one final candidate I hadn't accounted for yet.

The possibility had lingered in the back of my mind for so long now. Death. Charon. The ferryman. No more ridiculous than a hunger demon, yet somehow on another level. Demons are creatures from hell, which is a far less defined place than most religions would have us believe. Death is more of a concept. though one made flesh and manifest. I'm sorry, the stranger said, pulling his long fingers away from the bag. They seemed to stretch in an attempt to maintain contact as long as possible.

an almost sensual caress over the worn leather i didn't mean to cause you any distress the soup is wonderful by the way to hell with my soup I said, fear turning to anger as it so often does. Why are you here? In my cafe? Are you here for me? I wanted to ask, but didn't find the courage. Putting the question to voice would have made the possibility real. The words would have floated in the air of the aequilo, a bell that could not be unrung. Had I died of the virus alone in my coffee shop?

Or hit by a car while wandering the streets in the fog? Did I simply die of boredom waiting for the lockdown to lift? The spell was broken. Whatever it was that kept my curiosity on fire and my fears slumbering had been brushed clean. The sheer weight of the stranger's presence pressed on me in a way I could no longer ignore. I studied the bag carefully. trying to read its shape. Was that protrusion an elbow? That bump ahead? Would it leak? Would it smell? Would I be able to lift it if I tried?

Or was it not even Edith's body which he'd taken? The stranger slurped his soup, oblivious to brioche who had crept up on the counter to sit right next to him. She made off with a square of butter from his plate. and he remained none the wiser. I'm here for a warm meal and to reminisce about an old acquaintance, he answered between spoonfuls. One last indulgence before a busy time.

So you're not here for me? To his credit, the stranger looked genuinely shocked by my accusation. The fingers of his free hand touched his sternum, pushing down a thin black tie. Eyebrows like pencil lines arched over eyes like snow at dusk. Me, he seemed to ask. A hurtful accusation, Miriam. I thought we were getting along.

Fingers the color of piano keys wrapped around another piece of bread. Black fingernails scratching pensively at the crust before bringing it to his mouth to be consumed. His teeth pulled at the crust, sending crumbs into his empty soup bowl. Doris never thought so ill of me, he added, Mulder's grinding at the last vestiges of bread. You mean until you took her? This, finally, gave him pause.

The thin eyebrow above his left eye rose high on his forehead, emphasizing how sunken his features were. His lips moved around his lower face like they were looking for something. A stray crumb? An answer to my question? Whatever it was, he never found it, and he looked all the sadder for it. I never took Doris, he murmured, almost too softly for me to hear. Not all get the privilege of rest, but...

Doris deserved it. Yet she passed. Her passage was paid for, so to speak, but she refused to board. Brioche still sat on the counter next to the stranger. Both seemed oblivious of each other. and my raccoon friend started licking the empty bowl of soup. I wanted to speak up to shoo her away, but the guest did not seem bothered. Like Julia Remington's husband?

I blurted out the question, unsure what to expect as an answer. No. Julia keeps him here. And you help her do it. I can't force the issue, but I see no harm in it either. For now. His sunken eyes looked around the cafe. This time, he seemed to be looking for something. He frowned at the spoons hanging over the register, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips at the sight of the wicked coffee machine. After a while...

He gave up. Doris used to have a chalkboard, he said, almost nostalgic. She'd keep a list of available desserts and patisserie written on it. I don't remember seeing that. It wasn't here when I arrived in Aquilo. I've since found the thing, the stranger mentioned. Quite by accident, I might add. What happened was the chalkboard was given to a friend of Doris, who owned a seafood restaurant clear across town.

When that closed down, it was added to the lot of equipment that then went into storage before being sold at auction to a little bistro that would open up less than a year after my encounter with the stranger. The only reason I even knew to recognize the chalkboard when I did see it was the Aquilo Cafe logo still printed at the top. But that's a story for another time. I don't have a lot of desserts on hand right now, I said.

Wondering if this was the time to call the police. It's fine. I'm not all that picky. I just enjoy a little something sweet with a cup of hot tea before I have to get back to work. I stared at him for a long, uncomfortable minute. It wasn't in fear or bewilderment, but genuine confusion. What was I supposed to answer? I have chocolate chip peanut butter cookies. a few brioche with apple compote, and some salted caramel brownies. Those last ones were topped with a praline decoration.

