Willow and Wisteria

The Marvelous Phantasm, Arshevieth Myvdiviev

Chapter II

                Shveowtoswav slept the institutionalized racism off, and left Zofia in charge of the store as he made his way to his noon appointment. What a forensics lab was doing inside someplace called an institute of anthropology was beyond him, but running a magic shop out of a sentient tree was just as mystifying after everything was said and done, he supposed. The delicate touches of his morning tea upon his lips were challenged to olfactory warfare by virtue of his Uber driver being a skunk. Thankfully, the driver had his customer service wits about him and drenched the car with all manners of air fresheners, scented oil clips on the air conditioning vents, and fabric softening sheets underneath the seat covers. Which waged a different kind of olfactory battle.

                Literal and metaphorical headaches aside, he gave a generous tip and a five star review since the skunk knew to interpret tired, scowling face ruffs as a polite invitation to share in a temporary vow of silence. A verdant park sprawled before him, violets, roses, lilies, and other assortments of flowers adorning a fountain in the shape of The Thinker, timidly cradled by vines. People jogging about, children playing, and the other things one does in a park. Or was it a garden? Hedges and greenery seemed well manicured at first glance. Whatever this place was, it was nice. But certainly not an institute of scientific research.

                The map on his phone reassured him otherwise. It said that a trek of twenty minutes would lead him to the offices proper. Great. He called the number Dr. Minervi gave him and left a message apologizing for the inevitable delay in his arrival, that he is on the premises, and that he would do his best to not get sidetracked and read a book under a tree along the way.

                But really, his instincts, against his punctual judgement, slowed him down to take in the scenery. There was something so feline about it all, for lack of a better word. About taking his time to stop and smell the roses - real roses, not metaphorical roses. Something nostalgic, atavistic.

Ingrained habits of scrambling to be early, to dodge traffic and inhale exhaust, to navigate seas of people, they ached like old scars. Scars that he once thought would never heal. There was a strange sort of nostalgia about all of that expected self-sacrifice. Something about the sudden vanishing of all these cars and busses, and what vehicles remained finally switched to electric power. Something about how electricity in general became much less reliable. Perhaps that conditioned longing was disguising a certain sense of pride. A pride of surviving that world.

He eventually came upon an office building that was out of view at the garden entrance. Nature was good, yes, but nature is also breathtaking. Breathtaking in the sense that the lynx was panting for breath and his fur patched here and there with sweat.

                Entering through the glass doors, he hefted himself onto a nearby chair. Nobody was at the reception desk, nor anyone in sight. Which was good, since nobody was around to witness how breathless and out of shape he was. Maybe some of those old habits of rushing and punctuality ran through his blood, after all.

                He reclined and rested his head on the glass wall the chair was sidled against. It did too good of a job retaining heat. Come to think of it, he saw the entire structure was lined with glass. Completely made of glass walls. It certainly made him nostalgic for readily available air conditioning. Very nostalgic. Shveowtoswav was a lynx, damn it. He couldn’t chastise himself that much because lynxes were innately acclimated to colder climates. As far as he knew. But on the other paw, cats of all kinds were predisposed to warmth, higher core temperatures and all. What was he supposed to feel about this? There was a correct answer to this question, he was convinced, and not knowing something that was supposed to be a given frustrated him. Frustrated, and branded him with an invisible insignia of shame that only he could see, but compelled him to hide nonetheless.

                “Sir?”

                He bolted upright and composed his posture. “Y-“ He covered his shortcomings with a cough. “Yes?”

                “Are you here for an appointment? Or are you waiting for the next tour?”

                A tour? He professionally adjusted his shirt collar. “I have an appointment with Doctor Minervi.”

                “And your name?” a young fox stepped behind the desk and picked up a landline.

                “Adam.”

                “One moment, please.”

                Which gave Shveowtoswav the chance to properly oxygenate. There was another fountain far behind the reception area. The statue was smaller in scale, but was similarly decorated with vibrant flowers like The Thinker outside. If he could make out the details, it was a sculpture of Pan, that satyr perpetually performing with his flute. The rest of the atrium had large signs advertising a gift shop and some sort of something. He could only see a couple of words like “limited time” and “exhibit,” even after shifting his glasses. This institute of anthropology certainly was a hub for culture. How could this place have the facilities for forensic examination?

