FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Darkstar and I padded back to the staircase with no one else in sight. It occurred to me that more than one wicker hamper might be making a trip down the dumbwaiter tonight. I felt as if I should make some sort of conversation, but he didn't start one, and I wasn't sure that I could. Everything I came up with to say felt very lame, so I kept my muzzle shut and followed him to the floor below.

From the landing, I could see into the huge living room that, before, I had merely glimpsed in passing. I took a closer look, feeling drawn into the area by the sheer warmth of the space and its furnishings. The vaulted ceiling rose high on sizeable, rough-hewn wood beams, with large, slowly-turning, bamboo-bladed fans depending from poles attached to the central crossbeam. A fireplace worthy of a British country estate commanded its respect, yet it also welcomed. The thought occurred that it was rather like Oaknail in that regard. I might have expected a display of the tribe's metal handiwork above the great mantlepiece, itself decorated with things ranging from vases bearing decoratively-arranged dried flowers to small ceramic statuary of a variety of subjects. Above these hung not shield and swords but a large circular device with markings and symbols that I did not recognize. Something about it evoked in me a feeling that it belonged in the realm of the indigenous peoples, but I wasn't sure why.

Before the fireplace lay a large sunken space, a square perhaps five meters on a side, with a few chairs, loveseats, sofas, and otherwise festooned with various large pillows and things that looked like velour-covered bean bags. Two shallow steps upward, on three sides, led to more conventional arrangements of furniture, made of a few groupings of love seats, chairs, side tables, and yet more wicker baskets, these containing what appeared to be magazines -- an interesting anachronism in this electronic age. The entire area was lit by wall sconces, some with decorative additions above them in which artificial flames danced warmly.

Near the front windows, black with encroaching night and rain, a pair of chairs flanked an end table with a small lamp upon it. From one of these comfortable-looking seats, Rainmist glanced over at me, eyebrows arched in what I took to be pleasant surprise. The otter nodded at me, murmuring, "I approve."

I did my best not to blush, and I felt Darkstar clap me on the shoulder. "I'll go see to our clothes, Max. Back shortly."

Chuckling, the river otter waved me over to her. "I promise not to bite. I won't even qualify it with the usual disclaimer."

Making an exaggerated walk around to her far side and slinking into the chair, I feigned appropriate terror of her female wiles while her chuckle turned into a laugh. I smiled at her, glad for the humor.

"Thank you, Max," she said softly. "I'm a natural coquette, as you may have noticed. Some say it's a species trait, to be playful. I promise it is playful, not predatory."

"I could tell that," I offered truthfully. "I'm simply so unused to it."

"You aren't flirted with in your daily life?"

"Rarely, and not without some bit of predation." I tried to make my smile less wan than it felt. "From you, it's actually playful, a gentle bit of second nature. Rather like your starting to remove your shirt, upstairs."

I might have caught the faintest hint of blush on the light cinnamon fur of her cheeks. "Sorry," she chittered, her tailtip thapping a little on the side of her chair where she had curled it. "You must think me... what, exhibitionist?"

"No more than Oaknail. Society has decreed that males can parade about with their chests exposed, and females can't. Not entirely logical, is it?"

"Or comfortable. I love being in water, but not in wet clothes. Makes my fur itch." She smiled at me, then looked out at the darkness beyond. "Nights like this are made for stripping furclad and going out for a walk, just to enjoy it." Turning her face back to me, she grinned again. "Not many would agree, I'm sure."

"Wouldn't you prefer a daytime shower?"

"Only if no one minded catching a glimpse of full-frontal otter."

I laughed gently, and she joined in. "Is everyone here so... uninhibited?"

"We're reasonably well socialized," she smiled at me. "I simply forgot we had a guest with us. Perhaps it hinges upon what you consider to be uninhibited. On the occasional winter night, some of us may elect to lower the heat in our rooms, bring pillows and blankets down here, and snuggle up for warmth. Clothing is optional; we're usually furclad. It's very warm, comforting. Does that disturb you?"

