It was an ancient coterie of prairie dogs who maintained the underground complex known as the White Flower Inn. The current proprietors - like their ancestors before them - were a rougher-hewn bunch than the rodents who settled in cities like Peacefield, but they possessed an obvious intelligence born of the travails of frontier life.
“Ma!” cried the pup sweeping the floor by the front entrance when Master John squeezed his bulk through the opening. “C-c-cat!”
“Eh?”
“Cat, Ma! And he’s huge. Oh, he’s fixin’ ta eat us all! I just know it!”
A large sow emerged from a side tunnel wearing a stained yellow apron — and an exasperated expression. “Quit yer carryin’ on’, Billy. Cat’s don’t do that no more.” Then she turned to her guests. “Apologies, sir. The silly boy was born this season. He ain’t properly learned.”
Oh, well, I’ll ‘learn’ him, thought Timothy, offended on Master John’s behalf. But before he could give Billy a good cuff on the ear, his feline teacher held him back with one paw. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. —?”
“Mrs. Belle.”
“Ah. ‘Beauty’ in the old tongue. And quite fitting for a lady such as yourself.” Master John bowed respectfully before Mrs. Belle, who looked thoroughly chuffed. “Allow me to offer my apologies for the disruption of my arrival. By any chance, may my young friend and I rent a room for the night?”
It was not currently a busy season for Mrs. Belle’s establishment, so Timothy and Master John were quickly escorted to a well-appointed bedroom chamber, where they were informed of the meal schedule — and then left to their own devices.
“Why aren’t you upset?” Timothy asked the moment the master and apprentice were alone. “That pup judged you before he even knew you!”
“That pup,” Master John replied as he curled up for a rest on a well-worn ruby cushion, “is the victim of a universal curse. Even Enlightened creatures fear what is unknown. I dare say Billy had never seen a cat before today. And I’m a fair sight larger than most of my brethren. Between that and my fangs, it’s no wonder my appearance filled the lad with alarm.”
“But — couldn’t you have corrected him?”
“No. Direct correction is not how creatures learn when it comes to these matters. Such schooling is best accomplished when one maintains a spirit of peace and friendship. If I had indulged my anger, I would've sundered a developing - and delicate - trust.” Master John yawned. “Now please, let me enjoy my afternoon nap.”
--*--
Aside from an ancient gray cat who skulked, silent, at the far end of the dining chamber, supper that night was dominated by prairie dogs from the Belle clan, who filled the little space with the exuberant sounds of their fiddles and the thump-thump-thump of their dancing. It was challenging for Timothy to carry on a conversation - or even to hear himself think - over the ruckus, but oddly, he didn’t mind. There was something attractive in the way these creatures seized life, squeezing every drop of enjoyment from it that they could. And the homey quality of the repast made the entire experience all the better.
“Is it a very special occasion?” he hollered at Mrs. Belle at one point as she hustled by in her apron carrying a tray loaded down with mugs of ale.
The proprietress stopped, blinking in bemusement. “Well, no, mouse. It’s a right normal evenin’ as I sees it.” And then, before Timothy could question her further, she disappeared once again into the gathered crowd.
“It’s a little difficult to understand,” Master John helpfully supplied with a chuckle, “when you live as we do, safe behind fortifications and gates. But out here, there is little protection from the elements — or predators, for that matter. That tends to make you especially thankful when you survive yet another day unscathed.”
“Why don’t they build walls like we do?”
“Because it chafes them to be so confined.” Master John lapped up a swallow of water, trilling in contentment. “In truth, I often wonder if the prairie dogs are wiser than we’ve ever acknowledged. Perhaps in pursuing air-tight security, we have lost something vital. Maybe a little danger leads to a richer way of living.”
“Hogwash!”
Startled, Timothy turned to find the cat he’d spotted earlier standing beside their table — and nearly choked on a kernel of corn.
Master John, meanwhile, took the interruption in stride. “How long have you been eavesdropping, Master —?”
“William. And just a few moments at most. Forgive me, but I was curious to learn why another cat would travel on the frontier at this time of year.”
“I’m taking my apprentice to the priory for a visit. And you?”
“I’m returning from the same. I was asked to speak on new advances in urban planning and architecture.”
