The Book of Dave (27 page)

When he was recovered, Symun learned fast. He had to; without a trade or any dosh of his own he had no way of augmenting the
miserable slop doled out to the prisoners. Even this had to be fought over, men clawing and biting for a pannikin of cupasoup
flavoured with half a raw crybulb. Since his turn upon the Wheel, Symun's strength was declining still faster, and he knew
that if he failed his next appearance there was little chance he could survive more than another month in the Tower. Then
a curious – and miraculous – thing happened. Terri, who Symun had assumed was only helping him with a view to some as yet
undisclosed – and probably vile – advantage, revealed that his motives were quite other: Eye lyke U, dad, he told Symun. 2
tel U ve troof, Eye lyke awl fliars – yer diffrunt. Eye rekkun if U stik arahnd long Enuff, yul tel me sumfing incredubbul.
Yeah, Eye rekkun U wil. Terri scratched his moulting, carroty hair. He had the ratty features and pox scars of all poor Londoners,
his eyes were black stones, rubbed shiny with distrust, yet when he turned them upon Symun they flickered with curiosity and
wonder.

Terri got hold of a dog-eared copy of the Book. It was printed on the flimsiest of A4, and entire sections were loose in the
binding, but all the runs and the points were there. Every day Symun and Terri called them over together. For Terri, a city
urchin reared in the teeming rookeries of London, who'd hardly ever seen the foglight without fog or the burbs beyond the
Emtwenny5, this was his getting of an education. Terri knew enough Arpee to correct Symun's Mokni. In return, Symun taught
him phonics.

When the warders took Symun for his next appearance, he was dismayed to find a different Examiner waiting in the chamber and
shuffling his A4S. This one was a more aggressive character, his yapping voice and queer grimace – part snarl, part grin –
at odds with his shiny pate and plump little body. He was tipping so far back in his seat that the back of his head rested
on the table. His mirror was skewed, his fingers fiddled nervily with a shiny bauble on a chain. Yet his questions were straightforward
enough, and when Symun had called over two runs complete with points, he pronounced himself satisfied:

– Next appearance twenty-eight days! he snapped. Take the prisoner back to the yard.

Terri found Symun employment. It happened by accident. Noticing that the Hamster kept his changingbag always by him – even
tying it about his waist when he was wheeled – the cockney asked him if he had anything of value in it. Symun withdrew a curious
canister from the bag. It was very flat and exceedingly wide. Then he said, most reluctantly:

– Eye did av sumffing bluddë gúd ineer, but iss gon nah. Awl Eyev got ineer nah iz bitsuv plastik. He opened the canister
to reveal a few handfuls of Daveworks.

Terri stared at the stash for a few units and then said:

– Vair ferbiddun eer, U no, ve PeeSeeO sez iss charms, iss majik. Vat doan stop folk nor neevah. Vey buyem on ve sly and wairem unda vair cloves, speshully ve loyahs an luvvies. Eye no a bloke
wot smugguls em in from ve stikks. Ee needs elp graydin em.

So it was that Symun Dévúsh, the flyer, found a way to survive in the harsh environment of the Tower. A way to survive – and
a drive for survival as well. As long as he could add to his Knowledge and maintain it, he might prevent a reduction in his
appearances. He might live.

This had always been the way. The children of Ham were accompanied everywhere by their peculiar nurses, and through the motos'
own annual cycle they learned the ways of Ham, its seasons and weather, its flora and fauna. They spoke with the motos' slushy
lisp and were physically nurtured by a species untroubled by any taboo. The little kids and the motos wallowed together, slept
together in the byres, and even foraged together when the season allowed for those fruits congenial to both species. In kipper
the motos chewed away at the trunks and boles of the smoothbarks, deftly pollarding and coppicing them. The Hamsters said:
Az ewesful az a moto. In buddout, the motos spied out bees' nests in the woods and brought them down to the village, so that
the colony could be settled in a hive. The Hamsters said: Az wyz az a moto. In summer, the motos rooted out the rats and grubbed
up the knotweed. The Hamsters said: Az elpful az a moto. Finally, in autumn the motos lay down willingly so that their throats
could be cut, then sang beautifully as the lifeblood drained out of them. The Hamsters said: Az dävine az a moto.

Three long years Symun had been making his appearances. The heavy wheel he wore around his neck had given him two thick callouses
on the points of his shoulders. For twenty-seven days the tension gradually increased, until on the morning of the twenty-eighth
day he could hold down no food, nor even fag smoke. Then the warders would haul him before the Examiner, he would call over
the nominated runs and points, and relief would come for a day or so, until the whole grim go-round began again.

