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I almost called out sick on Friday, but I didn't know the medical definition for the kind of sickness I had. Is there such a thing as a hangover caused by dreams, whether from sleep or when awake? Either way, I couldn't make a reasonable case for staying away from work because I felt sick at heart. That's not something recognized by an HMO, and there aren't any other institutions that had legitimate cures. Some made claims, taking the form of fads that last for a few years or a few thousand. They didn't hold answers either.

The causes for my malaise were many. The main one was my trying to read The Tribal Manifesto, which was no walk in the park. I don't know why idealism, in any form, has to be so badly written. Part of the problem was that there clearly was not a single author, and there certainly was no editor. The only attribution was to "Timewind," which was the name of an organization or group, not of an individual. The styles were all over the place, disjointed, disconnected beyond the central idea of utopia based upon love, cooperation, and everybody being together and thus more than the sum of its parts. The most notable thing appeared in the first few pages -- a diagram like this:

(for this post, the image appears above)

In terms of the "free love" generation, the book was assembled about 30 years past those happy hippie days of the country's history. Except for the time difference, it would have fit right in. There were a few hints that some of it may have come from that time and stitched into the rest of the booklet. I tried to read as much as I could, but I ended up trying to skim most of the 127 pages. No index, no table of contents, and no real sense of organization. It actually hurt to imagine that this was what Glover had been looking at on the day before he killed himself. The cynic in me had to observe that the booklet wasn't that bad.

The skies matched my mood: gray, low, and about ready to piss down on everything just because it could. I wasn't in any mood to eat, but my stomach rumbled. I decided to teach it a lesson by going through a drive-thru place and getting what they claimed was a "breakfast sandwich." I didn't buy a cup of their "coffee"; why pay for their swill when I had free swill of my own at the cop shop? I could always top it off with an alleged "sweet roll" from the vending machine.

Pulling into an available parking space, I shut off the engine and sat in the quiet for a few minutes. I couldn't understand what was digging at me so much, what was yanking my chain. I didn't have the urge to get a drink or six, since I just didn't like the stuff; I did wonder if this was the type of feeling that pushed someone toward the bottle. Like AA's "dry drunk," I was angry, hurting, wanting some kind of release from this strange pain. There was a desire to have something take it away, like a magic pill that would cure everything, the literal meaning of "panacea," something that would require no greater effort than to take the drug. Easy solutions, no work involved, no needing to understand the "why" of anything.

That, it finally occurred to me, was the reason I wanted to understand Glover's suicide. It would either solve my own problem, or it would give me permission to follow his path.

The idea sat in the car next to me, a quiet companion floating silent suggestions in the guise of answers. It was strangely calming.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I can't describe my mood when I sat at my desk with my cup of bean juice, because I wasn't sure that I had one. I wasn't hosting the Idea, as far as I could tell. I simply had no particular mood or emotional response to anything. I think they call it "detachment" in the shrink circles. My sense was more that my inventory of shits was actually less than zero. I suppose that would mean, in order for me to give a shit, I'd have to be given some shit, and that didn't seem like much of a good idea either. This whole shitty system needed an overhaul.

Contemplating the mixed blessings of a refill from the communal pot (there's an image to be twisted) had caused me to delay at my desk long enough for Crandall to find me and call me into his office. He sat, I stood, just because that's what we usually do. "Updates?" the bulldog asked me.

"You know most of it," I replied. "Only new wrinkle is this association with some latter-day hippie-dippie group called Timewind. I don't think there's much connection there."

"That's what the Fibbies gave you."

"Yup. Glover had been 'associated' for over 25 years, but he hasn't been actively involved in some while."

"Nothing?"

The "manifesto" seemed irrelevant to anything, and I didn't want to mention it, maybe for personal reasons. "Not that anyone is aware of."

Crandall pulled that face again, the one that made me think of Langston and his cigar. The two seemed almost commingled in my brain, which I counted as yet another curse against me. "The upstairs wants this cleared by this afternoon; your job today looks like paperwork."

"Any hints on how they want this essay written? The content won't be to their liking."

"Write it up straight, just like you found it. I can sign off on objective facts, but not on maybe's and could-be's."

"Motive?"

"Not our jurisdiction," the bulldog shook his head. "Motive is only important if it helps to track down a murderer for prosecution. Suicide ain't a crime, if it works. If the brass wants to distort it, I've got a news channel for 'em."

