The Seven Gifts (11 page)

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 its 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.

On the question of stones having brains, he
had decided that quite clearly they shouldn't. A brain wasn't a
possession like a house, or a pair of shoes. It was more like
having a child - it was a responsibility. This particular stone,
certainly, did not have the maturity, the sense of values necessary
to cope with the responsibility of having a brain. It worried him a
great deal.

The stone was still in the same place where
he remembered it, looking a little more worn perhaps, but then it
was seven years since he had seen it. He suspected that he probably
looked a little worn himself.

He walked up to the stone and spoke without
preamble: “Well, do you know what the price is?"

The stone seemed to suddenly jolt out of a
private reverie. “Yes," it cried, excitedly. “I do. Thank God you
have come." And the philosopher felt tentacles like fingers of fire
reaching into his brain. His head seemed to implode and he fell to
his knees, clutching his throbbing temples, screaming with pain as
the stone inexorably sucked from his brain all the knowledge and
experience, every thought and solitary idea, feeling, supposition
and conclusion that nearly eighty years of philosophical study and
reflection had gathered together.