by Ian Sansom
'Ah! God, you gave me a fright.'
'Are you okay?' said the man.
'Yes, thanks, I'm…fine. Thank you. Just a bit of a…'
'You're lost?' The man had a warm, welcoming voice, curiously at odds with his fierce bepierced appearance.
'Yes, no, thanks. Erm. We're just looking for…are you the travellers?'
'Who are you?'
'Well, sorry, yes, very impolite of me. I'm Israel,' said Israel, putting out his hand to shake.
The man touched his forehead and bowed towards Israel.
'Peace, Israel.'
'Yes. Right. Peace, absolutely. And you're…?'
'You can call me Rabbit.'
'Rabbit?' said Israel. 'Okay. Right, Rabbit; what, as in the John Updike novels?'
'No,' said Rabbit.
'Right. Yes. I read, erm, Watership Down, actually, long time ago now, but…'
Israel always talked nonsense when he was nervous.
And not only when he was nervous.
Other men and women had now appeared from the encampment and come to stand alongside Rabbit.
'This is Israel,' said Rabbit. 'And Israel, this is Bingo, and Bev, and Boris, and Scarlet.'
'Hi,' said Israel.
'Peace,' they said. 'Peace.' 'Peace.' 'Peace.'
'Right. Yes. Same to you.'
'Hello?' Another woman came walking towards them; she was taller than the others, distinguished-looking, with a Pre-Raphaelite, flute-playing sort of look about her. She had long, jet-black hair swept back from her face, with a flash of grey at her temples. She wore tiny gold earrings, and no makeup, and a long bright red skirt and an emerald green shift; she looked as though she might recently have been modelling for John Everett Millais or a Scandinavian shampoo advertisement.
'This is Bree,' said Rabbit.
'Named after the cheese?' said Israel nervously.
'No,' said Bree. 'Named after the fire goddess, Bridgit.'
'Oh. Yes. Of course.'
'Also known as Brizo of Delos, the Manx Breeshey and Britomartis.'
'Gosh. Yes. That's…'
'And that's Spirit,' said Rabbit, referring to the large white dog that accompanied Bree and which was now licking Israel's left hand.
'Ah! Right. Hello, Spirit.' Israel lifted his hand away. Spirit leaped up towards him. Israel put his hand back down. 'Good dog! Good dog! Good dog!'
'Are you here to see us?' asked Bree.
'Actually, to be honest, I'm not—ahem—entirely sure,' said Israel. 'You see, we're two librarians. And our…'
He looked round and realised that Ted had wandered off.
'Ted!'
He looked towards the encampment. There, by the little old camper vans, and the big old converted public service disability vehicles, Ted was standing in front of a brightly painted van.
'Ted?'
Ted did not reply.
'Sorry,' said Israel, addressing his new friends. 'That's my friend Ted.' He walked over towards him, followed by the travellers. 'Ted, are you all right?'
'The van,' said Ted, mesmerised, nodding at the vehicle before him.
'What?'
'The van.'
'What about the van?'
'It's our van.'
Israel glanced at the vehicle. 'It's not our van, Ted. Come on, these people, we need to—'
'It's the van.'
'Ted, it's not the van. It's doesn't look anything like the van.'
'I know my van, and that is my van.' He pointed at it.
Israel went up and peered inside the windscreen.
The shelves inside were still intact. The skylight. The little issues desk.
It was the mobile library.
Fitted out inside with a sofa, and some rugs, and knickknacks on the shelves.
'Oh, my, God!' said Israel. He walked slowly around the whole van, following Ted. 'Oh, my, God.'
Over the cab, where it used it read 'The Mobile Library' there was now a brightly painted eye, which made the vehicle look like it had just woken up. Above the eye were painted the words 'The Odyssey'. Down the side of the van were painted the words 'The Warehouse of Divine Jewels'. Along the side, the lovely red and cream livery had been replaced with images of children playing. On the back, where it used to say 'The Book Stops Here' were painted the words 'Follow Us Towards Enlightenment', with a rainbow painted above it.
They wandered around again, astonished, to the front.
'My van,' said Ted. 'Look what they've done to my van!'
'Well, it's…It's certainly quite colourful, isn't it? I quite like it actually,' said Israel. 'It's rather well done. Is that a Cyclops eye on the front there?'
'It's the Eye of Horus.'
'Is it?'
'Yes. Horus was the Egyptian sky god.'
'Uh-huh.'
