Furry Tales

Gold

Keet Malory

Mew was being read a story with a collection of women at the church of Saint Rosary. She was a mouse, and the other creatures were much bigger than her, because they were things like dogs and cats and other such animals. She was crying because of how beautiful the story was.

All the other animals were crying too, because they were women, and women always cry at beautiful stories. It was nice to live in an area with a church, thought Mew with an adult attitude about her. Mew thought that she was an adult, but really she was just a fledgling who was fourteen and no bigger than a bowtruckle.

The reader of a story was an older mouse, it was Mew's aunt, who was reading with real superiority, because she was well read and well versed in the church's writ. There were many churches around the place, and they were all run by saint spirits who followed the order of Septimus, the first saint, who started the largest church that there is in this furry world of creatures who talked to each other and mingled amongst each other, marrying their own kind of course, but living amongst each other none-the-less.

They were just for girls, the churches of Saint Rosary, but Mew wanted to be the disciple who eventually opened up this particular saints church to creatures of the male kind, because all they did was told stories of mischief about the men and boys, and the females wanted the men to do the same about them, but no saint would arise and make it possible for the male animals to read stories about the mischief of the females, in the church of Saint Rosary or no, because they were too scared of intruding in female matters. Of course, it is a valid plea to want to hear about stories of mischief from males about females. Mew wanted this very much in fact. It was just her nature to be curious, she was a disciple of Saint Rosary wasn't she? It was possible too, because Mew was a great servant of Saint Rosary, the saint who was no bigger than a bowtruckle herself when she first went about creating the church of Saint Rosary.

So Mew was listening with attentiveness, listening to the rhythm and rhyme of the story, the rest of the listeners in their reposes. She was really a beautiful listener as well, and she knew all about the males now and how they didn't really like to fight. It was just what they liked to read about, because they couldn't do it in real life. That was what life was about, not doing things that you know you can't in actual fact do, and listening to your parents, who know all the things that their children should do all too well.

So Mew was a writer was she? And what a brilliant story teller she was, because in actual fact she was just really writing what Saint Rosary told her to write in her head, not word for word, but pretty close to the actual feel of the story. Rosary was the most foolish of girls who knew what most men wanted out of life, for she was one of nine who were all men in her mouse family. They weren't related to Rosary, but they were in her family nevertheless. Rosary was an adopted daughter who didn't dally with the men in her family at all. She eventually married a rich ne'er do badly who was worried that she'd leave him for a member of her family in the end, but she didn't, for she was the most foolish of creatures who was so smart that she was in actual fact foolish, attentive to every detail in life and all its abundances. She would tarry not with fledgling feelings of lust, for that would harm her child in her belly, which she was always caring for but fearing after. In the end, all Rosary really wanted was her child to do well, so she wrote stories and stories about the men in her family, and never showed them what she thought of them for the reprisal that it might cause the family, for they were bad mischievous mice who never got caught at their ploys, but were always watching out for Cindy, the mouse who was named their mother who was really just Rosary's aunt, just like Sandimor was Mew's aunt. Mew didn't have an all boy family, but she did know a writer, who was a male, and she was just about to go and see him just as soon as she had finished reading her part of the sermon, just like some of the other women animals would in their time at that mornings service. They were tiny stories, meant for pleasure and not pain, for the reader and the writer both, but Saint Rosary took care of that, bless her soul, for she was the most attentive of fellows. And a fellow she was, not many mice knew that about her in actual fact.

So, as Mew left she dropped a coin into the collection box, took her pamphlets of stories, and left for the barbers shop, where she knew that Trinian may be found, talking with the other men who were having a whisker trim or a wig made up for them, for no animal as of yet, (besides the lion and a few dogs and horses,) had very long hair at all. All the wigs had to be made up on the spot and never went out of shape because of how good they were, but the animals always liked to change their wigs and trim them. It was just fashionable to do this and every one of them knew such pleasures out of their lives in this village of Motteley.

It was just your average place, Motteley, where every such creature usually lived out of their mothers picnic basket and no creature usually warred against any other village. Money was of no issue in the town of Motteley, because such things hadn't been created yet, but there was a marvellous system of barter, and everyone had to watch out for cats, who were amongst the nastiest beasts out of the lot.

