Silversion

by Rick Johnson

  “It’s fun,” the Wolverine replied enthusiastically. “Old Kin is short for Old Kinshy—that’s the ancient language of the Hedgelands, back when they started building Maev Astuté. When some of the Hedgies crossed the Dunesback Weir and discovered silver, lots of others followed. Crossing the Weir changed things. It’s such a barrier, and life has been so good over here, that pretty much everyone over here has completely dropped the old ways. You don’t hear anyone talking about the Crowning Glory or the sacred climb in Silverpreen, that’s for sure.”

  The Wolverine cracked her knuckles, and muscled past a couple of slow moving Coyotes. Then she continued. “Some of us would like to have lived on the other side of the Weir and done the sacred climb. So we added climbing dates to our names like the Old Kin do. Mine is 6049, so my Hedgie climbing name is Mutt-6049. I like to read books about the heroes of the Crowning Glory. There’s nothing more dangerous or glorious than completing the climb. No matter how many slide off into the abyss, the climbers go on forever. The stories say it’s like being part of a great, living machine—one endless line of stair-climbers carrying stones to build Maev Astuté. What greater glory could there be than making the sacred climb on that special day that’s especially my own? Young and old, male and female, sick and strong, rich and poor, all the Old Kin make the climb. It’s really wonderful!” She cracked her kuckles in excitement.

  Tē’d’Tē made no response. She’d seen the other side of the sacred climb. Braving howling winds, risking avalanches that swept dozens off the stairs, and struggling through ice and deep snow, the sacred climb was an ordeal of a special order. Even in summer, much of the ascent occurred in blizzard conditions. The ancient stairway wound its way across narrow footbridges swinging over deep chasms, cut steeply up its seemingly endless slopes, and crossed glaciers—hugging the mountain until it began to mount the castle spires of Maev Astuté. For Tē’d’Tē, carrying stones to build the castle was the ultimate symbol of the High One’s tyranny.

  “To the High One I owe my breath,” Knuckles replied. “If it be his will, as a loyal Hedgie, I submit. If I could leave Silverpreen, I would go on the sacred climb. I vow that, with just the clothes on my back, I would journey over the wild mountains, daring any poisonous snake or howling wind to stop me. Be it blood-sucking lizards, hunger, or lack of water, I wouldn’t stop until I’d carried my stone to the very top of that blessed castle! Of the very few in Silverpreen who now care for the Old Kin ways, I vow that I do care, and I revere the true meaning of the sacred climb.” Knuckles seemed to grow distant and detached from reality as she talked, furiously cracking her knuckles.

  “Sweet Ella!” the Weasel breathed, realizing that Knuckles seemed a bit deranged on this topic. “All right, well that’s a lot to look forward to, Knuckles,” she said.

  “In the climb,” Knuckles added happily, “you give yourself to the Crowning Glory of the Hedgelands—Maev Astuté—the greatest work of the Old Kin. Sometimes when I’m climbing these stairs, I imagine I’m making the sacred climb. I’ll pretend to be one of the great heroines of the climb—my favorite is Razzorr-0818. She made the climb five times. Once for her own climbing day, and four times as a stand-in for Poolytucks. You know—the ‘sitters’ who are too old or weak to undertake the ordeal themselves. Can you imagine? Completing five climbs to Maev Astuté?”

  “Yes, that’s pretty amazing,” Tē’d’Tē agreed, thinking how much the Wolverine was missing. “So, Knuckles, how does all this sacred climb stuff square with your devotion to accumulating preen? They don’t seem to mix very well,” the Weasel observed.

  “Whatever I do to survive in Silverpreen has nothing to do with what I really believe,” the Wolverine declared fiercely. “And besides,” she continued, “the Hedgelands itself is a sacred order, don’t you see? Both the climb and preen are sacred in their own way. Depending on where you are, devotion to one or the other is the foundation of law and order—everything depends on one or the other. Here, preen is king, and I’m devoted to it. There, the sacred climb is king, and I’m devoted to it. The High One rules all, for the good of all. Both the sacred climb and preen make us civilized, rather than mere savages. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

  “I know it seems strange to you,” Tē’d’Tē replied, “but I just can’t help seeing things differently. Guess that’s my curse in life.” Considering all she had seen and heard, Tē’d’Tē found Silverpreen mystifying. She was coming to realize that, in crossing the Weir, she had landed in a world almost no one knew existed on the other side of the Weir. Surely the High One must know? How could such a fabulously wealthy land exist and yet no one know?

