Echoes

by Tempe O'Kun

  I pretend my trousers aren’t feeling a trifle confining. “Not at all, though you are a trifle manly.”

  Rising, squeezing my legs in hers, she plants a row of kisses up my muzzle. “Seems you need remindin’ a’ just how manly I ain’t.”

  Paws working with a gunslinger’s speed, she undoes her vest. We both blush, heat running through my whole body, save where I’m gripping the bottle. I set it down.

  Reaching up, my wings explore her fur. Sandstone gives way to alabaster, sunlight blooming behind her. My world runs awash in pink and whites, sunlight streaming through her rose quartz ears like the heavens parting. She sighs, my breath is stolen, and I lose myself in them; those endlessly complex veins dragging me down, down, down, past the curve of her breasts to the slope of her hips as my wings trace up under the vest along her naked back.

  As we get to kissing, I wonder how I’d ever thought the day was hot before now.

  Chapter 6

  “She’s the Banana Spirit.”

  Boots crossed on the hearth, I watch the sheriff read in firelight. The expression on that foxy muzzle doesn’t tell me much. Lawbat’s more of a puzzle than I gave him credit for. I’m dreadful fond of the fool, so I ought to at least take a crack at solving the pretty little puzzle beside me.

  I take a deep breath, stretching to make it look all easy and not like I’d been stewing it over in my head. “So tell me about bats.”

  Those delicate eyebrows rise from concentration to suspicion. “Bats?”

  “Yeah. Ah mean, ah know ya cotton to songs and fruits and vests and such.” I scratch my whiskers. “Just wonderin’ what else there is to know.”

  Blake dips the book in his wing and looks at me askance. “Since when are you so interested in bat culture?”

  “What?” I try to shrug off his concerns. His living room sits dark, the only light from a quiet little fire. The dim firelight plays along the carved grapevines in his matched chairs. “Ah’m already taken with one bat; stands to reason ah might find the rest agreeable.”

  He leans back and crosses his wings. “And this isn’t a scheme to aid your thievery?”

  “Why’s everything gotta be a scheme?” My ears droop. I give him a glance sweet and warm as candied ginger. “What kind a’ sheriff convicts a bun for a little innocent curiosity?”

  “I am more familiar than most with your degree of innocence.” The lawbat sets his novel on the table, interest sparkles like gold dust in those brown eyes. “I believe that makes me more of a character witness in this case.”

  My paw waves his words off. “Our business with the ‘yote cave got me thinkin’...”

  He crosses his wings. “I admit my concern has not abated.”

  “Ah asked the deputy about them, which uncorked a generous pour a’ babble. Far as I could sort out, they’re all keen on down instead of up.” My paws dig a couple little scoops down at the air. “They see spirits and such as bein’ deep down in the ground, right?”

  “That is my understanding, yes.”

  “Well, hares spend spare moments lookin’ up.” A shrug rolls my shoulders against the back of the chair. “The more fearful sorts still trace out hungry monsters in the stars, but the most of us buns smile up at the moon rabbit.”

  Half a smile shines up his muzzle. “Moon rabbit?”

  “We hares insist it’s a hare, of course, but the name sticks.” I nod up at the window, where a slice of night is visible through the blinds. “You’ve never noticed the pattern looks like a bunny?”

  His pretty doe eyes trace the strip of sky. “No, but it wouldn’t be the first bunny to sneak up on me.”

  I step to the window and throw aside the curtain I’m normally thankful for. “Come ‘ere and look a second.”

  The lawbat stands up and breezes over.

  I take him by the shoulders and point his fuzzy little muzzle up at the full moon. “See, she’s got two ears goin’ off to the left. Standing up over a mortar and pestle, or a witch’s cauldron if you’re of a hocus-pocus bend.”

  Riled up to the point of sass, he casts me back a smarmy smirk. “And that’s how bunny ladies got so bewitching?”

  My ears heat up like a desert noon. “Ya gonna let me tell mah story or just butter me up?”

  He looks back out the window. “Please continue.”

  A tide of chatter tries to wash us on from my blush. “So ah figured: if bunnies and ‘yotes think that different about things, how different are bats?”

