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I was reluctant to break the spell that Lightwing had woven, as it appeared to affect us both so deeply. It felt good to let the dream wrap around me, to give myself the chance to feel it, to see it through her eyes, to believe in it. That was easier to do now than before, if only because I could see the Table Round, see the place where dreams met practicality... what had she called it? "Practical optimism." I had the feeling that I might need to read this Manifesto for myself. Perhaps it was more Kool-Aid. Perhaps it was just more tea, which I would prefer; the flavors are much better, more individualized, when the tea is prepared properly.

"Well," the Husky exhaled softly. "You've now seen the furson behind the curtain, so to speak."

"This is no illusion, Lightwing." I reached for her forepaw again, and she took mine gently. "None of you is trying to manipulate or deceive, all for your own ends. You're right: This is how a dream is built, created. How it's maintained." I smiled at my own words. "Who am I, and what have you done with Detective Luton?"

"It's okay, Max. Don't be afraid of it."

Nodding, I breathed in deeply before speaking. "You're right: It's frightening to me. I think I'm getting some idea of what Stellamara was going through with me. She wasn't afraid of Detective Luton, because she didn't know that's who I was, last night. What frightened her was sensing my deception."

"Not of hiding the detective," Lightwing whispered.

"No. I was deceiving myself."

"Yes." She brushed a thumb over the back of my paw, as if exploring the fur there. "She felt your conflict, your ghosts, and she knew that she couldn't help you until you let yourself ask for the help. That's what she spoke to me about last night. I guess that's part of the reason that I came by your room."

"Part?" I smiled at her, finding myself enjoying the sense of blush rising up on her cheeks, faintly visible underneath the fur of her mask, and the way it made her gaze so tender.

She squeezed my forepaw and got to her hindpaws. "C'mon," she tugged at me. "Let me show you a bit more. Or a bit MOOR, to make a joke."

It took me a moment to hear the emphasis in the word. It helped that she flicked a glance at her spot on the table. "This, I gotta hear."

As we padded out of the room, I noticed a door that had a security lock on it. "Tribal papers," she explained. "As Unicorn said, we trust each other just fine. If any representative from the IRS or some other government group comes to visit, we can show that we keep the physical records secure." She grinned at me. "Unicorn calls it the Hemorrhoid Requirement."

Laughing, I raised my forepaws in a gesture of surrender. "I promise that I am not part of any such governmental agency! I will not ask for a tour of what's behind locked doors." I paused, considering. "Come to think of it, I've not seen too many of those in this house."

"We're a courteous bunch; if a door is closed, we knock on it. We avoid going into each other's rooms without permission and, as you may have noticed, we're reasonably casual about our personal space in common areas. Common courtesy rules, generally speaking."

"Common courtesy isn't all that common anymore."

"Another reason why Starhold is such a safe haven."

I nodded my agreement. "Where to? Back downstairs?"

"Nope. This way."

With a gesture displaying just the right amount of flourish, she led me away from the stairs, passing another door ("More storage," she explained; "never have too much of it") and to a sturdy door at the end of the short hallway. This, she opened, and waved me out onto the roof. A wide, flat space with decorative waist-high walls to either side, the area was clearly meant to be used.

"I'm glad the weather is so nice today," she said, joining me. "I'd swear that you can see for 50 klicks from up here."

Not that far, I was reasonably certain, if only because of the tall trees that remained of the forested area around us. When Timewind had made space for themselves and harvested trees to help support themselves, they had not clear-cut the majority of the forest; they left the slender trees to grow larger and taller over the years. From this vantage point, it was easy to see the area to the west, the curving drive, the Artisanry, the swath of state road, and the roof was high enough to see maybe a dozen klicks to the horizon, if unobstructed. The illusion of greater distance was there, though, and I enjoyed indulging in it. At the very least, it was a quiet adventure in clean air, soft breezes, the sweetness of country life... all the clichés that a city-dweller like me would come up with. I crossed to the opposite side of the roof, looking east, and I saw a large section of plowed land.

"How big is that plot?" I asked, gesturing toward the field.

"Only about 600 square meters. It feels huge, when you're working it, but it's really very small. Preparing the land with a tractor takes only a few hours, even with our modest equipment. It's the planting, tending, and harvesting that takes up the time."

"A lot of yield?"

"Enough to sustain about 30 fursons, according to the math. We do go through much of it, but we give away any excess. The local food bank loves us; they even lend us a few volunteers at harvest time, and they never go home empty-pawed." She paused, looking at me slyly.

