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I wasn't sure which had wakened me, the gasp and stifled cry or the crashing of the mug to the carpeted floor. One or both had also wakened the young gray-furred wolf who had, until then, dozed quite peacefully in my spooning embrace; now, I felt him stiffen, perhaps preparing to run or to cower. I couldn't be sure exactly what he'd do, and I gripped him more tightly, shushing his whimpering softly into his splayed ear. A glance over his shoulder showed me that we'd been left alone again, and apparently in something of a hurry.

"Trouble," I heard him croak softly.

"No, Fletcher." I dared a kiss to the back of his head, my arms holding him firmly but not trying to restrain him any longer. "It will be okay, I promise. I want you to lie here with me, just as you are, okay? Will you trust me?"

A long moment passed. His body still trembled, but I could feel him trying to regain his breathing. "Trust. You."

"Yes. That's very good, Fletcher. Thank you. I'm going to introduce you to Mrs. Whitson, and remember, I won't let anything bad happen to you. Ready?"

He nodded. I wished that I could look into his eyes, but I had the feeling that staying just as we were was going to be the best course.

"Mrs. Whitson," I called, with as much control as I could muster, "would you come back in, please?"

"Father Darden, I--"

"I need you to see that everything all right, Mrs. Whitson. All is as it should be, I promise you. Please. Come back in. And mind the mug."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I--"

"Quite all right, just be careful. Come in."

For some moments, I thought perhaps I'd have to go fetch my housekeeper myself, which I didn't want to do. Finally, I saw movement near the doorway, and with nervousness that might have been comical in other circumstances, the matronly red panda finally managed to poke her head into the room. Her dark eyes seemed to be trying to pop right out of their sockets. I had wondered exactly what she'd make of seeing the incumbent of St. Christopher's sharing his bed with a young male wolf who quite possibly appeared to be underage besides.

"Mrs. Whitson," I said softly, "you can see that we haven't moved, and you can also see that we're both fully dressed. This is Fletcher. I will tell you his story later. He doesn't speak much. He's been very badly abused. I found him yesterday and took him in. He was afraid to sleep on his own, so he stayed here with me last night."

I waited to see if the information would sink in. A red panda's tail is usually full under ordinary circumstances; just now, hers was puffed out to look nearly double in size. She did her best to keep it still, and she tried to keep her jaw carefully set. I could still feel the young wolf trembling in my arms, but there was little more I could do until I could see what my housekeeper was going to do next.

"Fletcher," she said softly. Her voice was a little unsteady, but a good number of decades of Anglican liberalism, not to mention years of hospitality, was slowly coming to bear on the situation. "Is that your first or last name?"

Feeling him hesitate, I gave the pup a surreptitious squeeze. From within the circle of my arms, he managed to say, "Just... Fletcher."

Give her credit: She took it in stride. Looking down to the floor, she picked up the mug. "Don't think it broke, Father. Carpet's a bit of a mess." She hesitated. "Should I get a cloth?"

"If you'd be so kind, Mrs. Whitson. Perhaps it won't set." I pushed away the comforter, as if to offer further proof that we were disheveled but still clothed. I wasn't sure if she thought my still wearing my collar was proof of innocence or blasphemy. "We'll get out on the other side."

I'd rarely seen her pad away quite so quickly, and I didn't think that it was to help ensure that the carpet wouldn't be stained. I squeezed Fletcher briefly once more, then helped him to sit up with me. His arms flew around my middle, and I held him again, once more shushing him gently. "It's okay," I said softly, "I'm here."

"Need..."

"I know." I pet his head softly, feeling his chest hitch as he pressed himself against me. I rocked him very gently as we sat together. "You're safe, Fletcher. No one's going to hurt you here. It's okay."

It took a moment for me to realize that my housekeeper had returned, damp cloth in paw, a fair attempt made at keeping a frown off her face. She rubbed at the carpet with an earnest dedication and maybe some bit of frustration. To use the old cliché, I had more 'splainin to do, but I had no idea how to do it. The red panda's tail had begun to twitch, perhaps with the strength of her scrubbing, perhaps with some as-yet unspoken anger. I breathed as carefully as I could; I didn't want my own upset to worry Fletcher.

