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The drive back to my house -- I still couldn't quite call it "home," for so many reasons -- was calming, thoughtful... thought-full. I didn't feel burdened or depressed in any way. I wasn't even whelmed (Darkstar assured me that it really was a word). More like I was finding whole new ways to imagine myself, or reimagine, or whatever the life-coaching gurus called it. I felt a strange combination of exhausted and exhilarated. Lightwing had told me that my mental and emotional work had been equivalent to several hours of chopping wood, and the analogy held true in odd ways. I couldn't really explain it, but I felt it. I was beginning to see how that was actually more important. The experience may not need explanation so much acceptance, at least at first.

Upon my arrival, I didn't even get out of the car before I called Lightwing's cell number. She answered quickly, and I felt my heart do that cliché thing.

"Home again, home again, jiggety-jig," I told her.

"Goooood evening, J.F.," she rejoined with a chuckle.

I laughed. "We share movie references. Now we're in trouble."

"Only now?" Her voice smiled at me. "How are you feeling, Max?"

"Lonesome."

"Good answer. How else?"

"Excited, scared, curious... very different. A lot more alive than I've been in a long time. Confused, maybe. I'm organizing my thoughts so that I can call Michael. I've got a lot to tell him."

"Does that include me?"

"Absolutely." My voice warmed for her. "I'll be discreet, of course, but I can't promise that he won't take a guess."

"Sometimes, when dog meets dog, there's this thing that happens..."

Her laugh told me that my raspberry was received loud and clear. She promised to let everyone else know that I was back safely, and we reaffirmed our promised meeting this next weekend. Saying goodbye was so romantically bittersweet that I silently laughed at myself. There must be reasons for those clichés to exist, after all.

I made sure to get the parcel out of the back seat, taking it into the house and setting it on the living room table. The jacket was returned to its proper hanger in the closet, if only to respect Darkstar's care of it. The brand new copy of The Tribal Manifesto, in its 25th anniversary glory, was set next to my chair in the living room. I glanced over the cover again, smiling at the various faces that I now had names for, and at the other faces that I might yet get to meet. Dreamweaver was there; Frank was not. They had met a few years after the book came out, but I had the mountain lion's information on a card in my wallet. Unicorn had given it to me during our last conversation...

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

"Thank you for your offer to help," the stallion told me.

I looked at his business card, which included his cell number written on the front, and Frank's full name and his birthdate on the back. I made sure that they were safely in my wallet before I answered, "He's a good kit, seems to me. I'm not sure what I can do directly, but between you and me, we should be able to make something happen."

"Nothing too sneaky."

"Don't tempt me." We grinned at each other. "I'll get the file, all the ID numbers, records, whatever I can find. We'll see what you and I can do from there."

"That'll be further than I've been able to get." He studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if perhaps my fur had changed color. "Max, there's something I'd like to talk over with you, but it's quite a can of worms to get into just before your going home."

"Try me."

"I'm thinking about the trench coat. I wonder how long you want to go on wearing it."

Sighing heavily, I said, "Can open; worms everywhere."

He set his large forepaw gently on my shoulder. "This would require a helluva lot of conversation," Unicorn said softly. "I want to talk to you about some alternatives, some ideas that you could think about."

"Law school?" I made an attempt at a laugh.

"You already know a lot about the law; that's not what I meant. We certainly don't need more lawyers in the world." He paused, then asked, "Have you ever considered getting a PI license?"

"Paul Drake to your Perry Mason?" I shook my head. "You're too young to know that reference."

"I saw them in reruns, the same way you did." The palomino smiled. "And no, I don't do courtroom law, especially not murder cases. What I'm talking about is better defined by what they're known as in England: Private Enquiry agents. The license gives a little privilege, especially in terms of allowing me to bring you in as a confidential consultant. Serving papers, some due diligence efforts for certain conveyance work, getting information... you know, making enquiries."

"Do you handle divorce?"

"Only rarely, and then with a strong pair of tongs."

The chuckle came quite naturally. "I can't see myself as one of those stalker-types, snapping photos of cheating spouses."

"Not what I had in mind. Max, you know the law, or at least much of it. You know what a PI can and can't do. You're good with details, you're observant, make good notes, and you solve puzzles when something doesn't add up. That's someone I could work with."