                “Dr. Minervi is ready for you. If you would follow me.”

                Letting the receptionist take the lead, he was able to get a closer look at the atrium as they passed through. Those exhibits were indeed art showcases, one about Elizabethan paintings and another of Victorian clothing. Shveowtoswav had to make note to come back. Shelves of pamphlets, brochures, and booklets lined the outside of the gift shop. And around the corner was a small coffee stall.

The satyr indeed had colorful flowers dotting it, as if they were carefully placed scraps of clothing unraveling at the thin vines. Truly, it was an impressive feat. How exactly were they able to produce such an effect? There must have been some sort of irrigation tricks scaled down. But that still wouldn’t explain how everything was kept sparse enough and didn’t drown the sculpture in accumulated foliage. Then again, he wasn’t an artisan nor botanist.

“I’m told the statue that used to be here was The Atlas, with a centaur instead,” the receptionist gestured towards it.

“A centaur?”

“With plans of reinstalling it with the water features.”

It was interesting to visualize how that might’ve looked. A stallion’s figure entrenched in a pond of lotus blossoms and wayward coins. Especially if they could’ve replicated the seemingly impossible marriage of art and horticulture.

“It was taken down soon after. Too controversial.”

A nasal hum covered an unwitting purr.

“And if you ever get the time to visit us again,” the fox pointed out a loosely spiraling staircase hidden farther behind the shops and odd pottery display cases, “we’ve recently expanded our library.”

Ear tufts snapped forward. “What kind of subjects?”

“Mister,” a sigh slipped through professionalism. “They don’t pay me enough to afford reading breaks.”

                Another nasal hum and flattened ears gave sympathy to the young man’s plight.

                He ushered him through a short elevator trip and into an underground hallway that looked like it was clinging onto its recently forgotten origins of sterility. Whereas the upstairs made great use of the daylight – much to the chagrin of doubtless countless fursons when it came to the glass-trapped heat – here was the complete antithesis. Maybe it was the museum storage facilities?

                Either way, the fluorescent ceiling lights were selectively spared the current power outage. Rather, they alternated which one was on and which one was off. It made for a certain kind of dimness that made Shveowtoswav’s ears and whiskers stand on attention. But as far as his pupils were concerned, this alternating pattern eased the searing brightness inherent to these kinds of lights. This should be the industry standard.

                The receptionist swiped a flashlight off its hook from the wall-mounted coat rack by the elevator door. Each office they passed by had a similar but singular hook hanging their own flashlight.

                “We’re here.”

The door’s plaque read ‘Forensics Department.’ “Thank you.”

He was acknowledged by the fox glancing at his wristwatch, a yip of some sort of expletive, and a hurried jog back to the elevator.

After a knock, Shveowtoswav was bade to enter. “Dr. Minervi.”

The owl rotated her head as he came in. “Mr. Adam.” The tapping of talons on keys had not abated when the other talon grabbed a small stack of papers. “Sign these, then we can get started.” She placed them back on the edge of the desk and flipped a small switch, which was wired to a battery and desk lamp.

He inched carefully to the chair beside the desk. “What are these?”

                “Consent forms.” Athena’s talons and eyes flipped back to her computer.

                Holding the pages underneath the lamp, he glanced over words such as ‘study’ and ‘collection of biohazardous samples.’ Scrutinizing the forms, he adjusted his glasses. “What,” he read something about a double-blind review, “exactly does this have to do with-?”

                “Give me a moment and I’ll explain.”

                The click-clacking on the keyboard carried on as he started a more careful read from the beginning. Apparently he was about to be enrolled in a study about cross-species pheromone effects. Which, granted, piqued his interest, but he still couldn’t see the relevance between the police showing up last night and this. For that matter, how did the these investigators know about what happened?

