The Triple Goddess (138 page)

Oh, what an unspeakable relief it would be to see the barrier to Heaven go up before one, to a trumpet fanfare played by virtuoso Maurice André. To have St Peter wave one through with a cheery, “See you at dinner, it’s bangers and mash!”...as opposed to being doomed with a “Smart about-face my less than lovely, and down the stairs with you—down, down, all the way down. Don’t even think of getting off at Purgatory, you’d need a pass and I’m not giving you one. Don’t bother looking for a lift or moving staircase. No need to hurry: it’s a long way, but at least it’s down not up. For you, it’s all downhill from here.”

But if one were fortunate enough to be admitted to Heaven, and ushered into the Presence for a photo opportunity with the Maker, what then? Paradise was understood to be a hierarchy, organized along similar lines to the pyramid structure at whichever Central department one worked at.

What qualities God deemed more exaltation-worthy than others, and in what concentration, remained a mystery. According to the early fifth century pseudo-Dionysian, or Areopagite, categorization, angels were divided into three triads. In the first were Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones; in the second, Dominations, or Dominions, Principalities, and Powers; and in the third, Virtues, Archangels, and Angels.

There were Guardian Angels too, were there not?; but that sounded like a junior, honorary, or volunteer position, and there would be no need of them when there was no one left on Earth in need of guarding. If one had not read the fifth century treatise,
De Hierarchia Celesti
, and one had not, owing to whoever had taken the single copy out of the County Council library, after renewing it twice, the maximum if someone else had a Hold on it, having failed to return it sometime during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II, all one had been able to establish was that the ancient authorities, who may not have read it either, were divided as to whether Principalities, or Virtues, truly belonged in the second category or not. St Paul, in Colossians 1:16, not wishing to get drawn into the dispute, dodged the issue; St Thomas Aquinas had stuck his oar in somewhere.

Although Humans were not eligible to become angels in any of the classifications, they could merit sufficient glory as to make them equal to them; but because there were hosts, however many constituted a host, of angels, it would take aeons of patience before one might gain preferment and a key to the executive bathroom.

One could dream, however. How cool would it be to get promoted to Seraphic rank, and wear six wings instead of two: now
that
was worth stepping on more than a few toes for!. Regarding the wings, did they just sprout, or could one get them off the peg?—one presumed that St Michael, patron of the Marks & Spencer eponymous clothing brand of that name, had the concession. Or did one have to be measured by a tailor or dressmaker as one might for a morning suit or gown?

Speaking of Michael, one gathered that amongst the Archangels he had somehow gained precedence over his rabbinical colleagues Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel, and Zadkiel. One would love to know by what enterprising means Michael had won out.

The atheists and agnostics found the agonizing of their Tartuffian religionist neighbours hilarious, and began attending church in great number, thereby threatening to water down the pool of contenders—it was never too late to repent!—to sport themselves laughing at the faithful as they quailed at the prospect of being grilled by an unsympathetic Divinity’s interrogators, flunking the tests, and being sent down to join the sulphurous legions.

The ungodly held Lucullan feasts on a Roman scale, and arranged costume parties with prizes for the guest who came as the best meteorite. They celebrated one hundred and twenty-fifth birthdays early, and double-Golden wedding anniversaries. Premature funerals were fashionable, with the unlamentable corpse in waxy make-up getting drunk at the reception, and strippers leaping out of giant coffin-shaped cakes.

After so many years of Cromwellian sobriety, this Christmas was to be a very big deal, as colourful and pagan as in days of yore. The theme had been decided by popular vote amongst the non-believers: “Going to Hell in a Hand-Basket.”

Somewhere amongst all this, ex-Fool…now Deputy to 0001A…J. Arthur Salamander 0002A, was summoned from his desk at Central’s Department of Religious Affairs and Other Entertainments, where he had been playing tiddlywinks. His boss wanted to get a group together to play Blind Man’s Buff, Musical Chairs, and Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Salamander was to be the donkey.

