FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I: DEATH

Aberdeenshire, Scotland, November 23, 1888

Let us begin with the fact that I was dying.

Not by a natural death from old age or heart failure or cirrhosis of the liver, but from strychnine poisoning, which is a very unpleasant way to leave this realm. After some twenty minutes post intake, your muscles begin to spasm - a condition that only worsens over the length of a few hours, cramps in every muscle ensue until the entire length of the back paralyses into an exceedingly painful arc. It is at this point that the victim prays for the final release that only death can bring about, and yet I can assure you that my lethal intake of this foulest of droughts was entirely voluntary. For it was I myself, who had administered the poison that was now burning its way through my veins.

Why strychnine? You ask. Why go through those agonising hours, instead of trusting liquid opium to deliver me gently into the dark arms of Charon. Or a generous serving of the aniseed flavoured morpholium extract so revered by the vulpines for easing their own kin off to the eternal hunting grounds of Shaenore.

Yet the suffering was necessary, for I needed my mind to be present and alert, until the very last heartbeat.

If my calculations were correct, this body would be soulless within an hour, and by morning any visitors to the old fort at Mount Bennaghie would instantly recognise the signs of rigor mortis, and the local constabulary file a quick report, simply stating:

Unidentified human male; age estimated to thirty five years of age, deceased November 24, 1888; cause of death: poisoning.

I looked to the night sky. A full moon was out and it was a beautiful night to die. How I used to love the sensation of the chill November wind brushing through my fur, almost as much as I loved the sound of fresh snow creaking and compressing under the weight of my paws.

Yet I also enjoyed the comfort of a warm fireplace in January and a generous snifter of brandy. I know that some of you readers may consider it peculiar for my kind to be partial to warmth, but I always say that a number of peculiarities are expected to come with age, after all I am fifty nine years of age. My name is Thaddeus Exeter, and I'm a badger

• Or rather, I used to be.

---

I was in the kitchen, heating a kettle of water for tea that night in September, where I became involved in the events that eventually led to an embrace with death. R'kasha, my feline friend sat by the piano, playing a few etudes by Franz Liszt - although you would not have recognised them, for they have never been published. They were handwritten originals, you see.

"What was in that parcel of yours, anyway?"

R'kasha kindly reminded me of the fact that I had received mail delivery earlier that day, and that the unopened state of same parcel conflicted uncomfortably with his natural sense of curiosity.

We all have our peculiarities and R'kasha, being a cat is no exception to this. He is driven entirely by curiosity and adventure, and this quirk of his has gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. Still, the number of times that he has managed to avoid trouble while absconding with objects of particular interest, outweighs the former by far.

We beastfolk think of him as an kind-hearted adventurer, while humans in their obsession about the exact ownership of material goods tend to refer to his type by unflattering terms such as thief, scoundrel and burglar.

I retrieved the parcel and unwrapped it while R'kasha followed my every move with pupils round with anticipation.

The parcel contained a wooden mask and a note:

Dear professor Exeter. My father recently passed, and one of his final wishes was that this mask should be given to the historical department of the University of London. I am of the understanding that you have a teaching position at this institution, and I hope that you will accept this into your collection.

_Kind regards, _

Amanda Harlow.

The look of disappointment on R'kashas face was heart-breaking.

"That's it? A mask -for the university?"

"I'm sorry R'kasha, but my life at the institute simply isn't as exciting as yours."

R'kasha sniffed in disappointment, then reached for his coat. "The night is still young, and this nose has caught the scent of fresh adventure. I must go, my friend". With these words, R'kasha left into the night and I just prayed that he would not get caught.

I gave the mask a quick look. It was made from some type of dark wood, oak perhaps, and it looked to be of Nordic tribal design. I decided to put it aside and study it further in the morning, and so I left the mask on the desk in my study and returned to my chair by the fireplace to enjoy my now luke-warm tea.

I must have dozed off, when I was awakened by a loud crash coming from the study. My initial thought was that one of the bookshelves had collapsed, but to my surprise, a stranger left my study at an impressive speed -for a human, and headed for my front door.

We badgers are sound sleepers, so it took me a few moments to recognise the object that he was carrying under his arm as the tribal mask, and he managed to open the door and dash outside before I had even left my chair.

I heard a loud "crack" from the outside, and a scent that could only stem from a pistol being fired reached my nose. I walked outside and recognised the immobile shape on the ground before my paws as that of the stranger. He was still clutching the mask, while a faint whisper of smoke rose from a fresh wound in his chest. I have been so fortunate as to only have heard the sound of a human death rattle on very few occasions in my life -and this was one of them. His eyes glazed over and his hands let go of the mask. I was about to retrieve it, when another human dressed in a knee-length coat and wielding a smoking pistol stepped forward.

