Greengate Prologue

What follows is the prologue of an old WIP. I touch on Greengate and its locale in a number of my stories. Enjoy.

PROLOGUE TO GREENGATE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Greengate haunts me still in memory and dream. 

I was five years old playing in the backyard as my mother watched me through the kitchen window. 

Our house was one of ten clustered around the crossroads that we shared with a general store and an old stone church. To the north and east sprawled the gently sloping hills of Pennsylvania, endless orchards of apples and peaches and cherries. Cows grazed in the fields where limestone boulders jutted through the earth like giant broken teeth. To the south and west, the grassy knolls turned into woods of oak and maple that crept up the sides of large steep hills. The range stood to the east, running north and south as far the eye could see. Named South Mountain; it's stream-carved valleys, runs, and roads bore such imaginative names as Dead Woman's Hollow, the Devil's Racecourse, the Black Andes and Horsekiller Road. 

Engrossed in my play under the shade of the old oak, I ran my Tonka trucks over the tree roots that broke through the surface when I looked up and saw the face. 

It was a man's face created out of the leaves and branches of the oak, and it looked down at me without any emotion in its green eyes. With it came the overpowering realization that I was not watching it as much as it was watching me. 

I blinked my eyes and rubbed them to make the illusion go away. I thought it merely a trick of sunlight among the branches. I looked up again, and the face was still there. I felt a gentle breeze at my back, and the eyes blinked as the leaves gently swayed. 

More puzzled than scared, I turned to look at the house where my mother's head stood framed in the window as she bent over her dishes. I looked back at the face, and I looked up at nothing but leaves, branches, and bright sunlight where nothing looked back. 

It is one of the clearest memories of my childhood in Greengate.

Another memory.

Years later, Peter Mackey and I sat on a limestone boulder near the base of South Mountain, sharing penny candy we had bought at Echon's General Store. Peter and I were ten, and we talked about topics such as baseball, our fourth-grade teacher who had paddled Keith Bream in front of the whole class, and the new Johnny Quest cartoon show on television. 

The light dimmed as the sun sank below the Blue Mountain range to the west, its shadow slowly spreading across Greengate. 

Our conversation suddenly stopped when out of the small patch of woods to our right came a stag. 

The woods around Greengate and South Mountain are home to white-tailed deer, and they were a common sight in the fields and orchards, but this was like no deer that Peter and I had ever seen. At least seven feet at the shoulder, Its beauty filled our hearts with joy and awe. 

Our mouths open, not speaking, we stared goggle-eyed at the creature. It walked right by the rock where we sat as if we were invisible. Maybe we were. We watched it until it disappeared in the woods that lead up the slopes of South Mountain. 

Peter and I went home and never mentioned it then or ever again.

And yet, another memory.

I am eighteen years old, still feeling cocky from my high school graduation just the previous Friday. 

"This is for real, right?" I ask Ken once again. "The night before your wedding, you drag me out to an old orchard?" The clouds race against the full moon while Ken Wright stands in rapt attention, searching the darker shadows of the apple trees. The night is alive with a choir of crickets accented by a chorale of fireflies. 

"Do you believe in fairies?" he asks. He smiles at my look of stunned surprise. "Not the ones we see in Disney films or in the children's tales. I'm talking about the fey folk who live between reality and dreams." 

I shrug my shoulders and lie. "I don't have much of an imagination."

He turns his face to the full moon which had washed him clean of color. "Years ago, I saw her. I was eight years old and wandering through the orchard, and I saw her running among the trees. Her hair was as red as autumn apples, and her clothes looked like they had been knit from autumn leaves. 

"When she looked at me, her eyes were wild and dark. I think I fell in love with her then, and at night she still runs through my dreams."

I sadly shake my head. "Tonight is your last night as a bachelor. We should be at a party. We should be drinking your father’s beer, not haunting an apple orchard looking for a will-o'-the-wisp."

My friend continues as if I haven't spoken. "I've remembered her for years, and before I take those vows tomorrow and spend the rest of my life with a woman of flesh and blood, I wanted to put this final dream to rest." 

I clap him on the shoulder. "It's late. You have other dreams to dream." He ignores me. 

"You will want to be well-rested for tomorrow night," I smirk. 

I leave him standing in the moonlight among the apple trees. 

The next morning the wedding party waits nervously at the old church for the bridegroom, his beautiful bride almost in tears. Excusing myself, choking back the mounting fear, I return to the old orchard where I had left my friend the night before. 

I find Ken's body half-fused into the ancient bark of an apple tree, taken in a wooden embrace. 

A gentle smile is his sole expression. 

The next day, I left Greengate and did not return until almost two decades later.

Rat Hunt Segment

I should be working on Incident in a Japanese Inn, but I'm on vacation and decided to instead write another segment of Rat Hunt.

The following is to be considered a rough draft. You can read the first excerpt here.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The prison bus pulled up in front of a nondescript stone house somewhere in Manhattan. Aside from the bus driver and a prison guard, Conrad sat alone, his hands cuffed. He had no idea where he was, and he had learned after three years into a lengthy prison sentence not to waste time with questions. Answers, at least the ones you needed, were seldom forthcoming.

The guard said nothing but opened the gate that separated the driver and his escort from the prisoners and motioned toward the open bus door. Conrad stood up and made his way up the narrow aisle. For a moment he considered a possible escape scenario. Conrad couldn’t help it. The thoughts had become second nature, but his hands were cuffed, and he wouldn’t be able to run any distance without being shot down in the street.

Conrad stepped down off the bus steps, and the guard took him by the arm, steering Conrad toward the door of the house.

Inside, the entryway was bare. The guard steered Conrad away from stairs that went to the second floor toward a set of double doors. 

The guard knocked and opened the door without hesitation.

An elderly gray-haired woman sat at a plain table with a empty chair facing her. A large mirror adorned the one wall.

“Remove his cuffs and wait outside,” the woman said. The guard nodded, unlocked the cuffs on Conrad’s hands and stepped outside the room closing the door behind him.

“Sit,” the woman said, motioning to the chair across the table. She opened up a manila folder and studied the papers inside. “Conrad Gavin,” she read. “Currently serving the third year of a thirty-year sentence as a guest in Sing Sing. Previous employment, an enforcer for an organized crime family.”

Conrad sat and said nothing. 

The woman closed the folder. “How would you like to have that sentence reduced to ten years?”

Conrad paused for a moment trying to read the woman’s body language. “I’m listening.”