I blinked. "Are you offering me a job?"

"I'm offering you the opportunity to think about an alternative to what you're doing now, and I'm pointing out traits that would make you a good fit for that sort of work. I want to talk to you more about it. We can consider it together, if you'd like to."

Silence stretched, but not for too long. "I'm still a little dense, I think."

"Yeah, lotta worms." Unicorn chuckled softly. "You've got my number, if you want to talk before your return. In the meantime, just give yourself the idea that you really do have some other options available."

Nodding, I asked, "Is research part of that job description?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just figured it wouldn't hurt me to find out the process to get a PI license."

The stallion grinned. "Add 'initiative' to your list of qualifications."

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

Sunday evening lay quietly around me, for a change. I wasn't entirely sure that I was looking forward to Monday -- in this crazy modern world, few of us do -- but I didn't dread it as much as I usually did. Early April weather is fickle, in this part of the world; that rainstorm that caught me at Starhold (was that really only 48 hours ago?) might make me consider keeping the trench coat handy. The jacket was considered a requirement, but I might be able to keep the coat in the closet for now. I snorted quietly at a misuse of the expression, wondering if it was about the coat in my front closet or me being in a sort of tribal closet. I'd have to ask Lightwing about that.

The lovely Husky had insisted that take along some of the leftover spaghetti sauce, after making sure that I knew how to boil pasta. I threatened her with a tickling, but I didn't follow through, since she still held the container of sauce in her forepaws; the possibility of her dropping it was simply not to be risked. I now set a pot to boiling, taking some of the bow-tie style pasta that she also provided to me ("Not taking the chance that your cupboard is bare, poor dog!") and measuring out a reasonable amount for a "single serving" rather than the meager quantity that the box suggested. A little oil to prevent boiling over, a pinch of salt to the boiling water (putting it into the cold water lets it sit on the bottom too long and might cause a little damage to the non-stick surface), and I let myself pretend that I was my own best chef, for tonight, at least.

While the microwave timer counted out the minutes for the pasta to become al dente, it also warmed up the sauce on low power. The timing was my best guess; cooking is more art than science, right? I comforted myself with that idea while I took another cursory glance through my copy of _The Tribal Manifesto._Darkstar was putting together a historical narrative of Timewind, from its beginnings to the present day. This volume was about the theories, philosophies, thoughts, impressions, memories, and experiences of individual members about what "being tribal" means to them. The pasta would take 11 minutes to boil, and I'd spent some of that time prepping the sauce, so I didn't have a whole lot of time to read. I noticed an entry by Phoenix and had a chance to read some of it.

I've always had a knack for growing things[he wrote]. I don't mean to brag about it; it's simply to explain how I found myself so attracted to tribal life. They're intertwined, you see.

When I was young, my parents -- we used some of the "cutesy" terms that seem universal across species, so my Mom and Pop -- were surprised at how quickly I learned how to help them tend our little garden. I learned to recognize the sprouts we wanted rather than the weeds that we didn't, and Mom got to where she set aside a small area of garden, to let me do the cultivating of that space entirely on my own. I got to ask questions, of course, but the decision-making was mine.

I didn't grow a hectare's worth of vegetables in a dozen square meters or something. I like to make up stories, but that's not what this book is for. What I wanted to tell you about is a story that Mom always told on me, to anyone who would listen. The thing is, I would sing while I worked my garden, and also when I had finished gardening for the day. I would sit and sing to the garden, and I'd talk to it. I'd heard that talking to your plants and flowers was good for them, that they responded well to it. My garden wasn't perfect, but it did pretty well. Mom always said that it was because I loved my garden, and it loved me back.

Easy to see the analogy, so I won't beat you over the head with it. We, as a tribe, developed the Three Steps, which is based on the same idea. If you talk, encourage, share, believe in something or someone, you will get that back. My plants didn't speak in words, of course, but they did seem to thrive more. I'm guilty of anthropomorphizing, science would say. I just shrug and offer them a very healthy head of lettuce. Unicorn, who you'll also meet in this book, would probably offer you a fine phalaenopsis from his greenhouse. You just have to look and appreciate. It's not that difficult.

We seem to forget that.