                 A final keystroke punctuated the silent confusion. “So.” Athena faced Shveowtoswav and placed a clipboard on her lap. “In short, we weren’t looking for evidence to prove what had happened. Her confession made it pretty straightforward.”

                “She turned herself in?” His ears and whiskers flicked. That would definitely explain it.

                “That is correct. It was-“

                “Your partner didn’t seem to think so.” Ears and whiskers pinned flat.

                Athena gave some sort of raspy, garbled, pitchy hoot. Whatever that sound was, it was clearly the sound of a disgusted owl. “Some things haven’t changed.” She gave a tired and dismissive flip of her wrist, feathers fluttering. “It was a perfect opportunity to collect samples for this study.”

                He interjected, “That floor is rather convenient in cleaning spills.”

                A small smile spread behind her beak. “Precisely. Tell me, have you been keeping up with the, ah,” she clicked the tips of her talons together, “what do they call it now?” She mumbled through some words in a vaguely Italian tone.

                Shveowtoswav picked up the papers and started to glance through the next pages, latching onto phrases such as ‘unknown vectors’ and ‘contagion factors.’

                “The new rabies. Whatever.”

                “So now you think it’s spread through pheromones?”

                “It seems we have an amateur epidemiologist on our paws.”

                If only she knew. “But, pheromones?” He felt his brows knit as he looked back up.

                “Honestly,” she sighed, “we’re desperate. We don’t even know if these cases are related or coincidental.” The doctor stood and started to sift through a cabinet. “But after that other pandemic,” plastics and papers crinkled, “we’re trying to be more proactive.”

                The feeling of questions swimming in a nebulous pond sloshed within him, dammed by a layfurson’s level of medical literacy. A separate nebulous pond torrented as he put two and two together of where many of the scent producing glands were located. “So, er…” he cleared his throat. “How many samples do you need?”

                Dr. Minervi pulled a fistful of packaged swabs, rapidly counting them like dollar bills. “Just the primary glands. One for each side of your whiskers, behind your ears, between some of your claws, armpits, groin, perineal area, and,” she took two and held the remaining bundle out. “Under the base of your tail.”

                Ah. Yes. Of course. He said. Or he thought he said.

                It hadn’t reached his awareness that Athena had placed the swabs on the desk and notified him to call out when he was finished until the door thudded closed. He promptly leapt to it and engaged the lock. For good measure, he dragged the chair and wedged it under the handle.

                And there the swabs sat. Sterility taunting him.

                Shveowtoswav couldn’t trace where his reasoning came from, but he knew that if he even blinked or looked away, those glorified cotton shits would sneak under the door and inform Dr. Minervi that they couldn’t do their jobs because touching the flesh under his fur melted them down from the sheer amount of filth. And then he would be held responsible for jeopardizing public safety because of his presence alone contaminated the research behind the vaccine, and that every syringe would have a tiny fiber from those little cotton bastards slithering into every furson’s body to tell their subconscious precisely who the little bitch that sold the world was and the World Health Organization would rightly sentence him to hang.

                But Shveowtoswav knew that was impossible. Swabs couldn’t move on their own volition. Physically impossible. In fact, he could prove that with a scientific study of his own. The hypothesis was already there, and the method was easy. He picked up one. And noted no resistance due to weight or force originating from the object itself. Whether or not that in an alternate dimension the cotton would spontaneously unravel into their individual fibers and set fire to his body was a variable outside the scope of this experiment.

                Placing that swab back on the desk away from the rest of the bunch was evidence enough that sticks do not possess sentience. In this universe, at least.

                Just to be sure, he extended one of his clawtips and pushed one of them around. Toward the computer. Away from the lamp. The very property that allowed for an exertion of energy and force to cause it to roll around was its light, near imperceptible weight and its cylindricality. And to make sure this experiment can be validated and repeated, he rolled it towards some papers scattered about. He rolled it towards the keyboard attached to the computer. He even gave it a blind shove.

                Now that it laid conveniently on the floor, Shveowtoswav was able to replicate the same trial with his foot. Nudging it this way and that way. Kicking it to and from the walls.

                Crushing it under his heel.

                Again and again.

