Border Songs

Border Songs is a retelling of the ancient Chinese tale of The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. The love story between Zhinü and Niulang is the story of Vega and Altair, and is celebrated every seventh day of the seventh month in the year. The meeting of the two stars in the night sky across the Milky Way has been celebrated in many Asian cultures since the Han dynasty (206 BC- 220 AD) with street festivals and exhibitions. The original myth is a story of two gods in the heavens who love each other so fiercely that they neglect their duties to be together. They are forced to be apart, separated by the Milky Way, and fated to meet only once a year on a bridge made of magpies. It all seemed to fit together to set Border Songs in Chicago in 1892, one year before the Chicago World’s Fair, or the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. I tried my best to keep the narrative accurate to the time period, and to add little touches that speak to the time the characters live in. The Mississippi River seemed to be the perfect Milky Way, and Marshall Field’s and the Union Stock Yards the perfect place for our Weaver Girl and Cowherd to work. I threw in a few mentions of other myths, like the Red String of Fate and the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and added my own magical item, the Violin, and I hope the love shows.

The notes of his violin screamed through the loud darkness of the Chicago streets. The sound of the resulting song that flew from the strings was harsh, but not unwelcomed. It was beautiful, even in its desperation and impatience. An old man on his way home from the shift change faltered in his steps before he continued on into the dispersing city crowds, shaking his head. A small woman with dark hair and long fingers watched him turn the corner before deftly opening her second floor window and sitting out on the sill to hear better. Her bright face turned towards the moon, and her glittering black eyes silently kept vigil until she could hear the music slowly travelling closer and growing sweeter. Out of the alley trudged the violin player, his whiskers chafing against the crude leather chin rest. Seeing the open window, he stopped beneath it and raised tired eyes to the dark-haired woman. Tonight was different. He was used to a solitary vigil of the dark streets, but here she was. His fingers twitched imperceptibly at the strings.

The song no longer screamed, but neither was it gentle. It swelled and pulled hard at her, threatening to snatch her right from her perch to see her shattered on the brick cobbles below. Her shaking gasp was barely audible, but after a few seconds she somehow found the wordless, answering harmony to the notes engulfing her and regained her head. Her rasping voice sang, fighting back at his song and coaxing the feeling further. The raw sound of them rose and fell, finally settling into something inexperienced but beautiful.

Vega stared blankly at the man below as the violin faded back into the soft notes of a lullabye. She tucked a loose strand of hair back around the knot at the top of her head and, noticing her fingers were shaking in the realization of her recent bravery, she let her hand drop. “A-ah, apologies,” she called, whirling and disappearing into her small dormitory.

Al made a half-formed noise, the bow discordantly lifting from the strings. “Wai-” But she was gone. It was too late to knock on the building’s door; this was the company housing district, after all, and he would be in as much trouble as she would if their superiors knew they were up after curfew. He sighed heavily and put the bow back to the strings. The bow lamented her departure before he turned away down the road, committing the brick house and her dark eyes to memory.

Before the sun peeked through the high-rises, Vega was up, boiling chopped chicory for her seven charges. She threw the last of the rationed fatback pork into her cast-iron skillet and mixed up another panful of cornbread, putting it on the stove to cook. Pulling a dingy copy of the previous night’s Chicago Evening Post out of her apron pocket, she sat down at the kitchen table to read the newest muckraking. She didn’t care too much for the stories; with these penny papers, she figured you got what you paid for, but it was something to occupy her tumultuous thoughts. The man with the violin always came on clear nights when the moon was bright. He must be one of the Irish, with all of his thick, dark red hair. Why did she insist upon running away last night? Why did she open her mouth? She never had before. He only ever passed by under her window on his journey through the streets. Why did he stop, as if he had planned to? She huffed and snapped the newspaper over. Who was he?