Beeps and boings tore me away from the writing. The sieve was ready in the sink; in went the pasta, drain, rinse, yadda yadda yadda, and I had my shallow bowl of dinner ready very quickly. I indulged in a healthy sprinkle of parmesan and asiago cheese (a lovely combo), then sat myself at the kitchen table. As I said my grace, to thank once again the non-sapient animals who had given themselves to my nourishment, the feeling came over me that there was something new at this lonely table. I was new, or better, or at least different. Dinner was less lonely, even though I was the only one in the house. I didn't even have the _Manifesto_to keep me company, since I didn't want to risk getting sauce on it. Perhaps the sauce itself linked my emotions back to the tribe of dreamers I had supped with this weekend, or perhaps there was something more. I glanced at the parcel on the living room table and remembered my last conversation with Oaknail...

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

We sat in the small conference room again, "just for a bit of privacy," he had said. "I want you all to myself for a moment."

"What will Moonsong say?" I chuckled.

The bear raised an eyebrow at me, smirking. "You're sounding better and better, Max. I'm glad of it. No, I think it's that we all want to be able to say our goodbyes, and I have something to say that I thought best to keep just between us for a while."

Maneuvering myself into a chair, I said, "That sounds a bit ominous."

Oaknail shook his large head. "Just private." He sat as well and looked at me, a warm yet frank expression on his face. "It's about Albion."

"What in particular?"

"Its status. Is the sword still considered evidence?"

My cheeks puffed out with a sigh. "Technically, it's not evidence of a crime, although it was found at a crime scene. It was first thought of as evidence, in the sense that the victim was right-pawed, yet the gun was in his left, making the suicide idea look suspicious. After the ME confirmed that the cause of death was suicide, the sword was not evidence of the death itself. On that technicality, I brought it with me, to return to you, maybe to make it easier, somehow, to break the news."

"Are you saying that we could keep it now?"

"Probably," I hedged. "There might be an argument to the effect that it belonged to him, is part of his estate. I don't think his mate would want it, truth told, and his kits might never hear anything of the story. Was there ever anything to prove that it belongs to the tribe, rather than a gift to him?"

"Nothing in writing. We didn't think it necessary, of course. The founders can affirm the intent, maybe make the case without other evidence."

"A question for Unicorn."

The tribal chieftain nodded slowly. "I want you to take it back with you, for now." He raised a forepaw. "Several reasons, but the main one is to cover your tail, in case anyone asks about it. If they don't, maybe you can bring it back to us then." He paused for a long moment. "Or perhaps you'll want to keep it."

"Me? Why me?"

"Why not you, Max?"

"You made it as a symbol of the tribe, of the defender of the tribe. That would be Unicorn now. By my thinking, he should have had the sword for a long time."

"Perhaps," the bear admitted. "He is a founder, part of the Areopagus, and he is an attorney, as Airdancer was." His smile was just a little rueful. "I spoke with Unicorn about this. He mentioned that he was wondering if you might want to make a bit of a job change."

I chuckled softly. "You could make me into a conspiracy theorist."

"Sorry, Max. I'm not trying to force you into anything."

"But you are trying to make it more attractive."

"Again, perhaps." Oaknail smiled fondly at me. "You're going to take the sword back with you anyway, just to make sure everything is in order. Personally, I'd keep it quiet unless someone or, as you say, some technicality makes you take it back. Unicorn can work up whatever legal jiggery-pokery might be needed; we'll tackle that when we get to it. Eventually, Albion will return. I promise that I'm not trying to push you into any decisions, but I have to tell you that I hope you'll be back."

"I'll be back on Friday, at least. The MOOR has recruited me."

"So it would seem." His smile grew warmer. "She has good taste."

My face felt hot, although the source of my embarrassment could have been one or more of many reasons.

"Take Albion with you, for your own protection. Once in a while, perhaps, listen to it." His smile became a grin. "Yeah, more mystical hoodoo poopoo, I know. Hear me out. Redlance knows wood; Phoenix knows gardens; Unicorn knows plants; Quicksilver and Dreamweaver know textiles and design; Stellamara knows pigments and colors; Heartsinger knows ceramics; I know metal. Ask each of us about our work, and we'll probably say similar things about how we know our art, our craft. We've gotten to know you too, Max. As a result of this visit, Stellamara could probably pick one of her paintings that you would find particularly attractive; Dreamweaver will find clothing colors to compliment your fur and your personality; Heartsinger might have, or create, a ceramic piece for you, perhaps a mug, perhaps a statuette, but it will truly suit you."

