The Tides of Avarice (13 page)

“They offer answers to the things we don't know.”

“No, they don't. They don't offer any answers at all. All they do is make things up. Just because we don't know an answer doesn't mean we should believe the first fantasy some madman comes up with, does it?”

This time it was Celadon's turn to gesture at the jumble of scrolls on the floor. “If you don't know the truth about something, how can you be so positive the answers given by the prophets are wrong? Can you disprove them? If you're so clever, young Sylvester, what answers do you have that you can put in their place?”

“I don't have to make up explanations for things that aren't known. That's the whole point, don't you see? I can just say they're unknown and then do my best to find out the truth about them. I don't know what the moon's made out of, and perhaps no lemming ever will. Yet one of these wise old sages writes (with not the slightest sign of a smile on his face, let alone the fits of hysterical laughter any normal person would show) that the moon's made of ripe, green cheese! How does he know? He's never been there. Nobody's ever been there. He can't have met someone who'd been there and told him all about it. Maybe in the wider world there are scholars who've spent their lives studying the moon, and they can make a guess as to what it might be made of, but our wise lemming didn't bother to go and consult them before putting quill to parchment. No, he just had a bad dream one night. Perhaps he'd been eating too much of that ripe, green cheese. Then, the following morning he wrote down his fantasies about the moon as if they were genuine facts whispered directly into his hairy little ear by Lhaeminguas himself.”

“How do you know they weren't?”

“Because there's not the slightest scrap of evidence that Lhaeminguas exists. He's just one of those answers people have made up to fill in the gaps of things they don't know.”

Celadon gasped and groped around him for support. “You young blasphemer.”

“Yes, I'm young. What of it?”

“Countless older and wiser heads than yours have thought about these things for years and years and they have found out the facts.”

“Have what? Gone along with the fantasy because it suits them to do so?”

“They've seen the truth,” said the older man hotly. “They've heard the holy voice of Lhaeminguas.”

“They've heard their own voices, more like.”

“How can you say that? Were you there?” Celadon looked triumphantly at him.

“No, of course I wasn't there. What a stupid question.”

I'm crossing far too many bridges and burning them behind me, thought Sylvester in a brief moment of calmness. Then his raging thoughts picked him up again and carried him along with them.

“Then how,” Celadon was saying, “can you prove they weren't indeed listening to Lhaeminguas?”

“Haven't you been listening? I can't prove the moon's not made of green cheese either, but that doesn't mean it is. There's a billion other things the moon could be made of, almost all of them more probable than ripe, green cheese. The burden of proof isn't on me to show it isn't; I'm quite happy to say I don't know what the moon's made of, and won't until someone goes there and digs up a chunk. The person who's got the proving to do is the one who makes the ridiculous claim!”

“What's that got to do with hearing the blessed voice of the Great Spirit Lhaeminguas?”

“If people start hearing voices, the simplest and most probable explanation is that the voice they hear is in their own mind. Isn't that the truth?”

Too late, Celadon saw where this was leading. “Well, in a way, I suppose that's—”

One of the Library's youngest apprentices, having heard the voices and wondering what could be going on, popped her nose round the door inquisitively. As one, Sylvester and Celadon turned toward her with glares of such torrid ferocity that she fled with a squeak.

“You do it. I do it,” said Sylvester, dropping his voice to a more normal level. “We argue things out with our own inner voice. Should I do this, should I do that? Sometimes our inner voice tells us very firmly it's right we should do one thing rather than another. At times like this, we call it the voice of our conscience but we know full well the whole time that the voice we're hearing doesn't belong to someone else: a ghost or a spirit or a demon. It's our mind that's speaking to us, nothing stranger than that.”

“But that's different.”

“What do we call someone who thinks his inner voices are coming from somewhere else?”

“We, er, we . . .”

“Or, who's so filled with his own self-importance that he believes the musings of his inner voice should be imposed upon everyone else, that it should have the force of law?”

Celadon's eyes twitched this way and that as if looking for an escape route. “Well, naturally we'd say he was, well, not to put too fine a point upon it, we'd say he was … but that's different, I tell you.”

“No, it's not different at all!”

“But—”

“We'd say he'd lost his mind, wouldn't we?”

“Are you saying the prophets were mad?”

“Why shouldn't I be?”

“Because they—”

“Not all of them. Some of them were just woefully ill-informed, and were doing their best to make sense of a mysterious world. How were they to know their dreams weren't communications from a spirit world? But some of the prophets, yes. If they were alive today we'd all agree they were as mad as hatters and needed some of Doc Nettletree's strongest sedatives. All of us are mad if we listen to the ravings of crackpots and insist they're the truth without questioning them.”

The words hung in the air between the two archivists.

“If you said these words in the town square you'd be jailed,” said Celadon very quietly. “If you were lucky. More likely the good citizens of Foxglove would rise up and tear you limb from limb before anyone had a chance to jail you.”

“That doesn't make it the truth.” Sylvester looked down at the mess he'd made. Somehow, just at this moment, he didn't want to meet Celadon's gaze full on.

The older lemming took a cautious step toward him and patted him lightly on the chest. “You're right, it doesn't, but we have to live in the world as it is, not as we'd like it to be.”

“I know. Forgive me. I just—”

“There's nothing to forgive. Once upon a time I'd have been saying those exact same words alongside you. When I was young.”

“You would?”

Celadon chose to misunderstand. “Improbable as it might seem to you, Sylvester, I was young once as well.”

“That wasn't what I—”

“Younger than you can imagine. Younger than almost any other lemming I can think of has ever been.”

Despite himself, Sylvester smiled.

“When I was about the same age you are now, I questioned the scriptures too, just like you've begun to do.”

“But you learned better?”