The woman sat back in her chair. “Of course, there’s a catch. You have to go through a lot of testing first to make sure you’re completely suitable to the task at hand, but you fit what we’re looking for: single, no family, military experience, a good business ethic.” She tapped the folder with her fingertips. “Even if you were working the opposite side of the law.”

“You are implying you want a job done. What’s the job?”

The woman smiled, and Conrad saw no mirth in it. “Let’s say we want you to be a security guard. An honest day’s work for room and board, a small retirement account, and you get to walk in seven years.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Let’s just say there’s some risk involved. You in?”

Again Conrad paused deliberately showing no emotion on his face.

“I don’t kill people,” he said. “I was an enforcer, not a hitman. My job was to frighten people into doing something or stop doing something.”

“We would never ask you to kill another human being,” the woman said.

“Then seeing that in thirty years I’m in my 60s with a good chunk of my life gone, I’ll take your offer.”

The woman nodded. “Smart move. We start the testing right away.”

The next three days consisted of lots of psychological tests. Conrad had his own personal room where his meals were served. The door was locked at night. 

The doctors spoke to Conrad with no emotion, performing their tests impassively as if they were robots.

On the morning of the fourth day, Conrad was led back to the room where he had first met the woman. A doctor sat there with a blanket covered box at his feet. 

“Please sit,” the doctor said.

Reaching down, the doctor put the cage on the table and removed the blanket. Inside the cage, a large gray rat hissed and growled.

The doctor observed Conrad carefully. “Ever seen a rat before?” he asked.

Conrad laughed. “I’ve lived in New York all my life. Rats are the only wildlife the city has. Well ... rats and pigeons.”

“Ever kill a rat?”

Conrad shrugged. “A couple. Ones that got in my house.”

The doctor nodded. “Are you afraid of rats?’

Conrad shook his head. “No rat has threatened my life so many times I’ve lost count. No rat has ever told me in detail what they were going to do with my body after they had killed me.” He gestured toward the cage and its occupant. “This little guy is no threat to me.”

“But if it attacked you?”

“Can’t outrun a rat. You kill it.”

The doctor opened up his suit jacket and took out a small electronic tablet. He tapped on the screen and then held it out to Conrad. “What about this rat?”

Conrad watched the video that had already begun playing. He felt a growing wave of horror.

The video showed a man in a doctor’s lab coat standing over a large table dissecting a body. The body was a huge rat, quite dead, longer than the table, it’s misshapen, clawed feet hung over the end of the table.

In the video, the doctor pried open the creature’s jaws to reveal its front incisors, a good two or three inches long. The doctor then lifted a brown-furred paw for the camera showing three-inch long claws at the end of each finger. The doctor waved to his right. The camera panned over to show another one of the rat corpses placed in a standing position. The monster stood on two feet and towered over the man in the video.

“What is this?” Conrad whispered.

“That,” the doctor said, “is Rattus erectus. Hundreds, most likely thousands, of them live under New York. They attack in swarms. We want you to join a group of select people who wage war against these monsters and keep them underground.”

Conrad stared at the doctor in silence.

“Take a day to think about it,” the doctor said. “If you agree you’ll discover we have some interesting tools at your disposal. If you say no, you go back to your prison cell. We know you won’t be telling anybody about this. You have neither friends or family to talk to anyway. And if you did say something, nobody would believe you.”

The House: An Excerpt

As I have written before, dreams turned into literary works are usually the most boring pieces of fiction a person can read. Therefore, I use my nightly wanderings to inspire my writing, not dictate it. The subjective archetypes and symbols of a private dream world must be made universal to be understood. 

So here's a little something for your amusement, an adaption of a dream escapade I had that may turn into something bigger. Maybe.

The House

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"This house ain't haunted," the woman said. "It's possessed!"

She stood on the front porch of my new home, and I had no idea what to say. I knew two days after I moved in that the house had something wrong with it, but I had no desire to talk to a stranger about it — especially one wearing a housecoat and smelling of age and old cigarettes.

"Uh," I managed to say. "Okay. Thanks."

She looked at me as if I had just told her the Easter Bunny wasn't real and with an incredulous shake of her head she turned and walked down my front steps. I watched her cross the road and disappear into the dilapidated house standing there. 

It took the lady five days after moving into my new home for her to introduce herself and that to give me some ominous Grade-B movie warning. It only confirmed that as an introvert, my reaching out to anybody in the neighborhood served as a good idea.

I shut the door and walked into the living room, sat back down on the couch and turned the volume back up on the television. 

I heard the footsteps start on the stairs again. They always began on the ground floor and went up to the second. After the first two days of moving in, I learned to ignore them. The stairs would be empty as they always were and I had no idea on how to make it stop. I had stood on the stairs for hours on the second day, but my invisible guest never made an appearance. I could only hear the footsteps when I occupied another room.

I also got used to waking up with every door of the house wide open as well as the muffled sounds of yelling from the basement. And no way was I going down there. I've seen too many movies. Anyway, other than the tour the real estate agent gave me, I've never been to the basement again, and since I own very little, there's nothing I need to store down there.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

So, here I sit, shy, depressed, and wealthy enough from my online business I can even eat fast food twice a week as long as I have a coupon and can stick to the dollar menu.

I look at it this way. It leaves me alone, and I leave it alone. We can haunt the house together as far as I care.

The Hunters Three: An Experimental Story

The Hunters Three

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Ryan Laughman steered his Mazda CX-3 past the wrought iron gates and whistled in surprise when he saw the mansion. Trained in strategic thinking, he visually absorbed the scene and filed away his assessments. The building served as a beautiful example of the Gothic Revival, probably from the late-18th century. Built for its aesthetics and not practicality Ryan knew the owner would have money and lots of it. He also noticed two other cars parked near the entrance, a Jeep Renegade and a Lexus CT 200h. The former had to be driven by a man who enjoyed the outdoors, but the latter? Possibly a man or woman who had a practical need for speed.

He parked his car next to the others and ascended the steps. The door opened before he could ring the bell. "Mr. Laughman? Welcome to Dark Oak Manor. May I see your letter of introduction?"

Ryan reached into his front coat pocket and pulled out a letter typed on foolscap. "I believe this is what you wish?"

The butler gave it a cursory glance. "Thank you, sir. Would you kindly follow me? Dr. Lascaris will meet you and our other two guests in his library. Refreshment is available."

