Omega (15) "Necessity maketh strange bed-fellows," agreed the Mouse. "I wouldst not wish the independent nation of Mice when it ariseth from the ashes of the Cat Kingdom to emulate the dictatorships and theocracies of the Canine Republics. I'sooth, I wouldst not wish Mice to be bound to Calvinist, Baptist or Evangelist dogma as the Basset Hound Republic or the Republic of Cocker Spaniels. 'Tis true that I wouldst be an unlikely advocate for temperance and I have but little patience with those who forever quote from the Bible. And 'tis so that I wouldst not wish the future Nation of Mice to be governed by such military rulers as those of the Labrador, Collie or Whippet Republics. But I believe not that these nations shalt be the model for the future Mouse nation. There art examples of government other than those of our geopolitical allies, and 'tis calumny to insinuate that Mice crave to mimic a species as heterogeneous as the Dog." "I'm sure you're right," commented Hubert diplomatically, poking at the inside of his mouth with a tooth-pick. "I was merely expressing reservation about the use of violence to attain the ends you believe in." "'Tis immaterial. The struggle ist one which shalt continue by fair means or foul. And one in which my bank account ist much committed. However, my friends, shalt we retire to the smoking room?" "A splendid suggestion, my good Mouse!" Agreed the teddy bear, heaving up his immense weight and then, clearly familiar with the layout of Tudor's castle, leading the way through the immense oak doors to the adjoining room, in which the servants had already prepared a fire. As we left the dining room, the servants bound in and began tidying up the remains of our meal. The smoking room was aptly named as it possessed a very strong smell of tobacco which clung to the leather furniture and wallpaper, and had discoloured the ceiling with a pronounced yellowish stain. We reclined in comfortable upholstered chairs and sofas set around the fire which emitted most of the light in the otherwise gloomy room. Portraits of Tudor's ancestors lined the wall beyond the shadows cast by the fire. In front of us stood a low oaken table on which there was more mead and wine, and, appropriately for the room, a collection of long clay pipes, loose tobacco and spills. Tudor and Hubert went through the rituals of piling tobacco into the pipes and puffing away at them to keep them alight. In no time the room was full of a thick sweet-smelling odour that saturated my eyes and throat and made me feel distinctly unwell. Tudor took a long draw from his pipe and exhaled a long twisting cloud of smoke. "Tell me, young man," he asked. "Why is't thou hast departed the Suburbs and voyaged here? 'Tis rare, indeed, to meet one such as ye." "My impression from my stay in the Suburbs," Hubert added, "is that for the natives to venture anywhere beyond the borough's confines is considered hazardous. The people I spoke to had very disapproving opinions about the rest of the country, or indeed the rest of the world. It was almost as if they'd never seen a seven foot tall teddy bear in a tri-corned hat before." I explained to Tudor that I had left the Suburbs on a quest for the Truth which I believed could only be found elsewhere. "It seemed well worth the effort of leaving home." "I'sooth, in comparison to Hubert's quest for the Great Poet 'tis incontestable that thy quest seems a nobler thing by far. Few who wouldst question the need to seek out and peruse all the Great Poet hath writ, spake or thought wouldst quibble at the relative nobility of the Truth. But I wouldst disagree with thee that thy search is the wiser or more advisable. The very nature of thy quest suggesteth that the Truth canst be found in a material or physical form. I wouldst avow that the Truth ist of a spiritual nature that canst be attained only by total immersion in philosophy, religion and contemplation. Moreo'er, thy quest conflicteth with the Truth revealed in the person of Our Lord Jesus Christ who hath suffered, died and been resurrected to spare us the need of similar discomfort to save our souls." "Religious objections like that are most untypical of you, Tudor," laughed Hubert. "I don't doubt the sincerity of your Christian beliefs, but surely you wouldn't deny our young Suburbanite credit in an equally sincere search for the Truth. Perhaps it will lead him eventually to conclude that the Truth does in fact lie in the Christian religion." "I ken thee too well, Hubert, to accept that thou affordest the Word of the Lord with the least respect. 