The rhythmic percussion from upriver began to hurt his ears. He sniffed. Yes, the breeze had shifted. It brought an autumn chill. How cold was it going to get? He listened to the counter-rhythms that rose all around him since he had arrived in this abidance of trees and stones. The soft treet, treet, treet of crickets. Near and far, they called, making a single thrilling symphony. How cold was it? Ask them. He cocked his ears toward a nearby call and counted on his paws the number of treets in the time it took him to breathe deeply three times. Then he counted the fingers and thumb on his left paw and added their total to the data supplied by the cricket as measured by his breathing. It might get quite cold. Better for scents and noises. Better for ambushers. The soothing enchantment of the Snowy Tree Crickets reminded him that the life-world went on all around the forthcoming battle.
The building was fanciful and beside it stood an equally fanciful tree that invited climbing, but for now he stayed on the ground where he could be seen by runners. Soon, one arrived from the Second Wave, reporting that its forager groups were in place to catch enemy fighters trying to sneak along the south fence of the Sanctuary to the railway bridge across the Narrows. The rusting disused bridge had a span left permanently open to allow boats through, but an especially brave raccoon could make the water crossing to Creek Town. Or several scouts. He didn’t expect more than his hunting groups could handle either at the south or west gate of the Sanctuary. The Gull had said that only scattered units had been assigned to reconnoitre the Creek. But again, the dreadful question – where was The Protector? What if he brought the High Guard from the city?
Clutch lay belly to the grass looking down a little hill toward the western gate of the cemetery. In the neighbourhood beyond, enemy scouts would soon be waking up and leaving their trees. Because the gate had been left open (he hadn’t counted on this), they would enter the Sanctuary here, rather than squeeze through the spike metal fence. They’d huddle into one force and wait until the Protector arrived. Then they’d cross the Dead Zone quickly, swim across the Narrows, and put down the insurrection at Creek Town. This was the Pro’s intention. He guessed the strategy on the assumption that enemy scouts didn’t want to spend the night sleeping in this landfill site for used bodies.
On his flank to the south and in front of him to the west, his own Creek Town raccoons crouched behind bushes and stones in the dank, fertile rot. They had conquered their terror of the Dead Zone. Having learned several times in quick succession to face his fears, he taught them by example to face theirs. The only uncertainty that remained to him was how big a force The Protector would bring.
The rhythmic pounding upriver had stopped.
What was that? A light dancing over one of the standing stones. It disappeared. But another light ascended slowly in the air to his right. He blinked to clear his vision, but the point of light didn’t vanish. Then it suddenly went out. What could it be? Then more of these lights, hovering over the standing stones. They would flash briefly and disappear. Were they the souls of the people buried beneath the stones? Had he disturbed their spirits? It seemed they were trying to tell him something. And now another …!
“Ladyfriend,” he said without taking his eye off the lights, “what are those?”
“They are called Fireflies. They are so named because they have the power to turn their bodies into light. It is said they do this to attract mates. There are many of them. The heavy rains this spring allowed for slugs and snails for their larvae to eat.”
“Thank you. I have never seen them before.”
“They are a wonder.” His silent companion concluded the exchange.
Bustling at the west gate. Then snarling and spitting. Not outright shrieking and war cries. Prisoners being taken by the family foraging packs, to be led back to the Creek.
And now Lightfinger climbing the hill to report. “We think we got most of them. But at least two slipped away.”
“That’s good. We want them to tell the Protector we’re here in force. We need him to pull his High Guard units out of the city long enough for the Resistance to take over.”
“What if he comes here with a whole army?”
Good question. “I’m counting on him coming here in person to find out how big the problem is before he moves major forces around. His scouts are disappearing. And what is this rumoured Creeker army? Why has it crossed the Narrows? Is it to advance on the city? He’ll come with part of the High Guard, but no more. He’s perilously off-balance.”
“How do you know he’ll do that?”
