The person beckoned with a flashing white hand and bright smile. Colin waved back, smiling too, his deeply ingrained Southern manners rising as he became uneasy. From afar, and even as he approached, he could not tell this person’s gender. The person was quite young, stood tall and lean, and wore misty blue jeans and a loose white sweater. Their hair was full, thickly curled, and white as a lamb’s down. The hazy golden light struck a halo around their head.

   “You’re open?” Colin asked.

   The youth side-stepped and gestured inside. “Of course. Welcome to the Dew Drop Café.”

   The heavy floral scent outside faded as Colin entered. The walls were the same inside as outside, bare river stone with vines, but these were lined with flowering mosses. A cool mist seemed to radiate from the walls, gather under the sconces. This place was like a cave, Colin thought. He could not help himself, and spun around slowly, looking all around. In the far corner silvery chimes winked, a fountain bubbled, and glass globe terrariums slowly swung overhead. Windows all around bore the same roses as the front door, except those in the far back alcove, where black wrought iron tables and chairs were arranged. On one side by the entrance was a bar, backed with glass shelves of hundreds of bottles in every conceivable size and colour—none of them were labelled. On the other side were plush green velvet couches, tossed with many silk scarves and cluttered with old leather books.

   “Please have a seat wherever you like,” the youth said. “I’ll bring you a menu.”

   “Oh, sure.”

   Colin went over to the alcove and sat at the table by the largest window. The pale green curtains were drawn tightly. When he sat near the window, the sound of voices seemed to press against the glass. He lifted the curtain inquisitively, only to be stopped by a cry from the other side of the room.

   “Sir?” the youth called. “Please don’t do that. There’s a private party in the courtyard outside, and it would be best if they didn’t know you were here.”

   Before Colin could inquire, the young waiter hurried out a nearby door, leaving him totally alone.

   Colin sat quietly, his hands in his lap. He was confused by this, of course, but he let the confusion roll through him, as though it could be pleasant. He looked around the café once more, and something struck him as familiar about it, as though he had seen it before in a dream. He tried to shake off the feeling, glancing down at his watch. Half-past midnight. The witching hour, he thought, and that made him smile. He didn’t know why, but it felt genuine. He watched the mist gather under the sconces again and it gave him a strong sense of tranquillity, of peace. It was like being out in nature, like being at his parents’ lake house, like catching fireflies and minnows, and rushing through whispering grasses, and being a child again. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was not sleepy anymore.

   Soon the young waiter was back, with a thin polished plank of pale wood, carved with words and edged with moss. “Have a look, won’t you sir?”

   “Sure.”

   Colin took the plank, light as paper and smooth to the touch. The menu was double-sided, with one side in English and the other in the strange runic letters of the sign on the door outside. He took a moment to study those, and ran his finger over their sharp grooves.

   “What, uh, language is this?” he asked the waiter.

   “That? That’s Futhark.”

   “Futhark.”

   “Mm-hm.”             

   Colin nodded. “Okay.” He made a brief mental note to look that up later, and scanned the English side.

   Most of the dishes appeared to be vegetarian, and the vast majority were desserts. There was squash flower salad, honey jelly with candied rose petals, pumpkin soup, mushroom pie, barley bread with butter, blackberry scones, sweet potato ravioli, roasted watermelon, rosemary lavender cookies, and a number of other dishes much more bizarre and harder to pronounce. To drink, there was coffee of course, and every tea imaginable, along with spiced cider, blueberry mead, elderberry liqueur, nettle wine, and honeyed milk.

   The choices were overwhelming, and reading the descriptions of some of these things made him unbelievably hungry.

   “Coffee, definitely, big cup, and…huh. What would you recommend?”

   The question seemed to amuse the waiter. “What is it you most like? To sing, to dance, or to sleep?”

   “Uh, what?”

   The waiter was patient. “To sing, to dance, or to sleep?”

   Colin laughed outright. He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “Uh, dance? I guess?”

   The waiter nodded, taking the menu. “I know just the thing. It will be done.” With the slightest hollowing of the waiter’s cheeks, Colin knew he was male. Once again, quite impossible to know why, but he was certain.

