“I shall anyway. It goes like this. When the young Boy Cub released the clay pawprint from the cavity in the ground made by the Sage, he held it up to his eye. And an idea came to him, and he reasoned thus. ‘It would be dangerous if this image became generally known, because then it would teach Raccoons something harmful. And that harmful thing is that the original clay pawprint could be used to replicate itself in an exact copy. And that copy could make another copy and so on. This repetitious activity of making would persuade Raccoons that the person who possesses the mould or model of something Real wields great influence because that person can stamp endless identical copies of the Sage, each copy as true as another and each retaining the aura of the original.’ So he took the moulding and smashed it against a rock. ‘Cease to exist, thou dangerous and troubling Notion!’ he said to it.
“End of story.”
“From whom did you hear this version?” the Voice asked.
“I have never heard it,” Clutch said. “I just made it up.”
The shape of his father loomed out of the mist above him. He stepped delicately, stirring the fog which the tree had wrapped around itself. He planted his paws with care, along the bough. How could it support the size of him? The huge head with the darkest of masks outlined by a magnificent ruff. The powerful sinewy shoulders. Yet his father’s arms tapered down to slender fingers, almost feminine in their delicacy. And the tail too, so bushy and luxurious, was a woman’s tail.
“There is no genuine Original,” his father said.
“There are no genuine copies,” the son said.
“Let us put our differences aside. I will teach you what you need to know to govern a colony. Then you shall be the Protector of Creek Town and the streams running east into the interior. You have already taken command of the regime I’ve installed there. You may continue to govern in my name.”
“And you, Father?” Clutch asked. He already knew the answer.
“I shall be Protector of the whole united River Clan. My den will be in the City.”
Clutch turned the offer over in his mind. He’d been given a giant succulent clam and a set of rules for opening it. All he had to do was follow his father’s rules and there would be accord between Creek Town and the City. Comings and goings between the two communities would be straightforward and untroubled; each would give wealth to the other and the supply chains would not be vulnerable to political whims. And instead of being punished as an upstart, tied upside-down to a tree until everyone recognized that he was unwanted, he’d be Chief Raccoon of the native home of the River Clan.
“We will require a common system of barter,” his father said, “to assist in making food flow evenly across the lake. Clams and Bottles of Beer will signify the value of a commodity to the bartering parties. After a time, these equivalent objects of value will be simplified into symbols: the Shell and the Bottle Cap. Arrayed on strings, they will be worn by raccoons around their necks as signs of their wealth and their readiness to acquire more wealth. And on each clam and each cap will be the image of my paw to ensure that the symbols for bartering are trustworthy. The paw print will be made by means of a clay moulding created from my paw print on soft soil. You shall be the guardian of the Original Mould. No other Making of any sort will be tolerated.”
He saw it instantly. The error of Procyonides: to revere the moulding as an imperishable Original, and value its stampings because they are identical copies bearing the imaginary scent of the Original. Thus, the Father present in his Cubs. The One in the Many. But this father was averting a threat to his power by offering a gift of leadership to the son. The faulty logic remained. Don’t acquiesce yet. Tell him you need time. Think of a vexing detail.
“Father, what of the Migrants?”
“They will be held in check by the High Guard. The Migrants already in the City will be hunted down and expelled.”
He’d never be able to look his mother in the eye. His sister Touchwit would destroy his spirit with remarks that stuck like burrs. Bandit would shrug and walk away. And he would despise himself because he had said the word father in order to placate him, and when he had said the word he couldn’t help filling it with meaning. He’d uttered the word father with a son’s obedience and respect.
“Nevertheless and for all that, I do defy you!” he blurted out. “I serve my Clan. I do not serve you.”
The Protector froze. From the upright section of Clutch’s bough, the huge head with its superior ears glared down at him. Had no one stood up to this bully before? Stand up to him is the right word. Because the contest would be fought on this tree limb, and he would lose his footing or submit just as his mother had done. The giant alpha male was descending nose first to shove him off the bough. Just his sheer mass would force him to fall to the ground. Then his High Guard soldiers would take form out of the fog where they’d been waiting. They would break his spirit with savage bites as a lesson to raccoons who disobeyed the Protector.
A shout from the ground. A raccoon’s face staring up. “What is it now?” Meatbreath said wearily.
“It is the City. The Citizens Brigades have taken control of the City. The Peoples Corps are in disarray, and the Security Director has only the City Honour Guard left to protect your interests.”
“Tell the High Guard units to pull out of this morbid place. And call in the main High Guard army from the Southern Frontier. We’re going to retake the City and the whole West Bank. It’s a weak, leaderless, decadent failed state. It needs a leader.”
“Aye! What about these Creeker forces?”
“Leave them be. They don’t look like they’re going anywhere soon.”
“And him?”
“You mean this broken mould? He’s going to shatter into pieces.”
Clutch couldn’t counter the indifferent shove as his father went by casually on the branch. He hit a tombstone with his head, and that was all he knew.
ACT V
To Make a World
Slypaws, and her children:
Clutch, Governor of Creek Town and its militia
Bandit, secret agent of the Resistance
Touchwit, artist and leader with Mindwalker of the Resistance
Twitchwhisker, Slypaws’s friend
Pawsense, and her daughters:
Goodpaws, a dutiful daughter
Sensibella, femme fatale and double agent
Frisk, comrade to cousin Bandit
and Nimbletoes, family messenger
Smartwhisker, community leader in the Heights
A superior Seagull
