We didn’t go in to Kirkwall. We turned off and headed north up the A966. There was hardly any other traffic. The light was fading. I was getting twitchy. The remoteness of the place was affecting me. Even Lower Fold seemed like the middle of civilisation. The further north we went, the more pointless it seemed. We weren’t getting anywhere.
“Are we nearly there yet?” I asked Fletcher, and smiled to myself as I thought of Gemma, who had said that on every car journey I could ever remember sharing with her. “We’ll get there when we get there,” was my mum’s gnomic reply. An acute sense of loss stabbed me. I missed them badly If I ever returned to them, would they forgive me? I had no right to expect they would. And yet I couldn’t ever imagine them cutting me off.
“Not far now,” Fletcher said.
I also became aware that we were coming towards the sea again. On Orkney the sense of being on an island was very strong. The sky and the sea spilled into each other. The road climbed a bit, then descended, and there was the sea again, closer than ever, silently watching us. Then I saw a large, white, L-shaped bungalow surrounded by Portakabins, smaller cottages and various vehicles. There was a sign saying Carbister. For some inexplicable reason, I was jolted by fear. Perhaps I’d been on the road too long. Fletcher pulled up in front of the drive – metal panels protruded and prevented us from getting any closer. He pressed a button on the wall, quoted a line from the Book, and identified us. The metal panels receded into the ground, and we drove in.
While we were getting our stuff out of the back of the van, a guy came to meet us. He looked my dad’s age, but unlike my dad he had his hair in a ponytail. He was English but wearing one of those white dresses over white trousers that I’d seen Asian guys in. He’d tied a white rope round his stomach. He embraced Fletcher, and then embraced me. I wondered if this was Rendall.
“This is Jacob,” Fletcher told me.
A moment of anti-climax.
Jacob took a long look at me, nodded and smiled. I heard seagulls guffaw overhead. He led us towards one of the Portakabins, talking as he went.
“Welcome to Carbister. You’ve got here in time for the Evening Service. You’ll find it different here, Joe. Carbister is, if you like, the centre of operations, the hub of everything. It’s our Rome, it’s our Jerusalem, as it was before the Destruction of the Temple. We’re close to where the Light first revealed itself.”
“May the Light be praised,” said Fletcher.
“May the Light be praised,” responded Jacob.
They seemed to want to compete in piety.
Already the sun was setting – you could see the sea from where we were. There was certainly something impressive about Carbister – its location, the sheer fact that our faith had built a stronghold out here, the spread of the buildings. It excited me to think Rendall was near. Hardly anyone at Lower Fold had met him. It was crazy, but I felt as I did when me and my mates went to the Manchester Evening News Arena to see Oasis for the first time. Awestruck, electrified. I gave in to the feeling happily.
We got to the steps of the Portakabin.
“You have fifteen minutes or so to unpack,” Jacob said. “The Evening Service is earlier up here, naturally. Rendall has requested an audience with you, Joe, after the Service.”
I could feel my chest tightening with excitement. Fletch unlocked the Portakabin and entered. I followed.
At one end there was a cubicle with a door that stopped nine inches or so before the floor. A toilet, presumably. Next to it was a steel washbasin. On each side of the Portakabin was a bed. There was a white table to our left. On the right was an old-fashioned coatstand looking embarrassingly out of place. There looked to be about four feet or so between the beds. This was where Fletcher and I would be sleeping. Just me and him. I didn’t really like that but I guessed I had no choice.
“How do you feel, Joe?” he asked me, his voice gentle, fatherly, almost.
“OK,” I said.
He smiled at me affectionately. I turned, quickly, and lifted the rucksack on my bed to find my stuff. “You’ll like it here,” Fletcher continued. “This is how it ought to be. When I first found the White Ones this was where they brought me. I would have stayed, but there was a job for me to do. Which I have done. But who was to know that mine was to be the greatest honour of all?” Then he fell on his knees and began to intone a prayer.
