Blinded by the Light

by Sherry Ashworth

  Fletcher gave me the ring and placed it on my finger – a thin, gold band – and it was Bea who placed the garland of white chrysanthemums around my neck. In a moment of silliness I felt like I’d just stepped off the plane in Hawaii or something. The flowers scratched my skin and for the first time I felt foolish. But then the drumming started and people came over and congratulated me. Fletcher gave me a white leather copy of Rendall’s Book, Nick a white T-shirt. There were other gifts too, wrapped in white tissue paper. Bea told me she had something for me, but it was for later. Then people brought me food – I was ravenous now – and we all sat on the floor and ate, drank while the drumming continued. This was the best moment of my life so far.

  Until that night with Bea. People had begun to disperse after the feast and I had wandered out to the back of the buildings and stood on the boundary of our land, looking up at the hill in front of me. Funny how from a distance it looked unclimbable, but standing here, I could see how to ascend it. There seemed to be a path on the left, overgrown but manageable. Like life. Like my life.

  Back in October I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to hack the coming year, but everything had turned out so differently. I had turned out so differently. I shuddered with the momentousness of it all. How can I explain this feeling? I was in awe of myself, what I had become. I had to recognise I was more than just me now. I carried the expectations of the White Ones – Fletcher had told me there was nothing I could not achieve – and had to come to terms with the fact that I was special. Me, Joe Woods, a White One.

  I was about to feel it was all too much for me and I’d do anything for a drink when I heard what I thought were footsteps. Yes, they were footsteps. Bea’s.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “I was looking for you everywhere.”

  I looked down at her and smiled. I always smiled when I saw Bea. She had that effect on me. It was dark now, and her face was only a suggestion of itself. There was a mystery about her. She had something in her hand. She gave it to me. It was a package, wrapped in a white silk scarf. Its softness was like liquid on my hands as I unfurled it. Inside, on a white thread, hung a tiny scalloped seashell. Even in the dark it had a pearly glimmer.

  “I’ve varnished it,” Bea said. “You can wear it round your neck. I like to think of it having been washed and purified by the waves.”

  I held it in my hand. It was delicate and beautiful; my eyes devoured each voluptuous curve.

  “I made a special trip to Formby. I asked Auriel to take me in the car. When I found it, I knew it was right for you. Do you like it? Joe?”

  I realised I hadn’t said anything to her, not even thank you. But words seemed insufficient. A moment ago, all there had been was the enormity of what I had undertaken; now here, in this curved white shell, was perfection in miniature, cradled in the palm of my hand. A microcosm of all we were trying to achieve. I felt that Bea had understood me perfectly, understood my needs at that moment, understood who I was. I had never felt closer to anyone.

  “I love this,” I said to her, and realised I had wanted to say something else, that I loved her, but the words deflected themselves and at that time I didn’t know why. I stroked her arm over the white cheesecloth shirt she wore. I could feel the firmness of her arm beneath it. Her arm did not flinch. I moved my hand up, to her upper arm, I felt the sudden, soft warmth of her neck. I placed my hand on her shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  An owl hooted somewhere. Otherwise it was silent. My hand on Bea’s shoulder, connecting with her beating heart and warm, living body. I took it away, kissed my fingers, and placed them on her forehead. She took her fingers and held them to her lips, and slowly moved them away and placed them on my forehead. She stayed like that for a while.

  Twin souls. I’d read in one of the Commentaries on Rendall’s Book, written by one of the earliest followers, that a soul can only be truly pure when there is an equal balance of male and female. There was some dispute about whether that means one has to balance the male and female within oneself, or find a female to balance you. Just then I knew that it meant the coming together of a man and woman. I could be the White One Fletcher wanted me to be, with Bea by my side. And Bea herself was being initiated in a couple of weeks.

  I was filled with the desire to shout, laugh, pick Bea up in my arms, anything to express the exultation I felt. Already life was perfection. May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. I’d never expected it to happen so soon.

  Things were busy on the farm. There was a lot of work to be done in the vegetable garden, and we were doing some redecorating and creosoting the sheds. I was active all day, always on the move, and sometimes the physical effort was back-breaking, but somehow the harder we worked, the greater the spiritual payoff. You’d feel utterly exhausted and then the exhaustion would transform itself into a high, as if you’d sloughed off your body like a snake his skin, and just your essence was left.

  And when there wasn’t physical work, there was. study Study was a vital component of being a White One. Our faith was demanding, physically and intellectually. It was important I was fully acquainted with Rendall’s Book, and the Commentaries on it, the different interpretations, those which were allowable and those which were heresies, and after a few months I would be expected to write some Commentaries of my own. I had to study late at night. A group of us would gather in the dormitory, around a table, and discuss what we were reading. And then there were the Services, the cooking, the days of ASD: there was never a moment that wasn’t accounted for.

