Night Sky in His Eyes

“Night Sky in His Eyes”

by Bruno Lombardi

I ran into a god I abandoned a long time ago, on the subway. It was really awkward.

At first I thought he was a homeless guy; you know, the kind that have no address and just haunt the subway cars at night to stay warm. His dirty and mismatched and ill-fitting clothes that appeared to have been salvaged from various dumpsters certainly pegged him as such.

Then I got a look at his eyes.

The blackness. That was the tip-off. Only gods have empty eye sockets filled with blackness. The drifting stars in them were just a bonus.

The stars shone faintly like a light show projected onto the interior of the car, until he turned away to look out the window. There they flashed against the dark walls of the tunnel like tiny celestial strobe lights cast in blurs of cement and steel.

A rather big hint, yes?

There were only three people—not counting the god and, I suppose, technically myself—in the subway car.

Not what you’ll expect on a Montreal subway on a Saturday night.

I had finished a late night at Collège Montmorency, grading a bunch of essays and putting the finishing touches on a few future lectures. I really didn’t need to be physically there—thanks to Covid, everyone had gotten comfortable with working online, and many continued the trend even after the vaccines came out—but I’m what you’d definitely call “old school.” I like—no, love—the physical smell of a university after dark. The touch.The feel.

The solitude.

I took the last train just around 1 a.m.—the subway station is conveniently located just across the street from the college—and grabbed a quiet spot. I knew from literally thousands of trips that it’ll be about fifty minutes or so for me to reach Côte-Vertu Station. Plenty of time for me to read a few chapters of a book.

That’s when I saw the god.

He didn’t see me.

I was fairly certain that he hadn’t been there when I got into my car, so he must have come in the station immediately after mine. If my memory serves me well—and given my age, that may not be the case—there was very little in the immediate area where he could have been sleeping. I idly wondered for a brief moment where he had been spending the day and what he had been up to.

“Prochaine station Cartier,” squawked the female voice on the speaker, as the subway rumbled into the station. My idle thoughts fluttered away from my mind like a frightened flock of crows as we slowly came to a stop, the blur of stainless steel, glass, bare concrete, and black granite of the station coming into sharp focus.

I stared at the god. This…fallen…god. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Just like me.

The doors closed and the voice squawked again. “Prochaine station Henri-Bourassa.” The train rumbled again and we were plunged into darkness.

The flashing stars on the tunnel walls came once more, a vivid contrast to the harsh yellow lights flashing back from the tunnel walls.

I made my decision.

I stood up—somewhat uneasily due to the rocking motion of the train—and made my way to the seat directly across from him.

“Hello,” I said, smiling.

He turned his gaze away from the walls and turned it towards mine. There was a long moment—as if the universe itself was pausing—and then recognition slowly appeared on his face.

“You,” he said, his eyes turning to blue.

The train rumbled into the station and then, after the obligatory minute or so of wait, rumbled back onto its journey, the female voice announcing the upcoming Sauvé Station.

“Yes,” I replied. I extended my hand. After a moment or so, he—reluctantly—raised his and shook mine.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

That took me a moment, as I realized that I wasn’t sure myself. “Sixteenth century, I think,” I ventured. “Somewhere outside Prague, if memory serves me correctly.”

He squinted his eyes, as he pondered my reply. After a few seconds, he shook his head. “No, Rome. May 5. 1527. The day before the Sack. You left before we could talk. A proper conversation. And I remained.”

“Ah, yes—how could I have forgotten?”

A shrug. “No, not forgotten. Repressed.” He turned and stared out the window as we rumbled into the Sauvé Station. I followed his gaze.

One of the pleasant things I like about the Montreal subway is that the powers-that-be made a conscious effort to make each station unique. No two are alike in design, colour, layout or artwork. It really is quite amazing.

But unique doesn’t always equate as good. The wall decorations of this particular station, in straw-coloured tiles and cream and brown mosaic, is quite bland, except for a few spots where it is instead quite hideous.

I saw that as a rather appropriate omen for a disgraced immortal meeting a rejected god for the first time in five centuries.

He turned his gaze back towards me as the train lurched and continued its way to the next station.

“What brings you here to Montreal?”

“I’ve been a teacher here in this city since the first World War. I’m currently a professor. One of the local small colleges.”

That piqued his interest. “Oh?” he replied. “What courses?”

“Ancient history and religion.”

He stared at me in silence for a long moment.

And then burst into a long, barking laugh.

