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By the gods, you are beautiful...

The milk-chocolate fur of the lithe young rabbit dripped copiously as he pulled himself out of the pool, his ears directed unobtrusively behind him. He rose to stand on the cement nearby, perhaps 160cm on his own, his impressive ears adding another quarter meter or so beyond that, making him nearly as tall as most of the others who swam, stood, sat, lounged, sunned, and otherwise decorated the area. He shook off a fair amount of the water, as most furs would do, with the added attraction of making some of the surreptitious onlookers wonder if he'd shake himself right out of his minimal, clingy swimwear. Though his pert, short tail fluttered prettily, nothing either fore or aft was about to expose itself more than had already been revealed through that popular artistic medium known as Wet Fabric.

Padding over to one of the nearby chairs, he picked up his towel and began a leisurely wicking of his facial fur and rubbing through his medium-length headfur as he worked his way slowly to the other side of the pool, moving toward a few of the other guests of the hotel. An older wolf, his thick red-brown fur turning to cream on his muzzle and on his rounded belly that rested gently over modest swim shorts. Half-rim spectacles balancing above the smattering of gray toward his nose, the lupine read intently from a book whose title the rabbit couldn't read. The letters seemed wrong, until he realized that it was his initial assumptions that were wrong; he still wasn't able to read it, but now at least he knew why. He sat on the chaise-longue next to the wolf, facing him, still rubbing his headfur gently.

"Thank you," he said.

The wolf looked surprised."Shto?"

"Spasibo."

"A ty govorish po russki?"

"Nyet," the rabbit jested. He smiled, lowering his towel into his lap. "I only know a few phrases. I'm assuming that you speak English."

The wolf only looked at him.

"I heard you speak a moment ago. It's why I said 'thank you'."

It was strange to sense a blush forming underneath all that fur, but the splayed ears said enough on their own. "I apologize," the wolf offered, his words softly accented with Russian. A native speaker, the lepine decided.

"Why would you apologize?"

"I did not think you would hear me from this distance. It was rude of me to have said it aloud."

"I don't find it the least bit rude." The rabbit's smile warmed a little more. "I thank you for the compliment. Perhaps I should apologize for having such large ears."

The wolf managed an embarrassed smile. "I would not wish you to apologize for being who you are."

"Then please don't apologize for being who you are." Extending a forepaw, the lepine said, "Dexter."

"David." He grasped the paw gently in his own.

"You've anglicized the pronunciation?" Dexter asked softly. "I would have thought dah-VEED. Unless I'm being too forward."

"I believe I was the first to be forward." The Russian released the paw, his own smile warming. "And yes, properly, dah-VEED il-YAH-vitch. You know a lot about Russian culture, for not knowing the language."

"I blame Dostoevsky. My first literary love."

David held up his book, its cover and spine covered in Cyrillic letters. "Pushkin. Short Russian works of the early 19th century. You have heard, perhaps, of 'The Queen of Spades'?"

"I've heard of the opera. Tchaikovsky, I think?"

"Very good," the red wolf nodded, "although his brother altered the original story very much. Artistic license, perhaps. Do you know the opera?"

"I'm afraid not," Dexter chuckled softly. It was the rabbit's turn to be embarrassed. "I know a tiny amount about a great many things. For instance, I can say 'thank you' in fifteen languages, although English is the only language that I really know. I'm not sure if that actually makes me knowledgeable or just good at trivia games."

"Why can the two not meet? Knowing anything is a paw in the door to knowing more."

Looking up into the wolf's eyes, the young lepine asked softly, "Did you mean it?"

David did not ask what was meant by the question; it was quite clear enough. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome,_malen'kiy krolik._Although I'm sure that you hear it often."

"Not really," Dexter said. "Or at least, not with such sincerity, nor by someone who hasn't been stocking up on their liquid courage."

"That sounds sad to me." A wistful smile ghosted the wolf's lips. "Russians know sadness, as Tolstoy told us."

"What did he tell?"

