The Tides of Avarice

by John Dahlgren

  “But a gift,” Sylvester stressed, under his breath. It wasn’t something he’d gone out and earned. All very well to be born clever. If he wanted to attract the approval of Viola, he’d have to do something a bit more exciting with his cleverness than translate a dusty old document she was never going to read anyway.

  Aloud he said, “One thing’s been troubling me, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Great Exodus doesn’t really tell us very much about where we’ve come from – it doesn’t tell us anything about that at all, in fact. What it does tell us is that in the old days a whole lot of lemmings went away, and they never came back. Where do you think they all went to, sir?”

  Celadon whuffed and tut-tutted, and once again looked as if he were desperate to find somewhere he could put the scrolls down.

  “You know, boy,” he said when at last he had his words under control, “that’s most assuredly not the kind of question it’s proper to ask. You know the old saying, ‘Ours not to reason why, ours not to search and spy or try to pry, ours not to—’ Oh my. Where was I?”

  “Telling me not to be curious about our roots, sir.”

  “Was I? Oh, yes. What I was trying to tell you, Sylvester, is that you and I are in a way merely the humble servants of those great lemming forefathers of ours who ventured forth into the world to seek their fortunes. They were great travelers and explorers and it is our duty, here in this library of lemming lore and history, to honor their valor and their deeds.”

  “But what were their deeds, sir? So far as we know, they set off for the edge of the Mighty Enormous Cliff. That’s what The Great Exodus tells us, listing hundreds and thousands of the names of those who went, and so do other ancient documents we store here. They set off for the edge of the Mighty Enormous Cliff and they never came back. They just disappeared, exactly like those of their forebears who left in the First Attempt and the Second – and, for that matter, later, in the Fourth, and Fifth and Five Hundred and Fifty-Fifth. They all just … go. We don’t know what happened to them. From what we can tell, they just go straight over the edge of the cliff, and then …”

  “Don’t disturb yourself so, my boy,” said Celadon soothingly, finally dropping his scrolls on the floor and coming round behind Sylvester’s desk to put his arm across the younger lemming’s shoulder. “I’m sure those great ones have found what they were looking for, out there in the wide world. So wondrous were the, er, wonders, that those brave lemmings never thought to come back here to stuffy little Foxglove to—”

  “But—”

  “I told you, Sylvester. Don’t agitate yourself. Agitation is not a frame of mind fitting for an archivist. When you get to be my age you’ll learn that—”

  “But I’m not agitated. I’m just curious.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “Not even that. I just want to know—”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off, my boy?” said Celadon, patting Sylvester’s shoulder paternally. “You’re obviously greatly disturbed by these thoughts of yours, however much you might think otherwise, and you could do with some rest and relaxation to calm those jangling nerves of yours. Go for a walk. Get a bit of fresh air. Then ask that fine mother of yours, matron Hortensia, to fix you up a big, hot supper so you forget your doubts.”

  Sylvester had the feeling this wasn’t exactly how the spirit of intellectual inquiry was supposed to be handled, but on the other paw the prospect of stopping work for the day was an appealing one. At most he had three or four hours left to do of the translation, and if he carried on with it now he’d undoubtedly push to finish tonight. By the time he was done he’d be too exhausted to stand up straight. Much better to leave the rest of the task until the morning.

  “Perhaps that’d be the wisest thing to do,” he murmured, beginning to gather his things.

  “Yes, it is,” said Celadon. “Do me a favor and pick up those scrolls, will you?”

  ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

  For a long time after Sylvester had gone, Celadon remained in the younger lemming’s room, staring sightlessly out the window and over the rooftops of Foxglove as the sun slowly lowered behind them.

  Poor Sylvester, he thought. Assailed by the same doubts that assail us all at some time or another during our lives before wisdom catches up with us and we learn to rely on the tradition that makes our people strong. Sylvester’s probably not the only one of the younger folk to be troubled like this, just the only one with the courage to speak up and ask me about it. I can remember when I was his age – it seems like such a terribly long time ago now – and all I could think about was: Where did they all go? Why did none of them ever come back? All those expeditions our people have mounted, all those waves of settlers leaving Foxglove with their promises to return for the rest of us once they’ve found greener lands to settle. Not so much as a scut of a tail have we seen of them again. It’s enough to make anyone wonder, it is, but the only thing that lies down that road is frustration and misery …

  In the distance, mothers were yelling to their small children to come in from playing, right now this minute, because your supper’s on the table and you make sure your grubby paws are properly washed before you sit down or it’ll be straight back to the bathroom until I’m satisfied, do you hear? In the distance, two farmers were leaning against their hoes, discussing the day’s work they’d done and how tomorrow would hold another one very like it. The stallholders in the marketplace were covering their wares with weighted cloths to protect them from the elements overnight.

  Celadon was only dimly aware of any of this.

