by Iain Banks
I think my Grandfather was more upset by Mo making his living on television than by his conversion to another faith, but I'm sure both hurt; the record of that first generation of those born into the Faith has not been a good one, with Brigit and Mo joining other religions and Rhea surrendering maritally to the cult of fundamentalist Blandness in Basingstoke. So much had depended on Calli and Astar and my father, and then he was taken from us by the fire; the full burden fell on my step-aunts, replacing him in some ways as well as their mother and aunt. I think it is fair to say that but for their dedication and sense of purpose our Order might have stumbled and fallen.
I had met Uncle Mo a few times and thought him a sad creature; we do not ban or banish people, even if they renounce their Faith, so he was still welcome to visit us, and he has done so for each Festival. He had a surface presentability and heartiness which proved brittle and easily broken; underneath was desolation and loneliness. I think he might have rejoined us and even come back to stay in the Community, but he had too many ties in the north of England by then, and would have felt uprooted and alien wherever he went, and - by whatever algebra of longing and belonging he applied to his situation - had decided to remain with his chosen allegiance rather than his original persuasion.
The last time he had been here had been for the Festival of Love four years ago, when he had told me frankly he was looking for a wife (but did not find one). I'd assumed - indeed I'd been quite certain at the time - that he was joking when he'd asked me if I would marry him. We'd both laughed then, and I am still sure he was only kidding, but now he was on his way here, was he not? 'I come for her,' he'd said. For whom? For me? Morag, maybe? Somebody else? More to the point, why? And at whose behest?
I held Sophi like a drowning man holds a life-belt, so that I squeezed her and made her grunt and mutter. She stirred in my arms, not quite waking. I relaxed, content with the tactile reassurance that she was there. It seemed I could feel the world spinning around me, out of control, meaningless, mad and dangerous, and she was the only thing I had to hold on to.
The sound of the toilet flushing came from along the landing. I tried to turn the noise into a drain for my swirling thoughts, consigning my confusions, woes and fears to the same watery emptying and so leaving my head empty and ready for the sleep my body craved. But then the image struck me as absurd, and I found myself shaking my head in the darkness, chiding myself for such tortured foolishness. I was even able to raise the hint of a smile.
Sleep came for me eventually, after many more reviewings of the long, involved and fractious day, and many more attempts to stop thinking about all the mysteries surrounding me.
I dreamed of a wide, unsteady landscape of shaking bed clothes, and pursuit by something I could not see, forever just over the quivering horizon, but terrifyingly near and threatening. I was vaguely aware of disturbance and a warm kiss, but when I awoke properly Sophi was long gone and I was alone with an already half-aged day of brightness and showers.
* * *
Mr W had gone too. I used the Woodbeans' bath and made myself some toast and tea. I read the note - in Sophi's hand - that Grandmother Yolanda had left for me the previous day, giving me the number for her hotel in Stirling and telling me that she had booked a twin room so I was welcome to come and stay. She'd detailed her flight number and departure time today, too. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; she would be at the airport by now.
I let a shower pass then walked back to the Community under dripping trees.
I nodded to a few Brothers and Sisters, who nodded back - warily, it seemed to me. I went straight to the office in the mansion house, where Sister Bernadette sat typing slowly at the desk by the door.
'Sister Isis!' she said, looking confused. She stood, smiling nervously.
'Sister Bernadette,' I said. 'Is Allan about?'
'He's with the Founder,' she said. 'Shall I ask him… ?'
'Please.'
She turned to go. 'Oh,' I said, 'and do you know where my kit-bag is?'
'I think Allan said… I'll look, Sister Isis,' she said, and went quickly out the door and across the hall.
I glanced at the letter she had been typing. It looked like a request for money; it was addressed to Aunt Brigit, the one in the Millennialist cult in Idaho. There was a pile of similar letters on one side of the typewriter, and a long list of names and addresses in an old school exercise book on the other, with ticks down to Brigit's name. The list didn't seem to be alphabetical. I glanced up and down the list, then found Cousin Morag's name just as I heard footsteps out in the hall. Morag's old address in Finchley had been scored out, as had her old telephone number. La Mancha's full address had been added by hand. The footsteps were almost at the door…. And there was a telephone number, no; there were three telephone numbers beside the Essex address. I felt my jaw drop in astonishment.
