Whit

by Iain Banks

  * * *

  A way with animals does run in our family; when my Grandfather persuaded Mr McIlone to become his first apostle and moved in to the farm of Luskentyre, he discovered a gift for working with cattle and horses; he was always able to calm them when they were distressed and often able to tell what was wrong with them even before the vet arrived.

  My father inherited the same talent, and was largely in charge of the sheep and cows at High Easter Offerance even before he left school, though our Founder thought that animal husbandry was beneath an Elect. Still, Salvador could refuse his son nothing, a trait that seems to have been made transferable to other Elects and become an article of faith, I'm glad to say (certainly I have benefited from it), and so my father was allowed to indulge his vocation for farming to his soul's content.

  * * *

  I do not share my father's love of animals, though I like them well enough and have inherited both a modicum of the facility for empathising and working with them to which he fell heir from my Grandfather, plus an ability to Heal them.

  When I was happy that Zeb and especially Boz were convinced I was following them as they sprinted for the gate, I stopped, spun round onto the grass and went down on all fours with my forearms extended in front of me. I crouched there on the grass, looking up at the giant dog as it bore down on me; I sort of flopped forward a little, bouncing up and then down, arms still extended, backside up in the air. The dog looked confused, and slowed as it approached; I repeated the movement and to my enormous relief the beast dropped back to a walk and made snuffing, huffing noises. I repeated the gesture once more. The dog hesitated, looked around and then padded forward. I made the same movement - it's dog for Let's Play - and lowered my eyes when it growled at me. When I looked up again its tail was wagging. It came up to sniff me.

  I have, as I have said, a gift. If a large dog comes running at most people, running smartly away is probably by far the best idea.

  Whatever; a minute later I was squatting on the grass, patting my new slobbering, panting friend and looking at Zeb and Boz, who were on the far side of the gate, staring at me.

  'Y'all right there with that thing, I-sis?'

  'So far,' I called. 'I wouldn't come in just now though; I'll see if it's happy with me standing up, then I'll head for the front door.'

  The beast growled when I made to rise; I could have sworn the ground shook. I decided that dignity must bow to expediency, and so crossed to the front door on all fours, with the huge dog padding contentedly at my side. I reached up and rang the doorbell. The hound barked loudly, its voice echoing in the open porch, and then it ran away back the way it had come, disappearing round the side of the house. I stood up.

  It was some time before the door was half opened, by a tall young man with streaked blond hair whom I immediately guessed was not Mr Leopold; somehow the way Cimmeria: had talked about him, and even the place where he had his office, did not tally with the bronzed, fit-looking fellow standing in front of me; from the vertical half of him I could see he was wearing a peaked cap (like Boz's, worn the wrong way round), a T-shirt and jeans.

  'Yeah? What you want?'

  'Ah; good afternoon. My name is Isis Whit.' I put out my hand. The young man looked me in the eyes, his brows furrowed. 'Pleased to meet you,' I said, taking off my hat with my other hand and smiling. I used my eyes to indicate my hand, and cleared my throat delicately. The young man went on scowling at me; my hand went unclasped. 'Excuse me, sir; I am offering to shake hands. I had been given to understand that good manners extended to this part of the country.'

  He frowned even more deeply. 'Wot?'

  'Sir,' I said sharply, presenting my hand almost in front of his face.

  Perhaps it is simply that persistence pays with such people; he looked at my proffered hand as though seeing one for the first time and finally, tentatively, put out his own hand and shook it.

  'There, that wasn't so difficult now, was it?' I said, setting my hat back on my head at a jaunty angle. The young man's frown had lifted a little. 'I'm very sorry to disturb you and your fine dog, but I'm looking for a young-'

  'Where's Tyson?' he demanded, his frown deepening again.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Tyson,' he said. He looked over my head to the lawn, eyes swivelling. I hazarded a guess at who Tyson was.

  'The dog? He's fine, and in good voice.'

  'Where is he, then?'

  'He escorted me here to the door and then ran back round the side there when the bell went.'

  'Wot you want?' he asked suspiciously, letting the door swing further open to reveal that he was holding a long, polished wooden stick.

