The Tides of Avarice (4 page)

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 brat 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.

She let out a whoop of surprise, and then the two of them were rolling together through the lush grass of the hilltop, trying to giggle but too breathless to do much more than squeak.

“I won,” Viola gasped as they lay on their backs looking up at the darkening blue of the sky.

“You cheated,” Sylvester protested.

“Who said there were any rules?”

It was a good question. Sylvester chose not to answer it. He was too busy trying to get his vision back under control so that the sky would stop looking like it was made of quivering gelatin.

Viola rolled toward him and planted a wet kiss on his furry cheek. “Come on. Let's go watch the sunset from the top of the cliff,” she said.

“I'm not sure I can walk.”

“Then hobble.”

Between the summit of Greenbriar Hill and the Mighty Enormous Cliff there was a saddle of land. The two young lemmings ambled easily along it, pausing every now and then to exchange a kiss or two. There was no one else around at that time of day – at least, Sylvester thought so until one of a flock of swallows flying overhead yelled, “Get a room!” at them.

The sun was halfway below the horizon when they reached the edge of the cliff. Far, far below them, waves broke ferociously against the rocks, the sound seeming thin and high at this distance. All the way to where the great yellow orb of the sun was sinking stretched the Great Wet Without End.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” said Viola dreamily, her shoulder leaning against Sylvester's.

“I suppose so. I've never liked it, though.”

“The Great Wet Without End? Whyever not?”

“I don't know why not. Well, maybe I do …”

“The Land of Destiny lies on its far side, after all.”

“Does it have a far side? Isn't it without end, just like its name says?”

“That's only a name.” She was obviously trying to jolly him. He was in no mood to be jollied. His high spirits of a few moments ago had troughed precipitously.

“All I know about the Great Wet Without End,” said Sylvester, “is that it takes people you care about away from you, and it never gives them back.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

He said the word with finality, silencing anything she might have been about to say. It was difficult for her to always remember the kind of pain her friend must have been going through daily since his father had departed on the Exodus.

For several minutes they just sat there, companionable yet wrapped in the blanket of Sylvester's misery, while more and more of the sun disappeared from view.

“You don't know that, Sylvester,” Viola said at last. “You don't know they'll never come back. Perhaps they're having a wonderful time in the Land of Destiny and'll soon remember to come home to fetch the rest of us. I'm sure that's it. Your dad'll be back someday soon.”

“I hope you're right,” Sylvester said. “I wish I could believe it.”

“Besides,” Viola continued as if he hadn't spoken, “how could something as beautiful as the Great Wet be dangerous?”

Easily enough, thought Sylvester, but he didn't say it. Instead he said, “Wouldn't it be great to be able to fly? Like those seagulls over there? We could whoosh all the way across to the Land of Destiny and be back home in time for supper!”

Viola giggled. It seemed Sylvester's mood was lightening again. “Hey, mom. What's for eats? Oh, by the way, I've brought a few thousand hungry lemmings back with me from the Land of …” She broke off. “What's that?”

“What?”

“Over there. Oh, it's gone now.”

“What was it?”

“Probably nothing. I thought … just for a moment I thought I saw something. A little black speck near the edge of the sun, as if there was something floating on the Great Wet. But then I blinked and it was gone.” She gave a snort of laughter that didn't contain much humor. “Maybe it was all the lost lemmings swimming home from the Land of Destiny.”

“Maybe it was just a bit of grit in your eye,” said Sylvester sourly, keeping out of his voice the momentary surge of excitement her words had caused him. “I saw nothing.”

“Just a trick of the light, I guess,” said Viola, picking herself up and turning to look back in the direction of Foxglove. “Time we were on our way.”