"All happy families are alike, he said; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. It's the opening sentence from_Anna Karenina,_ often quoted." The smile warmed itself in its own pain. "Just so you know that I have neither memorized the book, nor do I only recite quotes about pain."

"Can you say it in Russian?" the rabbit asked.

"Would you understand it in Russian?"

"No. But I don't always understand poetry or lyrics either. Sometimes, it's the sound. Just the sound."

The wolf breathed in carefully, seeming to consider."Vse schastlivyye sem'I pokhozhi drug na druga; kazhdaya neschastlivaya sem'ya neschastliva po-svoyemu."

Dexter felt himself shiver as the sound passed through him like a midnight specter shimmering through liquid moonlight. "That's beautiful," he whispered.

"Spasibo," David grinned, then sobered. The cheerful expression faded slowly as the rabbit looked, feeling as if he were watching something softly drown.

"What is it?"

The wolf did not turn away, neither did he answer.

The rabbit's ears pivoted slightly, his head canted forward. More softly, he asked, "Who is it...?"

Slowly, the lupine's eyes widened with something between guilt and astonishment.

"Rip the roll from my pianola if I've played the wrong tune."

A brief, uncontrolled snort was followed by low, uncalculated laughter. "You are far too young to know what a pianola is."

"I know a little about a lot, remember?" Dexter's smile felt right and wrong at the same time, like Dickens' best and worst of times, or perhaps like happy and sad families. "I know it's not my business."

"You are young," the wolf murmured, "but your soul is old. Do you know the Stories?"

"I guess I don't. Which stories? Who wrote them?"

"We all did. Each in his time, all in their need to speak."

The rabbit shivered there on his lounge chair as he sensed the myriad voices that moved through the spirit of the red-brown wolf whose ancestry was the heart of a passionate people, forged in a crucible of endless snow, in the mysteries of answers questioned and questions never doubted, of a faith in something far beyond mere faith, of a spirit that has touched Spirit and has sung to see itself again. All the songs, all the voices, all...

"The Stories," Dexter prayed aloud, wondering, wonder-full.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The lepine felt himself shiver, once through, under the wolf's direct gaze. He did not feel threatened; mesmerized, perhaps, but not in any danger. Slowly, the lupine's lips curled in their small smile.

"I was surprised to discover that this hotel actually knows how, and has the suitable equipment, to make a proper Russian tea. Would you care to join me in the café in, perhaps, twenty minutes or so? I think that we might wish to be a bit more dressed, in the coolness of the building."

"Honored, David." Dexter rose slowly, his eyes not leaving the wolf's own. "I'm sometimes a bit late with meetings; this time, I promise to be prompt." He paused considering, then remembered. "Um... horrorshow?"

David chuckled without a speck of malice. "Quite close enough."

* * * * * * * * * *

In his room, Dexter changed quickly, irritated with himself to realize that he'd quoted from that damned movie instead of using the real word. In Arabic letters, it looked like all o's and hard consonants, and it was pronounced more like_khouroushoo,_ the first sound like clearing a crumb from the roof of one's maw. His mispronunciation was like saying "Don't touch my moustache" to say_you're welcome_ in Japanese. Worse still, the word meant "very good" instead of something like "see you soon," which he had no idea how to say. "Dasvidaniya" was "goodbye," and that didn't seem right either... oh, bother it! He shifted from worrying about the word in favor of worrying about his outfit. He glanced at himself in the mirror, realizing that he'd packed only for a summer's vacation, not for entertaining or going to the ball. He chastised himself again; he was meeting someone for tea, which always sounds very posh, but he could rely upon his manners for getting him through whatever his wardrobe wouldn't countenance.

Wearing his "good" shorts and a khaki button-down, headfur blow-dried and properly brushed, he presented himself at the café with as much as two minutes to spare. It wasn't a particularly posh place at any time of day, although they did seem to go all-in for presentation during "afternoon tea." The smallest of the five restaurants in the hotel, the café existed generally for the most casual of dining and was open around the clock. From two to five p.m. each day, however, it would undergo a seemingly miraculous transformation, bringing out tablecloths, a plethora of matching services (no two sets exactly alike in pattern), and a trolley for freshly-made pastries, scones, cakes, and whatever other treats were featured that day. Like a dim-sum restaurant, the designs of the pastry dishes told the server the price of each, and tallies were made after each patron's desires were sated.