Ryan followed the servant into a hall of bright chestnut and mahogany, past a grandfather's clock of impressive antiquity to a set of pocket doors. Sliding them back, Ryan took in a vast library brimming with books. Two men stood at either side of the room pretending to ignore each other as they feigned interest in the various knick-knacks aesthetically littered about. Both men looked up when Ryan entered.

"And what may I get you in the arena of liquid refreshment, sir?" The butler asked. 

"Rum. Straight up. No ice," Ryan said.

As the butler turned to the small bar, Ryan took in the other two guests. The one stood tall and thin, the other man heavy set, but muscular. Ryan smiled.

"You, sir," he said to the thinner of the two, "drive the Jeep Renegade parked outside. I perceive that you are a hunter."

"You have the advantage over me," the man replied. "May I ask how you have deduced that?" 

Ryan pointed to the book in his hand. "You are holding an excellent copy of Theodore Roosevelt's The Wilderness Hunter that you found on the shelves. Probably 1st edition. From all the books available for your perusal here, the topic must be dear to you. You also are drinking Jagermeister, more from tradition than desire as the taste is horrendous and therefore acquired, yet still fancied among hunters. You also sport a tan showing an active outdoor life."

The man smiled. "Bravo, good sir. You are a regular Sherlock Holmes. What can you deduce about our companion?"

Ryan glanced at the man. "A man of disciplined action and we shall leave it at that." Ryan did not mention that the drink the man held remained untouched as if he was prepared for sudden action and wanting to be unhampered by the effects of alcohol. Also, he carried his left arm away from his body just a fraction of an inch more than his right, undoubtedly to make room for a sidearm in a three-piece shoulder holster.

The door opened, and an elderly man entered. "Gentlemen," he said. "Welcome." The man wore a dark blue velvet smoking jacket. His poise spoke of money and his face and voice, though friendly, conveyed an aura of authority. "As you know from your respective letters, I am your host, Dr. Beatus Lascaris." He turned to the butler. "Thank you, Silas. That will be all." With a barely perceptible nod, the butler excused himself from the room.

Dr. Lascaris turned back to his three guests. "As promised in your letters of invitation, you each will receive $5,000 in cash simply for coming and listening to my request. Yet if you stay, may I assure you much, much more in financial gain. Please be seated."

Ryan took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair while the thin, tall guest sat on the couch. The other guest remained standing.

"Have you introduced yourselves to each other? No? Then allow me the honor." He motioned to the man seated at the couch. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Riley Parks. Mr. Parks is best known for his skills in tracking an exotic type of prey and eliminating them from the earth."

Riley raised his glass. "And, retired, good sir. Though I have no idea why you called me here, it is unlikely you will be able to call me back into that particular service."

Lascaris smiled. "I think I can offer you a hunt that will be the crowning achievement of your career,  Mr. Parks, but more on that later."

He gestured toward Ryan. "Mr. Ryan Laughman," he said. "An interesting example of a self-taught strategist and a master of game theory. Presently you make a living for yourself playing game tournaments, board games that require a level of sophistication and professionalism not many other players can claim."

Ryan nodded in agreement.

"And finally, may I introduce Mr. Wesley Lowe, not," he paused in emphasis, "his real name. Let us say that Mr. Lowe recently lent his services to a worldwide cabal and he has since left their employment and now works as a free agent."

"An assassin," Ryan said quietly.

Lowe visibly tensed. "Best to say," he said, his calm voice belying his visible tension, "an assassin of assassins. I rid the world of those who would kill innocents."

"My apologies, sir," Ryan said. "An ethical assassin more akin to a knight of old or, a better symbol, a samurai."

Lowe relaxed. "An apt description," he said. Lowe raised the drink in his hand to gain their host's attention. "Before we continue, a quick question." He turned to Parks who sat on the couch, a neutral expression on his face. "By your introduction, Mr. Parks is a former hunter of exotics. I would like to know what he once hunted."

Riley spoke up. "With all due respect, I do not think you would believe me."

Lowe smiled grimly. "Try me."

Riley smiled and took a sip from his glass. "I hunted werewolves." He locked eyes with his questioner as if daring to challenge him. Lowe merely shrugged and took a seat in another leather armchair.

"So," Ryan said, "Dr. Lascaris you have gathered together an honorable assassin, a hunter of cryptids, and a master of strategy. Pray, what do you wish us to do for you?"

Dr. Lascaris laughed. "You do not, what is the expression? Beat around the bush? I have asked you to come and work together for a common cause that will save the world.

"I want you to kill my wife."

CHAPTER TWO

"You play a dangerous game, Lascaris," Lowe said sharply. "I told you I do not hunt innocents and with that statement, you removed yourself from that category." He stood up from his seat. "I can kill you five times over and you would screaming your lungs out in Hell before your body hit the floor."

Lascaris raised his hands slightly. "Maybe I should explain in greater detail. I assure you that my wife is far from innocent. Please be seated and allow me to explain."

Warily, Lowe regained his seat. "Please delight and entertain us," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. 

"Each of you is here for a logical reason. You, Mr. Lowe, are a trained killer and my wife is a direct threat not just to me, but to the world as a whole. I know that sounds like hyperbole, but soon I will show you proof of my claims.

"I asked Mr. Parks to join us because my wife is not human. Again, give me the gift of time. I can prove my assertions to all of you beyond any doubt." He motioned to Ryan. "And I am particular need of Mr. Laughman because my wife resides in a place that has its unique wards and guardians."

"Not human?" Lowe asked. "You're asking us to take much on faith."

"Well," Dr. Lascaras responded, "Let's ask Mr. Parks." He turned to the hunter. "Sir, do monsters exist?"

Riley paused only for a moment. "Yes," he said. "They exist. I have killed a number."

Lowe snorted in derision. "And since you're retired I suppose you've killed them all?"

Riley shrugged. "I retired for personal reasons."

Lowe pointed his finger at Ryan. "And you? What do you make of all this."

Ryan paused a moment as if gauging his response. "The question of monsters is of no importance to me. I deal with strategy. If I feel that the good doctor has a legitimate stake in the game, I am willing to assist him to reach a satisfactory ending. However, I stress that his claim must be legitimate."

"Then, gentlemen," Lascaris said, "since you demand and deserve proof allow me to provide it. Would you kindly follow me to the basement? And Mr. Lowe, please feel free to determine in what order we shall go down the stairs." He turned and slid the pocket doors open. "The cellarway is to the right."

The three men followed their host into the vestibule to a large oak door. "The house is old," Lascaris said, "and the stairs are steep. We will first walk through the wine cellar into the cellar proper. That is where my proof stands."