Considering a moment, thinking of the ages-old ritual Question and Answer, I shook my head. "I'm not sure if I could join in readily, but it's not disturbing. It sounds quite cozy indeed."

She leaned forward conspiratorially. "There's one terrible risk in it."

"Which is?"

"Oaknail snores like a jet engine."

I couldn't have stopped my braying laugh if I'd tried. I couldn't even stop when I heard the booming basso saying, "Telling tales on me, Rainmist?"

"Only the true ones, bear," she grinned.

"Then I can't complain, can I?" Oaknail stood near the edge of the living room space, in the general direction that Rainmist had hollered out to when we came in. "And I wouldn't dare risk your denying me your stew which, by the way, we're about ready to serve. If I can pry you away from your beloved rain...?"

"Oh!" the otter cried, melodramatically bringing up a wrist to her forehead. "However shall I bear it!"

"What a place for a pun!" Oaknail laughed.

I rose, still chuckling, finding this bit of interaction confirming my earlier assessment of how well this group had bonded. I once again wondered if she had been one of the founding members. The Fibbies didn't have that information, or at least they didn't share it. I remembered that The Tribal Manifesto had names in it somewhere; when I was attempting to read it, I skipped over any names, thinking them artificial and trivial. Now, I saw that some of those names might be represented here by real fursons, although you couldn't tell it by their conversation. These folks seemed a lot more sophisticated than what I had seen in that document. Of course, twenty-five-plus years can give a furson room to polish himself up a little.

The great black bear clapped a gentle forepaw to my shoulder as I neared. "Counting you, there's an even dozen of us for dinner tonight. Unicorn is out of town for the weekend, and Sunrider is taking some newfangled professional credits kind of thing in Las Vegas. We made him promise not to have too much fun, nor gamble away the tribal purse." He smiled at me with great warmth. "You will help to make up for their absence."

"No pressure," I managed to quip.

Oaknail's bellowing laugh was enough announcement of our arrival into what could only be called a dining hall. The ceilings here were also high, if not as high as the living room area. I saw six huge oaken tables, each with eight stools just under the tables' edges. All were heavy, sturdy, large slabs of highly polished hand-worked wood. As I watched, Darkstar and the white wolf I'd met in the barn (what was his name again?) were rearranging one table to form a T with the other; stools were arranged around these, with a few displaced seats being set against the walls.

"We're a large tribe, when we're all together," the bear explained, noticing my attempt not to gawk. "When friends and lovers join with us, even this hall isn't enough for all of us. We spill into the den, the hall, wherever we need to."

"Do all of you gather often?"

"Not as often as we'd like. A semi-annual weekend, where we hope to avoid overlapping other familial holidays. We also have a rather open-house sort of time from just before winter solstice to just past the calendar new year. We call it WinterFest, which is a name borrowed from many sources. It's a fine celebration, encompassing most of the winter rituals and holidays. People come and go as they wish, bunked wherever and with whomever. We have our feasts and fun, various events planned like miniature parties, and yowens dashing up and down the halls..." He heaved a huge and happy sigh. "Perhaps you see why we like the idea of having a guest tonight."

Rainmist was assisting with the general fixing of the area, and others were coming in as if responding to some signal that I had managed to miss. Oaknail took up the host's duties to introduce, or reintroduce, my fellow diners.

Oray, the young red panda I'd seen almost too much of in the barn, appeared before me fully dressed and, on his arm, a comely young female raccoon introduced as Starshine. Neither was particularly embarrassed about the encounter, although the 'coon did blush a little, flicking her tail gently behind her. Neither mentioned it, beyond asking if I was all right after my accident. The word "uninhibited" crossed my mind again, this time with me wondering what exactly should be inhibited in their behavior.

New to me was Dreamweaver, a lean female black panther whose antique gold cotton garb matched her eyes, in company with a tall mountain lion who, though similarly dressed as the rest (myself included), introduced himself as Frank. I must confess that I blinked, and he chuckled. "I haven't joined the tribe yet," he explained, "so I haven't chosen a tribal name."

