Spontoon Island

home - contact - credits - new - links - history - maps - art - story
comic strips - editorial - souvenirs - Yahoo forum
Posted 19 October 2009

The Devil Came Down to Spontoon
A Spontoon story
by Walter Reimer & Mitch Marmel




The Devil Came Down to Spontoon
©2009 by Walter Reimer and Mitch Marmel
(Inspector Stagg courtesy of Eric Costello,
Rosie Baumgartner courtesy of Mitch Marmel,
and The Visitor courtesy of Himself)




        Detective Sergeant Orrin F.X. Brush of the Spontoon Islands Constabulary was not a very happy fur. 
        To begin with, it was dawn.
        Second, it was distinctly chilly, even if the late October day promised to be unusually bright and sunny.
        Third (and most important, in his mind), he hadn’t had his morning coffee.
        Coming in at a close fourth:  the reason he was here on the shores of the Nimitz Sea at the eastern tip of Main Island. 
        Reports of strange goings-on had drawn a few constables away from their own morning cups, and apparently they were sufficiently stumped to call in the Detective Bureau.
        Orrin blew on his paws and grumbled, “At least I ain’t gotta bother th’ Inspector . . .”  His voice trailed off as he rounded a bend in the trail and stopped, looking out over the beach.
        Dead fish.
        There were easily a few hundred of them, washed up on shore.  A small knot of villagers stood together near the dune line, while a constable stood looking out at the sea, scratching his headfur.
        Brush stamped up to him.  “Is this what yez call me out fer?  Dead fish?  This’s a job fer those idjits in th’ Fisheries Min’stry, Chuck.”
        Chuck shook his head.  “Naw.  Somethin’ strange about this, Orrin.”
        “Oh yeah?  Like what?”
        “Smell fer yerself.  They ain’t stinking.”
        The fox looked at his brother officer, then walked down to the beach.  His nostrils flared as he breathed in.
        The breeze was coming in.  Salt, yes, along with the other scents of the sea.
        But no smell of dead fish.
        No smell of fish at all.
        One of Brush’s ears dipped as he looked out at the rising sun, puzzled.  He turned as one of the villagers called out and pointed, and he looked where the feline was indicating.
        A small swell was rising, independent of the waves.
        As the group watched a figure broke the surface and started to emerge from the surf.  Several furs rubbed their eyes in disbelief as the silhouette rose farther from the water and resolved itself into the last thing they expected to see.
        The figure was a tod fox, slim of build and looking as if he were twenty years old.  His fur was out of the ordinary for most foxes; while some were an apricot color, this man’s fur was the kind of red one normally associates with traffic signs.  He wore a fashionable gray worsted suit and a decidedly out-of-season straw boater.  There was a rosebud in his boutonniere and he walked with the aid of a thin black walking stick with a gold head.  He seemed to favor his left foot a bit as he stepped out of the water and onto the beach.
        Perfectly dry.
        It was as if the water had been afraid to touch him.
        The fox walked up the beach to where Brush stood and stopped.  He smiled and raised his straw hat in salute before reaching a paw into his suit jacket and removing a silvery fish about eight inches long.  He held it out to Brush, who, still stunned by the sight of the man coming out of the sea, took it.
        The tod spoke, in a clear voice that matched his youth.  “Good morning, Sergeant Brush.  How are Kiki and your children?”  Without waiting for an answer he started heading up the beach, the small knot of villagers making way for him.
        Brush shook his head suddenly.  He turned toward the fox and held the fish out accusingly.  “Hey!  Waitaminnit!  What’s this s’posed ta be?”
        “A fish, of course.”
        The burly Main Islander looked down to examine the fish he held in his paw, and suddenly spluttered as a gallon of icy seawater erupted from the fish’s mouth.  He held it away, and it stopped spewing.  When he looked at it again, it again sprayed water in his face.
        With a growl, Brush threw the fish away, and it stopped.  He walked over to it and stooped to examine it, and promptly got wet again. 
        One of the village children giggled, and was quickly hushed by her mother.
        The tod watched all this with a gentle smile.  “Why, Sergeant, I should have thought you worldly enough to not look a gift fish in the mouth.” 
        With that he continued on his way.
        Orrin Brush wasn’t usually moved to real anger, but as he blew the last of the water out of his nose his eyes glared balefully.  He tossed the fish aside and a practiced flick of his wrist put his blackjack solidly in his right paw. 
        He ran up behind the figure . . .
        “Orrin?  Orrin?  Wake up!” 
        Brush slowly became aware of a few things.
        He was lying flat on his back.
        His head hurt.  And, somehow, the damp fur on his muzzle had gained a sand crust.
        The paw patting his face was gentle, but as he became conscious Brush irritably batted the paw away.  “I’m okeh, I’m okeh.  What th’ hell happened?” he asked blurrily as he was assisted to a sitting position.
        Chuck looked nonplussed.  “I tell ya, Orrin, it was the craziest thing.”
        “So, yez gonna share it?”
        The other constable nodded.  “You were coming up behind him and he turned and looked at ya.  You stopped, and damned if you didn’t hit yourself with Headache Maker.”
        Brush was feeling the back of his head with a paw.  Sure enough, there was a sore spot back there, and a sizable lump was growing.  “How hard?”
        “Hard enough to knock you cold for half an hour.”
        “Half an – where th’ hell’d he go?” the fox blurted, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.  Some kind of wandering magician or hypnotist, Brush surmised, was not exactly welcome today.
        “He has gone, Karok-son-Karok, but he is still here,” said a stern female voice, and he made a respectful gesture as a canine woman wearing a bark-cloth skirt and various amulets on her arms stepped forward.  Behind her, the villagers started throwing the supposedly dead fish back into the sea, apparently on her orders.
        “Greetings, Wise One,” Brush said.  “You know about this guy?”
        The hound smiled.  “Last night I had a dream, and saw into fire to assure myself it was true.  This person is not a person.  He walks with Keyho-Raha-Raha and with Coyote.”
        The fox stared.  “Are we in any danger?” he asked in a quiet voice.
        “No,” came the definite reply.  “Nothing in my dream said anything of the sort, but take care, Karok-son-Karok.  Your favored weapons will not affect him, and guard your ears when he speaks.”  She signed a blessing over him and the villagers, then headed back inland.
        Orrin Brush stuck his Headache Maker back up his sleeve and squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the ache in his head.  It looked like it was going to be one of *those* days.
        And he still hadn’t had his coffee.

