FA+
Shop
477
Views
Views
2
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / General Furry Art
Species Cheetah
Size 120 x 68
File Size 52.9 kB
Report this content
More from Walt46
Listed in Folders
Apotheosis
A Spontoon Island story
© 2005-2023 by W. D. Reimer and M. Mitchell Marmel
All characters © their respective creators
Thumbnail art by Stock Footage
Four.
Father Timothy waited at the door as Stagg was brought in, and he smiled and took Rosie’s and Willow’s paws as they entered. When they were seated, there was a brief silence as Rabbi Steinmink, wearing his shawl and yarmulke, stood and hobbled to the podium. He walked with the help of two canes, and a constable assisted him to the lectern then stood behind him.
“Hello,” he said with an impish smile. “I have been asked by Mrs. Stagg to attend, and to recite the prayer that we call the Kaddish.” He closed his eyes and clasped his paws together as he started to sing in Hebrew, and Rosie shaded her eyes as she murmured the responses, thinking back to that dark day in 1944.
“Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash sh'mey raba, b'alma di v'ra hirutey . . . "
***
“Doctor! He’s stopped breathing!” Rosie gripped one of his paws as his chest suddenly lifted, then collapsed. Dr. Meffit moved her aside and started pumping his chest as the nurse loaded a long syringe with adrenaline. All Rosie could do was watch and she prayed silently.
***
"Yyam-lih mal-hutey b'ha-yey-hon uv'yomey-hon uv'ha-yey d'hol beyt yisrael ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v'imru amen.”
***
She had wired Willow as soon as he’d gotten sick; he’d been working far too hard for the Althing, damn them. She hoped that her step-daughter would find some way to get here in time, even if . . . even if to say good-bye, but there seemed to be so little time, and she was frozen to the spot in fear, and in hope.
***
“Y'hey sh'mey raba m'varah l'alam ul'almey alma-ya.”
***
"Da?!" Suddenly, Willow was in the room.
***
“Yit-barah v'yish-tabah v'yit-pa-ar v'yit-romam v'yit-na-sey v'yit-hadar v'yit-aleh v'yit-halal sh'mey d'kud-sha, b'rih hu, u’leyla min kol bir-hata v'shi-rata tush-b'hata v'ne-hemata da-amiran b'alma, v’imru amen.”
***
The paw holding hers tightened convulsively as Franklin started coughing.
***
“Y'hey sh'lama raba min sh'ma-ya, v'ha-yim aleynu v'al kol yisrael, v’imru amen.”
***
As tears suddenly sprang into her eyes her husband blinked up at Doctor Meffit. He said weakly to the skunk, “This is beginning to be a habit, Doctor. . . ”
***
“Oseh shalom bim-romav, hu ya-aseh shalom aleynu v'al kol yisrael, v'imru amen.”
***
"Da? It's me. Grace."
"G-Grace?"
"Yes, Da. It's me. You're going to be all right. We're all going to be all right . . . "
***
Rosie sighed to herself. And we were all right. Took Franklin a month or so to get back on his feet, but it worked out pretty good. Franklin hardly ever had a sick day after that, until now. Last year or so, well . . .
***
Father Timothy shook paws with the aged rabbi when he had finished, then performed the rest of the brief memorial service. No Mass was sung. Stagg was laid to rest in a niche beneath the stained-glass Cenotaph dedicated to his first wife Diana and the fawns that he had lost to the Red Fist. Over the resting place was the inscription:
There was little else to say. After a decent interval, the families departed the chapel.
***
Outside, a low buzz filled the air as the families made their way to the watertaxi dock.
"Cup-er, Inocenta . . . where've Les and Les Junior gotten off to?" Rosie asked. "Haven't seen them all morning."
The buzz became a roar. Inocenta laughed delightedly. "Ah! Is surprise! Now you see!"
On any given day, there are probably a hundred or so aircraft in and around the Spontoon Independencies.
It appeared that someone, presumably the president and CEO of duCleds Chemicals, Inc., had arranged for them all to take to the air simultaneously.
