The Seven Gifts

by John Mellor

  “I didn't find anything," he said simply. There was a horrible silence. He thought the Snow Queen was going to explode. But finally she managed to snarl out some words.

  “What do you mean ‘Didn't find anything'? What's the matter with you? You're an imbecile, a cretin. I send you all that way at vast expense and you come back here and tell me you found nothing." The Queen was beginning to get a grip on herself. “Why," she finished, dangerously, “did you find nothing?"

  “Well," said Henry calmly, “as you say, I'm a cretin and an imbecile; just a simple bee whose job is gathering nectar. That is a very complex planet with a difficult approach. It needs someone with far more intelligence than I have to explore it."

  “Damn you," said the Queen, “do I have to do everything round here myself?" Henry barely suppressed a little smirk. “You're fired, bee. Get back to your hive and be thankful I don't spray you on the spot." She turned on her heel and stalked off.

  The next day a very angry Snow Queen blasted off for the strange planet accompanied by her friend the Queen Bee and a heavily armed squadron of battlecruisers. Two weeks later astronomers in the kingdom observed what seemed to be a massive stellar explosion in the vicinity of the strange planet. They noted it to tell the Snow Queen on her return.

  But the Snow Queen and her squadron of battlecruisers never returned. Which, although not surprising, was a pity, as they may have been intrigued to discover that that complex and aggressive little character, Henry, had been renamed Henrietta. And the Queen's Beemaster was plagued with an outbreak of laying workers: somewhere in the now queenless hive was a worker bee that had developed sufficiently strong feminine tendencies to begin laying eggs. This was a nuisance to the Beemaster as the colony would not now accept a proper new Queen; but it was food for the thoughts of others.

  o ------------------------ o

  The young boy closed the book on the Fourth Gift

  and remained a while with his thoughts

  in the lonely tower at the end of the beach

  And the Angel watched over him

  o ------------------------ o

  Leaning on a Gate

  THE BOY leaned quietly on the little white-painted wicket gate leading into the Angel's garden. He watched her carefully hoeing around the bean plants in her vegetable patch, which was kept as beautifully as the rest of the garden.

  It was a magical garden this, tended so affectionately by the Angel. A hotch-potch of flowers, fruit trees, shrubs and vegetables, with old roses and clematis roaming willy-nilly around them all. Honeysuckle and ivy almost covered the far wall, hanging in beautifully untidy loops around the front door of her cottage, and the air was filled with a fascinating mixture of scents - lavender and rosemary mingling with the clambering honeysuckle, the stocks and the jasmine. And lying behind these, the fainter aromas of apple blossom and a variety of roses.

  In and around the wafting, drifting scent of the flowers was the gentle hum of bees going about their tasks in the garden - flitting, buzzing methodically from flower to flower, gathering nectar and spreading the essential pollen. The air seemed filled with a wild array of colours, given movement by the light swaying breeze and the constant flickering of black and yellow as the bees meandered across the boy's vision.

  In the background, and far above the garden, he could hear the undulating trill of a skylark, singing its private counter-melody across and through the soft cooing of doves roosting in the nearby trees.

  The varying sounds and smells, the contrasting colours, the shapes and patterns in the garden, even the Angel herself, all seemed to harmonise into one great swirling sensual array that, far from battering the boy's senses, seemed to flood through them like a tide, building to a crescendo then ebbing away quietly to leave him refreshed and at peace. He felt a part of it all himself, drawn by the primroses and sweet peas, the bright brave daffodils, the sombre, elegant columbine; entwined and bound by the ramblers and creepers, drugged by the bewitching scent of the honeysuckle, snared by the siren-sound of the bees.

  No sign of Henry here, he thought with a smile. Or perhaps he had already returned from the Land of Mirrors. Certainly there was nothing to disturb the harmony of this garden. Even the surrounding trees and the compost heap were constructive in shaping its balanced form. A myriad different shapes and smells, colours, sounds and purposes mingled and blended to form one magical whole. Would that the Earth were like that.

