Ockham's Razor
Ockham's Razor — a philosophy story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy.
Page 1
Moonlight silvered the broken bridge arches as William braced his long legs against the muddy slope, hauling the rope hand over hand while Brother Michael pushed from below, his round body wedged against a crate taller than his own waist. Perrine scrambled sideways, her huge boots sliding in the mud, steadying Tasso's striped blanket as his pack-saddle tipped under the weight. 'Slow, slow!' Michael puffed, mittens slipping on the wet rope. Then the rope jerked free of William's grip, and the crate slammed against a stone, bursting its lid with a crack. A hundred books spilled loose, sliding in a tumbling cascade toward the black river water. Perrine flung wide her cloak like a net, dropping to her knees and catching a dozen books against the cloth before they vanished into the current. Tasso brayed and staggered sideways as the saddle slumped, and Michael lunged to grab the donkey's bridle before he bolted into the shallows. William threw himself flat, arms spread, stopping the last few books skidding past Perrine's boots into the water.
Page 2
The barge shuddered, scraping to a halt on the gravel shoal, and Perrine was nearly thrown from her perch on the crates. Water hissed white around the stuck hull. William scrambled up the stone pier of the aqueduct's lowest arch, his long legs finding footholds in the mortar-joints twice his own height, until he stood balanced on the broad stone shoulder above the barge. Below, Brother Michael heaved each crate from the deck, grunting, his red mittens straining at the rope handles, while Perrine guided them with both arms wide so they would not crash against the hull. William caught each crate as it rose, swung it down into the waiting farm cart, and stacked them neat as bricks. Tasso stamped and shook his bells, impatient, as Michael slapped dust from his hands. When the last crate came up light, William lifted the lid, pulled out a single slim book, and tucked it inside his habit. The rest he left stacked tidy on the gravel, a gift for small hands not yet born to read them.
Page 3
A flash of pink wings and Tasso was gone, bells clattering, hooves flinging white spray across the salt pans. 'Tasso, no!' Perrine shouted, dropping her lantern-pole and running after him, her huge boots slapping through the shallow brine. The little donkey chased the flamingo straight into soft ground and sank to his knees, braying, his striped blanket soaked and heavy. Brother Michael puffed up, clamping his spectacles on with one red mitten. 'Oh dear, oh dear — stuck fast!' William was already hauling planks from the cart, slamming them down in a row before the donkey's legs. 'Pull the blanket free, under his belly,' he called, grabbing one corner while Perrine grabbed the other, Michael heaving at Tasso's harness with both arms. Together they dragged and shoved, the sledge scraping, until Tasso lurched free with a wet gasp. A barrel toppled in the scramble, bursting open, and salt sprayed out in a glittering white fan across the pink-stained flats, settling like snow on everyone's shoulders.
Page 4
The crane groaned like an old man rising from a chair, its rope creaking as the last trunk swung up the galley's tall side. Brother Michael stood below, mittened hands clasped to his chest, forked beard trembling with every turn of the winch. 'Gently, gently!' he called, but the trunk tipped, the hinges strained — and burst. Pots and pans rained down, clattering across the stone quay, bouncing off barrels, rolling into the harbor water with splashes. Perrine scrambled sideways, dodging a skillet, laughing as a ladle spun past her boot. William caught one falling pot against his chest and set it down with a dry sigh. Meanwhile, Tasso stood patiently as a broad salt-carter lifted him by the harness straps and passed him, bells jingling, into the waiting arms of his delighted children, who hugged his cream-ringed neck. The cart creaked away, small hands waving, as the last cooking pot rolled to a stop at Michael's red-mittened feet.
Page 5
Fog pressed thick and grey over the sea, and the Santa Chiara groaned as she tipped, further and further, until water licked up through the oar-holes and spilled across the lower deck. Crates skidded. Barrels rolled. Brother Michael clutched the rail with both red mittens, his wide hat sliding sideways. "We're going over!" Perrine shouted, scrambling uphill across the slanting boards. Ettore was already moving, barefoot and quick, uncoiling the orange rope from his chest and lashing it twice round the empty book-chest wedged against the mast. "Heave when I say heave!" he yelled. William grabbed one rope-end, Perrine another, Michael planted his boots and pulled with all his round weight. Together they dragged the chest, scraping and bumping, to the rail and shoved it up and over. It hit the water with a great splash, vanishing into the fog. At once the galley groaned back level, timbers creaking, water draining from the oar-holes. Everyone cheered, breathless, gripping the rail as the deck steadied beneath their feet.