“Ah. Might you be William of Buckstead?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I am John of Worcester.”
“Ah. The icon painter. Yes, your reputation precedes you.”
Timothy felt a little dizzy as he watched the rapid-fire exchange. He knew of William of Buckstead, designer of the forbidding obsidian tower that loomed over the skyline of Peacefield, dwarfing the more delicate structures that stood beside it. But there was a darker subtext in the way Masters William and John spoke to each other that wholly escaped his understanding.
“Well then,” said Master John after pushing aside his plate and quickly washing his face, “I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that I enjoy a good debate. Pray: share your exalted opinion on our current subject. How am I wrong?”
“I simply fail to see the wisdom in romanticizing squalor.”
“Squalor? That seems an overstatement. The prairie dog families are fastidious in maintaining their towns. And they seem reasonably prosperous despite the challenges they face.”
Master William growled in irritation, waving a dismissive paw. “Yes, yes. This place is clean and comfortable enough — for a burrow in the earth. But think how much simpler these dogs’ lives would be if they dwelled in guarded palaces of stone and glass!”
“Which you would design, of course.”
“Are you accusing me of something in particular, Master John?”
“No, not at all. I’m sure your motives are exquisitely altruistic. But I wonder what good you could possibly do if you fail to consult the creatures upon whom you wish to impose your notions of ‘proper living’.”
“Have they studied the science of construction? Of hygiene? I think not. Only a few are literate,” Master William scoffed.
“You are correct there, Master William. The only thing they have is tradition and experience. But I question the wisdom of dismantling a way of life before exploring its provenance. As a wise cat once said, ‘one doesn’t tear down a wall until its original purpose is understood’.”
The two cats glowered at each other, at an impasse. Then Master William’s mouth twisted into an imperious sneer. “You are everything I’ve heard, John of Worcester.”
“I should hope so.”
“Well.” The gray cat snatched a leftover vittle from Master John’s plate and gulped it down without chewing. “I shall take up no more of your time. But I caution you both: notions like yours are quite obsolete. You may not have a place in the new order that’s coming.”
Recognizing the veiled threat for what it was, Timothy realized he no longer had an appetite.
--*--
Unease transformed what was once a cozy room into an oppressive sepulcher. Master John, of course, took no notice of the change and quickly fell into a peaceful slumber in the manner typical of his race. But Timothy lay awake for many hours watching - and fearing - the shadows cast by the oil torches the other residents of the inn used as they made their occasional trips to the toilet chamber.
Eventually, Timothy gave up on sleep and kindled a lamp of his own. Pulling out his sketchbook and his charcoal, he began a study of the flower he’d collected after the great storm front, hoping to banish his anxieties with the joys of his art. And it worked — to an extent.
“Young Timothy? Has something disturbed your rest?”
Timothy fell out of his chair. Scrambling to right himself, he caught a glimpse of Master John’s now open eye, which shined eerily with reflected light. “Sorry, sorry!” he squeaked. “Yes. Somewhat. But you needn’t get up on my account.”
“It’s alright, son,” Master John said as he arched his back and stretched his limbs. “I often rise at this hour for a bit of exercise. The occasional breakneck run through the empty lanes of Peacefield keeps the old joints limber. I quite recommend it.”
“Oh. Well.”
“Go on. Unburden your mind.”
“It’s Master William, teacher,” Timothy admitted with a sigh. “What did he mean when he mentioned the ‘new order’?”
“Ah. It’s a popular phrase with the members of that set. With their education and breeding, they imagine themselves capable of reordering society according to their ‘rational’ specifications. To be honest, I’ve never given their designs more than a passing thought. To me, they seem destined to fail.”
“Are you certain? I didn’t like the way Master William spoke to you. He seemed to believe he had the upper hand.”
Master John paused, considering the observation. “Hmm. I’ve always had confidence that the Nature of all creatures would eventually frustrate such schemes. But I owe you my honesty: a temporary victory for their side is not outside the realm of possibility. And a great deal of suffering may follow.”
“So what do we do to stop it?”
“Continuing our current quest may be a good place to start.” Master John brushed his whiskers once and began to pack his bag. “Assemble your things. We will stop at the larder for our morning meal and set out before the sun rises.”
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