  In the beginning, there was quite a bit of trouble with my parents. The first time they came up to the farm Fletcher explained that I didn’t want to see them. Even from inside the farm I could hear my dad shouting at the door. They came the next day too, and on that occasion Fletch went to get me and suggested I speak to them. He stayed with me while I explained to my parents again that this was my choice. That afternoon Mum and Dad were trying to win me over with reason and with bribes – a car, a holiday, stuff like that. I was gentle with them and explained those things had no value for me any more. Mum then backtracked and said she’d put up with me living on the farm if I saw her from time to time. I conceded that as I couldn’t see what harm it would do. My dad banged on about the White Ones being a cult and brainwashing me and I had to explain to him again that every step I had taken I had chosen to take. I said that living on the farm was only like going to uni – if I hadn’t taken a gap year they’d have lost me anyway. When they left, they were subdued. There was this arrangement that I’d ring home every week and if I didn’t, they’d come to see me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fletch nodding so I knew it was all right.

  About a week later Fletcher called me to his room unexpectedly. I saw him every week as he was my mentor and we used to discuss my progress. I guessed this was something different. It was bizarre, but I had this totally stupid feeling that I might have accidentally done something wrong. I could feel my pulse racing. I was already filled with shame for the sin I had not committed. But it wasn’t that. Fletcher wanted to talk about the future.

  A lot of what I thought he was going to say I had picked up from the other White Ones. Being initiated was only the beginning. Being a White One was like a journey, and initiation was the starting point. Soon I would be ready for advanced ASD – days where you did without two or more senses. There was this story that Fletcher himself had done without all five. He had spent a day alone in his room, blindfolded, his ears stuffed with rags, his body wrapped in a white shroud, cotton wool up his nose. None of us would have had the courage to go that far. But Fletcher was special. You could tell that, just by being with him. His presence exuded Light.

  When Fletcher said we were going to talk about the future I thought he meant advanced ASD, my Commentaries, my place at uni – I wasn’t sure if I should still go or not and how I was to earn my keep at the farm. Also whether it was time for me to become an Attractor. Attractors are recruit
ers – White Ones who mix in the other world and find potential White Ones, as Kate and Nick did me. It was an honour to become an Attractor – it meant you were fully trusted. You had reached a level of purity where you were unsullied, incorruptible. I badly wanted to be an Attractor. I thought maybe that way I could still go to uni. There were White cells across the country and I hoped there was one near Bristol. I knew that it was up to Fletcher to think through what to do about me. Part of being a White One was showing utter faith in your mentor, and placing your life in his hands. If you could do this, it showed you were capable of surrendering entirely to the Light, when your time came.

  But it wasn’t my future Fletcher wanted to talk about, it was his.

  “I got a fax from Rendall this morning, Joe. There’s going to be a meeting of cell leaders in Orkney. In Carbister.”

  That was where Rendall lived. Carbister was his headquarters.

  “Unusually for Rendall, he doesn’t say why or when. Just that it will be imminent.”

  “What do you think it could be about?” I asked.

  “We have business meetings from time to time. Or Advanced Purification…” His voice trailed away. “I have heard it said that Rendall’s received a new language, the one they speak in the world of Light.”

  “That must be it,” I agreed.

  “Or if Rendall knows of a Perfect.”

  Fletcher sat on his bed, his chin in his hands, thinking. I was cross-legged on the floor. I knew I was privileged to be invited to share Fletcher’s thoughts in this way and guessed I wouldn’t have been if Nick had been around. But Nick had been confined to his room. His illness had recurred. The White Ones looked after him well – he was never alone – and people kept up prayer vigils at his bedside. I’d asked Fletch if I could take part in a vigil, and he said, in time, when I was ready. I guessed Nick’s illness was tough for Fletch, as he used to be his second in command.

  Anyway, so there I was, in white Levis, my white sweatshirt, rather grubby white trainers, feeling as I always do with Fletcher, privileged to be there.

  “I wonder if all the cell leaders are going. If there was news of a Perfect, it would be…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Then he was silent for a bit. There was nothing I could usefully add. I smiled inwardly when I thought that Fletcher’s relationship with Rendall was probably like mine with him. I guessed he was a bit scared of him, and hung on his every word. Then I wondered what Rendall was like, as a person. I would have given anything to meet him and lived in hope that one day it might happen. Rendall never left Orkney but he wasn’t exactly a recluse. Chosen people visited him. I’d heard his voice once – Fletcher had a tape of him reading from the Book. He sounded quite old-fashioned, rather posh, and yet there was something about the timbre of his voice that made me tremble. Then I had this mad thought that maybe Fletcher wanted me to go with him to Orkney.

  “There have been rumours about a Perfect,” Fletcher continued. “I pray to the Light that He should come in my lifetime. Perhaps Rendall wants to prepare me. There’s work on myself that I need to do. I have to be ready when the call comes.”

  His voice trailed away. I felt privileged to hear Fletcher thinking aloud like this. It made me realise how little I knew about him. Despite the fact that he was my mentor and – I had to admit it – my hero, we had never spoken about anything except me. I had taken that for granted. That was the way it was. That was the way Fletcher was. Entirely self-abnegating. His whole life was lived for a higher purpose. It was almost as if he had renounced his right to a personal life. I wondered if the responsibility of running the farm weighed heavily on him. It was a novelty for me to think of him in this way.