  'Gosh,' I said. 'What's that?'

  He gave me a look not dissimilar to the one I'd received from Zeb on the train when I inquired about the directional orientation of Boz's cap. 'It's a baseball bat, innit?' he told me.

  It crossed my mind to ask whether he was holding it the right way round, but I just nodded appreciatively. 'Is it really?' I said. 'Well, as I was saying, my name is Isis Whit; I'm really looking for my cousin, Morag Whit. I was told that Mr Francis Leopold is her manager and that he lives here, so I'm sort of looking for him. It's just that my family is rather worried about Morag and I'd really like to-'

  'Spain,' the young man said suddenly.

  'Spine?' I asked, mishearing.

  'Spain,' he repeated. 'You know; the country.'

  'Mr Leopold is in Spain?'

  The fellow looked troubled. 'Well, no.'

  'He's not in Spain.'

  'No; we was supposed to go, like, but…' His voice trailed away and his gaze wandered over my head somewhere.

  'Customs and Excise?' I ventured chirpily.

  'How you know about that?' he asked, scowling as he focused on me again.

  'Ah, bad news travels fast, doesn't it?'

  He was looking over my head again. He nodded. 'Who's that, then?' He hefted the baseball bat.

  I looked round to see Boz and Zeb in the driveway, advancing tentatively. Zeb waved. 'The skinny white one is my cousin, Zebediah,' I told the young man. 'The big black one is our friend Boz.'

  'What they want, then?' the fellow said, slapping the baseball bat into the palm of his hand. At that point I heard Tyson barking. Zeb and Boz promptly turned tail again and ran for the road; Tyson appeared, racing after them, but broke off the chase halfway up the drive as the men scrambled over the gate. The dog barked in a perfunctory manner, then came swaggering across the lawn towards us, pausing only to collect a small rubber ball which at first I thought he'd swallowed but which proved to be lodged wetly between his massive jaws. He joined us in the porch and dropped the ball at my feet. I squatted on my haunches and Tyson let me chuckle him under his chin, snuffling.

  'How you do that?' the young man asked, seemingly mystified.

  'I have a way with animals,' I explained, stroking Tyson's back and smiling at the hound.

  'You wot?' he said, his voice suddenly high.

  'I have a way with animals,' I repeated, looking up at him.

  'Oh,' he said. He gave what could well have been a laugh. 'Right.' He patted Tyson on the head; the beast growled. 'Anyway,' he said. 'She's not here.'

  'Who? Morag?' I asked, rising carefully and keeping one hand on Tyson's back; I could feel the animal vibrating but there was no audible growl.

  'Yeah; she's not here.'

  'Oh dear. Where- ?'

  'She's gone.'

  'Gone. Really? Well, she would be, wouldn't she? I suppose… Wh- ?'

  'To an elf farm.'

  'Ha-ha; I didn't quite catch that… ?'

  'She's gone to-'

  At that point a telephone rang somewhere behind him. He looked back into the hall, then at me, then at Tyson. 'Telephone,' he said, and swung the door until it was almost closed. I heard him say, "Ullo?' then, 'Yeah, 'ullo, Mo,' and for a second I was filled with confusion, wondering what my Uncle Mo was doing phoning here, before I realised; it was probably Mo
rag!

  I glanced down at Tyson and smiled. The dog growled. I put one finger to the edge of the door and pushed very gently so that it appeared the door was being blown open by the breeze. The young man was a couple of yards inside the hall, by a small table on which the telephone sat. He still held the baseball bat. He frowned at me. I grinned vacuously, then stooped and picked up Tyson's rubber ball. The ball was old and worn and porous; the beast's saliva felt cold and slimy as it oozed to the surface of the rubber toy. I threw the ball out onto the lawn. Tyson took off after it.

  'Yeah, got it,' the young man was saying into the phone, and glanced down at a little cube of paper notelets by the side of the telephone. 'Fine. No. Yeah. Na, no word,' he said, turning so that he had his back to me. He lowered his voice. 'Yeah, actually there's somebody here just now, askin' for you…' I heard him say, as a panting noise and a hefty thud on the outside of my left thigh announced Tyson's return. I kept my eyes on the young man as I went down on my haunches and retrieved the sodden ball.

