The Triple Goddess (183 page)

The mayor was very pleased, and told everyone how the whole thing was his idea; after this, he was sure, his popularity would soar so high that the people would vote to do away with elections, and beg him to remain mayor for life.

When everybody had disembarked onto the island, it was easy to believe that the town was deserted.

Included in those who had come to enjoy their day off, and their children and extended families, were the doctor, and the dentist. The postman had also arrived, and the milkman, and the librarian, and the lady from the bookshop. The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker were here, and the greengrocer. The window-cleaner, the piano-tuner, and the newsagent; the vicar and his curate; the schoolteacher, and the bank manager; the publicans, and the garage mechanics, and the gardeners, and the plumbers and their mates, and the carpenters and electricians, and the dry-cleaner and the chimney-sweep—all were present.

Many had brought their dogs with them, which were barking, and their cats, which were keeping their own counsel, having condescended to accompany their titular owners. The cats never got taken anywhere against their will except to the vet., and this week the vet. was in Dubrovnik with his wife; when they got back they would be very sorry to have missed the fun.

And that wasn’t all in the pet category: there were parrots on shoulders, and budgerigars and canaries in their cages; guinea-pigs were gambolling on the grass, and rabbits, and hamsters, and mice; tortoises were scuttling about on strings in a very untortoise-like manner; there were even goldfish jumping in their goldfish bowls. It seemed that no species was too small to be left at home.

At last the Aristotles themselves began to get weary, for the island was very heavy and they were running out of breath from tugging him around. For some time delicious aromas had been drifting up to them, tickling their noses, and stirring their appetites like a spoon in pancake batter. They were anxious to replenish their reserves for the trip home, because the return journey, after all their activity that day, was likely going to take half as long again as the outgoing one; and, since they had brought no picnic baskets of their own, they were counting on those below to share theirs with them.

So as soon as folk shouted up for the Aristotles to come and join them, if they cared to do so, in a trice the Aristotles called for those below to untether the strings of wool from the rocks, so that they might wind them up and back onto their bodies. Then they did not stand upon the order of their plummeting to the ground, where the people gathered round to congratulate the Aristotles on their display, and applaud them and the island with many huzzah!s for being such good sports and a wonderful host.

Then they invited the Aristotles to help themselves to anything they might fancy from their hampers.

Well, the Aristotles didn’t need to be asked twice, and, like the ice-cream sellers, the people quickly regretted their generosity, especially because the children immediately started squalling with disappointment at being deprived of their favourite things. But it was too late, and the offer couldn’t be retracted.

As soon as the food was gone, which of course took no time at all, the Aristotles were eager to be on their way home, where a light supper would fill the cracks that would no doubt appear on the journey, followed by hot chocolate and biscuits and bed. They thanked the mayor and townsfolk for their generosity, and bid a fond au revoir to the island.

Then the Aristotles floated back into the air and returned along the downs, waggling their hooves to propel themselves through the balmy evening air. Quite a sight they made, as the sun set upon them, and the crimson colours of the sky mingled with those still in their wool, the saffron and terracotta, and the mauve and pink. And as they went yawning down the slope to the Village, the stream told them how glad it was to see them back, and rilled Good night! from its bed.

’

‘

Sometimes, when the Wind doesn’t have a bone in its teeth, and has nothing to do but listen to the cuckoo’s perfect fourth in May, or the fog and dripping quiet in the beech glades, or look stilly down the downs to the Village, it wonders if the Aristotles are still around.

Then might come the faintest sound from above of Aristotle talk. It will be nothing important: perhaps one Aristotle requesting another to remind him or her of something later on, or the next day, or the day after that; or whenever. Because the Aristotles never write anything down, those addressed are always asking others to remind them of the same thing, so that they’ll remember to remind the Aristotle who first asked to be reminded, should they remember who it was, and what he or she had been asking about.

What the Wind hears are things like, “Tea at Jessica’s Monday, don’t be late, ha ha!”; or, “Need ginger, angelica, and candied peel, cloves, allspice, and nutmeg; an ounce of each.”; or, “Forgot Athelstan’s birthday, send late card.”

The Aristotles may be musing about the day that Arianna’s child was due to be born, and what to take to the celebration; or the occasion when the Bakehouse ran out of shortening; or how young Millicent had astonished everyone last week by refusing to eat one of her breakfasts. They may be debating when the bluebells will be at their best; laughing about when lazy Andy tried out his sky bicycle, with disastrous results; or commiserating with Zachary, who has such a bad cold that he can only eat radish soup with cream and caramel croutons, garnished with celery, and served with nettle and endive salad.