***

        The Day of Atonement had started with the previous sundown, and Rosie had felt the need to attend Temple.  A service was scheduled for that morning, and she didn’t want to disappoint Rabbi Steinmink.  The Jewish community on Spontoon was small (and even smaller in the off-season), and while she didn’t attend as often as she should have, the old rabbi had actually come to Luchow’s to remind her.
        “Franneleh.”
        “Mrrrmph . . . yes, Rosie?”
        A gentle kiss on a whitetail muzzle.  “Good morning.”  As Stagg’s eyes opened completely he saw his beloved standing over him with a tray in her paws.  “Breakfast in bed,” she announced, “to celebrate.”
        “Celebrate what?” he asked as he sat up in bed.
        The cheetah grinned.  “Your third night running with no nightmares,” she said.  She removed the cover from the tray with a flourish, revealing a bowl of steamed oatmeal with milk.  Fruit and fresh coffee accompanied the meal.  “Eat up.  We have to be at Temple by nine.”
        “I have to confess that I’ve only been to one synagogue in my life,” Stagg remarked as he started to eat.
        “Well, Rodent Shalom’s hardly a synagogue,” Rosie replied as she began laying out their clothes for the day.  “At least, not like the big grand ones you’ll find in New York.”

***

Later:
        “Psst. Franklin.”
        “Yes, Rosie.”
        “Your yarmulke.”
        “What about it?”
        The cheetah leaned closer.  “It’s on backwards.  People will stare.”
        She watched as the buck looked around a trifle nervously, then reached up and shifted the small skullcap around.  He resumed paying attention to the service, with only a few furtive looks to see if anyone had noticed.
        Rosie suppressed a smile.  She’d let him in on the joke later.

