On
the third floor of a medium-sized residential building there is a
door through which only creatures – birds, fish and beasts, as well
as some beings of diminutive size – are permitted entry. The
long-haired, spectacled person at this door has a clipboard, on which
is clipped a list against which she checks and ticks with a blue
ballpoint pen. And with this same pen she counts their heads as they
shuffle in, trot or wiggle, though to perform this she has to crouch
down or kneel, since if she bended at the waist she would tower over
them and a panic would ensue. The tiniest among them would scatter in
all directions in fright and it would take hours to retrieve them
from cracks in walls and from under doormats outside other doors.
All
come in with their heads bowed, as if giving thanks for being saved.
All that is, except the Greek gods who look straight ahead or up at
her with a fixed stare, for though small in stature they only kowtow
to their own kind, and then only sometimes. Usually if they have
something to say, they do it with bolts of lightning or thunder, but
of course when you're Borrower-size, these powers too are smaller and
have far less dramatic effect. Really, they're gods in name only and
are actually just a couple of shepherds herding the flock or driving
the horses into this room that thinks it's an ark, in spite of the
fact that it's not moored on water nor has the shape of a boat.
There
is no flood and this exodus has not been caused by any demi-god. The
rains of the sort to be feared have not come to this part of the
world, yet the owner-collator has this delusion that if there's a
threat of any kind – natural or man-made – where height is not
advantageous that somehow her flat will break off from the rest of
the block and be safe. It will float or be held aloft by the mere
force of air. Rationally that could never be the case, but fears are
as irrational as their remedies. I don't believe this owner has heard
of gravity, and well, some boats have been known to float on clouds.
The sky is just the sea upside down. Or some such nonsense, but her
thoughts are so hard for a dispassionate observer to dissect and
follow.
This
stockpiling is, however, of a different nature, almost akin to
purloining and hiding works of art from enemy hands, except these
creatures come of their own volition and choose what position they
wish to take up. Some jump into framed prints and hang on walls,
others sit or stand as figurines on tables; only a few stay
floor-bound.
None
of these creatures are anywhere near the size of their life-size
counterparts, but neither are all what could be called miniature. Raj
the elephant is 17.5 inches tall and 10 inches wide. This, too, the
owner-collator has to record on her clipboard and these measurements
are often the cause of many an argument, since they will vary
depending on whether for instance a trunk or tail is flaccid or
extended. Obviously if a piece hasn't been sculptured that way i.e.
certain parts of the creature's anatomy cannot be moved then the
argument is invalid, or should be, but then we all know those that
like to argue for the sake of it; the owner-collator was one of
those, even though in doing so she pitted herself against herself,
some other aspect of her, for she shared the 'ark' with no other
full-grown human being. She was Noah. And Mrs. Noah too.
Confusion,
as you can imagine, reigned in this
boat-that-wasn't-a-boat-household, and yet still the animals came.
Hur-rah! Hur-rah! For to get out of the rain; the acid rain that
hadn't come, although according to the environmentalists would. Any
day now. Or next year, or the year after that. Sorry, they couldn't
be more specific.
So,
this owner-collator (in her role as a She-Noah) has thus far given
shelter to, excluding those aforementioned: a red bull; a mermaid; a
heron; a dolphin; two teams of horses – one for land and one for
sea (they have webbed feet); some geese; a seagull; an owl; a little
Japanese girl; a snake; a sitting Buddha; 4 goldfish; a troll; 3
goats; 4 monkeys; 2 peacocks; 7 camels; a hippo; a dragon; a
sea-horse; and a robot.
The
whale that should been have the pinnacle of this menagerie was
regrettably (and irretrievably) lost in the Great Washing Machine
Flood of '87.
Picture credit: Noah and His Ark After Charles Catton, 1819, Charles Wilson Peale (source: WikiArt)
This post was penned in 2019.