"My name is Jack Teal, and you my stripy friend are in a maelstrom of trouble".

II- THE MAGICIAN

Trouble indeed. I found myself staring down the barrel of a two-shot pistol, wielded by a human who had killed a member of his own species only moments before. I recalled hearing only one shot, and I guessed that the second chamber was still loaded. So, I found myself in agreement with the strange Mr. Teal - and this knowledge was troubling.

"If you have come here to rob me at gunpoint I should add that history professors have very little of monetary value".

Mr Teal paid little attention to my objections and replied with a non sequitur "Tell me Dr Exeter, how familiar are you with the society that calls itself the Illuminati?"

The question seemed strangely inappropriate if not off-topic, given the fact that it was asked across the smoking corpse of a petty scoundrel, but Jack Teal had the advantage of pointing a smoking pistol at my liver, and this encouraged me to humour his request to the best of my abilities.

"The Illuminati was a short lived closed society of human thinkers formed last century. They made themselves unpopular with king and pope, and the society dissolved shortly after formation."

"They are still around, you know".

I shrugged, "So are the Rozenkreuzers. Humans with more money than sense have always formed closed societies, why would the Illuminati be any different?"

"Most other secret societies don't kill to get what they want", Teal answered bluntly. "We're dealing with fanatics who have branched out of the Bavarian Illuminati to form their own fringe society in pursuit of the occult".

He noticed me glancing nervously at the pistol and made a quick apology before holstering it in his belt, "sorry, I forgot about this old thing..." He bent down and pried the wooden mask from the corpse, then offered it to me. "I believe that you are the rightful owner of this now, still it is also the very item that the society wants

-and the item they are ready to kill for."

The light flooding from my window was too dim to reveal any details of the wooden mask, but it did not strike me as anything spectacular -certainly nothing worth killing for.

"It's Norse design, but I cannot see whom it is supposed to resemble"

"It's the mask of Hoenir" was the single reply, and I got the impression that Mr Teal was purposefully brief in all of his answers, almost as if he probed my knowledge at every point. "The cult has already obtained the masks of Odhin and Loki - this one will complete the set".

"Then let them have the cursed thing", I barked and threw the mask back at him. "I have not the faintest interest in human cults or their silly superstitions. If they want the artefact, all they have to do is ask, and I'll send them an errand boy."

Teal placed the mask of Hoenir on the ground with the greatest care. I sensed that I was not any immediate danger from the eccentric human, so I bade him a brash farewell, went inside and left him to deal with the corpse which -after all, was not my responsibility. On the contrary I would have been happy to have any representative of the cult relieve me of the mask.

I sat down and calmed my nerves with a large brandy, and it was late, several hours past midnight before I opened my door again.

The corpse had been removed and there were no traces of anything non trivial happening, except from that hateful wooden item which now rested on my doorstep, frozen in an eternal grin. After some contemplation I finally took it inside for closer inspection.

The wooden mask was one and a half imperial foot high, about half as wide and a quarter deep. It could be worn comfortably by a human or a feline, possibly for ceremonial purposes, but foxes and badgers would find it impossible to fit the muzzle into the shallow form. It was carved with few but skilful strokes and made to resemble the face of Hoenir, a human Norse god of twilight -a silent yet faithful companion to Odhin and Loki, and between these two forces forever caught between light and dark. It was not an obvious choice for a motif, unless of course there was a wish to construct a trinity. I placed the mask on the desk in my study and lit an oil lamp. It was clearly visible from the window, for I did not want the cult to fail, should they decide to burglarise my home a second time that night.

I fell into an exhausted slumber and when I awoke the next morning I was not alone. This time however, the company was welcome. R'kasha had returned from his adventuring some time during the night, and he was now fast asleep next to me with one paw resting on my chest. I kissed him gently, and amber eyes opened to greet the day.

"I stumbled across some new music", he yawned and stretched. "I'll play it for you tonight. How was your night?"

"Well, you know. A break in, a murder, a satanic cult and pistol wielding strangers - all in a day's work for a historian. I'll go and make us some tea", and I had the great opportunity to see the eyes of R'kasha go wide with excitement.

Later that morning a young stoat came by to deliver a letter. It was a handwritten note simply stating "meet me by the Freemasons on Wandsworth at the stroke of eight tonight. Bring the mask and your feline friend. J.T".

Letter in paw and much to R'kasha's unmitigated joy I vocally stated my contempt for anything relating to the damnable mask at length, to Mr. Teal and his cult, to the Freemasons and the Illuminati, and generally for anything that could divert my attention from writing.