Vega’s thoughts were cut short by the sound of shuffling footfalls making their way down the wooden stairs. Mercy was always the first one awake, the wiry mass of curls atop her head sticking out every which way and her eyes bleary. She padded into the kitchen in her worn slippers and robe, and made a noncommittal noise when Vega greeted her with a gentle “good morning.” Vega smiled, set out a plate, and poured the young woman a cup of chicory. Mercy grunted and gingerly sipped the scalding liquid, focusing on the hot tin mug in her hands and trying to gather the wisps of thought that floated through her tired mind. She vaguely heard Margarette and Cass thundering down the stairs and felt Cass’ strong, purposeful fingers loosening her hair from its plait and attempting to pull a comb through it. “Christ, Mercy,” Cass’ low voice grumbled, ignoring the small gasp and muttered tsk from Margarette, “how does one even grow hair like this? It’s a rat’s nest!”

Mercy made another unintelligible noise and speared a piece of pork, setting it carefully on her plate, making sure to steer the meat clear of the chips in the secondhand china. Margarette sat down in her place beside Mercy and served herself, bowing her head in prayer before using a pocketknife to primly cut the meat in front of her. Cass pulled a few hairpins from her pocket and secured Mercy’s hair in a low, twisting creation. She moved around the table to unceremoniously reach over plates and mugs and a precariously placed skillet to grab a slice of brown bread and the small crock of butter, much to Margarette’s continued tutting. Violet was suddenly at Cass’ left, one of her petite hands re-situating the skillet and the other deftly holding Cass’ sleeve out of the grease. Violet’s brown eyes were watchful as she prepared her plate and poured chicory for herself and Cass, but they lightened in faint amusement at the sight of Cynthia and Mary in the doorway. Cynthia lead the way, breezing into the room and sweeping into her chair at the foot of the table. Mary sat at her left, her large frame engulfing the chair. They bowed their heads together, Mary whispering something to Cynthia that elicited a tinkling laugh from her and a grumble from Mercy. “It’s far too early, Cynthia. Take your sunshine out of here,” she grumbled, her fork clattering against the plate in frustration. Cynthia opened her mouth in protest, only to close it again at Mary’s fingers at her wrist. Laura grasped Mercy’s shoulder briefly as she flounced past, whispering a “stop that, Miss Sleepy,” before settling into her seat at Vega’s left. Laura straightened her glasses on her small nose, peering over them to shoot Cass a withering look. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s disrespectful.”

“Not my Lord, Laur,” Cass retorted, ripping a chunk of meat with her teeth and chewing, “I’ll try to talk more pretty, though,” she said, mockingly quashing Laura’s building bluster. Vega looked over the seven women around the table and rolled her shoulders, hoping to banish the lingering questions she had about the violin player from the night before. She didn’t know who he was, and it was unlikely that they would ever see each other again or have a chance to meet formally. She had other things and people to tend to, and she didn’t have time for the violin player, no matter how handsome or intriguing he was.

Three city blocks away, Al poured out some coffee and added cream. He yawned and ascended the two flights of stairs to his stuffy attic room where he unlatched his window and climbed out onto the roof to watch the city slowly awaken. Street lamps were being extinguished below him, and in the distance, he could hear the cries of paperboys starting as they heralded their early editions. He fished a crust of bread from his pocket and chewed thoughtfully on it. Who was that woman? He knew he would be hard-pressed to keep his mind on his job today. He silently went over the previous night in his mind, peppering his musings with sips of scalding coffee. He finally rose and slipped back through his window to get ready for the day. He stretched on a pair of suspenders and quickly tied his tie before jamming a cap on his head and rushing out the door to catch the streetcar out to the Yards. He pulled on his jacket as he ran, tripping over his ill-fitting shoes. Al waved back at the saluting figures in the distance, slowing his run to catch his breath and walk the rest of the way. Ira and Mack were already waiting at the stop with Reuben, one of his housemates, and they all acknowledged him quietly as he walked up. He nervously scrabbled around in his pocket for a small can of pomade and a comb, working the grease through his hair as he waited for the car to come. Today, he scoured the group of men and women around him, hoping against hope to see the dark eyes from last night looking back at him. He knew it was futile; she would probably be a passenger on one of the later streetcars. Purchasing cattle for Union Stock Yards had Al in to work far ahead of most laborers, and he usually used this time for chatting with his friends before they all had to slip back into the daily grind.