I didn't have the chance to make even a non-committal comment before a soft knock on the door frame caught our attention. We both turned, and I had just enough time to wonder about synchronicity before the Shep indicated the box he was carrying. Shaped like a banker's box, its most noticeable item was something wrapped in cloth, perhaps to protect it, perhaps to protect whoever was carrying it. It was, after all, about a meter long and difficult to carry without its proper box.

"Forensics sent me over, Captain Crandall," he said. "This is from the Glover crime scene."

"Thank you for bringing it, Officer...?"

"Padilla," I filled in, pronouncing it properly. I moved aside to give him room to maneuver. "How did they tap you for courier work? I thought Parsons was assigned from the two-six."

"He called in sick today."

Small blessings, I thought. "Cap'n," I said over my shoulder, "I'm gonna take over your other desk for a minute."

"There's a surprise."

The Shep set the box down where I showed him, and I wasted no time bringing the sword out of its wrappings. I handled it carefully; the office wasn't blessed with the space to fling it around.

"I was wondering what that was," Padilla said. It was then I remembered that he might not have seen inside the study that he had been guarding.

"It's the only witness to a killing," I said. "Did Forensics come up with anything?"

"Let me check my notes." The Shep reached inside the box to remove a few sheets of paper, which I found happily old-school. It would seem that not everyone kept his life inside the Tricorder Communicator Mark Negative Thirteen. "Careful shavings from the blade showed a unique blend of metals, not something commercially available in bulk, so to speak. Someone had to make this combination as an individual batch. Ultrasound showed that the blade itself is secured into the hilt by a... 'modern form of traditional method,' which doesn't tell me a lot."

"Me, either," Crandall volunteered.

"Tells me that the smith is a craftsman." I turned the blade over in my forepaws, admiring it carefully, now that it was safe to touch. "I have no idea how a sword is made, beyond movies showing someone banging the hell out of some extremely hot metal. I don't know what a 'traditional method' might be, but the telltale is the word 'traditional.' Absolutely not factory made; this blade was made by a single, talented fur who had a purpose for making it."

"Pretty fancy for a butter knife," the bulldog observed.

"Looks like it would hold a pretty sharp edge."

"May I have a look?" The Shep extended a forepaw, and I passed it carefully over to him. He looked it over intently as I went through the few other items in the box. The various plastic pouches and sleeves protected their mysterious treasures, and a file folder at the bottom appeared to have more case notes. All contents were free to be returned, now that forensics was done with them. I had no idea if anyone in the Glover family would want them.

"This doesn't change the report," Crandall grumped. "It's still suicide."

"Yes, it is. I still want to know why."

"Not our jurisdiction," the bulldog repeated his earlier statement. "We do the 'how' thing."

"Albion."

My head turned swiftly to Padilla. "What?"

He blinked a little. "It's the name of the sword. Or at least..." The Shep indicated a set of six runes at the base of the blade, where it joined the hilt. "Here. I was surprised by it."

"The runes?"

"More the name." Looking a little embarrassed, he glanced at the boss, then back to me. "According to one version of the Robin Hood legend, Albion was the sword of justice that he carried, both for the symbol and for close combat."

"You can read it?"

"I'm a little rusty, but I can read that much, at least."

"What is it?"

"A guilty pleasure, mostly." He grinned at us before continuing. "The runes are from Tolkien's _The Hobbit,_originally. Some of the medievalist groups would use them to make things seem more authentic, or at least arcane."

"Great," Crandall observed. "More whackadoodles to the party."

I ignored him. "Padilla, do you think you can read the other markings along the blade?"

He hesitated. "Let me check something."

When he reached for his pocket, to find his Digital Direct Dial-up Doohickey, I waved to stop him. "Let's get something with a bigger screen."

I sat him in front of the computer at my desk, figuring he'd be able to look up the information he wanted faster than I could. It took him almost no time at all to find the web page he needed.

"Tolkien's runes were an alphabet, a rune-per-letter. He could have gone for something more like the Cyrillic alphabet, which uses one symbol-letter per sound." The Shep nodded at the screen. "This is more familiar, direct substitution... Do you have some paper?"

My sour mood from earlier lifted a bit as I supplied a legal pad. He provided his own pen from his shirt pocket. There may yet be hope for sapientkind.

Even with the cap'n and me looking over his shoulders, he still made quick work of the job. It took him perhaps 40 seconds to translate one side of the blade, half that for the other side, as the lettering became familiar to him again. "Some of it is guessing what letters make sense to come next," he said, "like playing Wordle."

"I hate that thing."

"Why, Cap'n?" I asked him.