He turned to Ryan. "And I understand Mr. Laughman that you are quite the expert in fine wine. I have a 2013 Carpineto Vino Nobile di Montepulciano Riserva and should you and the others stay for dinner, I would be delighted to open a bottle for you."

"Most generous," was all that Ryan said.

The cellar stairwell was as steep as Lascaris had warned, the ancient brick giving way to cold, damp, rough-cut stone. At the bottom, they walked through the racks of wine bottles to another door. Lascaris flipped on an electric light switch, opened the door, and walked through.

A blast of cold, damp air struck the three men following Lascaris, making them stop in surprise. A small naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling barely illuminated the room beyond. Their host did not pause, but walked to the center of the room. He turned and motioned to the wall on his right. "Here," he said, "is my proof."

Lowe entered first followed by Parks and Laughman. The trio stopped as the far right wall came into view.

The far wall had a hole in it, one that was completely black, ten feet high and large enough for four men to walk abreast rent the far right wall. A cold, damp wind poured from it carrying with it an unpleasant aroma.

"What is this?" Ryan asked.

The doctor looked at the glowing portal, his face unreadable. "It is a portal my wife created," he said calmly. "And it is through that my wife went taking my son and daughter with her."

"Where does it go?" Lowe asked.

Lascaris shrugged. "I believe it goes to the ruins of a basement in Istanbul in Turkey. In history, the city was originally known as Byzantium and later, Constantinople. It is not a random event that my wife fled back there."

"And you want us ..." Riley began to say.

"Yes," Lascaris interrupted. "I want you to enter that portal, search for the horror that called itself my wife for sixteen years and kill it. Also if possible, bring my children back to me. They might still be redeemable."

* * *

Back in the library, Lascaris poured stronger drinks for everybody without asking. 

Lowe was the first to speak. "Now here will be an interesting tale," he said. "You have my attention."

Lascaris sat down his hands clasping his glass of whiskey so tight, his knuckles had turned white. "Here is the short version first. My wife is an efreet. Do you know what that is?"

Ryan spoke up. "They are creatures from Islamic mythology," he said. "Living on the Plane of Fire, they are part of the Jinn, but that is all I know."

Lascaris nodded. "You are correct. Allow me to enlarge your understanding. The Lascaris bloodline can be traced back to Constantinople in the 6th century. During the reign of Justinian the First, my ancestors were tasked to rid the Byzantine Empire of specific creatures that were inimical to the reign of the good emperor. You see, the jinn existed long before the Prophet Muhammad appeared. Not all the Jinn were evil, but the jinn known as efreets hated the human race.

"My forebears were successful in their attempts to purge the efreets from the empire, but the efreets cursed my family line. I am the last of the Lascaris name." He took a gulp of his drink and paused for a moment. "However, the efreets came up with a more creative way to enact their revenge. One of them assumed human form, wooed me, and I married her. Her deceit was so subtle and so clever, I never knew I had a monster under my own roof." He paused again. "She gave me a daughter as well as a son to carry on the name, but little did I know they were monster hybrids. A month ago when she revealed to me what she was, she created the portal you saw below, mocking me, and saying my living with regret served as a far more suitable punishment than outright death. But there are laws in effect that govern the efreets and their interaction with this world. She seeks to circumvent those laws with our children. She hopes to use their hybrid status as a way to bypass the safeguards that have been in existence since the creation of the world and allow a new race of evil to destroy the world and upset an eons-old balance."

He looked up from his glass. "So what say you? Will you help me save the world and perhaps save my children?"

Doll Wars: The Prologue

Some years ago I began my most ambitious work, a braided novel that told a story of an ancient blood line that could bring life to golems. Instead of crude wooden puppets, the most recent generation was able to bring ball-jointed dolls to life, but conflict split the group into two factions and their dolls and their masters now battle unseen across our world.

The first part, In the Father's Image, first appeared in a special issue of Ethereal Tales magazine in 2014 and appears in my collection, Come Into My Cellar, Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vaunt. 

The second chapter, Rowan Dreaming, has never been published anywhere except in my collection bearing the same name.

The fourth and final segment, Dollmaker, was first published in the March 2009 issue of Aiofe's Kiss and has never appeared anywhere else.

What follows is the prologue to Doll Wars, the third and largest segment of the work where the characters in the first two stories all come together to learn about their strange power to bring life to inanimate dolls and find themselves embroiled against their will in a conflict that is centuries old.

Doll Wars

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Prologue

Florence, Italy 1833

“Ci sentiamo, Carlo!”

“Ciao!” Carlo called as his friend ran off. Carlo turned to run back down the street toward his home. With the setting sun at his back, Carlo laughed with delight as he raced his lengthening shadow on the cobblestones. He deftly avoided the lamplighters as they began their evening duties and dodged the horse-drawn carts and carriages that clattered through the streets.

Leaping onto the porch at his house, he opened the front door and paused to catch his breath. “Mama! Papa! I’m home!”

Only the echo of an empty house greeted him. “Mama? Papa?” Carlo closed the door behind him.

A sudden loud noise from the basement made him jump.

His father, Domenico Lorenzini, had forbidden his family to ever enter the basement and dutifully, Carlo and his mother acceded to his wishes.

Once a week, Aldo De Luca, his father’s cousin, would pay the family a visit and after tousling Carlo’s hair, would join Domenico in the basement and stay until well after Carlo’s bedtime. Carlo thought the world of Aldo De Luca and called him Zio Aldo, Uncle Aldo.

But now, Carlo paused in front of the basement door listening to the sounds of scuffling and cursing, muffled by distance.

“Aldo!” he heard his father shout. “It’s heading toward you! No! No! The stairs! The stairs!”

Frozen in surprise, Carlo heard feet ascend the stairs behind the door. The doorknob rattled, turned, and the door flung open.

Carlo could only stare at what stood before him. A tiny figure, no taller than his waist stood framed in the doorway, the garish light of a lamp below making the creature stand out in silhouette.

It bore the shape of a human, a clumsy caricature of a small boy but one made out of wood, a crude face chiseled onto a rough, splintered ball of pine with stiff limbs ending in mismatched digits. Behind it, Carlo’s father and Aldo De Luca raced up the stairs in hot pursuit.

Carlo screamed.

With a hiss, the creature lunged at Carlo, knocking him onto his back. Splintery fingers clawed at his chest and face.

