The Tides of Avarice by John Dahlgren Page B

fence along the top of his pocket that he imagined looked quite decorative.
    As he was straightening up for the second time, a movement on the road ahead of him caught his eye.
    Lemmings don’t have the most acute vision. Sylvester had to squint against the sunlight as he struggled to make out what had attracted his attention.
    Yes, there it was. Someone was coming toward him along the dusty road. Sylvester wasn’t frightened, even after his experiences the other night down by the river. The world was, he knew, a dangerous place, but all the really dangerous bits seemed to be a long way from Foxglove. Round here the worst that was likely to happen to a young lemming was getting stung by a wasp or scalded by a kettle.
    Even so, Sylvester was puzzled by the distant figure. This was someone far larger than a lemming but, even as the shape became more distinct as the figure came closer, Sylvester couldn’t identify what type of animal it was. It looked like a fox, he decided, but foxes were reddish-brown and white, while this newcomer’s furry coat was varying shades of gray.
    Whatever the creature was, it was limping.
    Sylvester walked forward more slowly than before, becoming a little nervous for the first time. He drew his breath, ready to call out a greeting to the oncoming stranger, but the stranger beat him to it.
    â€œAhoy there!”
    The voice had a foxy rasp. This must be a fox after all, just an unusually colored one. Maybe he came from another part of Sagaria where foxes were gray rather than red.
    â€œMe?” said Sylvester, glancing back over his shoulder and then pointing at his chest.
    â€œAye, aye, guv’ner,” the fox answered. “I mean, ‘Yes, sir.’ There ain’t no one else on this road but thee and me. And I’m not so sure about thee.”
    He laughed at his own weak joke.
    â€œHave you hurt yourself?” said Sylvester, speeding up his stride toward the stranger.
    â€œHurt? Me?” said the fox. “Oh, the limp, you mean. It’s nothing, not really. I just stuck me foot in a pothole and got me ankle twisted for me pains. ‘For me pains,’ get it?” Again, that high snickering laugh. “But it’ll be fine in a couple of days once I give it some good resting, it will.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œSure I’m sure.”
    The fox was wearing simple farm clothes that were far too large for him, as if he’d borrowed them in an emergency from a much bigger friend. He’d had to jam his ears into his broad-rimmed straw hat to stop it from sliding around. His furry paws were studded with spiny burdocks. His slanted green eyes held a sadness that belied the forced cheeriness of his speech; those eyes seemed to have seen far too many things they’d rather not have seen.
    Now that Sylvester was next to the fox he could smell the musty, moldy odor coming off the larger animal. Or maybe it was just the fox’s clothes that smelled that way?
    â€œWhere am I, kind sir?” said the fox.
    Sylvester gave a wan chuckle. “You’re in the right place, if names are anything to go by,” he said. “This is Foxglove.”
    â€œAh, Foxglove. That’s the home of the lemmings,” said the fox, nodding his head wisely. “If I do not be mistaken, young fellow, you’re a lemming yourself. And a fine specimen of the lemming stock, if it not be too forward of me to be making mention of that fact.”
    Despite himself, Sylvester felt his chest beginning to swell with pride. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a fine specimen of lemminghood. In fact, it might not ever have happened before.
    â€œThe home of the lemmings,” he replied. “Indeed it is. Where are you heading, sir?”
    â€œTo the nearest town in this area.”
    â€œWell, you just reached it.”
    â€œI’d been a-guessing that, me friend. It’s lucky for me that it should be so fine a