  I suppose none of us ever do stop wondering about it, not really. Especially not poor Sylvester. He lost his father to one of the exoduses when he was just a baby. I wonder if he remembers Jasper at all? I wonder if Hortensia’s decided yet if she should regard herself as a widow, and stop numbly waiting for Jasper to return? She’s a fine figure of a female, Hortensia is, and if I were just a few years younger I’d …

  The Chief Archivist shook his head crossly. He’d been thinking about all the things he could do if only he were a few years younger for so many years now that he was beginning to sound senile, even to his own ears.

  It’s the eternal question, though, isn’t it? The question that guides our people every step of the way along our path through history.

  What’s happened to all those lemmings who’ve ventured over the edge of the Mighty Enormous Cliff?

  What have they found on the far side?

  ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

  Although the marketplace was closing down for the day, the square was still fairly crowded. Seekers after last-minute bargains mingled with traders who were trying to shut up shop. Sylvester decided he didn’t want to face the bustle, and turned his steps instead towards one of his favorite spots, the peaceful graveyard behind the temple that overlooked Foxglove. It was on the far side of the little settlement from the library where Sylvester worked. It took him a while to get there, and as he walked he thought through that curious little scene he’d experienced with Celadon. The question he’d asked had made the older lemming assume Sylvester was going through emotional turmoil. Why? To Sylvester the matter was one of profound puzzlement, and he was determined to weasel out the answer somehow. What could be of more importance to the last survivors of the proud lemming people? There was nothing emotionally disturbing in the mystery, yet clearly Celadon thought there was.

  Maybe the old bozo’s right in a way, thought Sylvester as at last he entered the graveyard. High, slender birch trees were like cathedral pillars on either side of the long path down which he walked, but they weren’t what he’d come here to see. His destination was at the far end of the path.

  Soon he was in front of the tall white monument. As always, he fussily pushed away some of the longer grass that had grown up around its base since last he’d been here. Then he settled b
ack on his haunches to read for the thousandth time the letters carved high on the stone:

  In Memory of Those Brave Lemmings

  Who Ventured Forth in the Great Exodus

  Towards Fortune & Glory,

  In Search of the Land of Destiny

  Across the Great Wet Without End.

  They Fulfilled Their Duty with Courage & Honor.

  Sylvester’s gaze drifted down the two columns of a long list of carved names until he found the one he was looking for, near the bottom of the right column:

  Jasper Lemmington

  “Dad,” he whispered.

  Sylvester reached out a paw and gently touched the stone. During his countless visits since infancy, first with his mother and then later alone, he’d worn the edges of the letters smooth. It was becoming harder to read his father’s name but Sylvester didn’t need to see the words to read them. They were engraved on his heart.

  “I hope you found what you were looking for in the Land of Destiny,” he said to his father. He had the sense that, somewhere, Dad could hear him.

  The young lemming stayed like that a long while before letting out a heavy breath and turning away from the monument. There was an old stone bench by the cemetery wall, and he sat himself down on it, squirming in an attempt to make himself comfortable. Benches were human inventions. Lemmings had copied them and tried to adapt the design so that it suited the lemming form, but with limited success.

  Two or three sparrows alighted on the grassy ground in front of him and strutted up and down, obviously hinting at him that any tidbits he might chance to have about his person would be most welcome. He fumbled in his pockets and at last found the remains of an oat biscuit his mother had thrust at him a few mornings earlier, as he’d been leaving for work at the library. “Don’t you go getting so engrossed in your work that you starve yourself to death, dearie.” He’d meant to ditch it as soon as he was out of her sight, the way he ordinarily did with the snacks she forced on him, but this time he’d forgotten. Well, his forgetfulness was the sparrows’ gain.

  Or not. You never could tell, his mother’s cooking being what it was.

  He crumbled the cookie, not that it needed much more crumbling, and scattered the pieces.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” said one of the sparrows, its beak already full.

  “You’re welcome,” said Sylvester.

  He closed his eyes wearily.

  When he opened them again a few moments later he found himself surrounded by half a hundred birds – blackbirds, pigeons, more sparrows – all looking at him with a certain pointed interest.

  He laughed, rose from the bench, and made a performance of turning his pockets inside-out to show he didn’t have any more food.

  Huffily, the birds swarmed off toward the marketplace in hopes of richer pickings there among the debris left on the ground at the end of the day.

  It was about time Sylvester himself went home.

  As he was emerging from the graveyard, he saw Viola coming towards him, and his heart picked up a beat. She was with her younger brother, Bullrich, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Ah, Viola, thought Sylvester with a mixture of infatuation and bewilderment. It was the way she always affected him. She’d been his best friend ever since childhood, and nine times out of ten Sylvester was convinced the friendship had blossomed into something more than that. The tenth time, though, always found him backing away from the something more. She was lively, “full of vinegar,” as Celadon had said a little testily the day she’d come bursting into the library to drag Sylvester off to join in the celebrations of her having won a canoe race. And that was the problem, the difference between them. It made Sylvester wonder if the whole notion of them being made for each other was madness. Viola liked doing things like compete in canoe races, clamber around the mountainsides or search along the river bank for treasurable flotsam and jetsam. Sylvester preferred to spend his waking hours with his nose tucked into a book, or perhaps discussing philosophy with Celadon. They were chalk and cheese. Yet, he couldn’t deny that Viola was the most important person in his little world. The fact that she was the prettiest lemming in Foxglove certainly also helped.

