FSE

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*****

The first impression was somewhat deceptive, I reflected, as the buckboard bounced and jostled its way through the rutted earthen path. For one thing, the private wrapped up in the blanket had not been asleep, and had given me a friendly and respectful greeting as he tossed my kit bags into the cart. For another, we were going at a fairly smart pace, probably owing to the fact that the ant knew the path well as was eager to get home.

But not totally deceptive. There was a distinctive rattle produced by a few crates of glass pint bottles that had been acquired in one way or another.

The driver for the most part limited himself to tuneless whistling, though at stops on the journey, he did point out a farmhouse or two, visible behind waist-high mossy stone walls. The primary crops were all vegetables and fruits, with assorted stock-ponds that supplied fish and feral frogs.

We paused to allow another ant-cart belonging to a farmer to pass. It had an ant in harness very similar to ours, and indeed the our ant and the farmer's ant clicked and chirruped at each other, briefly bringing things to a halt. The driver allowed the social niceties to be observed before gently gee-upping.

"The auld ____ will get raht cranky, if Ah dusn't let her 'ave 'er foon."

In some respects, if you except the fact that the farmers here appeared to be rabbits instead of roe deer, the feel of the area was very like home. Which left me with mixed feelings, since I wondered how things stood with the few that were left back in Elfhame.

Just before the sun dipped behind some of the surrounding hills, the driver splashed through a pair of mud puddles, and turned into a muddy street lined with a small pawful of wooden buildings on each side, and a rather weathered-looking stone building at the very end. Given that the stone building was flying the Royal Standard and had the Royal Cipher over the front door, it was obvious that this was my new home.

The driver left me with my bags at the entrance, while the cart was wheeled into a small cul-de-sac next to a burrow cut into the side of a hill. The ant waited with some impatience until the harness was released, and then it immediately scuttled into its rustic stable.

The tallest building in town had a squat wooden tower, from which the sounds of a single bell could be heard pealing. I tucked my bags just inside the door of the barracks, and picked my way down the wooden sidewalk to get a closer look.

The Temple of Fuma, for that's what it was, was not without its charm. There were few pews, just two short rows in the front, and a set of rough benches running parallel against the walls. The prayer-rail really was a rail that looked like the sibling of some I'd seen on the farms on the way in. The lectern was a simple affair, a table upon which the Book of Prayer was propped. There was only one window, at the rear of the temple, which showed Fuma tenderly cradling the world on Her lap.

The use of candles was economical, far from the temples I'd seen in Albric Tor, which set up a mighty blaze of heat and scent. Here, there were a few small ones in honour of the Lady, and one next to the lectern.

An old rabbit-femme was working busily at the organ, a tiny affair that had probably seen much service, and better days. It wasn't doing justice to her experience, but at least one did recognize the tune.

I made my bow to the Lady, and, uncertain of my place, I sat at one of the rough benches. I took my pocket Book of Prayer from my tunic and flipped to the number of the reading that was marked next to the lectern.

Before long, in twos and threes, other worshipers came in, all of whom seemed to be farm families from around the village, and all of whom were lepines. They looked at me somewhat curiously as they passed toward the front pews, and the one or two rabbit-kits present shyly waved at me. (I waved back.)

The priest of Fuma, a tall, elderly fellow with a squint, gently tottered up to the lectern as the last wheezing notes from the organ fell still. He wiped his spectacles on his cassock, perched them on his nose, and looked up. He noticed one thing out of place; namely, me.

"Oh! Oh, I say, young man. Errr. There is a seat up here, you know." He deferentially pointed out a spot on the aisle. There was some slight budging, and I fit in all right, as the priest blew his nose, and began the service.

I've been at services at the Cathedral in Albric Tor, where they really do a splendid job, from the music, and the musk, and the quality of homilies. Now, granted, there you have the support from all the monks and the nuns, not to mention the priestly families. But for all that, there is something primal about Evesong in a small, rustic temple that is more moving. It makes you think this is what it was like, in the Long Ago.