"Guessing five-letter words more often brings out my four-letter words."

"Here we are," Padilla offered.

I read the words on the pad. "Justice by word and need, honor by loving deed."

Crandall grunted. "This was in the paws of a lawyer?"

"Ex-lawyer." I hadn't meant to emphasize the descriptor so much, but the Shep cringed a little. I tried to make my eyes apologize to him. "Any thoughts?"

"It sounds like an oath of fealty. Combined with the idea that the blade is named, I get the feeling that it's... well, it's meant to be a warrior's weapon. Symbolically, I hope." Padilla paused before asking, "This was at the crime scene?"

"Clutched in the victim's right forepaw. He had shot himself in the head with his left."

"Was he left-pawed?"

"No, right-pawed."

"Not staged?"

"No; coroner says it was definitely suicide."

The Shep considered for a moment. "This sword was important to him."

I let my I told you so to the cap'n be just a quick glance. "Let's pretend that he thought of himself as some sort of warrior, a fighter for justice. He did start off in the public defender's office."

"Luton," the bulldog snorted softly, "how does this help?"

"You're looking for motive." Padilla's eyes had narrowed slightly. "Did he leave a note?"

"Yes."

I padded quickly to Crandall's office, trying my best not to rip through the contents of the box like a young pup at his Christmas presents. The documents associated with the case lay flat at the bottom. The desktop pad had been photographed and documented six ways from Sunday, the full-size images electronically cut into segments that could be printed by laser. I found the sheet with the section of blotter that I was looking for. Back at my desk, I handed it to our resident translator.

"From the notepad on his desk," I explained to the Shep.

He nodded quickly and set to work on his legal pad. "Yes," he murmured quietly. "A note. Almost a confession."

I did my best not to rush him. I knew enough that, if I watched him too closely, I'd try to anticipate the words, maybe end up rushing him after all. I tried to keep an eye on the walls around me. Y'know, if you don't watch them, they close in on you. I heard the sound of the pen being tossed onto the pad.

"No justice by words, no honor in my deeds," the officer read aloud. "I have betrayed us. Albion, forgive me."

"Short," Crandall observed. "Who's 'us'?"

"Does it say?" I asked Padilla.

"I don't think so. There's only one more word. Well... name, I guess."

"What does it say?"

"Airdancer."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The brooding skies had finally decided to let out their frustrations in a long, cold rain that felt like tears of exhaustion. No question, a shrink would label that as "transference," and my available shit balance was still zero or less. I did my best not to take on the emotion too closely, maybe because it was "emotion" (dangerous stuff, that), maybe because I needed to concentrate on the long, winding state road that wasn't all that different from the one I'd been on only a few days ago. This one headed in a different direction, taking me deep into the forests of the northeastern part of the state. It was a road that passed through few towns, and I'd taken advantage of each one, for taking on fuel for the car and for me, and for leaving off excess water of my own. With all these trees, I could probably find one to hike a leg on; I felt some strange need to be mildly civilized, at least while some mild version of civilization was available.

Capt. Ambrose Crandall had tried valiantly to keep me from pursuing this. He put out every reason he could think of, from wanting to get the case closed because of those in higher pay grades than ours, to wondering if I were really in enough of my right mind to be pursuing this clueless clue. I pulled out all the stops, including taking him to Jo and Phil's for lunch, cajoling him with "a more complete report" that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for if he didn't want to, and threatening to use his first name around the office. He wanted me to take Padilla with me, but I put my hindpaw down on that one. The Shep is a helluva good officer, and I'd welcome him on any other case out there. This one, I told him, was personal.

That was a risk, one I won't dignify with the term "calculated." I told him of the wooden box for the sword, of The Tribal Manifesto, and my certainty that I needed to make this journey alone, if only to see if my hunch was correct. I must have said something right, because I was on my way that afternoon, determined to find my answers, and maybe those of Glover as well.

Padilla's information about the sword included a very short list of furs who were known to use the composition of metals contained in the blade. I only needed to see one name and location to confirm my suspicions. Artisans of a certain type tend to band together, just as any group of like-minded people would do. This one group of artisans would no doubt appear on many other lists, as they were members of Timewind.

The unexpected roar of an eighteen-wheeler from around a somewhat cramped curve broke my reverie, making me realize that I was getting close to a turnoff I'd need to take. I would probably get some instruction soon enough from the voice of divine guidance emanating from the all-knowing Oracle of A. G. Bell's Nightmare, but I still had printed directions. Some things shouldn't be left entirely to chance or technology, especially on the infamous dark and rainy night. The semiannual curse of Daylight Savings Time had visited us already, but the heavy clouds and rain took away the daylight with far greater efficiency. I was actually glad to be driving the old clunker; a few more bangs and bumps wouldn't show.