As Mrs. Whitson stood up, the young wolf disentangled himself from me a little and looked at her openly. "It made you afraid," he managed through his roughened vocal cords.

"It's just some tea..." she shook her head briefly.

"It's sorry." He hung his head. "It's very sorry."

I put a forepaw to the pup's shoulder, watching a terrible dawn rise in my housekeeper's face. She looked at me, her eyes even wider than before, if that were possible. I dipped my chin a few centimeters. She put a black forepaw to her snowy muzzle, stifling whatever sound she might have been about to make. Her pert, triangular ears pointed high and forward, an expression of fear and concern I'd seen only rarely from her over these past several years.

"Fletcher." I spoke softly into the young wolf's ear. "I'm sure that Mrs. Whitson has everything well in paw. Perhaps she'll make something for us for breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"It doesn't get morning food."

My poor housekeeper appeared still to be stifling a cry. She managed to keep herself from saying anything at all as I pet the pup's head and spoke evenly to him. "Fletcher, do you feel hungry?"

"Feel..." I could sense him tremble against me still, unsure if he were frightened or suffering from severely low blood sugar. "Tummy tight," he said. "Need..." He made a squirm I was pretty sure that I recognized from last night.

"I understand, Fletcher." I looked up at the red panda, herself now trembling slightly. "Mrs. Whitson, if you'd excuse us, I think we might need to tidy ourselves up a bit before we visit the kitchen...?"

The euphemism worked quite appropriately. "Of course, Father. Shall I...?"

"Could I impose upon you for some of your fine oatmeal this morning, Mrs. Whitson? You make it so well, and I think our young guest might be quite impressed with it."

She seemed to recover herself a bit, her lip managing a slight curl upward, a smile rather than a sneer. "No need for flattery now, Father."

"Merely the truth. And gratitude, because I'm very grateful to you." I let my eyes tell her the sincerity of my words, and the message seemed to get through well enough. She nodded, taking the cloth and unbroken cup away with her.

I again accompanied Fletcher to the lavatory and, as he had the night before, he insisted that I stay near as he used the toilet. My only discomfort lay in worrying about what my housekeeper would think if she saw me overseeing the event before I could begin to explain that it was nothing to do with any aspect of "pleasure" on my part. When it came time for my own turn, I found myself a little pee-shy as the pup's presence, even outside the not-quite-closed door, was strange to my innate need for privacy in such situations. Even before I gave myself to the priesthood, I wasn't what one might think of as "kinky," although Merrill might have wished for me to have indulged just a bit in one or two such activities. Not to say that I didn't try, mind you, but "bathroom games" was not one of the options under discussion.

Once again, it occurred to me that it might not have been one of the games that Fletcher's former Master might have indulged in either. I had the sense that it wasn't about any sense of pleasure somehow gained from the act itself, but rather from controlling when the pup was allowed to feel relief. A flash of rage appeared within me once more, and once more I cooled it as quickly as I could. Consensually, it might be part of a Master's sense of control, and it might even have some gently teasing quality that could be enjoyed by both parties. In this case, however, it felt too much like torture. Even when such suffering was supposed to be considered "love play," it disturbed me; with Fletcher, it gave me one more reason -- God forgive me -- to wish hellfire and damnation upon whoever had hurt the pup so badly.

I rejoined Fletcher in the hall. The young wolf had barely moved a muscle since I had asked him to wait for me there. The site of him standing there, irresolute, terrified, hurt my heart yet again. I pulled him to me in a tight embrace, trying not to weep. "Fletcher," I said softly, "it's okay. Please hold me. I want you to."

His arms flew up to hug me close, a tiny whine escaping his throat before he could stop it. I felt him tense a little, perhaps in fear of punishment. I felt torn between wanting to comfort him yet not wanting to use the Master-like words I'd used the night before. I kissed his forehead and pet his neck and shoulders through the loosely-fitting t-shirt that I had provided him. It occurred to me in that moment that he might not have had any real experience with simple affection; perhaps everything I was doing was foreign to him, or worse, a prelude to sex. I pushed down a sense of frustration. I knew that I could help him, had to help him, somehow, and the first order of business was to restore some semblance of proper nutrition.

