Free The Tides of Avarice by John Dahlgren Page B

unassuming as himself could have played any significant role in the proceedings, or even know very much about them, and so he was largely left alone by the gossip-mongers.
    Naturally, it didn’t suit Mayor Hairbell that the rumors should have placed Nettletree at the vanguard of the resistance rather than himself, and so he hastily convened a public meeting in the Town Hall to explain his side of the story. Sylvester went along because Viola had told him she was going to be there.
    Just about everybody else in town was there, too. Looking around while they waited for Hairbell to appear on the dais at one end of the chamber, Sylvester became increasingly concerned by the uncertain faces he saw. If ever an army of weasels or any other form of life did attack, here was not a community geared to defy it. The lemmings seemed to have lost something, and for a while Sylvester couldn’t put a mental finger on what it might be.
    Then he had it.
    What the lemmings had lost was their sense of identity. Once upon a time they’d had a strong feeling of community, of the ties that bound them together as citizens of the last great lemming stronghold in Sagaria. But things had changed since Hairbell had come to power as their mayor. Now the attitude seemed to be “every lemming for himself and the devil take the hindmost.” Oh, to be sure, this mentality hadn’t infected everyone. There were lemmings like Sylvester and Mom and Viola and old Doc Nettletree and even older Celadon who still abided by the old ways, but it had influenced enough people so that lemming society as a whole was weakened. The people of Foxglove could find themselves enfeebled and directionless should they encounter any serious adversary, or any powerfully threatening circumstance.
    Sylvester shivered.
    These were gloomy thoughts to be having when you were holding the paw of the girl you thought you might just possibly, however unlikely it seemed to be on the face of it, be in love with.
    As if hearing his thoughts, Viola turned towards him, a quizzical look on her face. “Are you all—?” she began, then her voice was drowned out by the ballyhoo of Mayor Hairbell appearing on the stage.
    Once the audience had quieted a bit, the portly mayor started to address them. He spoke for a long time about his own magnificent achievements as their mayor, and confessed humbly to being perhaps the greatest leader the lemmings of Sagaria had been lucky enough to know.
    â€œThe secret of a safe and happy Foxglove,” he cried at one point, punching the air with a furry forepaw, “is a strong Foxglove. Foxglove is strong, thanks to my vision, and I intend to keep it that way.”
    There were a few weak cheers, evidently enough of them to convince Hairbell the audience was as enthusiastic as he was, because, licking his lips, he launched into yet another fervent paean of his mayoralty.
    Sylvester tuned in and out of the oration. Looking around him, he could see most of the citizens were doing much the same.
    He squeezed Viola’s paw tighter, and was rewarded by her squeezing back.
    â€œSo,” said Mayor Hairbell after the minutes had dragged on, “the purpose of this meeting is to reassure you all that you have nothing to worry about. Despite rumors to the contrary spread by our enemies, there was no army from beyond the Great Wet – just a single, solitary, criminal ferret, and even he came from nowhere more exotic than Ferretville. He was a con artist, my friends, a scumbag of the worst sort. The authorities in his hometown were close to arresting him, so he fled and arrived here in Foxglove, ready to play the same tricks all over again. But he had the, ah, misfortune to suffer a fatal accident here, no doubt after overindulgence in our excellent apple wine” – there was some tittering among the audience – “and even the best efforts of our revered Doctor Nettletree weren’t enough to save him. Not