I already knew from Agent Parks that Timewind was in the FBI files. They were likely to be in the files of the CIA, IRS, TSA, NCTC, CCTV, LMNOP, and the rest of the alphabet soup of watchdogs, not to mention state and local wannbes. There were no criminal charges against them, from any source, nor any civil cases on file. Even the IRS seemed satisfied that whatever legal structure they had chosen was, in fact, paying its fair share. (That, in itself, no doubt made them suspicious; willingly paying taxes may be considered an un-American activity.) They were not some renegade biker gang, nor were they politically active, at least not collectively. What seemed to put everyone's fur up was that Timewind referred to itself as a "tribe," without any claim to First Peoples or species identity. Clearly, this made them "other," therefore probably communists, socialists, anarchists, ultra-liberal anti-establishment, druggies, pushers, satanists, demon-summoners, witches, any-or-all of the above. They were called by the thousand names of fear, paying the price for being different.

I can't be sure just when it dawned on me that I had known of Timewind, in a tangential manner. Part of their means of livelihood was what used to be called a cottage industry in loose-fitting cloth garments that appealed to members of various medieval groups. Other artisans created jewelry that might fit the period, along with various plates, bowls, cups, and utensils designed to mimic the times. I discovered this when my pup Michael became interested in, and briefly involved with, the largest of the groups, called (simply enough) The Medieval Society, or MedSoc for short. Some of the clothes still fit him; even though he's not active in MedSoc anymore, the garments themselves are simple, comfortable, long-lasting. Back in that day, Barb had thought him "dashing," and I'd had a stick too far up my tailhole to admit it was true.

MedSoc itself was labeled a "cult" by the Establishment, and it didn't help matters when one of their area groups (referred to as a "kingdom," with all the attendant rigmarole) got the worst possible press for allegations of sexual molestation of minors. The old axiom about one bad apple was bad enough; the evidence, trial, and resulting convictions made it nothing but worse. Since that time, a great many groups, including the sponsors of renaissance festivals, put themselves at arms -- or perhaps at pole arms -- distance from MedSoc itself.

I shook my head at such memories. That "kingdom" was several states away, and everyone in Michael's "shire" and "kingdom" were horrified. The incident was in no way typical, but it put a bitter taste in everyone's maw. A lot of their gatherings and events were cancelled because of that pall. It was as unfair as everything else in the world, and my pup got a taste of it the hard way. Nothing "happened," but simply having a tangential association with "one of them" could be enough for some furs. Commies in the 50s, hippies in the 60s, homosexuals in the 70s, the homeless, indigent, or poor in every decade... there's always someone out there to blame for things not being like they were, or simply not to your liking. Michael felt sure he'd lost a graduate teaching post because of it, but in some ways, that was a blessing: Because of it, he found his way into creating Unicorn Keep. Sometimes, we need a good kick to put us in the right direction.

That, I had surmised, was what Glover had failed to heed. In the seat beside me, the Idea murmured something I didn't quite catch. It felt like agreement, or maybe encouragement.

I turned my mind back to Timewind. The group had come together nearly 30 years ago, as a self-described "experiment in communal living." My research, and what little I'd been able to read in their Manifesto, told me that they were both serious and jesting. According to the Fibbies, the original group pooled their talents and resources, finding a plot of land that had "fallen into escheat." I needed more law-degree stuff to really get that, but the upshot was that they had acquired nearly 35 hectares of land for as close to a song as made no odds. They had since survived by selling artisan-produced goods and working their land. I had no information about the status of the land, the inhabitants, or the buildings or lack thereof on the land. That thought made me cast my mind back to that grubby group of squatters, except that Timewind apparently owned their land and, so far as I knew, were still in business. There was a website, at least, and a link to a free electronic download of The Tribal Manifesto. I declined the offer.

There was little information about the membership of Timewind, beyond the original nine and a few later arrivals who might have let their affiliation be known publicly. It was very likely that some more were tarred with the same brush (as the saying has it), whether they were part of the group or not. Some may have left the group, for a short or long time, for work, education, a break, whathaveyou. Artists and farmers need their space, sometimes. Sometimes, they go out to take on new challenges. Sometimes, people just drift away. That might have been what happened to Thomas Christian Thaddeus Glover.

The tiger who had been known as Airdancer.