  “How long have you been a White One, Fletch?” The words escaped before I had a chance to call them back.

  “Eight years now.”

  I made some quick calculations. I reckoned Fletcher must be thirty, maybe older. It was hard to tell. He had a toned, wiry body, cropped fair hair, a firm jaw, a tight expression on his lips most of the time and eyes that blazed. I wondered if there had been a woman in his life, and if he found it easy living the life he did. My curiosity prompted me to question him further.

  “Have you always lived on the farm?”

  “No.”

  “But you have a local accent.”

  “I was brought up in Stoke,” he replied absently. “Not exactly local.”

  “Are your family still there?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I have no contact with them. They want no contact with me. It’s far better that way. The modern concept of the nuclear family being the best social unit is highly questionable. The family feeds on itself. It devours itself, and that’s when it’s working well. A dysfunctional nuclear family is hell on earth. Emotional antimatter.”

  I stored all that away I knew I had a habit of quoting Fletcher or even occasionally borrowing his speech patterns. Bea caught me doing it once or twice and it made her laugh. Fletcher had a way of throwing emphasis on to key words, and lifting his hand as if he was on the verge of a great thought, then slowly lowering it again. He wore a white gold ring on his hand, symbol of his marriage to the Light.

  “What was your family like? Were you happy at home?”

  It was as if he hadn’t heard me. He carried on talking as if my past few questions had no existence in time or space.

  “I called you here to prepare you for the fact that I might have to go away at any time. Normally Nick would deputise, but he might not be well enough. I’d like you and Kate to look after things. I know there are other men more senior than you but probably not as pure.”

  Immediately I forgot about Fletcher clamming up. All that resounded in my head was his praise. My purity was greater than almost anyone else’s! I only just managed to hide my deep pleasure at Fletcher’s opinion of me. I was doing well, then. I was achieving purity All that ASD had paid off and it was true. I had not lied, not once, never shirked a truth no matter how unpleasant, and I was even calm about not seeing my parents. I had achieved the emotional stasis that the Book describes as one staging post on the way to purity. White Ones feel emotions like the fabrics you wear on your body. They’re on the surface only. Inside you have a still centre, a perfectly balanced soul unattached to anything, an effulgent globe, Rendall says, a source and a receiver of Light. That was me. I had that.

  It was not arrogant of me to think that way. Modesty was not seen as a virtue at Lower Fold. We thought of it as hiding your Light. You owned your good points, admitted them to yourself and others. In the other world, most people either had one sort of low self-esteem which resulted in shyness and low achievement, or the other form of low self-esteem which compensated by coming across as bad attitude. Like the rap artists I used to listen to. But now their lyrics horrified me. Fletcher thought I was pure. And so I was. I had the knack of purity.

  “I’ll let you know,” Fletcher said, “if I hear anything else from Rendall.”

  He got up and I knew our interview was over. I decided that in two days’ time I’d have a total fast and wear the blindfold. I would get Will to bring me some Braille sections of the Book so I could study while I ASD’d. I would memorise verses with my fingers. I would prove that Fletcher was right to trust me.

  I felt superhuman. I knew I could do anything.

  9.

  From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Stallion

  A snow-white stallion lived in Arabia. He was fleet of foot and exquisite to behold. The desert was glad to bear his weight and the sun to warm his muscles. One day he galloped to a Bedouin encampment, where he was caressed by maidens who fed him delicacies. His senses dulled with physical cravings satisfied, he did not notice when a splinter entered his hoof. The splinter was poisoned and so it was that a fatal infection entered the stallion’s bloodstream. He could no longer stand, his eyes darkened with pain and he collapsed to the ground. The pain of dissolution was followed by the agony of oblivion.

  I agreed to have
a meeting with my mother a few days before Bea’s initiation. I didn’t really want to see her; the weekly phone calls were hard enough. I could feel her pulling at me. Her voice and the things she said stank of the old Joe, and I didn’t want to be reminded of him. But Fletcher felt it was wise for me not to break all ties. Most White Ones kept in intermittent touch with their families.

  So there I was, walking towards Rochdale Town Hall that Thursday afternoon. Mum was already there and I could feel her eyes greedily devouring me as I approached her. She kissed me; I kissed her back.

  “Joe,” she said. “You’ve changed.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Her eyes scanned me again. She made me feel uncomfortable.

  “Is it that you’ve lost weight? Your hair’s certainly much longer. I think it suits you. Look, we can’t just stand here. Shall we go somewhere and have a cup of tea?”

  I nodded, and followed her over the road into a backstreet. She found one of those tea shops where little old ladies bustle about with trays of tea-things and saucers of sticky jam. Since I was having a taste-deprived day I only wanted water. Mum also avoided eating, and just ordered a pot of tea that came in a fussy little china pot with sprays of flowers all over it. She poured the tea and I noticed her hands were trembling.

  “How are you?” she asked.