“Because he’s cautious. He listens to his fears. He’s afraid to put his warriors in the Dead Zone in case they have the trembles. He’ll have a Reserve of the High Guard within reach, in case it turns out he has a fight on his hands.”
This seemed to satisfy Light, who was only being curious. She returned to the front line of skirmishers.
He lay in the grass and counted Fireflies. The activity separated the bright part of his mind that made decisions from his dark undermind that was gathering anxiety about what he would do if he found himself nose to nose with The Protector. It amused him to think that he used his adversary’s preferred name. Was it out of respect for a fellow commander or in deference to his begetter who gave him the gift of military acumen? In fact, a son was challenging the rule of a father. His anonymous companion curled up around him. She smelled like sunlight on dry moss. “He’ll come at dawn and then we’ll see how many soldiers he has,” he told her. “He’s diurnal. That’s what allows him to wear out his opponents. He never sleeps.”
“Umm.”
42
The place where raccoons founded a city in the wilderness has seven hills, like Rome. Indigenous humans knew it as a resting stop between sets of rapids on a major canoe route. Sometime later, settlers came and raised a limestone church and a court house on the hill closest to the river. They repeated these symbols of Church and State in a huddle of similar edifices at the bottom of the hillside: two places of worship, a municipal office, and an armoury for the militia. To the west of this civic centre is the entertainment district and beyond it is a second hill surmounted by several churches, and it was in the steeple of a disused church that The Protector made his headquarters. The Primate use of geography to magnify civil and religious authority set the stage for the future struggle between Tyranny and Democracy in raccoon civilization. For while Meatbreath organized his occupation from the western hill, the leaders of the democrats – Mindwalker and Touchwit – planned the resistance across the plain on the eastern hill. This was where they were standing on the morning when fog enveloped the city.
“Clutch! I don’t believe it. My anxiety-prone brother Clutch scarfed Creek Town right out from under Meatbreath’s paws. Help, this is dizzying.”
The seagull took her words at face value and hopped out of the way.
“Clutch is my older brother,” she explained excitedly to Mindwalker. “I know he’s got an obsession with his father, but stealing his power isn’t exactly a subtle way to get over the obsession.”
“I’m sure your brother will handle power evenly,” Mindwalker said.
“You spoke to him. What do you think?” she asked the gull.
“I had insufficient evidence to venture a determination. He seems like a trustworthy colleague. But power shows its quality in how an individual behaves in relation to someone of a different gender. I didn’t see such a person within a clam’s toss of him.”
“I’ve never seen two Seagulls together as a couple,” Touchwit responded, defending her brother’s lack of intimacy.
“Seagulls all look the same, don’t we? It goes with the superstition that gulls don’t have names. That’s acceptable to us – it affirms our sense of equality.”
“You have a name?”
“I have several, depending on which gull dialect I’m speaking. But as to the intimacy of genders, you’ll be surprised to know that Seagull males share child care equally with females. I’ve done my share of egg-sitting. What is that you’ve made?” The gull referred to a woven artifact leaning against a tree in front of the court house. It was Mindwalker’s latest composition of bulrushes, loosestrife, and grape vines.
“Oh. That’s my story of the Island.” Mindwalker seemed reticent about his Making. “For me, a Making is the personality of a Place made apparent to the eye, nose, and touch. Helping a Place become apparent in a Making is an act of resistance.”
The seagull tilted his head and examined the work critically. “It has the calling of the forlorn in it. The transcendental homelessness of a Raccoon without a place in the world or an Ancestor in the sky. Yet its patterns speak even down to its tiniest particulars.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Mindwalker said. “I gave up my home, wealth, social rank, and reputation to make it.”
“I believe I can hear it singing inside itself,” the seagull said. “That means you have released some animated pattern.”
Mindwalker raised an eyebrow.
“Animated pattern is pattern that thinks and feels. It is the vibrant density we live in.”
“How is that different from patterned animation?”
“Patterned animation is merely the surface of a thing decorated so as to appear alive.”