  Trallé Racing

  Tē’d’Tē supposed the sun must be near to setting as they stopped at the door of Currie’s flat. With no windows, or connection to the outside, she could only guess at the time of day, but the dull tiredness in her bones said that the day was now far gone. The weariness of the long ride on the dragon train was now joined by a creeping sense that she was just plain end-of-day tired.

  Currie put her key in the door and pushed. The door did not budge.

  “What the…” she said.

  “Remember boss,” Knuckles said, pushing Currie aside, “we changed the lock so it takes both our keys to get in.” Putting her own key in the lock, she pushed the door and it swung open.

  “Yeah,” Currie laughed, “as we’ve accumulated preen, we realized a little more security might be a good idea. Why, I sometimes think my own good friend, Knuckles, might slip a few on my things out if she could.”

  “But I wouldn’t do that, boss,” Knuckles replied, “and neither would you, I’m sure of that.” Knuckles cracked to emphasize her comment. “Why, my boss is as honest a beast as you’ll find in Silverpreen.” She laughed loudly, clearly amused at the comic idea that any beast was completely honest in Silverpreen.

  “Just joking, Knuckles,” Currie said. “You’re twice as honest as the most honest beast around here—a beast of double honor. Ha-Ha-Ha.”

  “We’ll just grab a bite and get going,” she continued, turning to Tē’d’Tē. “On race days, we chomp down on Snake Jerky and Hard Potato Mash Cake here at the flat, to fill our stomachs. Then we carry Herbal Rump Barbs to munch as we watch the races.”

  “Herbal Rump Barbs?” the Weasel asked.

  “A prime Silverpreen delicacy,” Currie explained. “It’s called a Super-Preen Food because everyone wants to be seen eating it.”

  “But what is it?” Tē’d’Tē said.

  “Herbal Rump is a fruit—very expensive and hard to get. Squeeze the top and it pops open. Pull out the sharp seeds inside—called Barbs—and eat them. The taste is like fermenting melon, a bit sweet-sour and very juicy.”

  While Currie laid out the Jerky and Mash Cake, Tē’d’Tē looked around the flat. It appeared to be more a flat for preen than for beasts. Fine porcelain plates and cups by the dozens, rising in teetering piles. Gigantic bronze vases adorned with silver. A large number of musical instruments hanging from the walls. Beautiful paintings of what Tē’d’Tē thought must be the ranches of Silvers and Preens. All manner of goods, piled and stacked, nearly to the ceiling in places. And, most interesting of all, a variety of beds, all stacked on top of one another.

  “Seems that there is hardly room to walk around in here,” Tē’d’Tē observed.

  “That’s why we eat standing up and keep it simple,” Currie chuckled, handing her Jerky and Mash Cake.

  “How to you sleep?” the Weasel asked.

  “Don’t need much room for us,” Currie replied. “We’re hardly here and we need room for preen—that’s more important. We used to sleep in beds, but seein’ that beds—especially fancy ones with wood carving—are some of the most-prized preen, we decided it was better to get ’em and stack ’em. Then, we went to hammocks and used them for a while. But now there’s so much stuff on the walls and stacks of stuff to the ceiling, that there’s no place to hang ’em. So we sleep on the floor wh
erever we can. Don’t care, though—we just keep accumulating.”

  Stuffing down the Jerky and Mash Cakes, they left Currie’s flat and headed for the races. The traffic on the stairs had thinned out, so Knuckles didn’t need to push and shove as much to move them along quickly.

  Walking down a maze of hallways and crossing the great plaza, they turned into another hall. This hallway was different from the others. Five wide steps upward were required to enter through an ornately carved stone archway. Above the arch was carved, ‘The Hall of Chargers.’

  Currie said, “The Hall of Chargers is the worker’s entrance to the trallé racing grounds. The Hall honors the Chargers, the greatest trallé champions of all time. See how the walls of the hall are decorated with silk and velvet banners, paintings done in precious metals, and perfumed snake-leather ropes?”

  As they walked, the display of items in the Hall of Chargers grew increasingly grand, with glittering swords and enormous gilded tortoise shells. Occasionally, there were a series of small galleries, each having an elegant piano with a fine silver sculpture of a tortoise placed on it. In each gallery, an elegantly uniformed beast stood by the piano, offering sweets or refreshing drinks.

  Seeing Tē’d’Tē look surprised at the tortoise sculptures, the Hare said, “Those of the greatest of the Chargers—the most wonderful trallé champions of all. When you see the role that music plays in the races, the pianos will make sense.”

  Tē’d’Tē was listening, but did not hear what Currie said. As she looked more closely at the tortoise sculpture, she noticed that an inscription ran around the base. ‘Champions Know That Knowledge Is Not For All, But Only For Those Who Need It.’

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “The galleries were created by the original Group of Five,” Currie replied. “That’s the top five Owners at any given time. You will see that each gallery we go through is grander and more elegant than the one before. That’s because the first gallery is Owner Five’s, the next one is Owner Four’s, and so on until the last one is Owner One’s. The Owners are very particular about rank, and the galleries reflect that down to the refreshments served. The original Group of Five chose the inscriptions found on the tortoise sculptures. Each inscription reminds us of the qualities of champions.”

  “Keeping people in ignorance is a quality of a champion?” Tē’d’Tē growled.

  “Not ignorance,” Currie said, “that’s a horrible way to think of it. It’s about each beast getting what he needs, and only some need knowledge and education. Knowing something more than you need just creates needless unhappiness. The Owners want everyone to be happy.”

  “And who decides who needs to know what!” Tē’d’Tē muttered. Then she smiled darkly. “I know, you think this all makes perfect sense and you love it. I’m just here to tell you that keeping beasts in ignorance is the root of tyranny.”

  Currie did not reply, or even look at Tē’d’Tē. They walked through the rest of the Hall of Chargers in silence. As the Hare had predicted, each gallery was more luxurious than the previous one, with sweets and drinks that grew increasingly elegant as they passed gallery to gallery. The inscriptions in each gallery kept Tē’d’Tē in a dark mood. All the inscriptions followed the form and theme of the first one—a string of disgustingly evil sentiments, as Tē’d’Tē saw them. The last inscription, in Owner One’s gallery, summed up the essence of Silverpreen as she now was beginning to understand it: ‘Champions Know That Wealth Is Not For All, But Only For Those Who Need It.’

  By the time they reached the end of the Hall of Chargers, Tē’d’Tē’s mind was made up. As different as Silverpreen was from the Old Kin tyranny of the High One, it was simply another kind of tyranny. She didn’t yet understand how they could coexist in the realm of the High One, and seemingly have nothing to do with one another. But she did know that what she saw in Silverpreen was an insidious form of tyranny—perhaps worse than the sacred climb and all that went with the Old Kin ways. She would find a way to create more trouble in Silverpreen than any beast could imagine. She did not yet know how, but she would find a way.

  Sounds of crowd noise suggested that their journey was at its end. Pointing out an ornate silver wire-screened window at the end of the Hall, Currie said, “I’ll be right back, I’m off to place our bets so we can enter.”

  She walked over to the window, falling into line with a crowd of other beasts. When it was her turn, she leaned forward and talked to a Mink on the other side of the screen. Having completed the transaction, Currie rejoined Tē’d’Tē and Knuckles.

  “Trallé racing is grand entertainment,” she said excitedly as she led Tē’d’Tē through a set of double doors into the racing arena. “There’s nowhere else in Silverpreen that workers like quite so much.”

  “Who are you peggin’ for tonight?” Knuckles asked.

  “Wrapper Doodle has been running good,” Currie replied, “and there’s a lot of big Silvers backing him tonight. But Slide Slapped has been snarlin’ and snappin’ like he hates the world—usually means he’s ready to run. So I put ten on Slide Slapped for me and you, and I put ten on Wrapper Doodle for the Weasel.”

  “Ten what?” Tē’d’Tē asked. “What did you just give that beast in my name?”

  “Ten rings,” Currie replied with a smile. “If Wrapper Doodle wins, you’ll get thirty rings. If he’s second, you’ll get twenty rings.”

  “And what if he doesn’t finish first or second?” Tē’d’Tē asked.

  “You’ll be ten rings down in your preen account,” Currie said. “Since you don’t have any preen yet, you’ll be a bit in the hole, as they say.”