"Fletcher," I whispered, choosing my words carefully, "Perhaps Mrs. Whitson has some breakfast for us. Would you like to find out with me?"

"Master chooses." His squeeze was just a little tighter for a moment, then softer as he turned his muzzle up to look into my eyes. "...not Master." I could feel him struggling with the concept, not because of any mental insufficiency, but because of an insufficiency of experience. "It wants..." Again, a pause, an internal fight. "We?" he asked at last.

I hoped I understood. "Shall we find out? Together?"

This seemed to satisfy him a little, and he managed to release his grip from around my middle. I pet his head once more, then left a paw on his shoulder as we walked side-by-side down the hall.

In the kitchen, we found Mrs. Whitson making magic at the stove. The red panda turned to look at us, fully dressed as before but now upright and not snuggled in bed together. The look on her face was still concerned, but perhaps now for different reasons. "Hello, Fletcher," she welcomed him, with warmth if a bit tentatively.

We took chairs at the table, Fletcher following my lead yet still keeping his eyes averted from her and, in her presence, from me. I again felt that brief sense of frustration, as if I could observe and sense patterns of his behavior, yet I had no basis for deciphering the code. Some concept of Alphas? Adults? And it only then occurred to me to wonder about his experience with females -- how long had it been since he was separated from his dam? Had there been any females in the place where he was held prisoner to some unknown Master?

I took one more pause, trying to figure out how to phrase my questions. Anything could be taken as either trap or command. More than that, Mrs. Whitson hadn't been brought fully into the picture, and I didn't relish the idea of her thinking that I had decided to take a young slave into the household for God only knew what reasons. I risked taking the pup's forepaw into my own, hoping my housekeeper would follow enough of the conversation to let things be, for the moment at least.

"Fletcher," I said, squeezing the forepaw gently, "do you remember our conversation last night? About making choices?"

Somewhat reluctantly, he nodded. "Choose you," he all but whispered.

"You chose to trust me?" I nudged gently.

Again, he nodded.

"I'd like to ask for a little more trust, Fletcher. I'd like for you to trust your own choices. I'd like for you to feel safe in telling me the truth." I felt the forepaw spasm slightly, as if in fear, and I clutched it tightly once more. "I know that it may not be easy, so perhaps we could start small. For instance, have you eaten oatmeal before?"

The answer had little consequence, or so I hoped, and he nodded more easily.

"Can you tell me when you had oatmeal last?"

Only too late did I think that the answer might actually be part of bad memories, or at least memories that might cause pain. The young wolf splayed his ears, breathed unevenly, but finally managed to croak out, "Little. Mama."

"Your dam made it for you. Did you like it when she made oatmeal for you, Fletcher?"

A small sob, a flick of his tail, and finally he nodded.

"Fletcher?" The panda's soft voice surprised me, as I found she'd appeared at the table and bent low toward the pup, not close, not far. "I'm not your dam. I probably can't make oatmeal as well as she did, but I can try. What do you like with your oatmeal? How did your dam fix it for you?"

I might have known that food would be Mrs. Whitson's best comfort for the pup, and that being able to make it for him would be the best comfort for herself. He still gripped my forepaw tightly, seeming to struggle against tears. If ever the Holy Spirit heard and answered my prayers to help another, I hoped it would be now, and so thinking, I felt some measure of strength flow through my clenched paw. Fletcher managed to raise his head a little, still not quite daring to look the female in the eye. "Like... cookie."

A whisper of a smile crossed the red panda's lips. "I think I know how."

"He's not had solid food for a few days," I noted. "Perhaps just a small serving for each of us, for now?"

"Of course, Father." She turned back to the stove and made her preparations. For whatever she might be thinking of me, she recognized that the pup needed the gentlest of care and, above all, a bit of good food. If ever there were truly a "good Christian soul" (and despite my calling, I sometimes had my doubts), she possessed one. She would keep her questions in check just a little longer.

"Thank you, Fletcher," I told him. When he looked very shyly toward me, I smiled a warm smile that wasn't the slightest bit forced. His eyes met mine, and the smile was echoed, faintly, briefly, but truly. This would not be a short or easy road.