"Do you plan to? Join, I mean."

"I would like to." His face held a seriousness that might have suited a young male hoping to become a squire to an Arthurian knight. "I like what I've discovered here."

"What might that be?"

He smiled softly at me. "I'd call it a dream."

"As would many of us."

We turned to the voice, I feeling again that strange tug toward the Husky who was rejoining us. I almost didn't see the young doe in her company. It's said that polite males don't try to guess a female's age; if he does, he'd be very wise not to voice it. Being a dick (meaning "detective," but perhaps the other slang meaning would apply), it's an automatic response in me to make an estimate. Mid-20s, I thought, although that could be off; any doe under 50 or so has that sweetly cautious look about her that makes us think of frail youth and innocence.

Lightwing turned her head to the doe. "This is Max," she explained quietly. "His car is stuck on the edge of the road leading to the house. We've invited him to stay until we can extricate it in the morning." The Husky turned her head back to me. "Max, this is Stellamara."

The usual thing would be to step closer, to offer a paw in greeting, but I held back. Something in Lightwing's glance and the gently wary look in the doe's eyes caused me to nod once, slowly, and offer a soft greeting from where I stood. She dipped her muzzle a few centimeters, her gaze still uncertain. With a sensation of backpedaling, I again had the feeling that I was intruding. I felt a slight chill around my shoulders, reminding me of the saying about a non-sapient goose walking over my grave. I tried to ignore it, but hackles is as hackles does.

The general bustling about the tables included conversation, laughter, finding places in the rearrangement of their usual pattern. No one took a seat yet, as if to make sure everyone would be happy with the seating plan. Darkstar and the white wolf each carried a stack of bowls to a sideboard, chuckling over some comment I hadn't overheard, setting the crockery down carefully. As they turned back toward the kitchen, I called, "Need any help?"

The wolf smiled at me. "I think we've got the fetch 'n carry, thank you for asking. You're our guest tonight."

"Many paws make light work."

"And we appreciate it." Darkstar gave me a fine, lynx-mysterious smile. "We just want to offer you some pampering. That's fun for us, too."

"Quite right, too!" Oaknail appeared near me, guiding me toward the crossbar of the T made by the two tables. "I'll commandeer some chairs for us and my mate, Moonsong, who should be--"

"Speak the devil's name and see her horns!"

The cheerful alto voice belonged to a buxom brown bear who bore with her a very large crock pot, at least four liters worth, her strong arms more than a match for it. This she set on the sideboard and plugged it into one of the outlets there, as Darkstar and the white wolf returned again, bearing a lacquered wooden platter apiece, one stacked with fresh cornbread, the other a sectioned piece with a variety of oyster crackers, cheese crackers, and other crunchy savories that one might add to a hearty stew, soup, or chili. I was certain that I was drooling. Oaknail was right: The scent of that stew was enough to drive someone mad.

Oaknail's chuckle showed his love for his mate. "I shall refrain from the obvious jokes. Allow me to introduce you to Max."

He waved a generous paw toward me, even as the smiling sow presented her own. "Our storm-sent visitor," she grinned at me. "Welcome, Max. What would you care to drink?"

I took the proffered paw, which provided quite a grip. "Some water would be fine, thank you."

"Too easy." With an accompanying chuckle, Rainmist reentered the hall, bearing a large tray with a dozen drinking glasses on it, setting it down further along the sideboard. A wet-bar segment held a sink and, behind a panel, a dispenser for chilled water and ice. The otter turned back to me, grinning, with an explanation at the ready. "Practicality, and experience with trotting back and forth to the kitchen. We do have a variety of drinkables."

Chuckling, I said, "No need to break out the Rothschild '58, or whatever it is that's supposed to be rare, famous, and expensive."

"I prefer the Pepsi of recent vintage," Oray laughed, heading in the direction of the kitchen. "Anyone else, while I'm going?"

No other takers, and the firefox padded quickly off with a promise to be "just a sec." I did my best to follow the lead of the rest of the milling bodies, finding myself wondering yet again just what sort of dangerous radicals these folks could be. The feeling was more of family, the house huge yet not ostentatious, as Glover's had been. The hospitality, the camaraderie, the (pardon my dated word) vibe was the antithesis of cultism (or, the ingrained cynic in me piped up, the epitome of it).

"Soup kitchen style!" Moonsong decreed with a wave of her ladle. "Line 'em up!"

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" With a grin, Oaknail snapped to attention at the head of the line, taking up a bowl from the stacks. I followed suit with appropriate respect for the gag, and the rest lined up behind me. Rainmist leaned in close to my ear, whispering, "You don't have to salute."

"Protocol," I whispered, "protocol!"

The bear presented his bowl with proper deference, and the waves of affection between the two mates was worth ten thousand soppy greeting cards. I emulated my host and, with the amazing efficiency of a well-designed production line, I soon had a bowl of hot, thick, drool-inspiring stew, a large square of cornbread balanced between the lip of the bowl and a spoon, accompanied by a glass of ice water. I soon found myself ushered to Oaknail's left at the head of the table. It seemed only moments before all had been served and settled in place around the tables. A simple silence settled, and all put forepaws to either side of their bowls. I did the same and waited.

"We thank you for the gift you have provided us, precious bovine." Oaknail's voice rang softly and sincerely, not merely by rote. "We honor you by sharing with each other, by growing and becoming, by continuing the power of life and love. Thank you."

All around nodded, smiled, and then turned to me as the bear asked, "Do you have a grace before meals, Max?"

"None so eloquent," I replied. "Thank you for that."

With that, all began eating, not quite falling-to in imitation of those who haven't eaten for a week, but instead with slightly more restraint and genuine appreciation of the meal. I did hear Oray, at the base of the T and directly across from Oaknail, make a noise of deep satisfaction in tasting his first spoonful. A few at the table chuckled.

"Glad you like it," Rainmist observed drily. She sat to my left and, opposite her, Lightwing joined in with a chuckle. The otter eyed me with a raised brow. "What's your verdict?"

I held the cornbread in my left forepaw, the better to free my spoon to sample the stew. It was at least as robust as the scent had been declaring for some minutes. My tail expressed itself about the same time as I made my own rendition of Oray's recent song. This brought out a few giggles from around the table.

"A downside of being canine," I admitted. "My tail is an obvious barometer."

"You're not alone," the white wolf down the table offered quietly. "It can be difficult to keep mine still, when I'm happy."

"Which is most of the time," Darkstar observed with a smile. "He's one of the most consistently cheerful fursons I've ever known."

I saluted all with my cornbread. "I try not to be a curmudgeon, and especially not over such wonderful food. Thank you."

Conversation halted for a few moments as we all felt that the stew required our best attention. I took another moment to take little glances at my hosts. The doe sat at the end of the row of bodies in my sight-line, past the mountain lion (Frank -- his name was easier for me to remember) and his consort, the black panther. I had an odd feeling about the doe, one that I couldn't quite fathom. I'd attended workshops about autism, as the force tried to appear sympathetic to people who might be "differently-abled" or "emotionally challenged" or whatever other politically correct phrasing was popular that month. It skated over the heads of most of my disinterested colleagues. I listened enough to realize that there are fursons who are just plain wired in ways that affect behavior, that they might not respond well to strong-arm, brute-force tactics (or, in simpler terms, cops being cops).

The doe's behavior could be something as simple as shyness. There was no reason to think it was anything more, except that it really did feel as if I were trespassing somehow. Put a better way, it might not have been that I was unwelcome as much as a surprise, unexpected and of unknown nature. She might simply want to take my measure. Perhaps this wasn't the best time, for either of us.