  “Well, we have at least a few points of commonality, many of which you’ve discovered.” He nuzzles in at my neck.

  I give a light chuckle, but don’t let him shake my aim. “Ah’m being straight here, Jordan. You and I, we’re on this road for the long haul, right?”

  My pretty little bat leans back and studies my face. A sparkle more than mischief touches his eyes. “Yes.” He winces and looks out the window in the hope I won’t see him blink away the mist. “That is, I am if you are.”

  I clear my throat and steel myself against a tender tangle of feelings in my chest. “All that bein’ the case, ah reckon it can’t hurt to know a trifle more about each other. Where we come from and all that.” I stiffen and look out the window too, heading off a haze in my own sight. “Might help me make sense a’ yer batty tomfoolery.”

  Gentle wing fingers close around my paw. At the corner of my eye, his smile shines in the moonlight. “I’d like that very much.”

    

  We hop a train to Texas, which the lawbat tells me is the nearest place we can catch a true flying fox opera. The clattering passenger car’s near to empty. The sheriff occupies himself reading a paperback somebody left on a seat. Some manner of weasel romance, he says, full of twists and furious action. Reminds him of a whole mess of stories I’ve never heard of.

  When we run out of words, we watch the tiny civilized islands sweep by in the dusty vastness. Makes a bun think on the bigness of the world, seeing how long we can roll and still not be there. More than once, I’ve come near to falling asleep in the saddle, but the rattle and sway of a train is different from a pony.

  As night falls, we fall into an unsteady sleep. I couldn’t curl up with him in any properly improper way, lest some conductor walk in. Used his shortness to my advantage, though: leaning him against me so our heads don’t whack together with every jostle of the train. Woke up using his wing as a blanket, so I guess there is some goodness in the world.

  Stiff and sore, we stagger off the train and into the city. We heft our bags and walk through the crowded streets. As we leave the station behind, I puff little clouds of smoke. I never feel at home in a city. Too many pairs of eyes on me, so I can’t just let my guard down. Back in the desert, I can bounce right out of town whenever I need a breather. Tires a bun out, being a stone-hard gunslinger. At least I can be something else when I’m alone, or alone with Blake. I clap a paw on his shoulder. “So where’re we headin’, sheriff?”

  “The opera doesn’t start until tonight.” He checks his pocket watch.

  “So we find a hotel and some foodstuffs. Then what?”

  He fans the dust from my worn long coat. “I think we might be due for a little shopping.”

    

  Dressed to the nines, Blake and I pay for our tickets and make our way into the concert hall. Electric lights burn in their blown-glass bubbles and brand little squiggles and scrawls on my vision. Grand arches sweep this way and that.

  Various critters mill around in ace-high finery: tuxedo suits stuffed with ruffles, layer-cake dresses with shoulder poofs, and hats with feathers to rival my ears. A raccoon in a tailcoat chatters to his friends as we pass, a pastry in either paw.

  I’m dressed in a smart little jacket that covers my womanly and weaponry assets. Combined with a silver-button vest and some new pants, I manage to look sharp without being
useless. Even polished my boots for the occasion, after Blake’s considerable fuss. I won’t admit it, but doing so was probably for the best.

  Lawbat’s taken the excuse to drop all pretense of not dressing like a fruit salad. Every inch a member of the froufrou brigade, he’s smattered with embroidery and sparkling with spangles. He’s only wearing a waistcoat, rather than a jacket, as that’s the bat fashion.

  Everything’s varnished wood and patterned drapery as we climb the stairs. I rest a paw on his pretty little shoulder. “What’s the point in being a fella if ya dress as complicated as a lady anyhow?”

  “I take pride in my appearance.” He straightens the little vest, then turns a saucy eye my way. “You benefit from the same, when coerced into doing so.”

  A slight fluster prevents me from talking. Silly to get all namby-pamby over half a flattery, but I don’t get heaped with praise for my looks too often. I take his wing on my arm. We must be a striking pair, were anybody looking. Which they aren’t. I checked first.

