Chapter 4: Of Songs and Townsfolk Part 5

As we stepped out of the restaurant, the sun warmed my fur pleasantly. We had a new objective, and more things to observe. This would be a piece of cake. All I had to do was channel my inner Bruce Wayne, come to a brilliant conclusion about who called me here... oh, right, and solve the murder of our dear friend the bear. Almost forgot.

Mi Fan was looking at me like she knew exactly what I was thinking. Ha, as if she could guess what this brain contains. Trying is important, I suppose, but she’ll never fully succeed. I chuckled to myself as we walked, the metal ball dragging at my feet, making that rough sound I barely noticed anymore. People stared at us, some pointed and whispered. But I just smiled and waved back at them, as if we were the most charming tourists in the world.

“Mr. Ma... Mimic, we’re being followed,” Mi Fan said, her voice low but alert, while her fingers slid toward the kukri on her back.

“Yes, I know, his presence is very easy to sense. Put that away, my girl. You can’t make a scene just yet,” I told her with a smile as rigid as steel, while waving at a couple of curious villagers. “Just keep walking and talk to me about something you like.”

Mi Fan’s eyes widened, clearly surprised by my response.

“Well… if you ask me,” she began, her tone serious, as if she’d flipped some internal switch, “I really like Tai Chi martial arts. I’ve practiced a lot with my parents…” Her voice held pride, like she was part of some great ancestral lineage.

I gently patted her head, feeling her soft fur beneath my fingers. Poor thing. Here we were, on the brink of a new millennium, and she spoke as if we were in an epic drama. She needed to watch more TV. That would solve a lot of things, or at least give her more cultural references.

“Tai Chi, huh…” I murmured, smiling to myself. “I’m getting you a TV as soon as we get out of this.”

“That’s boring!” Mi Fan replied, pouting in a way that almost made me laugh, considering how serious she usually was.

At least she wasn’t thinking about our pursuer anymore. If someone was following us, it wasn’t hard to guess who it might be. I wanted to believe it was the idiot who wrote that poorly crafted ritual, seeking revenge. But there could be others, with darker intentions. Facing them now wouldn’t be the smartest move.

Fight or flee.

Fighting would be the quicker option. Mi Fan would probably help me take down whoever it was, but that would cause a commotion and put us in a delicate position. We didn’t want to be seen as troublemakers in such a small and paranoid town. On the other hand, fleeing would set us back, but we knew where we were going… the question was whether we were willing to lose time.

“Well, let’s go for a light jog.” I made the decision in an instant. Without a second thought, I grabbed Mi Fan by the waist and lifted her. The girl kicked the air a bit, surprised, but I was quicker.

With her in my arms, I sprinted at full speed through the cobblestone streets, the metal ball flying behind us like a feather. I could feel the wind in my fur, and although the ball dragged behind me, we were free. I waved at the villagers as we ran, enjoying the moment, turning from one street to the next, as if it was all just a game.

We ran like the wind, carefree, although the metal ball was a constant reminder of our situation. But we, for now, were the wind.

Mi Fan, however, having accepted her fate, just sighed silently, probably trying to understand why my solution to everything was carrying her like a sack of potatoes.

When I set Mi Fan back down, I dusted off my hands, pretending we had arrived exactly where we needed to be.

“Beep beep, end of the ride,” I said, doing my best taxi driver impression. “We’ve arrived at… somewhere interesting, I suppose.”

Mi Fan gave me a look that was somewhere between confusion and annoyance.

“Are we lost?”

“Lost? No, not at all,” I replied, smiling like I had everything under control. “We’re just exploring the scenery.”

She didn’t seem convinced. To be honest, neither was I. We had turned so many corners and streets that the place no longer looked familiar. The sun still warmed my fur, and the metal ball continued to drag at my feet like a reminder that none of this was as simple as it seemed.

“Mr. Ma… Mimic, do you even know where we are?” she asked, still blushing from the earlier conversation but clearly more focused on the important issue.

