The Marvelous Phantasm, Arshevieth Myvdiviev

Chapter I

     Today, the lock cooperated and accepted the twig he had fashioned into a key a few days ago. Which was good, because the morning drizzle was cold and his claws were still aching, and the scent of the usual petrichor was utterly suffocated by rust, and he didn’t even know rust had a smell, especially since the only relatively large metal objects nearby were just some poles street signs were attached to.

             Fortunately for him, the aroma of mahogany and moss quickly evicted that preternatural metallic odor. Unfortunately for him, he still had a headache from the other day, both a metaphorical and a literal one. Still fortunately for him, the luminescent flora and fungi quickly adjusted to his wrist flips, so he didn’t have to deal with any finicky electricity. Yet unfortunately for him, that meant he’d have to brew his tea with good old fashioned fire.

             While the appropriate receptacles were boiling, he tossed some powdered cinnamon in various corners of the store. Mostly on the wooden shelves that arranged themselves upon their own whims. There were still a few old metal shelves he kept around so that he’d have some semblance of reliability. Which, he realized, were possible other sources of that rust smell considering how damned humid nature was.

             The samovar started to whistle. And on the way, he opened the armoire carved from maple and tossed in his coat haphazardly, then called out that the tea was ready. He threw in a few bags of red rooibos and a dash of cinnamon, and went about his inventory. The healing tinctures were in good stock, the array of disposable talismans had a few empty slots in it, and the discount quartzes and crystals bin was still half full. Figuring these damn rocks out always made him want to tear his ruffs from his face.

             He poured himself a cup of tea and nestled himself on the plush sofa behind the front counter. There was a twist of the mahogany knots that served as a partition of sorts, of which he was eternally grateful for during the slow times. It created a perfectly ensconced napping corner, and kept the outside entrance and lights out of view. He threw the throw that was sitting there since last night over his cardigan, and shifted himself into a more comfortable position.

             Teacup just as perfectly ensconced in his paws, he allowed himself to quietly purr.

             Until he heard the scrape of the wooden door against the wooden floor. His whiskers twitched and he burrowed himself as much farther he could into the corner.

             “Hello?” some manner of customer called out. The bioluminescent moss and flora adjusted accordingly. “Anyone here?”

             ‘Anyone’ did not respond.

             Heavy pawsteps idly wandered around. Sometimes close to the doorway, sometimes further away. Ultimately, they settled somewhere in the middle, and the clinking of glass decanters took their place.

             “Yes, yes, we are open,” the shopkeep said, throwing his blanket and practically gliding to the customer. “How can I help you?” He snatched the bottles away from the noisily curious hands, plastering on the most sincere smile he could muster with how the day started as it had.

             The otter pulled back her hands, muttering a “yeesh…” under her breath. “Your sign says y’all offer tarot readings?”

             “That would be my sister’s services.” He lined up the potions to their rightful places. “Please wait here.” Before he went to fetch her, he shot the bottles a glare as if they were the ones rolling around and clattering.

             She rolled her eyes and thumped her tail on the floor, pocketing her phone inside her clutch.

             The shopkeep ran his claws through his face tufts, steadying himself with a deep breath. He traced his steps back to the armoire he has thrown his coat into, and knocked on its doors. “Zofia. Customer.”

             The otter had taken to sifting through the bin of stones.

             “Zosie.” He knocked again.

             One of the mossy mushrooms flickered.

             Sucking in his teeth, he opened the armoire and shoved the coat aside. He climbed in. Some clambering and scrapes later, he re-emerged and secured the doors yet again. After scratching a certain mark that the maple bark morphed over into a lock, he returned to the customer, who was browsing the talismans now.

             “She’s still asleep.”

             Her tail swerved just as urgently as she did. “Are ya sure? I-“ she started fumbling with her purse. “I kinda need a reading now.”

             The shopkeep’s ears twitched, whipping the fine strands of decorative fur atop them. “It would be better if you left your phone number,” he said, shrugging and making his way to the front counter. “Just give her three to seventy-two business hours.”

             “’Just?!’ The hell is she on?”