  The lawbat leads me up more than a few flights of stairs. Whoever built this place must’ve forgotten not everybody has wings. At last, we come to a sort of sitting room with curtained archways leading off it.

  We reach our balcony and slip through the thick, whispering curtain. We’re high enough that one bounce could take me to the chandelier. “Ah know this is a batty affair, but why’d ya get us seats in the clouds?”

  He holds out the chair for me. “I felt a little privacy was called for.”

  “Blake, you cad!” Flopping onto the plush seat, I lean back at him for a grin. “You fixin’ to take liberties with me in this little box?” My paw sweeps out at the other balconies, each seating a few innocent opera-goers. “You’ll catch up on a lifetime’s worth of scandalizing.”

  His ears shoot up. “Six! I’d never suggest such a thing!”

  “Explains why ya need me around.” I kick my boots up on the railing.

  He gives them a dark look.

  “What?” After a mumbly moment, I put them back on the floor. “Ya saw me clean ‘em.”

  Curtains go up. Bunch of potted fruit trees poke up between painted wooden backgrounds. The band whips up into a bouncy tune.

  A flutter of fruit bats blows onstage like loose leaves. They strut and swagger, dressed in clothes to outshine even the opera crowd. Going by their crowns, they’re some kind of royal family. Thanks to the shape of the hall, I can hear their boast and babble, after a fashion. They take turns singing, but I haven’t the faintest notion what.

  My ears perk up straight, for all the good it does me. “Ah have no idea what these fools are sayin’.”

  He leans forward, his wing fingers on the balcony rail. “The lyrics are in Italian.”

  “They couldn’t even be bothered to put the thing in English?” I harrumph back into my seat. “Hope you’re in a mood to be mah translator.”

  “I don’t know Italian. Only Latin.” He unfolds the pamphlet he got at the door.

  I sputter and swing a paw open at the stage. “So we’re just gonna sit here like a couple a’ smiling lumps?”

  “The point is to appreciate the music, the pageantry.” He opens a leather case and pulls out a fancy little pair of binoculars.

  “Field glasses?” I smirk. “We spyin’ on the other boxes?”

  “These, my good hare, are opera glasses.” He offers them to me. “If you’d care for a better look.”

  I take the glasses and spy down at the actors. Gives me a fine view of their wild gesticulating. Then, through a puff of smoke, a sinister porcupine magician in a chili pepper hat turns up with a muzzle full of cackles. The royal family sings and squawks at him, but he does some manner of stomping dance and swishes a bunch of bright-colored ribbons at them.

  The music goes all serious.

  The porcupine sings a song. A skulk more flying foxes swoop in. These ones are draped in fiery colors. They dance and prance across the stage, bedeviling the royal family with pitchforks. Oh, and each pitchfork has little angry-looking chili peppers stuck on its tines.

  I turn to the lawbat, exasperating fast. “What is even goin’ on down there?”

  “One of the defining operas of fruit bat canon.”

  I cross my arms. “More like somebody ate a bad fig and had a fever dream.”

  Blake cocks an eyebrow at me. “And now we see why a private box was necessary.”

  I cast an eye around the other balconies. All sorts of bats are watching the play like it makes any sense. Suppose Blake’s right: they wouldn’t take kindly to my not taking to their little song and dance.

  On stage, half a dozen pint-sized bats bob out, dressed in round paper costumes painted pink, white, or black. They’re each holding a sock full of dust that looks like smoke when whacked on something or someone.

  With a held-back chuckle, I point down. “One way to keep the little brats out of trouble: dress ‘em up like a piñata.”

  “They’re the peppercorn devils.” His fingertip traces down the printed list of characters. “Lesser demons in the service of Pfeffer, the wicked spice sorcerer.”

  For all their impressive tongues, fruit bat culture doesn’t make a lick of sense. I fight a knock-out battle inside not to let word slip.

  The royal bats fly up to a painted wood tower and start dumping buckets of blue rags on their tormentors. The assorted devils just stamp about and wave their pitchforks. Two peppercorns knock into each other and tip over, but do an honest job of trying to look scary from the floor. More songs shore up this part of the production.