“Carlo!” he heard his father cry, “My son!” Carlo’s father tripped over the top step and went sprawling, hands reaching for his only child.

But it was Zio Aldo who reached Carlo first. Grabbing the misshapen creature by the back of its neck, he pulled the hissing thing off of the screaming child and hurled it back down the basement stairs followed by the sound of something shattering. 

Aldo then scooped Carlo up in his arms, hugging him to his chest. “What have we done?” Aldo groaned in his ear. Aldo suddenly spun about and put Carlo into the outstretched arms of his father. “Carlo! Stay with your Papa! Take him, Domenico. Let me deal with what we have done.”

Carlo clung to his father. Together they watched Aldo shut the basement door behind him and heard his footsteps descend the stairs.

“Papa?” Carlo said through his tears. “What was that?”

“Silence, my son,” his father said. “Let me see if you are injured.”

His father’s inspection of the small scratches on Carlo’s face was interrupted by a short squeal from downstairs making them both jump. Minutes later, the tread of heavy footsteps slowly came up the stairs. Uncle Aldo opened the basement door, his face pale.

“I threw it into the fireplace,” Aldo said. He ran his fingers through his curly, black hair. “I threw it into the fireplace and held it there with a poker until it stopped struggling.” He fell back against the wall as if all his strength had left him. “Wine. I need wine.” He stumbled off toward the pantry.

“Papa?” Carlo said as he continued to shake from the encounter. “Papa, what was that?”

Domenico smoothed his son’s hair. “Son, listen to me,” he said quietly. “You must not tell anyone what you saw tonight. We could get into trouble, very serious trouble. You must forget what you saw and you must never tell a soul.”

Later that evening, Carlo crept from his bedroom to the top of the second-story stairs to listen to his father and Uncle Aldo as they talked in the kitchen below. His mother, his father had told him, had been gone all day tending to an ill friend.

“Surely you are going to give up this madness, Domenico,” Carlo heard Aldo say.

A pause followed. “No,” Carlo’s father said. “I got the procedure wrong. Rabbi Loew had it perfected. If he did it, then we can do it as well. The next one …”

“That thing could have killed your son! Your only son! ” Aldo hissed. “We’re fortunate that he only had scratches. And what if that thing had escaped into the streets?”

Another pause. “Aldo,” Domenico said, “I cannot give up now. You and I are blood descendants of the great rabbi of Prague and we have inherited this power as a gift. It’s in our blood. I cannot stop my research. I will continue. I just failed in the process. A flaw. I confess I don’t understand the ancient Hebrew. The manuscript is in such poor condition! I will be more careful next time. The next golem will be ...”

“Domenico,” Aldo interrupted. “We and our forebears have followed Mother Church for the last six generations. What we are doing is wrong. It is black magic.”

“And, Aldo,” Domenico continued, ignoring the interruption, “I need your help. And I know you. You are just as curious as I.”

“We are doing the Devil’s work,” Aldo muttered.

“Was the Golem of Prague the Devil’s work?” Domenico asked. “You know the legend. It protected God’s People.”

There was a longer pause. Uncle Aldo finally spoke, his voice so low, Carlo could barely hear him. “How do we make sure that we do not create something we cannot control? What if we cannot fully discover the secret?”

“We will try until we succeed.” Carlo heard the finality in his father’s voice. His father had a stubborn will. “I will make the name Lorenzini famous.” A pause. “And the name De Luca as well.”

With a shudder, Carlo crept back to his bed as the voices of his father and Uncle Aldo droned on into the night.

Rat Hunt: A Story Excerpt

Three days ago, being in somewhat of a funk, I sat down and started writing a story. I had no idea where the story was going because I didn't care. I had no idea who or what my characters were because I just wanted the mental exercise of escape telling myself a story without agenda, deadline, or word count.

The result was a 5,500-word story of Conrad and his very inhuman partner, Darci, working underground with other teams to protect people living above ground from some very nasty critters.

The story is very different from what I normally write. My favorite point of view as a writer is Third Person Limited which means as the narrator, I only know and reveal what one character knows and sees. Rat Hunt is written in First Person.

Also, I like to keep the grittiness down a notch, but Conrad and Darci live in a very messy and violent world. Think Blade Runner, but underground. 

Also, there is an undercurrent of sexual tension in the story, an element that has never been part of anything I have ever written before. Even though my main characters are male (human) and female (definitely not human), the bond between them is one of a partnership born of working together every day in a dangerous job, but they are still two separate genders put together by urgent circumstances.

I was ready to throw this work on the slush pile where it would join other experiments of the past, but I have been challenged to consider publishing this work. I will leave final judgment up to you as you read the opening paragraphs:

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The alarm clock interrupted one of my favorite dreams where I walked on a clean sunlit beach and the air was so fresh that I just wanted to inhale its sweetness until my lungs burst. I opened my eyes to a dark room illuminated only by the light of the buzzing alarm clock, the air still so very humid and stale and cold as it always is when you live a hundred feet below the city streets.

With a yawn, I sat up, my feet finding the cold metal floor. Reaching for the bedside lamp, I turned the light on. Across the small room, my partner still lay wrapped in her blanket. The only visible part of her was her tail, gray and hairless, as it spilled out from under the quilt down to the floor. “Darci!” I said. “Wake up. Time for our shift.” I reached over and shook her by her blanket-covered butt. “Get up. I want to eat breakfast.”

With a groan, Darci rolled over and tossed off her blankets.

Gray fur covered her body except for her tail. A genetic fusion of Homo sapiens and Rattus norvegicus, with her shoulder length hair and profile, Darci could be mistaken for a human woman at a distance if you ignored the muzzle, the ears, and the tail. And nobody could deny she made a great partner as we together hunted the vermin that pestered the underground tunnels and subways. What better way to hunt rats than having a partner who is mostly rat herself.

And let's clear up one issue right away. Though Darci's body has a very feminine outline, our relationship is totally platonic. Once within my hearing, a newcomer to the Rat Squad made a rather rude observation about his suspicions about my relationship with Darci. I think they found most of his teeth later. The Sarge busted us both down one pay grade, but I still think it was worth it.

The only real physical contact between Darci and me is once a week when I brush and comb her back where she can't reach, but that is an act of common sense, not intimacy.

C’mon. Darci looks like a rat and I like my lovers human, not humanoid. Not that with this job I have any human lovers. Anyway, that’s why the Rat Squad put us together. We simply make a great team. With over two hundred confirmed kills, only Hinkle’s team has racked up more.