But such loquacity is unusual, for unless they’re out together to have fun, the Aristotles don’t talk much in the sky: except for when they bump into each other by mistake while day-dreaming, or wool-gathering as those who are woolless term it; and, after they’ve apologized, exchange an item of news or gossip.

After Humans came along, the Aristotles started to collect the sayings and thoughts of Human children, so that they might pass them back to those below at intervals, as they got older, in an attempt to persuade them not to grow up.

The Aristotles absorb these thoughts into their pillowy layers in the sky, and turn them into lines of verse, which they store away for future use. One day—it could be the next day, or a month, or a year later—they may release a poem to flutter about like an orange-tip butterfly, genus
Anthocharis
, in the laundry patch next to the kitchen garden, where a child is handing his mother the pegs to hang up the washing to dry on the line.

A poem may land in a tree and have to be rescued like a cat, which, having used its curved claws to scramble up easily, can’t use them to get down, because the claws curve backwards and it does not occur to the cat to retreat tail first.

Perhaps it will come floating in a window, or fall into the soup at supper-time.

A boy or girl may encounter a poem upon coming downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of milk; or it may have got stuck in a grown-up’s hair, so that the child can sneak up and whisk it out without being noticed, while that person is nattering to a friend.

Young persons may wake up in the morning to find a thought lying on the coverlet, waiting patiently for them to open their eyes so that it can read itself in a small voice.

Once, the Wind, having reduced himself to a breath at an open kitchen door, watched a girl as she spotted an Aristotle rhyme land on her friend’s jam-covered piece of toast, and get stuck; and although the girl shouted, her friend ate it before she could stop her. But instead of being gone for good, after a moment when she opened her mouth again to speak, her friend recited the rhyme.

On another occasion a boy chased some verses into the pantry, where he threw a dishcloth over them, removed them carefully, and pasted them into his scrapbook. They were quite happy there, and the lines said themselves whenever the boy opened the book to that page.

As a sampling of what I mean, here are a couple of the poems that Aristotles have collected; the first is called
Raindrops
, and the second
Clouds
. This is
Raindrops
:

I’m walking between the raindrops,

Which is something I can do,

And people are staring

At what I am wearing

’Cause there isn’t a spot on my clothes.

I’m strolling between the raindrops

Where only I can go,

And talk to the ghosts of persons

Whom I have come to know;

They never look down, these phantoms,

And amongst the ethereal flow

I never see traces

Of gloom on their faces,

But only the happiest glow.

I walk with invisible people

To the end of the rainswept town;

Says the grocer, grimacing

At those who are racing,

“It’s the wettest that I’ve ever known.”

His customers shake their umbrellas

And fists at the sky, and groan.

But I’m in between the raindrops

And skip like a lamb, and run;

When I hear people say,

“What a rotten old day,”

I reply, “
Au contraire
,

The sun’s heat and glare

Give me headaches and keep me inside.

Furthermore, to be frank,

When it’s dark and it’s dank

I always have oodles of fun.”

The locals all stare at me oddly,

And their shop-awning shelters frown;

“When it’s raining,” they mutter,

“What person would utter

Such a very unorthodox view?

He must be a nutter,”

They nod as they sputter,

“And most likely dangerous, too.”

But the invisible people are smiling

In the land between the rain,

As if they would say, “Next time it gets grey

Come back, and we’ll do this again!”

And here’s the one called
Clouds
:

Clouds, on some days, can be seen without fail:

If it’s breezy they climb up the hill for a sail,

And get out of breath because the slope’s steep;

The Wind puffs their hair till they look just like sheep.

When it’s wet, we never hear clouds complain,

They go out as usual and play in the rain;

They fill up with water and use it to squirt

Their friends with, like elephants washing off dirt.

Clouds hold celebrations when they turn eighteen,

Which are some of the best that we’ve ever seen;

But the grandest ones, surely, are those that the sun

Lays on for them all at age twenty-one.

For party dress, wow! all the girls are in pink

And colours that deep as the sun starts to sink;

When it sets and they’re all parading around

In their trumpeting dresses, they don’t make a sound

Because, now it’s bedtime for most girls and boys,

They know we won’t thank them for making a noise.

So they dance in the dark in their slippers till morning;