All of these creations were a day old by then, having been created when I still had some artistic mojo running through my veins. The brownie sounds delightful, and I'll leave the choice of tea in your capable hands, Miriam. The way he said my name. Miriam. Like it was a taste he struggled to remember, rolling each syllable between the lobes of his brain. I turned my back to him.

reaching down below the cash register to get my box of teas and tisane. I swear I could feel his eyes on the back of my skull the whole time. I wasn't exactly scared. He'd made it clear he wasn't here for me. But who can go about their business ignoring death's gaze cast upon them?

During the time of the quarantine, I was still reeling from having met Agnes, the succubus. She hadn't been what I thought she was, and while I prized my survival above all, repeating the same misjudgment was out of the question. It still is to this day. I stood up too quickly. Then I blinked and glimpsed at the phone too obviously. The stranger saw, but there was no anger, no disappointment. Just...

Curiosity. Still worried I'm going to hurt you, he said, standing away from his stool. Brioche backed away from the bowl and plate as the stranger picked them up. His hands wrapped around each like spiders capturing prey. Long strides had the stranger going around the counter and behind the register, acting like he owned the place.

The sheer gall turned my worry into outrage like custard turns to scrambled eggs when things go wrong. I'm more controlled nowadays, but back then I had the shortest fuse when my toes were stepped on. I was going to stand in front of him to bar his passage into my kitchen. How dare even death enter my most sacred of spaces?

Where did he come from to think he could waltz into my sanctum, my shrine, unopposed? I don't know what would have happened if I did put myself between him and the kitchen. Even now, there's no way to get a proper answer to that question. I doubt I would have angered him, but what else might have transpired? Instead, something stilled my steps. A hand on my shoulder, warm and familiar, held me back.

Not only did it keep me from confronting the stranger, but it soothed my burgeoning outrage. It's okay, the touch seemed to whisper. He means no harm by it. Why would I think that true at the time? The idea, as alien as it felt, couldn't have come from anyone but me. Or so I thought. I went with it. He means no harm. And lo, he didn't. The stranger put the bowl and plate in the sink and gave them a quick rinse. For a second, I wondered at the strange sight.

This bizarre, grim reaper running water over dirty dishes in my kitchen. What's next? Bigfoot doing my laundry? My tea? He asked, drying his long fingers on the dish towel.

Of course. My legs fought me for a moment before I got them moving again. I did my best to ignore the stranger as he walked back to his stool, acting like he didn't have a care in the world. I filled a cup. dropped a bag of tea in, and put a generous piece of brownie on a fresh dish. Here you go, I said, putting the food on the counter. My attention was on his bag again. I couldn't get over the shape of it.

I could all too easily imagine bent, bony knees making those shapes near the handle, or that bump at the front being covered in gray hairs that might have had curlers in them just this morning, even sitting on the counter. It looked heavy. It still bothers you, the stranger said between a bite of brownie and a sip of tea. I keep thinking about what you said, about how she died.

With a sigh, the stranger turned to look at the bag with me. For the first time, I noticed a touch of disdain in his eyes. We both observed the tan leather with equal amounts of worry. like the whole thing was a mold growing on the fine wood of my counter. Those are the most difficult, he said. And for the first time, I noticed how the stranger seemed beaten down.

Those who leave nothing behind but also take nothing with them. Life is so precious. Is there anything sadder than one going unremembered? In Aquilo, There's a god in the sky and demons in the woods. There's a tree that doesn't exist and a man that sells fairy wings, though I'm pretty sure they're just butterflies. I feed my friend's ghost, and I've fallen in love with a succubus.

Not even two years in, and I wanted so badly to understand all there was around me. My mind was starving for answers to all the questions written in every piece of mortar that held my coffee shop together. I'd get those answers in time, but I wanted them now. It took a global pandemic and a few days of lockdown for me to understand that mysteries won't answer for themselves.

even when they're sitting at my counter or rinsing the goddamn dishes. I'm sorry, I whispered. We both kept looking at the bag, like two mourners watching a casket lowering into a grave. What for? What it must be like, being you. The stranger sipped some more of his tea and took another bite of brownie. Looking at him eat, seeing the slight curl of his lips when he swallowed,

I was starting to get hungry myself. We were supposed to talk about Doris, I lamented. The opportunity seemed wasted, especially with the brownie on its last bite. We were, the stranger agreed. but I'm sure you'll get a chance to ask her all these questions yourself. In time. I nodded. A suggestion that would have seemed absurd as I left the Aquilo earlier seemed particularly reasonable now.