Israel turned to face the speaker, who had joined the crowd that had gathered around them. The man wore a bright red sarong and was bare-footed, and bare-chested, and tattooed up across his muscular arms, and he had his hair in dreadlocks, like fat hanks of wool, and silver bangles around his wrists.
'And you are?' said Israel, clearing his throat, just about managing not to say, 'Have you ever seen that Mel Gibson film, Apocalypto?'
'I'm Stones,' said the man.
'Sorry?' said Israel.
'Stones.'
'Right. Named after the Rolling Stones, eh?' ventured Israel.
'Named at Stonehenge. And you are?'
'Israel.'
'Named after the fascist state oppressing the Palestinian people?' said Stones.
'Erm…' said Israel.
'And you're the feckin' arse responsible for this…abomberation?' said Ted, coming over and squaring up to Stones.
'Abomination?' said Stones. 'I cannot claim responsibility for that, no. It's been a joint project.'
Ted and Stones eyed each other up and down, the small crowd watching them intently: the children with long hair, the men with shaven heads, the women wearing head scarves. And the dogs.
Stones was not quite as tall as Ted, but he was definitely younger and fitter, and he had the clear advantage of popular support; Israel wouldn't have liked to have bet on Ted coming out on top in a fight under those particular circumstances. This, however, didn't seem to have occurred to Ted.
'Well, you tell me which one of yous dirty scroungers painted my van and I'll feckin—'
'Did you hear him, children?' said Stones, appealing to the crowd. 'Who painted the van?'
A dozen long-haired children put up their hands.
'I'll—' continued Ted.
'The children did it?' said Israel.
'Under supervision,' said Stones.
'D'you like it?' said Bree. 'We only finished it yesterday.'
'It's…Well, it's very colourful. It's just. It's our van, actually,' said Israel.
'Your van?' said Stones, chuckling to himself. 'It's our van, actually. We bought it only recently, and perfectly legally.'
'You bought it?'
'That's right.'
'From Barry Britton at Britton's Second Hand Van Sales, Lease and Hire, by Wandsworth Bridge?' said Israel.
Stones did not reply.
'Well, we'll take that as yes then, shall we?' said Ted.
'Mr Britton has helped us source many of our vehicles.'
'Source?' said Ted. 'Source? Stolen, more like. You bloody—'
'That is something you'll have to take up with Mr Britton, I'm afraid.'
Ted was still staring at Stones. And Stones was staring back. Stalemate.
'Erm, look,' said Israel, appealing to Stones. 'We need the van,' he said soothingly. 'You see, we're going to the Mobile Meet, which is a big mobile library convention sort of thing, and—'
'No,' said Stones. 'Sorry. I don't wish to appear cynical, obviously, but your arriving here unannounced and claiming that this vehicle once belonged to you is hardly proof of either current or past ownership, is it? And you expect us to just hand it over? You could
be anybody.'
'We're librarians,' explained Israel. 'We're over from Ireland.'
'You don't sound Irish.'
'No. No. No, God, I'm not Irish. I'm from London. He's from Ireland.'
'Northern Ireland,' said Ted.
'Ah!' said Bree, as if this explained something.
'Well, clearly there has been some sort of a misunderstanding,' said Stones. 'But I'm sure we can resolve it.'
'I'll show you how we're going to resolve it!' said Ted, squaring up to Stones.
'Yes,' said Israel, tugging urgently at Ted's sleeve. 'I'm sure we can resolve this. Amicably. Leave it to me,' he whispered to Ted.
'What?'
'The old ba-flum. I can handle this one.' He smiled at Bree and Stones. 'Perhaps we could, er, discuss the misunderstanding somewhere privately?'
Bree looked at Stones, who nodded.
'That's a good idea,' said Bree. 'Come,' she said, ushering Israel and Ted through the crowd and towards another brightly painted vehicle—'Phun! Phun! Phun!' it announced in splashy lettering across the front—that might once have been a horsebox.
Inside the horsebox there was a little miniature wood-burning stove, a wooden bed, rugs, and cushions and wooden shelves fixed to the wall. Wind chimes and pieces of glass on string hung down from the ceiling.
Israel, Ted, Stones and Bree sat down cosily on the floor.
'Can we offer you some tea perhaps?' said Bree.
'I'm not drinking your tea,' said Ted.
'Coffee?' said Israel.
'We don't drink coffee,' said Bree.
'Right. Well. Tea would be lovely, thank you.'