By questioning every flyer who had suffered a reduction, Symun had discovered all the things to avoid. Never answer back to
the Examiner; never react to anything that he might do – no matter how outlandish; never appear before the Examiner in slovenly
attire, smelling of food or fags. Their failures were turned to his advantage, their maiming kept him whole, their deaths
guaranteed his life.

Symun learned other things from his fellow doomed flyers – there was old flying and new flying. There were those flyers who
claimed that Dave was still alive and walked among the daddies and mummies of Ing unrecognized, waiting for the time when
he could overthrow the PCO. There were others – such as the Plateists – who said that the Book could not be understood without
the use of other ancient relics that had been dug from the ground or dragged from the sea. There were those who had lapsed
into the crepuscular realms of idolatry, and worshipped twisted hunks of old metal, barely legible signs – even the London
bricks themselves. Still more – and these sectaries were strongly represented among the imprisoned flyers – held that Dave
was but a bloke in another Book, which had been set down by the true and only God. These heretics failed their appearances
with great alacrity and were broken on the Wheel.

By far the most numerous, though, among the flyers were those who held that they might speak with Dave directly through their
own intercom, without any intercession by the drivers of the PCO. From talking with these flyers Symun recognized that they,
like him, retained a secret mummyself locked inside their breasts – yet accessible.

The flyers came from all over Ing and from every position in society. There were noble lawyers, who through the gift of the
King himself had once held estates in the western islands. They were dragged protesting through the huge gates and slung on
to the muddy yard, their fine raiment dirty and torn. There were yeoman heretics, sturdy farmers from the burbs surrounding
London, who were frogmarched in and stripped to their trainers by the laughing prisoners. And there were barefoot peasants,
without money, advantages or connections, who were robbed and abused by all.

For in the Tower the world was turned upside down, and the scallywags of the city became the overlords. Symun, who had the
protection of one of these criminal lawyers, was free from molestation and even able to amass a portion of dosh, heavy copper
and silver coins that could be exchanged for all manner of goods and services – not least a chamber of his own. When Terri
saw that his mate was well established, he encouraged Symun to speak of Ham and the events that had brought him to London.
So it was that the Geezer appeared once more among dads.

The news of the prophet spread throughout the Tower. As Symun had correctly surmised, it was not the Knowledge that the Londoners
resisted, only the exactions of the heavy-handed PCO. The new message that the Geezer called over was simple, and he now adapted
it to be understood by all daddies and mummies, both high and low. Dave's second testament was devoid of the wild language
and mystifying gibberish that characterized the Book itself. It was an everyday faith for everyone, which required no one – Driver, Examiner or Inspector – to be an intercom between dad and Dave. It was also a credo that demanded literacy of its adherents, so that they might distinguish between truth and falsity – between the gibberish of the old Book and the clarity of the new one.

So the Geezer picked up fares among the prisoners, and they in turn went out among the Londoners and carried the doctrine
forth, written on scraps of A4 or else held in their memory. The agents of the PCO, who had seeseeteevee men everywhere, and
who looked for flying and schism with fanatic eyes, were nonetheless caught unawares by the Geezer. They expected such doctrines
to be promulgated by their own Drivers and Examiners, men of Knowledge who had taken the wrong turn. Or else they foresaw
them arriving from over the sea, from the highlands of the Swiss and the Franks, where the King's enemies resided. That a
simple peasant from the most remote portion of the archipelago should have carried the plague of doubt into the very heart
of London, into its citadel even, did not occur to them until it was too late.

The Archdriver of the PCO, in formal robes quartered red and white, and blazoned with the device of the Wheel, appeared before
the King at the morning getup. When the courtiers had dispersed, the two of them took a turn around Westminster Hall. Scrofulous
peasants and pikeys were held back by a detachment of the King's own chaps behind a velvet cord. One mummy of the middling
sort held out an infant, and the King did consent to bestow his touch, while a fony presented her with an amulet of the Lost
Boy. The King's fool capered, beating upon a drum while he rapped:

– I fear, your majesty, he puffed, that this Geezer is joining forces with other dissenters, in the Institute, in the Inns
of Forecourt – perhaps even in the Shelters. This is a most dangerous schism. Fortunately we have an agent in the Institute
itself who is close to the sectarians. We will send him into the Tower to act unwittingly as our informant. Others, I am sure,
will become turncoats. I am confident we can eliminate these impious daddies and chellish mummies, as we've done in the past.

– We don't want martyrs, the King said, with this flying so widespread martyrs would be much too dangerous. We shall offer
those who confess their lives. Their property shall be forfeit, their positions likewise lost. Exile and branding shall be
their fate.