Lanceheim Read Free

eyes were large, and he was breathing heavily.
    â€œNow we’re leaving,” he said triumphantly.
    Reuben did not recall how they managed to find their way out.
    â€œYou have Drexler’s syndrome,” said Margot Swan. “As I said earlier, there is of course a slight possibility that I am mistaken, which is why we are continuing to take samples, but…I advise you to read as much as you can about the disease before the next time we meet, then I will try to answer any questions you have. Judging by what I see today—and once again, more is required to determine this beyond all doubt, but from what I know at this point—it’s a matter of about three weeks. Then your hearing is going to…be extremely limited, if not…”
    Reuben Walrus did not know what Margot Swan was talking about. He could not for the life of him recall the name of the syndrome. And he would not recall how he managed to find his way out of the hospital this time either.

WOLF DIAZ 1
    S traight out I will confess, at the risk of making myself more ridiculous than I ought to, that the tip of my pen does not even quiver when I describe my cubhood as an idyll. That is how I recall it, as a long series of uneventful days in the secure community that was Das Vorschutz, a few kilometers outside Lanceheim’s eastern city limits. Before I begin tiring the reader with recollections from those days of happiness, I will only assure you that I am familiar with many of the well-trodden paths on which I now embark. Humility—hindsight’s faithful squire—taps me on the shoulder and reminds me of the hundreds of capably authored depictions of cubbish delight, of the joy and excitement of discovery. I do not wish to promote myself at anyone else’s expense, but because the surroundings of my cubhood happen to coincide with his, I am of the opinion that this will nonetheless be of some general interest. So, I beg you, put up with the following pages; they will later prove to be significant.
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    My family and I lived in a forest glade that had been cleared many generations ago just for us, for our profession, and for our kind. On soil that was soft as moss, fertile from humus, and carefully tended by expert and sensitive paws, five timbered two-story houses had been built in a perfect circle: large buildings that seemed to be growing up under their straw roofs. These were dwellings of dark, hewn lumber, just as broad as they were tall. The houses surrounded a round lawn where I played ball for the first time, where I split a seam for the first time, and where I fell in love for the first time.
    Every beaver that is delivered to Mollisan Town is invited, when he or she reaches that age, to become one of the forest guards in Das Vorschutz. Many are thereby called, but few are chosen. At the time when I was growing up, the tamers of the great forest were named Hans Beaver, Jonas Beaver, Anders Beaver, Sven Beaver, and Karl Beaver. Each one of them had taken a bird as a wife, and to this day I do not know whether that was only by chance.
    My father, Karl, was responsible for the trees. He was a hard gnawer who would rather punish than woo and who sought companionship with his colleagues rather than with his family. My mother was a dreamer, a nightingale, the charming Carolyn. She lived in a world of her own; I think it became more wonderful with each passing year. When she was not at the school or in the kitchen, she spent most of her time in a small room on the upper floor where she sewed curtains and coverings for the couch and armchair from the same rough, white cotton cloth where pink hollyhocks grew and blossomed. She sat at her desk and looked out the window at the massive trees that, ancient and wise, rose up around the glade and protected us from the sun and rain. During the Evening Storm their dense crowns sang tous, and in the breeze during the day the leaves whispered a song whose melody Mother