Looking about, he saw the wolf waving to him from a table at the back corner. His own garb was casual, comfortable, low-keyed, which let Dexter relax a little. Smiling in acknowledgement, the rabbit wove his way between well-spaced tables, his eyes focused on the Russian's. He again felt that sense of something not actually dangerous, just different, the kind of difference that one can't really notice by looking at it directly. It was said by those who claimed to see the auras surrounding living things that the only way to see them was to look slightly away from the thing itself, as if such energies were noticed by what we call "the corner of the eye." To see what was real, one must not look directly at reality; it would be too much to take in, all at once.

The wolf stood, indicating a chair near him. "Welcome, Dexter. I'm glad that you could join me."

"Thank you, David," he said, continuing to use the proper Russian pronunciation of the name. He sat, and the lupine followed suit, the mildly formal feeling of the meeting somehow perfect to the rabbit. Looking at the service, the young lepine felt himself very slightly out of his depth. The large, ornate device in the center of the table was like nothing he'd seen before, although he had the idea that it was, at its essence, a teapot.

"Allow me to introduce you," the wolf said with some ceremony, "to something you're bound to have found in your readings of Dostoevsky: The samovar. The word literally means 'self-boiler,' and it is the urn not for the tea, but the water." He indicated a ring at the top of the samovar where a more easily-recognizable metal teapot waited. "The steam comes up to heat the pot of tea concentrate; we add some of this to each glass here..."

Two ornate metal holders, appearing to be of spun pewter or other metal of the same color, featured heavy glass containers into which David poured a small measure of the concentrated tea, then used the hot water from the samovar to bring the levels up to about two-thirds of each glass. It smelled sweet and fruity, hot and inviting. The wolf presented one of the servings to Dexter, who was careful to hold it only by the handle of the metal container. He'd guessed correctly that the handle would be insulated.

"You might want simply to smell it for a while; it's still very hot." David's eyes shifted and, smiling, he waved the waitress bearing the pastry trolley over to the table. "You'll find the tea as sweet as it smells," he observed. "Perhaps you'll find one of the less sugary pastries a good compliment."

"What do you suggest?" the rabbit asked, feeling affectionately pampered by the wolf's guidance and attention.

"The pear torte is very good. Or may I tease you and suggest carrot cake?"

Dexter saw the mirth in David's eyes and couldn't be offended if he'd tried. "Good carrot cake is always a treat," he grinned, "for any species."

The Russian laughed gently, requesting of the waitress a trio of treats that he said they would share -- one of them, yes, a generously cut square of carrot cake. The rabbit smiled at having prompted the wolf into laughing, and he decided that he would like to hear him make that sound often. There must be such a thing as too much sadness, surely, even for Russians.

David insisted that they not stand on ceremony, and the two of them happily attacked the treats from their presentation plates. Dexter did his best not to stab the wolf's paw as he found himself nearly overwhelmed by the incredible flavors. It seemed that the host was pleased by the enthusiasm of his guest's appetite. The rabbit felt himself blush, as he paused long enough to say, "I must look starved. It's simply that these pastries are amazing. It's so difficult to work with pears; they're ripe for such a short period."

"I have come to believe that there are magical beings in these kitchens," the wolf intoned with soft, literary solemnity. "They have left the place of their divine nativity for the sheer amusement of enchanting mere mortals with their most direct and effective of spells. We cannot live without food, so they tempt us with the finest, making both our stomachs and our hearts dependent upon their benevolence. We may find mere food, mere sustenance, elsewhere... but here, in their tiny garden of wonders, they weave upon us the sweetest of spells, if only to show us a glimpse of what being alive truly means."