In just moments, Mrs. Whitson brought two bowls to the table, each a perfect serving of oatmeal, dotted with butter, brown sugar, and raisins. Gently releasing Fletcher's paw, I set a napkin in my lap, picked up my spoon, maw already anticipating the flavors. I noticed the pup's hesitation. "Shall we eat together, Fletcher?"

An imperfect solution, but he did at last pick up the spoon and more or less imitate my movements. After his first taste, he looked up enough to see Mrs. Whitson's eyes. I put a forepaw to the pup's shoulder, and without further prompting, he managed a quiet, "Thank you."

Equally quietly, she replied, "You're welcome, Fletcher." She tossed me a glance that was difficult to read, but she seemed to trust me. "I'll do a bit of tidying, if I might?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitson, we can fend for ourselves. I'll see you a bit later, then. Thank you for breakfast."

"You're welcome, Father." And with that, she left me with the pup and, spoon by spoon, we enjoyed the oatmeal. I was right about one thing, at least: Proper food would need to be the yowen's first step to regaining himself. I'd heard it said that some cults used diets of sugar and carbohydrates, short on substantial protein and with frequent fasts, in order to keep their novitiates from thinking clearly, making them easily led and fully subject to the guru's influence. Even Charles Dickens must have had some notion of this, as noted in_Oliver Twist_; the boys "acted out" when given meat instead of merely the gruel. I had the feeling that the same might have been done to Fletcher. There was little that I could do about giving him his years back, but the food -- not exactly high in proteins just yet, but probably better than he'd gotten before -- was beginning to have a positive effect. If nothing else, he seemed quite happy to lick his bowl, quite literally. I wasn't certain if this was because he liked it or because he'd been conditioned to "waste nothing." I imagine that so-called polite company might be shocked at his actions, but at least I was certain he'd not missed a morsel.

I'm not at all sure why I picked up my own bowl and wiped it clean with my long Dalmatian's tongue. I only know that it surprised Fletcher tremendously. When I finished, I set the bowl down and turned my gentle smile to the young wolf, whose brow had knitted together in confusion to an amazing degree. I took the chance. "Are you all right, Fletcher?"

"You... lick?"

Talk about a straight line... I managed to keep my composure. "Sometimes. Should I not lick my dish?"

"Can do what want," he murmured, seeming to shrink back a little.

"Sometimes, it's good to break the rules a little, so I lick my dish. Why do you do it?"

"Mustn't waste. Might not get..." His eyes glazed over slightly, and his voice came out in a poor sing-song chant. "Every last bit, eat every last bit from your plate, don't waste a single drop, good puppies eat every drop, swallow every drop, puppy..."

I put a forepaw to his arm gently. This was far too much to deal with at once. "I think Mrs. Whitson left some more, if you would like it."

Fletcher looked confused, and I chalked up yet another mistake on my part. Would I never stop making them? I had to believe that I would, or else I'd not be able to help either of us. Clearly, I needed help no less than the young wolf did, but I wasn't sure how to make it happen.

Glancing at the clock, I realized that I needed to make a few decisions quickly. I'd have to take a few chances. "Fletcher, I need to do a few things this morning. A priest doesn't only work on Sundays." My attempt at a joke seemed to make him at least a little more relaxed. "Did you spend time apart from your former Master?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

He considered. "Sleep."

I waited but he said no more. "Did he leave you alone in his bed?"

"Not his bed. Not allowed."

"Where did you sleep?"

"Dark." The wolf trembled slightly. "Floor. Small."

I placed my forepaw to his arm again, frightened to hear any more. "Fletcher, are you comfortable being around others?"

"Does what it's told..." He paused, breathed again, looking at me as if worried that I would correct him violently for breaking some rule. It was all I could do to keep quiet, to let him work it out. Eventually, he managed, "What... others?"

"Would you feel comfortable being alone for a little while? Perhaps in my room, or in the guest room? No one will come for you other than me or Mrs. Whitson."

He hesitated, uncertain.

"I will be performing a brief mass, probably for very few people. You would be welcome in the church, if you wish; I was only concerned about how you might feel around strangers."

"Don't leave." His voice whined slightly as he looked at me with moist eyes. "Not... alone."