I laughed. "Okay, yes, I was going to make some snide comment about their taking the whole harvest as their due, either from manipulating you with guilt or by the sheer greed of capitalism. I guess old habits die hard."

"They've been reinforced for years, Max. I'm not surprised, nor am I judging you for it. After all, I have to deal with the Outworlders, too, and I am wise enough to be cautious when dealing with unknown fursons. My goal is to avoid judging them, and to be cautious rather than suspicious."

"Sounds like a challenge."

"There are days when it's almost impossible," she chuckled. "You know the saying, 'No good deed goes unpunished'? It's all too easy to find examples to prove it rather than ones that refute it. That, too, is part of modern culture: Negativity is reinforced."

"That sounds harsh," I admitted.

"Here's a statistic for you. The average satisfied customer of a business tells eight others of his good experience; the average dissatisfied customer tells 23."

I thought about the penchant of online reviews to be negative more often than positive, as well as the "up-votes" for that negativity, and I had to accede the point. I felt the hint of the Idea trying to come back, to remind me that the darkness always wins. Looking to Lightwing, I could tell that my face must have expressed that thought in some way, because, she put a forepaw to my arm.

"A friend of mine explained it with an example from his own life. He heard some music, an instrumental ballad, by a group called Mannheim Steamroller... and no, they're not a punk band. More like classical jazz. Anyway, my friend felt moved by the music and set out to write lyrics for it. He had no idea of trying to sell the lyrics, or lay claim to the music, nothing like that; he simply wanted to express his appreciation of the music by being creative with it. He sent the lyrics to the record label, saying all of that, how he enjoyed the ballad, felt a desire to show the group how much the music meant to him."

The Husky sighed softly into the gentle air around us. "He never heard from them. He had wished for a simple acknowledgement, a 'thank you for sharing, and we're glad you liked it' kind of thing, nothing more than that. It was only years later that he realized: The band could not acknowledge even having received his letter, for fear of being sued over the lyrics. My friend had no such intention..."

"...but the world has to base its actions on the lowest common denominator." I nodded. "There are jerks out there who would do that, and this group couldn't take the risk that your friend wasn't one of those." It was my turn to sigh, which I realized was a frequent response to the world at large, these days. "Is it just me, or is that 'lowest common denominator' becoming lower every day?"

"Easy to make a case for that, isn't it?" She gave my arm a gentle squeeze. "That's what those ghosts in your head were trying to tell you, isn't it? That the dark always wins. That it's easier just to accept how bad everything is, because it can't be fixed."

"Is that what the MOOR is? The furson trying to fix it?"

"Not on your sweet life," she chuckled. "Ain't nobody gonna 'fix' that stuff. We can work to change some of the systemic issues -- providing help in general ways, moving to change bad laws, working to promote good laws, voting for good lawmakers... and yes, there are still a few of those out there. What needs to shift is perception, and that has to be done one furson at a time." She hugged me, her cheek to my shoulder. "Each one becomes, so that all may rise."

I held her close, happy for any excuse to do so, some part of my mind wondering if I really needed an excuse. "Is that part of the Manifesto, too?"

"Not sure," she chuckled softly. "I was thinking of the old adage, 'A rising tide lifts all boats,' and it kind of morphed into that."

"Then you may have created something new for the Tribe. For each of us."

Once more, the moment stretched, comfortably, sweetly, and I felt in no hurry for us to leave it. Was this what all those "Be Here Now" mantras were all about? The "Mindfulness Movement," as I had dismissively labeled it? Maybe. That was me, trying to quantify everything, to be able to account for it all somehow. Like filling in a time card, proving that what I was doing was valuable to the bosses and overseers, that I was worth my paycheck. Right now, I was worth Lightwing's time, at least. That word, "worth," had so much baggage. Where had I heard a certain dessert described as being "worth getting fat on?" Is everything a zero-sum game? Will I have to pay for this moment of joy with an equal moment of suffering?

I felt her give me a squeeze and pull gently away from the embrace. "Come on," she said, taking my forepaw into her own once more. "The South Tower awaits."

We crossed the roof to another outer door, and she entered a code on the keypad next to it. Casting a glance behind me, I saw that the door to the North Tower also had a keypad to one side. That idea of the "lowest common denominator" tried to creep in again, and I dismissed it as best I could. A lock on the door doesn't mean that you're imprisoned or under siege. If I bothered to look, there were probably smoke alarms in the house, perhaps even phone links to call the fire department automatically, in the event of a blaze. Was this another side of "practical optimism" -- perhaps something like "reasonable pessimism?" The worst probably won't happen, but simple safeguards are sensible to have.