“Of course, little lady, of course I do,” I lied with a shameless grin. Finding my way around has always been one of my strong points. Or so we like to believe.

Finally, after a few more steps, we found ourselves in front of a large building that had a distinctly Maurian look. Wooden columns rose on either side of the entrance, giving it an imposing appearance, almost as if the place had been waiting for our arrival. Several rectangular windows watched us from the façade, and on the door, a modest sign hung that read, "House of History."

—Well, looks like we aren't t so lost after all —I said, giving Mi Fan a light tap on the head.

She didn’t respond, but her expression said everything: she wasn’t impressed.

—Here is where old books and forgotten secrets await us, Mi Fan. —I made a dramatic gesture, extending my arms toward the building.

The doors creaked as we pushed them open, as if the place wanted to announce our arrival. Mi Fan immediately let go of my hand and ran off to inspect every corner, making sure there were no threats. I figured, with all the running, we had lost our follower… for now.

The space was surprisingly large and clean, much more than I expected from a place called the House of History. There was something in the air that suggested this place was used regularly, that it wasn’t just a dusty museum full of forgotten memories.

In the center, there was a counter with a small bell on top, its simplicity striking. And above the counter, hanging on the wall, was a painting I couldn’t help but notice. It was a grand portrait of Lassi Mahayan, in her younger years, standing next to her father. The Mahayan patriarch. The cat in the painting looked a lot like us. With small glasses and a piercing gaze, it felt like he was watching us from the canvas.

—All clear, Mr. Ma... Mimic —Mi Fan reported from her search, taking my hand again as if she had grown used to it. Something about her calmness made me smile.

I lingered a moment longer, staring at the painting. I had never met the Mahayan patriarch. Funny. Now, I was the patriarch. The irony of it made me chuckle quietly, one of those laughs that come effortlessly. I made a playful face at Lassi’s portrait, as if challenging it from the present.

We and our strange luck. Me as the patriarch. If she only knew.

I looked around the lobby once more and decided to ring the bell.

A door creaked open softly next to us. From it, a tall, gangly hare stepped out, his age evident in every slow step he took. Despite his somewhat hunched posture, he wore a high-collared Maurian coat and a neatly folded handkerchief in his left lapel. What struck me the most were his glasses, identical to those worn by the Mahayan patriarch in the painting. As he approached with long strides, I could feel his gaze scanning us up and down.

We always notice that, when someone sizes us up as if mentally sketching us. It was like a scanner—calculated and precise.

—Welcome to the House of History, good sirs. My name is Rael, and I am the keeper of the valuable treasures hidden within these walls. —His voice was formal, measured, as he adjusted his glasses with one hand and pulled on a pair of spotless white gloves with the other. Everything about his appearance screamed control, from the perfectly folded handkerchief to the gloves that looked brand new despite his evident age.

When he reached us, he paused and executed a traditional Maurian greeting, bowing his body at a perfect 90-degree angle, hands open to the sky, as if offering something to the sun. The gesture was familiar, the Khanda Vaati, a greeting performed in Mauria since time immemorial to honor important guests.

I looked at him with a mix of surprise and amusement and, more out of politeness than conviction, I returned the gesture. We always know when it’s time to be diplomatic. And although the past sometimes feels like a distant echo, it never hurts to remember a few things.

—Welcome to our home, Señor Mahayan —the hare said as he stood before us. I felt my tail bristle instantly, a reflex I tried to calm unsuccessfully.

Mi Fan gave me a look, waiting for a cue, but her expression was as neutral as ever. Still, the silence screamed one thing: a miscalculation.

With as much warmth as possible and my best theatrical mask firmly in place, I smiled.

—Mah… Mahayan? —I let out a laugh that I hoped sounded casual—. Ha! No, no, if only I were as rich as the Mahayans. I’m poorer than the Conners in Roseanne. I wish I had their fortune. I’ve heard so much about them… their trains, their technology… but me, I’ve got none of that.

Before I could add anything more, Mi Fan decided to jump in, and what she said left me momentarily stunned:

—My father’s name is Mimic Fan.

