FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Night is as it had been since Michael first arrived nearly ten years ago: cold and quiet. It's the little moments like this that Michael loves the most about the countryside. The city is always moving too fast to care about anyone that happens to live there, but here the world seems to slow down just so one can better appreciate it, and appreciate it, Michael does. Every waking moment is spent adding entries into his journal, recording new experiences and impressions of the peoples' cultural differences from those in the city.

Most intriguing in the valley is undoubtedly their fables, or "Ancients' History" as the majority put it. A number of stories have arisen much like those of founding civilization; usually serving to explain natural occurrences, such as the nature of the sun, migration, and changing of the seasons. While in the city, Michael always read of people holding onto tall-tales, despite probably knowing better, but to actually sit across a dinner table and hear parents tell their children - with great conviction too - is a truly novel sight for him. Often times he wonders if he should interject with a more scientific explanation, but he is out to study, not interfere. More than a few times he took a few minutes to mentally remind himself to not influence their local culture; most times ending with quiet chuckles.

Michael is not a true cynic, but city dwelling has done him no favors. His demeanor is often sullen, his jowls drooping just as much as his ears, and he hardly wears a warm smile. Such the bustling place, city-life favors taller persons over the shorter. With so many towering bodies always shoving past, it is very difficult to enjoy even an early morning stroll. Not to mention the general preference for tall friends, or confident workers with an imposing presence. It is all geared against Michael, but not here. The country is filled with quite the mixture, running from short and stout to tall and gangly; the sparse population also adds to the cool allure. The thing he has trouble overlooking is one fable in particular.

The village he wants to spend his second decade in is just beyond a modest mountain range, but everyone is very adamant about disallowing his planned trek across. Behind his desk - sitting on 9 years and 10 months - Michael knows he has to leave soon, but no one here will have it. Of all the probable reasons, some of which Michael may even give credence to, they always present the same one: the mountains swallow all who tread the pass.

Sighing as he pens another line in his journal, Michael looks up from his desk and to the range beckoning beyond the window. "What could have happened to instill such a frightful story," he writes to himself, hoping seeing the question in print will somehow aid in finding the answer. Careful not to miss a syllable, reviewing the query doesn't reveal anything new. The best Michael can surmise is that there must be some animosity between the two villages. As cliche as it sounds, perhaps they each stem from warring families whom long ago crossed each other. Whatever the reason, he still has to make the journey in two months regardless of what these simple folk feel.

"McKale," a small, familiar voice calls out. "Do you want to help me bring in the last of the harvest? My dad says we ought to finish before the sun touches the mountain top."

"Sure thing, why not," Michael says, closing his pocket notebook. "These evening strolls of mine aren't all that exciting anyway. So what shall I do?"

The little cub's ears perking with excitement, he points back to the harvester sitting alongside the road. "I figure you can drive that while I direct. You're a bit taller than me so you can do it better."

Patting the boy on the head Michael nods, playfully flicking the young Fox's snout. "You are sure your father won't mind me with his machine? I don't want to overstep a boundary here."

Running to climb into the side of the driver's seat, "He enjoys you McKale. I'm sure he won't mind. Now come on. If we want to get done on time we gotta get started."

Laughing to himself, Michael jogs to the harvester and climbs to the tall chair. It was nice knowing he can vary his days with events like this; it certainly beat passively watching and recording things all day. He is, after all, putting together a book of the country, and what better way to get their lives across than participating in what they do everyday?

"Alright, hold the clutch, which I think is that one, and put it in gear."

"You think it's that one," Michael asks, sarcastically cocking an eyebrow to the cub.

"It is that one."

"You're sure now? I don't want to wreck your dad's machine, Ren." Pushing Michael aside, Ren starts miming how his dad operates the harvester. After a few seconds he slides back and points back to the clutch, happily nodding that he got it right the first time. "Alright then, I trust you."