  But he knew that very soon it would be. For the fourth gift of its guardian was surely Harmony: a gift whose seeds, even now, were beginning to sprout in the fertile soil of that world, a living matrix potentially infinitely more splendid and exciting than a thousand Angel's gardens. He looked up and caught her smiling at him, and he knew at once that he was right. The guardian's fourth gift to the Earth, and the first stage of that world's unfolding purpose, was HARMONY.

  o ------------------------ o

  ~ The Fifth Gift ~

  The Philosopher's Stone

  ONE LOVELY spring day a philosopher was strolling through the woods, pondering on the questions of the time. And they were confusing times in the land of the Snow Queen, especially for an old, traditional philosopher like him.

  For seventy years now he had lived in that kingdom, most of his time spent on the only quest that need ever concern a true philosopher - the interminable struggle to understand the purpose of his own existence. Why he should live. Why he should live here. Where this curious thing called human life came from; and where it was going to.

  He certainly didn't like the direction it seemed to be going in now. His years of quiet contemplation had been thrown into turmoil by the rolling waves of technology now sweeping across the kingdom. Questions that had once occupied him for months of deep solitary thought followed by weeks of complex discussion with colleagues, now seemed to be answered at the press of a button. His world was full of winking lights and buzzers, spewing forth rationalised explanations that the half-baked intellectuals confused with truth.

  Yet even he, with no technological or much scientific background, knew that these computers were only very fast adding machines. How could they have intelligence, as their acolytes claimed? How could bits of copper and mica understand things unfathomable to the finest human minds? He didn't like it; not least because it undermined him.

  Life was not easy for a philosopher at the best of times, but at least when he had first taken up the game it had had a certain kudos. A philosopher had been respected in those days. Now, people's minds were filled with computer logic and their bodies covered with digital gadgetry. They rushed from one astounding technological breakthrough to another, inventing machines to do everything they needed and much that they did not. No-one had time to sit and discuss things with the philosopher any more.

  Besides, they all thought the Universe was a vast cosmic computer, and men mini ones, so what was there to discuss anyway? He couldn't even get his books published any more. Who was going to read ‘Significant Aspects of Astrological Synchronism in Relation to a Nine-Dimensional Universe’ when it was next on the bookstall to ‘Sizzling Nights of Computerised Lust in a Dinosaur's Den’? Not many. He could understand his publisher's reluctance.

  So he had taken to strolling through the woods and communing with the trees. At least it was quiet and peaceful out there. And he felt at times that the trees knew more than the computers. He was particularly fond of the big old oak trees, their simple permanence representing a stability for which he constantly yearned. He sometimes wondered whether perhaps they knew it all; that all knowledge, in some strange way that men could never understand, was encapsulated in those strong flowing branches, the odd, crenellated leaves; drawn up in the sap from the Earth herself. For surely the Earth must possess knowledge to make the greatest of all thinkers seem mere schoolboys; and perhaps the way to it was through her soil.

  There was one particular tree he had always felt close to, and he would often sit at its base in the warm sunshine, lean against i
ts trunk and soak up the tremendous energy that he sensed flowing incessantly upward, into those twisting, growing branches. He always felt rejuvenated after this.

  This particular day, however, he stopped in a small clearing and lay down with his back resting comfortably against a large rock. The rock was rounded and smooth, seeming to grow from the very ground as it nestled snugly in a bed of mossy grass and fallen oak leaves. The sun shone down through the overhead branches, warming the old philosopher's face as he gently closed his eyes and tried to dispel all thoughts from his weary mind.

  “I wish I had a brain like yours", said the stone, quite clearly and distinctly, the moment the philosopher's mind was empty. The old man sat up with a jerk, and looked to see where the sound had come from. He felt niggled. He had come here for peace and quiet, not conversation. But there was no-one in sight.

