Silver the Hedgehog: The Hymnals of Tetragrammaton

Preamble – Fledgling Modesty

"Lonesome messenger, I have given you a most remarkable gift. To solace your wails of solitude I have bestowed upon you the voice of a thousand of My most beauteous Choirs. Your song shall echo throughout the Firmaments, calm My Earthly Children and ease their hearts, as well as your own, my lonesome messenger. Your Song is Mine, and so shall it lift and resideth in all hearts I have created and deemed good."

Lucia, on Spagonia's grassy outskirts - Sunrise

New light heralded the missioners awake without any need for clarions. The friary floors glistened in wakefulness. Morning had arrived. Sleep cycles fulfilled, a handful of holy men went to their designated sectors of the Lucia Mission. One went to awaken the small cast of orphaned boys for morning repast, while another headed towards what looked like a kitchen. Timid knocks reached three distinct double doors, each with an elaborate crest. The knocks were answered in accordance. At one a tall, rotund white habit appeared from behind one door. Above it, a purple cat's whiskery cheeks plumped up.

"Good morning, Brother Stylo," the cat guffawed after a grand bow.

In shy return, the silvery-white hedgehog bowed. "Good morning to you, Father Sigmund," came the remark, with a quieter smile upturning his mouth's corners. As well as his canary-diamond eyes.

Morning repast began: Leading the brotherly congregation in blessing was a fairly elderly echidna, donning the most ornate robes out of the adults. The other two, the big cat and a hoary albatross, bowed their heads in prayer. Other missioners, including the orphanage principal and his twenty-odd charges, shared a meal together. Stylo dished everyone their helpings by rounding the heads' and principal's tables with different foods before eating his own. Thanks sparked around each table, which resonated into compliments, even after he'd sat down. Soon after, a post-meal prayer dismissed everyone to their daytime duties.

Stylo departed alongside Father Sigmund to follow the orphanage principal. Not too far off from the mission's established plot was a schoolhouse. A wrought-iron palisade surrounded the foregrounds. Seeing the toys and playground equipment made Stylo reminisce a bit. Inside, pews of young boys—perhaps from seven to twelve years old—recited assigned readings for both their principal and Father Sigmund. Stylo assisted by helping the boys out with the next Sunday's readings.

After that was done, Stylo walked back with Father Sigmund to the Mission. Those graceful doors welcomed them in beyond their humble oaks and irons. The Lucia Mission itself wasn't as prominent as its neighbors. Previously unknown to campaigners, the ones who did notice it chose to stay and help it grow. Multitasking in more than one area, Lucia was very busy for most of the day. With all the current occupants, things were rolling off to a good start. Besides the mission itself there were said orphanage and schoolhouse, as well as the chapel attached to the mission, a small library, and an outpatient clinic. Busy mission-worker bees from morning till night, they were. Most worked together in cohesive and collaborative squads, while others more distinctive took up solo or more authoritative helms.

Like the parish priest, Father Nestor. He was the spearhead of the project, of Lucia's success. His dream of building a home for all who sought deliverance—be it physical, emotional, or spiritual—had become a reality. It was something he strived for even since he was a young man, like Stylo. And he'd been taking care of it since he'd grown into a man, thanks to a generous endorser. Perpetually composed and patient himself, Father Nestor saw similarities between his and Stylo's spirits. There was something about the boy he could never put his finger on; so he left it to spiritual eyes to see. Father Sigmund felt the same way, but was more involved with Stylo. Much akin to a father to the white hedgehog, the Maine coon was much younger than he looked. With a sense about him that the head priest couldn't sneeze at Father Sigmund was considerably more sedate than his brother-in-command. Father Pieria had his own way of doing things. Executing tasks on time was a big thing for him; if scullery wasn't done by 8:00 PM, he would surely give the "wrongdoer" quite a tongue-lashing. His buff chest couldn't be challenged, so most of the youngsters didn't. Without Fathers Sigmund or Nestor to diffuse his temper, Father Pieria would be a walking time-bomb.

But Stylo knew better than that. He respected and admired his superiors, even with their earthly imperfections. As the sole fledgling Lumen Sage, his peers wondered how he fell under such good graces.

A few good stretches brought Stylo back into focus. A hardy sigh preceded a just-as-hardy smile. "Time to work on the dining area."

Rolling a sponge mop in its pail, Stylo proceeded to the supper hall. The white hedgehog started with swiping the floor down, then moved to the tabletops, chairs, and counters inside the kitchen alcove. Now in the scullery, he let out a victorious huff—"Hah! All done!"—as he set the cleaning supplies away. He washed his hands, diffusing the ammonic fumes, before leaving the scullery, kitchen, and supper hall. A broad bay window allowed enough daylight to beam into both kitchenettes. Taller lancets did the same for the supper hall. Out of one, Stylo gazed.

