The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  There’s a front door, and a spare in case the main one gets blocked, and a back door and a spare; and as many side doors as are practical for a busy people who need to get where they are going fast. There’s one door that rabbits use when they’re going on holiday, and another for visiting the doctor; and several that serve for the many birthday parties they go to.

  Rabbits are very inquisitive: they know, the moment Flora debouches from a certain burrow, that she’s headed to the shops; or Edwina to the dentist. There’s a hole close to the woods for when it rains, because rabbits hate to get their fur wet; and an exit a distance from the warren that is used when one wants to avoid the rent collector, or the milkman with an overdue bill; or an aunt who, as notorious for gammoning as rabbits are, is so gabacious that she once talked the hind leg off a donkey who was grazing in a nearby field, so that it had to be replaced with a wooden one.

  When the Aristotles have negotiated the hazards of the descent, and reached the Village, the shadows in the lee of the hill are lengthening fast. Helios in his chariot is driving the celestial steeds ever nearer to his palace in the west, and will soon be calling ahead for his household to light the lamps. The spring welcomes the Aristotles back, and the waters’ voice mingles with theirs, as they say goodbye to each other and head home.

  That night the Aristotles have a common dream, about a place that they can float to where the sun never sets, very high up indeed; a place where they can sail for ever and a day, and have their breakfasts and lunches and teas and dinners brought to them on red-and-white-chequered clouds.

  And that’s the end of another Aristotle day.

  ’

  ‘

  On one of the very rare occasions when the Aristotles were feeling adventurous, they went on a much longer sailing trip that took them far from home. In preparation for the journey, on which they would have no idea where their next meal will be coming from, the Aristotles spent a week doing nothing but eating meals in between their usual meals.

  When they felt sufficiently well-nourished to cross the downs to the sea, the Aristotles started along the coast to the west; being careful to keep in mind that, however far they went, the length of the return journey would be the midpoint of as much greater as might be dictated by fatigue, and as much shorter as impulsion was increased by hunger...a formula so complicated that it was easier just to allow for double the time of the outbound passage.

  After many miles, when they began to feel the way that one does when one would normally be sitting down to breakfast, lunch or dinner, the Aristotles spotted beneath them a convenient small island, and decided to land upon it.

  But the strange thing was that, as they headed for it, the island moved away from them as fast as they were sailing towards it. Greatly surprised, the Aristotles called out to the island politely, to ask if it would mind stopping awhile for them to settle on its shores, so that they might get their puff back.

  The Aristotles were amazed when the island slowed down and answered them in their own tongue, telling them it would be an honour and a pleasure to receive the Aristotles, about whom it had heard so much, as its guests; and that they were most welcome to avail themselves of any beach they cared to choose to land upon.

  The island had no urgent appointment to go to, it assured them, and was merely taking some Exercise, which it would be more than happy to postpone, or indeed to cancel altogether. The island was not only talking the Aristotles’ language, but it seemed to share their philosophy; and naturally the Aristotles, who were faint at hearing the E-word so forthrightly spoken, were very glad of it.

  Whereupon the floating island reversed direction and started back to greet them.

  The strand that the Aristotles came in on had dunes of clumped grasses and powdery white sand at the top. It sloped down to a flat area of hard rippled yellow sand, which was interspersed with rocks covered with seaweed—the sort with bubbles on it that one can pop—limpets, barnacles, whelks, winkles, cockles, and mussels. Camouflaged at the bottom of numerous pools were tiny pink crabs, dabs, and shrimp.

  The most remarkable thing about the island, other than its ability to swim, was that there were many people on it enjoying themselves on the beach, which, because the island was riding very high in the water, extended a long way out from the rocks above it. Also, it seemed that the island was surrounded by an area of its own water, which accompanied it wherever it went; for families were not only netting in the pools and sunbathing, building sandcastles, and playing with beach-balls on the beach, but paddling and shrimping at the water’s edge, and swimming out quite a long way.

