It was a bitterly chilly morning; the twilight of the sun was cresting in the distance and illuminating the naked trees in a muted orange glow. The street traffic was not yet at its peak for the morning commute. However, it was on the precipice, the usual hustle and bustle was beginning to near. Smoke plumed from the nearby drains and rose past dull, cookie cutter buildings to meet the bright morning sky atop the human-made concrete jungle closing in from all sides. Snow lay on the pavement; a moderate smattering covered the smaller streets and stairs but was cleared on the road to allow traffic to move freely. Trees were lightly coated in spatters of the same snow, and the frost crept up glass in all directions.

Winter had most definitely arrived in New York.

James stepped out onto the top of the stairs with a light crunch as his dark trainers dug into the snow, a bike and messenger bag under different arms, as he awkwardly navigated the space. The air was surprisingly mild for such a wintery morning, but it did not stop his breath from becoming visible just a few inches in front of his face with each exhale. Stepping down the stairs, each foot grinding into the powder one after another, he lifted his road bike down and rested it against a nearby fence, before placing his helmet over his head and securing the clip below his freshly shaved chin. Straightening up his bike, he looked off down the newly sunlit road while swinging his black messenger bag over his head, securing it against the dark red jacket that sat above a dark grey undershirt.

He finally set off.

The conditions were not favourable, but he had ridden in worse. Besides, being in this winter wonderland, he would not want it any other way. There was something about the snow that always brought an unexplainable joy to his heart, even if for some reason, it sat firmly beside an intense feeling of loss.

He was never a fan of Christmas, so the association with that had never held true, and as much as he searched for moments of happiness or distress associated with it, he could never pin down what it was. Maybe it was what it represented. The gathering of loved ones, the togetherness, the feeling of belonging. However, he had family, so to speak. His parents were gone, but he had the old man. He had Lucy. Even Sammy was like an uncle. So, what was it that made him focus on the snow so much? What made him feel like he could almost fly as his bike hurtled down the snowy streets? What was it that made him feel like the scenes around him reminded him of a moment of pure joy where none existed? Maybe he just really liked the snow.

As he made his way along the roads and side streets of New York, he watched the travellers pass by.

Parents escorted their children, navigating the mounds of white dust piled high on the pavements. Kids rushed and raced around the parks and gardens, some collecting snow to build their own wild creations while others hoarded what they could to use as projectiles. The cars slowly trudged on through the hazards now in their way, tyres spinning in places and horns blaring; today’s commute would now be a test of perseverance and skill. Buses struggled down hard to reach areas, lines of heavily clothed passengers rubbing their hands and awaiting a pick-up, each wrapped in woollen hats, scarfs, and gloves. Then there was James, expertly using already laid tracks and smalls gaps to quickly make his way by each one on his way to start the workday, wearing barely half of what they were.

By using a few shortcuts, it did not take him long to arrive at the depot. Parking up his bike just outside the entrance, he hopped off and made his way inside.

As he entered, the smell of fresh coffee smacked him in the face immediately, before beckoning him forth. Changing direction to follow the strong aroma of grounds, he spotted a small, frail man on course to intercept him.

The figure looked as if he had beaten time and laughed off death; as if his entire face was made of putty, ready to be repositioned at any moment by an enthusiastic child with a sudden burst of creativity. Ashen hair stripped by time topped his aged brow. Worn eyes peered back at him, framed by small circular spectacles, and accompanied by a bulbous nose. Smart attire adorned the gentleman standing before him, highlighted by a shirt and sleeveless knitted jumper that sat atop dress trousers and a pair of expertly shined brogues.

A wrinkly hand shot upward towards him with a white polystyrene cup of coffee full to the brim; just as it did every day.

“Coffee, kid?” The old man barked, a cheeky smile slowly forming on his face.

“Thanks, Arthur. You know this is the best part of each morning.”

“Seeing little ol’ me? I don’t believe ya.”

“Good, cause I meant the coffee. Clear to see your instincts are still as young as ever though.”

“Very good.” He smiled sarcastically. “C’mon, kid. Craig is looking for ya. Ya better get moving.” He chuckled, motioning towards the small office a few meters away.

“What would I ever do without you?”

“The same thing the rest of the world would; fall to darkness without their guiding light.”

“Oh, bit dark for this time of day. Barely even woke up yet.”

“Ya asked, I answered.”

“The one constant in my life.”

“Ain’t you cold out there wearing that?”

“Nah, I’m feeling alright. Not that cold today honestly.”

“Always the joker, eh, kid?”

“I know I have a reputation, but it’s quite mild, honest,”

Arthur side eyed him, before leaving well enough alone.

