The Tides of Avarice by John Dahlgren Page A

benediction to go, and then the devout assembly could flee the temple and start tucking into a hefty lunch and copious amounts of apple wine.
    The hymn was, Sylvester knew, one of Viola’s favorites, and he imagined he could single out her voice among the hundreds of the congregation.
    As the last note tapered off, High Priest Spurge advanced until he was almost nose to nose with the lemmings in the front row. Rearing up on his hind legs, he raised his forepaws high to either side of him. As he spoke each line, the congregration responded as one, obediently echoing his pronouncements.
    We are mindless lemmings.
    Like all those of virtue,
    we have forsworn independent thought,
    and have devoted our lives to the following glorious leaders,
    as the spirits have commanded,
    We thank the Great Lemming Spirit Lhaeminguas,
    for having given us leaders so noble and honorable,
    as High Priest Spurge and Mayor Hairbell,
    who labor for us, and for our children, and for all here in Foxglove.
    It is thanks to them and to the Great Lemming Spirit Lhaeminguas that we are such a prosperous and proud community, and so shall remain for ever and ever.
    It is our duty,
    never to question why,
    never to search and spy,
    never to try to pry,
    or we shall incur the everlasting damnation of the spirits.
    For so it is written.
    Amen.
    High Priest Spurge bowed his head, as if in humility, and this gave the signal to everyone else there that they could finally begin to head for the doors. Sylvester hung back a bit, appalled, as he was after every temple service, by what he had just witnessed. Although he’d mouthed the responses – for fear that one of Hairbell’s agents might notice if his lips were still – he’d been unable to bring himself to actually speak any of them. Whether or not there were any great lemming spirits in the sky was something Sylvester didn’t think he knew enough about to judge, although he thought it exceptionally unlikely. Even if there were, surely that had absolutely nothing to do with the nauseating adulation Spurge demanded the congregation express toward those spirits, toward the town’s sleazy little mayor and even towards the High Priest himself. Yet, no one else in the temple seemed aware of this at all.
    Maybe, like me, a lot of them were just mouthing the words, Sylvester told himself, but he didn’t believe it.
    He hadn’t even been mouthing the real responses. Face lit by radiant piety, he’d been saying things like, Spurge hasn’t changed his underwear since this time last year.
    A childish game, only one rung up the ladder from sticking his tongue out at the High Priest from behind a pillar, but it gave Sylvester much satisfaction.
    He’d hoped for a word with Viola, but she was swept off by her family. Sylvester’s mother would spend the rest of the day here in the temple conducting her own private prayers for the husband she had lost. Sylvester was on his own for the afternoon.
    Mom had left food out for him at home, but he wasn’t really hungry. He decided to go for a long stroll in hopes the fresh air would blow his mind clear of the gloom that always filled it after he’d attended temple.
    It was the perfect day for a stroll: blue sky with streaks of puffy white clouds. On an ordinary day, it would quickly have cheered him – especially once he’d cleared the edge of town and was walking between fields, with the sunshine on his face and the smell of lilac in his nose, but today was different.
    What finally distracted his mind from its blank dejection was the discovery by the side of the road of a pair of quill feathers that he could see would make perfect pens. The library was always on the lookout for new quills.
    Celadon will be pleased with me, Sylvester thought smugly as he tucked the feathers into his vest pocket.
    A few paces further along the road he found another pair, and he added them to his pocket. The four formed a little