  'Can't…' the young man said. He turned back to look at me. 'What you say your name was again?'

  'Isis,' I said.

  He turned back, hunching slightly. 'Isis,' I heard him say. Next second he jerked straight. 'Wot?' he barked, sounding angry. 'You mean it's this one? You mean it's this bastard 'ere; this one?'

  I didn't like the look or the sound of this. A plan I had been turning over tentatively at the back of my mind suddenly thrust itself to the fore and demanded an immediate Yes or No.

  I didn't really have to think about it. I decided the answer was Yes, and threw the soggy rubber ball into the hall.

  The ball squelched on the carpet just behind the young man and bounced past him further down the hall; Tyson pounced in after it and shouldered the fellow out of the way, making him bang his leg into the telephone table.

  'Aow, fack!' the young man said. He recovered his balance by clunking the baseball bat against the wall.

  The saliva-saturated ball rolled into a distant room; Tyson thundered after it. 'Call yer back!' the young man said, and threw down the phone. Tyson skidded and disappeared from view. There was an expensive-sounding crash from the room. Tyson!' the young man yelled, sprinting after the hound.

  'Tyson! You cant!' he screamed, charging into the room and disappearing from view. I slipped in through the door as more crashes and oaths resounded from the room concerned. I had been hoping the young fellow would just put down the phone, thus giving me a chance to talk to Morag, assuming that had indeed been her calling, but the handset was back in its cradle. I picked it up anyway, but heard only the dialling tone.

  'You facker; come 'ere!' The hall floorboards shook to the sound of something like a sideboard falling over. I looked at the little cube of notelets by the side of the phone, the one the young man had glanced at when he'd said, 'Yeah, got it', a minute or so earlier. There was a telephone number written there.

  I glanced down the hall, just as the young man appeared in the doorway, holding Tyson by his studded collar and waving the baseball bat at me. His face looked somewhat florid. Tyson had the ball clamped in his teeth and seemed pleased with himself. 'Right!' the young man yelled, jabbing the bat towards me. 'You; Ice, or whatever your fackin' name is; aht the ahse, now!'

  I was already retreating. Then the fellow added, 'And Mo says to stop boverin' her, or else, right? You'll get a slap, you will.' He glanced down at Tyson, who seemed to have become vicariously upset as well by now and was glowering at me, growling sonorously. The young man let go the beast's collar. 'Get the bint, my son.'

  Bothering her? I was thinking as Tyson dropped the ball and leaped towards me with a furious snarl.

  Somehow I didn't think that my way with animals was going to prove effective this time. I stepped back into the porch and swung the front door closed behind me. Then I turned and ran.

  I cut across the lawn to the drive; I heard the door open behind me and the young man yelling something; then all I could hear was barking. Boz and Zeb stood at the gate, eyes wide; I got the impression as I raced up the drive that the two men were getting ready to help me over the gate. 'Out the way!' I yelled, waving one arm. Thankfully, they moved, one to each side. I got to the gate a second before Tyson and vaulted it cleanly, staggering as I landed but not falling. Tyson could probably have jumped it too, but contented himself with slamming into the woodwork and making it shudder; he continued barking furiously. The young man was charging up the drive, shouting and waving his baseball bat.

  I gathered myself, looked from Zeb to Boz and nodded down the road. 'Race you to the station,' I panted.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We stopped running after a bend a hundred or so yards up the lane; when we lost sight of him, the young man was standing on the road outside the opened gate, holding the howling, bellowing Tyson by the collar with some difficulty and still shouting and waving the bat.

  We slowed to a trot as we entered the small village of Gittering itself; a quiet-looking place with a village green and a single public house. Boz chuckled. 'Hoo-ee!' he said. 'That was some big mean muthafucka of a dog!'

  'Shit,' Zeb gasped, 'less.' He looked pale and sweaty.

  'Sorry about that, chaps,' I said.

  'Hey, you're an athlete, I-sis,' Boz said admiringly.

  'Thank you.'

  'But you're crazy; what the hell you doin' stayin' back when that hound of the fuckin' Baskervilles come at us like that?'