  Because they were very humid from the exertion of travel, for even weightless clouds can get out of breath and perspire, which is what causes rain, upon the Aristotles’ arrival the atmosphere turned so cloudy that the people’s seaside outing was ruined. Grumbling at the unexpected change in the weather, which wasn’t in the forecast, they gathered together their tearful children, brushed the sand from between their toes, and packed up their things to go for an early lunch of fish and chips at the mobile canteens at the top of the beach.

  The island was nice enough not to say anything about the change in conditions; and they’d not been conversing long before the Aristotles and the island realized that they had a lot more in common than a love of sailing.

  They were interrupted by the ice-cream sellers, who, because the people had all left and there was no more business to be done, were closing their carts. The vendors were extremely concerned, they said, at the effect the Aristotles were having on the climate, and wanted to give them a sampling of their wares, free of charge, in return for their leaving the island so that the sun would shine again and encourage their paying customers to return.

  The Aristotles apologized for inadvertently causing a loss of business, thanked the ice-cream sellers a little too warmly for their generosity, and assured them that they’d be on their way shortly. Before they left, however, they’d very much like to take the vendors up on their kind offer; which was most timely, because a few of their number were complaining of a dryness of throat, likely a mild case of dehydration brought on by the voyage, which the consuming of a little ice-cream would be sure to cure.

  So the Aristotles fell to eating chocolate ice-cream in tubs; and vanilla cones and cornets sprinkled with hundreds and thousands; and raspberry ripple and strawberry and banana and pineapple splits; and toffee and fudge sundae with nuts; and lemon-lime sorbet. As the ice-cream sellers kept passing out their merchandise in all sizes and flavours, they turned whiter than coconut ice underneath their suntans. Within five minutes the carts were empty, and, rueing their stupidity, they disconsolately pushed them up the beach to their stances below the promenade.

  Now that the Aristotles had cooled off, they asked the floating island if it minded telling them more about itself. Not at all, it said, it would be delighted. Nobody inhabited it, and those who visited were day-trippers from whichever mainland the island happened to be lying off, as whim took it to different parts of the world.

  When the Aristotles happened by, it was moving faster than usual because it was taking the tourists for a leisurely joyride around the Sound.

  Travelling as much as it did, the island said that it was perforce unmarried: it would be unfair to burden another with its peripatetic habits. Although from time to time it missed having a partner, and thought wistfully about how it might like to have an archipelago of grandchildren, it wasn’t as if it lacked for company, what with all the holiday-makers there were to talk to. The island liked to be sociable, so long as it didn’t have to suffer the sort of residential infestation that Mediterranean isles, such as its friend Capri, were afflicted with, owing to their being anchored to the seabed and having no means of getting away.

  The island was at pains to emphasize that, because it was a floating island with its own will and wherewithal, it was not subject to tidal influence. Nonetheless it sank lower in the water when it slept, which it did twice in a twe
nty-four hour period, thereby creating an impression of high tide; and it sat up higher when it was awake, for the purpose of observing everything that was going on, while the tourists made the most of the low-tide beaches that were exposed.

  In the mornings, not too early because the island liked to have a lie in, in the water where it “lived, and moved, and had its being”, and didn’t open till eleven, people arrived by ferry, and chartered boat, and seaplane, and hovercraft, intent upon spending a pleasant day lazing about, playing, picnicking, and eating ice-cream…which it would never occur to anyone might run out.

  Then in the late afternoon, the island blew off a great gout of water and steam from a geyser, and boomed like a foghorn from a cave, as a signal to all that it was time to pack up their things and leave—not forgetting to take all their litter and pets and children with them.

  Although the island confessed to often tiring of the constant activity and noise that came with being such a popular attraction, it said that on balance it was a good life. However that afternoon the Aristotles were doing it a big favour, it said, by clearing the beaches early: the tourists were behaving so exuberantly that the island wasn’t able to hear itself think.