It was so loud that one or two of the passengers gave us brief annoyed glances before turning their attention back to their phones.

He wiped a tear—an actual solitary tear—from his eye before he continued speaking. “You always were so predictable.” He tilted his head to one side and squinted his eyes again. “What name are you going under these days?”

“Isaac Laquedem,” I replied.

I was met with a smile, a snort, and a shrug, in that order. “Fan of Alexandre Dumas, I see.” His eyes changed to emerald-green colour. That was always an odd quirk of his; the eye colour reflected his mood. If my feeble memory was accurate, the current colour meant he was amused and relaxed: a good sign.

“And you?” I inquired.

“Same name as before. Same name I’ve always gone under.”

“Mot is a boring name, though.”

He shrugged. “I like it, though.”

“And why are you here, in a Montreal subway?”

“Five worshippers, of a sort, in this city. Just enough to manifest myself, however briefly.”

“Five?” I exclaimed, genuinely shocked. Impressive, for a Canaanite god that hasn’t had a major temple in almost two millennia.

He grinned. “Rather appropriate for a god of the underworld to spend that time in a subway, yes?”

The subway chose this moment to enter Crémazie Station. We had an almost perfect view of the giant oval-shaped ceramic mural that was affixed to the wall of the station as we did so. That got his attention and he turned to stare at me, a quizzical look on his face.

“Le Poète dans l’univers,” I answered to his unspoken question. “It’s supposed to represent the motions of the stars and planets.”

That got me a vague, non-committal grunt as a response.

The omnipresent voice on the speaker informed the now half-dozen or so people in our car that the next station was Jarry.

Mot’s eyes flickered between brown and green now. He was still in a good mood, but there was something weighing on his mind.

After a moment, in the darkness beneath a teeming city of millions, a forgotten god stared at me and asked me a question I was hoping to never be asked in a thousand and one years.

“Why did you reject me?”

Jarry Station came—and went—and I still did not answer him.

The eyes changed to brown, with no hint of green or blue now. “Why?” came the question again.

My eyes couldn’t—and wouldn’t—make contact with his. I turned to stare at the blurry glimpses of steel and concrete and light and darkness outside the windows.

“Why?” came the question a third time.

The train chose this moment to come into the Jean-Talon Station. This particular station serves as a transfer point for the blue line running east to west. It’s also located smack in the middle of Montreal’s Little Italy. Many of the smaller bars and restaurants in the area would have been closing up right about now.

As on cue, a plethora of people freshly-arrived and long-established, young and old—a cacophony of English and French and Italian words trailing in their wake—entered into our car.

I saw Mot wave his hand and I sensed the beginnings of the Glamour springing up around us.

We would not be bothered by anyone sitting near us, or anyone seeing or hearing our conversation.

This was a conversation centuries in waiting and we, of course, will not be rudely interrupted by mere mortals, after all.

I made eye contact with Mot. He had asked me a question three times, as is customary. As such, I was obligated to respond.

“I gave up.”

Mot stared at me in silence for a long moment, then sighed and turned to stare out the windows again. We were on our way to the next station and the stars in his eyes flickered on the walls, occasionally reflecting back into the car. After a few seconds, he sighed again and turned to look at me, his eyes turning brown as he did so.

“Coward,” he whispered.

If it had been anyone else—anyone—in all of time and space and reality who had said that to me, I would have killed them on the spot.

But this? This…was accurate. Alas.

I leaned back and whispered back. “I’m sorry.”

“I gave you immortality.” It wasn’t said in anger or pain or malice or regret; merely stated as a statement. “And all I asked was your worship. Your obedience. Your…faith.”

I shrugged. “And you had it. For a time.”

“It was supposed to be for an eternity.”

I shrugged. “Eternity is a long time.”

He paused and stared at me for a long moment. And then—ever so slowly—his eyes turned from brown to green.

And then—like a quiet, soft rain that ever-so-slowly changes to a thunderous storm—he began to laugh and laugh and laugh. After a moment, I joined him, our laughter echoing throughout the crowded subway car, unheard and unacknowledged by the mortals around us.

We didn’t stop laughing until we were almost upon Laurier Station. It took a few seconds before either one of us managed to catch our breaths and compose ourselves.

Mot stared out the opened doors, wiping some tears away from his eyes, when he blinked and stared at the granite walls that made up the platform. I followed his gaze—and saw it, too.

