The Tides of Avarice

by John Dahlgren

  Sylvester could feel his heart beginning to pound faster and faster. “You mean there is a land beyond the Great Wet?”

  “Ain’t that what I’s just been tellin’ ye?”

  “Yes, but …”

  For a moment, Sylvester’s thoughts blotted out whatever the ferret was saying. This meant his father really could be alive somewhere – in the Land of Destiny – and could come back to Foxglove one day. Even if Sylvester couldn’t remember much about his dad, for Hortensia the return of Jasper would be the restitution of her life. Should Sylvester tell her, once he got home, what he’d learned? Or might that just risk cruelly raising her hopes and expectations too high?

  After a few seconds, he became aware once more that Keelhaul Levantes was speaking.

  “… so I went on the run, and I been that way for months now. Got meself a little sailin’ boat, just room enough for me ’n’ me supplies, then headed north, where I thought I’d be safe as toast. Then one day, with land in sight ahead, there was that accursed ship o’ his behind me, far in the distance but gettin’ closer ’n’ closer, ’til at last he was able to come for me, the blackguard. Near as bootlicks got me too, but Keelhaul Levantes, he’s tougher than he looks, likes an old fightin’ gamecock. The bullet missed me heart, which was where it’d been aimed, and left me with still enough strength to make landfall.”

  His words were interrupted by a bout of coughing. Sylvester saw a dark stain spreading on the ferret’s chin, and after a moment realized to his horror that it was blood.

  “Stay quiet, my friend,” he urged. “The doc’ll be here soon and I’m sure he’ll be able to fix you up.”

  “Not in time, I fear,” gasped the ferret, slumping back. “Not in time.”

  Sylvester put his arm around the other’s shoulders. “Just a few minutes longer, I’m sure. I can’t think why they’re not here already.”

  “Old Keelhaul Levantes has gone past the reach o’ any sawbones, I’s thinkin’.”

  “Don’t think like that!”

  “Just the way it is.”

  “But …”

  The ferret’s eyes, which had been glazing over, suddenly gained a renewed focus. “I wish this could o’ been otherwise, but ye got a face looks as I can trust it, young Sylvester Lemmington.”

  “Over there, look! See those bobbing lights? They’re lanterns, that’s what they are. Doc Nettletree! Viola! They’re here.” At last, someone who could take over responsibility from Sylvester for what he was now convinced was a dying ferret.

  “Heed me, ye blitherin’ idiot!” hissed Levantes, but Sylvester ignored him.

  “Ahoy there!” cried Sylvester, starting to struggle to his feet so he could better attract the attention of his friends.

  Then that clamp of steel was around his throat again. The ferret was using the last of his strength to pin Sylvester where he sat.

  “If ye utters one more word before I lets ye, I’ll have yer gullet on the ground in front o’ ye.”

  Sylvester froze.

  “’At’s better. Now listen, ’cause we don’t have long. I don’t have long.”

  The lemming nodded frantically.

  “Take this,” wheezed the ferret, stuffing something into Sylvester’s pocket. “It’s yers now. Good riddance to it, is what I says, because all it’s brung me is misery and now me death, yet it’ll give ye great good fortune if yer cards all play theyselves right.”

  Sylvester gulped. He swore silently to himself that at the very first opportunity he’d ditch the whatever-it-was Levantes had forced on him. To good fortune he wasn’t averse, but misery and death seemed a rather high price to pay.

  “Strange things’ll start happenin’ to ye from now on,” Levantes was warning him, but the ferret’s voice was growing fainter, as was his grip around Sylvester’s neck. Clearly this last major effort had drained him.

  “Strange, strange things …”

  He flopped back suddenly onto the wet grass, his eyes rolling upward in their sockets.

  “Levantes,” croaked Sylvester. “Levantes.”

  “Well, and what do we have here?” came a professionally jolly voice behind him, drowning any response the ferret might have made.

  Sylvester looked up. Doctor Nettletree, the elderly physician, was still in his pajamas. The lantern he was holding head-high seemed to be in danger of igniting his ornately tasseled nightcap. The doctor looked tubby at the best of times; the pajamas did not flatter his figure.

  “Take this,” said Nettletree, pushing the lantern at Sylvester. “Get out of my way and let me see him. Hold the light still, boy, can’t you?”

  Without any conscious awareness of having moved, Sylvester found he’d been efficiently displaced by the physician, who was now alternately listening to Levantes’s chest and pummelling it with his plump fists.

  “This doesn’t look good,” muttered Doc Nettletree. Louder, he called, “Pico, Newter, here with the stretcher!”

  His two young assistants emerged in the lantern’s glow, as did Viola, who moved nervously to Sylvester’s side and took his arm. Together they watched in silence as Pico and Newter, under Nettletree’s supervision, gingerly lifted the ferret onto the stretcher, maneuvered their burden onto their backs, and trotted away into the darkness towards Foxglove and Doc Nettletree’s clinic.

  Just before they left, the ferret found one last bout of strength. He opened eyes that were filled with death and turned them towards Sylvester.

  “Remember, don’t trust anyone.” The words were so quiet and hoarse as to be almost indistinguishable from the wind moving through the riverside trees. “Beware of … appearances. He will seem yer … best friend. And he will come.”

  His head fell back onto the stretcher. His arm dangled limply.

