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answer; you can tell me if you think the answer is good or bad. Close your eyes, Phaidros.”
    Tom closes his eyes. Anne, gesturing with a finger to her lips to George and Mary, swings herself around on the bench, crouching upon her knees. She places her hands across Tom’s eyes, grinning over his shoulder at Father Stephen. The priest grins at her, but then returns his gaze to Tom.
    “What do you see, boy?”
    “Nothing but darkness.”
    “Can you see a beginning or end to the darkness?”
    Aware of Anne balanced behind him, Tom grins and gives a slight shake of the head.
    “No. Not really.”
    Anne takes away her hands from Tom’s eyes, lowering them to rest on his shoulders.
    Father Stephen lets out a contented sigh.
    “I feel ’tis likewise with the soul. The soul is the unseen part of us, which is infinite compared to our seen part. I believe the only true part of us is the soul; thus the only true music is that which is made by the soul. Does this help, Phaidros?”
    “No. I do not understand.”
    “Nor do I, but at least knowing that we do not understand leaves us free to gain understanding.”
    *
    Aye—this was the type of bait our wise old priest put before our young noses; firstly in English, then gradually adding Greek words. Eventually we were reciting our plays entirely in Greek. Regarding my memory of this particular play, I felt at the time that Father Stephen made use of the word infinity deliberately—as a little girl, Anna was always fascinated with the concept of something going on forever and ever.
    One of the loveliest memories of my childhood (and there are so many to remember) is of Anna sitting on Father Stephen’s lap, under a favourite spreading oak tree, trying to determine what sort of things could be described as infinitudes and the kind of things that were not.
    “Father Stephen, do you think there are an infinite number of people?”
    “Little one, infinity means that the number has no end. I think it should be possible to count all the people in the world.” Father Stephen appeared to be in a half-doze as he sat there shaded from the sun.
    Anne stayed silent for a moment, clearly pondering what he had said. Then she looked back up at him, and shook him hard to gain his full attention.
    “But, Father, people keep on having babies. So the number keeps on going on and on. Would that not mean there are an infinite number of people?”
    Wide-awake now, he looked long at Anne, then laughed his great, deep rumble of a laugh.
    “Anne! You are a clever girl! That’s a very interesting concept. But when people die, surely…”
    Anne broke excitedly into his reasonings.
    “But, Father, there will always be more people to replace a person who has died. When father and mother die, there is George, Mary and I to take their places. And my children will take my place when I die—I want lots and lots. So the number keeps on going on and on and on…”
    “What a philosopher I have in you, my child.” Father Stephen smiled broadly at her. “Just keep asking your questions, my dear, and I will run out of answers… which is how it should be… yea, how it should be.” And he leaned his body against the trunk of the oak, and looked at the sky. I looked too, my gaze following the branches that reached up for the sky, a sky sliced into blue daedal shapes by verdant leaves.
    *
    George, Anne, and I were all swept away by the idealism of Socrates. Especially the romance of this noble man dying for his ideals, and often we wondered aloud to each other if any of us would ever be brave enough to do likewise if the opportunity arose.
    Even though, for other reasons than Socrates, I know now how Anne and George proved their bravery to the world. Anne, on the day before her death, joked with her attendants about how her slender neck would give the executioner an easy job, saying also she foresaw how history would see her: Anne Lack-a-head.
    And George. How could George ever be forgotten after his day