"You should Michael," Ren snidely says, sticking his tongue out at him. Ren, like most of the villagers, have taken to calling him McKale, or Mike if they feel they should be formal. He never did ask any adults why, since he is somewhat inconveniencing them by using their food and water, but he can always count on their children for an honest explanation. "They only use your full-name when you are in real trouble; any other time they give you a nickname." Had Michael been as stuff-shirted as his old publishers and editors he might take it as disrespect, but he knows that it is just something they do here.

The harvester is quite the old beast, trembling as if it were in an earthquake, but still it was sturdy. Ren seemed to be amused, watching Michael struggle to keep his palms firmly clasped on the shaking steering wheel as he turns down the next rows of crop. As much as the vibrating vehicle stung his paws, and posterior, as it idled along, Michael was having just as much fun. It isn't often he got a break from his routine of observe, record, observe. If only the harvester were against the wind, he thought, so he could feel his ears lift like he were still a pup.

"Alright, one more row to go," Ren exclaims, standing atop his cushion, left arm extended to the last row. "Thank the Gods you happened by, or I'd never be done on time. Now I'll have some time to see Luc."

Straightening his arms out from the final turn, "I'm glad I could help you slack off Rendall."

"Hey now, I wasn't told how to get it done, just when," Ren laughs, plopping back on his seat. "Alright, we're good. Just put it down to first and,"

"I do believe I have it from here," Michael playfully sneers to Ren, switching off the ignition. "Should we cover up the tractor?"

"Nah, it probably won't rain. I'll see ya later McKale. Thank you!" Ren hugs Michael's arm and runs off to the farmhouse across the field to visit his friend. Though he knows it probably won't rain Mike restarts the tractor and drives it to shelter. "Better safe than sorry," he whispers to himself.

Sliding down the side step-ladder Michael sees Ren's Father, Kell, walking toward the well-kept barn. "I see Ren accosted yet another poor soul to do his work for him."

"He asked for my help so I thought there wouldn't be much harm in it."

Leaning on an arm against the tractor nose, "Suppose not. All the same, I'd prefer him do his own chores more often."

"I'm sure Ren's fairly capable; he taught me how to start this thing up."

"Oh I know he's capable, I just want him to realize how much work will need doin' when he gets older. Best he get used to it now," Kell confidently closes, extending a warm paw. "Good to see you though McKale. I've actually been meaning to talk with you about something."

"Anything serious," Michael lightly jests.

"Somewhat," Kell murmurs, guiding Mike to the farmhouse.

The house is quiet, save for the pendulum of the family's grandfather clock. Floor boards creak underneath Mike and Kell's pads, settling back with a stirring rustle. Kell heads upstairs quickly flipping a wrists for Michael to follow.

"Where's the Mrs," Michael asks, noting the silence in the kitchen and bedrooms.

"I sent her to the Stratt's home: I figured Ren would go visit that troublemaker Luc if he had the time." Walking down the upstairs hall Kell takes a seat by the window of their upstairs sitting room. Michael ventures to an ottoman near Kell, his back stiff in anticipation of what Kell wants to say. Taking a deep breath, Kell looks at Mike's eyes, studying his manner. "What I'm about to tell you does not leave this home, do you understand?"

Nodding and raising an eyebrow, "I understand."

"I mean it now, Michael. Don't you tell anyone else. Not and adult or cub, no matter the age."

"Relax, I have kept to myself for all these years; I'm sure one more thing won't change that."

Leaning in, Kell whispers, "I've been through that mountain pass."

"Really now," Mike's ears perk up with interest. "When?"

"A long time ago, when I was around 5 years old."

"What were you doing all the way out there so young? It's practically a day's hike."

"I know," Kell's eyes begin shimmering, softly dancing back and forth. "I was there with my parents. We were... coming from the village."

Leaning in to the quieted Fox, "You mean you've been there?"

"That's where I'm from."

"Oh man. I knew it was just a superstition. You can get over there!"