You see, some ten years ago I had the pleasure of discussing a series of interesting theories with a human by the name of Charles Darwin over a faculty dinner. His company was both pleasant and bright -for a human, and he challenged the popular view that one deity out of the human pantheon was responsible for creating humans -among other things. Instead he proposed that the self-aware human had descended or -in his own words "evolved" from a primitive prehistoric ancestor; he even wrote a book about it. Over dinner, I questioned why he had restricted his theory to debate only his own simian kind, while completely leaving out those of us who relate to canids, felines and mustelids.

He explained that the church had difficulties in accepting his theory in the first place, and that human society already had enough on their hands in discriminating against each other. He therefore decided that "parallel evolution" would be the subject of the next book in his series, should _Origin of the Species_prove popular.

Sadly he passed away six years ago, before he had the opportunity to finish the second book. Needless to say, the unfinished manuscript disappeared shortly after his death and somehow materialised in R'kasha's possession. I have since worked on assembling the loose notes into a publishable format.

"That's me being mentioned in the letter!"

R'kasha could hardly contain his excitement. Of all the implements of torture thought up by the inquisition, all would pale against the suffering that R'kasha went through as he waited for the clock to strike seven. He paced the floor, he played solitaire, and he sat down to play the piano -only to discover that there were no musical notes in Chronicles of the Third Namairian War. I turned to page 773 and suggested that he set the "Ballad of Silverspear the Flaming" to music. It is an ancient poem describing how the legendary minotaur hero transforms into a fire-breathing dragon in his final battle, and this musical challenge managed to occupy my friend for a while.

A light fog gave way to a dark drizzle as the clock approached the stroke of seven. R'kasha and I wrapped the mask of Hoenir in a generous length of waterproofed cloth and hailed a hansom-cab to take us to Wandsworth Road. Having little interest in masonic activities, we were ignorant of the exact location of their temple, and it cost us a few farthing in excess of the fare to refresh the memory of the lutran driver. It was well deserved too; the poor chap reined two horses from his outside lazy-board and was forever exposed to the inhospitable London weather. That _'s quite alright guv'ner,_ said the otter and shook the rain from his coat_. I_'m all waterproof.

R'kasha and I sought shelter under the overhang of a tailor's shop while we waited for Teal to arrive. My friend knows that I disapprove of his nocturnal activities, and he attempted to keep his fascination with the door lock discrete, but I know him too well and he flashed an embarrassed smile. "It's a Folchard lock", he whispered. "It's such an amusing mechanism to work", but quickly added that he "wasn't going to steal anything - I just want to pick it", once he saw me frowning.

Teal arrived shortly after, and with the wave of a gloved hand beckoned us to follow him into a narrow alley.

"Did you bring the mask", he enquired, to which I patted the left chest of my cloak, under which I kept the artefact safely wrapped. The cult, he explained, kept a small warehouse nearby to hold any object that related to their activities, and returning the mask to their existing collection would surely cause them to lose all interest in my person. When I enquired from where he had this information, he brushed me off with a "better not ask".

A short walk led us to a two-story house cast in darkness. "Masterton and Sons!" noted R'kasha once he saw the lock, and his disappointment was all too evident. "For a secret cult they don't protect their valuables all that well."

"Do you think you could pick this one faster than I can unlock it with the key?" asked Teal, to which R'kasha only nodded eagerly in anticipation.

"Would you be so kind as to take time on each of us in our little challenge?" asked Teal when he noticed my watch-chain hanging from my pocket.

"I will not participate in any such foolery", I gruffed and did not find their antics even remotely amusing; my only desire was to rid myself of the mask and all connection with the insane occultists. R'kasha squatted down and inserted a thin sliver of metal into the lock. He looked at the both of us, with a devious smile while concentrating on the sounds produced by the embrace between lock and pick.

"There!" he said and pushed the door open with one finger. "Make yourselves feel at home".

"My turn", said Teal. He closed the door and proceeded to rummage through his pockets with feigned effort. "Oh, drat! I must have left my keys back home -I guess you win this one."

Inside, Teal produced an oil lantern that cast the small room in a flickering yellow. We were in some kind of study, crammed with the kind of objects you may find in any cabinet of curiosities, so very popular among the wealthier citizens of our country. Blowpipes imported from the Americas lay next to Bornean shrunken heads and jade cats from Siam.

"So" asked Teal and put down the lamp next to a glass cabinet that contained a single book. "What do you make of it?"

"It's a desperate collection of expensive nonsense", I snapped. "This two-headed human foetus is obviously fraudulent with an additional head sewn onto the shoulder". The stitches were crude and the fakery all too obvious. Teal then pointed out a wooden rack containing two masks, very similar to the one now hiding its stifled grin behind my cloak. I unwrapped the cloth and placed the cursed thing between the masks of Odhin and Loki, then turned to my companions and let out a sigh of relief. We made hasty preparations to leave and as R'kasha knelt to lock the door behind us, Teal retrieved his lamp from the desk. The light illuminated the empty glass cabinet, which struck me odd, for I was certain that it had been occupied by a book, scarcely five minutes ago when Teal had put down his lamp.