Speaking of friends, Al thought, rolling his eyes good naturedly as his other housemate, the perpetually tardy Chip, came running up. “Sorry!” Chip huffed, leaning over to put his hands on his knees and breathe in large gasps. “I forgot my lunch pail, and then my cap, and then I had to make sure the door was locked...”

Mack, next to him, scoffed. “You’d forget your hair if it weren’t already attached to your head.” In reply, Chip grimaced and pulled a match from his pocket, idly striking it against the brick wall he leaned on. “Everyone here?” Al asked, looking around as the streetcar pulled to their stop.

“Yeah, yeah, Pa, keep your trousers on,” Reuben retorted, climbing into the car. Al shook his head and piled in as well, trying to focus himself on the day ahead.

Vega spent her day rather uneventfully, considering her position as head of the Dressmaking and Alterations at Marshall Field’s and Company. Despite the fact that there was always something to do or oversee in the department, Vega couldn’t focus overall on the day. She sighed, briefly pausing to check herself in the mirror and straighten her shirtwaist with a determined tug. She mentally shook herself and attended to the customer at hand. She was an example, after all, and she didn’t have time for daydreaming.

“...the blue, I think; with a length of peach ribbon throughout,” the young woman finished, looking quite uncertain and flustered. “Although, the chartreuse...”

Vega’s eyes narrowed slightly, quickly eyeing the other fabrics strewn across the consulting area. Together, the blue and peach would make an already garish ensemble look hideous. She squared her shoulders and interrupted the fretting woman. “Perhaps, miss, you would prefer a more monochromatic color pallet for your trousseau. You have so wisely chosen two dresses made from a lovely blush color, and we have an exquisite coral silk that was shipped in this morning.” Vega smiled at the red-haired bride-to-be. “The peach ribbon would fit so nicely with all three of those dresses, and we may even have a bit left over to send along to the jewelry department for your pearl necklace.”

The young woman stopped her bustling and blinked at Vega. “Ye-yes! You’re right, of course, but-” She looked to her mother, who was sternly chiding Cass about the misuse of lace on corsets, then back to Vega. “What shall I wear over it all? I don’t want to embarrass poor Henry when he takes me out to parties.” The young woman bit her lip, looking unsure once more. It was clear she was marrying into a family with “old money,” and Vega felt for the poor girl. She held up a finger and winked. “I’m not called ‘The Goddess’ for nothing. Let me see what we have tucked away in furs.” She swept towards the back room, catching the eye of Cass, who was still occupied arguing with the increasingly agitated mother of the bride. Pursing her lips and giving a sharp jerk of her head, Vega signaled Cass to quash the conversation and accompany her to the stockroom as soon as she could. She surveyed the rest of her department in an almost calculating manner. Everything, with the exception of the bride’s windbag of a mother, seemed to be going rather swimmingly for an average day.

Try as he might to think of the dark-eyed woman from the night before throughout the day, Al could not find the time to focus on anything but his work. From the moment he walked under the large, turreted gate of the Union Stock Yards and lifted a two-fingered salute to Sherman, the bronze steer mounted in the center of the arch, Al was busy. He spent the day filing papers and checking steers, overseeing the arrival of each shipment of cattle, and preparing accounts for review until Ira knocked on his small office door and let himself in. “Shift change, Al. Time to go home.”

“Thanks, six already?” Al questioned, running a hand across his stubbled face.

“Yes,” he replied quietly, lifting Al’s jacket from the coat rack beside the door and held it out for him. “I’ll be an hour or so behind you all, I have some things to finish up here, but maybe I’ll catch up with you before you head out tonight.”

“Yeah, okay. Right.” Al shook himself and stood, shrugging on his coat and grabbing his set of keys. “Going home.”

Vega watched the rising moon silently from the rattling window of the elevated cable car. The night was again clear, and the lamplights were bright below her, splattering golden and copper light on the red bricks of the cobblestone streets. Violin weather, she thought, bemused, before she started, her heart lurching in something like fear. Violet, seated beside her, raised an eyebrow and gently grasped the cuff of Vega’s sleeve between two fingertips. “I’m fine,” Vega replied to the unspoken concern and gave Violet a small shake of her head. Why was she nervous? He probably wouldn’t stop beneath her window again, or even remember their nondescript brick house at all. She had nothing to be anxious over. But what if he did remember? What if he stops? Vega scanned the sky once again, unsure if she should be excited, or if she should pray for rain.

