by Ashly Graham
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 w
hat 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;
If we’re up with the light we can catch them there yawning.
Then their picturesque clothes are all put away,
And it’s off to their beds while we go and play
And look up, and laugh at our friends as we say,
“Seems most of the clouds are missing today!”
Lastly, as a valediction, is a poem called Good Night.
All right, this is it. Good Night, Farewell,
Goodbye to Everything. Pip-pip, Ciao,
Over and Out, Sayonara, and any other way
You care to express it; it’s up to you.
Bonne nuit, Schlafen sie gut. Arrivederci?
No, French is better: not Au revoir but Adieu.
Teddy bears and other soft toys,
Settle down, please. Bugs will not bite,
And there are no monsters left under beds.
Children: there will be no fidgeting,
Talking or whispering after the lamps
Have been turned out. And no nightlights.
Shut-eye? Yes, forty winks and more.
Beauty sleep? Of a kind, perhaps,
And I don’t know how many millions of naps
As I concentrate on counting Aristotles
Passing through the gates and into the fold.
They’ve just had supper, but it doesn’t
Seem to be slowing them down.
Well, perhaps they are getting a bit slower...
Yes, definitely. Now they’re all inside
And Someone’s putting the breakfast things
Out on the table and pouring the milk:
Lots of white creamy milk, into a jug.
Whoever It is, is stirring it and stirring it,
And it’s gradually getting thicker and thicker,
And darker and darker,
And thicker and darker;
So dark and thick that I think
It might be turning into...chocolate.
Yes, it’s turning into chocolate!
Lots and lots of lovely...good night...chocolate.
Goodnight!
’
Chapter Forty
In Hugo Bonvilian’s office, Father Time turned his seat around so that now he was facing away from his audience, who was still in his chair behind the desk.
Companionably silent, the gazes of the two men intersected as they looked upon the chapel tower.
As if in response to their interest, the bell tolled the hour, four times.
To Bonvilian’s ear the notes sounded cracked…perhaps no more than usual, because, as he now realized, the reason that he had not thought to have the clock stopped during Central’s proscription of Time was that he had never heard it.
Laszlo got up, and at the door he rounded. ‘I’ll be in the tower.’
‘Of course.’
The door closed, and Bonvilian pushed his chair back and stretched, luxuriating in the quiet of the emptying world.
After some minutes had passed, he pulled forward, opened his middle desk drawer, and took out a small framed photograph: it was of Gloria Mundy, and Bonvilian had abstracted the picture from her hospital employment file.
As he was about to close the drawer, his eye was caught by a flash of silver at the back, and he reached in and removed the remains of a bar of chocolate. Closing the drawer, he propped the photograph before him, unwrapped the last two squares of chocolate from the foil, bit down on the line between them, and, without chewing, savoured and swallowed the confection as it melted.
The flavour, enhanced by the beauty of the moment, was better than anything he had ever tasted.
The bell clonked the passage of the first quarter and the commencement of the second; and there was a crash as, either of its own accord or with Father Time’s assistance, it became detached from its mounting and fell through the unresisting platforms below.
It was a quarter past four in the afternoon, four-fifteen post meridiem.
Military Time 16:15, sixteen-fifteen, Zulu Time; and the world was due to end at 16:17:12, sixteen seventeen and twelve seconds; Civilian Time, at Greenwich Mean Time 4:17 p.m., four seventeen, or seventeen minutes past four, and twelve seconds…
…videlicet, or viz., in two minutes and twelve seconds’ time, eleven seconds, ten seconds, nine seconds…
Sitting with his hands clasped contemplating Gloria Mundy’s picture, which now seemed more like a portrait than a photograph, Bonvilian was not surprised when the image faded to nothing.
Two minutes later, and sensing the seconds, a smile crept across his face. Standing, he picked up a glass paperweight from the desktop with his left hand, and hefted it several times.
Then in one smooth motion, he curled his arm back, closed his eyes, swung about and hurled the object at the wall behind him with all his might.
It was a good shot: though not aimed, it was guided by certainty; and as the calendar clock’s face splintered, and the piece fell to the floor, on it were registered a briefly historic date an
d time.
EXPLICITUS EST LIBER