I didn’t know what to do, then. By rights I have should have joined him, but his prayer seemed highly personal. So I just took things out of the rucksack and reflected how little I knew about Fletcher, and yet how well I knew him. It was a paradox. I was completely familiar with the sound of his voice, his interpretation of our literature, his mannerisms, but I knew nothing of his past. I knew also that he cared for me, but I couldn’t begin to work out why. There was nothing special about me, yet Fletcher genuinely believed I might be a Perfect. It would probably help him to discover I was just a normal human being. Maybe Fletcher needed a dose of sanity too.
18.
Bea’s Story
I woke up in the hospital. I had to tell the nurses who I was and why I’d ended up on Mrs Blake’s front door. They said I was undernourished and dehydrated and they were going to do blood tests. They were careful not to be too nosy about me which I was glad about, because I knew they’d never begin to understand what I’d been through. They kept me in for observation for twenty-four hours.
Mrs Blake came to visit me. I told her a little about the White Ones and she looked very serious. She said I’d done the right thing to run away and also that when I came out of hospital I could stay with her for a while. I was glad, but also I felt as if I was being an imposition. I said that, and she said, of course not – your mother would have been glad you came to me. Which made me cry. It was good to cry. I cried because I wanted my mother, because I’d been so stupid, because I felt guilty for running away, and I cried for Joe. I told Mrs Blake – she said to call her Beverley – about Joe. She looked serious about that too. She said we would think of how to help him. That calmed me down.
When I got out of hospital they wanted me to get some counselling but I didn’t want it yet. I just wanted Joe. Only I wouldn’t go back to Lower Fold and I didn’t want anyone else to go up there on my behalf. Doing that would make me feel as if I was betraying them, or as if I was about to destroy everything they’d built up, like an antimatter missile. And they loved me, they thought they knew what was best for me. I knew I shouldn’t act from revenge. Away from them, I found my feelings soften. Because you can’t just start not loving people – you can’t just flick a switch.
But Beverley said we ought to try to contact Joe’s parents and tell them about the mugging. I agreed, but had to explain I didn’t have their address or phone number. She made me dredge up everything Joe had ever told me. When I mentioned his sister was called Gemma, Beverley looked pleased. She said that on Monday we could ring round the local schools until we found a Gemma Woods, and then it would be easy to check details and trace Joe.
I was happy with that. She said I needed the weekend to rest and recuperate. I did. I slept for fourteen hours at a stretch. Beverley cooked me delicious meals, with meat, but it was hard for me to manage much. Her mother, May, kept bringing me cups of tea, even when I didn’t want them. I felt grateful but very guilty. I hated myself for being so foolish, and only the thought that Joe had been taken in too kept my self-respect intact. But at other times I saw myself through the eyes of my fellow White Ones, and knew I was a traitor, knew I was weak and unworthy.
On Sunday afternoon Beverley played some Mahler. The beauty of it made me cry, and later on I went to the piano but my fingers were clumsy and wooden. The notes sounded all wrong.
By midday Monday morning Beverley had a result. She’d tracked down Gemma and was on her way to visit the school to explain face to face what the situation was, and why she needed Gemma’s address. All my energy came back in a rush. More than anything I wanted to meet and speak to Mr and Mrs Woods – it
was a way of getting close to Joe.
So that evening we drove to Joe’s house, and when his mum opened the door to us, she just said, “Bea!” as if she’d known me for ages, and she hugged me.
I started crying again.
19.
We went to a building they called the Croft for the Evening Service. It was freezing and the cold penetrated to my bones. I hugged myself to try to keep warm. Fletcher pushed open the door and we entered.
It wasn’t like our Gathering Place. Inside it was more like a church. At one end of the room was a table with a white cloth over it and loads of candlesticks with candles waiting to be lit. Behind, on the wall, someone had painted a large, golden sun, with rays coming out like in a kids’ book. Above the sun were shapes that I recognised as runes. There were rows of chairs facing the sun and the table, and there looked to be about a dozen blokes assembled. They were all silent. Fletcher and I took our seats in the middle. I noticed Jacob in the front row. The walls of the Croft were painted white over bare brick. On my left were some shelves containing literature. On my right was a board with names painted on it in gilt lettering. Matthew Chalmers, Trevor Norrington-Smith – they were at the top – Keiran McDermott was another I remembered, and there were two that looked bright and new at the bottom – Anil Khatri, Simon McConnell. Fletcher saw I was reading the board.
