The Triple Goddess (177 page)

My life. My most important choice

Is asking you to hear my voice.

You shall not see pride upon my face;

I like to think I know my place;

I never try and turn my hand

To things I do not understand.

They asked me for a melody:

I hung my harp upon a tree;

How could my mind instruct my hand

To sing and play in a strange land?

You know my thoughts before I think;

You know when I rise up, and when I sink;

You are always with me, everywhere;

If I am in hell you follow me there.

You will search me out and know me

Even in the outermost sea.

If I take the wings of morning

You bring into my darkness, dawning

After he had put down the fountain pen and blotted the final lines, there came a knock at the door, which, before he could speak or answer it, opened. A man entered, and Bonvilian felt a twinge of excitement.

It was Laszlo 9013J, Superintendent of the Exeat Institute, and the person who made the winding of the clock in the tower his private business.

‘You!’, said Bonvilian, getting up. ‘The Exeat Institute…of course, the former Greenwich Hospital! I should have known. I used to watch you from my window. I could have had you fired, or worse. A lot worse. Things could have been so different…couldn’t they?’

Laszlo laughed. ‘In the words of Ian Richardson as Michael Dobbs’ Prime Minister Francis Urquhart, “You might think that; I couldn’t possibly comment.” But now the tables are turned.’

‘Is it all over then?’

‘It is.’

‘Why the personal call, Father Time?’

‘I still have a little of myself on my hands, before things are wrapped up, so I thought I’d drop by.’

‘Sort of, happened to be in the neighbourhood?’

‘The oldest part of me never likes to stray far from the Meridian, so this is for Auld Lang Syne. And though we’ve never met, you know me as well as anyone. Do you not?’

‘Of course. You are Chronos, son of Uranus and Gaia the earth goddess. Assisted by the Titans, you castrated your father with a flint sickle, married your sister Rhea, and ate all your children; except Zeus, the youngest, because Rhea tricked you into swallowing a stone instead. Zeus later made you vomit up your brothers and sisters, and sent you into exile. Although you lost your power amongst the gods, you remained a god of fertility and the harvest.

‘You are also believed to have been the model for Father Christmas, who loves children and gives…gave…presents to those of them who behaved well.’

‘Note that I haven’t brought you one.’

‘Your being here at all is gift enough. Something to remember you by.’

‘Such wit, in your last moments, is to be commended.’

‘So, how long have we got, Old Father Time?’

‘You don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘My watch is in for repair, payment on collection.’

‘Quite the comedian these days, aren’t we?’ Laszlo raised an eyebrow at the digital calendar clock on the wall behind Bonvilian’s desk. ‘I mean that. It must be new.’

‘I put it up this morning. Punctuality is a virtue.’

‘More of a fact, at this point, but I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s touching, too, to see a framed picture of myself in a place of prominence.’

‘The time, is it accurate?’

‘Yes. We’ve a couple of hours and a bit until seventeen minutes past four and twelve seconds, when everything comes to an end. How would you like, Hugo Bonvilian, to fill the time remaining? I don’t mind spending it with you, for as much as we’ve been entwined in each other’s affairs, we’ve never had an opportunity to talk. It’s up to me where I hold the Last Rites, and it might as well be here.’

‘You are kind. Is there anything I can do to make up for lost Time? Specifically, could you...’

‘No.’

Bonvilian, who had been holding his breath pending an answer to the most important thing in the world to him, felt his heart shrivel.

‘Sorry, Hugo. Personal relationships, as you just observed, aren’t my strength...what remains of it, for I am very tired.’

‘Well, I don’t know, there doesn’t seem much else left to...’

‘You were writing something before I came in. Something that made mention of…sheep.’

‘Sheep?’

‘Yes: “He...who filled the folds with sheep,” you wrote. More fully, in
The Book of Psalms
, “He who sent soft drops of rain into the valleys and onto the plain; who blessed the furrows of earth and caused the wilderness to give birth; who filled the folds with sheep, and made the hills and vales so thick with corn that they resounded with song and laughter.”

‘And once, early in your career, you described Time as being a sheep of the imagination.’

‘What if I did?’

‘When did you last see one...a sheep?’

‘As a schoolboy. A flock was being driven to pasture across a lane that I was bicycling along, and I had to wait. You?’

‘It was in the Age of Naivety. I use the word in its original sense of “artless”, from the Latin
nativus
. They were a special kind of sheep: simple, pure, ingenuous. If you like, I will tell you about them.’

‘Certainly, thank you. I’d like that very much.’ Bonvilian motioned his visitor to the one comfortable chair, which had a view through the window to the clock tower; but Laszlo moved it to face the desk, sat with a sigh, and stretched out his legs.

Bonvilian resumed his own seat. ‘There’s a confession I’d like to make to you, Father Time, if I may, before you start.’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Simply that it was always life I was afraid of…life, not death.’

‘Though absolution is not in my power, nor the imposition of penance, I’m honoured that you would make it to me. Still waters run deep, Hugo.’

Bonvilian tilted back his chair. ‘And now that I’ve got all the Time in the world, in you, at my disposal…please proceed.’

Laszlo’s eyes became opaque. ‘Publius Virgilius Maro…Virgil’s epic poem the
Aeneid
begins: “I sing of arms and the man...”. But this is not the
Aeneid
, or Homer. So I will opt for a softer: “Inspire me now, O Muse, as of sheep I sing.”