   The waiter suddenly knelt and reached below the table. Colin jumped, but the youth came up with a handful of tiny red-capped mushrooms. Colin stared, then looked under the table. Indeed, there was a small ring of the little fungi around the table, and a small mound of them in the middle. He had not noticed that the floor was earthen. When he glanced up, the waiter was gone, and he was alone once more.

   He chuckled. “What the fuck,” he whispered, but he was in a remarkably good mood.

   There was music outside, and laughter. It seemed to rise and fall, like whispers carried on the wind. Colin tried to focus on the music, but it escaped him, ribbons through his fingers, drums and violins, harps and bells, and other instruments he could not name. He heard the rhythmic tapping of many feet, as on a dancefloor. A woman squealed with delight. Colin looked around the room to be sure the waiter was gone, then lifted the curtain just so, and peeked out.

   Outside there was a vast courtyard, edged on three sides by thick woods, the whole illuminated by a chandelier hanging from an overhead branch. There were perhaps a hundred people outside, clothed for a masquerade, dancing in a great circle. Women wore great full gowns or silky slips, gossamer and satin, velvet and brocade, beads and lace. Men were dressed in floor-length cloaks with ragged edges, tunics red and green, glinting silver and glaring gold. Through all the colour Colin could see a pattern. Green jackets were embroidered like leaves, red skirts cut like petals, hair teased like the clouds or flowing like water, masks glittering like gems or roughened like wood. It was all to do with nature. But it was the masks Colin focused on. The masks themselves were all elongated—the noses, the ears, the cheekbones—and covered with leaves, feathers, flowers, beads. His eyes settled on one woman whose mask was covered in lustrous raven feathers, and then on a man whose mask had great antlers painted gold. A woman in a lilac silk sheath of a gown and pure silver mask stopped to catch her breath, and turned to see him. He glimpsed her eyes, impossibly pale. A jasmine flower fell from one of her blonde braids. She raised a hand and waved at him. He was transfixed, and leaned closer to get a better look at her.

   He nearly fell out of his chair when he heard the waiter cry out again.

   “Sir! Please don’t do that!”

   The waiter pulled the curtain from Colin’s hand and arranged it fretfully over the window again.

   Colin felt dazed, as though he has just woken from a deep sleep, and a vibrant dream. He had to physically shake his head to rid himself of the sensation. “What?” he managed. “Why?”

   The waiter set down a large bowl of pumpkin soup and half a loaf of fragrant rosemary bread, but still held the cup of coffee in his hand, clutching at it with the longest white fingers Colin had ever seen. “Sir, did they see you? Did they notice you?”

   “A girl, she saw me. What’s the big deal?”

   The waiter shook his head quickly, pursed his lips. His expression of pure dismay was almost comical, like a child’s. He put the coffee down in front of Colin and crossed his arms over his chest. “Please, sir. I am telling you this for your own good. Whatever happens, whatever they say, and no matter how much they tap at the glass and call you, do not go out there. Do you hear me? Do not go out there.”

   With that the waiter went to the back door and locked it. He tapped the tip of his nose and then quickly left the room.

   Now Colin was uneasy again. He picked up the curtain and pulled it aside, to find the girl was gone. Now a man was staring at him, clad all in muddy brown, with a tree-bark mask and squat red acorn-like hat. His mask only came to the bottom of his nose, and Colin could see the man’s wide smile, and sharp little teeth. Spooked, Colin dropped the curtain and turned to his meal.

   The pumpkin soup steamed up his glasses and bathed his face. He hadn’t realised how cold he had been before then. He laid a hand on the rosemary bread, warm as a hearth stone. When he dipped a fluff of bread into the soup and ate it, he was dizzy again. The soup was heavily spiced, and along with sweet earthen pumpkin, onion, garlic, nutmeg, and allspice, there was something bitter. Beyond this he could not tell. There were too many layers to it, and the bread was the same. Rosemary and black pepper, thyme, honey, butter, and that same bitter ingredient, impossible to really dislike. He noticed that despite the intricate flavours and numerous spices, there was no salt. For once he didn’t care, and ate greedily.