I stepped away towards the windows a moment before Allan came into the room, carrying my kit-bag. He closed the door behind him, placing the kit-bag to one side. I tried to collect my scattered thoughts.
'Isis,' Allan said, putting the bag down by the door. He had abandoned his suit and was dressed in a robe not dissimilar to Salvador's. He indicated the seat in front of his desk. 'Please,' he said. He sat behind, in his swivel seat.
I stayed where I was, between the tall windows. A quick shower threw raindrops against the glass. I said, 'Good afternoon, Allan. I came to find out where I stand.'
'Ah,' he said, tenting his hands together and looking at them.
'What did Grandfather say about last night?' I asked.
'He… he seems to feel that you… need to confess,' Allan said, with what looked like a pained smile. 'That your soul is… muddied by… by something you've done.' He gave a great sigh. 'Salvador feels you've betrayed… well, yourself, certainly, but also him, and, I suppose, all of us, in a way. Do you see?'
'I didn't take the vial,' I said. 'And if anyone ought to feel betrayed after last night, it should be me.'
'What?' Allan looked genuinely puzzled, his fair, handsome face coated with a single layer of puzzlement. 'How do you mean?'
I looked at my boots. 'I can't tell you,' I told him. 'I'm sorry. That's up to Salvador.'
He shook his head. 'Well, I'm afraid he just doesn't want to see you until you apologise and admit you did wrong. He seems pretty determined about that; like a bear with a sore head this morning, believe me.'
'How are the revisions going?'
He looked startled, just for a moment. 'Oh,' he said, smoothly, shrugging. 'Well enough; you know.'
'Hmm,' I said, giving him time to say more if he wanted to. Apparently, he did not.
I said, 'I hope I'm not being kicked out or anything?'
'Oh, no!' Allan said, shaking his head. 'No. I think Salvador feels that… that a time of reflection and prayer may be called for. Retreat, even. You may want to contemplate things here, in your room, in the library …' He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though just having an idea. He raised his eyebrows. 'Perhaps a pilgrimage to Luskentyre, if you wanted to travel?'
'Perhaps. What about Cousin Morag?'
Allan exhaled loudly, putting his head to one side. 'Another sore point,' he admitted. 'Salvador feels… terribly deceived.' He shook his head. 'I don't know how he'll jump there. I'm not sure Morag will be welcome here for the Festival at all. She has made us look foolish.'
'But am I to stop looking for her?'
'I suppose so. You said the trail had gone cold, anyway.'
'All we'd need would be …' I shrugged '… a telephone number or something, and then I, or somebody, could…'
'Well,' Allan said, looking regretful. 'We had her number for her flat, but …' He held his open hands out to each side. 'She isn't there any more.'
'We've no other contact numbers for her?'
'No.'
'Hmm. What about her place in the Festival? It seemed very important a couple of weeks ago. Isn't it any more? Isn't anyone to try to find Morag?'
'Well,' Allan said, nodding with that pained expression on his face again. 'Perhaps, on reflection, we overreacted to the situation.'
'What?'
'It's just that,' he stood up, spread his arms wide, 'we've had time to think, review …' He came round from behind the desk. 'I think we all got a bit panicky that day, don't you?' He came up and stood before me, smiling. He looked fresh and clean and wholesome. 'The situation isn't quite as desperate as we thought back then,' he told me. 'Do you see what I mean?'
I nodded slowly. 'Yes, I think I do.'
'Anyway,' he said, gently taking my arm and walking us both towards the door. 'You don't need to worry about all that. You should get some… some time to think. Here's your bag; sorry about all that yesterday - you know how he can be. Get yourself unpacked and so on, give yourself some time to think, and if you do need to get any sort of message to him, just let me know; I'm… well, I'm desperate to help, Isis; really I am.'
He handed me my kit-bag, then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. 'See you soon, Isis, and don't worry.' He winked at me. 'Oh, and you can keep the kit-bag,' he said, and smiled.