"That's not the secret I wanted to tell you Mike," Kell says, placing a paw on his knee, motioning with the other for him to keep his voice low, although no one is within earshot. "Every adult knows I came from there, we just don't say it so the young 'ens don't try to get to the pass."

"Why though? If you guys have any problems with the harvest - Gods forbid - couldn't you send for supplies from them?"

"No, absolutely not."

Exasperated and somewhat confused, "Well damn it Kell, why not?"

"They won't let us," Kell whispers, leaning back stiff as a bored in his chair.

"Who? The villagers?"

"No... they."

"Alright, I give up," Michael says, standing up, "I am not going to sit here and listen to some superstitious babble!"

"It's hardly babble Michael: what I'm going to tell you actually happened."

"I'm sure it did," Michael spits, put off by Kell's dramatic display. "I know no one here wants to go through the mountains, and I may not know why, but I do know I need to get through there. I'm not going to try and debunk any wild stories this place has conjured up, or try and unearth the reasons why, but I am going to that damn village; nothing any of you do will stop that."

Kell stands up to say something, but Michael makes his leave before he can take a breath to talk. Michael didn't like storming out; only a few steps out he thought of turning back and apologizing, but he simply had it with the tall-tales. Feelings of guilt be damned, he knew his professional obligations have to be met. Every superstitious story merely reminds him of them.

Considerably calmer from Kell's conversation, Michael heads into his lodging, keeping his steps soft as possible since it is rather late for the village. Sleep was all he allowed himself to think about as he made his way upstairs. If he thought of anything else he knew he would be up all night. Much as Kell had upset him he was more put off that his dreamy assignment in the middle of a beautiful "nowhere" was suddenly just another bleak task for his ungrateful Doberman and Tiger superiors. Damnable suits! Had they been out here, Michael thought, no one would have put them up as long: they're too intolerably entitled.

Of course now he feels he just shortened his time in the village by his outburst in front of Kell, even if they won't actively ask him to leave. Laying awake, Michael stares at the wooden rafters imagining passive-aggressive exchanges between himself and the rest of the village. Save for the children, he can't count on anyone taking the initiative to say what they honestly feel about him, and the cubs and pups will more likely ask to come with him. Comforting as their adoration has been during his visit it makes Michael nervous, knowing how their parents feel about going anywhere near the mountain pass. In some ways it loosely reminded him of saying goodbye to his good friends when he moved to downtown with his parents, trading those rooting for him to succeed for others with nigh impossible expectations.

Rolling over to the window the mountains loom far away, their ridges outlined in the moonlight. "I don't understand," he whispers to himself, closing his eyes in hopes he can slip into sleep. "They have enough technology to comfortably adjust to life in a city, but they have all these elaborate myths to explain natural occurrences, and things they don't know. Why?"

The last two months in the village crept by, filled with false smiles and idle chat. Only the kids still speak candidly, but even they took to calling him Michael, knowing their parents had some issue with him; thankfully they don't know the particulars. It will at least prove easier to make off for the mountain pass without needing to shoo away the curious scamps. He still expects to have at least one following him, though it isn't the case. Everyone, children included, stand solemnly at the village's main road to wish Michael well on his journey, all too frightened to follow the foolish city Basset. After going far enough to be the size of a pup the crowd bid their final farewells and retreat to their daily routines, just in time for the sun's first light to kiss their fields.

"Just as well," Michael sighs, "They're only going to be notes in the field study anyway." Going on, his walking staff leading the way, Michael begins wondering again what interest these two villages have for him in the first place. There, of course, is the fact that despite how close they are to the city they reject much of its influence: technological and cultural. It seems the only use they have for vehicles of any sort is to aid in plowing their fields, and electricity merely helps to heat their homes in the harsher winters, which aren't too often. Their myths are fairly interesting and intricate, though Michael barely remembers any, having merely written them in his journals verbatim from the locals - the bulk coming from Kell. Whatever it is that Michael finds interesting, he knew he is sure to reignite it once through the mountains.