Muttering something I couldn’t make out, Darci sat on the edge of her bed as I reached for my clothes. She stood up, stretched, and scratched her naked backside as she stumbled toward the bathroom. When you’re covered in fur, you don’t need a lot of clothing.

Later in the mess, we joined the rest of the first shift teams and watched the third shift teams come in from their patrols. Gossip and talk were light and that’s always a good sign. It means the third shift didn’t have a lot of incidents.

Conrad and Darci's work environment is not OSHA approved

Oh, and in case you think they are fighting typical rats, they aren't:

We had walked another quarter of a mile when again Darci stopped to sniff the air.

She paused and walked ahead ten yards. A small access tunnel led to the right, just tall enough that we could walk through it by stooping. She waved her furred hand toward it. “I smell death down there,” she said simply.

I unbuckled the eight-cell flashlight from my utility belt as Darci did the same. Shouldering our shotguns, we unholstered the handguns that would be more effective and mobile in the narrow passageway.

We found the solitary rat some thirty feet down the corridor, the stench of death so heavy I could taste it. Darci looked at the corpse dispassionately. “That’s been here a few days,” she said. “I wonder how it died.”

Even in death, the rat looked fearsome, its teeth bared as if it were ready to fight the Grim Reaper itself. Its six-inch long claws were outstretched as if ready for combat. It easily would have stood over me by a good two feet, but it was emaciated, probably no more than three hundred pounds.

“Look how thin it is,” I said. “It probably got kicked out of its swarm or got lost and here is where it died of hunger.”

“Why didn’t any of the other patrols smell it?” Darci asked. “It’s been here for at least a week.”

“None of the other patrols for Center Green have gens. You smelled it because humans couldn’t. Not that we can smell much of anything down here in this sewer of a subway.”

Darci stared at it, shrugged, and turned back toward the tunnel. “It’s dead. Let’s continue.”

In Search of the Creators Released in a New Fred Patten Anthology

During Anthrocon 2018, FurPlanet released its new anthology, Exploring New Places, that contains my short story, In Search of the Creators. Coupled with 18 other short stories, the theme deals with anthropomorphic animals venturing into unknown places.

In Search of the Creators centers on Illatha, an anthropomorphic rabbit, and her crew searching the galaxy for the strange beings that uplifted her ancestors millennia ago before mysteriously disappearing. Exploring another solar system, they discover a planet that shows signs of habitation. Could it be, after fruitless years of searching, Illatha and her crew have finally found the answers to their genesis?

Exploring New Places is not yet available from Amazon, but can be ordered directly from FurPlanet.

Story Excerpt:

Illatha and her crew stayed in silent orbit waiting for orders from Homeworld. A subspace squirt took one week out and back and assuming a few days for the leaders of Homeworld to debate what they should do, a response was expected soon.

Illatha stared at the dots of light that speckled the night side of the planet, each one declaring the presence of a city. Sensors had shown the lights were not electrical in nature, but the glow from fires that appeared to be from natural gas.

One of the lights dimmed slowly and then brightened again. Illatha’s gaze focused on it.

It blinked again, twice in succession in a slow, but steady pattern.

Illatha’s furred brow furrowed in curiosity and concentration.

The light blinked again, three times in succession.

Immediately, the captain’s four-fingered hands flashed over the control board to put her ship in a stationary orbit.

Fascinated, she watched as it blinked five times and then went back and blinked once. And then twice, then three times and then five, cycling back to repeat the pattern of prime numbers in a base ten system.

Fear welled up in Illatha’s heart. They had been spotted.

Contact had been made.

You Are Invited to a Public Reading

Drawn by Aimi of AimiArts

On Thursday, May 3rd at 6:45 pm, I will be doing a public reading of The Inugami for critique at West Shore Evangelical Free Church at 1345 Williams Grove Rd, Mechanicsburg, PA 17055. Admission is free and open to observers. The actual reading takes place around 8 pm with the first 85 minutes a business meeting.

Story Excerpt

That afternoon, Kelly returned to her apartment to find Shadō practicing with her sheathed sword in the living room. The Inugami had moved the furniture back against the walls and had dressed herself in the clothing that was in the buried box of her former master.

Shadō had bound her chest with a large strip of cloth. Dimly, Kelly remembered it was called a sarashi worn by Japanese swordfighters of both sexes. The only other articles of clothing were a floor-length skirt with slits up both sides almost to the waist and a heavy sash that served as a belt. A slit in the back of the skirt allowed the Inugami’s white-furred tail to move freely. Kelly watched with growing respect as Shadō practiced her elaborate kata, a complex series of movements, making the sheathed katana hiss through the air.

Shadō made three elaborate moves before sliding the sheathed sword into her belt then turned to face Kelly and bowed low. “Welcome home, master,” Shadō said. “How may I serve?”

Kelly shook her head. “You are not my servant,” she said firmly. “We are equals.”

The Inugami looked up, her eyes betraying her emotion. “In the world of the onmyōji order and balance must be maintained even within the chaos of magic: student and teacher, servant and master. Without order, we surrender to complete chaos and in chaos there is only destruction. I am no longer hidden and my presence is felt in worlds seen and unseen. We will have visitors and some will come to challenge.”

Kelly swallowed and placed her backpack on the dining table next to the ancient book of the Daoist sorcerers. It lay open to the page describing the paces of Yu, a shamanic dance that traced the nine stars of the Big Dipper to capture its supernatural strength.

“The world has changed, Shadō,” Kelly said. “The onmyōji belong to the past. They must stay there.”

Shadō sighed with obvious consternation. “You see an Inugami before you. You are aware of the presence of kitsune.” The Inugami came and knelt before Kelly. “The world has not changed. A part of it has simply been hidden and now it bursts forth. Soon you will see other marvels and some will not be friendly. You must prepare.”

In Search of the Creators is Finished

This afternoon, I put In Search of the Creators through its final edit and, for weal or woe, I sent it off to Fred Patten for consideration in his upcoming anthology.

In Search of the Creators was a challenge in several arenas as the character with the main point of view is an alien. When she encounters another alien race, I have to tell a story in English where characters who know no English have to communicate with each other, especially when my main character cannot speak in labials. After a lengthy struggle, I think I was able to clearly tell the story:

Slowly, the man put his open hands on his chest. “Blayne,” he said. His voice was deep. Again, he put his hands on his chest. “Blayne,” he repeated. Then with his hands still opened, he motioned toward Illatha. 

Illatha knew what he wanted. Her name. “Illatha,” she said repeating his actions with her own hands. 

