Someone had moved a statue of Venus, all her beauty
cast and moulded in bronze, into a darkened basement. She had served
many years as centrepiece and
landmark in the town-square, envied by young girls, sighed over by young men-- and their
gazes as time had weighed heavily upon her clear grey skin, causing it to become slightly rough and pebbled.
“I served my time well,” thought the lovely statue Venus to herself, smiling brightly in the dark, “I more than deserve a rest. And this basement, though, yes, a little small, a smidgen lonesome, and just a shade dark, is comfortable enough. All in all, it is a grand place to retire.” And so, smiling ever on, she settled in to sleep.
But alas, sleep would not come, and soon the statue Venus grew irked with her new setting. “These first hundred days have been a bore!” she thought, “This place is altogether dusty. And where are the children, who used to run circles around my feet, laughing and smiling upon me? Or the kind old folk, who threw superstitious coins and prayers into my fountain pool? Where are,” she smiled her mischievous smile, temper momentarily abated at the thought, “Where are the young men who would sigh with every passing glance at my smile, my naked breasts? Who sometimes, after a few night hours and drinks had washed over them, would creep to my courtyard to plant kisses on my stone lips? I thought,” she grew sad, her eyes full, pupil-less and wide, stared into nothingness, “I thought they loved me.”
Heralding this realisation came from above a great scraping noise, like a violent violin screeching some wretched musician's despair. The statue Venus was overcome with self-pity, and began to cry. Tears began to stream down her stone cheeks, chest and stomach, gathering in a puddle at her feet with a drip, drip, drip.
“Hold on,” Venus thought, “though my beauty has driven many a mortal man to weep, as my outstretched arms are immobile and can thus never return his loving embrace; likewise, too my eyes are stone and cannot weep tears. What is going on?”
With that, a single ray of sunshine no wider than a pin pierced the darkness of her new home. “Oh, how joyful!” thought Venus ecstatic, “The morning sun! And what's this...?” She listened closely for a moment, and sure enough she heard the sounds of-- “My old courtyard! I can hear the familiar noises of it-- the clip clop of the villagers' shoes and horses on the cobblestone! The ring of the blacksmith's hammer on his anvil! The song of the blue sparrows overhead! I suppose a stone must have come loose somewhere... what fun, to retire right under my old lovely spot, and now to have an ever-so-slightly-small window to listen through the sounds of my darling town!” She stood a moment and smiled and listened to the familiar sounds, when then the statue Venus noticed another sound not so recognisable:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Oh!” Venus thought, “The water! Well, it is quite loud... now that I notice it, it seems to dominate even the sounds of my beloved town! It can't be helped. It must be,” Venus thought, remembering the fountain she had adorned for many hundred years, “a run-off from my old abode, why, then, I must be exactly underneath my old spot!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“It is persistent...” the statue Venus thought, “and consistent. But at least it's giving me a lovely bath-- yes, it shall help to keep my face shining and lovely!” She smiled ever into the darkness, tears running forever down her face.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
And so it was for many many years. During the day Venus the statue listened to the sounds of her old life under the sounds of the constant dripping, smiling at the thought of all the villagefolk milling and buzzing about through their day. She thought of the farmers going to till the fields, and the young lovers to walk hand in hand to nowhere in particular. At night she looked at the stars, what few she could make out through her coin-slit window, and often slept and dreamt of the day she would come out of retirement, to once more be looked on and adored by all.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
There was only one sound more annoying to the statue Venus than the sound of the dripping, and that was the sound of “Mary”. She wasn't quite sure who or what a “Mary” is, just that it seemed to be the word she heard most amongst the village talk. And everyone seemed to be saying it! Every village timbre touched upon the word "Mary"-- the village elders' rasped it, wheezing and coughing, the children, laughing, would sing songs that heavily featured the word, and in such loving, breathless, adoring tones!
“Bah,” she thought, “Mary, Mary, Mary. Myself, I don't see the appeal in it. Such a grating word, ugly, even-- Maare. Mary. I don't see what they love about this word Mary so much. To me they sound like bleating sheep when they say it. Mary, Mary, Mary. Bah!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Thought the statue Venus, “Despite the dripping, and the Mary-ing, and the,” Venus stared into the darkness of her home, “lonely, dark place they've put me in, I know that I am still a beautiful and cherished creature. In fact, yes, I'm quite sure of it. I'm quite certain I will soon be dragged back out, into the light, and installed into my lovely old courtyard. Or maybe,” Venus thought, “somewhere entirely new, and better. Yes! That must be the reasoning behind my so-called 'retirement'! They are constructing now a new fountain for me to be placed in, loved by all! Perhaps in a bigger town, so that I may grace a greater number of people's lives with my smile. Perhaps, even,” Venus smiled ever on, “a royal palace! Yes! That must be it! Soon I will pleasure a royal court and all its noble patrons with my presence!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Ttwo ghastly realisations came upon the statue Venus that night. The first was the meaning of the mysterious word “Mary”. The sky was clouded, so the statue Venus could see no stars or moonlight and was steeped in darkness eternal. It wasn't bothering her tonight, though normally it would make her quite sad: she was still pleased with herself for being eligible for the royal courts. Suddenly she became aware of the voice of a young man, who sounded very drunk..