'Tis known that thou'rt a damnable atheist and thou no more think our young man shalt find the Truth in the Christian faith than in a tureen of sushi." "Tudor! You misrepresent me most cruelly! I am no atheist, as you claim. I am a doubter. A skeptic. I believe that the Truth cannot be known and that the best that one can hope for is a greater approximation of knowledge of the Truth. Who am I to say that the Truth won't after all be substantiated as manifest in the Holy Gospels? I hope that I am not too arrogant to immediately doubt such a proposition. I would just say that I entertain great doubts as to whether this will be the case." "Thou mayest not know the Truth, Hubert, but I trow that thou hast thy own opinions as to what the Truth mightst be." "It's true that I have opinions, but I wouldn't be a skeptic if I didn't say that they are mere speculation. It could well be that your views, or the views of Cats, or the views of your lapin servants, are the ones which are in actual fact a closer representation of the Truth. My belief is that the Truth is the insight that one sees in just a flash of recognition in the expression of great Poetry. It is in the wit, wisdom, conceits, epiphanies and revelations that Poetry delivers. The Truth is in the most perfect Haiku, the most devastating Sonnet, the most expressive pentameter and the most scathing of dismissive satire. The pursuit of Truth is not a pursuit of a thing in itself that can be held, examined or dissected; but is in fact to be found in the greater and more exact expression and statement of itself." Tudor puffed silently at his clay pipe. His whiskers twitched with their usual agitation and he blinked his massive eyes to avoid the smoke. "From what thou sayest, I wouldst deem that thou believest that the Truth hath been already found, with which I wouldst agree, and that the Truth ist to be revealed by great insights made by the properly qualified. In this we art agreed. Howe'er, I trow that the Truth ist revealed not by Poets who but claim to spiritual, moral and æsthetic wisdom, but in those who at the pulpit of the church hath truer claims than any poet to wisdom and knowledge which hath the affirmation of the Truth, and that which hath come on high from God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost." "I would never dream of being as specific as that," Hubert contended, putting down the glass of mead he'd been drinking. "The Truth I'm sure is a single monistic thing of many aspects, of which the Poets have illuminated just some. Poetry constantly strives towards a greater and more accurate expression of that simple undoubted Truth. When it has finally expressed the Truth in all of its potential manifestations then it could be said that it has been found." "Thou hast indeed a very grand notion of the profession of Poetry," laughed the Mouse. "I wouldst agree with thee, if 'twere not commonly known that the majority of Poetry, e'en that scribbled by thy Great Bard, hath no content of Truth in't at all. 'Tis but humour, scurrility, conversation, digression and indulgence..." "But these too are aspects of the Truth!" Insisted the teddy bear. "'Tis all frivolity!" Concluded the Mouse, tapping out the ashes of his clay pipe into the open fire. "Now 'tis time for ye to be shown your rooms for the night." Tudor then escorted us around the castle, which was very dark and quite cool in the late evening. It was difficult to be sure of my tread as I followed Hubert and he up the dark shadows of the oak stair-case and along wooden corridors that creaked ominously under the heavy weight of the giant teddy bear's footsteps. My bedroom for the night was a room somewhat larger than the one I had in the Suburbs and in many ways very luxurious. There was a large log fire blazing in the room which a hare was diligently priming when we put our heads through the door. There were some very expensive furnishings, some very valuable paintings, beautiful oriental wallpaper featuring fishermen and fish, and the most ornate wood panelling. But there was no electric light switch and I had to snuff out a candle with a curious metal spoon. The four-poster bed had a very hard mattress and was evidently designed for people that at their very tallest would have been Tudor's size (and was most certainly not designed for people of Hubert's dimensions). And despite the fire which undoubtedly heated one seventh of the room, the remaining six-sevenths of the room remained inexplicably cold. But I was very tired and after I'd crawled under the several heavy woollen blankets that weighed down the bed I was soon able to escape to my own dream Arcadia. 