The best thing about Motteley was the variety of stores and the pleasurable things about the place, like markets which were richly dressed and draped with magical carpets from Methermere and Fortunii and places like that. There was a musical instrument shop that Mew was quite fond of, and of course there was the book store. She could never go without that. Some of the church of Saint Rosary's members were really well to do writers in the town of Motteley.

The best thing that Mew thought about the story that she'd just read to the sisters was that everyone would have to guess at the ending. It was about a cat named Trinian, who was a nasty spiritual fellow of the new church going about the town at the moment who had no time for females, because it was a church for church goers only, and females weren't allowed in because their most famous church, the church of Septimus the third, was all in ruins because of the church of Saint Rosary; the mouse story teller who was no more than a bowtruckle when she'd made up the church all by herself, with her brothers who funded the church because of all the mischief that they could get up to once the stories were read by women who would keep their secrets, whilst dressed in drapery and fine red robes of mirth, and glamour, and secret weavings on the inside of the coats of Saint Rosary. Habits, they were called, but they are just a men thing aren't they? The men didn't think that that was a real church at all.

'The best deal that you can have in this town of Motteley is for you to marry without a cat scratching at you,' cried Smam in the barber shop when Mew entered the all male domain and let a wink out at the oldest, kindest and calmest leader of the lot amongst them, which was the barber himself at this point, an old mouse of about fifty who liked her none the less, but would never do anything about his like for the young lasses wiles and winks every time she entered the shop. He knew why Mew did it, it was for her protection, to let the other males know that she was a tiny princess who knew not about the ways of men, and only fathers like her own father, who wasn't a worker in this shop himself, but knew the animal who owned the store.

Trinian the cat himself was lounging on a chair reading poetry to himself, for no beast liked poetry really, it just sold because of how sad it was. It made the women folk cry really for how terrible it was, and no male beast knew this because they hadn't a church like the church of Saint Rosary. That was a special thing for men, for they thought that the church of Saint Rosary was a good thing for women, but not for men like themselves, who liked fighting stories, and were too scared to write about females having love trysts, because men liked to save those things for later at the end of the story, where it was all left up to the imagination, and not splattered out all over the page like a lot of mischief. That's what they thought that the women were getting up to, writing about their Romeos, which they weren't—they were just writing about how mistrustful, dirty and slovenly animals men were in actual fact were, and joking about it after with loads of laughter and drink, which made them merry about how terrible men were, in their own sweet and endearing way.

The way in which Trinian sat made him look like he was the prince of the castle of mean cats who were just about the worst things about this world, for they were mean and scratched at one with no remorse when they were upset and enthused about something. He had a feather in his cap, a large roosters feather with red and green and brown in it. His hat was brown, his fur was golden, and he wore leather clothes. He was a hunter most of the time, but it was true that he was one of the towns spiritual leaders and respected enough, for the type of animal that he was at least; that animal being a cat, one of the meanest types of animals in their whole world. He was also a writer, this Trinian, and all the villages surrounding Motteley knew of this because he was so famous, more famous than most, for he wrote about good cats, and not mean and nasty cats who won in wars and all sorts of nasty things like that. Those stories weren't for your average every day readership.

Mew went across in her mousy way, scared of the cat who was looking at her like she might be a good lunch in better or more uncivilised circumstances, good for tea, that is, girls. To eat and devour with nothing left, like a monster, not a lover. He put his sheet down, for it was his own poetry; he was thinking of making a saints church all for cats like himself about cats being good in poetry, for it really was a dastardly thing for a cat to do. A cat was too mean to like and write poetry. All a cat really wanted was its tea, and nothing more. That was a cats lot in life, it wasn't a lot, but it was a life—and a life they were thankful for at that.

So Trinian was sitting, glaring at Mew, when Mew let out a simper, letting him know that if he were a mouse she would be flirting with him by now, because that's what hunters liked, a bit of a flirt. The barber crossed a glance at Mew, looking with remorse at what she was doing to this cat who was really trying to be as nice as they came. It wouldn't be a good thing for a cat to eat a mouse this early into the year. That would be a terrible occurrence for all who dwelt in Motteley to deal with.

Every year something bad like that would happen in towns all over the world, and they would hear about it in their printed news papers. Every cat had been locked up in the meaner cities for fear of the mice being eaten, but not in Motteley—they didn't have a jail in Motteley yet—but so far Trinian had been keeping the cats in purpose besides their misgrievances.