Clouds moved. Wind blew. Flower petals shimmied, pollen glided to meadows farther away. Birds journeyed through. It was a good time to be springtime. The Earth had taken its time rousing from the cold solstice. Now, instead of building snowmen with the orphanage boys, Stylo could play water-tag with them. It was time to break out the easels and paint as well, since the boys could paint outside again. Two in particular really liked how active and fun Stylo was. Miles, a twin-tailed fox considered to be a "veteran," found it cool that the Lumen fledgling didn't mind his genetic mutation. In fact, the fox's wit was praised over everything else. There was also Shelby, a young bee that Father Sigmund picked up on his way back from Spagonia. Whenever he wasn't boasting about being more capable than "adults" like Stylo, Shelby was being made fun of for his name. Stylo, however, would reassure him with a childhood aspiration of his: to have his own sanctuary, a "ledge estate," that overlooked the sea, and if it was ever built he would name it after Shelby.

A tiny smile brightened the Lumen fledgling's countenance.

Lucia Mission wasn't extravagant in any way. It was pretty simple, compared to its bigger sisters and grander brothers. Situated on multiple relatively small plots it had a church, an orphanage, a library, a school, and a tiny clinic. The hamlet of Lucia wasn't any bigger than it was. Due to this, its Mission was the one place with running water, indoor plumbing, and power. It ran like all the administrative, academic, religious, and civil headquarters Spagonia had, albeit tinier and crammed into a single building.

Stylo realized how important it was for him and the other boys to be well-behaved. There were a few troublemakers, without a doubt. But Stylo was neither a bible-thumper nor a bible-tramper. Everyone was entitled to their own opinions; even he had no right to judge.

At the same time, though, there were so many things Stylo was hearing about: Philanderers, murderers, crooked cops, terrorists, pedophiles, and conmen— to name a few. From where he saw the world he could only nod his head to whatever the higher-ups said. Despair with them, pray with them, and then hope with them again. Stylo knew he couldn't truly know those things if he hadn't experienced them for himself.

There was one thing he remembered asking Father Sigmund about that was never answered. Stylo was about seven years old when he asked. A couple hours after his Hermetic Arts practice, Stylo entered the Maine cat's quarters with a big book in tinier hands. Said cat had been sipping something hot when the little hedgehog came shuffling in. In a hurry, too.

The robes obviously too long for him, the book plopped atop the sofa just when Stylo tripped.

"My dear boy, what's the matter?" Sigmund had asked, pulling the boy back up to a stand.

A bit flustered, Stylo threw his hands on the book cover. He beat both palms against it in strong emphasis. But the bigger cat looked confused.

"Father, Father! What is a Witch?"

"…I don't think he ever answered that, either." The smile on his face dimmed. "But I can always talk to Father Sigmund. About anything…right?"

In the Mission's library, countless encyclopedic volumes lined the shelves. Multicolored, multi-patterned, gilt leafed, embossed faces, engraved spines—they made the library vibrant. And, thankfully, Stylo was a reader. Quite the avid one, actually. If he had the time he could sit and read for hours. And even though he wasn't on anybody else's clock, his solitary trip to the book-hall was of great importance. Stylo sat beside sunlit bays. Page after page, information poured in, what felt like, reams. It was a bit too much at one time; but Stylo knew what he was looking for.

"Let's see…? Huh?"

What he wanted was absent. In fact, it may have been in a different volume. A completely different text. So Stylo got up, went back over to a shelf, and poked spine after spine. Until he found a notebook. Battered leather, weathered by age and heavy use, Stylo supposed. The edges looked frayed, but it was again assumed to be wear-and-tear.

"What is this?" Curious blinks. Then, honestly curious canaries peered at the opening inscription:

"I've been a journalist now for over twenty years, always aiming for the guiding light of truth, always pushing forward. I've believed that communicating the truth is the core tenet of all journalism, chasing it until my legs turn to rubber and the truth is burned into my retinas.

"They say that some things come at 'the cost of your life,' but to me, truth is my life. In this age filled with lies and deception, I forever pray that truth will shine its light on the path of righteousness." - Antonio Redgrave


"…Antonio Redgrave. Hmm, a highly respectable name," Father Pieria admitted, stroking under his beak. "He was a world-class journalist, wasn't he?"

"Excuse me, but…was? As in, past tense?" Stylo worried.

"Yes, indeed, dear child." The wise echidna, Priest Nestor, combed through his beard lightly. Awaiting at his side was a wooden cane, classically knotted like an old martial arts master's. "He has long since passed on." He gently patted the journal's cover. "But, Stylo…?" Turning the pages, the elder asked, "Have you glimpsed at anything in this book, Antonio's Notebook?"

Rendezvousing in a secluded study, the three mission heads absconded Stylo inside. The study's curtains were pulled together, as if the leaders feared someone would peer in on their discussion. Other trustworthy missionaries supervised the orphaned children and handled minor affairs while in conference.

Shelby was coloring in a drawing of his when he noticed a turquoise crayon rolling over the edge. "Oh no ya don't," came an automatic yelp and lunge. Only to catch it too tightly. Impressed, but saddened, by his own strength Shelby's lower lip quivered. The tiny utensil had snapped into clean halves. "Aw, but you were one of my favorites…." he whimpered in a low, sad tone.