  Tired, he lay down again and tried to dream. He wanted dreams of a rose-covered cottage, sheltered by rolling hills and woods; tranquillity, certainty, contentment. He dreamed of lighting the fire, tending the garden; simple daily tasks, uncluttered by thoughts of why. Dreams of a simple man with simple needs, rising above desire. The world was there - let it be.

  “Please listen", said the stone. The philosopher stiffened; then he closed his mind to the intrusion. He sought dreams, not voices: dreams of a simple life untrammelled with the liability of an ever-questing mind. Freedom from the tyranny of curiosity. Peace from the endless battlefield of ideas raging in his brain.

  The philosopher was tired; weary of the struggle for knowledge that he suspected might be so simple he failed to see it for looking. Knowledge that might even be there for all to know on passing over. From the vantage point of the next life he would surely understand this one. There were times when it seemed intelligence was a curse, not a boon.

  “Excuse me," said the stone. “I know I'm just a simple stone, embedded in the soil of the earth; a drab, round grey thing of no account to anyone, and you are a great and wise philosopher, but I would like to speak with you, if you can spare me a few minutes of your precious time."

  The old man sat bolt upright and his dream vanished. He turned and faced the stone.

  “Did you just speak?" he asked in amazement.

  “I did," said the stone. “I have been listening to your thoughts, that your brain produces. I don't have a brain that can produce thoughts like that. All I do all day is sit in the soil, and I get very bored. I would like to have a brain like yours so I can think thoughts instead of just sitting in the soil. You are a wise and intelligent man, so perhaps you can tell me how I can get myself a brain like yours. I would so much like to have a brain."

  The philosopher had never talked to a stone before, so he was rather taken aback. In fact, he had never realised that stones could talk. But why not? One didn't require a mouth in order to create vibrations in the air. It had seemed to him at times that his oak tree had talked to him, so why not this stone? But a stone wanting a brain?

  “It seems to me," said the philosopher, a trifle more pompously than he had intended, “that you are not fully aware of the problems a brain can bring to its owner."

  “Quite right," said the stone. “Nor the joys, nor the knowledge, nor the ideas, the excitement of searching, analysing, finding solutions: the sense of power to be had from intelligence. I know none of these things because I don't have a brain. But I would like to know them, so I would like to have a brain. Will you help me to get a brain?"

  The philosopher wasn't quite sure what to say.

  “I'm not quite sure what to say," he said. “It is something of a responsibility, I would feel, giving a stone a brain, even if I knew how to. I'm not altogether certain it would be wise. In my experience a brain is a very mixed blessing. What if you found it unpleasant? How would you get rid of it? Could you get rid of it? I don't know," he said, shaking his head, “it would worry me."

  “There's no need for you to feel responsible," said the stone eagerly. “It is I who want the brain. I won't want to get rid of it. It is all very well for you, you have a brain already. Do you want to get rid of yours?"

  “Well, no," said the philosopher, suddenly unsure of his ground. “But I'm a man. I'm supposed to have a brain. That is the natural order of things. It can't be natural for a stone to have a brain, can it?"

  The stone sounded a little indignant. “How do you know?" it said. “What do you know about stones? How can you know what it feels like to be a stone without a brain? I think you are just being selfish. You want to keep all the intelligence for yourself." If stones could pout, the stone would have done so.

  The philosopher sensed it anyway. The stone's argument had a certain logic to it. What, indeed, did he know about stones? Precious little; if anything. Perhaps stones were supposed to have brains. Perhaps they all had brains except this one, and he would deny it. Or maybe he was destined to put the first brain into a stone. Would stones then take over the world?

  The problems posed here were endless. He longed for his little cottage in the fold of the hills. Honeysuckle, he decided, would be nice, and a small lawn. A little stream nearby? Skylarks singing way above the tranquil fields and rooks cawing peacefully atop tall trees.

  He did not want to make this decision.

  “Well?" said the stone impatiently. “Are you going to give me a brain or aren't you?"