  “What?” Tē’d’Tē exploded.

  “Not to worry, friend,” the Hare replied. “Calm down. That’s the way you rise up in Silverpreen. You’ve got to take a few risks, or you’ll never get enough preen to rise.”

  “I don’t want to rise!” the Weasel exclaimed. “I want out of here, and I’m getting out of here just as soon as I can.”

  “You’ll soon be singin’ a different tune,” the Hare replied. “Stick with me and you’ll be singin’ a different tune.”

  Stepping into the oval racing arena, Currie said, “We stand along the rails over here.” Pointing to a long rail lining one side of the race course, she indicated where beasts were lined up to watch the racing. The crowd was at least three deep all along the rail, but Knuckles muscled beasts aside. Soon the three of them were in the front row, comfortably leaning on the rail.

  Across the wide arena rose several tiers of viewing boxes. Each was covered by an opulent awning that kept the seats in shadow. “That’s where the Silvers and Preens sit,” Currie explained. Occupants of the boxes could watch the brightly-lit arena, without anyone being able to see them.

  “More of their self-lickerish privacy!” Tē’d’Tē fumed. The Silvers and Preens could watch her, but she could not see them. “Silverpreen at its finest,” she muttered.

  A long boiling pool of water was at the center of the arena, built in the same oval shape as the arena itself. Hot vapor poured from it, sending clouds of steam drifting across the arena. The vapor had an indescribably pleasant bitter-sweet odor, and hit the taste buds something like ice cream flavored with pine needles and chocolate. The combination of the pleasing scent of the vapor and the bitter-sweet taste, left Tē’d’Tē with an oddly satisfied sense of good feeling.

  Completely surrounding the boiling pool of water was a stone channel filled with burning oil. The wild, flickering light cast through the drifting steam and smoke was the main source of light for the arena. The swirling smoke and steam, flaming oil, flickering shadows, and the effects of breathing the vapor, gave the arena a surreal atmosphere. Tē’d’Tē had to admit that the weirdness of the total experience was strangely fascinating.

  Her fascination grew when the trallés appeared. “Here come the trallés!” Currie laughed, poking Tē’d’Tē in the ribs. “Racing in Silverpreen is like nothing anywhere else—
you’ll see. Other kinds of races are merely shows of speed, but here it’s all strength and spectacle. Watch! They’re about to start!”

  One by one, twelve gigantic tortoises entered the arena to applause and the clamouring sound of cymbals and drums. Walking before each trallé was a wiry, athletic-looking Wildcat, wearing a tight fitting snakeskin suit. The suits matched the color of the snakeskin leggings worn by the tortoises, and had a number of small, randomly scattered holes in them.

  “Those are Gootmos,” Currie said, pointing to the Wildcats accompanying each tortoise. “You’ll see why they’re called that when the race begins. By tradition Gootmos are always Terensot Wildcats, and they train throughout life to run trallés.” Each Gootmo entered with a display of amazing acrobatic moves, loud shouts, and grotesque songs taunting his opponents.

  “Each trallé has a specific Owner; and an adoring group of fans,” Currie explained. “When the trallés are running, fans sit around in the cafés and mug-houses arguing about the capabilities of each trallé and the character of the Gootmos. All of us can tell you every detail about each trallé, down to the kind of grass it prefers, and the temperature of the soft mud it likes for its wallow after a race. Same for the Gootmos.”

  When all twelve trallés were in the arena, six were lined up at one end, and six at the other. Each Gootmo was now mounted on the back of its tortoise. Between the boiling pool of water with its surrounding channel of burning oil, and the viewing area of the arena, was the sandy racecourse itself. With the trallés and Gootmos stationed at opposite ends of the oval, facing in opposite directions, Tē’d’Tē could not see how a race could be run.

  Then a booming cymbal rang out, and action began. From each end of the race course, trallés moved forward. Some moved down one side of the course, and others the other side.

  “One of the first points of race strategy, is which side you choose to race on,” Currie said. Indicating how some trallés moved down one side of the course, and others, the other side, she added, “Each trallé must engage at least one rival trallé on the way to the finish line. Depending on which trallés are in the race, sometimes teams try to unbalance the sides—working together to double- or triple-team another trallé. But there’s risks in that approach, too, so usually they go one on one.”