He put a tender forepaw to the wooden box that held the sword within. "My metals speak to me, to help me to know what they are, who they are for. Albion tells me that you might be its champion now."

"Again, why me?"

"You brought it home. You found its home because it told you. You reunited it with the tribe it was made to defend. You forged a connection, with the blade, with us. The runes spoke to you, once you discovered what they meant. The sword itself may speak to you as well, if you listen."

I paused for a long moment before saying, "I have been learning how to listen, all this weekend. To each of you, all of you, to myself. Maybe listening to a sword is another skill." I looked at the bear, feeling myself opening up again. "This is not a quick decision."

"Nor should it be. None of your decisions needs to be quick. The only thing you need to choose now is to acknowledge that you have more choices than you thought you had. One of them is the possibility of joining us, being more formally part of Timewind. We welcome you, always, whether you choose a tribal name or not."

Nodding slowly, I said, "I think I know why you would welcome me into the tribe."

"Oh?"

"Yes." I grinned at him. "You wouldn't be Timewind's oldest member anymore."

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

After dinner, I washed the pot, dishes, utensils, made sure the rest of the sauce was in the fridge, generally set the place to rights. I chuckled to myself, wondering how long my newly-made good habits would last. Living alone makes you lazy, in so many ways. At Starhold... well, we put away our shopping carts, don't we? The idea made me want to call Lightwing again, but I held off. There's affection, there's romance, and there's clingy, or so it seemed to me. And besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and there's a cliché for every silver lining.

I laughed out loud, gently giving myself permission to enjoy being silly. I hadn't felt anything even in the same country as "silly" for a very long time, and I realized how much I was liking it.

Moving to the living room, I opened the polished wooden box and took Albion gently from its velvet-lined resting place. I held it properly, resting the business end of the blade on my other arm. I wanted to look at it, not wave it around. I had noted and praised the craftsmanship even before I met the creator-smith. I'm not a connoisseur of any kind of weaponry; with due respect to the famous fictional federal agent's Rule 9, I didn't even carry a pocket knife. Albion was a high-quality piece, even to my inexperienced eye. I had no clear idea of how a blade is forged, short of fantasy films, but it was strangely easy for me to imagine the great bear of Timewind heating the metal, or folding layers, or using some kind of mold, then banging it into its best form, lovingly tending every last centimeter of it. (It occurred to me only then that I hadn't seen any sort of forge on Starhold's grounds. Something more for me to discover, perhaps?)

Could this blade be used for physical defense? If someone were properly trained, yes, although I could also imagine someone being frightened enough simply to impale someone on it. That's the thing about weaponry: With rare exception, someone could use anything to inflict pain and injury on anyone else, possibly with deadly results. History has proven that we sapients can be a bloodthirsty lot. If we weren't, perhaps my "day job" wouldn't be necessary anymore.

"That's not what you were made for," I said to Albion, or to myself, depending on how you look at it. "You could represent 'red in tooth and claw,' but I think you are more like the great symbols of justice. Equality, fairness, taking right action, defending honorably." I sighed quietly into the evening air. "All the ideals that Glover had begun with. He had such high hopes, such noble purpose, but in the end..."

I lay the sword gently in its velvet bed. "No," I whispered. "Let's lay his ghost to rest, peacefully. Let us remember Airdancer. The tiger who dreamed. He didn't really plan to leave the tribe..." I took a breath, gathered myself, remembering Oaknail pledging that we not lose another to the void. Did he mean me? Probably not just me, but me as well? He made that statement yesterday morning; this evening, I stood in my home, whispering to a sword, wondering if I really deserved to be the one to keep it. I wasn't entirely sure that I would be part of the tribe, much less...

My chair beckoned me, and I didn't resist. Lightwing's voice piped up in my head, and I smiled to hear it. I gave myself a few breaths to clear my thoughts and realize clearly that it was indeed time to make a phone call. I actually was looking forward to it. I just needed to...