***

        “So, it was a joke?” Stagg asked, giving his companion a critical look.  They were walking back to Luchow’s for lunch after the service.
        “Just a little one,” Rosie admitted.  “A little trick to play on the goyim.  Doesn’t harm anyone.”
        “Hmmph,” Stagg snorted, but his smile told the cheetah that he’d taken the news well.  This made Rosie wonder just what Stagg might do to return the favor.
        When they reached Luchows, Vicky met them at the front gate.  “Rosie, we might have trouble,” the vixen said.
        “Oh?  Mooch decided to get pushy?”
        “Oh, nothing like that,” the former knife artist said.  “It’s just . . . this guy came in, took the Inspector’s table.  He said he’d wait, and ordered tea.”
        Stagg set his jaw as he repositioned his grip on his cane.  The idea that someone was waiting for him, specifically, could mean anything from a long-lost relative to an assassin from the Red Fist.  “I suppose I shouldn’t keep him waiting, then.”
        The fox sat at the table, spooning a bit of sugar into his tea and stirring as the buck and the cheetah walked up.  His cane and straw boater sat on the table, ready to paw.  He looked up with a cheerful expression and said, “Good morning, Inspector!  And Miss Baumgartner.  A pleasure to meet you in person.”
        Stagg’s eyebrows went up.  “You know us, sir?”
        “Oh, you might say I knew you before, my dear Franklin.  But I have you at a disadvantage.  My card,” and as if he were a conjuror the aforementioned card flicked into existence between two of his fingers, and he offered it to the detective.
        Stagg looked at it and noted that the heavy rag cardstock felt strangely cold to the touch.  In gold and black ink on the white card were the letters Louis C. Furre.  He showed it to Rosie, who gave a little start as she looked back at the fox.  “This tells me nothing,” Stagg said.
        “Pity.  I think your lady friend has her suspicions, though.”
        Rosie’s tail started to bottle out.  “Dybbuk,” she breathed.
        The tod grinned and nodded as he sipped his tea.  “Ah, you managed to recall your classes in schul, eh?  Old Rabbi Mordechai always did believe in a good old-fashioned education.”
        The cheetah gulped and said, “Franklin . . . he’s saying he’s the Devil.”
        Franklin Stagg appeared unimpressed.  “I’ve met many devils in my lifetime.  One more will make no difference one way or another.”  Rosie seemed to take heart from his words as he quite deliberately took a seat opposite the vulpine.  “I would need more than a card to accept your bona fides, sir.”
        Furre nodded judiciously.  “Oh, yes.  Quite right.  There are so many poseurs about lately.  And please, call me Nick, if you like.  Tell me, Inspector, how have you been sleeping?”
        Stagg’s jaw tightened perceptibly.  “I take it that you’re about to take credit for that?”
        “Heavens no.  I felt you needed a rest, Franklin, so I asked the Old Boy for – I guess you’d call it a favor.”  He smiled.  “Of course, there is always a quid pro quo – somewhere in Asia a repressive dictator lies dying of brain cancer.”
        Rosie scowled sarcastically.  “So, to what do we owe this mitzvah?”
        The restaurant’s cook, Nikolai Lopanearov, peered around the corner.  “What for else is the Devil coming to German restaurant in North Pacific?  Is to have nice . . .  Yom Kipper!”  He started laughing as he stepped back into the kitchen.
        The fox, the buck and the cheetah all looked heavenwards at this bon mot.
        Stagg said accusingly, “So, since you claim to be the source of my recent comfort, do you also claim to be at the root of all my misery?  Like having my wife and fawns come and torment me?”
        “As someone once told you, Inspector, that’s all in your head,” the fox demurred.  “There are some things I am not to be held responsible for.”
        “So why are you here?” Rosie asked.
        “A good question.  If you’re up on your reading, I walk all the time – it’s excellent exercise.  Besides, I am, after all, the one of whom a poet once said:
