The Book of Dave (2 page)

– Goo-bi, Wunti, goo-bi! they lisped in response.

– Catch U lò bakkat ve manna, Carl called to the other lads, then he started down off the crest of the hill and into the woodland.

The first few paces Carl took were between well-spaced, carefully pruned apple trees, the turf beneath them moto mown. The
warm air was fruitylicious and butterfly rustled. As he went further down into the Wess Wud, the orchard gave way to smoothbark
trees, some of which had been allowed to grow straight and true, while others were cut back to near their mossy green roots,
so that they erupted in a clatter of withies. He bore to the right, crashing through the brack and keeping the winking jewels
of Mutt Bä at a constant distance below him.

Carl had a pretty good idea where Runti would be waiting for him. The moto loved to graze in the deep thicket of rhodies and
whippy stalk that choked the Perg, the long barrier of brick and crete that divided the Wess Wud from Norfend. There were
odd hollows and man-made terraces here, full of strange flowers and shrubs that the Hamsters had no names for, since they
were too rare and peculiar to be of any use. However, the Perg was an ancient name, and Effi, Carl's nan, had told him that
it too had once been regarded as a zone forbidden to the Hamsters. She had cradled the little lad in her bony arms and said,
No bì Dave, luv, nah, ee wooden giv a toss abaht such fings, but ferbiddun bì olda gods, yeah. Her fleshy nose twitched in
his hair. Bì Jeebus an Ali.

Carl found Runti a little way inside the Perg. The big moto had his front paws up on a lump of crete and was cropping on a
plant with glossy, serrated leaves. The fodder was caught up in his muzzle as if he had a spiky beard, and Carl couldn't help
but laugh at the sight. Runti stopped munching and his mouth fell open, showing his lolling pink tongue and his peg teeth
braided with vegetative threads.

–
Cawl? he lisped. Ithatoo?

– Yeah, iss me, Runti. Iss me.

The boy struggled through the barbed boughs of a stunted tree and came right up to the moto so that he could hug his head
– a head so large that, even pressing his tank against the jowls, Carl could only just join his hands in the rough bristles
at the back of the moto's neck. They stood like that for some time, the moto's blubbery eyes squished against the lad's chest,
his veggie breath rasping on Carl's shirt.

– Iss tym, Runti, Carl cooed, tym fer yer slorta, yeah? Ve Acks partë ul B eer vis tariff or ve nex, an Eye gotta tayk yer
bak 2 ve manna.

– Slorwa, the moto said wonderingly, slorwa.

– Thass rí, Runti, slorta. Weel uze yaw meet 2 feed ve Ack an iz dads, yer oyl fer vair woonz, an yul be wiv Dave a lars,
yeah.

– In Nú Lundun.

– Yeah, thass rí, Carl said, kissing Runti delightedly, in Nú Lundun. It mattered not what doubts the lad had, for, in this
article at least, the creature's simple faith and his own scepticism were at one.

They took all morning to get back to the manor. Carl led Runti round the northern end of the Perg, then up and down the bumps
and dips of Sandi Wud. He'd played here with Runti all of his life. When he'd been a tiny boy, the moto had minded him – and
when he grew older, he had minded the moto. They revisited all of their favourite haunts: the big hollow crinkleleaf that
stood at the edge of the curryings, the ridged bark of which was perfect for scratching moto hide; the boggy slough in Turnas
Wud, where Runti could wallow; the grove of silverbarks in the heart of the wood, where they stopped so that Carl could tear
off A4 strips and feed them to Runti on the palm of his hand.

They ambled on with Carl's arm slung around Runti's neck, or, when the undergrowth grew thick, he'd tailgate so he could grab
the moto's cock and balls. Feeling his touch, Runti gently squeezed his mighty haunches together, lisping:

– Thath ware.

– Yeah, Carl answered him, thass ware.

And he recalled the great beast's final mating: his feet crunching on the frosted leaf fall, his hot breath clouding the sharp
kipper air, while Runti's hands scrabbled to gain purchase on the barrel back of old Gorj. Such tiny genitals the motos had
– they could never have mated without human help. Surely this alone proved that men and motos were meant to be together? Together
on Ham– and together for eternity in New London. How could the Driver ever doubt it?