                Again and again, the plastic-paper wrap crunched to voice its approval of the data gathered. Crying out confirmation of the results. Crackling assents to the validity of the scientific method.

                “Mr. Adam?”

                He warbled out something that was supposed to be words.

                “Are you okay?”

                Hiss.

                The door handle rattled.

                “No, no. Everything’s fine!”

                He could hear her not believing. “Just call out if you need anything.”

                Come on, Shveowtoswav. Beyond the hackles and urges to yowl, he knew that there was no earthly reason to feel this way. And that he was prolonging his torture. He would’ve been done by now if he didn’t have to deal with this flesh and fur vessel of iniquity.

                In fact, he made it worse by drawing attention to that invisible insignia he desperately tried to hide.

                That, and he was keeping himself away from spending a balmy moment in that impressive garden. So it made even more sense to bribe himself with a coffee by the fountain and get this over and done with.

                And he did just that. He blindly tore open the packaging, ignoring the different color coded labels, giving a quick swipe to the various glandular areas. Unbuttoning his shirt without removing it, re-buttoning it before undoing his belt buckle and fly. Keeping the pants held in one hand while maneuvering the swabs around his underwear, he scraped around. He would have taken the moment to think highly of his dexterity, but he knew his dissociative state would evaporate any second.

                He probably resealed the tubes the swabs came in. And he probably left. Dr. Minervi probably was calling out to him as well. 

                Then he found himself sitting in the corner where two hedges met, latte in one paw, and a dripping lotus in the other.

                The fresh, floral air suffused his lungs with the weight of that nostalgia of when things made sense. Life might have wrung him out like a rag with holes, sure, but everyone else was discarded to the same pile of saturated stress. It was predictable. Familiar.

                “Are ya playin’ hide-‘n-seek too, Mister?”

                “What?”

                A child stood before him, with that kind of face young children have that don’t have any distinguishing features. “Are ya hidin’ from your fwiends?” The child’s species could be narrowed down to ‘mammal.’

                Shveowtoswav’s smile was genuine. Authentic in its cheerily-suitable-for-children affect and in its exhaustion. “You could say that.” He straightened his posture and crossed his legs. “Where is your mother?”

                The child looked around, giving the question its due consideration. “I dunno. I think Mommy wanted to play hide-and-seek too, but she didn’t tell me.”

                He groaned as he climbed over his knees to stand. “Let’s go wait for Mommy by the big statue.”

                “But it’s a really bad hiding spot.”

                The lynx brushed off stray blades of grass and dirt from his pants. “I think your mom is playing opposite hide-and-seek.”

                The child’s eyes widened. “Opposite hide-and-seek?”

                He nodded, fixing that smile back on his face. “Yeah. It’s when you want to be found as fast as you can.”

                The child twisted their eyes and face shut, as if they could feel the gears turning in their head. Perhaps this child’s face wasn’t as featureless as he thought. The expressions were a lively feature of their own. That sort of exaggerated play acting toddlers do when they’re mimicking gestures and words they pick up from their caregivers.

                “I don’t get it.” The child’s floppy ears trailed when they shook their head.

                “It’s the center of the park. It’ll be easier to look for your mommy there.”

                The child bounced a couple of steps ahead.

                For some reason, Shveowtoswav felt the urge to bestow sagacious life advice to this child. The act of people procreating children connotated a kind of narcissistic irresponsibility. To him, at least. And probably to many of his generation, if the worldwide decline in birth rates had anything to say about it.

                But now, seeing the child splashing about in the fountain, seeing greenery return, such jadedness didn’t seem necessary anymore.

                All the while, he kept on the lookout for anyone frantic and screaming for the child. Any furson that might vaguely look similar to a… species he still couldn’t quite place his claw on.

                “Hey, child,” he called out.

                The child couldn’t hear over the shrill giggling and splashing they emitted.

                He took a sip of his cold latte and cleared his throat. Chancing getting indirectly wet, he met the edge of the fountain’s basin. “Young child, what is your name?”

                The child still did not hear him.