It would be nice to live in a world where they weren't needed. Until then, let the keypads do their jobs without giving into the fear, the paranoia slinking like some terrible shade behind their presence. Keep living in the light.

Be the light, some long ago saying teased at the back of my mind.

Lightwing held the door for me, and we entered a small vestibule that led into a hallway running perpendicular to the house's usual hallways. We turned right, which would lead to the front of the house, then through a curtained archway to reveal a single room of huge proportions. At the far end, a stage area raised to about a half-meter high, with steps at the front and either side. Chairs and folding tables were stacked to one side of the space, and I could see a small lighting and sound control setup in sight of the stage but otherwise unobtrusive to audience or performers.

"Do you put on plays here?" I asked.

"Readings of new material, sometimes," the Husky explained, her gesture inviting me to look around. "We have musical performances, some improvisation, the occasional guest speaker. This is part of our outreach program. We do a lot more with a similar space in the town proper -- a little theater space, about 80 seats, that we also rent out for other shows -- but we have smaller gatherings here."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"We invite a modest number of guests, a few times a year, to stay and learn from us and learn with us. A week in the country, spending time with a few of us who lead classes in areas that are their expertise. Oaknail finds a few metal workers; Dreamweaver attracts a few who are interested in textiles and clothing design; Darkstar and Heartsinger mentor writers of all kinds; Redlance sometimes finds fursons who are interested in woodworking; Stormsinger works with musicians and singers, as you might guess; and Rainmist has been an actor and performer, in her day, and she teaches improvisation to any who might want to join in and play the games. The space in town is where she gives improv classes regularly, with a show as the 'graduation' exercise for her attendees. Here, it's more like a 'side quest,' so to speak."

I whistled softly. "Sounds like quite a crowd. How many show up for these gatherings?"

"Usually, no more than 12 to 15 at a time. We spread out the students between the guest rooms and the Bunkhouse, with at least one of us out there with them, just to make sure they don't get lost. Some of our younger students will bring camping gear, if the weather's going to be good. There's a list of 'how to camp here' sort of rules; most are pretty good about it." She smiled at me. "After all, we're picking the best and brightest."

"I assume each gets a copy of The Tribal Manifesto?" I teased.

"Yes, if they ask for one. We do mentor in life as well as in our various areas of expertise. That's what it says on the sign, after all."

"So it does." I paused, absorbing what that had meant for me as well. "A week, you said? Days filled with classes?"

"Not filled. Usually, some time in the morning, with the rest of the day given to enjoying the grounds, practicing their various crafts, talking, sharing, discovering. They arrive on the afternoon and evening of a Sunday and stay the week. On Saturday evening, we all gather here to share what the week has given us. We set up tables and chairs, the dumb waiter brings up food, and it's an evening of happy revelry for all. We film the readings and performances, and the participants all get access to it on private pages of our website. Each one who gives us permission has his or her work put into the public pages of the site. That becomes our best advertising for these mentoring weeks."

"Which lets them show their talents to the world, and it gives good credit for Timewind's relation with the Outworld." I nodded slowly. "Sounds like a win-win. Do your students ever worry about being targeted by the Fibbies?"

Lightwing laughed gently. "Our mentoring doesn't come with a warning label, and most of our guests aren't even aware of it. I remember one young stoat who had heard the rumors and, with a grin, told us that the government probably knows everything about him anyway. It didn't seem to bother anyone else either, and no one has ever come back to tell us that they've been somehow targeted or scrutinized. With the weird mix of social and political stuff going on these days, I can't even begin to guess what's going to happen in the future. I keep tabs on it, because of my Council position, and everyone has his ear to the ground as best he can without becoming mired in it."

"That's the danger." I looked around the room, wondering what a Saturday revelry might be like among masters and apprentices, mentors and students, new friends gathered to celebrate their learning and becoming. The Steps to Becoming begins with the self, and these students -- "guests," as Lightwing called them -- come here to learn more about their Selves, becoming more, taking that with them back into the world. That had to count for something.

"Your Ministry also includes how the tribe presents itself," I continued, smiling softly at the use of her official title. "Tell me a little more about that."