Al opened his violin’s case reverently, his fingers blessing the faded velvet that lined the case and the worn, polished wood of the instrument. He cradled the violin in his large, calloused hands and hummed softly, thinking. If her window was open, he would stop. Just stop, not talk to her, just pause. Maybe wait for her to sing again? That’s unlikely, he thought, setting the violin down and picking up his bow and tightening it. She was so embarrassed about opening her mouth last night. He held some rosin in his left hand and smoothly drew the bow across the waxy substance. The hairs would soon need to be replaced, and he knew he was dragging his feet about getting his own violin, but this one had been his Pap’s. There was some almost otherworldly feel about the instrument that Al had never been able to find in other violins. This violin had seen famine, and war, and death, but the music that came from it spoke of rolling mist and heather, and the small, lasting joys of home, and the certain shared reverence and deep, fierce passion of the watchers of stars. The violin only spoke of these things after nightfall, and his Pap warned him not to play of those things before the sky turned it’s purple dark, or after Dawn’s rosy fingers pulled back the curtains of the morning. Al raised his eyes to the fading light outside his window. Night was falling.

“Al, don’t, don’t do this to yourself,” Chip sighed from a corner as he used his pocketknife to clean his fingernails. “What is it- every time the moon is out, you go out playing that violin? It’s odd, and you always come back looking like someone told you there were no more fireworks left in the world.”

Al let out a slow, steadying breath and settled the violin at his shoulder. “You don’t understand,” he said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I have to go out there-”

“-to find whatever the blee bleh bah. I call bullshit on that!” Reuben called from his corner, where he hung off the seat of his armchair, upside down. He righted himself, huffing in frustration. “We all know about your Irish witch grandpa and his magical violin. It’s bullshit, Al.”

Al raised a brow and scowled at the two. “It’s not bullshit, and even if it is, what if I like playing? I can do what I want! America is a free country, after all.”

“Only free for rich boys that have money, and don’t need magic to find purpose in their sad lives,” Chip retorted, inciting a scoff from Reuben.

Al snarled at him and threw the rag he’d been using to polish the wood and help rosin his bow with deadly precision right into Chip’s face. “Shut up.”

The wooden chair Al was sitting on crashed to the floor as the big man surged forward and tackled the other to the floor. Feeling rather left out, Reuben added a few well-placed kicks and punches before he was dragged bodily into the fight by Chip.

Al, Reuben, and Chip all halted at the sight of Ira standing silently in their doorway, his arms folded crisply against his broad chest. They stood, almost sheepishly before the younger man, Al managing to get one more good pinch in on Reuben before they quieted.

“Al, you’re late,” he said simply, silently daring Chip and Reuben to speak. “You’d better get out there before the light’s gone.”

This warranted a round of groaning from both Reuben and Chip, despite the severe glare they received from Ira. “Go,” he asserted quietly. “We’ll all be here when you come back.”

Al nodded, raised his violin and bow, and pulled the hairs across the strings a few times to test the tuning. He shrugged a somber goodbye to his friends and slipped out his back door and into the gathering dark. The night welcomed him, wrapping around him in mantles of shadows and pockets of moonlight. He could hear the bickering voices behind him, already growing louder with laughter and good companionship instead of ire, and he smiled. Beginning his trek, his violin whispered and coaxed him forward with the same question it had been asking for years. Where are you? The question was quieter tonight, asking less desperately than it had been in a while; the song sounding like more of a plead. Please come out.