"Mmm," Oaknail said eloquently. "Too much quiet! Time to slow down and pay attention to one another!"

"The only downside to good food," Darkstar observed. "We tend to forget social niceties."

"So, Max," Lightwing said, preparing a spoonful of cornbread-laced stew for herself. "Tell us something about yourself."

I did my best not to freeze, then I stuck all four paws in it. "You mean, like, what do I do?"

"That always seems like an odd place to start, don't you find?" The white wolf -- Heartsinger, I managed finally to remember -- smiled at me. "The question, 'What do you do for a living,' as if we are only what we do to make a few dollars."

"Very true," Moonsong agreed. "Sundrider works as an investment counselor, but if you ask him what he does to live, he'd direct you to the fencing foils."

A healthy bite of cornbread delayed the necessity to respond while I weighed my options.

"I like Quentin Crisp's response," the white wolf smiled. "He said, 'I'm in the profession of being'."

"Good answer! Good answer!" Oray and his lady raccoon applauded as if on the famous game show. The effect got a few laughs, including from me.

"Let's make it a game, then," I improvised. "I'll bet I'm the oldest furson in the room."

"What do I get if I win?" the otter teased.

"My deepest sympathy."

Some chuckles around the table. Rainmist grinned at Oaknail. "I promised to tell only the truth on you, bear, and I know you're older than I am."

"Guilty," he declared, forepaw to his heart. "I might have you beat, Max. I hit my McGarrett last fall."

The fictional cop reference almost knocked me again, but I let it go. "I'm playing with a full deck," I smiled at him. "Fifty-two."

"Not an issue," Moonsong affirmed. "You're only as old as you feel."

"Or who's feeling you," Oray opined softly. His raccoon lover fetched a slap to his arm for that one, which he giggled off easily.

"Ah, the simple joys of youth," Lightwing observed with a smirk, but not with meanness. She looked down the table toward me, asking, "What else would you like to share, Max? May we ask about family?"

"No wrong answers," Rainmist assured me softly. "We know not everyone is as uninhibited as we are." The smile on her muzzle was equal parts teasing and reassuring.

"Well," I temporized poorly. "I was married to a lovely female who, I sometimes say, probably deserved someone better than myself." I held up a restraining paw before anyone could speak. "One of those old stories about marrying too young. Our divorce was reasonably amicable. Barbara and I had one pup, Michael, who's now running a tea shop in a small town, a little way up a mountain, one state over. I never had much extended family, so I'm kinda on my own."

The two moments' silence was more awkward than I imagined it would be. I hadn't mean to bring everything to such a grinding halt. I took a spoonful of stew, heard Heartsinger speak softly.

"A tea shop, you say?"

"It's called Unicorn Keep."

"Unicorn will like hearing that one," Oaknail managed a smile.

"I hope we didn't step in it, Max." It was the first time that I'd heard Rainmist speak so softly.

Drawing an even breath, I shook my head. "I didn't mean to bring everyone down. I haven't been around polite company for a while; I've forgotten what small talk is about."

"It isn't small," the white wolf said, "to talk about your pup." The lupine caught my eyes, and I remembered that feeling I'd had back in the barn, of his wanting to cut past trivial conversation. "He's important to you; I can feel that in the way you speak of him. I'm glad that you told us of him."

"Is he a reader?" Darkstar asked softly, offering a smile. "As a writer, I have a vested interest in knowing."

"Barb read to him." The memory was made less painful as I got a message from the lynx's eyes: Stay hidden a little longer. "Got him started. He went from picture books to The Weatherly Pups mystery series, to sci-fi, fantasy..."

"Now you're talking!" Darkstar chuckled. "I've been working on some new ideas myself..."

"No spoilers!" Heartsinger admonished gently. "Otherwise, I want to hear all about it."

The lynx took center stage then, all of us enjoying our meals. I caught a glimpse of the doe, far from me, her eyes still curious, cautious, uncertain. As my hackles reminded me, I wasn't entirely off the hook yet.