'Thanks, Allan,' I said, and gave a brave smile. I went downstairs with the bag over my shoulder, thinking.
* * *
My instinct was to sit in my room meditating, or immerse myself in an improving book, or go for a long walk.
Instead I went round talking to other people, forcing myself to ignore the embarrassment both they and I felt, knowing that I had fallen into disfavour. I started by finding Brother Indra in his workshop and thanking him for the successful alterations he had carried out on the inner-tube which had borne me safely to Edinburgh. Indra is a quietly cheerful type, shorter than me and slim but muscled with a lot of his mother's appearance in him. He seemed a little wary of me at first but once we got talking about my trip to England he lost any reserve and we parted cheerfully.
I spoke to everybody I could find, just trying to remind them that I was who I was, not some demonised thief. I used my journey as the excuse.
Normally somebody coming back from such an important trip and with so much to tell would have been expected to stand up in front of a meeting of the whole Community and tell everybody at once, but it seemed I was not to be asked to do so on this occasion. (It had also not escaped my notice that there had been no ceremonial washing of my feet, which was positively insulting.) I went through my story, altering the weight given to each strand and detail according to whom I was talking; when I spoke with a frowning Calli and weary-looking Astar in the farm kitchen I dwelled shamelessly on Bland food, the encouraging prevalence of Asian people and businesses, and what people had been wearing in London; with my Sisters in general, when I came to the events of the previous evening, I did mention - sometimes with a little, perhaps regretful, smile - that Grandfather had been a little over-affectionate at one point last night, but left it at that, dismissing it with a shrug. If anybody wanted to know more about the zhlonjiz, I answered their questions honestly, only dissembling when asked if - assuming that I hadn't taken the vial - I had any theories on who might have done so.
In all this - and in something of a daze, for the full enormity of my predicament had not yet dawned upon me - I felt that I was somehow playing the part of the unjustly accused, even though that was exactly what I was. I wasn't sure why this should be, but the impression lingered, and was still there when I had finally talked to just about every adult - singly or in small, informal groups, often as they worked - in the Community. I didn't feel bad about this, but the feeling wouldn't go away. Still, I felt cheered as the evening approached. Indeed I was half looking forward to the evening meal, when I would be able - assuming I was asked the right questions - to continue pressing my case.
I had been hoping that out of all the people I spoke to there would be somebody who would ask me to perform the laying on of hands, to cure some ache or other condition that they or a child of theirs was suffering from, which they had been waiting on me to return to cure - I had never been away from the Community for more than a day without this happening - but nobody did. I suppose it was naive of me to expect anything else, but nevertheless I was at first surprised, then confused and finally saddened.
Then I heard through Sister Erin that Salvador intended to make one of his rare appearances at the evening meal, and would greatly prefer it if I was not there. I had no real choice, and so agreed to eat later, perhaps in my room, if Salvador got into story-telling mood after the meal proper was finished.
I decided to visit Sophi again, and walked in a light shower down to the bridge and across, but there was nobody home in the Woodbeans' house. A thought occurred to me, and so I walked on up the darkly dripping drive and discovered Sister Bernadette at the drive entrance, sitting on a section of broken wall beside the gates, looking out over the semicircle of weed-covered tarmac, holding a furled umbrella.
* * *
Sister Bernadette was wrapped up well but still looked cold. She was gazing the other way, at the road, as I approached.
'Sister Bernadette,' I said.
She jumped up, snagging the umbrella in overhead branches. 'Oh! Is. I didn't-' she said, sounding flustered. She looked up, then pulled down on the brolly, creating her own tiny but drenching rainstorm as the leaves and branches above dropped their load of moisture on her. She hauled again, but the entangled brolly was stuck fast and she tore its fabric. 'Oh! Bugger!' she said, then looked horrified. 'Oh, pardon.' She blushed, pushing a hand through her damp, disturbed red hair and then pulling again at the umbrella.
'Let me help you with that,' I said, and unhooked the offending implement from the branches.
She brushed some water off her face and head and nodded to me as she folded the umbrella. 'Thank you,' she said. She looked around. 'Wet, isn't it?'