Al could walk this path blindfolded. He knew each indent, each missing brick and cracked stone. He knew where the carriage wheels and tire marks had made valleys, and which storm grates would clatter if you stepped on them. He let the music thrum through his fingers and coil around the strings, sawing at the hairs, stretching across the bow, and flicking out into the world the way an artist looped their fingers at a brush and splattered paint onto a canvas. This was art in its purest, most primal form. It radiated forth, unstable yet planned; the perfect contradiction. The sound was never quite polished; never quite finished. He knew that it worried his friends; the wildness and incomplete nature of this instrument. It had ruined his father. Neither Grady O’ Buchalla, Al’s grandfather, nor Donal Buckley, Al’s father, ever truly found the ‘song that played the violin to sleep.’ Donal became a slave to the instrument, playing song after song, night after night, and trying on mates like one tried on clothing. The way Al understood it, the violin only exacerbated Donal’s natural wanderlust, and never let go. Grady raised Al, and from the moment he and his wife, Aisling, were presented with their son’s progeny, they taught him to believe in the good and terrible properties of magic. Grady wove tale after tale of the violin; the joy and hurt it could create, given the hands of the player and the people the music attracted. And it was only after Aisling’s death that he told Al of the song that would sing the violin to sleep. He could only describe what the song would feel like. He had never truly experienced it himself, but he spoke of a sigh of relief. A sound that would answer the question the instrument posed with a challenge, not a definitive answer. “When you meet the answerer, you’ll know that a great adventure is starting. I thought I met my answerer once, but I let ‘im go because o’ mine blasted pride and the fear I had. Your grandmother never knew,” Grady confessed. “And your father, see, he never quite found his answerer in only one person. And that’s alright, you know. There can be more than one. But if you find your answerer, you work through it. You meet that challenge with every little part of you, every mite o’ magic and care and each rutting drop of blood you have in you. Because, my boy, your answerer is worth the effort, no matter how hard the struggle.”

Al looked up at the quiet brick house where he found himself and started, his grandfather’s words fading into the stars that were pitching and wheeling above him. Where are you?

The song chided her gently outside her window. It pulled at her fingers like a child, wrapping around them and pulling her forward as if by some invisible string. She lifted the edge of her curtain, her breath shallow and her heart leaping about in her chest like a rabbit. What should she do? What did it all mean? Some strange man showing up on her doorstep, playing songs and waking u-

A strong hand clasped Vega’s shoulder and reached by her to unlatch the window and throw it open. Two more hands found her face and cradled it gently between them, and through the darkness, she heard the sweet, low voice of Mercy whisper a breathless encouragement, and saw Violet’s hand pull back the curtain to let the moonlight stream in. Cass guided her forward. “Well? Answer him, Vega.”

Vega had seen the buildings unfold and unfurl like ferns. They were white; like the soft glimmer of pearls, like the harsh glint of sunlight off of Lake Michigan. There were stalls everywhere, and people had been coming for months and from all over the globe to see the marvels of this White City. This would put Chicago on the map, the officials said. It was all Vega could do to keep her girls focused on the inordinate amount of orders coming through the store, what with the excitement of the Fair practically barraging its way through the ornate doors of Marshall Fields’.

Mary and Cynthia had gone on opening day, slipping in through the throngs of people after hopping the fences in their voluminous skirts. They had come back, breathless and laughing, Mary carrying a small box of chewing gum that tasted like some unknown combination of fruits, and both of them looking rumpled and absolutely starstruck and in love.

Finally, in the early evening of a dark night in early July, Al leaned against the cooling hot stones of Marshall Fields’ and stuffed creased Fair tickets into his pocket. He played with his sleeves, rolling and unrolling them again to make sure they were perfect. He silently took solace from the solidity and heat at his back, trying to calm his nerves. She will love this, he thought, smiling. Chip, Mack, Reuben and Ira were all with him; Chip rooting around in his pockets for a light to set off the pair of sparklers in his hand, and Ira managing to look both uncomfortable and unruffled in his stance leaning against the lamppost.

Vega exited, quietly herding Violet and Cynthia ahead of her out of the building. It had been another long day, and Vega was looking forward to collapsing into her small iron bed. Mercy and Laura had offered to cook a light dinner tonight, and Vega would not complain. She strode away, gathering such speed that the large, strong hand stopping her almost pulled her off balance.

And suddenly, he was kissing her. Out under the hot darkness pressing down on them, under the streetlamps that melted into the gathering dusk, in front of God and everyone, he kissed her.

