The Tides of Avarice by John Dahlgren

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.
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œWhat did you think of it all?” murmured Sylvester to Viola as they jostled with the throng of lemmings leaving Town Hall.
    â€œAbsolute twaddle,” she replied cheerfully.
    âœ¿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.
    By the weekend, everyone seemed to have forgotten about the dramatic events – everyone except Sylvester, Viola and, Sylvester assumed, Doctor Nettletree. It was as if the people of Foxglove had decided that, if they told themselves there’d never been an intruder, reality would adjust itself until this became the truth.
    Sylvester arrived early at the temple for the weekly act of worship and, as always, found himself a seat at the back where he could easily vanish into the shadow of a pillar. Mom, whom he’d, as always, walked here with, sniffed at him as she went up the aisle and very pointedly selected a chair right in the middle of the front row. She knew precisely why he’d chosen such an obscure place to be during the service or, at least, she thought she did. It had been quite a few years since Sylvester had stopped thinking it was hilariously funny to poke out his tongue at High Priest Spurge during the sermon.
    Today, Sylvester was in a sour mood. He watched with even more distaste than usual the various slow rites of the ceremony. His thoughts became especially acidic when High Priest Spurge – a lemming who’d taken the art of looking unctuous to a whole new pinnacle – trod solemnly to the front of the altar, from where he usually delivered his sermons. As always, his text concerned the great spirit Lhaeminguas and the glory of being chosen to go on the Exodus.
    Sylvester could barely contain his anger as he listened. Ever since childhood he’d known this was all – what was Viola’s word? – twaddle. But now he really knew. He had proof and the authorities in Foxglove chose to sweep this proof under the carpet because it clashed inconveniently with the myths and legends they preferred to believe.
    Or did they truly believe in the myths? Maybe they just used the myths as a way of keeping everyone in line. This was a notion that hadn’t occurred to Sylvester before, and he tucked it away at the back of his mind for deeper contemplation later. For the moment he had enough to occupy him just keeping his wrath in check – and it was important that he did so, for Mayor Hairbell had a nasty habit of planting agents in the congregation who were alert for any signs of dissidence.
    But the agents couldn’t read his thoughts.
    He hoped.
    The Great Wet Without End does have an end. Levantes told me that, and he should have known because he’d just come from the far side of it. It’s just a . . . just a very large lake is all it really is. So Lhaeminguas was talking through a hole in his hat about this. So, if he could talk through a hole in his hat about one thing – one such important thing, how many other holes in his hat was he talking through?
    High Priest Spurge’s droning eventually came to an end, and everyone shifted in their seats in relief. Just the concluding hymn and the responsorial