The Tides of Avarice (8 page)

“You win some, you lose some,” said the physician, spreading his paws. “It's that horrible fact every doctor has to face.”

You win some, you lose some, thought Sylvester as he made his way home through the night. Keelhaul Levantes lost one and it was one too many. Why do I get the impression that from here on I'd better win everything there is to win, or I'll go the same way as Levantes?

News spread swiftly around the town about the mysterious visitor and his equally mysterious demise. In bars and eateries, huddles of people formed and dissolved as everyone wanted to exchange news and views about what had transpired. Of course, there wasn't any real news to share beyond the bare bones of what had happened, but that didn't stop anyone. The tale was embellished and further embellished, until a newcomer might have guessed that an army of ferocious weasels had arisen from the west and marched upon the land of the lemmings, only to be beaten back by a citizen militia led by the doughty Doctor Nettletree.

Luckily for Sylvester, no one could believe that somebody as unassuming as himself could have played any significant role in the proceedings, or even know very much about them, and so he was largely left alone by the gossip-mongers.

Naturally, it didn't suit Mayor Hairbell that the rumors should have placed Nettletree at the vanguard of the resistance rather than himself, and so he hastily convened a public meeting in the Town Hall to explain his side of the story. Sylvester went along because Viola had told him she was going to be there.

Just about everybody else in town was there, too. Looking around while they waited for Hairbell to appear on the dais at one end of the chamber, Sylvester became increasingly concerned by the uncertain faces he saw. If ever an army of weasels or any other form of life did attack, here was not a community geared to defy it. The lemmings seemed to have lost something, and for a while Sylvester couldn't put a mental finger on what it might be.

Then he had it.

What the lemmings had lost was their sense of identity. Once upon a time they'd had a strong feeling of community, of the ties that bound them together as citizens of the last great lemming stronghold in Sagaria. But things had changed since Hairbell had come to power as their mayor. Now the attitude seemed to be “every lemming for himself and the devil take the hindmost.” Oh, to be sure, this mentality hadn't infected everyone. There were lemmings like Sylvester and Mom and Viola and old Doc Nettletree and even older Celadon who still abided by the old ways, but it had influenced enough people so that lemming society as a whole was weakened. The people of Foxglove could find themselves enfeebled and directionless should they encounter any serious adversary, or any powerfully threatening circumstance.

Sylvester shivered.

These were gloomy thoughts to be having when you were holding the paw of the girl you thought you might just possibly, however unlikely it seemed to be on the face of it, be in love with.

As if hearing his thoughts, Viola turned towards him, a quizzical look on her face. “Are you all—?” she began, then her voice was drowned out by the ballyhoo of Mayor Hairbell appearing on the stage.

Once the audience had quieted a bit, the portly mayor started to address them. He spoke for a long time about his own magnificent achievements as their mayor, and confessed humbly to being perhaps the greatest leader the lemmings of Sagaria had been lucky enough to know.

“The secret of a safe and happy Foxglove,” he cried at one point, punching the air with a furry forepaw, “is a strong Foxglove. Foxglove is strong, thanks to my vision, and I intend to keep it that way.”

There were a few weak cheers, evidently enough of them to convince Hairbell the audience was as enthusiastic as he was, because, licking his lips, he launched into yet another fervent paean of his mayoralty.

Sylvester tuned in and out of the oration. Looking around him, he could see most of the citizens were doing much the same.

He squeezed Viola's paw tighter, and was rewarded by her squeezing back.

“So,” said Mayor Hairbell after the minutes had dragged on, “the purpose of this meeting is to reassure you all that you have nothing to worry about. Despite rumors to the contrary spread by our enemies, there was no army from beyond the Great Wet – just a single, solitary, criminal ferret, and even he came from nowhere more exotic than Ferretville. He was a con artist, my friends, a scumbag of the worst sort. The authorities in his hometown were close to arresting him, so he fled and arrived here in Foxglove, ready to play the same tricks all over again. But he had the, ah, misfortune to suffer a fatal accident here, no doubt after overindulgence in our excellent apple wine” – there was some tittering among the audience – “and even the best efforts of our revered Doctor Nettletree weren't enough to save him. Not that he merited saving, anyway. We're better off without him.”

To one side of the stage stood a lemming of such antiquity and venerability as to make Sylvester's boss, Celadon, look like a street urchin: High Priest Spurge. Spurge nodded his sage agreement with this last comment of Hairbell's.

Funny, thought Sylvester, how it's always those who tell you, “you're better off without so-and-so” that are usually the ones you're actually better off without. Only it's so infernally hard to get rid of them.

“So go to your homes now,” concluded Hairbell, “secure in the knowledge that my staff and I, not to mention our High Priest” – he cast a glance in the direction of Spurge – “have ascertained that everything is in safe paws and, er, that's that.”

“What did you think of it all?” murmured Sylvester to Viola as they jostled with the throng of lemmings leaving Town Hall.

“Absolute twaddle,” she replied cheerfully.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

By the weekend, everyone seemed to have forgotten about the dramatic events – everyone except Sylvester, Viola and, Sylvester assumed, Doctor Nettletree. It was as if the people of Foxglove had decided that, if they told themselves there'd never been an intruder, reality would adjust itself until this became the truth.

Sylvester arrived early at the temple for the weekly act of worship and, as always, found himself a seat at the back where he could easily vanish into the shadow of a pillar. Mom, whom he'd, as always, walked here with, sniffed at him as she went up the aisle and very pointedly selected a chair right in the middle of the front row. She knew precisely why he'd chosen such an obscure place to be during the service or, at least, she thought she did. It had been quite a few years since Sylvester had stopped thinking it was hilariously funny to poke out his tongue at High Priest Spurge during the sermon.

Today, Sylvester was in a sour mood. He watched with even more distaste than usual the various slow rites of the ceremony. His thoughts became especially acidic when High Priest Spurge – a lemming who'd taken the art of looking unctuous to a whole new pinnacle – trod solemnly to the front of the altar, from where he usually delivered his sermons. As always, his text concerned the great spirit Lhaeminguas and the glory of being chosen to go on the Exodus.

Sylvester could barely contain his anger as he listened. Ever since childhood he'd known this was all – what was Viola's word? – twaddle. But now he really knew. He had proof and the authorities in Foxglove chose to sweep this proof under the carpet because it clashed inconveniently with the myths and legends they preferred to believe.

Or did they truly believe in the myths? Maybe they just used the myths as a way of keeping everyone in line. This was a notion that hadn't occurred to Sylvester before, and he tucked it away at the back of his mind for deeper contemplation later. For the moment he had enough to occupy him just keeping his wrath in check – and it was important that he did so, for Mayor Hairbell had a nasty habit of planting agents in the congregation who were alert for any signs of dissidence.

But the agents couldn't read his thoughts.

He hoped.

The Great Wet Without End does have an end. Levantes told me that, and he should have known because he'd just come from the far side of it. It's just a . . . just a very large lake is all it really is. So Lhaeminguas was talking through a hole in his hat about this. So, if he could talk through a hole in his hat about one thing – one such important thing, how many other holes in his hat was he talking through?

High Priest Spurge's droning eventually came to an end, and everyone shifted in their seats in relief. Just the concluding hymn and the responsorial benediction to go, and then the devout assembly could flee the temple and start tucking into a hefty lunch and copious amounts of apple wine.

The hymn was, Sylvester knew, one of Viola's favorites, and he imagined he could single out her voice among the hundreds of the congregation.

As the last note tapered off, High Priest Spurge advanced until he was almost nose to nose with the lemmings in the front row. Rearing up on his hind legs, he raised his forepaws high to either side of him. As he spoke each line, the congregration responded as one, obediently echoing his pronouncements.

We are mindless lemmings.

Like all those of virtue,

we have forsworn independent thought,

and have devoted our lives to the following glorious leaders,

as the spirits have commanded,

We thank the Great Lemming Spirit Lhaeminguas,

for having given us leaders so noble and honorable,

as High Priest Spurge and Mayor Hairbell,

who labor for us, and for our children, and for all here in Foxglove.