“Nick’s name will be inscribed there, too,” he said.
So it was a memorial board, for White Ones who had been Elevated. For a moment I felt awe and respect, but then memories of Auriel’s account of Nick’s death took over. If she had been telling me the truth – but Auriel was hardly the most reliable witness. I shut my thoughts off.
At that moment, two guys dressed like Jacob entered from a side door by the table, carrying a silver basin and silver jug. They took it to the table and poured the water from the jug into the basin. Presumably this was for recounting our sins. There was total silence. I could hear Fletcher breathing beside me. I swallowed nervously.
The side door opened again, and one man emerged. His bearing was erect, his hair was grey and reached to his shoulders. When he turned to face the gathering I knew immediately this was Rendall. He had a presence that seemed to draw us all in, and all together. He was special, I knew it for certain. My eyes drunk him in greedily. I wasn’t interested in the externals – his purple vestment like an archbishop’s, the purple skullcap he was wearing – but in his face. Despite some wrinkles and a somewhat weathered look, he was handsome. There was confidence in his manner of looking at us. He reminded me of a poet who once visited us at school, a bloke who looked like an eccentric but seemed a lot more certain of who he was than we were. And examining Rendall now, I could see it was his eyes that did it. Their expression was intense, magnetic, even. You felt that if he was to look at you, your life would change. Or that he would know everything about you in an instant. They were deep set but they seemed to glitter.
I said it was his eyes that set him apart, but that wasn’t all. When he began to read, his voice was compelling. It was low, a bit posh, like an old-fashioned newsreader, but set at a pitch that vibrated through you, rich, resonant. As he read, he seemed to weigh each word, allowing it due space and consideration. As he spoke aloud the words of his Book, I wondered how I could have ever doubted them. Once more I felt connected to the Light.
That was a relief. To be honest, in the past couple of months at the farm I had rarely focused on Services in the way I used to. I was either too tired or obsessed by something else. Now I felt reborn. I let Rendall’s voice enfold me until the words seemed irrelevant. I was safe.
I decided to stay in my seat when it was time to cleanse us of our sins. I thought it would be drawing attention to myself if I made a public confession, and although there would be a time when I would have to admit my treasonable thoughts with Bea, I didn’t want to do so yet. Instead I watched other White Ones come out. I noted with interest that they were all male and, on average, slightly older than at Lower Fold. That gave a different flavour to the Service. I felt I was where the power was. Then I could hear Bea’s voice teasing me, saying “Sexist!” – I cut it off.
The Service was coming to an end. I looked straight ahead at the back of the man in front of me. When we’d sung the concluding hymn he turned to shake my hand, and Fletcher’s. He seemed about Fletcher’s age, a stocky guy with a thickset neck. I could tell by the way he spoke to Fletcher that they knew each other. The introductions were made.
“Laban, this is Joe. Joe – Laban.”
I noticed the way Laban’s shrewd glance moved from Fletcher to me and me to Fletcher. Then it settled on me. I could sense him weighing me up. He made me feel uncomfortable.
“May it be your lot,” he said to me.
Perhaps it was the way he didn’t finish off the greeting that made me not like him. I don’t know. Or maybe it was the smile he gave me which looked almost manufactured. I just didn’t take to him.
“So this is your Potential?” he asked Fletcher, referring to me.
Fletch nodded curtly. I could swear I saw Laban raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. But maybe he didn’t.
“All will be revealed,” Laban said.
Jacob approached us then.
“Rendall requests your presence,” he said.
“I am honoured,” Fletcher replied, flushing.
“No – just Joe,” Jacob said.
“OK. Right,” Fletch mumbled, and I felt sorry for him. It was an embarrassing mistake to make. Jacob led me out of the Croft and into what seemed like the main building, a sprawling bungalow. Neither of us spoke. I remember the excitement I felt. I was living entirely in the moment. I was tense with expectation.
Jacob rapped on a closed door, and I heard Rendall’s voice saying, “Enter!”
Jacob opened the door and stood by it.
“Thank you,” I said, and walked into Rendall’s room.
Jacob shut the door and departed.