“Illatha,” the man repeated. 

Slowly the man stood. Illatha’s head came up to his chest and she shuddered from how small she was in comparison. He pointed at the sun that shone down on the meadow. “Odo,” he said. 

Illatha already knew what the creature wanted. He was working on a basic vocabulary. She squinted up at the bright sun and pointed at it. “Nae,” she said in her own language. 

“Nae,” Blayne repeated. “Nae.”

When Imagination Calls (Story Excerpt)

Like all writers, I will go to my grave with more stories unwritten than completed. Ideas come to me daily and I have learned that if not written down they are soon buried under the continual tidal waves of fresh vision.

This afternoon while waking from a late afternoon nap, in my mind's eye I saw an elderly man and his younger companion in a fantasy tavern, sitting at a rough wooden table, their backs to the wall. A woman enters.

So, this evening I sat down with my hand on the keyboard and I told myself the story, allowing it to unfold as I followed the events that transpired on the movie screen of my imagination.

What follows is a very rough draft that I may revisit in some far future and continue the story of Master Ayras and Min if time allows.

NOTE: This excerpt contains a short, but graphic scene of violence. Caveat emptor and read responsibly.

Source of Graphic Unknown. Please Advise.

Untitled Fantasy

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I was nursing my watered down beer when Master Ayras nudged my shoulder.

“Observe the woman who just entered and tell me what you can surmise.” I put down my mug on the rough-hewn table top and looked up to see a young woman standing in the doorway of the Three Stones Tavern looking over the crowd as if searching for someone.

A striking beauty, she wore a hempen, knee-length robe over simple tan-colored blouse and pants. Her brown leather boots came to mid-thigh. Around her waist she wore a dark-green sash with a sheathed sword carried on her left hip. I could see from across the room her eyes were a brilliant green and when she pulled the hood of her robe back, her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun.

The entire tavern went silent at the sight of her and I nervously felt for the dagger I always carry concealed in the sleeve of my robe, more for the feeling of safety than a desire for open conflict. At establishments like the Three Stones, the presence of a woman always brought out the worst from a number of patrons and I had seen men die for less.

Master Ayras shook his head. “Do not make a move. Just observe.”

The woman strode over to the bar where a man, rough and muscular, nursed a huge mug. “You are Orr of Crayburg,” she said, her statement containing no trace of a question.

The man spun about, his hand darting for his own sword, but he stopped when he saw the woman standing before him. His grin split a scarred face, showing off a mouthful of teeth cracked and twisted from conflicts past.

“Aye, my beauty,” he said. “I am.” And he lunged for her, his arms outstretched.

The woman moved at a speed I never knew humanly possible. Stepping backwards out of the man’s grip, the woman’s sword flashed from its scabbard and flew across the man’s face, the point drawn directly across his eyes. Blood and fluid sprayed and the man’s jaw opened in shock before he covered his ruined face with his hands and fell to the tavern floor screaming.

“Compliments of my sister,” the woman said calmly, ignoring other men about her jumping to their feet and drawing daggers and swords.

She assumed a fighting pose. “Do you gentlemen wish to die for this wretch?” she asked. The men looked at each other to see if any other man would attack first, but after a few tense moments, they began to slowly retake their seats.

With blade at ready, the woman backed slowly toward the entrance. When her shoulders touched the woodwork, she used her weight to push the door open and she disappeared into the night.

As the barkeep tried to assist the blinded man on the floor, Master Ayras smiled at me and took a gulp from his own mug. “Tell me what you saw. What do you make of the woman?”

“She’s a very good swordsman?” I said.

Master Ayras clucked his tongue. “Come, Min. Look deeper. Remember.”

I paused as I remembered, searching my mental image of her. “I suspect she is a woodsman,” I said after a moment’s reflection. “She was dressed for travel through the wild. She is no stranger to killing, but her taste for revenge is sophisticated.” I nodded toward the brute groaning under the ministrations of the barkeep. “She could have killed him, but she knows there are states of being far worse than death. Mercy is not one of her virtues.”

Master Aryas smiled at me and patted my hand. “Very good, Min. Yet did you not observe how clean her clothes were? They had no signs of travel on them at all, not a particle of dirt or a stain.”

My jaw dropped in surprise. “I...I did not see that, Master.”

“Never mind, Min. In time you will be able to tell a person’s entire story from their glance alone. Let us leave.”

I followed Master Ayras as he made his way toward the door, I avoiding looking at any of the other men in the bar in fear that one of them would see the secret I kept for my own protection, a secret known only to Master Ayras.

In the streets, the night had settled and I followed my master and mentor who always had an uncanny ability to see in the dark. With my hand on his arm, he led me through alleyways as if on a predetermined course. I had learned never to question him. Master Ayras' sense of direction bordered on the mystical.

Before long, we entered another street where light poured through doors of inns and taverns not yet bolted against the night. “Master!” I said, but he hushed me.

“Yes, we have been following her,” he said softly. “The woman intrigues me.”

He quickened our pace until we were some ten paces behind our quarry. I watched her in fascination as she moved gracefully through the filth of the streets, her hand on the hilt of her sheathed blade.

“My pardon, my lady,” Master Ayras said, and then stepped back as a blade swept across the air just a few hand breaths away from his throat. Immediately, he put up his hands, palm outward to show himself unarmed.

“Again, my pardon,” he said. “I am unarmed. My companion and I only wish to ask a question.”

The woman sneered in contempt. “What business do you have with me?”

Master Ayras nodded and spread his open hands further. “We saw your sword work in the tavern,” he said quietly. “Min and I need to travel to Hisk and a person of your talents would guarantee us safe journey. We need a guard and I say there may be none better in this town.”

Again, she sneered at us. “I have no need…”

“We will pay you 200 satins a day,” Master Ayras said quietly.

The woman paused and motioned with her sword. “And how do I know you are not simply robbers who will kill me in my sleep just so you can take my weapon?”

“Min and I are scholars of the Golden Academy. Surely we are nobody you should fear.”

The woman looked at me and, for a moment, I saw her eyes flash green and change. The transition from green-slitted eyes back to the green eyes of a fellow human occurred so rapidly, I doubted my own senses. She appeared to sniff the air. “The little one is a girl child,” she said.

“Yes, Min travels as a boy. I’m sure you can appreciate the reasons. So you have nought to fear from an old scholar and a young girl who has not yet experienced her first bleeding.”