Over the strip of water they came; fabric covered biplanes from the Great War and the decades after, with one SPAD S.VII lovingly but somewhat incorrectly painted for the New Haven Flying Corps, complete with rather risqué fuselage art. Low winged monoplanes of the 30's and 40s, civilian and military . . . the multiengined planes, two flights, the first one featuring a gleaming B-25 turboprop in the lead position . . . "Aha!" Rosie murmured, blinking back tears.
All flying in "V" formation.
All with one wingman missing.
The aviators of Spontoon Island mourned the loss of one of their own, the former commander of the WWI New Haven Flying Corps. No matter if Stagg had mostly flown a desk, he'd still been one of theirs.
With a roar, two flights of jet seaplanes, Rain Island KV-13s, did their flyby in honor of Stagg.
There was a diminishing silence as the other planes departed the airspace, circling and heading for their bases and airstrips.
Then, with a bloodcurdling scream, five deltawinged blurs shot down the strip. The Silver Eagles had been in the Spontoons in advance of Speed Week, and obviously Leslie had talked them into joining in. They were quite possibly the most eccentric military precision flying team in existence (they used stock RINS Saab 'Draken' fighters, practiced as extra duty on evenings and weekends and scornfully disdained the sobriquet 'elite'), delighted the ever growing crowds on all the island beaches with a fifteen minute precision display, leaving contrails and multicolored streams of smoke as they looped, did low altitude passes, bomb burst formations and barrel rolls, finally doing one screaming high speed pass down the strip in the ‘missing man formation’ before returning to their base on Moon Island, landing and taxiing back to their hardstands in formation.
The final pass served as a signal. Huge plumes of smoke rose from the beaches of Main Island as boats from all over Spontoon converged for what promised to be the Mother of All Potlatches.
Rosie stared at the spectacle. "I . . . I think we're doomed to be Entertained."
“Wow,” Ciss said.
Willow nodded. "I'm afraid so. Best get over there before they insist on a Viking funeral."
Despite herself, Rosie laughed uproariously.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2005-2023 by W. D. Reimer and M. Mitchell Marmel
All characters © their respective creators
Thumbnail art by Stock Footage
Four.
Father Timothy waited at the door as Stagg was brought in, and he smiled and took Rosie’s and Willow’s paws as they entered. When they were seated, there was a brief silence as Rabbi Steinmink, wearing his shawl and yarmulke, stood and hobbled to the podium. He walked with the help of two canes, and a constable assisted him to the lectern then stood behind him.
“Hello,” he said with an impish smile. “I have been asked by Mrs. Stagg to attend, and to recite the prayer that we call the Kaddish.” He closed his eyes and clasped his paws together as he started to sing in Hebrew, and Rosie shaded her eyes as she murmured the responses, thinking back to that dark day in 1944.
“Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash sh'mey raba, b'alma di v'ra hirutey . . . "
***
“Doctor! He’s stopped breathing!” Rosie gripped one of his paws as his chest suddenly lifted, then collapsed. Dr. Meffit moved her aside and started pumping his chest as the nurse loaded a long syringe with adrenaline. All Rosie could do was watch and she prayed silently.
***
"Yyam-lih mal-hutey b'ha-yey-hon uv'yomey-hon uv'ha-yey d'hol beyt yisrael ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v'imru amen.”
***
She had wired Willow as soon as he’d gotten sick; he’d been working far too hard for the Althing, damn them. She hoped that her step-daughter would find some way to get here in time, even if . . . even if to say good-bye, but there seemed to be so little time, and she was frozen to the spot in fear, and in hope.
***
“Y'hey sh'mey raba m'varah l'alam ul'almey alma-ya.”
***
"Da?!" Suddenly, Willow was in the room.
***
“Yit-barah v'yish-tabah v'yit-pa-ar v'yit-romam v'yit-na-sey v'yit-hadar v'yit-aleh v'yit-halal sh'mey d'kud-sha, b'rih hu, u’leyla min kol bir-hata v'shi-rata tush-b'hata v'ne-hemata da-amiran b'alma, v’imru amen.”