I say Rendall’s room. It was more like a study. It had one whole wall of books, a number of which I recognised, Commentaries, editions of the Book. There was a roaring fire, and two old-fashioned easy chairs by it. I noticed a desk full of papers, and a mahogany cabinet. I saw a red velvet chaise longue, too, with embroidered cushions, and everywhere a strange, cloying, fragrant smell. I traced it to a pipe which had gone out. Someone – Rendall? – had obviously been smoking scented tobacco. I also remember an old-style record turntable with a stack of long-playing vinyl records next to it.
At the time I wasn’t aware of taking all this in, only afterwards. Because the truth was, I was mesmerised by being so close to Rendall, Colin Rendall, our Father and Guiding Light.
“Sit down, Joseph,” he said to me.
I didn’t bother to correct him. Joe was my real name, as on my birth certificate. No one had ever called me Joseph.
“Joseph,” he said. “The youngest of Jacob’s sons. The most loved. The redeemer of his Brothers.”
His looked me in the eyes and smiled. I smiled back nervously and nodded. I thought it was best that he kept the conversation going, rather than me.
“There are those who would argue that Joseph was a precursor of the Christ figure in his purity – he denied Potiphar’s wife, and his incarceration, if you like, was a kind of death and resurrection. You see, Joseph, there are recurrent themes in all religions, basic truths which reassert themselves. There must be death before life. Three days Christ was in the tomb, and then he rose. Ancient civilisations used to throw their gods in the water. They drowned so that they should live. Those were pearls that were his eyes – T.S. Eliot!”
The breadth of his knowledge impressed me. He was coming over like a headmaster, or how I imagined a university professor to be. He was quality.
“And so, Joseph, Terry Fletcher believes you are a Perfect.”
So Fletcher’s first name was Terry! I never knew that. The revelation distracted me.
“How do you feel about that? A
bout the prospect of Perfection?”
“I can’t say I… I have no knowledge… It’s not up to me.” I sounded like an imbecile. But Rendall didn’t seem to mind.
“The flower has no sense of its being a flower; the bird aloft even in the very act of flying knows nothing of its bird-ness. Thus it is with Perfects. It is for us to divine your true state.”
“How will you do that, sir?”
Damn! The sir just slipped out. I hated myself for that. I was messing up big time.
“Later, Joseph, later. But first I want to get to know you. I want you to tell me about yourself. Excuse me.” He got up and went to the mahogany cabinet, which he opened to reveal a whisky decanter. He poured a generous glass for himself.
“I can see your surprise, Joseph. But there is a stage of purity when it is acceptable to take back into your life those substances which you have had to abjure at an earlier stage of your journey. Now the whisky means nothing to me. I am as a eunuch with a damsel.” He took a mouthful of whisky, savoured it and swallowed. “You have been among the White Ones for…?”
“For nine months,” I said.
“Ha! The period of gestation. Nothing is accidental. When I established Carbister, I commanded that there should always be thirty-three. A company of thirty-three. I myself was twenty-one when I had my Vision. Even now, the refulgence irradiates my vision. Unlike other men of my age, I have never needed glasses. My eyes, you see, achieved Perfection. In witnessing what they did, they were beatified.”
I looked at his eyes. Only they didn’t seem to have that magnetism I’d seen earlier in the Service. Maybe it was the whisky, but his eyes looked watery, there was a yellow discolouration at the corners. As he spoke, I noticed flecks of spit at the side of his mouth.
“And after the Vision, my life was changed. I went back to Cambridge but conventional study had lost its appeal. But there were those, few at first, who recognised the immensity of what I had been through. I committed my Vision to paper, and shared it with my followers. Soon there were six of us who could testify to the power of the Light. Those were the days of ongoing revelation. We began alternate sense deprivation and the confession of transgressions. When we went down from Cambridge we set up the first cell near Mablethorpe, in Lincolnshire. I had inherited money, Joseph, on the occasion of the Elevation of my parents. But my desire was to return to Orkney, the birthplace of the Light. It is no coincidence, Joseph, that this island has Stone-Age settlements – here is where things begin, and where they will end. The stone circles represent the eternal cycles of birth and death, birth and death, and the standing stones the male principle. We have no women here, Joseph. At least, only as visitors.”
Blinded by the Light Page 17