Safely back in the comfort of our home, I poured R'kasha and myself a very large brandy.

"Here's to the cult and their treasured horde of trivial trinkets", I toasted.

"And here's to friendship and adventure", said my friend and took out a leather bound book from his bag. It was the very book that I had spotted in the -now empty, glass cabinet.

"Possessicon viventium- how to possess the Living", I laughed out loud. My dearest friend had absconded with a copy of a non-existing book. The Possessicon was a figment of imagination, a pan-cultural jest written under the pen-name of Abdul El Ersatz, commonly referred to only as "the mad kisanti". It has been written and published by occultists and charlatans enough times to fill an entire library of its own.

"I only borrowed it", insisted R'kasha. "It was simply too glorious, too irresistible inside that illuminated cabinet, and I can always return it."

I sat down in my reading chair and skimmed though the "Possessicon viventium". I have occasionally read books on the occult when buying a crate of books at an auction. Most are poorly written by hopeless dreamers and fantasts, but this one was surprisingly well written and coherent, which made for a welcome change.

Gradually I felt myself drawn towards the subject, and even though I knew that this was all made up for a laugh -or for a quick profit from the gullible, I confess to secretly enjoying the read.

The identity of the proper author remained undisclosed and I took to guessing the mind behind it, based on the style of writing. After some guessing I decided that it was probably meant as a prank pulled by the delightful Fox sisters Kate and Maggie. Ah, such jesters. I have met them on occasion - not so much because of their dabbling in the occult, but simply because they are beast-kin like myself, and if you dear reader, happen to come across any photograph claiming to portray the Fox sisters, it might amuse you to know that the humans depicted are not the sisters, but three human florists who were paid handsomely to stand in for the foxes.

R'kasha was at the piano as usual, his nimble paws moving effortlessly across the keys while playing a piece by Brahms prima vista. You would not recognise it if you heard it, for it was an unpublished original in the composer's handwriting, and if the great Mr. Brahms was to look for it, he would find it missing from his collection.

As much as I hate to admit it, the truth is that R'kasha is a thief, and a brilliant one at that. To his defence I can only say that he cannot help it, for his feline curiosity and craving for adventure gets the better of him every so often. He is my best friend, but he is also much more than that, and his adventurous, free spirit and sensitivity are the counterpart to my rational and admittedly stiff demeanour.

I always relax when I listen to R'kasha playing, and tonight was no exception. The rhythm of the sonata curiously echoed a mantra that I had read in the book: "corde tuo, corde tuo, sum in corde tuo". The simple, melodic motif sounded almost like a lullaby, and I began to hum along quietly and felt myself dozing off comfortably after the day's excitement. Unlike R'kasha, I'm not used to this much adventure in one day.

I felt my mind separating from my body and drift towards the musical cat in a pleasant dream. I felt myself floating into him, and though his eyes I saw the sheet music resting on the piano. They were populated with black notes that made sense to me for the first time. Cool ivory keys touched my fingers and I caressed them back with the softest of strokes, producing vibrant harmonies with every twitch. My fingers graced the keys like a figure skater, and my heart was aburst with joy over my newfound, effortless skill. I wanted to laugh and laugh, but the voice that poured from my mouth in that moment was not mine -it was that of R'kasha.

"Sweet Inaris!" R'kasha stopped playing and jumped to his feet in one sudden movement. He grabbed his head with both paws and looked at me in terror.

"What just happened?"

"I think I must have fallen asleep", I replied.

"Something just happened", he cried "I saw the world through your eyes -for just a moment".

"How odd, I had a curious dream of sitting by the piano".

"I read a line in the book that you're holding. I read it through your very eyes", he cried, "I'm certain of it".

"Calm yourself my friend", and I comforted the fearful feline, "what were the words that you saw?"

"cavete cavae hominem", he replied "-beware the hollow man".

This was impossible, I thought. Even if R'kasha had left his piano to peek over my shoulder in jest, he did not know Latin and would not know how to translate the words.

"What else did you read through my eyes?" I enquired, and the answer came promptly: "absente exhaurit animam tuam - being outside drains your life".

I sat down by the piano again and attempted to play the piece that I had performed with the greatest of ease only seconds before, but now the notes in the sheet-music made no sense to me. I might just as well have played along to the spots of a dalmatian.

It is every book collectors dream to acquire a rare and handwritten book, an ancient tome full of wisdom and delightful in its uniqueness. Of all the trinkets in the warehouse, my feline friend had stolen the only object of value, and yet its mere existence filled me with repulsion and dread. The fabled Possessicon viventium - a collection of insane scribblings penned by a mad kisanti was all too real

• and I had only just unlocked its dark secrets.