Chapter Sixteen

After lights-out Speaker Steerforth, for Snipcock was no more, in a break with tradition called for a vote on whether the ward might be in favour of asking one of the Impatients to tell a story; or whether they should open the floor to conversation…or just observe silence as usual until Mr Speaker’s customary prefatory remarks at dawn.

The previous early morning narrations of former Speaker Snipcock, a.k.a. Bernard Bulstrode, had gone down rather well within the condemned community, and Steerforth in his turn was anxious to make his mark as Speaker, by introducing some innovation that did not involve giving away his identity, as Snipcock had.

‘For in the words of Dunyazad to her sister, Shahrazad,’ said Steerforth, ‘in the Arabic
Alf Layla wa-Layla
; or—as the title is variously translated—the
Arabian Nights
, or
Arabian Nights’ Entertainments
, or
The Tales of a Thousand and One Nights
, or
The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night
, in the translation by Sir Richard Burton:

“...O my sister, an thou be not sleepy, relate to me some new story, delectable and delightsome, the better to speed our waking hours; and I will tell thee a tale which shall be our deliverance...”

Say ye, therefore,’ said Steerforth, ‘will we ask someone to tell us a tale? Those of you who can speak, say Aye or Nay, and the rest raise your hands. Scum and Synapse, you shall tally the votes.’

The ward was unanimously in favour of a story. It had been a particularly gruesome day, and for the large majority sleep was going to be impossible.

Steerforth was disappointed; not because he was averse to hearing a story—he was feeling in need of diversion himself—but because he was hoping that opinion might be evenly divided, so that he, as Speaker, under house rules could make the casting vote. Though it had happened only once before—even minor items of lore were passed down from “generation to generation” on the ward—that the Speaker had been called upon to resolve a split decision, Steerforth was longing for an opportunity to exercise his authority. It irked him that the former occasion had occurred during Sternum’s tenure as leader; Sternum, whom he had known, in Steerforth’s opinion had not deserved the kudos.

‘Very well,’ said Steerforth, doing his best to keep his voice neutral, as became a Speaker; ‘those who are able to sleep, feel free to do so. In order not to disturb them I would remind whoever may agree to oblige us to avoid loud exclamations of a dramatic nature. The object is to reach the ears of those who wish to listen, without attracting attention from the warders.

‘So, tonight I’d like to invite Sorias’—he pronounced the name “Sorry-arse”—‘to address us. Young man, are you agreeable to the request? Understand that it’s not compulsory: should you prefer not to speak I’ll ask someone else; but you would oblige us by accepting.’

At first Sorias did not answer, which the others took to mean that he was either mute—possibly the Director had had his tongue cut out upon admission—or dumb with shyness or fright.

Speaker Steerforth, after waiting a few more moments, was about to select an alternate when Sorias spoke, in a voice that was surprisingly mature for one of his obviously tender years.

‘No, I don’t mind at all. It would be a pleasure.’

‘Ah,’ said Steerforth; ‘most gratifying. Please proceed whenever you’re ready, Sorias. Remember not to give any personal details about yourself. It is a strict policy amongst us that Impatients use their S-names only in order to preserve their anonymity. Many of us here will recall that…’

‘It’s a policy I don’t agree with.’ said Sorias. ‘Nonetheless, with your indulgence, Mr Speaker, I’d rather speak on another night. My story is long. I believe that there are several recent arrivals who might be willing to take my place tonight.’

Steerforth bridled. ‘He will, he won’t, he will, he won’t. Very well, junior, I will not coerce the unwilling. Should you be spared, please do let the ward know when it is that you might be ready to take a turn.’

‘I will,’ said Sorias.

Steerforth sniffed. This Sorry-arse had already got under his skin. But he did not wish to court unpopularity in a democracy, and lower his standing on the ward by appearing pernickety or losing his temper. Also, Steerforth had high blood pressure: although a fatal heart attack would be an easy death compared to what was in store for him sooner or later, the heart was that of a coward. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.

