We may have a problem.
Really, Father Marmot said. We’ve got produce nearly ready
to rot in the field. We’ve got two raccoons who can’t drive their way out of a
wet paper sack. We’ve got rabbits finding all of our tunnels, and crows spying
on our every move. And you think we may have a problem?
Aye, Aloysius said. We may have a problem.
Pray, tell, Father Marmot said, rubbing his eyes.
The badger snorted dirt out of his nostrils. He’d had to dig
his way in a bit, as the marmot tunnels weren’t quite large enough for him to
squeeze through.
It’s Jarrod, he said. He’s got a stink of Sunday about him.
Father Marmot stared at the badger in the semidarkness. Up
from the tunnels and chamber below same the murmur of voices, the scrape of
chain, an occasional violent shriek of machinery.
A stink. Of Sunday.
Aye, Aloysius said.
Of Sunday.
Yes, Aloysius said. Most abominably
Father Marmot signed deeply. Pretend I’m tired, he said to
the badger. Explain what you mean.
Aloysius snorted again. Pah, he said. It’s like he’s got
religion. The kind of religion you can smell, all of stale bread and sunshine.
And the kind that makes you glow and want to, how to say it, how to say it,
fly. Or dig a tunnel like you’re going through the best loam where the dirt
moves easily but the sides harden when they hit the air.
Father Marmot groaned a quiet groan. I don’t follow.
What, what? You don’t follow? Aloysius barked in the
semidarkness. He’s been redeemed! Saved from the fall! Shown the path to
righteousness lined with burning candles and with a shaft of sunlight at the
end!
I fear, Aloysius said, as Father Marmot stared at him in the
dark, that the beavers have forgiven him.
There was a rush of air from below, a sucking, then silence.
The sounds of murmuring and machinery dimmed.
Father Marmot laughed. Redeemed? Forgiven? What does that
matter to us, he said.
Oh, it matters a great deal, Aloysius said. For these few
years, the weight of his sins kept Jarrod flying low, avoiding the rain. That
kept him in the semidarkness – hah, where we are now. But the clouds appear to
have parted and the sky is blue above the canopy of the trees, which until this
point have barred his way to heaven. Soon, he will fly high again.
Riddles, Father Marmot said. Why does everyone speak to me
in riddles?
Oh, you want plain talk, Aloysius said. You shall have it.
Aloysius swallowed, licked his lips.
They’ll listen to him now, he said. And obey.
Mostly, they do that already, Father Marmot barked at the
badger. What is the difference?
They did it for pity, then, Aloysius said. Well, not all.
Some few did it for other reasons. But soon the number that do it for respect,
for love, will grow. Especially if the beavers spread their tale of forgiveness
– which has already started to happen. The canyon yonder already stinks of
forgiveness. And I smell the stink coming downstream. Swiftly.
Think this way, he said to the marmot. A mere few weeks ago,
were the crows watching you as tightly as they do now?
Father Marmot’s breathing paused, for just a moment.
No, he said, finally, expelling a long breath. No, they were
not.
Why do you think they watch so hard now? Aloysius asked.
Coincidence? Nay. Chylus and Magda have long stood by Jarrod’s side, when
nearly everyone else – including the elder of the magpie – left Jarrod as a doya verdammerling, as my ancestors
said. But they’ve sensed the change. They’ve smelt the stink of Sunday on him.
They feel it spreading from the canyon down to the wood. And as one stink
comes, freshening the nostrils, other stinks are noticed.
They have smelt the air coming from the canyon, and the air
coming from your little burr holes, Father Marmot, Aloysius hissed. And they
have found your air wanting. So they watch you. And, he chuckled, they find
much worth watching.
And because they watch you, the others sense the change.
Already the rabbits are talking – but more importantly, the stink helps the
crows listen to the rabbits more closely. They begin to wonder why marmots need
so many tunnels. So they ask more questions. The rabbits speak to the voles,
whom they recruit to dig smaller tunnels between yours, though the chicken wire
you have buried, to spy, to pry, to watch. And to report. Aye, we may be in
trouble, Aloysius said. Jarrod’s Sunday stink is awakening the sleeping forest.
His skies above are clear. Which means yours, Marmot, are clouding up.
Father Marmot was indeed worried.
His marmots had reported the discovery of some smaller
tunnels, some penetrating the chicken wire surrounding the enclosure. As fast
as they filled them in and plugged them up, more appeared. At first, it was
only a few, say, half a dozen. But their numbers were growing.
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