As James made his way towards the side room, he looked around and inspected the morning rush. He always found it fascinating to focus on the immense amount of organisation that goes into your typical workplace, and it was not until he took a step back for a second each morning and watched it happen, that he was reminded of the intricate pieces that worked together.

Forms and figures of various size, age, gender, and race accelerated around to a cacophony of chatter, movement, orders, and responses. It was so loud that it was unmissable, well, unless you were in the eye of the storm. The shuffle of shoes skirted past James as he meandered by piles of packages and letters, all of which were the focus of one person or another. Supervisors charged like bulls through fragile employees, intent on making sure everyone was instructed — all bases must be covered. All the while with each passing employee, high or low ranking, a gracious nod was sent in the direction of the wrinkly old man walking just a few feet in front of him. Arthur nodded back, acknowledging each one and making sure to say their names as he did. He knew them all.

As they approached the open office door, another employee, complete with a cylindrical package under his arm, came rushing out, barely missing Arthur.

“I’m on it, Craig,” he called back, barrelling through the door frame and narrowly missing the ashen haired man. “Woah. Sorry about that, Arthur.”

“It’s okay, Clyde.” The old man shot back, before growling under his breath. “Just be careful, will ya. Goddamn it.”

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Entering the office and scanning the room, his eyes instantly fell upon the burly man stood directly behind the desk, slowly lowering himself back down to the leather chair below. His slicked-back dark brown hair met perfectly with the beginnings of a neatly combed chocolate coloured beard that sat just above broad shoulders. Placing both shovel-like hands on the desk in front, he looked over in the direction of James and Arthur. His eyes were a deep brown that resembled two chestnuts balanced just above a slightly crooked nose that showed noticeable wear and tear. His tree trunk arms were wrapped in a blue office shirt that could have been confused for being sprayed on, and his tie appeared as though it was working in unison with his belt to keep his chest puffed out. There was a valid reason that most employees called him the lumberjack.

“About bloody time!” he shouted, looking across the room towards the pair.

Getting back up again with the speed of someone half his age, he bolted over to a pile of small packages that he had kept aside for those customers they could squeeze an extra penny or two out of. Extra money meant faster delivery, as well as extra privacy. James had never fully understood exactly how they got some of their customers and he was smart enough not to ask, especially since he had gotten himself into the position of being depended upon. A little bonus for no questions asked was fine by him. He had proven himself over the last few years to utilise his knowledge of the city, traffic, and shortcuts in ways that no one had for as long as Craig could remember. It was even more essential when the weather brought added challenges.

Beckoning him over to the pile, Craig scooped up the packages between his two industrial mittens and motioned for his messenger bag to be opened. He slowly filtered the boxes in before slapping a large palm over James’ shoulder. Moving in close to the messenger’s face, he smiled through the thicket of bristles around his mouth.

“You know, you must be starting to make a name for yourself,” the lumberjack whispered, looking around. “Someone requested you for a delivery. Now I don’t normally do this; each equally assigned and all that. I better not hear it being talked about out there” – he motioned out into the depot – “but, this guy, he was pretty insistent. Plus, you’re Arthur’s boy, so. Said, he’d heard of you before and that a friend of his was pleased with a previous delivery. You must have impressed someone.

“Now, take care of this.” He reached into his desk and slipped out a small jewellery container, not much bigger than a box of matches. “The guy you are looking for is a Mr. Slued. He is at Cadenslocus Tower, west fifty-seventh avenue, and he needs it just before the end of the workday. Make sure it’s there. Understood?”

“Got it.” James nodded.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “He was asked for? By name?”

“By name,” Craig said, reaffirming.

Arthur eyeballed the package, playfully slipping it from James’ grasp and beginning to inspect the carved wooden exterior of the delivery. Running his fingers over the edges, he narrowed his eyes and scanned across the entirety of its ornate perimeter but took care that it did not open. As he looked back over to James, he slowly slipped the box into his messenger bag and placed a hand against the side of James’ arm, forcing a strained grin, before quickly making his way out of the office. The two figures left within the room looked at each other for a moment in confusion, before letting out a small chuckle. Neither could guess the meaning behind Arthur’s reaction. The old man was known to be a tad quirky.

It did not take Craig long to explain all the instructions for the day, and within five minutes James was back outside the office staring across at Arthur. His old friend was standing a few feet away taking a call.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s familiar,” he muttered, as James approached. “Gotta go. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Sammy?” The two locked eyes.

“Yeah, he was just asking about an old patron they used to have down at the bar.”

“Oh, okay. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just, um, said that they were asking for me.”

“Right.”