  As a result it had already resolved, as soon as its diary was free of bookings, to head for a swimsuit-free zone: the Antarctic, perhaps, or Cape Horn. If it was feeling especially adventurous, it might go and spend a few days with the island called Inaccessible, which is part of Tristan da Cunha in the South Atlantic, west of Cape Town.

  But in the meantime, just a couple of hours in the Aristotles’ genial company had made it feel about as un-insular as it is possible for an island, even a floating one, to be, without being disloyal to its class, and for that it was truly thankful.

  ’

  ‘

  Over time the Aristotles got to know the floating island well, and they spent many hours in each other’s company recounting adventures, and sharing details of their lives. The Aristotles, who by nature weren’t disposed to stray far from the Village, the Street, and the Bakehouse, liked to hear about far-off places without having to go to them; and for its part the island enjoyed hearing about the sedentary life that it would never lead.

  Although the island said that it was a gastrophobe, meaning that it didn’t eat or drink, it adored listening to details of the Aristotles’ meals, and never tired of watching them eat their picnics on his shores, and having the contents of the hampers described so vividly that it could almost taste them. And the Aristotles learned that there were other salt-water islands that floated, though none of them was as widely travelled. Their island was as accustomed to cold waters as to warm, and some of its acquaintance were icebergs. Often when the island showed up off the south coast of England it had come from the North Sea, where it went to clear its mind with an exhilarating haul through towering waves and gale-force winds.

  In addition to regular visits, the Aristotles and the island stayed in touch by wind letter. The Wind acted as go-between in delivering lengthy verbal epistles, and apprised the Aristotles of where their friend was...or was at the time of posting, for the island didn’t believe in letting the barnacles stick to its bottom; and the Wind admitted that its deliveries could be erratic.

  The island’s communications were always so brimful with news, that the Aristotles memorized them for retelling at their tea parties, so that they could marvel as a group at all the people the island had met, and the things it had seen. For a time the Aristotles were embarrassed that they’d so little to impart in return; but the island assured them that their recipes, and birth announcements, were exactly what it loved to hear about.

  It relished, the island said, learning of such things as the day the milk went sour after a thunderstorm, and nobody could drink tea and coffee; and why Dolores’ cake wouldn’t rise—it was All Fools’ Day, and someone substituted arrowroot for the self-raising flour in the canister; and how overnight the Street straightened itself out, and had to be talked to for a long time before it would bend itself back out of shape.

  Sometimes, the island said, when it was in the doldrums where the Wind was unable to generate enough air to deliver news, and it was feeling lonely, it paddled away from the equator to pick up a breeze, so fast that its rocky leading edge got eroded. The Aristotles replied that, on one occasion when the Wind was attending a convention of siroccos, they became so nostalgic for stories involving corsairs, and sea monsters, belly-dancers, zithers, raffia-covered bottles of red wine, and ratatouille that it quite put them off Third Luncheon.

  The Aristotles arranged to meet the floating island, which had travelled from the Mediterranean, where it was hove to, or come to a standstill without anchoring, off the Isle of Wight.

  Things didn’t start well: when the island arrived, the mayor of the seaside town on the mainland fined it for occupying territorial waters without a permit, and blocking the sea lanes, thereby posing a hazard to shipping and blocking the view from the mayor’s office.

  It was true that, since the Aristotles first met it, the island’s girth had expanded; but because it did not eat they presumed that this could only owing to the intensity with which it ate up the details of their own consumptive habits. The crates stencilled with pasta, olive oil, salami di genova, and parmigiano, that the Aristotles spotted from the air, in a cove between two of the island’s new coastal bulges, did not strike them as odd. Though they weren’t familiar with the commodities, they decided that, after the incident with the ice-cream, the subject was best avoided.