8 The following morning I was awakened by a hare who offered to dress me before I joined his master and companions for breakfast. As I had great doubts that an animal substantially shorter than I and significantly less dextrous would dress me quite as well as I was capable of doing myself, I declined the offer and waited until he had left the bedroom until I pulled my feet free from the confines of the sheets onto the floor several feet below. I grimaced at the sudden cold pang of the stone floor and got dressed on the luxurious carpet in front of the fire. I then stole out of the bedroom, trying to tell where breakfast was being served. I looked up and down the long passageways at the suits of armour, the portraits of illustrious rodents and the odd sheep-skin rug, but could see no sign guiding me to the breakfast room or indeed anywhere else. Consequently it was after several minutes of wandering around the ill-lit hallways and through several unpromising rooms that I located my host in a room where chairs were arranged in front of a fire on which some hares were toasting some rolls and buns. Tudor saw me enter the room and greeted me with a gloved paw while munching on a bread roll. "Good morrow! Thou hast slept well, I trust?" "Very well," I answered, as indeed I had when I'd finally got used to the hardness of the mattress. Tudor was accompanied by Hubert, who was sitting down with his columnar legs stretched out in front of him wedged into boots which just about accommodated them, and a Scottish Terrier about the same height as Tudor wearing black clothes ornamented only by a grey lace collar. He had placed a tall black hat like a stove pipe on the arms of his chair and his paws were clasping a mug of tea. "Thou hast not met mine friend, the Philosopher," Tudor remarked. "He hath travelled many leagues from his distant land and ist once again honouring our fair nation with his presence." "You're very kind, Tudor," the dog barked. "I always enjoy my visits to your pleasant land. And surely there is no pleasure greater than that found in travel and good company. A weary foot and a glad heart are the best comrades a soul can have." "Are you also on a quest like Hubert?" I wondered. "Goodness no, young man. No amount of travel could reach the object of my pursuit. Philosophical insights are gained only by great contemplation and analysis. The deeper in you search the further out you may uncover." I nodded, pretending to understand what he was saying, and allowed my eyes to wander about the breakfast room. In the corner were two hares in conversation and a young man in ragged clothes crouched on the floor wolfing down the relics of the meal we had been eating the evening before. He glanced up at me with a sheepish grin and then resumed his chewing on the cold meat on a bone. I scanned my companions in the hope that they might introduce me to this eccentric guest, but they were deep in conversation. "...And the moral is that just as in any infinite series of numbers there is an incongruity, so too in any ethical practice there is an element of immorality..." The Philosopher noticed me while licking his tea-stained chops with his long flat tongue. "Are you troubled by anything, young man? Perhaps you are not accustomed to ethical discourse. Be assured however that the pursuit of knowledge is not achieved by conversation alone. A bird in the tree may in a flash of inspiration see what has always eluded the greatest thinker." "No, it's not that," I commented, slightly puzzled. "I was just wondering who that fellow is." I pointed at the young man who was scooping at the insides of a soiled bowl with the crust of a stale roll. The Philosopher suddenly burst into laughter, which was frighteningly like barking. Tudor tittered, but explained my faux pas. "An thou thinkst that wert a guest thou couldst ne'er be further from the truth. Nay, 'tis the Philosopher's slave that thou cravest to know." "The Philosopher's slave?" "Slave. What could be simpler?" smiled the Philosopher. "Perhaps you don't have such things where you come from?" "No," I admitted. "There are no slaves in the Suburbs." "'Tis verily true," agreed Tudor. "'Tis rare in this land to encounter a slave. 