   He was finished before he even took notice of his coffee, and found it hot and rich. It had chicory in it, New Orleans style, cinnamon, and almost too much sugar. Its warmth filled him with contentment, and he could almost forget the sight of so many people dancing in a circle, and one man with sharp teeth, staring only at him.

   He sipped at his coffee for a while longer, wondering where the waiter had disappeared to. He was totally comfortable now, and felt a peculiar pang of sadness when he thought he should leave soon.

   Then there came the lightest rapping on the windowpane. Colin eyed the curtain warily. If it was some kind of masquerade party, surely someone had come as something scary. Long teeth. Made sense. Wouldn’t hurt to take one more look, would it? He had lifted the curtain before he knew he had made the full decision to do so.

   The dance went on wildly, and he noticed that everyone was barefoot. One man was hopping from one foot to another and crying, “Thorns! Thorns!” A woman nearby took up the chant and everyone began to mimic the man, laughing and bumping into one another. A woman with a dress torn over both shoulders shouted in a language Colin couldn’t identify. Two men, both wearing red hats, stumbled out of the circle in tandem. One of them turned around, and they both saw Colin. They had the same sharp smiles. They cried out to the company as a whole, chanting one word over and over—it sounded a shade or two off the word fair. Many of the company turned and followed the men’s gazes back to Colin.

   A frisson of excitement rippled through the crowd. Some waved, some whispered to one another. The music paused and a few dancers fell out of step. The red-capped men with a few others approached the window. They raised long-fingered hands and cooed to him. Behind masks, he saw strange hungry black eyes. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like the way they went to the window and not the back door. Soon they pressed their hands against the window. Colin wanted to look away, because these enchanting masqueraders were turning into something horrible—horrible, and he didn’t know what, or why. One of the red-capped men clacked his nails against the glass, and with the other hand reached back to pull the string of his mask.

   “Come out,” he rasped. His voice was brittle and whistled like an autumn wind through dead leaves.

   “Yes, do come out,” a woman said, drawing near.

   “Come be with us, have a dance,” another said.

   “And a drink!” chimed yet another.

   “Come outside. It’s no pleasure to be lonely, is it?”

   “Tell us your name!”

   The first man dropped his mask, and Colin instinctively closed his eyes. “Cooooolin,” the man hissed.

   Oh, fuck this.

   Colin dropped the curtain, pulled out his wallet and headed to the bar.

   “Hey, waiter? Hello?”

   The waiter appeared from under the bar, his white curls sprinkled with beads of water and tiny leaves.

   “Wow, okay. How much do I owe you?”

   The waiter shook his head. “A name and a wish,” he replied.

   “What?”

   “Your name, first. What is your name?”

   A shiver circled Colin’s stomach. “Why do you want to know that?” There was no response, so he quickly said, “William. William, uh, Grant.”

   The waiter lowered his eyes with a smile. “You do have some wisdom, Mr. William Grant. Now tell me your wish. What is it you want most?”

   “Why?”

   “Don’t think, just speak.”

   Colin was about to drop a twenty on the counter and the hell with it, when the word came unbidden and out of his mouth against his will. “Love.” He covered his mouth, astonished. He had thought it was a hiccup.

   The waiter nodded sagely. “Then you are free to go. Take this,” he pressed a folded piece of paper into Colin’s half-opened hand. “Directions out of these woods. You are headed to New Orleans, aren’t you?”

   Colin didn’t answer. He hurried out the door and back into the humid summer air. The air seemed to kiss his skin, and he sighed with relief. Until he saw the sky.

   Peeking over the treetops, the palest glimmer of rosy light. It was almost dawn. Colin checked his watch. Almost six a.m. He turned back and stared at the café incredulously. How the hell had he spent more than five hours in this place? It had felt like half an hour or so.

   He almost tripped getting into his truck. He pulled away and only then looked at the paper. A simple map. He had little choice but to follow it. But all the while he hoped it wouldn’t lead him as far away as possible from Dew Drop Café. All the while he felt the pull of it. All the while he heard that raspy voice saying his name.

* * * *