It is thanks to them and to the Great Lemming Spirit Lhaeminguas that we are such a prosperous and proud community, and so shall remain for ever and ever.

It is our duty,

never to question why,

never to search and spy,

never to try to pry,

or we shall incur the everlasting damnation of the spirits.

For so it is written.

Amen.

High Priest Spurge bowed his head, as if in humility, and this gave the signal to everyone else there that they could finally begin to head for the doors. Sylvester hung back a bit, appalled, as he was after every temple service, by what he had just witnessed. Although he'd mouthed the responses – for fear that one of Hairbell's agents might notice if his lips were still – he'd been unable to bring himself to actually speak any of them. Whether or not there were any great lemming spirits in the sky was something Sylvester didn't think he knew enough about to judge, although he thought it exceptionally unlikely. Even if there were, surely that had absolutely nothing to do with the nauseating adulation Spurge demanded the congregation express toward those spirits, toward the town's sleazy little mayor and even towards the High Priest himself. Yet, no one else in the temple seemed aware of this at all.

Maybe, like me, a lot of them were just mouthing the words, Sylvester told himself, but he didn't believe it.

He hadn't even been mouthing the real responses. Face lit by radiant piety, he'd been saying things like, Spurge hasn't changed his underwear since this time last year.

A childish game, only one rung up the ladder from sticking his tongue out at the High Priest from behind a pillar, but it gave Sylvester much satisfaction.

He'd hoped for a word with Viola, but she was swept off by her family. Sylvester's mother would spend the rest of the day here in the temple conducting her own private prayers for the husband she had lost. Sylvester was on his own for the afternoon.

Mom had left food out for him at home, but he wasn't really hungry. He decided to go for a long stroll in hopes the fresh air would blow his mind clear of the gloom that always filled it after he'd attended temple.

It was the perfect day for a stroll: blue sky with streaks of puffy white clouds. On an ordinary day, it would quickly have cheered him – especially once he'd cleared the edge of town and was walking between fields, with the sunshine on his face and the smell of lilac in his nose, but today was different.

What finally distracted his mind from its blank dejection was the discovery by the side of the road of a pair of quill feathers that he could see would make perfect pens. The library was always on the lookout for new quills.

Celadon will be pleased with me, Sylvester thought smugly as he tucked the feathers into his vest pocket.

A few paces further along the road he found another pair, and he added them to his pocket. The four formed a little fence along the top of his pocket that he imagined looked quite decorative.

As he was straightening up for the second time, a movement on the road ahead of him caught his eye.

Lemmings don't have the most acute vision. Sylvester had to squint against the sunlight as he struggled to make out what had attracted his attention.

Yes, there it was. Someone was coming toward him along the dusty road. Sylvester wasn't frightened, even after his experiences the other night down by the river. The world was, he knew, a dangerous place, but all the really dangerous bits seemed to be a long way from Foxglove. Round here the worst that was likely to happen to a young lemming was getting stung by a wasp or scalded by a kettle.

Even so, Sylvester was puzzled by the distant figure. This was someone far larger than a lemming but, even as the shape became more distinct as the figure came closer, Sylvester couldn't identify what type of animal it was. It looked like a fox, he decided, but foxes were reddish-brown and white, while this newcomer's furry coat was varying shades of gray.

Whatever the creature was, it was limping.

Sylvester walked forward more slowly than before, becoming a little nervous for the first time. He drew his breath, ready to call out a greeting to the oncoming stranger, but the stranger beat him to it.

“Ahoy there!”

The voice had a foxy rasp. This must be a fox after all, just an unusually colored one. Maybe he came from another part of Sagaria where foxes were gray rather than red.

“Me?” said Sylvester, glancing back over his shoulder and then pointing at his chest.

“Aye, aye, guv'ner,” the fox answered. “I mean, ‘Yes, sir.' There ain't no one else on this road but thee and me. And I'm not so sure about thee.”