I stood, indicating that he should do the same. Once he was on his hindpaws, I took him into my arms again, and he hesitantly reached up to return the embrace, this time without having to be coaxed. I took that as a good sign. Petting his head and neck gently, I spoke softly in his ear. "I won't leave you, Fletcher. Come with me. We'll figure something out."

* * * * * * * * * *

From behind the curtains in the vestry, I peeked into the sanctuary and saw what I expected: A pawful of older females (all of them, I suspected, hoping to find some way to get their parish vicar to the altar with an appropriate female of his own) and one young tabby tom who sometimes attended for a bit of mid-week comfort. Back in the quiet of the vestry, I put a gentle paw to the young wolf's shoulder.

"I'm going to put on my vestments now, Fletcher. What I'd like for you to do is to sit there, near the curtain, so that you can look through and see me there on the altar. You'll hear and see me; I'll be right over there. When I'm done with the mass, I'll come back in here for you. Will that be okay?"

"It does..." He stopped himself again, but it seemed to me that it took less effort. He struggled a little with a smile, but he looked me in the eyes as he said, "Thank you."

I leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss to his forehead. "When you know me a little better, you'll know that will keep my word to you. Not alone. I'll always be back for you."

Guiding him to the curtain, I invited him to sit down on a low hassock that I'd brought over from the priest's house, and set about donning my minimal vestments. For a non-Eucharistic service such as this, a cassock and surplice was enough. My own parish was quite comfortable with informality; I could probably get away with wearing my black pants, shirt, and collar. It occurred to me, however, that my clothing would undoubtedly look slept in, and that might raise questions that I couldn't answer well.

At the curtain, I paused, adjusting my clothing before entering the sanctuary. I happened to glance down at Fletcher, intending to give him a brief smile, but I was surprised to see him staring wide-eyed at me. "Fletcher?" I asked softly.

"Angel."

That did make me smile. "It's all this loose-fitting surplice," I whispered to him.

He smiled a little then, shaking his head, and he pointed to my shoulder. "Angel," he insisted. "See angel. Good."

I pet his head gently and winked at him, then moved slowly out to the altar. Movement from the pews as all got to their hindpaws. "Blessed be to God," I intoned, "Father, Son, and Holy Spirit."

"And blessed be His kingdom, now and forever," my tiny congregation replied.

Any good priest will tell you that it's all too easy simply to go through the motions. How many times had I chanted all this before, in how many situations? Part of my mind was on something else, no question; even the Collect was part of an old bit of service that I had written when I was in divinity school. The rulebook on the altar was marked with a hundred passages for all occasions, and the Lesson was a psalm that had, for lack of a term, been done to death. Something was nagging at me, and only part of it was that I was merely going through the motions at this point.

It was just after I said "Here endeth the Lesson" that I felt something in me shift a little. I'd been caught without a homily for a non-Eucharistic service more than once, and I was occasionally inspired to extemporaneous speech. I doubted that I was ready for the Toastmasters, but I could bluff my way through. For some reason, I had the feeling that I wasn't about to bluff anything at all.

"A thought occurred to me," I began without the slightest touch of irony, "that we all too often see God as something outside and beyond ourselves. We look to 'the heavens,' imagining it up above us, perhaps just beyond our reach. When we appeal to God, we often look up, beseeching. And yet one of the words that we use to describe God is 'omnipresent.' Look at that word with me for a moment. It quite literally means that God is everywhere, present in everything. Every single thing is part of God. Imagine that for a moment. Look around you and imagine it. The pews, the books, the candles, the altar, you, me, the very air that we breathe. That curtain," and here I glanced to see Fletcher looking back at me, his wolf's eyes glinting with a hint of a candles' flames, "that door behind you, and everything beyond it. Everything is part of God.

"That is truly awesome. Not in the way youth wastes the term, but genuinely awesome, awe-inspiring, capable of taking our breath away. Think not only that everything is part of God, and that each of us is part of God... but that we are also part of everything beyond that door. Every single being out there is part of God, and part of us. That can be scary, because there are some furs out there who we might be quick to judge as being unworthy of being part of us... unworthy of being part of God."