“Anyway. Ya good to go, kid?”

“Yeah, well actually.” He hesitated. “This may seem a little out of the blue, but I don’t know who else will understand my madness. Listen, I’ve been having these weird moments. Well, I mean dreams; it’s the dreams again. They’re really strange and–.” He trailed off, looking down at the floor. “I mean, I can hear someone in these dreams now, but I just don’t know who it is. It’s a woman and she’s vaguely familiar. Could it be my mum that my mind is throwing at me, or a relative of some kind?”

“Maybe, ya were young when everything went down, but ya might have some memory of her voice still. I never really knew ya mother though; it was ya father that I knew.”

“Maybe then, I just feel like I know it from somewhere. Like it resonated in some strange way. Sorry to bring it up, it’s just been happening for a while and I know that you know that I’ve had them before, and…I needed to ask. It was just on my mind. Been having them for so long and now this change over the last few months. Weird dreams getting weirder, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s no problem, kid. Listen, ya better get on the road. We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Samson’s?”

“I’ll be there, kid.”

As James stepped towards the entrance, he stopped, looking back to see Arthur staring off into the distance and holding a wrinkled right hand up to his chest. He had the feeling that something was on the old man’s mind, but he knew that if he did not get to work the Lumberjack would soon be on his back. Turning towards the depot opening, he moved off. The packages were not going to deliver themselves.

Arthur sighed heavily, turning back to watch him leave for the day’s delivery and slowly resting his hand back by his side.

********

The cold, damp cellar was disturbed by the movement of a singular figure, parting the light flooding in from the room behind him.

A well-built gentleman in blue jeans and a worn, tight turtleneck, his muscular arms making themselves visible through the stressed material, broke the silence. His dark, chestnut hair was clean cut and tapered off down his head, fading into his umber skin, leading to a pair of broad shoulders. Deep brown eyes peered into the basement, darting back and forth, seemingly bouncing between the sporadic warm undertones of either cheek in the dim light as he listened.

He ran one hand along the wall to balance himself against the steep decline and the other held his mobile phone against his ear.

Carefully making his way down a rickety staircase at the edge of the room, his mass straining each step-in succession, he crept forward as it creaked and groaned in response. Stepping down into the cold, hard concrete floor, he strode forward, taking a quick look over both shoulders to inspect the interior.

Cobwebs covered the wooden shelves, and the smell of stale alcohol perforated the air in all directions. Boxes were piled high in one corner of the room and large kegs were stored in clusters in another. The stone floor was stained in places, worn and well-used.

As he walked past the structures towards the back of the area, he finished off his telephone conversation while putting his hand on a small metal handle, waist high on the wall. It was embedded into the stonework and was merely one of many ornate castings that bordered horizontally around the room. Inserting a single digit, the man forced the diamond-shaped metal out with a satisfying click.

“Carved wood? Andrealesian?” he asked, the bassy, smooth reverberations of his voice echoing. He twisted the handle and swung the wall to one side. “Okay, I’ll have a look for you. I’ll let you know later.”

As he slipped the phone into his pocket, he walked into the small rectangular room, now revealed by the wall quickly repositioning with ease.

There was a desk at one end and several bookshelves with leather-bound volumes lining the interior. The sudden smell of must and damp radiated outward and clung to his nostrils. It felt like home.

Entering, he slid it back into place until a secondary click could be heard.

The writing on the spines of each tome showed strange markings that the man ran his fingers over while searching for a specific sequence that was on his mind, finally making his selection. Moving the large book to the desk, he slammed it down and dusted off the front cover to show a jagged spiral slowly disappearing into the distance, yet no title was visible.

As it opened, a cloud of dust billowed into the air, now finally disturbed after so long. Quickly wafting it away and holding back a cough, he stared down intently as he examined it. The markings on each page followed that of those on the spine; however, he had previous experience reading these. Despite that, he was not confident of exactly what he was looking for. After a few hours of thumbing through the pages and approving throaty resonations, he stopped on a page entitled ‘Revelabis, Occultatum’.

Below the title, placed at the centre of the page, was an old ink image of an open, handcrafted box. Beautifully constructed and with meticulous details carved across its edges, it fit the description. All that could be seen inside was a bright shining light emanating outward, marked by streaks of black ink depicting its immense glow.

“Oracles. So, that’s what they called them.” He mused aloud. “Now, what the hell is an oracle?”

Just then, his phone began to ring again. Sliding it out, he looked at the name and answered it, turning to the next page.

“Yeah, what’s up?” He continued to read the passages proceeding the image. “Okay, gimme a second. I was down in the library. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Quickly closing the book, he swiftly left.