"I only read the inscription in the front cover, Father. From what I can tell…" Stylo smoothed a hand atop the other. "Antonio Redgrave sounded very well-learned and intelligent. A bearer of many great accolades…like you all." He threw a hand to the back of his head. "And so incredibly honest and virtuous, too! He wasn't a Lumen Sage like me, was he? Could've fooled me…!" An embarrassed chuckle.

A soft plop! came from the notebook closing. Both Father Pieria and Sigmund clasped their hands together, tighter. Soon, a gravity had weighed down the light atmosphere. Stylo's chuckles subsided; a more reserved glower took over.

"Dear Stylo, my boy…I cannot say he was. But Mr. Redgrave was exceedingly knowledgeable—and curious—about them. As well as the Umbra Witches." A tok! of Father Nestor's cane echoed a bit. "We, ourselves, are not Lumen Sages. We bear not their powers nor titles. I know the ways of the Sage somehow, you must be wondering. An old man teaching you such splendid arts? It must truly confound you."

Stylo stiffened. Gripping at his robe. "Y-You're not? None of you…are Lumen Sages? Well…" A soft sadness had entered those downtrodden canaries. "I guess that makes sense. Since you all joked your way out of showing me…moves that don't exist."

"It is not that they do not exist, young Stylo. Neither Sigmund nor Pieria could show or teach you such advanced movements."—The priests in question bowed his head and huffed a guilty snort, respectively.—"And I am past my prime, dear child, so all I can do is pass on my knowledge."

"But how can that be? You took me under your wing in studying the Hermetic Arts. I learned everything from you, Father Nestor!"

Stylo was silenced. Ordered, by the elder's hand, to hold his peace.

"You are a genius, Stylo."

Canaries brightened. Both excited and confused.

"With my verbal instruction alone, you have mastered Light Speed, the Hermetic Arts, and proven yourself proficient in utilizing Chaos Powers. With this many powers, you must uphold yourself—tried and true, as well as with much caution. Your powers are not socially acceptable, and your duties as a keeper of those techniques entail never leaking them, sharing them, with anyone. In fact, from now on, it is best to refer to yourself as an apprentice under my name." The old man smiled. "You've learned not all that you seek, my boy. I'm sure you're still curious about other things…?"

Stylo's gaze crept from the journal sliding closer to him back to the elder's smile.


An unassuming messenger bag was being packed: His wallet, a tiny bible, a pocketknife, and Antonio's Notebook. Stylo worked quickly, checking the long-case clock every now and then.

"There are other things I'm curious about, Father…but if I ask,"—A steely indifference shadowed his eyes. Brows dipping slowly—"will you answer me?"

Tenderheartedly, Stylo kissed the envelope in his hands before placing it atop his freshly made bed. Morning glimmers left the floor and furnishings sparkly, as if no one had ever set foot inside. Meticulously clean, even down to the wood's grain, the Lumen fledgling made his departure and closed the door quietly. Adjusting his bag's Y-strap Stylo tapped towards the front doors. Passing the mission's kitchen, dining hall, infirmary. Outside, Stylo scampered off the premises. Trotting through Lucia, Stylo recalled all the Mission's plots without looking back.

Sunrise kissed his cheek as he dashed outside the hamlet's limits. Florid meadows surrounded him. Grasses couldn't scratch his calves due to his ankle-length robes. A cumbersome inconvenience, thought Silver. So, reduced to a trot, Silver cut away his robe's lower front, to cure his immobility. Soon after, he'd thrown the pocketknife into a stream.

Just in time, too: The train was coming. Lucia wasn't big enough to be considered a scheduled rest stop. It did always feel like the train coldly passed by the tiny village. Refusing to acknowledge its existence.

But that was going to change. Really, really soon.

"Let's cheat a little," Stylo snipped under his breath.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, Silver utilized a most prized Hermetic Arts technique: Light Speed. A lag slowed the area around both him and the train. Superhuman movements and reflexes allowed him to catch up with the caboose without trouble. Pouncing like a cat, he took roost upon the caboose's roof. Time returned to its normal pace, and Stylo blinked a little. A quick glance backward proved it, with Lucia flying towards the horizon. Excitement filled his head: "I really ran away…! I'm leaving…and soon, I'll arrive in Spagonia, the City of Art and Knowledge, and Lucia's 'big sister.'"

Citrines brightened in the rising sun's light, and that of a rising optimism. Blinking out of his reveries, the white hedgehog felt the aerodynamic gusts ballooning his face. "Maybe I should get inside," he chuckled under his arm-shield.

Empty, as per usual caboose; Stylo huffed a grateful sigh. Making his way through, he began to prioritize. He figured he'd need a disguise—a change of clothes, at the most. Something less obvious, something trendy, "hip," perhaps even "cool." He was clearly giving himself an excuse to shop. A convenient excuse, if he said so himself. "Spagonia's huge, so there's gotta be a ton of places to shop!" Stylo could've sworn he was ready to swoon at the mere thought of it. "It sounds like so much fun!" Suddenly giddy like a toddler, he bounced up and down in his seat. "I can't wait! I can finally be a normal young person, now!" Excited faces, shaking fists, and sparkles for eyes: Stylo's new life was about to begin.

In the City Where One Could Know Beauty and Find Beauty in Knowledge.

In Fledgling Modesty, Amen.