'A bit showery,' I agreed. I looked at the sky. 'Seems to be going off now.' I sat down on the broken wall. She looked as though she was going to sit down too for a moment, but then didn't.
She took a deep breath, and moved her shoulders as though they were tired, staring down at me with a broad, false smile. 'Are you going for a walk?' she asked.
I shrugged. 'Just wandering,' I said, and sat back, drawing one leg up until I could wedge my boot heel on the rock. Bernadette looked alarmed.
'Oh, I see,' she said.
'And you?' I asked.
'I'm waiting for the delivery van which is bringing the fireworks for the Festival,' she said quickly.
'Ah. I see.' I rested my back against the stones behind me. 'I'll give you a hand.'
'Oh, no!' she said, her voice high with stress but a smile still fixed on her face. 'No; no need for that,' she said, and then laughed. 'No; the van might be a long time yet; I'd rather do it myself, really I would.' She nodded emphatically, her rosy face shining with moisture. 'Actually, truth be told, Is, I'm quite enjoying the feeling of being alone. Gives you time to think. Gives you time to contemplate. Things. It does.'
'Oh,' I said, pleasantly. 'Would you rather I left?'
'Ah, Jesus, I'm - pardon me - I'm not saying that, Isis.'
'Good,' I smiled. 'So; Sister Bernadette. How have you been, anyway?'
'What?' she said, glancing wildly at the road as a truck went past heading west, and then staring back at me. 'Ah, sorry?'
'I was just asking you how you were.'
'Ah, fine. And yourself?'
'Well,' I said, crossing my arms. 'I was fine, too, really, until yesterday. Everything seemed to be going well, apart from the problem of finding Cousin Morag… ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself…' I said, smiling.
Bernadette's smile became even broader and even shallower than it had been. 'Ah,' she said. 'But you don't want to be bothering yourself telling-'
'… I got down to Edinburgh without any problems,' I said. 'The inner-tube worked very well, as I was telling Brother Indra earlier. The worst bit of the river journey was probably going down the weir, you know; the bit where the rive
r becomes tidal…' I said, settling back even more comfortably.
I took my time. Bernadette stood looking at me with a smile so broad and stretched you could see right through it to the terror underneath, while her wide, round eyes moved desperately around like a pair of caged animals seeking escape. The sound of a larger vehicle approaching on the road brought an even tauter look to her face, and produced a sort of tic in her head as she tried to look at me and watch the road at the same time, while her gaze flicked back and forth with impressive speed, like somebody desperately trying to signal No with their eyes.
After a while, however, I think a degree of resignation crept in; a glazed expression settled over Sister Bernadette's face and I was left with the impression that her brain had stopped talking to her facial muscles, perhaps complaining of over-work. I had got to the flight north with Grandma Yolanda when the bus arrived. Bernadette was so far gone she didn't notice.
The bus drew away and Uncle Mo was standing there, looking small and dapper, a camel-hair coat draped over his shoulders and a leather bag in his hand.
It was only when I waved over to him that Bernadette seemed to come to. 'Oh look,' I said. 'There's Uncle Mo. Golly. What a surprise.'
'What?' she said, turning as I rose. I started off across the weedy tarmac towards Uncle Mo. Bernadette ran after me.
'Sisters! Niece!' Uncle Mo said, dropping his bag and holding out his arms as we approached. 'You shouldn't have come just to meet me!'
'We didn't, honest!' squawked Bernadette as I hugged and was hugged by Uncle Mo. He smelled strongly of cologne.
'Isis,' he said, beaming. He kissed my cheek. Since I had seen him last he had grown a little pencil moustache. And a little chubbier. 'So good to see you.'
'Hello, Uncle. This is most unexpected.'
'Ach, a whim, dear girl. To arrive early for the Festival. Ah;… Sister,' Mo said, shaking Bernadette's hand. 'Mary, isn't it?'
'Ah, no; Bernadette.'
Uncle Mo snapped his fingers. 'Bernadette, of course.' He tapped one temple then held out one hand and looked up at the sky.' What did I call you?' he asked.