                Well, the lynx wasn’t going to risk placing his paws on a frenetic child that didn’t even look like him.  There were no suspicious eyes on this lone man with the child who was not visibly similar as it is. Which went much better than the last time he had to cubsit. In fact, passersby spared neither of them a glance, as if they were unblossomed buds on the vines draping the statue. The child was being a child and was within view.

                Idly, he continued his vigil. It bothered him that he could only think of this child as ‘the child.’ It didn’t help that the only unique physical species indicator about them was floppy ears. And that didn’t mean anything. ‘The child’ was sufficient at this time, as his emotional pondscape from earlier calmed from gale force storming to a gentle, volcanic boil.

                The child’s movements were getting too slippery. He held out his paw and raised his voice a notch. “Let’s take a break, okay?”

                With one final hop, the child grabbed his paw and waded out. The child’s shoes and shorts were wet, and a couple of spots on the lynx’s clothes weren’t spared. But the sun will do its job and dry them both out. And if not, well, he wouldn’t rob the mother of the child from her hard earned screaming and scolding.

                “Why does tha’ statue look funny?”

                Dear lord. How the hell was Shveowtoswav supposed to explain the concept of art to a child?

                He ushered the child to a nearby bench. “Well, why do you sometimes draw pictures for Mommy?”

                The child studied the statue, their face hard at work thinking.

                There was a trash can conveniently next to the bench. So he threw the paper latte cup in it. “Like with your crayons.” He mimicked the motion on his pawpad.

                The child scrunched their face at a different angle, looking at the demonstrative paws. “Huh?”

                “Er…” The lynx pointed to the fountain. “Sometimes, a furson likes to make different kinds of pictures. That aren’t pictures. Like that statue.” For that matter, he still couldn’t divine how the thready green vines and vibrant violets and lilies were ‘drawn.’ All he knew was that they looked less like carefully placed flowers and more like a full, rainbow cloak against the quieter blues and purples of the sky.

                Shit.

                “Hey, it’s getting late,” he took out his phone, fighting the lag to try to bring up the GPS program. “Do you know where your house is?”

                The child didn’t say anything.

                He thought he saw them shrug from his periphery. But he definitely saw that his signal was completely cut off and a fine droplet of rain slid down the screen.

                Great.

                Shveowtoswav surveyed the park and skies. The clouds were sparse, and still mostly white and perhaps bleeding into orange. Most of the fursons and families were briskly walking to their bicycles or cars. A few were gathered around the fountain. The Thinker, in a colorful raincoat, was instantaneously growing colossal elephant ear leaves in his hand. “Hey,” he nudged the child’s shoulder and pointed. “Let’s take a couple and go to the museum.”

                The child trotted ahead and pulled one that was conveniently his size. The lynx did the same. The occasional flick of raindrops against the umbrella gained a more stable rhythm. It didn’t really get worse, but he took hold of the child’s hand and they broke into a half jog.

                None of the lights inside that glass fortress were on, but the palette of dusk prismed through and washed the interior in a fine violet veil.

                “Okay. Let’s leave these here.” He stacked the leaves upside down against the entrance, and guided the child inside. There was only the last trickle of visitors leaving now, and that receptionist fox was tidying the desk and seats. “I’m sorry to bother you again. Is your landline still working?”

                The fox shone his flashlight onto the lynx’s feet. “Afraid not. Why? No bars?”

                “None. Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Hey, where’s the nearest police station?”

                Even with the scant lights, he could make out the fox’s incredulously raised eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

                Shveowtoswav gestured vaguely around. “This lost child. Never saw the mother.”

                The receptionist swept his light around the lobby. And landed back onto the lynx. “What lost child?”

                He gasped and blinked hard. Dusk faded fast and his pupils snapped wide. “They were just…” Not sitting in one of the chairs. Not by that side of walls.

                The light beam kept sweeping as well. This time, fixated on the doors. “Hey, is that him?”

                Tracing the shine on the doors, he pounced one open. The child was bouncing in a puddle. A neurotic sigh rattled out, covered by a feigned chuckle. “Hey there.” He knelt down. “It’s dark now, and we need to go to the police to ask for help looking for your mother.” He took a firm grasp of the child’s paw and looked into their eyes. “Never let go of my hand, okay?”