Almost sixty years of the oils of countless heads resting against the granite walls waiting for the trains had left their marks upon them. There were ghostly imprints of heads—human heads—on them. Like trapped spirits. Or the faint shadows of those vaporized by atomic fire.

Each one was—or rather had been—a person. A human. Someone with a life. Maybe even a family. Someone who had been born, had loved, had lived.

Had died.

Ephemeral. So ephemeral. We humans—and gods—think we are so special and so important. But, in the end, we are born in shadows and die as shadows. With nothing to show we are here except for the faintest of traces on this planet. And even those vanish, eventually.

I glanced and saw that Mot was, almost certainly, thinking similar thoughts. He sensed me staring and turned towards me.

He squinted his eyes and asked me another question. It was a question that, on the face of it, was rather simple but was, instead, deceptively complex to answer.

“So what are you doing with your life?”

We were now entering into the heart—and some say, the soul—of Montreal now, with downtown proper just a few station stops away.

Even without godlike—or immortal—senses, one could feel the city slowly growing. Slowly changing form. Slowly becoming more…alive. Several centuries of life and death had slowly percolated into the bones and sinews of this city.

And what is a subway if not imbued within the spirit of a city?

Mont-Royal Station came and went and we were on our way to the Sherbrooke Station.

And I still did not answer.

Mot rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He looked… tired. Strained.

Not surprising. The two stations we had passed were famous—or infamous—for the large number of bars and clubs in their respective neighbourhoods. The now-growing crowds of passengers were of a significantly younger—and yes, inebriated—nature than the ones that had graced our presence about ten minutes earlier. The Glamour that Mot had created, as you would expect, was harder to keep up the more people it needed to affect. I reached out a hand to his shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. He shuddered, gave me a wan smile, and took a deep breath.

The Glamour strengthened.

I returned his smile. It’ll take about ten minutes or so to get through the busiest parts of the line. It’ll hold. At least for that long.

“Thanks,” whispered Mot. I smiled back.

“What are you doing with your life?” came the question for the second time. We had passed Sherbrooke Station and were just coming into Berri-UQAM Station.

When the doors opened, a tsunami of humanity entered.

Berri-UQAM was the largest of all the subway stations in Montreal. Three different lines converge on this one station. If that was not sufficient for an aficionado of people-watching to be thrilled, there was also a university (the aforementioned UQAM) in the area. And, of course, the rather pleasant Quartier Latin. Montreal always had a rather unusual love/hate relationship with Paris—so why shouldn’t it name a neighborhood filled with bohemians and artists and entertainers after its namesake an ocean away?

The bohemians were apparently in full bloom this evening, given the clothing and appearance of some of our passengers.

None of the passengers, of course, were sitting within three meters of us. Most of the passengers couldn’t see or hear us. Those few—those precious few—that could see or hear us through some quirk of mind or body or spirit were still nevertheless compelled to avoid us.

The two of us, for at least the next few minutes, still needed to continue our conversation. In at least some semblance of privacy.

With a shudder of metal and a shaking of bodies, the train began to move.

“What are you doing with your life?” came the question, thrice said now, as we entered the tunnel. Mot’s eyes were blazing green, the glass windows reflecting the light back like a laser beam.

I was obligated to answer—and I did.

“Nothing,” I whispered. “Absolutely nothing.”

“But your teaching job…?”

I shrugged. “Pay the bills. Keep a roof over my head. Food in my belly. It’s simply to keep me busy. Keep me occupied. Keep me…” I trailed off.

“…human?”

After a long pause, I nodded once, twice, and then—after a longer pause—a third and final time.

We entered Champ-de-Mars Station, and we were illuminated in a diffuse rainbow-colored light playing on the train and the platform. I was confused for a moment, then I smiled as I realized why.

Realization had not yet graced Mot and it showed it his eye colours. I smiled and pointed upwards.

“Stained-glass windows. They installed lights so that even at night, the colors shine down onto the trains and platform, illuminating them in splashes of red and blue and other colors.”

“Pretty. And appropriate.” He tilted his head. “This has been an evening of revelations, hasn’t it? For the two of us, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Two thousand years of life, a thousand years of rejection of me, and a century of hiding out in this city—and it took until tonight for you to finally have an epiphany.” He shook his head at that. He wasn’t angry or even disappointed, merely amused—and it showed in his eyes.

“I never claimed to be all that bright, to be fair,” I countered.

“Well, you did give me your soul in exchange for immortality, so that is apparent.”

I grinned. Mot was always quick with a witticism.