Smiling wider, I answered Lightwing's voice with a very affectionate "Yes, dear." Picking up the candlestick, I pressed star-zero-one and waited for a few moments.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Michael." My voice clearly took my smile with it.

"Dad! Happy Sunday, or at least I hope it is. Howya goin'?"

"Michael, let me ask first: Are you working tonight?"

"I'm at home, actually. Putting my hindpaws up for a change."

Nodding, I continued. "I ask because I have a lot to talk about, if you have the time."

"Of course I do, Dad. Are you okay?"

"It's good news, or at least interesting news. I want to ask your help in organizing the sequence of events into something that makes some sense."

The hesitation was almost comical, but I didn't laugh. I knew very well that I wasn't behaving like "the old me," and the pup wasn't sure how to react. "Sure," he said, after just over one second's pause. "What's happened?"

"You remember the case that I mentioned, last week? It ended up leading me to Timewind."

"Timewind?" he exclaimed. I knew that he'd bought some clothing from them, for his RenFaire garb. "How were they involved?"

"The tiger who committed suicide, Glover, was one of the nine founding members of the tribe. He was known as Airdancer."

"How did you make that connection?"

"In his right forepaw, he held a short sword that is called Albion. Oaknail had made it years ago, for Airdancer."

"Okay, hold on." Michael cleared his throat. "I think you lost me at the bakery."

"That's my pup," I chuckled softly. "Now you see why I said that I needed your help in organizing the timeline. I'm not sure exactly where to start. The case is what led me to Timewind, last Friday evening, and I stayed the weekend with them."

"You stayed--" He took a breath, cleared his throat. I could hear the smile in his voice. "You did say that you needed some time to tell this. I think you understated it."

"Let me start at the beginning, and I'll see how quickly I can summarize the background. Make some tea."

"Way ahead of you."

With a chuckle, I launched into the story. An abbreviated summary of the case hit the highlights that got me to Starhold. From there, I slowed down a little, trying to tell what was important without giving him whole new vistas of worry over his sire. For the most part, I emphasized my meeting such good friends, of touring the house and grounds, of learning something of the history of the tribe as well as my exposure to The Tribal Manifesto. "Have you read it?" I asked him.

"No."

"I've read a little, so far, and they were all helping me to learn of its origins and how they use the principles as best they can. Oaknail gave me a copy of the physical book. You know what a Luddite I am." We both chuckled at our long-standing joke. "You can read it on their website as well."

"You've had a helluva weekend," Michael said, a touch of wonder in his voice.

"And I'm going back for more, this upcoming weekend. Lightwing has roped me into helping her, Unicorn, and a few others do some work at the county library. If you can get some time off, you could join us. I think you'd like everyone, and they're certainly curious about you, at this point."

"What about you getting time off?"

That was when I told him about Unicorn's and Oaknail's suggestions, and my pup produced a low whistle. "You gonna take them up on it?"

"Some interesting choices." I paused before adding, "I didn't think I had _any_choices, last week. I've got some things to think about now." I stretched in my chair. "Right now, the next thing for me to think about is some sleep, I think. I've pretty well talked myself into a stupor."

We traded a few sire/pup insults over that one before he said, "I'm going to have to visit you soon, with or without a visit to Timewind. For now, sleep."

"I very much want to see you. For now..." I paused before saying, "I love you, Michael."

His voice cracked a little as he said, "I love you too, Dad."

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

After my call with Michael, I sat in my chair and let myself feel the space around me. How long had it been, since Barb's departure, that I really noticed the house? General maintenance, a sense of keeping things from falling apart or being too much of a mess, but as weird as it sounds, the house wasn't really there. Roof, walls, an enclosure where my stuff was reasonably safe, but not a home. Taking what the tribe had shown me, each in her or his own special way, I tried to look at the house differently, the same way that I tried to look at my life differently. It was going to take some time, I knew that, but the point was summed up in one word: Options. I could sense that I had options now, real choices, that I didn't have be "stuck," which is what it had felt like before. I could breathe, gather myself, notice.

Listening to the quiet, I realized that it really was "quiet," but not like the stillness of Starhold. Between the city (or the 'burbs) and the country, there's always a difference of opinion about what "quiet" actually means. My house had its own creaks and groans, and the street outside my front door had passers-by, some in cars, some having a loud conversation as they padded by or used some sort of off-street wheels. Even the wind, when it made itself known, sounded different here. Was one better than the other?