What? A small twitch in my eye betrayed my surprise. Father? Father? Of course… Of course not. In town, we had said we were door-to-door salesmen and that she was my protégée. But now, I was her father. Perfect.

I had no choice but to roll with her improvisation.

The hare narrowed his eyes, clearly intrigued. It was obvious he didn’t entirely believe us.

—Fan… that’s Zhou, isn’t it? —he asked, eyeing me as if trying to connect the dots.

—Yes, well… I’m originally from Mauria, but I married into the Fan family. —I shrugged, pretending to be embarrassed—. And you know how the tradition is in Zhou. The parents wanted a son, so I took the family name. —I blushed a little, trying to cover my internal confusion with as much innocence as possible.

The man sighed, glancing at the portrait of Lassi Mahayan and her father.

—I apologize, it’s just… you really do resemble the Mahayans of old. Seeing you here… it’s like seeing those people who founded our wonderful town all over again. —His tone shifted to deep sadness—. All this old hare has left are dreams.

I took advantage of his shift in attention to give Mi Fan a loaded look. She stood perfectly still, as if she hadn’t noticed that we’d changed our story just a few hours ago. Gods, little lady, if we’re going to lie, the least we could do is be consistent.

One of the best things one can do is to be aware of how many masks you wear. I know, I've always been meticulous in keeping them neatly aligned, ready for use at the right time. We always knew how to wear them for our benefit, how to adjust them according to the occasion.

But now... now we had a loose thread. Mi Fan had dealt a clumsy blow to our alibi, and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Instinctively, I brought a hand to my white fur, stroking my face, trying to stay grounded, centered.

"Mr. Fan, are you alright?" I heard the hare say, his voice distant, almost detached, as he adjusted his white gloves.

"Call me Mimic," I corrected, my tone a little sharper than intended. "We're door-to-door salesmen, just passing through on our way to Svadhistana, but our car broke down." I tried to tie up all the loose ends, to pick up the thread we had lost.

The hare adjusted his glasses, his keen eyes calmly watching us. He was sizing us up again.

"And that ball on your foot?" he asked, with no trace of surprise, just curiosity.

Apparently, this man wasn’t aware of what had happened earlier in the morning. Which was... refreshing.

"Oh, your sheriff is accusing us of murder." I snorted, indignant. "Can you believe it? Like I'm Richard Kimble, fighting for my innocence while being chased by that stubborn detective—Gerard, of course," I added with a theatrical touch. "We're looking for the real killer. If you have any information to share, anything that might help us... it would be appreciated."

The hare stood still for a moment, as if he had stopped listening to us. He adjusted his glasses and looked at me with a coldness that chilled my fur.

"Who died?" he asked, his tone almost indifferent, as if life and death were mere technicalities.

"A bear. A mechanic." My eyes didn’t leave his movements; the way he adjusted his white gloves and smiled—a smile far too... empty.

"Oh, what a shame. Miles used to come here often," his voice was monotone, almost a whisper. "He was a regular at our house... I suppose I’ll have to recollect the files he borrowed."

"Files?" I asked, feeling the word bounce in the air. "This isn't exactly a library."

"Not exactly." The hare smiled, adding a touch of mystery to his words, as he pointed to a door at the back of the hall. "If it helps, we have a filing room behind that door. You can look through it if you wish, though I doubt it will be of much help in your... predicament." He adjusted his gloves again, straightening up as he headed toward the exit.

That bear, with his dull appearance, a keen reader? Zara Mina Shanti, we repeated in our head almost out of habit, a good luck mantra for the dead.

A bitter smile crept onto my lips. We still needed to learn not to mock the dead. But there I was, laughing on the inside, calling him a dullard even now.

I sighed and, out of obligation, repeated.

"Zara Mina Shanti. Good luck, bear... though I doubt you'll need it."

The mantra felt empty. A gesture without weight. We didn’t feel a thing.

"I'll go gather what Miles took."

The hare left, muttering under his breath, though I managed to catch:

"Idiot sheriff… no Mahayan could ever be a killer."