  The island sent a message to the mayor by smoke signal, vented from a volcano the size of a stove in its centre, saying how sorry it was for the inconvenience, and assuring the mayor that it would be gone by nightfall. It volunteered to make amends to the townspeople, including the mayor and his wife and family, by opening its premises to the public for the day, so that they could visit and have a good time.

  Having come from the tropics, the island—by way of an incentive—added that its climate was still very warm, and citizens might appreciate the opportunity to put away their coats and hats and scarves, for the local weather had been unseasonably wet and chilly. The island was filled with many exotic and fragrant flowers and shrubs, it said, and there were colourful birds and butterflies in the trees and bushes.

  So because Hizzoner the Mayor was in a good mood after recently winning re-election for another four years, and was keen to catch a few rays, he agreed, and gave the town the following day off work.

  To everyone’s relief and pleasure, first thing in the morning the fog cleared, the sun came out, the sky turned a robin’s-egg blue, and the sea sparkled. The barometer needle moved from Awful to Gorgeous, and the Fahrenheit temperature rose by thirty-five degrees.

  Also early, in the Village, there was a great deal of faffling around over Breakfasts, all three of which the Aristotles consumed together to sustain them on the journey to the Isle of Wight. When at last they tucked in their toes and set off over the downs, borne along by a stiff breeze, it didn’t take long for them to see their friend the island drawn up in the Solent.

  The first thing that the Aristotles noticed upon arrival was that, hanging over everything, the iodine smell of the sea was mingled with the enticing tang of fish and chips and vinegar. They were also intrigued by a stall on the promenade that had a sign on it reading, “Candy and Flossie’s Candyfloss and Rock”. The stall was tended by two women who were spinning pink sugar onto sticks, and passing them to children who were queueing for them. They were also handing out thick green- and red-and-white striped sticks shaped like batons, and thinner ones resembling curved-headed walking-sticks.

  When the floating island saw the Aristotles approaching, it put on a show to greet them by changing through a succession of colours. None of its ilk, of those islands which were attached to the seabed, had ever looked as impressive, even in the reflected glory of sunrise and sunset. The floating island went from green to red to sparkling white, like the sticks of rock, an
d to yellow; from teal to fuchsia to...appropriately...aqua and marine and navy blue.

  It also turned “maroon” as a joke—an ironic one, for the island never allowed anyone to be stranded on it—but nobody twigged the humour. Nonetheless the crowd roared and whistled its approval at the spectacle, and the Aristotles cheered from above. People lined the rails of the outbound ferries, and sailed their yachts and rowed their dinghies towards the island; and the children waved flags and shook their buckets and spades in anticipation.

  The vessels were loaded to the Plimsoll line with picnic baskets, folding deckchairs, and beach umbrellas; and bags were filled with towels, swimsuits, floppy hats, suntan lotion, and sunglasses.

  As you’ve heard, on special occasions the Aristotles like to dye their wool. Today they thought should be one of those times: because it was clear that their friend was expert in altering its own native hue, the display would be even more remarkable were they to combine the effects. So when they were directly above the island, and its voice came booming up in welcome, they skipped about tossing little bagfuls of kaleidoscopic colouring over each other.

  The visitors oohed and aahed, as the Aristotles raked through the air in a different formation every time they passed back and forth overhead. Sailing around and across the island took longer than in the past; for as noble and distinctive as its profile still was, whereas on the occasion of their first meeting it had been torpedo-like in shape, and suited for cutting through water at speed, now the sands had shifted and it was no longer streamlined.

  At the island’s request, for it had tired, the Aristotles unwound and lowered long strands of strong wool, so that the tourists might tie the trailing ends of them to rocks.

  When the Aristotles started towing the island around in a regal progress, everyone went wild, and many pictures were taken of the Aristotles sailing to and fro, like multi-coloured kites, and of the island as it went through the spectrum of colours in its own repertoire. Flags were waved even harder, and helium balloons were released; boats sounded their horns and sirens; reporters from the local newspapers took notes; and television crews filmed the scene for the evening Breaking News broadcasts.