I blushed at Master Ayras’ comment. At fifteen summers I had still not yet participated in the Passage, but I confess I felt resentment that he mentioned it to a stranger.

The woman paused a moment in thought. “Hisk is only a two day journey,” she said. “For 400 satins I will take you there, but I will have half the money now. Now follow me for there is an inn where honest people can sleep in safety,” she turned her back to us and began walking. “And you are paying for the room,” she said over her shoulder.

“I do not know your name,” Master Ayras said.

Again the woman turned to look at us over her shoulder, her expression a withering glare. “There is no need for you to know,” she said.

Closing notes: When I write, I tell myself the story allowing it to unfold at its pleasure. When I first wrote the opening paragraphs I only knew of Master Ayras, his ward, Min, and the strange swordswoman. I also knew the mysterious woman was entering the bar specifically for an act of vengeance. The rest came as a complete surprise to me and some fellow writers understand the experience when I say that I did not know Min was a young girl until Master Ayras revealed it! 

Where does the story go from here? Well, time will tell. I have far too many projects in the hopper that must be completed, but someday I hope to return to the adventures of Min and her Master and we shall see where imagination leads them.

First Draft of In Search of the Creators is Finished

The oldest legends say that when the Creators left blue-green Ur to explore the stars, they found themselves alone in a cosmos without boundaries. Grieved at their loneliness, they returned to their world, took their animals, and gifted them with sentience, hands, and a bipedal stance. The Creators then scattered their progeny across numerous stars and today, they patiently wait for their children to return and ease their solitude.

At slightly over 4,700 words, the first draft of In Search of the Creators, a short story written specifically for Fred Patten's upcoming anthology, is finished.

Now comes the hard work: revision and editing.

In Search of the Creators: Opening Scene

What follows is the opening scene of my current work in progress, In Search of the Creators, in response to a request to submit a story to an upcoming anthology.

The end result may be dramatically different and bear in mind that this is a rough draft:

In Search of the Creators

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The oldest legends say that when the Creators left blue-green Ur to explore the stars, they found themselves alone in a cosmos without boundaries. Grieved at their loneliness, they returned to their world, took their animals, and gifted them with sentience and the ability to stand on two feet and use hands. They scattered their progeny across numerous stars and today, they patiently wait for their children to return. ~ Histories and Legends

“Sensors at full. Keep your ears up.”

Captainess Ilassa brushed her hair out of eyes, flipping her long lop ears to hang over her back. The rest of the crew studied their monitors intensely. Outside the ship, the neverending gray of the warp manifold enveloped the ship and the timers ticked off the seconds when they would pop into real space and a new star system.

Tension filled the air of the cramped control deck. The ship lacked weapons and the instinctive response of Ilassa’s race, exactly like the rabbits from which the Creators had upraised them, was to flee if danger threatened. 

Ilassa checked her monitors. All five crew members stood ready to feed her important information the moment they appeared out of warp. Within seconds she would make the decision to either stay and explore this new planetary system or flee back into the safety of manifold space.

She mindlessly tapped her pen on her incisors that peeked out from behind her upper lip, a nervous habit borne from the many times she had entered a new system.

The timer ticked down and suddenly the main viewscreen snapped from formless gray into the dark of space with a brilliant mainstream sun shining like a bright dot in its center.

Information started flashing over her monitor as her crew shouted their findings.

“Five planets, Captainess!”

“No radio signals detected.”

“Captainess, I detect a ship! Wait! It’s dead, Captainess. No heat at all. No electromagnetic signals. Just floating.”

“Captainess, there is one planet that is the proper distance from the sun to maintain life. I detect no electromagnetic signals. Nothing artificial in orbit.” 

It was only then that Ilassa realized she was holding her breath. She let it out with a shudder. “Set a course for the derelict,” she said. “Let’s see what information it can give us.”

Tuckerization in Incident at a Japanese Inn

Tuckerization is the practice of incorporating one's friends into an existing work as either a favor or as a friendly jest. Sometimes, only their names are used and sometimes their characteristics are used to flesh out a character.

Source: Dungeons and Dragons Monster
Manual, Gary Gygax, 1977.

In my work in progress, Incident At a Japanese Inn, the third part of The Shrine War, the Tsuta Ryokan that serves as my Japanese Guest House, is operated by a rakshasha, a mythological creature from India that in my story comes in the shape of an anthropomorphic hookah-smoking tiger.

He is based on my friend, Dave Hill, whose Internet persona from the first day I met him years ago was a scuba-diving tiger. And after a little bit of research, I discovered Dave's name in Japanese is Oka Debiddo. I hope he enjoys his little inclusion into my fanciful tale as, in my humble opinion, I think Dave would make a wonderful proprietor. 

Needless to say, all rights are reserved on the segment that follows and it is to be considered a rough draft. The final entry may be dramatically changed:

Christopher stared at Oka Debiddo with growing trepidation.  

The tiger smiled behind the counter, sprawled on his stool. The creature then put the stem of the hookah to his lips and set it bubbling as he inhaled a deep breath. Smiling, the smoke trickled out from between his jaws and ascended to join the existing haze at the ceiling. 

“You are not yōkai, sir,” Christopher asked, his voice faintly quavering. “May I ask your origin?” 

The tiger lazily leaned forward, his face uncomfortably close to Christopher. “No, I am not yōkai. I am rakshasha, from India.”  

“I regret I am not familiar with your kind,” Christopher said, hoping his courtesy would pacify any ire caused by his curiosity. “India is a far cry from Japan.” 

Oka sat back on his stool and took another languorous puff from his hookah. “I was found many years ago when a cub by a Buddhist monk named Vasubandhu. As I was living proof of the reality of his worldview, he took me in and raised me almost as if I was his natural son. And we toured through India, Tibet, China, and Korea spreading the wisdom of Gautama Buddha. We eventually ended up in Nippon." 

“And when was that?” 

The tiger puffed thoughtfully on his pipe allowing more smoke to wreath his striped face. “I have not thought of that for awhile. When you are immortal, one loses oneself in the current of time.” He drummed his claws on the counter. “I think it would have been at least one thousand, six hundred years ago. And when my adopted father passed I became the proprietor of the Tsuta Ryokan.” 

Christopher felt relief at the creature’s expressed amiable feelings toward its human master and allowed himself to relax. “So,” Christopher asked, “as an immortal, do you ever miss your father?”  

The rakshasha shook his head and patted his stomach while grinning voraciously. “I assure you, I carry Vasubandhu with me wherever I go.”