’

‘

Somewhere in England, at the foot of the South Downs in the county of Sussex, is a village where the Aristotles live. The Wind says that the Aristotles have occupied this place since before even Father Time was born. They are ageless, therefore, and for all anyone knows the Aristotles shall live for ever.

Now, no one has ever met or spoken to an Aristotle; so the stories that follow are those told by the Wind, who is the only one who knows where this Aristotle village is. Ever since Time was old enough to count the hours, he’s been trying to find it, and he has been in every village in the county each day of his life. As often as Father Time has asked the Wind, and as much as he has heard about the Aristotles from him, the Wind has always refused to divulge the location, to the point where Time often thought that it doesn’t exist.

He tried again as recently as today, and met with the same response: very courteously the Wind said that it’s none of his business.

Timeless place, or place out of time, that village may be; but it has never been a place that Time forgot, and he shall be talking about it until the end of the world.

Aristotles look like sheep...or clouds. They are no ordinary sheep or clouds, however, for they can do many things that neither sheep nor clouds can, such as sailing in the sky in the opposite direction to the Wind. However much they eat—and that’s a subject unto itself which you’ll hear a lot more about—they remain lighter than air, and can float in the firmament just as real clouds do.

It’s not that the Aristotles delight in contrarian behaviour, the Wind says, and he is not in the least offended. Although Aristotles do things in their own way as the mood takes them, they are the most civil, gentle, and obliging of beings.

When you look up into the sky in summer and see the biggest clouds resembling powder puffs: those are Aristotles drifting along in one direction, or another, or a number of directions, just as they used to aeons ago when there was nothing more important to keep them busy, other than living their lives as they are accustomed to doing. The Wind is happy to blow them along, or not, because it doesn’t require any greater effort on his part than usual as he spreads the seeds and pollen of the trees and flowers about, and lowers the temperature when it gets too hot, and ushers in the rain to swell the grain in the fields so that it can ripen in the sun.

The Aristotles, as much as they love the land and the village where they live, often spend the whole day in the air, except for when they come down for their very frequent meals, and for the night. They are very content up there basking in the sunlight, as you might expect, for who wouldn’t be?

Unlike the sheep you saw as a child doing nothing but nibble grass and chew the cud, the Aristotles are unruminative creatures who have a great sense of fun, and like to enjoy themselves. They keep their wool immaculately trimmed, and take any special occasion as an excuse to dye it a variety of colours, and put on the rainbow scarves they make at knitting parties, and at their firesides in the evenings. Although Aristotles don’t have to wash, they take frequent bubble baths in tubs set outside, which the Rain fills with water; and the Wind dries them off afterwards.

Aristotles are passionate about shopping and collecting things, and they love all sorts of utensils, as well as those odds and ends generally referred to as bibelots, bric-à-brac, curios, and knick-knacks. Tea caddies and tea strainers, and toast racks and brass toasting forks, for example, they can never have too many of those. They like fountain pens, and dip and drawing pens with different-shaped nibs, and propelling pencils, whether in working condition or not; inkpots of silver and brass and painted clay; leather bookmarks and paperweights; seals and sticks of sealing wax, letter openers and holders, and ornamental paper scissors—all of which are surprising, because Aristotles have no need to write letters: they see each other every day; and there are no books to read, because everything there is to know already surrounds them.

Cowrie and conch shells, dried sea horses, and brooches made of duck feathers carved out of wood; signet rings; enamel and marquetry inlaid boxes for putting odds and ends in; glass hand-coolers and hatpins; trout and salmon flies, and quill and cork fishing floats…though they do not fish; briar and meerschaum pipes, and tobacco jars and snuffboxes...though they do not smoke or take snuff; walking-sticks with carved heads made from horn and ivory; candlesticks, picture-frames, needlepoint tapestries and samplers, semi-precious stones, beach pebbles, and pressed flowers...

…these are only a few examples of the items to be found amongst the furnishings of an Aristotle home.

At the General Store, which is the only shop in the Aristotles’ village other than the Bakehouse and the Tea Shoppe, they trade their surplus wool for thistle toothbrushes for their long teeth, which have a tendency to yellow unless they are cleaned with chalk powder four times a day; mouthwash, bubble-bath liquid, and wool dye; combs and curlers to untangle their wool and set it; files and varnish for their hooves; and ribbons, and floppy-brimmed sun hats.

Also available from the store are boxes of high quality large-leaf tea, for the Aristotles are very particular and discriminating in selecting their infusions, and cocoa for their bedtime drink.

Because they are so domestic in their habits, and grind the flour and churn the butter themselves for their bread and cakes, the shop also stocks kitchen equipment: earthenware mixing bowls, baking sheets, measuring cups, jelly moulds, ladles, whisks, spatulas, and spoons.

Of clothes there are none, for the Aristotles’ fleeces and the natural lanolin that they contain keep them warm and waterproof, so that they have no need of the pullovers, overcoats, raincoats, jackets, and mufflers, that clutter up most people’s wardrobes and cupboards. All that the Aristotles need to maintain their dress are topiary shears, for a cool and lighter look in the long summer months.

The Aristotle language is primaeval, as many times removed from the Anglo-Saxon tongue as Old English is to yours. It changes from day to day, depending on how the Aristotles feel when they get up in the morning, and what the weather is doing. Because it is formed from the sounds of their environment, the Aristotles speak the same way that the grass and flowers and trees do; and the waters that issue from the hillside spring, which never dries up but bubbles out of the rock at one end of the village, and runs in a stream alongside the Street to keep it and those who walk along it company with its purling.