“You're beautiful!” He was slurring, “Your eyes, your smile, your body, all of you makes my very heart ache!”
From her dark hiding place Venus couldn't help but smile, though she knew the drunk was not addressing her, and probably instead was accosting some poor village girl. For a moment the statue Venus indulged herself and imagined the boy was talking to her, as many had in the deep night hours such as these, and, of course, as many would again in the near future. So caught up in this fantasy, and in the young man's voice, was the statue Venus that she forgot all about the dripping sound of the water splashing at her feet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She listened: “Your lips, so full! Your eyes, so kind! Your hips,” the drunk burped; Venus continued to smile, “so curved! Like a river! I wish only to run my hands along and over them, O I do, everyday, as I walk by you.”
“Go on,” Venus thought, “Go on, tell me more, give me more!”
“Yes,” said the drunk, “Your hips, and your breasts, all of you, drives me to distraction...”
“More, more, more!” thought the statue Venus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Every day,” the drunk slurred, “Every hour. I am thinking of you, and O my passions are stirred, every day, O yes, O my sweet and adorable Mary.”
At this Venus prickled. “Mary? That word uttered so adoringly by so many? Mary is a name? And what's more, a girl's name?” She thought, and listened hard, horrified.
“O Mary. O my sweet Mary. How I long for you. And yet,” the drunk grew quiet, and for many long moments Venus strained within the darkness, longing for his next words, and yet, with a heavy dread, somehow knowing already what they would be: “And yet,” the drunk sobbed, suddenly quite distraught, “and yet I can never have you. O my Mary, were it that I could turn you human, and make you my wife. Were it that you could smile upon me with warm fleshy lips, instead of mocking me from upon your pedestal, smiling upon all who pass you by,” the drunk's tone had grown angry, and bitter, “smiling at all with your whoresmile, your smile that should be reserved for me alone! Your lips I so long for are not warm things, but cold, and cruel, and stone! O my Mary! My Mary! My Mary! My Mary the whore!”
The drunk had whipped himself from lust to despair into a blind rage, as drunks are oft to do, and to punctuate his last spitting words threw his bottle at his feet, which broke with a loud crash. He then stormed off somewhere in a stomping huff. When it was again quiet the statue Venus found herself in the dark, alone and crying hard, the water running down her nose in a thick stream falling heavier than it ever had before.
Through her sadness, and anger, and rage, and jealousy, and her feelings of desolate and absolute betrayal, the statue Venus heard the Drip. Drip. Drip. echo throughout her basement and with a slow horror realised the water had worn down and eroded her nose from her face.
“I served my time well,” thought the lovely statue Venus to herself, smiling brightly in the dark, “I more than deserve a rest. And this basement, though, yes, a little small, a smidgen lonesome, and just a shade dark, is comfortable enough. All in all, it is a grand place to retire.” And so, smiling ever on, she settled in to sleep.
But alas, sleep would not come, and soon the statue Venus grew irked with her new setting. “These first hundred days have been a bore!” she thought, “This place is altogether dusty. And where are the children, who used to run circles around my feet, laughing and smiling upon me? Or the kind old folk, who threw superstitious coins and prayers into my fountain pool? Where are,” she smiled her mischievous smile, temper momentarily abated at the thought, “Where are the young men who would sigh with every passing glance at my smile, my naked breasts? Who sometimes, after a few night hours and drinks had washed over them, would creep to my courtyard to plant kisses on my stone lips? I thought,” she grew sad, her eyes full, pupil-less and wide, stared into nothingness, “I thought they loved me.”
Heralding this realisation came from above a great scraping noise, like a violent violin screeching some wretched musician's despair. The statue Venus was overcome with self-pity, and began to cry. Tears began to stream down her stone cheeks, chest and stomach, gathering in a puddle at her feet with a drip, drip, drip.
“Hold on,” Venus thought, “though my beauty has driven many a mortal man to weep, as my outstretched arms are immobile and can thus never return his loving embrace; likewise, too my eyes are stone and cannot weep tears. What is going on?”
With that, a single ray of sunshine no wider than a pin pierced the darkness of her new home. “Oh, how joyful!” thought Venus ecstatic, “The morning sun! And what's this...?” She listened closely for a moment, and sure enough she heard the sounds of-- “My old courtyard! I can hear the familiar noises of it-- the clip clop of the villagers' shoes and horses on the cobblestone! The ring of the blacksmith's hammer on his anvil! The song of the blue sparrows overhead! I suppose a stone must have come loose somewhere... what fun, to retire right under my old lovely spot, and now to have an ever-so-slightly-small window to listen through the sounds of my darling town!” She stood a moment and smiled and listened to the familiar sounds, when then the statue Venus noticed another sound not so recognisable:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Oh!” Venus thought, “The water! Well, it is quite loud... now that I notice it, it seems to dominate even the sounds of my beloved town! It can't be helped. It must be,” Venus thought, remembering the fountain she had adorned for many hundred years, “a run-off from my old abode, why, then, I must be exactly underneath my old spot!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“It is persistent...” the statue Venus thought, “and consistent. But at least it's giving me a lovely bath-- yes, it shall help to keep my face shining and lovely!” She smiled ever into the darkness, tears running forever down her face.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
And so it was for many many years. During the day Venus the statue listened to the sounds of her old life under the sounds of the constant dripping, smiling at the thought of all the villagefolk milling and buzzing about through their day. She thought of the farmers going to till the fields, and the young lovers to walk hand in hand to nowhere in particular. At night she looked at the stars, what few she could make out through her coin-slit window, and often slept and dreamt of the day she would come out of retirement, to once more be looked on and adored by all.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
There was only one sound more annoying to the statue Venus than the sound of the dripping, and that was the sound of “Mary”. She wasn't quite sure who or what a “Mary” is, just that it seemed to be the word she heard most amongst the village talk. And everyone seemed to be saying it! Every village timbre touched upon the word "Mary"-- the village elders' rasped it, wheezing and coughing, the children, laughing, would sing songs that heavily featured the word, and in such loving, breathless, adoring tones!
“Bah,” she thought, “Mary, Mary, Mary. Myself, I don't see the appeal in it. Such a grating word, ugly, even-- Maare. Mary. I don't see what they love about this word Mary so much. To me they sound like bleating sheep when they say it. Mary, Mary, Mary. Bah!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Thought the statue Venus, “Despite the dripping, and the Mary-ing, and the,” Venus stared into the darkness of her home, “lonely, dark place they've put me in, I know that I am still a beautiful and cherished creature. In fact, yes, I'm quite sure of it. I'm quite certain I will soon be dragged back out, into the light, and installed into my lovely old courtyard. Or maybe,” Venus thought, “somewhere entirely new, and better. Yes! That must be the reasoning behind my so-called 'retirement'! They are constructing now a new fountain for me to be placed in, loved by all! Perhaps in a bigger town, so that I may grace a greater number of people's lives with my smile. Perhaps, even,” Venus smiled ever on, “a royal palace! Yes! That must be it! Soon I will pleasure a royal court and all its noble patrons with my presence!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Ttwo ghastly realisations came upon the statue Venus that night. The first was the meaning of the mysterious word “Mary”. The sky was clouded, so the statue Venus could see no stars or moonlight and was steeped in darkness eternal. It wasn't bothering her tonight, though normally it would make her quite sad: she was still pleased with herself for being eligible for the royal courts. Suddenly she became aware of the voice of a young man, who sounded very drunk..
“You're beautiful!” He was slurring, “Your eyes, your smile, your body, all of you makes my very heart ache!”
From her dark hiding place Venus couldn't help but smile, though she knew the drunk was not addressing her, and probably instead was accosting some poor village girl. For a moment the statue Venus indulged herself and imagined the boy was talking to her, as many had in the deep night hours such as these, and, of course, as many would again in the near future. So caught up in this fantasy, and in the young man's voice, was the statue Venus that she forgot all about the dripping sound of the water splashing at her feet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She listened: “Your lips, so full! Your eyes, so kind! Your hips,” the drunk burped; Venus continued to smile, “so curved! Like a river! I wish only to run my hands along and over them, O I do, everyday, as I walk by you.”
“Go on,” Venus thought, “Go on, tell me more, give me more!”
“Yes,” said the drunk, “Your hips, and your breasts, all of you, drives me to distraction...”
“More, more, more!” thought the statue Venus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Every day,” the drunk slurred, “Every hour. I am thinking of you, and O my passions are stirred, every day, O yes, O my sweet and adorable Mary.”
At this Venus prickled. “Mary? That word uttered so adoringly by so many? Mary is a name? And what's more, a girl's name?” She thought, and listened hard, horrified.
“O Mary. O my sweet Mary. How I long for you. And yet,” the drunk grew quiet, and for many long moments Venus strained within the darkness, longing for his next words, and yet, with a heavy dread, somehow knowing already what they would be: “And yet,” the drunk sobbed, suddenly quite distraught, “and yet I can never have you. O my Mary, were it that I could turn you human, and make you my wife. Were it that you could smile upon me with warm fleshy lips, instead of mocking me from upon your pedestal, smiling upon all who pass you by,” the drunk's tone had grown angry, and bitter, “smiling at all with your whoresmile, your smile that should be reserved for me alone! Your lips I so long for are not warm things, but cold, and cruel, and stone! O my Mary! My Mary! My Mary! My Mary the whore!”
The drunk had whipped himself from lust to despair into a blind rage, as drunks are oft to do, and to punctuate his last spitting words threw his bottle at his feet, which broke with a loud crash. He then stormed off somewhere in a stomping huff. When it was again quiet the statue Venus found herself in the dark, alone and crying hard, the water running down her nose in a thick stream falling heavier than it ever had before.
Through her sadness, and anger, and rage, and jealousy, and her feelings of desolate and absolute betrayal, the statue Venus heard the Drip. Drip. Drip. echo throughout her basement and with a slow horror realised the water had worn down and eroded her nose from her face.
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