Staring softly, Dexter did not realize for some seconds that he had actually stopped his eating in favor of listening intently to the rust-furred wolf at his side. He shook his head briefly, blinking, then grinned hugely. "That was... David, are you a writer?"

"More a storyteller," the wolf smiled ruefully. "I've never had the patience to stretch out a tale, make it pretty for others. An idea comes to me sometimes, and I might share it, if the moment is right. It seemed to be right, in this moment. Perhaps," his smile returned as he took another bite of the carrot cake, "this is the inspiration."

"It's particularly good," the rabbit agreed. He looked at the wolf's face as the cream-colored muzzle worked delicately on the bite in question. Considering, Dexter said softly, "That's not what you meant by the Stories."

"No." David looked at him, his eyes expressing the pleasure of a teacher whose pupil has shown his cleverness.

The rabbit enjoyed that look almost as much as he enjoyed the wolf's laughter. He chanced his arm just a bit further. "Forgive me if I'm going too far," he said carefully, using his napkin to dust a crumb from his chin. "I asked a question earlier about... I asked you who it was. I have the feeling that whoever it was, he was..." The young lepine looked the wolf in his eyes. "Am I presuming?"

"Not at all." The look on the lupine's face was one of calm, accepting.

"I have the feeling," Dexter continued, "that he was somehow afraid of the Stories, maybe afraid to hear them, or afraid of what you know about them."

Slowly, David nodded. He raised his glass of tea and sipped delicately. Lowering the container, he smiled and jutted his chin gently toward the rabbit. Dexter took his first sample of Russian tea -- hot, fruity, indulgent, spicy. He swallowed and grinned. "That is unique, in the true sense of the word. The closest thing to come to it would be tisane, but I would know the difference now. Thank you for sharing this with me."

"I'm very glad that you like it."

The young lepine set the container down gently and looked at his host, feeling his heart open gently. "May I ask about the Stories?"

"I think you already know."

"I know a little about a lot of things. Surface things more than any one thing in depth. I don't know anything that has the depth I feel from you."

"You know one thing far better than any other in this world."

Dexter sussed the puzzle quickly, a self-deprecating laugh being his first response. "Does any of us really know, I wonder. Maybe I know myself better than most others know me, but I doubt I know myself all that well."

"You seem quite knowledgeable, if self-assurance is a sign of self-knowledge."

"I'm not that self-assured."

"You took a compliment well. You came to speak to me, to open yourself to a stranger, to risk being rejected. That takes the courage of someone who is sure of his own worth."

"Or maybe just a brazen youngster who doesn't know any better," Dexter grinned.

"I think you know better. I think..." The wolf hesitated, looking into his glass before taking another sip of tea. "Forgive me, my young friend. I'm afraid of saying too much."

The rabbit set his fork down, placed his forepaws gently on the table. "I was going to say that you can't say too much to me, but I thought that might hurt you somehow."

"You are perceptive."

"Old soul."

"Yes. I think so."

Discretion told the young guest to let his forepaw slip just below the level of the table to touch his host's arm gently. "I'm not afraid to hear. Does that help?"

"Perhaps." A slow, warm smile blossomed upon the wolf's muzzle. "Let us try. I will say first that Stories are always created, but that they may be created passively or actively. So many Stories just happen, or perhaps they are happened to."

His head canted slightly to one side, David's eyes asked a question, and Dexter knew the answer at once. "I try to be active. I try to be curious, to try something new. For instance, I chose this vacation spot almost at random. I came here to visit a new place, to experience it. And here I've discovered a most distinguished new friend and the wonder that is Russian tea."

"And that is the second part of the Story -- to share. What do you wish to share?"

For a moment, the rabbit felt himself flush from tip to toes, certain that the inside of his ears must have been turning beet red. To his credit, the wolf did not laugh, did not leer, did not press for any particular detail or offer. It was the first time in his encounter with David that he wondered if perhaps the flirtation was far more innocent than... well, than he had hoped, if he were being honest with himself. It was his nature, if not his fate, to search for the intimacy that most needed. It didn't even have to be sexual, that intimacy he sought after, but it did have to be... for want of a word, powerful. Touching wasn't always done with the paws, when the heart was hungry, and his was so very, very hungry. He looked at the plates on the table, how he had pursued the sweetness so ardently, and then he thought of the many lost attempts at love, even affection, or even at a single night's effort to push away the relentless loneliness...

