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How the Aardvark Got His Sticky Tongue
By Nofret Hrist

In the beginning, oh Best Beloved, the aardvark did not have the sticky tongue that he possesses nowadays. He had an immense snout, which he pushed into everything that looked like it might contain food--burrows, nests, warrens and dens-devouring all that he saw and a great deal that he did not see as well. He did this because of his inexorable cupidity (that's magic). And as far as the aardvark was concerned, that was the way things were supposed to be, then, now, and henceforward.

The other animals fought off the aardvark as best they could. The squirrel clawed him, and bit him on the nose. The rabbit kicked him with her strong hind legs. The crab pinched him with his pale, pale pincers. The snake tried to poison him. The eagle used her talons. But nothing and no one could drive away the aardvark or his more than intrusive snout.

Then one summer, the rains did not come, and the watering holes dried up and the feeding grounds for the animals blew away on the scorching midday wind. All the animals struggled fiercely to find food. But the only one who discovered any was the aardvark, as his more than intrusive snout sniffed out the few green shoots and the little freshly-killed meat that his neighbors had found for themselves. The aardvark clawed his way into their larders and pantries, and devoured all that he discovered-whether he liked it or not-because of his inexorable cupidity.

This made the other animals very angry, and they held a meeting, and a parley, and a rally, and a convocation. And at last they decided to go and ask the Djinn that dwelled in the iron gate of a distant town if something could be done about the aardvark and his inexorable cupidity.

So that night the animals set out, going northward, ever northward, for many days. The sun was hot, and the wind swirled with dust. More than a few collapsed because they had little food and less water. But at long last they reached the town, and the iron gate where the Djinn lived. There they performed an arcane and efficacious ritual of necromancy (that's magic), so that they might speak to the Djinn. And after they had done so, the Djinn appeared, surrounded by a purple cloud of sparkling dust, his spectacles askew, his ponytail awry and a harassed expression on his face.

"Well?" he said to the animals. "What is the matter? Tell me quickly, for I have seventeen things to complete before teatime."

"It's the aardvark," said the ground squirrel. "He digs into my burrows and eats all the grass and grain I need to feed my family, and often eats my family as well."

"Yes," said the crab, "and he snuffles into the tidewater shoals where my family sleeps, and eats all the plankton and small shellfish they eat, and usually several of my family as well."

"Yes," said the rabbit, "and he pushes his snout into my warrens, and devours all the vegetation my family needs to live, and usually several of my children as well."

"Mmm," said the Djinn, stroking his chin as he floated on his cloud of sparkling purple dust. (Djinns always travel that way because it's magic.)

"And does he say anything when he eats everything in sight?"

"He says that it isn't his fault," said the ground squirrel, "and that things just seem to stick to his tongue, whether he wants them to or not."

"Yes," added the crab, "and he says that he is only eating what he needs to stay alive, no more."

"Yes, " continued the rabbit, "and he says that he is really sacrificing himself, eating things that no reasonable person would want to eat to keep the rest of us from getting sick."

"Very good!" said the Djinn. "I'll take care of him, if you'll kindly wait a minute."

The Djinn snapped his fingers, and materialized next to an old, dried up watering hole, where the aardvark was cheerfully consuming ten times his weight in meat, grains, and nuts. Looking at the remains of the burrows and warrens around the watering hole, it was not hard to figure out where the food had come from.

"The other animals have had enough, and I don't blame them, " said the Djinn.

"You cannot keep devouring all the food in the lands."

"That's not fair!" cried the aardvark. "I don't eat a scrap more than I have to!" And he sucked in his breath to make himself look very gaunt and haggard indeed.

The Djinn gave him a slanchwise glance. "No?" he said, in a tone that fairly shouted his disbelief.

"No," said the aardvark, "and you're being very unfair. Why, I barely eat enough to keep an ant alive."

"I shouldn't tell lies like that," said the Djinn calmly. "You might tell one once too often. Stop knocking things over with that big snout of yours and stop eating everything on Elanith right this instant, or I'll have to do it for you."

"Oh, you're cruel," moaned the aardvark. "Me, knock things over with my snout. I'm nowhere near strong enough. I can scarcely move. The only things I eat are the things that stick to my tongue." And he panted quite visibly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to prove his point.

But as soon as the aardvark did this, his snout shifted and reshaped itself to look like a funnel. He felt his tongue contract into a long thin tube as long as a man's arm. He tried to open his jaws to let out a gasp, but his jaws had fused with the funnel-like snout, and all he could do was whisper in shock, "What have you done to me?"

"Done to you?" said the Djinn, blinking at the aardvark. "Why, nothing. You said that you only ate what fell on your tongue, so I obliged you and gave you the longest, stickiest tongue on the planet, so that you won't starve to death. And since you don't eat enough to keep an ant alive, from now on the ants will keep YOU alive just to keep things balanced. And since you won't need a huge snout now, I've reshaped it to make it easier for you to burrow into anthills. And don't you dare say I've never done anything for you."

And from that day to this, oh Best Beloved, the aardvark has possessed a thin sticky tongue and a long funnel-shaped snout lined with pebbly teeth. And since that day, he has never devoured all the food Imaera provides to all beasts. But he still knocks over anthills that he has no intention of feeding from, and eats insects he doesn't like, just for the pleasure of eating. And he has never lost his inexorable cupidity.

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