The smile on my face came from the realization that the sound I missed most was Lightwing's voice. The adolescent pup in me returned, but not for the "naughty bits"; it was the sense of the crush, that ancient impulse of infatuation, except that this one had more behind it than mere imagination. I still resisted the temptation to call, wondering if I was "playing hard to get" (too late!), or if it was just the sense of quiet calm that told me I'd best get to bed, to sleep, to get ready for going to work with new eyes, wondering just what it was that I would see.

I glanced again at Albion, resting in its box, and I felt over Oaknail's words. Could I be the defender, metaphorically wielding the sword of justice? The idea made me think of an initiation rite I'd read in some book or other, a scene about asking a young male to take the last vows that would bind him to the priesthood, once and for all. The higher-up intoned solemnly, Father, will you serve? And the young male, with deep passion, answered, Yes, my Holy Father, I shall serve. The scene was carried out with so much reverence and seriousness that the male felt his spirit bound to his God in every way, and I wondered if the character would still be able to see his flock as fallible mortals who need support rather than as God's perfect souls who needed saving from the temptations, corruptions, and horrors of life in this mortal realm.

Of course, I read it during my more impressionable younger days, before I became the police dog who forgot his rabbi's advice to know what to keep and what to let go of. Now, I'm also aware of an idea that one's best self, aided by those he loves and who love him, is the gift that one brings to the world, the light that you shine in those otherwise dark places, inside the self or outside, that try to consume us. Maybe that, I thought, is the pledge to make, the service to provide, in every way that you're able.

"Will you serve?" I whispered to the air. Perhaps. Not a decision to be made tonight. Time for sleep.

Setting the household alarm raised the metaphorical drawbridge for the night, and I readied the coffee machine to start brewing at the usual time, turned out the lights, all of the routine that I could now see as mere habit. Not good, not bad, just something that I did, not something that I was. That meant I could change it, if I wanted to. I took a moment to thank the tribe for showing that to me, smiling at myself for giving that thanks. That was probably the weirdest thing about this weekend: I wasn't "cured" or "fixed," only more aware of what I was doing. In a way, that was creepy. Maybe just new. I wasn't sure that I could keep it going, but I was going to do my best, and I had a whole group of people who were willing to help, asking nothing more than my own help when they needed it.

I shucked out of my clothes, realizing that they might last another day. I found some hangers for them, thanking Darkstar for his fine laundering. Crawling furclad between the sheets, I turned out the last light and, after settling in, let my eyes rest half-open as I thought sweetly of Lighting. I seemed to remember thinking of my experience with Timewind as something a dog could get used to. Yes, I amended the thought, but never take for granted.

After a few moments, I had the feeling that something was off. My eyes adapt to darkness fairly quickly, and I was well familiar with the sort of darkness that my house contains -- street lights beyond the closed curtains, a few electronics that may have a charging light on them, soft red light from the numbers of an old-fashioned alarm clock on my nightstand, a nightlight from the bathroom down the hall. Nothing I could think of accounted for the muted blue light that seemed to be coming from the living room.

Leaving the bed, I padded slowly toward the source of the light. Perhaps I should have been, but I wasn't surprised by it. It was easier now to remember that same soft glow from the back seat of the car, just before I ran myself off the road to avoid hitting a cow on that rain-soaked Friday evening. Albion lay where I left it, now suffused with a faint aura of blue light that was no sort of reflection, nor an illusion. It might have been in my head, yes, but still not an illusion.

Will you serve?

I stood there for a time, with no particular thought or emotion in my head, until finally I turned and padded my way back to bed. Back under the covers, I lay for a long moment, considering the question as if I had heard it with my ears. As if Oaknail had asked, or Unicorn. As if Timewind itself had asked me. I didn't have an answer yet, or at least not one I could commit to so completely.

Oaknail, I remembered, had told me that the sword might talk to me, if I listened. I wonder if the bear ever saw things as well. Something to ask, upon my return to Starhold. My return to the tribe. To Lightwing.

As sleep came over me, my heart felt suffused with warmth. I had never thought of blue as a warm color. I could only imagine that I was still learning.