  Watching her approach now, he felt a sudden wash of emotion swell his chest. What if I could be a hero? What if I could go off and have adventures and face perils? Me. Sylvester Lemmington. What if I could stop being such a dull old stick and …?

  Then the thought faded.

  It’s something to dream about, anyway …

  Viola had noticed him. “Hi there, Sylvester!”

  He raised a paw in greeting.

  She and Bullrich had been out mushrooming. Viola was carrying a basket of inky caps. Her little brother was trailing along behind her, staggering under the weight of the biggest parasol mushroom Sylvester had ever seen.

  “What do you think of this, eh?” said Viola, nodding towards the giant fungus.

  “It’s amazing,” said Sylvester, honestly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “We found all these inky caps sheltering under the big one at the edge of Mugwort Forest. Took us nearly an hour to gather everything up. Bullrich practically wore his teeth flat gnawing through the parasol’s stalk.” She laughed. “Well, not quite. I had to threaten him with a dozen different forms of gruesome death to stop him from eating half of it before we got it home. Didn’t I, Bullrich?”

  “Yes, sis,” said her brother resentfully, looking up at Sylvester as if to say that it was the duty of two males to bond together against the common threat.

  “Now you’re going to trot along home with all our mushrooms, aren’t you, dear brother, while I spend some quality time with my friend, Sylvester?”

  Bullrich’s eyes brightened with interest. “Whatcha going to do?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Mom’ll ask me.”

  “Mom won’t. She wouldn’t be so stupid.”

  “We’re going to race to the top of Greenbriar Hill,” said Sylvester hastily. He hardly ever blushed, but this was the second time this afternoon.

  “Can I join in? Can I? Can I? Can I?”

  “No,” said Viola firmly.

  “Why not? Oh, why not?”

  “Because you’re a pain in the bottom is why not. Now go on home with those mushrooms or I’ll tell Dad why the level of his acorn whiskey keeps going down faster than he thinks it should.”

  “Aw, siiiiiiis.”

  “And don’t drop any.”

  “Huh. As if I—”

  “No snacking on them, either.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “You’re a brat.”

  “Sisters! They’re, they’re, they’re poison.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  “Toad!”

  “Bumface!”

  “Go look in a mirror!”

  “You snore!”

  “Don’t. You little—”

  Eventually Viola and Sylvester managed to divest themselves of Bullrich. Moving slowly now he was burdened with the full basket as well as the gigantic parasol, the smaller lemming tottered off down the hill away from them, leaving a trail of surprisingly inventive curses in his wake.

  “He’s lucky your mom and dad aren’t here to hear him,” observed Sylvester.

  “That was a good idea of yours,” said Viola, ignoring what he’d just said.

  “Idea?”

  “Racing up Greenbriar Hill.”

  “It was only a … a …”

  “Lie?”

  “A pretext. That’s what it was. A pretext. A way of getting Bullrich off our backs for a while.”

  “It was still a good idea. I had to be slow and patient while we were gathering mushrooms, and then I couldn’t walk too quickly as we were coming home from the woods in case I left my little br
at brother behind. I’m in the mood for a run.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Oh, come on, Sylvester. It’ll be fun.”

  “For you.”

  “For you, too, if you catch me.” She batted her eyelashes.

  This was, Sylvester reflected, definitely one of those nine times out of ten. He’d never have admitted it to anyone, but the occasional kisses he and Viola shared were an exquisite bliss unlike anything else he knew.

  “We could just walk up there,” he said, but in his heart he knew the argument was lost.

  “Good. I knew you’d be keen to race me. Ready?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Right. One. Two. Two and a half, and …”

  She grabbed the reading glasses from his nose and was away like the wind.

  “Oi!” he shouted after her, and then, laughing, he was running too.

  By the time they reached the base of the little hill, no more than a quarter of a mile away, Sylvester was definitely gaining. This was not usual. Viola was as fit as any lemming he knew while he himself, well, what could you expect with such a sedentary lifestyle? But today he was catching her up. Either he was in better condition than he’d thought or …

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, making a face of mock terror.

  … or she was letting him catch her. No question which of the two it was.

  Climbing the hill was more of a difficulty. Not only was the slope steep, but in among the loose grass were countless little viny weeds that seemed intent upon tripping up unwary lemmings. Viola was accustomed to dashing about in the countryside and managed to keep her balance, although she had a few close calls, but Sylvester went flat on his face more than once.

  Even so, by the time they neared the summit he was only a few paces behind her, and the sound of her labored breathing told him it was no longer entirely the case that she was running slowly for him. Mind you, his own breathing had gone beyond the labored stage to the point where he could hardly suck in air at all.

  Snatching an extra spurt of energy from somewhere, he threw himself forward and grabbed her around the waist.