'Tis forbid in many districts, and I woot the Suburbs ist a borough where 'tis so proscribed." "So what is seemly to the elephant is unseemly to the mastodon," commented the Philosopher. "No, young man. In my country it is quite normal for those who can afford it to purchase as good a slave or set of slaves as they can. This slave cost me a few crowns I can tell you. He is of course now my property and I am free to dispose of him exactly as I would any other property. This is a rôle equally sanctioned by my slave and he would no doubt not wish it any differently." "Wouldn't he prefer not to be a slave at all?" I wondered. "That is a most naïve and simplistic view. Wouldn't we all wish to have a different life than we have. The man on the other side of the hill is always on the better side. But we are always best off as we are. Each man is his most welcoming citadel. My slave benefits from his working relationship with me because I provide him with security, safety, lodgings and food for as long as his work continues to be acceptable. His rôle in life is to serve, just as mine is to be served. The master needs the slave, just as the slave needs the master." "Why's that, Philosopher?" wondered Hubert who was chewing some toast. "Because without the one then the other has no existence at all. How can a master be a master if he has nothing to be master of? And for that matter how can a slave be a slave without a master to serve? It is all as it should be. The hare bounds in the field, while the sheep safely graze." "I may just be acting as the Devil's Advocate here, Philosopher," continued the giant teddy bear, "but have there not been many arguments postulated quite to the contrary. That rather than being natural, slavery is wholly unnatural and indeed unjust. This slave may look like just a ragged wretch, but given different chances in life might he not deserve a better lot? And wouldn't it be better to be wretched and free, than well-fed and enslaved?" "I don't really understand why so many people in your country believe that liberty is prima facie a good thing. You wouldn't want dragons or demons to wander free in this country. As free as the wind, but also as free as the raft adrift from its moorings. Nevertheless, I recognise the wisdom in such assertions, Hubert, and I would not advocate slavery if I didn't accept its economic necessity. How could the economy of my nation, or of the world, prosper without the very valuable contribution made by slaves? How could we pursue philosophy and poetry, without the wealth creation of this invaluable underclass? Even the worm is needed to aerate the soil so that we can eat. For some to have plenty it is necessary for others to have less than nothing at all." I wasn't at all persuaded by the Philosopher's arguments but I had no counter to them. I chose a line where I hoped I could get Hubert's support. "I didn't realise that Poetry needed slavery to exist. I thought Poetry was above the economic order." "Poetry is the expression of Philosophy by elegant language," the Philosopher replied, not really addressing my objection. "And language is the means of all thought and expression. It is through a precise understanding of language and how it is used to express sense that we understand all subjects of discourse. But if a sheep wrote Poetry would we understand what it was saying?" "Or even want to," commented Hubert. "Poetry isn't really Philosophy at all. It may express great insights, but not all these are of a philosophical nature. Some Cat poetry is noted by its absence of philosophical speculation and more by its unquestioning acceptance of what they consider to be the truth." "Isn't that fatalistic acceptance itself a concern of Philosophy? Great thought is expressed through its absence as much as in its presence. But I am sorry to hear you speak even indirectly of any virtue in Feline practice or poetry. Their despicable behaviour in the war with my nation have shown Cats to be wholly unpossessing of the finer sensitivities, and they are certainly not eminent opponents of slavery. They are, after all, a species who have allowed themselves to be governed by an absolute hereditary ruler. It is true that I wouldn't advocate the rule of the anarchic mob any more than the Cat. Good government by a tyrant is better than bad government by the people. I would say, however, that government is practised best by those selected and trained for their skills in the art than either the unschooled mob or those born to luxury. Indeed, luxury is as foreign to the skill of government as it is to logical discourse. A greenhouse is not the best place to grow a turnip." "I dare say you are right, Philosopher," smiled Hubert. He stood up from the chair and towered above his company. "But I must be on my way. I fear I have business to address elsewhere." "Where goest thou? Dost thou return to the Suburbs?"
Go to part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52
Copyright © 2000 Bradley Stoke |