‘Very well. Is there anyone else who might be prepared to favour us with the relation of some anecdote, fictional or otherwise?’

There was one, named Stent; or rather there were three, because Stent also cheerfully volunteered on behalf of his two brothers, Suture and Stitch.

‘Suture, Stitch, and myself,’ said Stent, ‘are of like minds in most things, for we are triplets. Therefore with your permission, Mr Speaker, I can vouch on our joint behalves that we would be happy to tell not just one but three stories, if you like, on successive nights, which have been handed down in our family. Plus, I have one more tale that I made up myself, which might conclude the sequence four nights from now, should, like Shahrazad, I be spared and we not have displeased our audience. While all four stories are different, they have a common theme.

‘Then, by the fifth night,’ added Stent kindly, ‘perhaps Mr Sorias will be ready. I hope so: I’m sure my brothers and I and everyone would be delighted to hear anything of his that he may care to share with us.’

Steerforth nodded his assent, lay back and closed his eyes.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stent with the same good humour. ‘Then as the senior of the three brothers by a few minutes, and the best-looking one’—here there were mock groans from Suture and Stitch—‘it is my prerogative to begin.’

Steerforth raised an impatient but acquiescent hand.

‘Both my stories,’ continued Stent, ‘concern the activities of a colony of bees. The first, the one for tonight, is entitled
Humbert
.

‘Tomorrow my brother Suture will regale you with the adventure of a Ladybird called Ruby.

‘Two nights from now, Stitch will recount the fable of D’Oyly the Spider.

‘On the fourth night I will tell the story of Clarissa:
The Bee Who Couldn’t Bee
.’

Chapter Seventeen

‘

If there is an apple tree in your garden, the kind on which green apples grow, look for a fairy called Twig. If there is no apple tree, or you don’t have a garden, try the park; and if you’re lucky enough to see Twig, keep it to yourself, for a fairy is a secret not to be shared.

Twig is a boy fairy no bigger than an apple or a spray of blossom, and he’s not easy for people like you and me to see. In fact some of his friends call him by a nickname, Blink, because if you do blink you’re likely to miss him flying by. If you can keep your eyes open without blinking for a while, you might catch sight of him, and if you call his name before he disappears he’ll stay and talk to you.

But first you must find an apple tree, one with green apples on it.

Twig wears a black brimmed hat and black velveteen breeches with satin bows at the knees, colour black. This is unusual dress for boys, but fairies aren’t common creatures, especially those who live in apple trees. There is another fairy who lives in an apple tree, but that fairy is a girl who grows red apples; and young green-apple fairies and red-apple fairies aren’t at ease in each other’s company until they are older.

Now as regards Humbert: Humbert is a little bee whose parents couldn’t afford to buy him a stripy jersey. Unfortunately, because a bee’s jersey has to last him or her for ever, it is very expensive. It’s like buying all the clothes you will ever wear, and those you won’t, at once. Before such a garment can be purchased, many sacrifices are necessary, and although Humbert’s parents were more than willing to make them, they were still a long way from their goal.

Since he didn’t yet have his striped jersey, Humbert wasn’t able to go outside, because a bee isn’t allowed to do so unless he’s wearing the proper uniform.

There was another reason why he couldn’t venture forth: from birth Humbert had been a sickly child, and it was very important that he stay warm, especially now that it was winter. For throughout the long cold months, when there are no flowers to collect nectar and pollen from, bees become sleepy and inactive in order to conserve their energy. Before they settle down, they need to eat as much as possible to keep them going until spring.

But the weather that summer had been cold and wet, and the hive hadn’t done well. Not only wasn’t there enough money for Humbert’s jersey, there were insufficient reserves in the hive’s stores of honey to keep all the bees alive, let alone spare for a sickly young bee, who was unlikely to last long enough to contribute anything to the community’s future.