  I borrow the pamphlet long enough to read about how the whole stage is meant to bounce echolocation chirps just right. Even has some manner of fooling bats into thinking someone’s there when they’re not. That seems like the regular job of an echo, and being a bunny the refinement of various squeaks are lost on me. A flowery burst of fiddles draws my attention back to the stage.

  A new actor sways in, darn near taller than the scenery. She’s bundled in yellow silks and dabbed with green dye. Of course, she’s trumpeting a heroic song.

  I lean in to Blake. “Why’s that giraffe all painted up like a banana?”

  “She’s the Banana Spirit.” How he says these things with a serious face, I’ll never know. He gives me a look, then prods the pamphlet at me. “The cast list is right here.”

  While I’m sure it is, taking it from the lawbat just now is more than my prickly pride can bear. I feel thorny at being baffled by this fever dream of an opera, doubly so for knowing the fault’s all mine. I ran a thousand miles to get away from all this high-class humbuggery, only to sally forth back into it with all the sense of a March hare. Maybe I should’ve soaked up a little more culture while I could, before blowing away like a dust bunny to the desert. Can’t reckon why the lawbat puts up with my lack of refinement.

  A touch graces my paw. Jordan’s fingers curl around mine. He smiles, then leads my gaze with his back to the play.

  I squirm atop a pile of troublesome feelings, then brace myself and dare to look back at the battiness below.

  Below us, the Banana Spirit weaves a wobbly dance, hooves clacking onstage, spreading a squabble among the chili peppers. Or possibly a consternation. Either way, she keeps on crooning. The small army of peppers make moves to prod her with their pitchforks, but the towering lady swats them away.

  The evil magician starts on a song of his own, but ends up getting banished. Without a pause, the royal bats flutter down from their tower for a spritely dance with the Banana Spirit. And another song.

  Long after the curtain drops and the fruit bats finish their flutters of applause, I sit there staring. “What’d ah just watch?”

  “Intrusi Piccanti.” Lawbat flashes the pamphlet at me, which has the name.

  I narrow my eyes at him, like this has all been some kind of joke. “Don’t tell me
that’s the whole shebang.”

  Blake’s studying me, amused. “It is.”

  I pat his shapely little shoulder and surrender. “Take pity on mah folksy bumpkinery.”

  “The opera’s from the late 1600s, when a new wave of spicy peppers were introduced to the Mediterranean.” He swoops a wing at the stage. “The influx caused a culinary revolution and many fruit bats weren’t ready for it. Until ways of balancing out the piquant flavors were discovered, the peppers were seen as a menace.”

  “Y’all were oppressed by peppers?” I laugh a little. “Yer more tender than ah thought.”

  “Two hundred years hence, I have little trouble with peppers.” Blake puffs up. The opera has left him proud and extra fancy. “You, on the other wing, “

  My gaze drifts back down to the stage, as if it had any answers. The audience files out, already yammering about what a fine opera it was and how much sense it made. I can hear them walking past our curtains as they chatter toward the stairs.

    

  “Now here’s some bat culture ah can take in.” I lift the teacup to my lips, blowing at the steam.

  The hotel room around us is small but stuffed with finery. Lace curtains sway at the open window. The fireplace is scuffed and singed, but scrubbed newly clean. Patterns swirl under my fingers on the padded armchair. The table between me and the lawbat is delicate, but proud: not unlike the lawbat himself.

  “Fine black tea from the Orient...” With a tilt of his wing, Blake poured himself a cup of Earl Grey tea. “...with the peel of the deadly Bergamot orange.”

  I spy down into my cup at the tea leaves, but conclude the sheriff isn’t keen to poison me. “Who ever heard of a poison orange?”

  He folds up into his chair, his muzzle right over the tea. “Who ever heard of a bunny gunfighter?”

  “You may have a point, lawbat.” I sip at the tea. Still hot enough to hurt, but too good to wait for. The opera offers me a lot to think back on, but runs short on much I actually learned. Reckon it’ll take quite a number of days with the lawbat to get to know him right. Don’t mind terribly, seeing as those days come with nights.