Her eyes were wide, her hands splayed out against his chest to push away, but she knew this mouth. She knew the smell of the musky, pine-y pomade and the silky, Braille feel of the scar that lived on the upper right corner of his lip. She could hear Laura titter behind her, and Cassandra’s deep alto murmur “Lord have mercy,” but she didn’t care. She laughed around and into that mouth, and he pulled her closer. Al tightened his hold on her to smile at her friends; his voice a deep chuckle, “Hey, Cass. Jealous?”

Mercy stuck out her tongue at him, and Cass made a very obscene gesture, both of them hiding smiles.

Al took Vega’s small hand in his and tugged her forward. “Let’s go. We're going to be late!”

“What do you mean ‘going to be late?’ Where are we going?!” Vega cried, stumbling along behind him. “I have duties, and there's work tomorrow, and-”

Al flashed the two tickets at her, grinning as if they were made of gold. “The Fair, Vega. I got you tickets to the Fair.”

She heard Cynthia squeak behind her in delight. “The Fair?! Oh, Vega, the Fair! Oh, Margarette, don't let her go in that...”

Vega felt her sleeve being tugged on by Violet, and looked up at Mercy and Mary, who descended upon her to corral her back toward the department store doors. “Wait for us by the loading docks. We'll be back in two shakes!” Laura chirped excitedly.

Laughing, Al turned and kissed Vega again quickly, ushering her back towards the store. “Go, have fun. I'll be waiting.”

The women burst back into the dressmaking department, unbuttoning Vega’s dress as they went. “The gold! Get the gold!” Mercy crowed, wrenching the black dress from Vega’s shoulders.

But it was Violet who held up a confection of white beads and dark midnight blue. It was a gown made for a princess, or a queen, or-

“Fit for a goddess,” Cass murmured, fingering the glittering beadwork. Vega knew in her heart that it was wrong, that the dress was for some rich woman not covered in bits of thread and the sweat of the day, but she held up her arms, unresisting, as Cynthia and Mary slipped the fabric on over her head. The smooth silk whispered over her skirts, settling into a small, graceful train behind her. The bodice grafted to her, showing a daring slip of skin at her back and showcasing her slim waist. Vega looked at her seven charges, her best friends, and grasped the skirts of the gown. “Are you all sure?” she whispered, her face red.

“Positive,” Laura replied in a no-nonsense tone, tying a simple necklace of glass beads around Vega’s throat. Violet led her over to a small settee and pulled a hairbrush from her pocket. She silently took out pin after hairpin from Vega’s tresses, letting the hair cascade down her back, brushing as she went. The other six women were suddenly in their own borrowed gowns, each working quickly to tie laces and affix bows and pearls and earrings. Violet made short work of Vega’s jet black hair, weaving in crystal stars throughout the loose waves and piling it atop the crown of her head in great roiling swells. Mary swooped in with a pair of hot tongs and carefully curled the flyaway pieces that escaped the impressive coiffure.

Vega took Violet’s hand and stood, surveying the mess of a department and the beautiful specimens before her. “Well?” she said, her voice laughing. “We can always clean up and return all this tomorrow. Ladies? Let’s go to the Fair!”

They stole quietly out of the loading dock doors, bustling out, one after the other. Cynthia and Mary clasped hands and took off towards the fairgrounds, Cynthia digging around in her pocketbook for a crumpled dollar. Laura took one look at Chip, his singed fingers, and the fizzling sparklers and laughed. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him along. “Come on, you’re taking me.”

Cass looped her fingers through Mercy’s and her arm through Reuben’s. “Let’s go make some trouble!” she whooped, making Margarette laugh and scamper along behind them, followed by an adventurous-looking Mack.

Vega sighed, satisfied, and met Al’s eyes at last. She winked at him and stepped forward, slipping her small hand into his and grinning up at him. “Shall we?” he rumbled thickly, squeezing her fingers in adoration. “Yes, please,” she confirmed, and they stepped out into the night, the silver moon above them.

Violet and Ira watched the two blend into the dark heat from their seat on the loading dock. Ira leaned over to kiss Violet’s proffered cheek before he snaked an arm around her middle and helped her jump from the docks to the uneven bricks below. She took his arm and smiled widely when he suggested they head home.

