BlackMetal

Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada. The late 1990s—

Black Metal. Death Metal. Nu¨-metal. Hardcore.

Lance Armstrong in, Wayne Gretzky out.

Economic psychosis. Terrorism.

Grunge out, rave in.

Hoodies, chinos, bombers.

Quiffs and buzz cuts.

Paul Bernardo.

White people.

Modems.

Suicide.

Drugs.

Joy.

Snow.

A freak autumn blizzard blowing off a frozen moon. North winds rattling streetlights, howling glassy streets, air cold enough to crack its own molecules.

Kenneth “Lor” Kowalski sat wreathed with chill in an otherwise warm Marquis Hotel room, head tilted forward, eyes wide and unblinking, breath delicate. Snow crystals wove up the window at his elbow, ice knitting itself against glass, collecting shadow and spinning out twinkling patterns of light.

He shivered.

His guitar began to ring with overtones, light strumming its harmonics. Lor sat, salt stinging tonsils, tears on his lip and tongue. He let them sting. Just sat by the window in the darkened room, a universe pocked with a thousand stars.

“Damn freezing out there,” a whisper from the shadows in the corner, the clink of ice cubes in a glass. “Supposed to be El Niño this year. Get you a drink, sir, something to chase the cold?”

“No.” Lor wiped a tear. “Thank you.”

“Just clear away the dishes then?”

Lor paused a moment. He scraped a fingernail across the window, shaving off curls of frost, squinted at the shapes melting on his knuckle.

“Something troubling you, sir? Maybe a woman, lost love, lost time? An unwanted birthday, perhaps?”

Lor started, but ignored the question.

“Birthdays are the time for communion and community. Family, sir.”

Lor touched the frosted glass. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The overtones. The music. Do you see the stars?”

A sniff from the shadows. “I don’t hear anything. And I can’t see the stars from here.”

“Not … those stars. The ones in this room.”

“No, sir. Sure about that drink?”

Lor sighed.

From the shadows a man emerged, cloaked in baggy black uniform and brimmed hat, like a priest or cunning witch hunter. He stopped his cart near the window and bent forward, eyes hidden beneath the brim, remaining features speckled with moonlight.

“Sometimes a birthday is a dangerous thing,” he said.