Towards the beginning of the second tariff, boy and moto trudged back up to the Layn, crossed over it and broke through the
last tattered curtain of leaves. Below them they could see the gaffs of the manor, its bay and the easterly cape of the island.
From behind this – just that moment emerging – came the prow of the Hack's pedalo, a sharp black wedge against the brilliant
sea. Carl could make out five pedalers on each side of the vessel, and deep in its well the heads of at least fifteen more
fares. Yes, it was a big enough party this year. An weel mayk em elfy wyl vey mayk us sikk, Carl muttered. He turned to the
moto and kissed it on its snub nose. Cummon, luv, iss time 2 go 2 Dave. Then they ambled off down the hill.

The six gaffs of the Hamsters' little manor were set in two rows of three, on each side of an evian stream that was rich in
irony. At the western end a seventh – used as a travelodge – was built above the spring itself. Pod-shaped, the gaffs hunkered
down into the land, their rough reddish sides hugged by the greensward, their lumpy thatched roofs lashed down by crude ropes.
For hundreds of years – perhaps even since the dawn of the Knowledge itself, for the gaffs were known to be very ancient –
they had gone by the names of the six clans of Ham. To the south of the stream, running from east to west, were the Edduns,
Funch and Brudi gaffs; while on the north side were the Dévúsh, the Ridmun and the Bulluk. The Breakup had not changed this,
although the dads now occupied the gaffs to the south of the stream, and the mummies those to the north. That the Hamsters
should cleave so to this redundant nomenclature was only one of the reasons why their Driver was now insisting that the unsanitary
manor – with its dwellings shared by kith and kine – be demolished and a new one built.

On a frayed patch of ground a few paces from the Ridmun gaff, Fred Ridmun, the Guvnor of Ham, together with three of the other
dads, had knocked together a gibbet big enough to hang the moto from once its throat had been cut. In late autumn, when several
motos were slaughtered, such a gibbet would have been far larger, and all the Hamstermen would have spent a blob or more building
it. However, for this, the midsummer's feast for the Hack's party, only one moto was to be slain.

This was Runti, who now lay on his side, slack flesh squidging from under him, his tank slopping, his arse bubbling. His legs
were lashed with some of the better imported rope, a length of which was also slung over the top beam of the gibbet. At the
moto's head knelt Carl, together with his stepdad, Fred. Carl held a small knife that was hidden in the dense wattles of the
beast's throat. Fred was tall like all of the Ridmun clan, his hair lanky, his beard a lustrous, curly brown, his eyes a stony
grey, his lips sickle-sharp and sickle-curved. He was a dävine dad, so he called over the slaughter run:

– Leev on ri smiffeeld, leffpoltreeavenoo, leffchartaowse … rìfarringdunlayn …

His stepson stroked Runti's stubbly brow as the run and its points were called.

– Tym 2 go nah, Runti, he said.

– Nó hwurtin, the moto lisped.

– Nah, nó hurtin, yul ardli feel í.

This was true, because at that very instant Carl pressed the knife deep into the beast's neck and a maroon tide pulsed out
on to the bare earth. Púlupp! Fred cried to Fukka Funch, Sid Brudi and Ozzi Bulluk. The three dads began hauling on the end
of the rope; it came taut, and the moto's bleeding body was dragged jerkily towards the wooden frame, leaving an old irony
stain in its wake. Giss an and! Fukka shouted to the gang of Chilmen who were standing a way off, looking on both enthralled
and horrified.

Reluctantly the Hack's pedalers detached themselves from the group, strolled over and grabbed the rope. All eight dads gathered
as much purchase as they could and pulled. Their muscles knotted, their backs creaked, the gibbet groaned. First Runti's hindquarters,
then his sagging tank lifted from the ground. Carl stayed by his head, whispering endearments:

Iss orlrì, luvvi, doan wurri, ear we go, nó long nah, ittul B bé-er wen ure up on ve fingi.

– Itun hwurtin, Cwarl. Eye hwurtin sum, the moto protested, and one of his large hands sought out his musher's smaller one.

– Onli a lyttul, Runti, onli a lyttul, an itull soon B ovah an yul ave a nyce kip.

– Mwy nek hwurtin, Cwarl, ish hwurtin.

The moto's whole body – which was the length of one and a half men and considerably bulkier – was now part-resting on his
crumpled neck. Then, with a great heave and a shout from the hauliers, the moto cleared the ground and swung free, a fat,
fleshy pendulum spraying pink mist.

While all this had been going on, the Driver was coming along the bay from his semi, his back stiff, his bright orange trainers
glaring as the hem of his black robe rose and fell, his mirror flashing in the foglight, the sign of the wheel embroidered
on his breast commanding attention. Now he came up to the Hack's party and turned his back on them. The Hack, Mister Greaves,
was staring full into Runti's dying face.