  'I told you,' I told him, 'I have a way with animals.'

  'You're crazy,' Boz laughed.

  'According to my maternal grandmother Yolanda,' I told him, setting my hat straight upon my head again and trying not to let my heart swell too much with pride and vanity, 'I am a tough cookie.'

  'Yeah,' he said, 'sounds like your maternal grandmother Yolanda ain't no fool neither.' He nodded at a telephone box on the far side of the village green. 'Let's call a taxi.'

  Zeb and I watched for pursuit while Boz rang a number on a card inside the telephone box, but neither Tyson nor his blond handler appeared. Boz came out of the telephone box. 'It's the same guy; he's on his way; says he'll bring the book for you.'

  'How kind,' I said. 'Excuse me, would you?' I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and stepped into the telephone box. I studied the instructions, then stuck my head and one arm out. 'Zeb; some change, please.'

  Zeb gave me his long-suffering look but coughed up a half-pound piece. 'God, forgive me,' I whispered as I inserted the coin and buttoned the number that had been on the pad by the telephone in La Mancha. Boz and Zeb looked quizzically in through the glass.

  'Good morning,' said a pleasant female voice. I was startled, even though I was prepared to be spoken to; after years spent using telephones as telegraphs, it was slightly shocking to hear a human voice rather than the ringing tone. 'Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club,' the warm, welcoming voice said. 'How may I help you?'

  Bothering her, I thought, and reluctantly restrained myself from asking to speak to Morag. 'I'm sorry?' I said.

  'This is Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club. May I help you?' the lady said again, with a little less warmth. Her accent was definitely English, though I couldn't place it more accurately.

  'Oh; I was trying to reach, ah, Scotland,' I said, sounding flustered.

  'I think you have the wrong number,' the lady said, sounding amused. 'Wrong code, really. This is Somerset.'

  'Oh,' I said, brightly. 'What part? I know Somerset quite well,' I lied.

  'Dudgeon Magna; we're near Wells.'

  'Oooh, heavens, yes,' I said, with such shamelessly specious conviction I almost had myself persuaded. 'Know it well. I - oh, bother; there goes my money.' I clicked the handset back onto its rest.

  Zeb looked suspicious. He glared at the telephone in the box. 'I thought you weren't-' he began.

  'Somerset,' I announced to him and Boz as the same taxi that had brought us here swung into sight on the far side of the green.

  * * *


  Perversely enough, it was probably the burning down of the old seaweed factory that ensured our Faith became more than just an eccentricity shared by a handful of people. My Grandfather just wanted to forget about the whole incident, but the lawyers who had charge of the disputed estate to which the old factory had belonged were not so understanding. Several of the men responsible for the conflagration were apprehended and charged, and when the matter came to trial in Stornoway, Salvador, Aasni and Zhobelia had no choice but to appear as witnesses.

  My Grandfather had taken to dressing entirely in black by then and whenever he left the farm at Luskentyre he wore a black, wide-brimmed hat. With him dressed so, and boasting long (and now entirely white) hair and bushy white beard, and the two sisters clad in their best, most colourful saris, they must have presented a singular sight as they attended the court. There was some press interest; our Founder abhorred such attention, but there was little he could do about it, and of course the fact that he refused to talk to people on the Stornoway Gazette or a journalist sent from Glasgow from the Daily Dispatch only piqued their interest (and given the rumours about our Founder and his two dusky consorts, they were already pretty piqued).

  My Grandfather managed to avoid most of the publicity and discovered that a wide-brimmed hat was particularly effective at shielding him from photographs - especially as the cameras of the time were bulky, awkward items which are hard to handle while trying to take a snap of somebody striding purposefully down a narrow street, usually in the rain. Nevertheless, while he managed to avoid claiming to be married to the two sisters, and succeeded in side-stepping insinuations about the exact nature of his relationship with the women, he was less reluctant to express himself when it came to his new-found faith, and some of the things he said - helpfully enhanced by the mysterious process of metamorphosis that tends to occur between reality and newsprint - must have struck a chord with a couple in Edinburgh called Cecil and Gertrude Fossil, though of course my Grandfather didn't know this at the time.