Al was convinced that tonight, especially, was the perfect night. There was something about the July air and the promises that hung in the air like the hanging incandescent bulbs strung between the street stalls lining the walkways between the larger buildings. They had spent hours together, looking at the new inventions and the various exhibitions. It was breathtaking, the showcase of American production and ingenuity. He knew that this was the atmosphere magic and passion thrived on, and, looking down at the lovely creature beside him, darting from stall to stall and new sight to new smell, he knew that chasing after her was where he belonged. She was the answer. She was the teasing, challenging, severe, all-in, no-holds-barred answer to the question he had been asking. He had known it for a while, and they had discussed futures before, but he finally felt as though this, this was the night for magic, and answers, and asking important questions. He dug around in his pocket, the simple gold band playing through his fingers. Fishing the ring out and clearing his throat, Al drew Vega’s attention as he knelt before her. “Vega, I was wondering, that is to say-”

“What in the nine hells do you think you’re doing, girl?!” a gruff, loud voice interrupted.

Vega straightened from her place at the kitchen table at the sound of the back door opening. Al trudged quietly to her, and without preamble, hauled her shaking figure up from her seat and into his arms. He tucked her head into the crook of his neck and carried her the two flights of creaking stairs to her bedroom. Tucking her gently into bed, Al removed her sodden boots and placed them next to her side table. He then knelt on the floor beside her. The gown she wore shone in the starlight that winked through her curtains. It mocked them quietly, the gems and beads glittering coldly and reflecting dull light onto Al’s somber face. “What do I say to them, Al?” Vega sobbed, her hands clenching into fists and pressing hard into her eyes. “They can’t lose their jobs over this, they have nowhere to go! It’s all my fault! If we had been more careful, worked harder, maybe we wouldn’t have-”

“Vega, nothing would’ve prevented something like this. Mr. Fields is being unreasonable.”

“Is he, Al? We stole from him. We took those dresses and jewelry right out of his store and for what-”

“For the Fair,” Al sighed, realizing his part in the scheme. “I’m sorry, Vega, I should’ve stopped all that when you were heading back in. I knew that’s where you all were going, and I didn’t stop-”

“We all got caught up in the excitement. We’re all adults. We all should’ve stopped ourselves from playing Cinderella and just enjoyed the night as we were. I just- I had responsibility! I should have- I didn’t- and now they’re going to be thrown out, all alone!” Vega burst into tears again. Below them, they could hear the sound of the back door opening and the merry voices of the girls as they clambered up the stairs and talked in the kitchen. Vega turned wide eyes on Al, her face wan and tearful. He reached over and tucked a limp curl behind her ear.

“Listen,” he said quietly, his voice decided, “tomorrow, I’m going to run out and get a cart. We’re going to gather up the gowns and every last bit of the jewelry, and take it back to the store. You can wash and press them before we go in. I’ll help you. We’re going to fix this, Vega, and we’re going to present ourselves before Mr. Marshall Fields tomorrow and beg that he lets those girls keep their jobs. You might have to take the fall here, and I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Al wiped a tear from her eye gently. “We’ll make it work out, somehow. I promise.”

There was a crash downstairs, and Al heard Chip laugh and Margarette shout in protest.

Al looked at Vega and tried to be strong. “Are you scared?” he asked, folding her hands into his and searching her face. She nodded, but her eyes held a serene acceptance as she sat up and began taking the crystals from her hair. Her shaking fingers betrayed her fear and sorrow as she placed the brilliant, shining things into Al’s outstretched and waiting hands. Outside the room, their friends laughed around the table and laid next to each other happily in their beds, blissfully unaware that, on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year, on a night full of magic and beauty and life, the stars were falling like tears.

Vega Kleid and Altair O’ Buchalla stood before the man that held all their fates in his hand. They had both spent the better part of the morning working to sway Mr. Fields’ harsh judgment away from Vega’s housemates, ultimately convincing him to leave them out of his final decision entirely. Vega could live with this, she decided. Anything as long as they’re safe. Maybe, she could find a small job doing something else, or she and Al could get married and they could live off of Al’s earnings at the Yards. This could work! She thought, her mind racing desperately. None of it was ideal, but it could work.