Place-d’Armes Station came and went with us in silence, the two of us deep in private thoughts. Had it really only been twenty minutes since we started talking? We’d covered, and uncovered, so much in that time.

The train rumbled into Square-Victoria Station.

Just like the previous Sauvé Station, I didn’t particularly care for the design of this station. The architect tasked with this station had been enthralled with the International style of architecture, and it showed. What few touches of defiance against the style there were came in the form of rather tacky looking gold-coloured tiles—to emphasize to all that, yes, this is indeed the financial district of the city and the stock exchange is directly above and how did you guess that?

I saw Mot glance at the decorations and frown. Evidently we shared the same opinions when it came to interior design.

He snorted and turned back to me. I met his gaze and took a deep breath as the train jerked to a stop.

“May I ask you a question?”

“You may ask.”

As the train jerked to a start and began to make its way to the next stop, I took another deep breath – and asked a question I’ve been curious about for a thousand years.

“What are you doing with your life?”

Mot did not answer during the entire journey to Bonaventure Station, nor did he answer as we made our way to Lucien-L’Allier Station.

“Shall I have to ask two more times for my answer?”

Mot rolled his eyes and leaned forward, ignoring the annoying voice announcing “Prochaine station Georges-Vanier”.

“Would you like the truth or the convenient lie?”

“Tell me both.”

Mot smirked and leaned back into his chair.

“As a god of death and all things connected to the Underworld, I have moved on and adapted and taken on new roles as the centuries passed. I have witnessed the passing of all the gods of old and will continue to witness the passing of other gods until the end of time itself.”

“Clever. And the other?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am slowly fading from existence and have just brief moments of awareness lasting just a few decades at a time and I spend those moments merely observing and travelling the world.”

“And which was the truth and which was the comfortable lie?”

Mot smiled, his eyes glowing even more green, if possible. “I leave that to you, friend.”

We passed Georges-Vanier Station in silence. While we were on the way to the next station, Lionel-Groulx Station, Mot leaned forward once more and asked me another question.

“So what happens now?”

I sat back and pondered this for a few moments.

Lionel-Groulx Station was a smaller, but no less important, transfer hub for the subway. Both Mot and I felt, rather than saw, the crush of humanity in our car lessen dramatically as a large number of them exited and a much smaller number entered.

I could see Mot, who had been maintaining the Glamour all this time, relax ever so slightly.

“Prochaine station Place Saint-Henri”.

As the train shuddered and made its way to the next station, I leaned forward.

“I honestly don’t know. What do you think will happen next?”

Mot leaned back and turned his gaze back out into the tunnel. He didn’t speak for a long moment. He was still gazing out the window when we entered the station.

I always feel slightly…uncomfortable…in this particular station. Not because of the décor or artwork. Far from it; I happen to think it’s quite graceful and elegant, possibly one of the best designed stations in the whole network. Most people, upon seeing it, comment that it feels vaguely like a giant cathedral.

No, the reason I feel uncomfortable is far more convoluted and esoteric. Several scenes of Jesus of Montreal were filmed in this particular station, including the heart-wrenching scene where the Jesus character collapses.

It brings back too many bad memories.

I turned back my gaze to Mot and saw that he was still deep in thought.

“I didn’t realize it was such a difficult question.”

“The simplest sounding questions often are.”

“You’ve become quite philosophical in your old age.”

Mot shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

I smiled. “Same here.”

There was no immediate answer forthcoming from him as we made our journey to Vendôme Station.

It took a full two minutes for the train to arrive to Vendôme and Mot looked like he was still pondering my question the whole time.

This station and the next two serve a part of the city that has a very high population of university students, as well as a plethora of working class immigrants and middle-class residents.

In other words, just the types of people that you’ll expect to see in a subway at 1:30 in the morning on a Saturday night.

The wall of humanity in our car lessened as they exited.

At least they had a home to go to. A life. A… purpose.

I envied them.

The train lurched onwards; Mot still silent.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” I said, as we made our way to Villa-Maria. “Or can’t,” I added.

Mot turned his gaze back to me, his eyes changing from green to brown and back again.

“That’s the crux, isn’t it, old friend?” He rested his chin on his right hand and continued to stare at me. “Where do we go from here? We’ve had our conversation—a proper conversation, for a change—and we, ah, ‘cleared the air’, as the mortals say. We brought up each other on what we’ve been doing. We are having a rather lovely tour of the, heh, underworld of this fair city.” He brought up his other hand and placed it under his chin as well. “So the question is, what shall we do now?”