  “What was all that about?” said Viola as they stared after Doc Nettletree, who was scuttling in the stretcher party’s wake.

  “I’m not really sure,” Sylvester said slowly. He seemed to be in some kind of trance.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I guess so.” He twitched his head as if to shake away cobwebs. “A bit shaken. You were a while fetching the doc.”

  “He was fast asleep. His wife had a devil of a job wakening him.”

  “I thought it must be something like that. Let’s follow them to the clinic to see if the ferret pulls through.”

  She looked down at her soggy clothes, then at his. “We ought to get into something dry and warm. I’m freezing.”

  “Okay, let’s get you home then. I’ll go to Doc Nettletree’s after.”

  More than once, as they walked back to Foxglove, Sylvester started to tell her about the strange conversation he’d had with Keelhaul Levantes. Each time the words seem to die in his throat. So much had happened in such a short space of time, more than had happened in all the rest of his life, it seemed. He needed to get it sorted out in his own head before talking about it with someone else, even Viola, or perhaps especially Viola. Seemingly unaware of the dark, confused thoughts racing through his mind, she spent the trip prattling away about such inconsequentialities he wondered if she might be trying consciously to forget all that had occurred.

  But there was another reason Sylvester was eager to get Viola to the safety of her home.

  Soon after Doc Nettletree and his two nurses had left them alone on the riverbank, the sense had begun creeping through Sylvester that there was someone watching them from the darkness, and that sense had grown until he could no longer ignore it.

  Although he could see and hear nothing, he was certain that someone was following them.

  ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

  “Sylvester,” said a voice.

  Sylvester stirred. He was flying smoothly and aerobatically in great, long loops from one little white cloud to the next as he made his slow descent toward the welcoming surface
of his friend, the Great Wet Without End. Viola was to his left, flying as gracefully as he. Between them, they had solved the mystery of the Mighty Enormous Cliff, and he was proud in the knowledge they’d done this – even though he couldn’t remember what the solution actually was.

  Now this damned intrusive voice was disrupting his bliss. “Sylvester.”

  “Push off.”

  “Sylvester, wake up. It’s me, Doctor Nettletree.”

  The bright light wasn’t the sky, he realized. It was the inside of Doc Nettletree’s little clinic in the center of Foxglove. He must have stretched himself out along a row of three or four of the hard upright chairs in the waiting room and, despite the discomfort, dozed off.

  “Whaaa—?”

  “It’s about your friend.”

  “He’s not my friend.” Except maybe he is. Those warnings he gave me; that was the act of a friend. “What about him?”

  Doctor Nettletree lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but . . .” the portly lemming took a deep breath and looked Sylvester in the eye, “he didn’t make it.”

  “Died?”

  “Yes. I did everything I could, but …” The doctor shrugged.

  “Did he die of that hole in his shoulder?”

  “Yes. If it’d been treated right away, he’d have nothing left but a scar to show for it by now. He must have suffered it days ago, perhaps a week or more, and the wound had festered. He had the black rot, and it was reaching out to touch his heart.”

  Sylvester shuddered. Just hearing Doc Nettletree talking about it was making him feel sick.

  “What punched the hole in him?”

  “This,” said Doc Nettletree, fishing in a pocket of his coat and producing a small black metal object. He put it into Sylvester’s outstretched paw.

  This was inside Levantes, inside the body of a living person, thought Sylvester, feeling sick all over again. Even so, he couldn’t help but stare at the thing. It was roughly a sphere, but looked as if it had gotten a bit squashed at some stage.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s made of lead,” said the doctor. “That’s about all we know. How did it get into his shoulder? Don’t ask me, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Can I keep this?”

  “If you want to, but why in the world would you?”

  “Because at least I know where it came from. Knowing that much, maybe one day I’ll be able to find out the rest about him and who killed him.”

  “How and where?”

  “He told me himself, while the two of us were by the river waiting for you to arrive. He said he’d come from the far side of the Great Wet Without End, and he’d been injured while sailing the sea.”

  Doctor Nettletree smiled sympathetically. “You’ve had a lot of stress, young fellow, and very little sleep. The shock of a wild rescue, your vigil beside a dying creature – no wonder your memory’s getting a little jumbled. It won’t last and if it does, come back here in a couple of days’ time and I’ll give you a tonic that’ll soon have you sorted out.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with my—”

  “Oh, and I’ll give you a note to give to Master Celadon. You must be exhausted. Go in to work at the Library in the afternoon if you feel up to it, but as your physician I insist you spend the morning at home. You’re something of a hero, young Sylvester, and even if I didn’t think the relaxation was required medically, I’d still think you deserve a morning in bed!”

  Patting his stomach, he beamed at Sylvester.

  Perhaps it’s as well that he doesn’t believe me, thought the younger lemming. If he did, then I might have to tell him all the other things Keelhaul Levantes told me, and I’m not sure I want to do that. I’m not sure it’d be wise. Until I know a little more, I should keep it to myself, and maybe Viola. She deserves to know.

  “I s’pose I am a little tired after all,” he muttered.

  “Good night, Doctor Nettletree,” said Sylvester as he rose from his uncomfortable bed and made his way to the door. “Thanks for everything you’ve done, and tried to do. It’s just a shame death took him.”

  “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?

  3 Mr. Fourfeatherd

  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.

  ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.