             “Lady,” he kept fumbling around with assorted papers and knickknacks, “your guess is as good as mine.” Finally, he produced some scratch paper and a pen.

             “How about you? Can you give me one?”

             He held out the paper and pen. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how.”

             “Can’t you like, I dunno, look at some tea leaves?”

             “What is so important that you need your future read now?” He emphatically gestured with his paper and pen, suppressing a snarl.

             “I just need one, okay?!” She threw her hands up, rattling her pocketbook all the while. “What kind of magic shop owner can’t do something as simple as look at bones or something?”

             He retracted his claws and steepled his hands. Deep breath. “Okay. Yes. Fine. If you insist.”

             “About damn time.”

             His hackles started to rise, and he took another cleansing breath. He flipped the spigot on the samovar and poured himself another cup.

             “The hell is that thing?”

             “Fancy kettle.” Taking a sip, he removed the lid on top and stared inside. “The tea, it says.” His eyes squinted. “Hm.”

             “C’mon,” she squeaked.

             “The tea.” Taking a whiff of the cooled brew, he replaced the lid. He steepled his hands again, and closed his eyes, drawing yet another deep, profound breath.

             The otter’s squeaks pitched.

             “The tea leaves say,” he pointed his pawtips toward her. “They say to give this nice lynx your phone number so he may contact you when the tarot reader wakes up.”

             To that, the otter suddenly foamed at the mouth and lunged towards the nice lynx.

             “The hell?!” He threw his arms in front of his face and shirked back.

             There was no impact.

             He opened his eyes and slightly parted his blockade. She was restrained by vines, and summarily heaved out of the store, expletives following.

             Her handbag laid at his feet paws, and he threw it out the door. “You don’t need tarot cards. You need a lobotomy!”

             The door creaked closed by itself, and a rustle of leaves and vines tightened themselves over it, fortified with additional violet threads of wisteria.

             Grumbling to himself, the lynx went about readjusting the various items that were knocked over. One of the decanters had shattered. He knelt and started picking up the pieces of glass, while the wooden rings of the floor immediately drank the spilled solution.

             The door guarded itself vigilantly with its ropes of green, brown, and purple. For a mercy, there were no other visitors, and the lynx was able to doze off for most of the day. It took the edge off his headache. And it wasn’t until he stopped feeling the sunbeams filtering through the windows and various other cracks of the walls that he woke up. Dusky orange had crept in, washing over those sentinel vines and woodwork, reflecting its colors off of the myriad glass vials.

             He rubbed the stupor of sleep from his eyes, and tossed the dregs of the tea onto the floor. As quickly as it splashed upon the floor, the wood drank it immediately. And, in a very honest manner, the lynx crouched down to that spot and inhaled the scent. He had never known that kind of sweet earthiness could tickle his whiskers until the first time he had accidentally spilled his cup.

             The sudden rustle of foliage made him shoot back upright. Someone knocked on the door, and the bioluminescent fungi and mosses brightened. He called out, “We’re closed.”

             “Police. Open up.”

             His headache would have returned if he hadn’t realized this was an opportunity to report what had happened. Through the knothole, he saw a distinctly black and white furred head and some manner of feathers side by side as he strode over. And, opening the door, a husky holding out his license and an owl in a lab coat carrying a large canvas bag stood there. “Yes?”

             The husky pocketed his card. “You the proprietor of this ‘stablishment?”

             Shopkeep nodded, and the owl helped herself in.

             “Good thing you came-“

             “What’s yer name, mister?” the policedog interjected.

             The headache finally returned with an annoyed sigh. “Shveowtoswav Adamchyk.”

             The husky patted around his pockets. “Your legal name,” he paused with a pointed creasing of his brow ridges. “Sir.”

             Shveowtoswav fished his own license from his own pockets and presented it.

             He took it and squinted while reading. “Fucking commies,” he muttered.

             Shveowtoswav bared his fanged customer service smile. “So,” his whiskers twitched, “as I was saying-“

             “Look, Mr. Shee Meow-”

             “Mister Adam is fine.”

             The bitch finally found his notepad and took his time copying down the shopkeep’s information.