***
The paw holding hers tightened convulsively as Franklin started coughing.
***
“Y'hey sh'lama raba min sh'ma-ya, v'ha-yim aleynu v'al kol yisrael, v’imru amen.”
***
As tears suddenly sprang into her eyes her husband blinked up at Doctor Meffit. He said weakly to the skunk, “This is beginning to be a habit, Doctor. . . ”
***
“Oseh shalom bim-romav, hu ya-aseh shalom aleynu v'al kol yisrael, v'imru amen.”
***
"Da? It's me. Grace."
"G-Grace?"
"Yes, Da. It's me. You're going to be all right. We're all going to be all right . . . "
***
Rosie sighed to herself. And we were all right. Took Franklin a month or so to get back on his feet, but it worked out pretty good. Franklin hardly ever had a sick day after that, until now. Last year or so, well . . .
***
Father Timothy shook paws with the aged rabbi when he had finished, then performed the rest of the brief memorial service. No Mass was sung. Stagg was laid to rest in a niche beneath the stained-glass Cenotaph dedicated to his first wife Diana and the fawns that he had lost to the Red Fist. Over the resting place was the inscription:
FRANKLIN JUNIUS STAGG
1885-1960
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHERThere was little else to say. After a decent interval, the families departed the chapel.
***
Outside, a low buzz filled the air as the families made their way to the watertaxi dock.
"Cup-er, Inocenta . . . where've Les and Les Junior gotten off to?" Rosie asked. "Haven't seen them all morning."
The buzz became a roar. Inocenta laughed delightedly. "Ah! Is surprise! Now you see!"
On any given day, there are probably a hundred or so aircraft in and around the Spontoon Independencies.
It appeared that someone, presumably the president and CEO of duCleds Chemicals, Inc., had arranged for them all to take to the air simultaneously.
Over the strip of water they came; fabric covered biplanes from the Great War and the decades after, with one SPAD S.VII lovingly but somewhat incorrectly painted for the New Haven Flying Corps, complete with rather risqué fuselage art. Low winged monoplanes of the 30's and 40s, civilian and military . . . the multiengined planes, two flights, the first one featuring a gleaming B-25 turboprop in the lead position . . . "Aha!" Rosie murmured, blinking back tears.
All flying in "V" formation.
All with one wingman missing.
The aviators of Spontoon Island mourned the loss of one of their own, the former commander of the WWI New Haven Flying Corps. No matter if Stagg had mostly flown a desk, he'd still been one of theirs.
With a roar, two flights of jet seaplanes, Rain Island KV-13s, did their flyby in honor of Stagg.
There was a diminishing silence as the other planes departed the airspace, circling and heading for their bases and airstrips.
Then, with a bloodcurdling scream, five deltawinged blurs shot down the strip. The Silver Eagles had been in the Spontoons in advance of Speed Week, and obviously Leslie had talked them into joining in. They were quite possibly the most eccentric military precision flying team in existence (they used stock RINS Saab 'Draken' fighters, practiced as extra duty on evenings and weekends and scornfully disdained the sobriquet 'elite'), delighted the ever growing crowds on all the island beaches with a fifteen minute precision display, leaving contrails and multicolored streams of smoke as they looped, did low altitude passes, bomb burst formations and barrel rolls, finally doing one screaming high speed pass down the strip in the ‘missing man formation’ before returning to their base on Moon Island, landing and taxiing back to their hardstands in formation.
The final pass served as a signal. Huge plumes of smoke rose from the beaches of Main Island as boats from all over Spontoon converged for what promised to be the Mother of All Potlatches.
Rosie stared at the spectacle. "I . . . I think we're doomed to be Entertained."
“Wow,” Ciss said.
Willow nodded. "I'm afraid so. Best get over there before they insist on a Viking funeral."
Despite herself, Rosie laughed uproariously.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cheetah
Size 120 x 68px
File Size 52.9 kB
Comments