"What is the Story you are telling to yourself?"

"What?"

The eyes held him, firmly, tenderly. "You were so quiet. I thought perhaps you were reading your Story."

Dexter felt his brows knit together. "I'm not sure I understand..."

"Have I frightened you?"

"No." The rabbit saw the concern, the depth of the eyes, and he knew they wanted the truth. He let himself look within, then felt himself relax. "No," he confirmed. "It's not fear, David. It's... I think I'm confused. I thought I knew what you meant by Stories, but maybe..."

"Should I stop?"

"No!" Dexter surprised himself with the sudden cry. He looked self-consciously to the other tables, afraid that his voice had carried, interrupting conversations, causing concern. All was normal beyond, simple words, gentle enjoyment, ordinary experiences. He felt the blush again, took a sip of tea to calm himself. "I don't want this to stop."

The wolf nodded. "Thank you." He too fortified himself with a sip of tea before whispering, "I don't want this to stop either."

All at once, the rabbit found his senses heightened, his awareness sharpened by some inner signal that told him that this moment, these surroundings, this wolf, these sensations, all were somehow more important than... In his mind, he pushed aside the words that had come up,more important than they should have been. Why that? Perhaps some experiences should be more important than others. By what criteria? Are they intrinsically more important, or do we make them so? Words from the wolf came back to him:Passively or actively. Do experiences happen to us, or do we happen to them, make them ourselves?

"I've read biographies and autobiographies," he considered. "Writing about someone else, the author can't really say what the person was feeling. Autobiographies are called 'memoirs' now, as if the person isn't talking about his life but is instead talking about... well, memories. Experiences. Things that happened to them, or things they made happen. Those books have more insight. Inner sight." He looked at the wolf again, a smile trying to form on his lips. "How's my pianola playing now?"

David chuckled. "That's the right roll, most assuredly. So many know only the story instead of the Story."

The capital letter was clearly sensed. Nodding, the rabbit felt himself more sure. "There is a place," he said, "a small island that has few visitors, because the island is different and is too welcoming. The island has a heart, you see, and its beat is felt on warm summer nights. There are so many nights when the heartbeat is not felt that it's a wonder that it keeps beating at all. It does, probably, but it's like the tree falling the forest when no one is there -- if a sound is made, whatever that sound is will be lost."

A small, sad, sweet smile appeared on the lupine's lips. "I would imagine that sound to be as beautiful as the island itself."

Dexter pushed back the lump in his throat with another sip of tea. "Perhaps you'll find out."

"I'm not sure that's wise."

"Why?" The young rabbit waited as patiently as he could as David merely sat and considered him, the sense of a battle being fought somewhere deep within. Again, now a whisper: "Why?"

The wolf breathed slowly before he finally spoke. "I have heard that, in an ancient land, there stood, upon a low plinth, a statue of such incredible beauty that only strangers could appreciate it any longer. Those who lived there saw the statue every day, knew it was there, knew it would always be there, and perhaps one day in the future they would be able to pause to admire it once more, to look at it for itself, to see it. Through the days, months, seasons, years, the statue stood in all weathers, offering its perfections and flaws equally, being as beautiful as it knew how. From around the world, strangers would come to stare, photographers to take pictures, artists to make drawings, poets to compose odes, all to appreciate the inspiration and then depart once again for the statue to dwell in its home filled with strangers.

"One night, one dark, moonless night, the statue stepped down from its pedestal and strode from the town. It walked to other towns, other places, and it was not seen for anything other than another being. It was the plinth, you see, that had been given it by its creator to maintain its impossible beauty. It was no longer idolized, no longer sought out, no longer even recognized. The plinth split into five parts, irreparable, irreplaceable. The word spread that the beautiful thing was no more. The inhabitants of the town wept for the loss of what they could not replace. No more pilgrims sought the statue, though its legend grew until the statue's perfection was unsurpassable."