The service was a short one, being Evesong and all, and within twenty minutes or so, the farmers and their families had all dispersed to their carts, though not before rough paws (male and female) shook mine silently.

I had just pocketed my Book of Prayer and had turned to the door when there was a polite coughing. It was the old rabbit-femme, who as it turns out was the good wife of the Curate. Reverend and Mrs. Greengrass expressed restrained and dignified pleasure that I had chosen to join them for Evesong, and would I be making regular appearances at services? I did tell them that I did not know how much my duties would take up, but that if that night's services were any indication, attendance as often as possible could be assured. An invitation for tea at the Rectory quickly followed, time open.

"Err, Corporal, if you can, do enquire how your Captain is doing. I hope he is feeling rather better."

I swiveled an ear. "He's been sick?"

"Oh, my, yes, isn't that right, dear? Captain O'Bloom isn't a very strong fur, I think. Still, perhaps, there's always hope."

That didn't sound very promising, and I asked about his subordinate. This got a puzzled reaction, not much clarified by Mrs. Greengrass.

"I honestly can't say, Corporal. He's a very busy fur, Lt. Kedgeay. Always rushing about. Especially after his Sergeant disappeared last year."

"I'm sorry, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes. Here one minute, gone the next. No one knows quite what became of him. I certainly hope it wasn't one of the bogs. Though there's always hope, isn't there, dear?"

The Curate blew his nose again and opined that Hope and Fuma's Love were what drove the world around on its axis.

"If you do see Lt. Kedgeay, give him my regards."

"I see. What species is he, so I recognize him?"

This proved to be a baffler for the pair, who after a minute of anxious thought, sheepishly admitted they didn't know. He might have been a mink, but it was somewhat hard to tell.

With dignified waves and benedictions, the pair bid me good night as they locked up the Temple. I headed back to the barracks.

As I pushed open the door, there was a sound of laughter and good-natured chaffing coming from the centre of the building, which turned out to be a mixture of kitchen, sleeping-chamber, drill-room and entertainment area. Upon closer examination, the source of the chaffing appeared to be the menu.

A rat with a somewhat unusual overbite was pointing at his meal. "'ere! Wot's this strange thing in me bowl, then?"

A goat immediately leaped to his hooves, shushed the crowd, and tiptoed over to the bowl, examining it with mock fear. From a safe distance, he gently poked at the bowl.

"Good heavens! I think it's food!"

The laughter this produced was universal, save for the cook, who gave to the goat a two-fingered benediction. He looked up, saw me standing at the table, and immediately came to attention. The others, after briefly wondering what had gotten into him, saw what he was looking at, and came to attention as well.

"As you were."

They all sat down and began to eat, mixed in with some curious glances in my direction. I fetched my mess kit, and was given a few ladles of something or other, as well as a few slice of rather oddly cut bread.

A few spoonfuls convinced me that the goat may not have been kidding. Speaking of which, he grinned insanely at me as I shoved the bowl away.

"Look on the bright side. It's either very bad sewage or delicious poison. Would you like a pudding suggestion?"

"What?"

"Run!"

I contented myself with chewing on the bread, which at least was somewhat edible. One of the squaddies offered to show me to my room. Apparently, as corporal, I rated a room.

In glottal tones, he informed me that "Ooo isn't enoof room t'swoong a dead cat in 'ere." He was right. Outside of my cot, and a table with a cracked jug and a bowl, there was not only not enough room to swing a dead (feral) cat, but probably not enough room to swing a dead (feral) mouse, either.

I sighed, and retrieved my orders from my bag. Emerging from my Wooden Maiden, I buttonholed the goat, and asked him to point out where Captain O'Bloom was. He sadly shook his head.

"Sick, Corporal." He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Lurgi."