A lot could be said about Trinian, like that he was a good enough hunter to beat a lot of cats with one hand tied behind his back, with a swagger none-the-less, all before breakfast too, if you could believe in this most adventurous of feats. Before breakfast was a term that cats used often to describe something that could happen that would be an easy feat to accomplish for them.

Mew knew that all the cats loved Trinian though, and that none would touch him. He was just that kind of cool, calm and collected fellow that would be allowed to do anything that he wanted if he were allowed to, by the might of the cats. He was as tough as they came and ready to fight any that needed to be fought by the best to over come the worst, which were usually the cats themselves, but things were becoming different all over the region of Kanti because of Trinian's glorious books, that were being sold by the hundred and kept under lock and key by the cats who would do no harm to their precious cargo of plentiful bounty.

You know, the best thing about the cats in their hay day of violence and rule was that no mice were ever around, for they were eaten up and had to live in a place hidden, all by themselves. It was called Micehaven, and it was a large castle that few ever go to now due to its blood soaked walls that were never that well to do anyway—it is just a pile of ash now. It was burned to the ground when the mice realised that the cats were culled out enough for them to return to the real world without any fear of being eaten up by the vicious creatures.

It had been a hard battle, and all the cats were lost except for a kind breed who swore that they would do no harm to the mice and instead hunt with weapons and eat deer, or snake for the mice, or rats for their nutrition, for they were another wild beast. Bears also they hunted, except for the koala bear and kind, leaf eating bears like them—like the panda of China.

China was a place far off to the south, where dolphins ate wales and all sorts of silly, endearing things like that which should never be spoken of to usual folk. They were inhabitants like men, never sinning, ever hopeful that one day they might rule the oceans, and, of course, they were fearful of every kind of beast that roamed the untended lands to the east of them, but not to the west—for they were also of human like form, never sinning, always hopeful that some day their creator would return for them too, like they would for the beasts of the lands to the east, which were called Furing lands and nothing else.

The ever endearing Mew thought to herself for a second. What if my story gets out and I never get to go on an adventure to the land of the saints which Saint Septimus spoke of in his story of his lifetime travels and marvellous deed? He never spoke of what his deed was, but he said that it had been very fine indeed and that only new saints would ever find out about it indeed. That was why every creature wanted to be a saint and own a church, that was the way of the world back then, and the way that it remained to that very day. It was said of by one of the disciples of Septimus that their deeds would be spoken of in great enamour by all the saints that came after him, for the disciples of Septimus had always said, with a knowing look about them, which could never be described in this book by the way, because it was a look that could not be explained with a simple computer and printer, that they knew of the secret deed and would never share it ever—to anyone. Not even to themselves. That was the way of the disciples of Septimus, but no one ever killed Septimus for such a deed, so they knew that it had to be a grand thing indeed, for that would remain a secret until the end of life itself, it was know by all that this would be true for all creatures everywhere.

Dear old barber Stento had that look about him which could curl his very whiskers and not much more than that, but with a look over to him Trinian discerned with a writers glance that Stento wasn't being himself.

'What's up, my dear man, Stento?'

'You fool girl,' Stento yelled at Mew quickly in the gruffest way he could, which was little over a hoarse whisper. The way that she caught his glare told Trinian that she would not be worked off by his magic, not today. Stento would have to deal with her as best as he could, it was his friends daughter after all, but no more than that. He couldn't hold her and drag her from the shop—that would be a nasty way to deal with a freshling like herself. No, Stento would have to work his charm on Trinian, that was clear.

Stento took one look away from the wall where the mirror was showing him to be the gruffest and meanest creature he had ever had the misfortune of seeing himself become.

'Quickly now, get out of here, girl. You'll catch a fright in here today, not when this kind sir's reading poetry do you want to cross glances with him. That be taking no quarrel with your desires, sir Trinian.' Stento looked about himself for a mop and began mopping the floor in his doggish way so that he could take up his charge and do his duty if need be, for the ways of the world are not always the most pleasing to you or to me.

Trinian dropped his hat into his lap, got up, leaving the hat to drop to the floor without stooping to pick it up, he left.

Mew left too, for she'd had enough of the barber Stento today, but he had done his duty, just like sister Tolli had said that he would, no relation to Stento of course. Things were just the same with beasts. Sometimes.

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