I breathed evenly for a moment. "I know I have those thoughts. Not that I'm trying to say that I am somehow to be held as a standard for anyone. I only mean that I, who have taken on a vocation that is supposed to be all about love, forgiveness, acceptance... even I have moments when I have that old temptation from my pup-hood, where I take my thumb and forefinger, and stare at someone's head, and just_squeeze...!"_ I demonstrated the old playground mannerism, exaggerating the motion, sticking my tongue out, getting the chuckle from my listeners. I smiled with them, then sobered a little.

"We've all witnessed or heard of terrible things out there. I don't want to make a big sermon out of this, and certainly not some sort of chastisement of anyone. I just wanted to say that I can think of two ways to look at this. One is the nature of all things to come in some sort of opposite -- light and darkness, good and bad, sweet and sour... that last one can be good as seasoning, you know! But perhaps the bad that we see, that we bear witness to, is just part of that duality. Perhaps what we call 'evil' isn't the absence of God at all, but simply that God -- the omnipresent idea of God -- has light and darkness, just as we do. Perhaps that's why we are said to be made in His image.

"But there's another idea. What if those terrible things, those awful patches of darkness... what if they exist to help us see how we can bring back the light? No one is sure who first said, 'It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness,' but it is a saying that we've all heard at least once. What if we simply light that candle,_be_that candle for someone? And what if..."

Here I paused, casting my eyes back to the two shining orbs peeking out from behind the curtain the vestry. "...what if we sometimes find some darkness because we're meant to be a light... just one small, frightened, determined light, against that darkness? That darkness that might be inside someone's heart, needing just a little light to help that furson find his way back? What if, as the poet Rilke once said, all monsters, all that frightens us, is something helpless that wants our love?"

I swallowed, turning back slowly to my parishioners. "If you're not ready to be that candle, you can still light a candle. Any small kindness can be a flame to help another find his own light. Any little act of affection could help someone lift the bushel from over him and let him shine. Any light. Any small light. Even the light of a single firefly on a summer's night. A Native American friend of mine told me that fireflies are called both light-bringers and messengers of light. Today, we have our English version of the Greek word that meant 'messenger'..."

Leaning forward, I whispered the word into the quiet: "Angel."

After a long moment, I bade my parishioners to rise with a gesture, and the service continued. I broke the order of service, inviting all to stand with me on the altar, join paws, to feel the moment with me. It was unexpected, and the elderly females were unsure at first; it was as if the altar was somehow too good for their paws to dare to touch. The young tom was a bit more enthusiastic when I said, "Almighty God have mercy upon us, forgive us our sins... and remind us of Your Light, that You gave to us, to be and to share, to shine forth Your love, our love, upon others." Almost comically, I asked of my small assembly, "Let us make a joyful noise unto the Lord! Can I get an A-MEN?"

"A-MEN!" the tabby called out, truly joyful. And finally, the females felt the Spirit move them, and they joined in, and we all raised our forepaws to the skies... and after we took our paws back to ourselves, I help my open paw just shy of the tom's chest, letting the electric sensation of our joy leap into his heart. I could feel it, I swear that I could, and the look in his eyes, the quiet gasp from his partly-open muzzle, told me that he felt it too. Discreetly, I gave the same to each of the females present, and even those who had been quiet before let forth a little gasp of surprise.

"This is not our usual service," I acknowledged with a rueful smile. "Thank you all for letting me speak freely today. We did not take communion, but we did commune with each other, and it felt wonderful to me. Now, I'd like for all of us to go out and remember the light we bring. And come back anytime to tell me of your light; it will help me to remember mine."

I watched them file out quietly, wondering if I'd ever again feel such a passionate connection, to my faith, to others, to God.Perhaps not like this, I thought, but there are other ways, as long as I don't forget.

Stepping back to the curtain, I was surprised to find Fletcher on his hindpaws, waiting to give me a strong, warm, tender hug. I returned it no less warmly; the way that I felt, I was sure that I'd be feeling this inner fire for a long time. I closed my eyes, rested my chin upon the pup's head, and let myself see with my heart. In my arms, I cradled a tiny, frightened, tenuous flame that, as I watched with ill-used inner eyes, tempered and let itself grow just a little stronger.

"Angel," I felt him whisper against my chest.

"Yes." I kissed the top of his head, a tear falling from my eye. "Thank you, my angel."