‘From the Eternal Sea he rises
Creating armies on either shore
Turning furs against their brothers
Until furs exist no more.’” 
        He paused to take a sip of his tea and Rosie said tartly:
“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon-y!
So take your poem and go on home
Or I’ll have you committed – you loony!”
        The fox snorted with laughter as he put his tea cup down and applauded.  He then cocked an ear at the canine skull that topped his cane.  He nodded and said, “I like you, Miss Baumgartner.  I’ll tell you a secret,” and he waved her close.
        Warily Rosie leaned over and his voice echoed in her head:  “You’ve made him happy, even if he won’t even admit it to himself.  Good job.”     
        “So, returning to the question, why are you here?” Stagg asked as Rosie straightened, backed away a step and looked down at Stagg with an odd expression.  “Come to torment me personally?”
        “Nonsense,” the fox replied.  “You do a fine job of that on your own.”  The fox's red-furred muzzle crested as he smiled, an expression that made Rosie's tail bottle out suddenly.  "I rarely take a personal interest in any one person - although I did make an exception in your case."  A pause.  "Two, actually, but only one by request."
        “Explain.”
        “As you wish.  There was a need foreseen, you understand, and the Old Boy asked me for a favor.  A favor that involved your father and a certain doe with the most striking violet eyes.”
        Stagg sat very still, his expression betraying no emotion, although a rippling under his fur revealed where his jaw was tightening.  “And what was the quid pro quo for that?” he asked in a tone just above a whisper.
        The fox’s brush flicked.  “Nothing much, I assure you.  Now, don’t start going all guilty about it,” he said with a flippant wave of a paw.  “None of it was your fault.  Honestly.”
        “You’ll forgive me if I choose not to believe the Author of Lies.”
        A shrug.  “Yes.  Rather unfortunate, that appellation.  Oh well, suit yourself.”  He lifted his cane to his ear, cocking his head at the likeness of a vulpine skull that now adorned it.  "Hm?  Oh yes, quite so.  Thank you, Asmodeus."
        Stagg frowned.  "You carry a demon with you?"
        "More like he carries me."
        “So, we have the first time you purportedly interfered with my life,” Stagg said.  “I can hazard a guess as to the second.”
        “You still believe that was your doing, and your decision,” Old Nick accused.  “You poor, prideful, willful old fool – had I not whispered in your ear at that moment, the Revolt would have been stopped, there and then.  And there’d be a statue of you on the Green, dedicated to the savior of New Haven.”  The look of gleeful satisfaction on the vulpine face set Rosie’s teeth on edge.  “But you listened, and things have fallen as the Old Boy and I have arranged.”
        “And what did you give up in return?” Rosie demanded.
        “Franklin Moosevelt,” came the ready reply.  “The poor fellow would have died of a stroke while campaigning in ’32, instead of his lamented passing four years later.  You see – or maybe you choose not to – everything has consequences.”  A smile, as thin as skim milk and about as palatable.  “Sort of a cross between free will and that dreadful predestinarian claptrap.”
        “So why come here now?  Is there something else you wish me to do, and in exchange for what?  The Red Fist spreading all over the world?” Stagg asked, his voice grating.
        The fox laughed.  “Hardly.  As I tried to tell you earlier, Franklin, I’m just passing through.  I’m on my way to Japan.”
        “To cause trouble?” Rosie asked.
        “Please, Miss Baumgartner,” the fox chided gently, “you have to allow an old man his few pleasures.  Why, I may even drop by New Haven.  Again.  Any messages for the folks back home, Inspector?”
        “No.”  Stagg sat back and steepled his fingers.  "So, to sum up:  You seem to have power, yet you rely on a complicated system of favors with the Almighty.  True?”