             He took a deep breath. “There was an otter earlier-“

             “I’ll be asking the questions here.” He didn’t even look up from his sanctimonious notetaking.

             Shveowtoswav’s claws dug through his shirtsleeves and tried to cover up his growling with a purr. Complete with locking his glare onto the officer. A thick vine silently slithered to the policedog’s holster and undid its clasp.

             “Now.” He made a show to click his pen and put the pad away. “What did you do when that little girl came into yer store?”

             “Me?!” Incredulity slapped the lynx in the face and hid his bristling fur as well as the policehusky hid his power complex. The vine unholstered the gun and retreated before anyone could notice.

             “Yeah, you,” The husky leaned in and jabbed a clawtip into Shveowtoswav’s chest. “Mr. Shteve-“

             “Mister Adam.” The owl announced in a tone just as sudden as her appearance to his side. “An otter tried to attack you earlier, correct?” She angled herself just slightly in the way of the police officer.

             Shveowtoswav blinked hard, as if to disbelieve an illusion. “I – er, yes. She came in asking for a service, and I told her the one who gives that service was not available.”

             “Yer sure about-“ the officer nudged forward.

             The owl’s head snapped around into the husky’s face. “He is giving his statement.” She turned her head even further in a swift motion as she drew her own notepad from her back pocket. She also reached into the chest pocket on her coat and took a rather large fountain pen from it, notably jutting her wing feathers at the officer. “And I am recording it.” He grumbled and took out his pad again. “Continue, Mr. Adam.”

             Cautiously keeping his eyes trained on the policedog, he continued his report. The dog finally complied and kept his snout shut. The owl asked strangely specific questions, such as if the otter was foaming at the mouth, did any strange smells suddenly appear when she entered, was she hostile the entire time, and of the sort.

             He answered to the best of his ability, and the owl replaced her pen in her chest pocket. “That will be all for now.” She finagled the pen. “I wasn’t able to collect enough evidence.” The dog growled, and hackles rose, but he simply pocketed his pen and pad. “But given the circumstances,” she gestured her talons to a stain on the porous floor, the same stain from the potion that was knocked over earlier, “you will need to come in for further interview and testing.”

             “Testing? At a police station?” Shveowtoswav’s ears and whiskers pinned back.

             “No.” The owl reached inside her coat and gave him a card. “The forensics lab at this address.”

             That would explain her white coat. The Anderson Institutes of Anthropology. Doctor Athena Minervi. “When?”

             “Tomorrow, noon.” Dr. Minervi retrieved her tools and bag and made for the door. “Have a good night, Mr. Adam.”

             The husky’s jowls kept voicelessly snarling. “Good night,” Shveowtoswav’s own silent hissing and glare still on him, “Doctor Minervi.”

             The officer left, but not without raking his claws across the wood of the door.

             A car door gently shut, and quietly drove away. Another car door slammed, and its engine roared – its tires screeched away.

             Tenderly, the door latched closed and the mushrooms dimmed. Thick vines roped across the claw marks, dotted with tiny blue blossoms. Shveowtoswav willed his frozen feet to move. To give chase. To calm his hackles. Anything.

             Between the vines dripped something viscous. And the foliage carefully rustled. Rubbing themselves back and forth. It was sap. Sap lacquering over the scars.

             He filed through rows of various brews, organized potions of myriad different substances. Damn it. Which one was medicine for trees? Injured trees? Trees that truly wept like a lynx?

             Grabbing whatever his paws touched right then and there, he pretty much leapt towards the door. He poured a bit of the lavender colored concoction into his pawpads, flinging the droplets over the ropy foliage. He did it again and again until they smelled of lavender and timidly parted, exposing the wound. And he tossed the rest of the solution onto it.

             The wood, as always, leached it as soon as it splashed the divots.

             Shveowtoswav slumped to his knees, forehead against the door. How the hell could anyone harm the very person who protected him from rabid otters? A stray rivulet of lavender trickled onto thin ear strands. As if to pet him.

             The weight of his coat pressed on his shoulders. He laced his paw digits with the ones still heavy on his shoulders.