“I don’t suppose I could invite you to my place every Saturday for a hockey game and beer?” I said it in jest. Mostly. Partially.

“This ‘hockey,’ is it some kind of gladiator sport?”

“Oh, very much so!”

Mot smirked and tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps one day. It would be nice to share a bowl of beer with a friend some day.”

Villa-Maria Station came, and went, and we were on our way to Snowdon Station. I shifted in my seat, somewhat uneasily. We were only about ten minutes or so away from the end of the line. We were in the last train for the evening.

“You’re worried about me,” said Mot. The eyes were back to their green colour. The smirk, if anything, was bigger and wider.

I snorted. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but you do look like a homeless man.”

Mot spread his hands wide. “Well, technically, that’s the truth.”

It was my turn to do the squinting of the eyes. “Surely those five worshippers you mentioned before…?” I left the question hanging.

Mot looked almost… embarrassed.

“They… they are not what you’ll call ‘worthy’ worshippers.”

“I don’t think you can afford to be choosy these days,” I pointed out.

Mot nodded. “That is true. But I can assure you, I think I can make an exception in this case. They’ll be falling asleep from their drug-addled stupor within the next few minutes. They very well may forget all about me come the morning.”

I barely noticed that we arrived at Snowdon Station. Like Lionel-Groulx Station, Snowdon was a hub station, albeit much smaller in scale. As happened in the two previous stations, the wall of humanity in our car lessened.

Mot and I were the only ones in the car now.

“If they fall asleep and forget, what happens to you?”

Mot noticed the concern in my voice, even if I didn’t initially.

He shrugged. “I’ll be fine. I can… live… off their faith, however corrupted and modest it may be, for at least the next year or so.” He shrugged again. “Also, I still have a few followers elsewhere, here and there.” He locked his eyes upon me. “With a bit of effort, I can remain in a corporeal state for at least another decade.”

I barely noticed the voice saying “Prochaine station Côte-Sainte-Catherine” over the speaker as I returned Mot’s gaze.

“And what then? Just spend all that time travelling the subway?”

A shrug. “What better way to experience people-watching?”

I nodded in agreement. “You are very wise.”

“Yes, and let us not forget also incredibly modest.”

The two of us chuckled in unison as the train made its stop and continued on its way to Plamondon Station.

“I think you’ll enjoy this city’s subway. I always do.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“And where will you go when the subway closes down?”

A shrug. “Sleep. In the places between the never and now.” He looked at me, locking eyes with me once more. “I’ll be fine.”

I smiled at him, getting a smile in return.

We were silent, deep in our own thoughts for both the Plamondon and Namur stops, and it seemed like we would do the same for the De La Savane stop when Mot suddenly turned and faced me.

“May I ask you for a small favour?”

“Of course.”

“I enjoyed this talk of ours. Can we continue this again at another time? Say precisely one month hence?”

“I would love to. Same time? Same location?”

“The last train from that one station of yours, yes. Every month on the 15^th.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Mot smiled and looked around the car.

“Very quiet.”

“Almost the end of the line. We should be entering Du Collège Station in about a minute or two.”

“How many stations after that?”

“Just one more.”

Mot tilted his head to one side. The eyes began to lose colour and slowly, ever so slowly, begin to fill in with black.

And stars.

The eye transformation was complete as we entered the Du Collège Station.

The omnipresent female voice made one last pronouncement.

“Derniere station Côte-Vertu”

Mot’s body began to… fade. It was slow at first but began to accelerate as the subway made its way to the last stop.

He reached out a ghostly hand.

I took it, meeting resistance as weak as a thick fog.

“Thank you for this… friend,” said the voice, each word getting progressively fainter as he said them.

Was it some strange quirk of the car that made his final word echo?

And then I was alone—truly alone—as a long-forgotten god of death vanished into the places where dreams die, wishes become unfulfilled , and thoughts take flight.

I walked out of the station, the last person on the train, the last immortal, and the last friend of a god.

______________

Bruno Lombardi is Canadian author of speculative and weird fiction, with a number of writing credits including a novel, Snake Oil, and stories in Weirdbook and other anthologies and magazines, including “A Pilgrim’s Tale” in Abyss & Apex , “The Dream-Quest of Sphinx” in Electric Spec, “A Peculiar Encounter in Navarre” in the Reign of Fire anthology, and “The Haunting of the Star Princess” in the Tumbled Tales anthology.