  The philosopher dithered. All his instincts warned against it, and logic battled with instinct in his brain. Yes, he had a brain. So who was he to deny one to this stone?

  He was still dithering when a new voice broke in from behind him.

  “Are you talking to that stone?" it said.

  The philosopher whirled round, to confront a strange man in a long dark cloak.

  “Who are you?" he asked, somewhat nonplussed at this rather untimely arrival. He suddenly felt a little foolish. Perhaps he had been imagining this conversation with the stone.

  “I’m a magician," said the man, “and I'm quite certain I heard you talking to that stone."

  “I was," replied the philosopher. “It wants me to give it a brain."

  “A brain ..." mused the magician. Then he laughed.

  “A stone with a brain, eh? Well, well." He crouched down on his haunches and addressed the stone: “So you want a brain, do you?" He chuckled. The philosopher failed to see the joke, but was relieved to have the stone off his hands. For the moment, anyway. He stood back and listened.

  “Yes," said the stone, straight to the point. "Can you give me one?"

  “I can give you a brain," said the magician magnanimously, "but you will have to pay for it."

  “Oh," said the stone, crestfallen. “But I don't have any money."

  “You don't pay for a brain with money," said the magician. The philosopher thought that sounded rather ominous, but he kept his counsel.

  “What with, then?" asked the stone.

  “Well ..." the magician drawled. “If I give you a brain right now, I will return in seven years' time for the payment. By then your brain will have shown you what it is." The philosopher felt a cold shiver run up his back, like icy fingers. He did not like the sound of this at all. He stepped forward.

  “I think you will be making a big mistake," he said to the stone. “I know everything has its price, but I don't like the sound of this one."

  “Nonsense," said the stone testily. “I want a brain and I don't mind paying for it." It addressed the magician: “Give me a brain right now and I will pay you when you return."

  The magician smiled thinly and turned away. Producing a long black stick from beneath his coat, he bent and scratched a peculiar, geometric shape in the soil. Then he stood inside it and turned slowly anticlockwise three times, muttering very softly to himself. He stopped, facing the stone, and put a hand under his cloak. Remaining within the diagram he had drawn, he leaned forward, sprinkled some powder over the stone, then tapped it twice with his stick. With the stick touching the stone for the third time, he closed his eyes and
mumbled an interminable, foreign-sounding incantation. There followed a long pause, after which the magician opened his eyes, put the stick away under his cloak, and stepped out of the circle.

  Rather negligently he told the stone: “You now have a brain. I will return seven years from today for the payment." He drew his cloak about him, clearly ready to depart.

  “But wait," the stone shouted. “I don't feel any different. Where's my brain?" It sounded distraught.

  “Your brain," said the magician coldly, "is like a child. It has just been born. It will grow. I will return in seven years' time for my dues."

  There was a rushing noise and a wisp of yellowish smoke, then there was no magician any more. The clearing was empty, but for the stone and the philosopher. He wondered if he had dreamt it all, but the sudden harsh voice of the stone confirmed things.

  “Well," the voice grated triumphantly, “no thanks to you, but I now have a brain. Soon it will grow and I will have great intelligence. Think of the power it will give me, over all the birds and the animals, and the flowers and trees. They will obey my commands; I will rule over all." The stone actually shook in the ground. “Power," it rambled on, “intelligence and power. All mine, now that I have got a brain."

  The philosopher interrupted: “You still must pay for it, and I fear you will pay dearly. But despite my misgivings, and I have many, I will try to help you. In seven years less a day I will return to discover the price the magician demands, and if it is in my power to do so, I will try to assist you. In the meantime, endeavour to use your intelligence wisely." He turned on his heel and walked sadly home, for he felt little hope that the stone would.

  True to his word, seven years later less the day, the philosopher returned to the little clearing in the wood where he had met the stone. He had thought much in the intervening years about this day, searched and pondered on the possibilities of what the magician's price might be, but no clear answer had emerged. He approached the meeting with some trepidation.