The Tides of Avarice (3 page)

Knock, knock. Sylvester Lemmington didn't bother answering. He recognized the knock and knew who the visitor was: his boss, Celadon, the Chief Archivist and Librarian. When Celadon knocked on a door, he entered. There was no point telling him to do so because he was going to anyway. At least, that was what Sylvester had decided not long after he'd got the job as Junior Archivist and Translator of Ancient Tongues, and he'd never seen any reason to change his attitude since.

He welcomed the interruption. He'd been working long and hard on his translation of The Great Exodus: The Third Attempt, and his eyes were tired and beginning to show a tendency to cross – a tendency which is very disturbing if you're a lemming. He could do with the break. He set down his goose-quill pen in its holder, being careful not to drip any ink, and removed the reading glasses from his whiskery nose.

“Good evening, Sylvester,” said Celadon, pushing the door open with his frail shoulder. Grayed and bent, the Chief Archivist always looked as if the slightest puff of wind could blow him away like thistledown. He was dressed as usual in a plain, ratty muslin robe that matched the color of his fur and beard. His arms were full of yellowing scrolls that seemed to be of similar vintage to his robe. He peered around through thick spectacles for somewhere to put the scrolls down. Sylvester put his arms defensively out in front of him, shielding his desk, which was already quite full enough.

“I hope I'm not distracting you from your work,” Celadon continued, a trace of waspishness entering his voice. He hefted the scrolls as if to communicate that Sylvester was being exceptionally selfish and inconsiderate.

Sylvester didn't care. He knew that if Celadon put those scrolls down he'd forget them when he left, and then tomorrow Sylvester would have to waste time making sure the old lemming got them back.

“I've nearly finished the translation of The Great Exodus,” he said truthfully. “And,” he added, not so truthfully, making a show of scrutinizing the parchment in front of him, “I'm not sure this ink's quite dry yet.”

“Hmmf,” said Celadon skeptically, but then his face brightened and his whiskers began trembling with delight. “That's excellent news that the translation's almost done, young fellow. I knew I'd entrusted the task to the right person. You've worked very quickly and diligently on this. I shall make sure your superiors are informed.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Sylvester politely. “But, er, you are my superior.”

“Oh, quite right, quite right. Thank you for reminding me. This is the most important piece of work you've done for us, Sylvester. There are so few scholars nowadays who've taken the trouble to learn the ancient tongues our forefathers used, and you must surely be the youngest – the last of the line perhaps, although I do hope not. Why don't you marry and have a few children you can teach the old languages to, eh, my lad?”

Sylvester blushed under his fur. “I haven't yet met the right girl.” This was another lie. He had met the right girl – or, at least, so he thought most of the time. The trouble was that she didn't always seem entirely convinced he was the right guy.

Yet.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“You'll be Chief Archivist yourself one of these days,” said Celadon, risking dropping the scrolls to wag a finger at him. “You tell any girl that, and she'll leap gratefully into your arms, mark my words.”

Sylvester tried not to roll his eyes. Sure. Chief Archivist. Try boasting about that to the average young lemming of the female persuasion and she'd be fast asleep before you'd finished saying the word “archivist.” What the girls today wanted in their males were brawny muscles, fearlessness, and preferably a strong dose of stupidity. The role of bookish lemmings like himself was to watch from the sidelines as the girls swooned over these paragons of virility.

“I can see you don't believe me,” said Celadon, reading his expression well, “but one day you will. If nothing else, you'll be able to tell the world that you're the translator of one of the most important historic documents of all, The Great Exodus.”

“Third Attempt,” added Sylvester automatically.

“Indeed. The Great Exodus: The Third Attempt. Now everyone will be able to read it and find out for themselves what our roots are.”

“True,” said Sylvester, looking down at his own neat script on the parchment. He wasn't going to be the one to tell the Chief Archivist that there was barely a lemming left who cared about their people's roots.

“You don't know where you're heading if you don't know where you've come from,” said Celadon.

“If you say so, sir.”

“And this invaluable document tells us so much about where we've come from.”

“Um,” said Sylvester, but Celadon didn't notice.

“You see,” the old lemming carried on, getting into the spirit of his own oratory, “we lemmings of Foxglove may well be the last lemmings of all, but we're a proud species, dear boy, and we're destined for greatness.” He began to make a sweeping gesture with his arm to the sleepy town of Foxglove beyond the window, then realized he was about to drop the scrolls. Clutching them hurriedly, he instead nodded his head toward the outside world. “The great spirit Lhaeminguas himself said we are destined for all-encompassing glory, when he wrote in … in … a very long time ago, anyway.”

“In the year 362,” said Sylvester quietly.

“I was just about to say that. 362. You have a remarkable memory, young Sylvester. Nothing escapes you, eh?”

Sylvester bowed his head modestly. “Thank you, sir. I know how lucky I was to be born with a memory as retentive as mine. Not everyone's so fortunate.”

“It's a rare and wonderful gift.”

“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 back on his haunches to read for the thousandth time the letters carved high on the stone: