Aristotle''s Nostril

  ‘Banished.’

  ‘Banished.’

  ‘You are so banished.’

  Aristotle trudged on, trying to ignore the voices.

  It wasn’t easy. Even the platoon of nostril defence force soldiers escorting them were muttering it.

  It got a bit easier after a while when all the civilian germs stopped yelling and went back to their meeting. They were passing a new law banning tickling and handstands.

  The platoon commander ordered the soldiers to be quiet, and then all Aristotle could hear was Blob.

  ‘Why me?’ wailed Blob, waving all his arms and several of his legs. ‘I’m innocent. Why send me away?’

  Aristotle felt awful.

  Poor Blob.

  Aristotle had tried to explain to the judges that Blob was completely innocent, that he hadn’t asked for any of the things Aristotle had given him – not the birthday cake, the trampoline or the bungy-jumping rope made out of the stretchy bit from under a flea’s tongue.

  But the judges hadn’t listened.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ wailed Blob.

  I’ve got to do something, thought Aristotle miserably. Find some way of keeping us here so Blob doesn’t have to leave all the other nose germs he loves to count so much.

  Aristotle thought about grabbing Blob and them both running for it and hiding out in an abandoned mucus mine.

  Silly idea.

  Aristotle knew from painful experience that nose germs had too many legs to run fast. If they tried, they got all tangled up and fell in a heap. The best they could do was trot. And right now he and Blob were being marched away by troops who could almost certainly trot faster than them.

  ‘I’m a tragic victim of injustice,’ moaned Blob.

  Suddenly Aristotle saw something that gave him a glimmer of hope.

  Ahead, under a beautiful grove of newly sprouting nose hairs, a fully-grown parent germ was in the process of dividing into two kid germs.

  ‘Ooomph,’ grunted the parent germ. ‘My poor back.’

  Aristotle never got tired of watching the miracle of birth. The way a parent germ started to bulge at each end. The way all its insides trickled into one bulge or the other until the parent finally split in half, leaving two identical kids and a couple of faint last words.

  ‘Be good.’

  Watching this always made Aristotle think of his own parent, who had turned into him and Blob, and who of course he’d never met.

  Which was sad.

  Because, Aristotle sometimes thought, perhaps my parent was an odd germ out too. Perhaps my parent could have explained to me why I’m so different from Blob and all the other germs.

  Aristotle made himself stop thinking about this now.

  He had something much more urgent to do. As he and Blob and their military escort got closer to the two new kid germs, he called out to them.

  ‘Hello.’

  If he could make friends with them, and show the authorities that other kids liked having fun too, perhaps, just perhaps, the authorities would let him and Blob stay in the nostril.

  ‘Do you like piggybacks?’ said Aristotle to the two new kids.

  ‘No,’ said one of the kids.

  ‘And what’s more,’ said the other kid, ‘they’re illegal under the terms of the Piggyback Prohibition Act.’

  Aristotle sighed.

  It was a wonderful thing that kids were born identical replicas of their parent, but it did mean they weren’t much fun.

  ‘OK,’ he said, talking quickly because the soldiers were prodding him to keep him moving. ‘Let’s forget piggybacks. Let’s play doctors and nurses. It’s very popular among humans and flu viruses. They pretend to diagnose each other’s medical problems, then have lots of fun pretending to cure them.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ said one of the kids, trotting along beside Aristotle and Blob. ‘Anyway, you’re both banished.’

  ‘So banished,’ said the other.

  ‘It’s a travesty of justice,’ moaned Blob. ‘I’m innocent.’

  ‘You’ve only got yourselves to blame,’ said the first kid. ‘Silly behaviour gets nose cells over-excited and you know what that results in.’

  Aristotle didn’t. He’d heard rumours, but he didn’t believe them.

  ‘Colds,’ said the kids, stopping and shuddering. ‘Blocked noses. Sneezes.’

  Aristotle shuddered too. He’d heard of sneezes. The most powerful and destructive weather condition known to germs, that’s what a sneeze was. But he was pretty sure sneezes weren’t caused by piggybacks or birthday cakes.

  ‘Do you like birthday cakes?’ Aristotle called back to the kids hopefully.

  ‘Aristotle,’ said Blob. ‘Shut up.’

  There was one more glimmer of hope.

  On the way to the nostril exit, the soldiers marched Aristotle and Blob past a dust-sorting depot.

  It was a dust-sorting depot Aristotle recognised. Teams of microbes were busily sorting the chunks of dust that flew into the nostril each time the human took a breath. Some of the microbes looked familiar.

  ‘Hi Ralph,’ called Aristotle through the fence. ‘Hi Fernandez. Hi Preston. Hi Gavin.’

  A square-shaped yellow microbe with blue arms and legs heaved a chunk of talcum powder onto a pile of biscuit dust and waved delightedly.

  ‘Hey, Aristotle,’ he yelled. ‘Good to see you. Have you come to hear more stories about the outside world?’

  A triangular purple microbe with several green snouts dropped a lump of playground dust onto a heap of pizza particles, nudged the yellow microbe and pointed to Aristotle’s military escort.

  ‘Looks like the poor kid’s gunna find out about the outside world for himself,’ said the purple microbe.

  The yellow microbe went concerned-shaped. So did a fuzzy orange microbe and a spiral pink one.

  Aristotle turned to the platoon commander, who was still prodding him in the back with a spear trying to keep him moving.

  ‘Sir,’ said Aristotle. ‘Permission to suggest a really good idea, sir.’

  The platoon commander signalled to the military escort to stop.

  ‘Quickly,’ he barked at Aristotle.

  ‘Well,’ said Aristotle, pointing to himself and Blob, and then at Ralph, Fernandez, Preston and Gavin. ‘You could swap us for them.’

  The platoon commander frowned. Aristotle could see he was struggling to understand.

  ‘These visitors would love to be banished,’ explained Aristotle. ‘They’re only in the nostril by accident because they got breathed in. Send them away and leave me and Blob here. We’re really good dust sorters.’

  Blob, who’d been staring miserably at the ground, looked startled.

  ‘But I don’t know anything about . . .’ he started to say.

  Aristotle shut him up with a fierce look.

  I do, the look said. I learned heaps about dust-sorting, the look said, all those times I snuck out of school to come and talk to these blokes. I even know the tricks they use to pay the authorities back for keeping them prisoner, the look said.

  Blob frowned, puzzled.

  Aristotle realised it was too much information for one look.

  ‘I’ll sort the dust,’ he said to Blob. ‘You count it.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ snapped the platoon commander. ‘My orders are to escort you two out of the nostril. Move.’

  Aristotle sagged into a disappointed shape. As he and Blob and the soldiers headed off again, he could see that Ralph, Fernandez, Preston and Gavin were looking pretty disappointed too.

  ‘Stop dawdling,’ barked the platoon commander, prodding Aristotle in the back.

  ‘I reckon it’s the tragic state of education today, sir,’ said one of the soldiers, prodding Aristotle in the back too. ‘That’s what creates delinquents like this pair.’

  Aristotle didn’t agree. OK, the classrooms at his school were mostly temporary structures made from dead brain cells, and they got a bit crowded with fifty thousand students in each class
. But it wasn’t a bad school. And the teachers were brilliant.

  He’d miss them.

  Aristotle’s thoughts were interrupted by more shouting behind him.

  He turned round.

  Back in the dust-sorting compound, Ralph, Fernandez, Preston and Gavin were waving.

  ‘Thanks for trying,’ they yelled.

  Aristotle waved back and smiled sadly. In the distance he heard one of the dust-sorting supervisors asking Fernandez what type of dust a chunk of blowfly poo was.

  ‘This?’ replied Fernandez, going innocent-shaped. ‘This is a pizza particle. Very good eating.’

  ‘Delicious,’ said Ralph.

  Aristotle heard Preston and Gavin snort as they struggled not to go grin-shaped.

  What Aristotle didn’t hear at any stage, as the soldiers marched him and Blob towards the nostril exit, was Blob saying anything even a tiny bit like ‘thanks for trying’.

  The military escort left them at the nostril exit.

  Aristotle, peering out at the hazy brightness, felt anxiety churn inside him. He and Blob were about to go where no germ had ever been before. Where even the armed nostril defence force soldiers obviously didn’t want to go.

  Outside the nostril.

  What if Ralph and the others were wrong about the outside world being a fun place? Aristotle had always enjoyed chatting with them, but he’d had a bit of a feeling that they didn’t always tell the truth.

  Aristotle could see that Blob was as worried as he was.

  And even more miserable.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Blob,’ said Aristotle. ‘It’s my fault you’re here and I’m going to make it up to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Blob, glum-shaped. ‘Is that before or after I pass through the digestive system of an armpit-dwelling microbe?’

  Aristotle forced himself to go confident-shaped. The effort made his insides hurt.

  ‘We’ll be OK, Blob,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good,’ said Blob. ‘Is that before or after the nostril defence force turn us into kebabs?’

  The platoon commander was waving his spear and signalling for them to leave immediately. Aristotle took a nervous step forward, then stopped for one last look back at the nostril.

  ‘You’re blocking the exit,’ said Blob. ‘Which is in direct contravention of the Nostril Exit Act.’

  ‘What Nostril Exit Act?’ said Aristotle.

  ‘The others are voting on it now,’ said Blob. ‘Along with the No Fond Memories Of Aristotle Act.’

  Aristotle sighed and stepped into the outside world.

  4

  At first the outside world wasn’t too bad, except for the painful brightness everywhere.

  ‘The human must have its desk lamp on,’ said Aristotle, dazzled.

  Blob looked puzzled as well as dazzled. Aristotle explained about the slightly-toasted book microbe who’d been breathed into the nostril once and had told him ruefully about the desk lamp.

  ‘There are worse things than being toasted,’ muttered Blob, going scowl-shaped.‘Being banished, for example.’

  Aristotle decided to take advantage of the general brightness and look on the bright side. So far things were going well. They’d been traveling for a while and they hadn’t been attacked once. And the landscape outside the nostril seemed quite pleasant. It was flat and covered with a forest of slender pale hairs that waved gently in the breeze.

  ‘I wonder what this place is called?’ said Aristotle.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Blob. ‘Blob’s Curse National Park? Dead Blob Gully?’

  Aristotle looked sadly at his brother. Poor Blob wasn’t cheering up as fast as he’d hoped.

  ‘Come on,’ said Aristotle. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Blob, going sarcasm-shaped. ‘I’m in the mood for bouncing up and down on something like I’m an idiot. Or were you thinking of making another cake?’

  ‘No,’ said Aristotle, struggling to stay calm. ‘I’m planning to find us somewhere good to live.’

  ‘There’s only one good place,’ said Blob. ‘The nostril. Count it, one. Everywhere else is horrible. The big toes, the tummies, that bottom flap thing, all horrible. All full of cruel vicious mutant microbes. You’ve heard the stories. Hordes of protoplasm-thirsty barbarians. They live without rules, laws or reliable statistics. They torture each other for fun. They kill each other for sport. Their whole lifestyle is incredibly untidy.’

  Aristotle slumped into a doubt-shape.

  What if Blob was right? He’d heard the stories millions of times. It was why the nose germs were always making new laws. So they wouldn’t end up bad germs like the ones in the stories.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not that awful out here,’ said Aristotle. ‘Ralph and the others are from outside the nostril and they’re really nice.’

  ‘They’re idiots,’ said Blob, going scorn-shaped. ‘Their think molecules are scrambled from being recently? Humans have got breakfast cereal that makes noise? How mental is that?’

  Aristotle had to agree it did sound pretty mental.

  ‘But I still reckon this part of the human looks OK,’ he said.

  A gloomy voice joined their conversation.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by what it looks like.’

  Aristotle looked around. And saw, high up on one of the skin hairs, tucked into a split end, a gloomy-looking amoeba.

  ‘This is dangerous territory,’ said the amoeba. ‘I’d be running away from here if I had legs.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Aristotle anxiously.

  He could see that Blob was looking pretty anxious too.

  ‘Haven’t you heard the old song?’ said the amoeba.

  Aristotle shook his top bits.

  The amoeba swelled his jelly sac and started singing.

  ‘North of the lip,

  South of the nose,

  Here’s a good tip,

  This is the part of the human face where no single-celled organism with any common sense or basic regard for his own safety ever goes.’

  Aristotle shuddered, partly from fear and partly because the amoeba was a very bad singer.

  ‘What’s the next verse?’ Blob asked the amoeba.

  The amoeba didn’t reply. Instead it slid off the face hair and plopped onto the ground at their feet, dead.

  Aristotle looked around fearfully.

  No sign of any cruel vicious mutant microbes. In the distance, through the forest, he could just make out a dark hill towering above the face hairs.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Blob, also looking around fearfully.

  Aristotle pointed to the hill. ‘If we climb up there,’ he said, ‘we’ll be able to see further. Check out the surrounding district. Spot any dangers. Locate a good area to live. Perhaps with bungy-jumping facilities.’

  ‘Good plan,’ said Blob. ‘Apart from that stupid last bit.’

  They hurried on through the face-hair forest. The closer they got to the hill, the bigger and darker it became.

  Aristotle wasn’t concerned.

  What did concern him was something he was noticing about this whole district. He could tell that Blob was noticing it too.

  ‘The amoeba was right,’ Blob was muttering. ‘Out of tune, but right.’

  At first glance the district had pretty much everything you’d imagine on a human face.

  Graceful stands of face hair.

  Skin flakes billowing into drifts.

  Wind-blown eddies of dust and grit.

  Only one thing was missing.

  Other germs.

  ‘Maybe all the germs around here got old and retired,’ puffed Aristotle as he and Blob scrambled up the side of the hill. ‘Moved into an old germs’ home.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ panted Blob, scorn-shaped again. ‘Germs don’t retire when they get old. The Retirement Prohibition Act forbids it. We become parents. You know that.’

  If Aristotle had any legs to spare from climbing, he would have kicked
himself.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Try to concentrate,’ grumbled Blob. ‘If we’re going to get out of this disaster you’ve got us into, we have to think clearly.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Aristotle.

  Blob stopped scrambling and stared suspiciously at the dark hillside they were both standing on.

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said. ‘What if this hill is cursed? A dark evil curse that kills every germ that comes within half a millimetre of it. Which is why all the local germs stay away.’

  Aristotle sighed.

  Blob went panic-shaped and started clutching himself all over.

  ‘The curse has got me,’ he wailed. ‘Look, I’ve got twitches. And itchy bits. I’m dying.’

  ‘Blob,’ said Aristotle quietly. ‘This is a mole. Remember the tiny moles in the nostril? This is a big one.’

  Blob stared around at the dark hillside.

  Aristotle waited for him to calm down.

  ‘Let’s have a little rest,’ said Aristotle.

  Gently he pushed Blob down onto the bumpy hillside. Then he lay down himself so he and Blob were end to end, feet touching. The exact position they’d been in when their parent had first split in two and they were born.

  ‘That’s better,’ murmured Aristotle.

  He liked doing this. Sometimes, when Blob got fearful and anxious, regulations and laws and counting things weren’t enough. That’s when Blob needed to pretend he still had a parent.

  This time, though, Blob didn’t seem to be enjoying it.

  ‘Can we go now?’ said Blob.

  ‘Try to stop wriggling,’ said Aristotle. ‘You’ll feel better if you relax.’

  ‘I can’t relax,’ grumbled Blob. ‘This hillside’s too uncomfortable. I only like doing this at home. Can we go now?’

  ‘OK,’ said Aristotle sadly.

  After their very little rest, Aristotle and Blob continued climbing.

  The higher they climbed, the more hopeful Aristotle felt about what they’d see in the distance when they got to the top.

  Magical lands.

  With heaps of sporting equipment.

  And birthday party places.

  And maybe even hang-gliding places.