The Husky nodded, gladly taking up the description. "All kinds of examples, there. I mentioned the local food bank getting some of our harvest, and that we have a few scholarships that are awarded outside of the tribe itself. We offer some assistance to various other 'local good works' when we can. Thanksgiving and Christmas will find us volunteering at food kitchens; Heartsinger and Moonsong love to cook, and they will usually provide a bit of flair to one or two dishes, just to have something interesting for a change. Most guests of a food kitchen want good, basic food, but the spices tend to make things interesting for a few of them."

"Sounds like it would be a treat," I agreed.

"We also help with the local library. With the governmental budget cuts, as well as so much complaint that a physical building 'just isn't needed anymore'..." The derision dripped from her voice as she said it. "The truth is that a well-funded and fully-functional library still serves a huge and valuable purpose. Our local library provides a yowens' summer reading program, internet connections and computer terminals for people who can't afford them, helps families save money by checking out books and DVDs instead of buying or renting them, an after-school program for yowens, study space for adult literacy tutoring... The head librarian is particularly good at genealogy searches, and she has coordinated a group at the town's retirement home who might otherwise have trouble trying to navigate the internet for information."

She smiled. "We're even helping them with a bit of expansion. The library obtained a grant to build an extension to their main building. Redlance is donating time and talent to make a new checkout desk, creating a surface with an inlay made from California buckeye, like the cash chest that you saw in the Artisanry. The rest of us mere mortals will be helping to build shelves and various bits of interior finishing. A little sweat equity, as it were." The Husky grinned at me. "Oaknail and Unicorn are happily grousing that they're back in the days of building the Bunkhouse, with the stereotyping of being just brawny males to be used as slave labor."

"I'll bet that goes over well," I snerked at her.

"Better than you think. The head librarian I mentioned? Mrs. Sudbury is a feisty kinkajou with a wicked wit. She's planning to challenge them to a trivia contest while they're there, forcing them to prove that they have both brawn _and_brains. They'll have their work cut out for them on both fronts!"

My laugh was loud and long, and some part of my brain allowed my ears to make note of the acoustics of the space. For performance, dining, gatherings of whatever kind, it was a good room. I could imagine the place ringing with song, conversation, laughter. There was a good feeling here, and I once again had that feeling of appreciating that it felt... well, it just felt good here, like that space in the north staircase, like the Bunkhouse, like the house and grounds. I was not like Stellamara, with her sensitivity, her empathy, yet even I could sense the feelings of this place. Yes, it was a dream, but it was a substantial one. Maybe I was looking for the word workable.

Lightwing was chuckling with me, her whole face joining in with joy and warmth, her ears twitching slightly, her tail wagging with undisguised mirth. I felt my heart swell, and I followed my new instinct yet again, leaning forward to kiss her lips, gently, chastely, but unquestionably mirroring the warmth that I saw and felt from her. I felt it in the way that she returned the kiss, and my heart filled still further, as if I had drunk from Percival's chalice as well. My thoughts crashed in around me, not dark thoughts (for a welcome change), but enough for me to let my wits return.

Breaking the kiss as tenderly as I had begun it, I reached a forepaw to cup her cheek softly. I hoped that my breath didn't sound as short as it felt to me. "Lightwing," I tasted her name, so sweet on my tongue. "I want to ask for your help."

"Of course, Max."

Was her breath as quick as my own? Was she feeling...? Words, Max, I heard me tell myself. Use your words, like a grown-up dog. "I have taken to heart Heartsinger's words about an emotional overload. I don't think that's what this is... I hope it isn't..." I felt the blush rise like a burning on my cheeks, and I wondered briefly if that explained the sense that the entire room was suffused with a faintly rose-colored tint.

For her part, Lightwing smiled at me with great affection. I was sure that's what it was (wasn't I?). "Thank you, Max," she acknowledged softly. "You're showing that you care about me by asking me to help you with your feelings. I'm very glad to help you in every way that I can."

I have to imagine that some expression on my face registered a bit more than I'd intended it to. She did not laugh; the smile she gave to me was not mocking, not suggestive, just understanding.

"What would you say to nice hot cup of tea?"

Grinning, I replied, "Hello, cup of tea; how nice and hot you are."

"Good answer." She turned her head and kissed my palm briefly before taking it in to her forepaw. "The dumb waiter is a little too small to ride in. Stairs okay?"

"Down is always easier than up."

This time, she did chuckle a little. "Max, it's okay if you're worried about how much it sounds like double-entendre. I'm doing it, too."

"Then we're doing it together?"

I swear that it wasn't intentional. I was just glad that we both were able to laugh about it. Something else that's fun to do together.

Yep, I can stop. I can stop anytime I want. No, really, I can...