She lingered, Doris did. And perhaps, like Julia with her husband, I'd one day be able to share a meal with my great-grandaunt. For that, I was fortunate. What did she die from? Edith, I mean. Another sigh from the stranger. I could have asked about Doris, but looking at the bag, I was compelled to ask about this poor woman whose life the ferryman mourned. The virus.

he said, like a confession. She caught it from a delivery boy three days ago. She insisted on giving him a tip. The boy is going to be fine. He won't even know he was sick. But Edith... I thought back to my time wasted here in the cafe, annoyed that my customers had been taken from me and bored that I had nothing to do. Meanwhile, Edith had caught this virus, and it killed her.

Edith was old, I mumbled. There was a metallic click as the stranger put the fork down on his plate, the final bite of dessert abandoned on its prongs. She lived it good? If empty life, he said, I wish more people had known about it. A minute of silence passed between us, a moment to remember an old woman who'd been someone, but died nobody.

I wish I'd gotten to know her, I said. A trite comment, the kind of remark that gets thrown around during a wake by people who don't really mean it. We're rarely blessed with that kind of second chance. the stranger said, pulling himself up to his feet. I should let you get back to your delivery. The object of your friend's worship is not a goddess that enjoys being kept waiting. The croissants! I'd completely forgotten about Ian's delivery.

He must have been getting impatient by that time, and I could feel the size of my tip shrinking with every minute spent with this stranger. Wait, goddess? The stranger put both hands in his pockets. With lips tight but spread wide in a grin, he walked to the door. I'd failed to notice, but the sun was peeking through the clouds again. Not much, just enough to send beams of bright, beautiful light into the streets.

Don't you read the tracts? Again, the stranger had teased me with deeper mysteries, hinting at fresh knowledge, only to paint over that promise with a code of normalcy. Of course, the tracts. I'm sure those will explain how the permanent cumulus that hangs over Aquilo is an impatient goddess. The chimes sang their song as the stranger opened the door. But while one bony hand held the handle, the other smacked his forehead.

It looked almost comical, this thin skeleton of a man slapping his head like a distracted old codger. I'm sorry, Miriam, he said, turning back to me. I forgot my hat and bag. Could you bring them to me? I filled my lungs with a deep breath. Could I? The hat was easy enough and my trembling fingers found its brim on one of the stools. It was heavy, like aged felt.

but without a piece of lint to mar the deep black color. The bag, though, was another story. Even if I could lift it, I didn't know I had it in me to pick it up. not after just coming to terms with what was inside and the uncertain fate of those remains i shifted the hat to my left hand closing that fist tight over the brim then hesitant

I reached my right hand to take the handle of the bag. The stranger watched me with eager anticipation. He didn't budge. It would have been easy for him to walk back and get his things himself, but he just stood there. beckoning me with his free hand i swallowed hard braced myself and pulled the bag lifted from the counter like a sack of feathers

It wasn't exactly that light, but it also didn't offer nearly the resistance I anticipated. Instead, the suggested shape under the leather fell apart as the bag's exterior sagged under my pull. It felt empty. It was empty. As I walked over to the door, I played back in my mind how the stranger had hefted it over his shoulder and struggled to put the bag on the counter.

Thoroughly confused, I handed him his things and watched him put the hat on his bald, white head. What? I struggled to ask. What was in there? The stranger put the now limp bag over his shoulder. and looked out at the clearing sky. Edith. The important parts. The memories, the joys, the heartache, and the victories.

her love of salted caramel and her shame at having shoplifted a necklace when she was twelve the fondness for a man she once loved and the pain of his betrayal with another her sadness on the day her sister died and her fear in those last moments when she could no longer breathe lungs too full of fluid to do so is that why it was so heavy the stranger

This ferryman gave me the warmest smile I could expect from one such as he, and nodded. And now, I asked, afraid to hope too much, no such thing as a free meal. He said, turning around to give me a tip of the hat. Thank you for the soup, Miriam. Then he simply walked away. He walked off, down Rue Principale. Away from the Akewillow, and away from Edith's home. Of all the wonderful and scary things I've met in Akewillow, he was by far the most of both these things.

He came, at the weirdest of times, to do the weirdest of things. I took my boxes of croissants and made sure to lock the back door of the Aquilo again. But I also packed a little something extra. On my way back, I wanted to knock on Edith Lowry's door. Chances were, I'd be finding yet another body. However, I had a feeling, little more than a hunch,

that maybe I wouldn't. Something in that thin smile, the stranger's tip of the hat. So, as I prepared to go out again into the empty streets of Aquilo, I packed something extra. Some salted caramel brownies. Enough to share. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee.

Visit ko-fi.com slash Akewillow to donate a cup. Questions, comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.