Clutch knew that until his dying night he was never going to come down from the giddy peak of victory. It was a summit of all the little joys that make up being alive: climbing down from your first roof, standing up to an angry goose, vanquishing a drooler. This victory was like all those smaller triumphs bundled together by an adversary who had compelled him to prove his worth.
But surveying the rejoicing throngs – the Citizens Brigades, the Southerners of Princess Hala, the Creek squadrons, the new citizens from the Heights, and the older townsfolk who had joined with the City’s young – he realized that this achievement wasn’t individual. It was a unison of countless personal triumphs. For everybody here on the grass in front of the stage had in their own way experienced hope, setback, and triumph, just as he had. Opening his heart to their celebration, he felt the power of a moment, a feeling that time stood still. Wasn’t this what Procyonides speaks of in his Dialogue on Statecraft when he tells of when the Great Raccoon God and the Goddess Hapticia founded the first city? They say the heavens moved so close to the Earth that night you could hear the stars singing.
He was at the right end of the stage with his mother and her new friend, Twitchwhisker. The jingling beside him was Hala: she had produced a headdress fringed with tiny silver bells that tinkled each time she tossed her ruff. Then Mindwalker, with a seagull riding on his shoulder, spoke with such an infectious enthusiasm that a group of Southerners on the lawn began dancing spontaneously in a circle. He’d never seen such a display before.
“It is the dance from the Masque of the Defeat of the Storm God by the Spirit of Spring,” Hala explained with a jingle.
Next, his sister Touch, all grown up, waving Meatbreath’s ear to the delight of the crowd and, beside her, Sensibella just as dramatic as when he first met her at the Pond. She had obviously learned good manners at her girls’ school because she was keeping her eyes fixed on Mindwalker, the way a polite listener defers to the speaker who is the centre of attention. Beside Sensibel stood brother Bandit, raccoon of many parts, scowling at something. Well, he had good reason to scowl: one of his ribs was broken. Next to them stood Friskywits with her father Smartwhisker, who had saved the day with his army of Eastern people.
And as far as the eye could see, proud, exhausted raccoons. They had achieved the impossible – they had created a free City. And a diverse one. He remembered the end of the battle when the Southerners from the frontier mingled with the Easterners from the Heights. Though they had differing customs and tongues, they embraced each other as kin in a new Republic. Hala and Mindwalker had walked together, frowning at the bodies of insensate raccoons strewn under the picnic tables, still holding bottles of spirit-sugar.
The park fell silent. Sensibel had stepped forward. She took a deep, self-conscious breath and began.
“Hi, all you darling Citizens. And you up in the trees. And …” she turned her head and looked up “… you up there on the roof. Yes, and you lovely Peoples Corps who have joined us. And you Makers – yes, I see you over there on top of the urinals, deliberating wisely. On behalf of the City, I want to thank each and every one of you, my dear people, for this victory. And for accepting me as your Chief Magistrate …”
Cheering and applause from all the tables of the feasting area, the surrounding trees, the café roof. Clutch glanced at his mother in astonishment. Since when did Sensibel become Chief Magistrate? Slypaws raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
“Freely chosen, let it be said, by you all,” Sensibel said. “Not secretly appointed on some west-end rooftop by the City Elders and Leading Families …”
More applause. Suddenly, there weren’t any Leading Families anymore. They still existed in their privacy, but without the capital L and capital F. The notion of an elite class bred in one locale had become uncustomary, refuted by this new Chief Magistrate who was the daughter of a Migrant and a Creeker.
“And in that spirit of free and open process, I will now share with you one of the new laws I intend to put before City Council. The law defining a wholesome and harmonious Commonwealth.”
Did anyone really want to hear what the law was? For harmonious, they just had to look around; for wholesome, they only had to look at Sensibella, who was now striding back and forth across the stage. Clutch began to frown. There had been no choice of a new leader. No one had elected Sensibella.
“For instance, a law governing risky behaviour. The risk-takers have suddenly realized that the world has become an unsafe place for risk-taking. But since there’s nowhere else to live, unless you want to live on the moon with the Goddess, the risk-takers have discovered that in order for their behaviour to prosper it has to ponder the consequences of what it does. It has to study the impact of a leap before it takes one. Our common task as Citizens is to help that thinking along. Those of you out there who are moms … Where are you? Let’s see those paws!”
All around the audience, mothers raise their paws.
“Bless you! And bless the even more of you than before who’ll become mothers because of our new law giving you more dens and the power to select your mate. Now, don’t you teach your cubs that acts have consequences, that cubs should take responsibility for the results of the risks they take?”
Heads nodding all around in agreement.
“The same thing now applies to risk-takers – it applies especially to risk-takers. They must take responsibility for what they do. They need to stop being cubs and grow up!”
Cheering. But Clutch didn’t cheer. He knew that something in Sensibella would never grow up. Her argument didn’t feel fully shaped and mature. There was a flaw somewhere.
Now Citizen Sensibella took another step forward. She stood at the front edge of the stage. Just her. Vulnerable. Alone. The crowd fell silent, expectant, for her summation.
“As a token of the new rule of self-responsibility, and of my service to you as your Chief Magistrate, I declare that I myself shall not mate with anybody.” She dropped her voice to a whisper in a spirit of modesty and sacrifice. “You see, I do not need to.”
Clutch glanced leftwards. Bandit’s face had gone out of shape.
“Why not, you ask? Because I am already mated to the City. I am mated to each and every one of you. The Commonwealth is my partner and my own heart’s love.”
Delirious applause. Cries of support. Spontaneous dancing.
“Our world has become too hot,” Sensibella said. “Let’s make it cool!”
She’d make a good politician, Clutch conceded. Her proclamation did excellent things to the minds of the citizens. Raccoons who had never had an idea in their lives suddenly developed an interest in political theory.
***
What kind of politician would he make? Clutch thought later that morning. He lay in the crook of a tree overlooking the scene of the victory, now empty of raccoons. Instead, seagulls were picking at the litter. The doors of the meat trucks swung lazily in the breeze off the river. It was that quiet day in the week. Soon the church up on the Heights would ring its carillon. The park would fill up with Primates out for family brunch on the café patio. The scents of fresh-baked croissants, scones, and muffins already drifted up. He wasn’t a politician. In all his growing up he had never felt the instinct to lead. He didn’t want to be Chief Magistrate for Creek Town. He wasn’t a natural leader like the flamboyant Sensibel, or like Hala with her surprising pivots between a tender, sympathetic warmth and a hard, implacable grace. No, he would become a philosopher like Procyonides the sage. “In solitude, be to thyself a throng” – one of his Uncle Wily’s sayings. He wanted to be left alone. He would mate with his studies.
“Ladyfriend?” he said to the form curled up behind him. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s Silverheels.”