Page 6
Up the spiral stair they climbed, round and round, the stone steps worn to a slope that leaned them sideways as the tower itself leaned. William, long legs taking two steps at a time, hauled himself up the last curve to the top gallery, where a row of columns no higher than his shoulder ringed a tilted marble rail. He grabbed the rail with both bony hands, leaning far out over Pisa's rooftops, and opened his other fist to let a small grey pebble and a white goose feather fall together into the bright air. Below, tiny as a toy in the wide grass square, Perrine went scrambling after the falling shapes, her huge boots slamming down to stamp two marks in the turf the instant each thing touched ground. Ettore leaned over the far rail beside William, shouting directions down, while Brother Michael clamped his green spectacles to his nose and squinted hard, counting under his breath, trying to see whether the pebble or the feather reached the grass first.
Page 7
The wind came down off the pass like a slamming door, and it tore the last book clean out of Brother Michael's red mittens. He grabbed at empty air, overbalanced, and sat down hard in the snow. The book skated away, pages flapping, down the long white slope toward the valley. 'Catch it! Catch it before the gorge!' Michael bellowed, scrambling up and waving his mittens. Ettore had the orange rope off his chest in a breath, knotting it round Perrine's waist while William gripped the other end and dug his sandals into a drift. Perrine threw herself belly-down on a loose plank, kicked off, and went flying down the slope after the tumbling book, boots dragging twin trails in the snow. She snatched it up just short of a rocky lip, waving it over her head, soaked through and swollen fat with melted snow, before Ettore and William hauled the rope hand over hand and dragged her, laughing and breathless, back up to the road.
Page 8
The sodden book lay spread on the ice like a wet gull, and Brother Michael, kneeling with his round knees spread wide, peeled page after page open to the pale sun. 'Just a little drying,' he puffed, 'and we'll have it back whole.' Then the wind came off the castle rock in one long shove, and the pages tore free all at once, skating and spinning across the frozen river. Perrine shrieked and slid after them, enormous boots skidding, arms flung wide. Ettore dropped flat on his belly and slid like an otter, snatching two pages under each arm. William, all long legs, loped and stumbled, hood flying, snatching at a page that spun just out of reach before pinning it with his sandal. Michael waddled and grabbed with both red mittens, catching one against his round belly. When at last they knelt in a huddle, panting, holding the gathered pages up to the light, every single one was blank — not a letter of ink remained, washed clean by the thaw.
Page 9
The raft rocked under them as William knelt on the wet logs, dragging a lump of chalk from his sleeve. 'One word to a plank,' he said, 'no more.' Perrine scrambled flat on her stomach to steady the first board while Ettore hauled the loose planks closer with his orange rope, lashing them side by side so they would not drift apart. Brother Michael, puffing, pressed his red mittens flat on the last plank to keep it from sliding into the river. One by one the words went down in square white letters, and the four of them hoisted the planks up together, shoulder to shoulder, reading the sentence aloud over the water. Then the raft lurched, grinding against a hidden sandbank beneath the cathedral hill, and the sixth plank slid free, spinning out into the current. Perrine didn't hesitate — she snatched up her hook-pole, leaned far out over the logs, and dragged the plank back dripping before it sank, grinning as river water ran off her boots.
Page 10
No chests remained, no barrels, no single book left to carry — only chalk, and a wide stone gate waiting to be written on. William dragged an upturned grain measure, a wooden tub as tall as a stool, under the gate's broad face and clambered onto it, his long legs wobbling until Ettore grabbed his elbow and steadied him. Reaching high, William scratched white chalk letters across the stone in one long sweeping sentence, dust falling onto his sandals. Brother Michael, puffing, hauled a second measure beside him to hold the chalk-bag open, while Perrine dashed off with a stub of chalk to copy the words onto a barrel lid, kneeling in the snow. Children came running from every corner of the square, snatching chalk ends from each other, scrawling the same words onto doors, carts and snowy walls, laughing as flakes drifted onto their shoulders. By the time William climbed down, half of Munich could read his sentence without ever opening a book.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy
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