                It really was dark. Precipitous haze silhouetted the child’s face. “’Kay.”

                “Station’s two blocks behind here.” The rattling of keys and the metallic sliding of the lock followed. “They should have backup generators.” The fox waved the flashlight in the direction.

                “Thank you so much.” He gently pulled the child to their umbrellas. They took theirs, and Shveowtoswav saw more giant leaves were growing next to the sidewalk. He ripped its roots from the ground, and a new one started to sprout before he could turn around and offer it to the receptionist. “Do you need?”

                “Thanks. Here.” He exchanged his flashlight for it.

                “Are you sure?”

                “Yeah. I’m not too far from here.”

                He positioned his elephant ear as close to the top of his ears as he could. “Thanks. Stay safe.” And then he tucked the flashlight awkwardly under his arm.

                “G’night,” the fox called out, already on the run.

                Shveowtoswav firmly shook the child’s paw. “Ready? Don’t let go.”

                The child squeezed his paw even tighter.

                For what the advent of nature took away from cars and pollution, it made up for in foot traffic. The pair dodged fursons dodging rain. The child nearly slipped at one point, but the lynx pulled them up and the child regained their footing fast.

                His ears kept radaring. Dormant jadedness would never let him get used to seeing pitch black vacuums of electricity. Perhaps, at the end, survival instincts would be an eternal fixture of the psyche always crawling to catch up to the mach speed technology evolves. Or devolves. Whatever. This was not the time to sit down like The Thinker and think.

                The fox was right. The police station’s generators were operational. They both huddled under the concrete awning and stacked their overgrown umbrellas to the side. The child pushed open the door and tugged him inside.

                “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

                For the love of God’s ass hole.

                “Finally turnin’ yerself in?” the husky bitch kept rolling the handle of his baton in his paw.

                The child slipped behind the lynx, gripping his paw like a vice.

                “Let me speak with your manager.”

                “’Manager?’ Hah!” He inched closer, stabilizing his grip on the baton. Steadily tapping it in his other paw. “This ain’t yer faggoty store.”

                Whiskers and ears and even cheek tufts reeled back. “I have my rights.”

                “Criminals,” the officer leaned down, muzzle inches away from the lynx’s. “Don’t have rights.” His breath shoved down the lynx’s nostrils.

                The child hugged his leg with his other arm.

                “Where is,” he punctuated each word with a jab into the lynx’s chest, “my gun?”

                “I,” he retracted his claws, “am here to report this missing child.”

                “Oh, doin’ the pedophilia to minors now you sick fuck?” And in a swift, well practiced motion, the husky wrenched Shveowtoswav’s wrists – both of them – into handcuffs.

                A gargled yowl emanated from his throat. He tried to jerk his arms away. “This fucking child lost his parents!”

                “Stand down, officer.” A blonde retriever shoved the officer aside. And to the cuffed citizen, “What’s this about a missing child?”

                “This-“ he had to force down his panting. “This child. He – found him in…” he hopped aside. “Here! This child!”

                The police dog looked down, and around. “Did you do any drugs?”

                “What?!”

                “You’re hallucinating.”

                He twisted around and found a blank spot. No tiny kid playing in a puddle in front of the doors either. “C-c-ca-“ he stuttered, tasting wild tears. “You – you saw.”

                “Sir, you need to calm down.”

                “Cameras.” He tried to keep his feet paws grounded, but they kept trying to run. “Ch-ch-“

                The retriever exhaled in a way that could be either a sigh or a singular chuckle. “They’re not working right with the outage.”

                He squirmed even more frenetically within the policedog’s grip. A yowl ripped out from his mouth instead of words.

                “Calm down.”

                “Th- The ch- Child. The child. The child.” He kept droning in a litany.

                “Alright. You’re coming back.” His arm was hoisted. The lynx was being dragged away.

                Shveowtoswav’s survival instincts told him that there was only one thing he could do. Have a heart attack.