Dexter felt his heart catch in his throat. "The legend grew," he said softly. "What of the statue's Story?"

"I don't know." David seemed to consider. "We can only hope that the statue will tell us one day. It is, after all, his Story to share."

"And who will listen?"

"That, of course, is the question."

The rabbit let slip two tears before he could stop them. When the wolf seemed about to speak, he waved a forepaw gently, used his napkin to dry them. Wordlessly, David recharged the glasses of tea and waited patiently for his young guest to recover himself. It didn't take long before Dexter took another sip from his glass and looked at his host with something like a wry smile haunting his muzzle. "How long has it been since anyone has listened, David?"

Looking abashed, ears splayed, the wolf murmured, "God za godom, moy dorogoy. Far longer than is entirely healthy."

"That is what they feared."

He nodded wordlessly.

"I heard a quote once. It was supposed to be a joke, but I don't know that it is. It said, a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet."

The low bark of laughter was almost a hiccup, something of more sadness than mirth. "It is unkind, but it would be difficult to say that it is untrue. There is a depth of sorrow that drowns most souls."

"Not sorrow." Dexter searched his mind swiftly, finally finding the word that had escaped him. "Passion."

The wolf waited.

"So many Stories, David Illyavich. Billions and billions, just over the last few thousand years. Why are so few known? Why aren't bookshelves overflowing with them?" The rabbit found himself speaking a truth for which he'd never before had words. "Passion. The need, the hunger, for experience, instead of just letting things happen. To know great sorrow is also to know great joy. I remember someone, Mark Twain I think, who said, 'Show me a man who knows what's funny, and I'll show you a man who knows what's not.' And the more you know of one, the more you know of another. And there are so many out there who haven't got the faintest clue of what's not funny. They don't ever want to see it. They guard against it, rail against it, are terrified by it."

"One should be frightened of drowning."

Heedless of any possible reaction from those around him, Dexter reached out, took the wolf's forepaw into his own. "A fountain," he breathed urgently. "A fountain whose reputation was so mixed that no one ever named it, for no good or bad name could be decided upon. Legends grew up around it, from being a place of miraculous healing to being a place of untold horrors. It was said by some that the fountain itself was strange; others said it was the water that mixed and churned within it. Claims were made that the fountain drowned some few who had visited it, for they never returned. Some who had returned, some who had drunk of the fountain and returned, they were called mad, because no one could understand them; they spoke of dreams and nightmares, cried of Stories and happenings, stared at Nothing and called it Something. No one understood, and they blamed the fountain, blamed its waters, and they banished those they called insane."

The rabbit's thumb rubbed the forepaw kept tenderly in its care. "Unlike the statue, the fountain could not walk away. Its water churned, always fresh, always renewing, always offered to any who would dare to discover it for himself, believing the Stories instead of the stories." He leaned closer to the wolf and whispered. "I know the name of the fountain, David Illyavich, and I know what its waters are, what they do. And I am not afraid to drink deeply of them."

David sat quiet for a very long time as Dexter continued to rub his thumb against the wolf's thick, soft, red-brown fur. A piquant quiver in the paw told the rabbit that it was his host's turn to listen to the Story that had brought them both to this moment. "And why,malen'kiy krolik," he said softly, "why are you not afraid?"

"Because I'm not afraid of how love shows itself." The lepine swallowed, let himself dare to continue. "Because I know my Story, and I am even now learning how to experience life instead of just letting it happen to me. Because whatever may happen, David Illyavich, whether it stops with this afternoon tea or lasts into the many years and infinite worlds of the Stories that lay beyond, I am not afraid to open myself to such a passionate Story as you."

The wolf swallowed, and his words came out as a whisper: "By the gods, you are beautiful."

Dexter raised David's forepaw to his lips and kissed it softly. "As are you, David Illyavich. As are you."