“Yes and no. I learned better than to do so out loud. In my heart of hearts, I still question them every day – and I'll be doing so even more after today.”

“Why even more?”

“Because of what you've been saying.”

“Me?”

“You've summed up all the reasons for disbelieving the ancient prophets far better than I ever managed to.”

Then you didn't manage very well, thought Sylvester. I was so angry and hung over I was just saying the first things that came into my head.

“That's kind of you to say so, Celadon.”

“Not kind at all.” The Archivist chuckled. “It's you who're owed the debt of gratitude. Despite what you may have thought, your words were filling me with great joy. I've obviously trained you well. The time will come, Sylvester, when every lemming in all of broad Sagaria will speak as you have today, but that time is not yet, and I'm afraid it will not be in our lifetimes or our children's lifetimes ,or even the lifetimes of our children's children's children.”

“Why shouldn't it be?”

“Because people would rather believe something that seems simple, even if it's rubbish.”

Sylvester stood silent for a moment, thinking through the implications of Celadon's bald statement.

“But it isn't simple,” he said at last. “Adding the notion of Lhaeminguas and all the other invisible spirits to the mix just makes things more complicated. Pretending the Great Wet doesn't have a far side isn't simple at all, because then you have to explain how it could possibly not have another side.”

“No you don't. Have to explain it, I mean. Most people don't really want explanations. What they want is not to have to think about things. If someone gives them something they don't have to think about and calls it an explanation, they grab it with all four paws and their teeth as well. It really doesn't matter if the ‘explanation' doesn't explain anything at all. It really doesn't matter if the ‘explanation' is obvious nonsense. People will accept it as the truth – in fact, they'll start fights to insist it's the truth – because doing that is a whole lot easier than having to think.”

“But thinking is fun,” Sylvester said.

“You think so. Even I think so, though you might not believe it of this old stuffed shirt, but the vast majority of lemmings don't like it. Either they're too lazy or they're frightened of it, or both. And they hate anyone who reminds them of the fact. Which is why, even though I'm proud of you for what you've said this morning, you must be careful never to breathe a word of it outside these walls … and think twice before doing so even here in the Library. Be careful who you trust.”

Be careful who I trust? Everybody's telling me that at the moment, thought Sylvester.

Out loud he said, “But what could anyone possibly do to me?”

“I've already told you, you could be jailed or lynched. Or there's another way you could be gotten out of the picture.”

Celadon's voice dropped during the last few words, so that Sylvester had to lean toward him to hear what he was saying.

“You could be named to go on the Exodus.”

“Huh?”

“In fact, you already have been. However—”

“I have?” This meant that at last he could have the opportunity to go searching for his lost father. “How do you know?”

“Because I've seen the list Mayor Hairbell posted on the temple wall.”

“He has?” Sylvester looked around the room to check in case there was anything he needed to take with him or if he could just dash to the temple the way he was to see his name there for himself.

Celadon put a hand on his arm.

“I erased it,” the old lemming said.

“You did what?”

“I made sure no one was looking, then I pulled up a corner of my shirt and dampened the cloth with spit and wiped your name off the list.”

“But that's . . . that's . . .”

Sylvester didn't need to tell Celadon what it was. Everyone knew that tampering with the written proclamations posted at the temple was a serious crime. The punishment was excommunication from Foxglove, and hence from lemming society as a whole.

“I know,” said the Archivist. “But it was worth the risk.”

Once again Sylvester felt fury rising within him. His big opportunity – dashed before he'd even known it existed. What right did this elderly bookworm have to interfere with something as important as the Exodus. Sylvester's Exodus?

“Because if you go on the Exodus,” Celadon continued, “you never come back. I told you, the authorities have a subtler way of making sure malcontents disappear from the scene and stay disappeared. It's called the Exodus.”

The implications of what Celadon was telling him began to sink in. “You mean—?”

“Keep your voice down. I'm a criminal, remember? I don't want you shouting the details of my crime to all and sundry.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We're all told to believe, and most of us do, that the leap over the Mighty Enormous Cliff gives the lucky leaper a moment of true transcendence, an entry into another and completely wonderful realm, a realm of the spirit wherein – well, you know the rest of it. My own belief, although I keep the silence of the grave about it, is that the lucky leapers plummet like stones into the Great Wet – and that's if they're lucky, because drowning can take time and be painful – they smash on to the rocks of the shore. That's why they never come back.”

“But that's just their physical bodies they're losing,” said Sylvester. “Once they've made the leap of faith, they get new ones.”

He didn't believe his own words, even as he said them. He was just repeating the teachings he'd heard so often at the temple. It was difficult to shake off the indoctrinations of his youth.

“That's not what you really think, is it?” said Celadon reprovingly, looking disappointed.

“No, of course it isn't. The words just came out like … but, you see, I've been waiting so long for this moment, for the chance to follow after Dad and this may be my greatest chance of finding out where he is or what happened to him.”

“I remember your father well.”

It was as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over Sylvester. “You do?”

“Yes. Jasper Lemmington was a friend of mine. Not a close friend, but a friend nevertheless. What drew us together were the doubts we shared about the holy writings; sometimes we'd sit up until dawn talking about them, analyzing them. What made us different, on the other hand, was that Jasper believed in voicing his skepticism out loud, however hard your lovely young mother tried to hush him, whereas I tended to keep mine hidden away. He hadn't been very long asking his inconvenient questions when, by an astonishing coincidence, his name appeared on the list for the next Exodus. Your mother and I guessed what had happened, and did our best to persuade him to slope off in the dead of night to hide himself in the forest – anything to avoid the Exodus, but Jasper was adamant. Even though he must have been as aware as we were of what was going on, he was determined to take the leap from the Mighty Enormous Cliff in the hope of finding out if there was any truth at all lying out there.”