The Constant Rabbit

by Jasper Fforde

Much Hemlock had always been a hotbed of right-wing sentiment, something that had strong historical precedent: the village had the dubious distinction of having convicted and burned more witches than any other English town in history. Thirty-one, all told, right up until a dark night in 1568 when they burned a real one by accident, and all her accusers came out in unsightly black pustules and died hideously painful deaths within forty-eight hours. Zephaniah Mallett had been the magistrate during the trials, but in a dark day for evolution he’d had children before dying so four centuries later Victor and Norman were very much in existence.

It wasn’t just foreigners or rabbits, either: they had an intense dislike for those whom they described as ‘spongers’ – again, a net that could be cast quite broadly but conveniently excluded those on a government pension, taken early – and other groups that they felt were deeply suspect, such as VW Passat drivers: ‘the car of smug lefties’. Added to that was anyone who was vegetarian, or wore sandals, or men with ‘overly vanitised’ facial hair – or women who wore dungarees, spoke loudly and had the outrageous temerity to suggest that their views might be relevant, or worse, correct.

Smethwick had begun his steep political climb as the Minister for Rabbit Affairs fifteen years before, when UKARP were only a coalition partner, and to celebrate his promotion greatly increased the number of things a rabbit could do wrong. He personally drafted the ‘Regularity Framework for Subterranean Construction’ and ‘The Orange Root Vegetable Licensing Act’. The new laws naturally increased rabbit arrest and incarceration rates, which Smethwick duly blamed on ‘increased cunicular criminality’, which was then, predictably and unashamedly, used to justify a greatly increased budget and workforce.

How’s the Declaration of Human Rights working out for you?’ It had always been a contentious issue that one of the most lauded documents of the past fifty years was regarded with almost laughable derision by rabbits, whose own Way was based on a bill of responsibilities, whereby each individual was morally obliged to look after the well-being of others, rather than a bill of rights, where, the rabbit had decided, the onus was incorrectly laid upon the individual to demand that their rights were respected.

‘What did they do to you? Ironic taunts, sarcasm, species-shaming?’ ‘No, more of a round-table discussion where they suggested I confront the shortcomings of my species, then

told me how rabbit governance was not so much based on laws as we understand them, but a mutually agreed set of understandings and customs where non-compliance would be a suboptimal approach to peaceful coexistence.’ ‘How did you feel about that?’ I asked, wanting to see whether Toby’s politics had changed. ‘Same old holier-than-thou rabbit bullshit.’

who despised the concept of integration and instigated numerous complaints about the rabbit’s ‘bacchanalian nature of rampant promiscuity that would surely corrupt the nation’s youth’. Despite no evidence that the nation’s youth needed any outside forces to help corrupt itself in the least, UKARP succeeded in casting doubt over further integration and were as surprised as anyone when their plan succeeded, and integration plans were abandoned. They

Despite the leporiphobic rhetoric, the once sleepy market town of Ross was now a bustling centre of commerce which encompassed trade, crafts and literary and artistic pursuits, as well as two centres for higher learning that revolved around philosophy, high cuisine and sustainability. While a few residents initially complained about the rabbits, all were won over by the vibrant nightlife, friendly upbeat manner of the newcomers and, of course, the trading opportunities. Although rabbits were not paid well, they liked to spend what they earned quickly. The gourmet lettuce bars did particularly well, as did the numerous greengrocers, a thriving bookstore and several hookah dens where rabbits discussed politics, economics and carrot hybridisation issues while their hookahs bubbled and puffed with the aromatic scent of a variety of rabbit tobacco: dock leaf, catnip, burdock, celeriac and dandelion. Mornings in the hookah dens were reserved for performance readings: the one we passed had a reading of The Hunchback of Notre Dame going on all week.

‘Who?’ ‘Them,’ she added, no more helpfully. ‘Vegans?’ ‘No, not vegans,’ she said, eyes opening wide, ‘worse than that.’ ‘Foreigners?’ I asked, catching sight of that morning’s copy of The Actual Truth, whose leader column’s outrage du jour was that unwashed foreign beggars were taking much-needed panhandling jobs from their hard-working British counterparts. ‘Worse.’ ‘Vegan foreigners who are also . . . socialist?’ ‘No,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘rabbits!’

although moving the regional colonies to one centralised home was decidedly not something the rabbits much liked the sound of, especially those with a grounding in human history, which generally presented a ‘low to extremely low’ expectation of anything turning out well where enforced removals were concerned.

‘Prejudice is best lubricated with ignorance,’

‘It’s a good job he rarely travels farther than Hereford. Containment is the best policy for people like him.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It also works wonders with Ebola.

‘Hell’s teeth,’ he said, ‘can’t a fella keep a close watch on stuff without nosy neighbours studying his every move?’

‘Humans have far fewer offspring in a litter and breed only occasionally, if at all,’ said Doc to Kent. ‘And aside from very large asteroids, steep staircases, mosquitoes and themselves, have no natural predators.’

‘Does vegan stew stir you somewhat in the nether regions, Peter?’ asked Doc. ‘It does us. Big time.’

The conversation turned to education cuts and the NHS after that, and the differing ethical benchmarks between medical and veterinary science. ‘We’d like to enjoy the ridiculous amount of attention you pay to minor ailments,’ said Doc, ‘and in return, you might think more carefully about the huge benefits of euthanasia.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I said, ‘but if you want to be amongst humans, you’ve got to understand what makes us angry or upset. Saying my wife left me because I’m boring, well, it’s just . . . rude.’ ‘Your great-grandfather wore my great-grandfather as a hat,’ she said, ‘that’s hardly polite – and nor is the denial of citizenship, despite us being resident here since Roman times.’

While most humans are wired to be reasonably decent, a few are wired to be utter shits – and they do tend to tip the balance.’

Shame is the gateway emotion to increased self-criticism, which leads to realisation, an apology, outrage and eventually meaningful action. We’re not holding our breaths that any appreciable numbers can be arsed to make the journey along that difficult chain of emotional honesty – many good people get past realisation, only to then get horribly stuck at apology – but we live in hope.’

The bears in Oregon generally kept to themselves, but had recently been given Second Amendment rights, so were legally allowed to shoot hunters in self-defence – and did so quite frequently, much to the annoyance of hunters, who considered it ‘manifestly unfair’ because the bears, now suitably armed, were actually better hunters than they were.

‘All life is one, and there is no objective truth that suggests we have a greater right to life than a lichen.’

The way we see it, London is just one massive money-laundering scheme attached to an impressive public transport system and a few museums, of which even the most honest has more stolen goods than a lock-up garage in Worcester rented by a guy I know called Chalky.’

He retired from politics but remains active as a talk-show pundit. The language of division can always be monetised.