“Ms. Kleid,” Mr. Fields addressed Vega, “I will not dismiss you or your staff. You will, however, be kept under very close supervision by the rest of the administrative staff until a trial period of six months has concluded, and we reevaluate your position as the Head of Dressmaking. If any of your staff needs disciplinary action in that time, both you and the offender will be fired on the spot. I think this is fair, don’t you?”

Behind them, the door opened, and turning, what Al saw in the doorway made his heart stop and the blood rush from his face. His superior, Owen Lehr, bustled in, holding a briefcase in one hand, and hooking his spectacles over his ears with the other. “Apologies, Marshall,” he tutted, coming to sit in the plush chair beside Mr. Fields, “we had another situation that needed attending to.” The chair scraped against the marble floor of the conference room as Mr. Lehr situated himself and opened his briefcase to pull out a set of official-looking documents. “Now, then. Marshall, have you finished with the girl?” At Mr. Fields’ nod, the small, rounded man brightened. “Oh, good. Good.” He turned beady eyes on Al and began.

“Altair, the panel and I, we have been talking, and your performance has been slipping over the past year. Before, we couldn’t put a finger on why, but now, the way I figure it, you have two options.” Al raised his head, simultaneously terrified and curious. “Option one, you lose your job, we make you pay for the stolen goods this woman took, we deport you back to Ireland, but you keep the woman.” Vega stiffened and attempted to keep a scowl off her face. “Or, option two: you lose the woman, and keep your job, but at a cost.” Mr. Lehr held up a hand at Al’s start of protest. “Like I said, the Englewoods and I have been talking. We need someone we trust to go out West and invest in some good, Texas beef. You would spend a termed contract of ten years with Union Stock Yards purchasing cattle out West. Even if you still decided to stay together, you’d only be able to probably fit in a meeting maybe once a year. But, you would get to stay here in America and provide money for your family back home. It’s your choice, though.” He held out a pen and the official-looking paper. “So, what do you say?”

Across the short space between them, Al’s trembling fingers reached for Vega’s.

They agreed to meet in Saint Louis. Al would be coming down the Missouri River, and Vega would meet him where the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers joined. It was all very calculated, very planned, but she was still nervous. What if she had forgotten the way he felt with her? What if he had found someone else in that time, despite what his letters said? She shook her head and stared across the muddy waters at the approaching boat and the small figures scurrying across the deck. She took off her shoes, hopping around on the bank until she wrestled her feet free and stuffed her woolen socks into the toes of the worn leather and set them on the beach. The boat was closer now, and she let out a slow breath. Vega kneaded her toes into the soft mud, letting it squelch through them and ground her thoughts. All the doubts and worries and anger and loneliness, they had made it through together. They would make it. Love, she finally decided, was infinite in time and distance. Who knew what the future would hold for them, but -

Vega heard the chattering of magpies in the trees behind her, and their needy, begging cry spurred her forward into the lapping water. She looked ahead, scouring the boat for any sign of Al’s great shock of red hair. The riverboat was close enough now to make anchor and start ferrying passengers to shore. Vega waded out into the muddy waters, her skirts billowing and dragging behind her through the murk.

She heard shouting and laughing from one of the small ferrying boats, and then saw red hair arch through the air and into the river towards her. She grabbed large fistfuls of her skirts and slipped on the slimy, muddy rocks as she hurried forward. Al broke the surface and started swimming in great strokes, his heart skipping beats and his air coming in gasps.

Meeting across the Milky Way

Through the varying shapes of the delicate clouds, the sad message of the shooting stars, a silent journey across the Milky Way, one meeting of the Cowherd and Weaver amidst the golden autumn wind and jade-glistening dew, eclipses the countless meetings in the mundane world.

The feelings soft as water, the ecstatic moment unreal as a dream, how can one have the heart to go back on the bridge made of magpies?

If the two hearts are united forever, why do the two persons need to stay together—day after day, night after night?

纖雲弄巧，飛星傳恨，銀漢迢迢暗渡。金風玉露一相逢，便勝卻人間無數。柔情似水，佳期如夢，忍顧鵲橋歸路。兩情若是久長時，又豈在朝朝暮暮。