The Ill

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Some hundreds of minutes, I reckon. All I know is that my friend, my dear friend was ultimately on the menu of a Chinese restaurant.

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They drove into the city. The tortoise had to caution Tomaso not to poke his head out of the window. The massive buildings, the crowds of people, the many dogs—thankfully restrained on cords—were all quite new and dizzying to him. They stopped in front of a marble building, the most imposing one Tomaso had seen. After emerging from the car, the tortoise stopped at the base of the imposing staircase. He looked this way and that, this way and that, as if in the throes of a vigorous decision. The ramp will be more rapid, naturally, but the stairs are—well, more dignified, as befits a thoroughbred.

The tortoise, though, was wider than the steps of the staircase were long. As a result, when he had managed to haul himself up a step, he tended to teeter. As often as not he would tumble down several steps before he realized what had happened and could stop his fall. This process of triumphant scaling and less than dignified tumbling occupied two hours, during which Tomaso had plenty of time to take in his surroundings and even steal eight hotdogs for lunch.

He did not know, of course, that he was stealing. He was merely adapting his predatory instincts to a new setting. At last, the tortoise reached his tantalizing goal, the top of the staircase. I mean The System. And sometimes they hound you. I have some legal experience, you know. Down a long corridor that made strange noises Tomaso had never heard a real echo before , down a shorter one, and again down a longer, but narrower and dirtier one, they traversed a marble maze.

The doorknob was terribly high. The tortoise, however, simply pushed through a flap at the bottom of the door. They entered a small vestibule in which they were confronted by another two doors. Behind the door was a large steel desk. Behind the desk sat an immense, dark, furry animal wearing trifocals. It was a badger. My friend here needs a license.

You are aware of the five-dollar fee? Tomaso looked anxiously at the tortoise.

What type of license is the applicant seeking? Yes, here it is. Now, let us see. Then he removed his glasses and scrutinized Tomaso. Then he looked down at the book again.

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Tomaso and the tortoise saw a line drawing of a tiger with vertical stripes. Vertical arrows beside the stripes emphasized the correct orientation. The badger shook his head. I cannot furnish your companion with a tiger license. The System aims to be lenient, flexible. I believe that—now let me confirm this. Not even a little. The badger tilted his glasses. Tomaso turned to the tortoise. It was his money, after all. The tortoise began to raise his head. The result was an indignant, long-necked stare. Then the tortoise spoke. He too was a tortoise. A tortoise—I was going to say like you or me, but you are at best only a tortoise in sympathy.

This tortoise, perhaps not a thoroughbred, but very much a tortoise all the same, was also badgered by the officials here. He could only obtain a turtle license. The demands were too much for him. He was not of a naturally amphibious character. With such a license, he felt at sea. Tomaso and the badger-clerk waited. For a full five minutes, the tortoise remained silent and unmoving. Finally, the badger-clerk turned to Tomaso. On a desert island, you mean? No, He flew to Aruba to do his service. He went scuba diving. But he ran out of money and was stranded there.

Stranded there for years. He had to take odd jobs. He posed in photos with tourists. Tourists, the worst subspecies of human. He worked for the police acting as a boot for impounded vehicles, wedging himself behind the rear wheel. He rented his back to crack coconuts. He was sold as a locally sourced paperweight and would then crawl back to the shop for resale.

Ultimately, he had to sell his shell to an optician to pay his passage back home. A zebrafish license might save you three dollars, but at what cost, my friend? Three dollars was more than Tomaso had ever saved in his life.

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But he understood that if not his soul, at least the essence of his tigerhood was at stake. A zebrafish was a meal, not a suitable professional credential for a young carnivore hoping to rise in the world. He extended his front paws in a gesture that enjoined silence. The badger stared at him over his glasses. Badger, I cannot do it. I cannot betray my tiger roots and nature. The badger removed his glasses and passed a paw over his brow. Are you of sound mind— compos mens —and body?

Do you fully understand the implications of your decision? It is time to contact The Underground. Tomaso followed the tortoise along another marble corridor, even darker, emptier, and longer than the first. It seemed to Tomaso, as they travelled further and further into the recesses of the building and his claws clicked endlessly on marble floors, that they had covered far more ground than a single city block could possibly contain. It also seemed as though they were traveling not just in space, but also back in time.

In these seldom used halls, the black lettering on the glass panels of the office doors was old and flaking. Glass panels gave way to carved wooden signs swinging from intricately worked iron armatures above solid, heavily wrought wooden doors. The signs, perhaps once brightly painted with letters and animals, foodstuffs, stars, and gods, were faded and forlorn. The marble on the floor eventually gave way to cobblestones, barely visible in the gaslight—no, those were torches burning, Tomaso realized.

And then they were walking on dirt. I was young then. We can go can see the bones, if you like.

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We need to count. No one at all, young tiger. You must be prudent, despite your lack of the many years of wisdom I have painstakingly accumulated. Here the wall was built from rubble. More or less evenly spaced along its base was a series of roughly dug holes. As the tortoise again began to crawl, a whistle pierced the darkness. Then came the sounds of distant scrabbling and thumping. A few minutes later, he reemerged with a white flag somehow held in his right—appendage. The signs were crisply lettered, and appeared to be new. When they reached forty-seven, the tortoise stopped. He waved the white flag, extinguished his lamp, and went in.

Shadows rushed past them in the darkness, leaving cold drafts in their wake. Tomaso heard strange, faint, mechanical sounds, almost like a kind of gnawing. The floor was cold dirt. The air was moist. Just stick with me. A voice challenged them in the darkness. The tortoise whispered a passphrase. The mechanical sounds grew louder. And he was right. Tomaso squeezed hard to make his way through a small dirt hole. The tortoise took off his shell and followed. Tomaso emerged unexpectedly into a brightly lit, tidy office filled with rows of desks and with a large military map on the wall.

He now saw the source of the mechanical sounds. The desks were occupied by rabbits. One was mechanically gnawing open envelopes, another was shredding documents using a similar procedure, and others pursued various creative and destructive clerical tasks, mostly involving either gnawing or electric typewriters. The tortoise craned his neck up at the desk.

Taking apart the Largue, also coming from the Jura mountains near Illfurth , it receives several tributaries from the west bank Vosges mountains after passing through Altkirch: As the Ill nears the city of Mulhouse, most of its flow is diverted into a discharge channel leading to the Doller, protecting the historical center of the town from floods.

Flowing through the city of Strasbourg, the river forms part of the 17th-century fortifications and passes through a series of locks and channels in the picturesque old town, including the Petite France quarter, where its waters were once used to power mills and tanneries. The Ill is currently navigable from a junction with the Canal de la Marne au Rhin for a distance of just under 10 kilometres 6. This stretch of river passes through the centre of Strasbourg , and makes connection with the Canal du Faux-Rempart , the Canal du Rhone au Rhine and the, no longer navigable, Canal de la Bruche.

There is a single lock , in the Petite France quarter of central Strasbourg. Navigation through the section of the central part of this section, through Petite France, is restricted to small pleasure craft in the downstream direction only; upstream traffic and commercial traffic must use an indirect route from the Canal de la Marne au Rhin to the Canal du Rhone au Rhine via the Port of Strasbourg.

Passenger trip boats use this section in the opposite direction, completing their loop via the Canal du Faux-Rempart that is closed to all other traffic. Other stretches of the Ill, downstream of the Canal de la Marne au Rhin to the confluence with the Rhine , and upstream of Nachtweid, are not navigable by powered craft, although they may be used by canoes and similar craft. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. The river's only lock can be seen right of centre.

Cruising French Waterways, Kindle Edition.