Moving beyond that puzzling reference, I asked him where Lt. Kedgeay was. The goat (Pte. Millwright) indicated that the officer had been near the stable when I came in. He thought. Had I seen him?

"I don't think I recognized him. What species is he?"

Millwright scratched a horn. "I think he's an elk."

"You think?"

"Well, he is busy."

Peering into his room, which was at least sized for a normal fur, disclosed a neatly made bed, a locked trunk, and not much more. Another glottal-voiced squaddie, a badger named Hedgeton, observed my look of irritation.

"Always bluidy in a rush, 'ee is. 'ardly ever see 'ide or tailfur of 'im."

"What species is he?"

"Fox. No. Wait. 'ee's a wolf. 'at's right, ee's a wolf. Wolf, wot looks like a fox."

"Fuma's teeth! Haven't you ever seen him?!"

"'ere's always 'ope, Corporal."

At this point, sick room or no sick room, I decided that I had to pay a call upon my putative commanding officer, who appeared to also be the only soldier, save myself, above the rank of private. His room was up a rickety flight of wooden stairs, to the second level of the barracks. A neat sign outside read "Capt. L. O'Bloom."

I knocked on the door.

"Go away, damn you, I'm not a well fur."

"Excuse me, sir, I'm Corporal Winterbough."

"Who?"

"Corporal Winterbough."

"There's no Corporal Winterbough here. You're quite mistaken."

At this point, I decided that King's Regulations or no King's Regulations, I'd had enough. I opened the door, glared in, and snarled that I was Corporal Winterbough, W., 612397, reporting for duty.

The principal decoration of my CO's room was an ornate bed, in which said CO, a walrus, lay ensconced. He was wearing a smoking cap, a quilted dressing gown, and one slipper. One foot was gently feeling for the other slipper, which was about two inches too far. With a sigh, he gave up the effort, and fell back on his pillows.

"I tell you, sir, there's no Corporal. Oh, wait, you say you're Corporal Winterbough? Well damn it, man, why don't you report to Lieutenant Kedgeay?"

"I can't find him, sir."

"Well, Fuma's oculars, lad, you can't miss an eagle."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Only by rumour. What's that you have there in your paw?"

"My orders, sir. They're for you."

"Oh. Well. Put them on the night-stand there, and I'll deal with them in due course."

"Yes, sir. Sir? I'd like to get the men to..."

He waved an irritated flipper at me, and groaned. "Ugh. Thinking about that makes my vision go wobbly. Don't care what you do, lad, just don't wake me."

With that, he started to reach for a book on the far nightstand. He was still making a game effort when I slammed the door on him, provoking a yowl of anguish and pain.

The squaddies, as soon as they saw me coming, began to busy themselves with their kit. The buckboard-driver (Pte. Plimsoll), came up to me, reeking of Soldier's Friend.

"We reckon at any road, tha wants an inspection t'marrah."

This, along with what appeared to be authentic activity among the platoon, managed to get my temper down from gale to a brisk breeze. I informed the squaddies that yes, it would be my distinct pleasure to see them tomorrow morning, before breakfast, with full kit on display. They snapped to it.

I unpacked my kit bags, an exercise that was like one of those sliding-block puzzles where you try to get the one empty space from one corner to another. Sweating and cursing, I managed to do it. I felt that I had earned myself a drink of well-water, and after getting directions, found it, slipping in the dark only twice.

I inspected the two furs who were on overnight guard duty. Wisely, they were wearing regulation leather helmets, and had their spears ready. After a brief conversation, we established the challenge and counter-challenge for the evening. I was about to go in, when something occurred to me.

"If either of you see Lt. Kedgeay, will you wake me up? Don't worry about the hour, just wake me up."

"We will, sir. Err. Do you know what he looks like?"

"I just got here. How the hell would I know what he looks like? Don't you?"

"Not really, sir. I've never met 'im. But there's always 'ope, isn't there?"