– Ware2, guv, he said to the Driver in a cursory fashion.

– To New London, came the answer in Arpee with considerably more solemnity.

– Iss awlways a fyn fing 2 C a moto slorta, said Mister Greaves, grabbing the loose stuff of his long T-shirt with both hands
so that it stretched over his pot tank.

– Maybe, the Driver snapped. At any rate, it's a practice the Hamsters wouldn't wish to forgo.

Carl looked up into the Driver's mirror and saw there cold black eyes under high, white, gull's-wing eyebrows. The lad bent
back to stroking Runti's muzzle, murmuring:

– Vare-vare, vare-vare, Runti, soon ovah, soon ovah …

– Why should they forgo it, Reervú? said Mister Greaves, setting his jaw and thrusting out his long, wispy ginger beard. His
nose was bulbous, his brows beetled, his cheeks were tenderized with old pox scars – yet he fronted up well. Still, the Driver
had got to him – so much so that he had shifted to Arpee as he bit and nibbled his curry-stung lips.

– Because the moto is real, not toyist… The Driver's voice was low, but his enunciation was perfectly clear. Even in chitchat
he sounded like a zealot… and only toyist beasts may be scoffed.

– Come off it, Dad. Mister Greaves was up for a bit of bother, and the dads, who'd by now finished lashing Runti to the gibbet,
came up to hear them. The moto is a sacred creature, ordained as such by the Book!

– On one reading perhaps. The Driver hooked his hands into the side vents of his robe, mimicking Mister Greaves's posture.
However, on the true one – as higher authorities would tell you, if you listened clearly – it is an abomination.

The Chilmen – both the Hack's pedalers and the sick fares – certainly looked disposed to agree with the Driver. Carl recognized
two of the older pedalers – they'd been in the party on previous summers – while the rest of them, some twenty dads in all,
had never visited Ham before. In the lad's eyes fares and pedalers alike were a motley crew, their awkward bones an ill fit
for their scrawny hides. Their blue caps, yellow tops and red jeans were garish – babyish even – and naturally most of them
bore fresh pox scars or weeping goitres. The Chilmen stood as close to the Hack as their rank allowed and stared at the moto
with frank disgust.

– Í lúks lyke an abominowotsit 2 me, said a slight man, whose bald head was cloven by a fresh trepanning wound. Í az ve eyes
owa ooman, ve teef, ve cok an balls 2. Iss feet ar lyke ands wiv pads uv flesh mell-éd intavem, but iss muzzle iz lyke a burgakynes
an iss bodi iz lyke vat uv an idëus bäcön … Í duz me fukkin éd in.

– Me 2! Yeah, me 2! the other Chilmen cried.

Carl continued to cradle Runti's upside-down head in his arms, heedless of the blood coursing down his neck and blotting out
his T-shirt. With one hand he held an earflap closed, with the other he stroked the moto's bulging jonckheeres. He went on
whispering into the beast's free ear, Vare-vare, Runti, vare-vare, mì sweet … but it seemed doubtful that the moto could
hear him, for his baby-blue eyes were rolled back in their sockets, while his breath came in a laboured squeak and his blood
continued to pulse. Then Runti gave a final convulsive shudder, arching his long back, snapping the ropes. Before, the dying
creature had lisped in an undertone; now a single clear statement issued from his already bluing lips: Eye thleepy nah! Gonna
B wiv Dave! Then he went completely slack. Carl stepped back from the gibbet, letting go of Runti's head, and plodded away,
his face averted so the dads couldn't see his tears. He wished it were Changeover day with all his heart.

– Bluddë el! the cloven-headed Chilman said wondrously, iss trew, ven – vat vey speek!

Hmm, yes, the Driver answered him, but only with the voice of a child just weaned; they have no more reason than any toyist
beast.

– Be that as it may, said Mister Greaves, pulling his shirt still tighter around his tank, I've been Hack here at Ham for
twenty-five years now and I've learned to love the moto well enough. I'd advise you, dads of my party, to love this fine beast
too. His flesh will preserve you, his fat will grease you, and once it's extracted his oil will – as you well know – prove
the most effective of remedies for whatever ails you. Is this not why you've been allowed to come here, to this most distant
and yet dävine island of our Lawd's? Nah – he slewed angrily into Mokni – pissoff ve ló-uv U – go an kip in yer gaff. Yaw
oasts av wurk 2 do – rispek vem.

The Chilmen scattered in obedience, heading up the stream to the travelodge and disappearing one after another into its dark
doorway, their faces still white with astonishment.