        “As far as it goes, yes,” came the equable reply.
        “Therefore you appear to have your uses, if what you say is true - which I rather doubt.  It's a pity so many furs no longer believe in you."
        "What do you mean?"  A frown crossed the fox's muzzle.
        "Belief confers power," Stagg replied.  "Greater belief, greater power, until you are strong enough to storm Heaven itself.  But with fewer and fewer to believe you exist, sir, you're reduced to exactly what I see before me - a clown, a low sort of comedian.  Reduced to using some second-rate parlor tricks."
        “Do not try my patience too far.”  The fox's fist tightened on his cane as his eyes suddenly glowed the color of erupting volcanoes.  The head of the cane, now displaying a tiger's skull, lifted to strike . . .
        Rosie gasped, and the spell abruptly dissipated.  The fox took several deep breaths as he slowly lowered the walking stick.  “I choose what form I may, Inspector.  And my ‘parlor tricks’ are merely masks for my true intent.  The chef would know it as a maskirovka.”  He reached out and his straw boater leaped into his paw.  He put the hat on and turned to go.
        He had barely managed half a dozen steps before Stagg called out, “Give my regards to Dante Alighieri.”
        The fox turned, lips curled back in a snarl.  “You dare name that libelous scoundrel?”
        The temperature of the surrounding air plummeted so fast that fog started to form close to the ground.  He raised the cane as he was suddenly there, standing over Stagg, looming over the buck like a shadow composed of darkness and fire . . .
        Rosie looked about frantically, grabbed something – a bowl - from a nearby table and threw its contents at the shadow.
        The fox resumed his earlier dimensions, coughing and spluttering.  “Woman!  What have you done?”
        “Holy water?” Stagg asked.
        “Chicken soup,” Rosie replied, sniffing.
        Old Nick growled indignantly, “Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to get schmaltz out of fur?”
        “Oh, well then,” Rosie said with a grin, “maybe I’ll try to rinse it out – with some holy seltzer water!”  She raised a seltzer bottle and promptly sprayed the fox, wetting the form down from head to foot.
        The fox screamed, his fur starting to boil as he began slumping to the ground.  “What have you done?  I’m melting . . . melting . . . what a life, what a life . . . “
        Vicky poked her head out of the kitchen.  “Shall I bring the dustpan and broom, Rosie?”
        The cheetah studied the expanding puddle judiciously.  “No, just a mop and bucket, Vicky.  Are you all right, Franneleh?”
        “Yes, quite fine.  ‘Holy seltzer water?’”
        “Why yes.”  Rosie’s face was a study in innocence.  “Haven’t you ever heard of Canticle Dry Seltzer Water?”

***

        The fox sat back comfortably in his first-class seat aboard the airliner that drew steadily closer to the Japanese Empire.  No matter what certain people may say, furkind was certainly progressing.
        He could hardly wait to see what the next few centuries had in store.
        His walking stick, the gold head now carved in a likeness of a corvine skull, looked up at him accusingly.  “Hmmph, ‘quoth the Raven,’ eh, Asmodeus?” he asked.
        The cane, as usual, said nothing audible.
        “Well, it was my own fault, I suppose,” the Devil said.  “A latter-day Job, with no inkling of how his self-inflicted misery affects those around him.  Perhaps I should have let him shoot all those people . . . “  He suddenly grinned.  “No.  New Haven’s certainly nicer now, and later on – maybe a century – it’ll be a joy to visit.”
        He patted his traveling companion and mused, “Perhaps I should drop by New Haven again, see how the place is faring.  Or – or maybe Germany.  Perhaps I can persuade the Old Boy to do me another favor . . . “
        His chuckle chilled the air around his seat.



end

?


Link Back