'Nettle?' said Bree.
'Tea?' said Israel.
'Yes,' said Bree.
'Mmm,' said Israel, wishing he'd said no. 'Lovely. Yes.'
'I thought that was for women's problems,' said Ted.
'Sshh,' said Israel. 'So,' he said, trying to think of a friendly way into the discussion. 'Are you actual New Age travellers then?'
'Ha! Some people would call us that, I suppose,' said Stones.
'We call ourselves the Folk Devils,' said Bree, busying herself with a pot on the stove.
'Oh, really? Do you, you know, play music?'
'Yes,' said Bree.
'But we call ourselves the Folk Devils because that's how people regard us,' said Stones. 'As outcasts or scapegoats.'
'Right,' said Israel. 'I've always wondered, actually, what you lot believe in?'
'Us lot?' said Stones. 'What do you mean, us lot?'
'You…sort of…people.'
'We're not a cult,' said Stones.
'We're more like an alliance,' said Bree.
'Yeah. That's right. There is no 'us lot'. Just among us here we've got pagans, and druids, and Crowleyites, witches,' said Stones. 'Personally, I believe in Jesus, and Buddha, and Karl Marx and the Earth Goddess.'
'Aye, right, and what about Mother Teresa and Bono then?' muttered Ted.
'You believe in all of them?' asked Israel.
'Yes.'
'At once?'
'Yeah. If God, as the Christians would have us believe, is great, then surely She is too big to be contained by any church?'
'She?' said Ted. 'Hold on!'
'We don't really believe in God in the way you think,' explained Bree. 'Cosmic energy is what we believe in.'
'Uh-huh,' said Israel.
'We are all daughters and sons of the Sun, and offspring of Mother Earth.'
'Speaking personally, like, I'm the son of a Ted Carson, of Cullybackey, and offspring of Margaret McAuley, from the Shankhill Road.'
'I'm talking about spiritual offspring,' said Bree. 'Obviously. Tea?'
Bree offered Israel a jam jar of what seemed to be warm, murky-looking water.
'Mmm. Great. Thanks.'
He took a sip. It tasted like the brewed floor scrapings of a health food shop.
'And what do you believe in, Israel?' asked Stones.
'Erm. Good question,' said Israel. He coughed. 'A…Higher Being?' Hoping this was the right answer. It wasn't.
'Your Hebrew God is a lie,' said Stones.
'Right. Yes. Uh-huh. Well, I say I believe in a Higher Being—'
'And a lie, when repeated and repeated eventually comes to appear as the truth.'
'Yes, well. Anyway. I would love to talk theology all day with you, but—'
'Money, then?' asked Stones.
'Sorry?' said Israel.
'You believe in money, presumably?'
'Well, no, not exactly,' said Israel.
'Money's not a religion,' said Ted.
'Money,' continued Stones, 'is a religion. People worship money. And yet in reality there is no such thing as money: money is a fiction; it's a symbol.'
'Ach!' said Ted.
He fished into his pocket and produced a pound coin. 'What do you call this then?'
'I call it a curse,' said Stones.
'Aye, right. Well, I call it a blessing,' said Ted.
'That's perhaps where we differ,' said Stones.
'Anyway,' said Israel, desperate to avoid a confrontation. 'How did you sort of…end up, doing…this sort of thing?'
'Bree was with the Dongas,' explained Stones.
'The whatters?' said Ted.
'The Dongas. Road protests? Reclaim the Streets?'
'Oh, right.'
'We met in Seattle in 1999,' said Bree.
'Oh? I've got a friend from school who went to work for Microsoft actually,' said Israel. 'In Seattle.'
'We were at the G8 protest,' said Bree.
'Ah, yes, of course.'
'Bunch of Luddites,' said Ted.
'The modern world is a psychological and spiritual wasteland, Ted,' said Stones.
'Is it now?' said Ted.
'And you've never even lived in Northern Ireland!' said Israel.
'People want to reconnect with the Earth Mother,' said Bree. 'Israel, I sense that you are terrified of the Great Mother.'
'Am I?' said Israel, trying not to sip his tea. 'I mean, my own mother certainly, I—'
'I sense that you've closed yourself off to the creative goddess.'
'Right. Well, possibly, yes, I—'
'Shekinah.'
'Sorry?'
'Gaia, Mother Earth. Whatever you want to call her, that's her. You're denying her force in your life. You've closed yourself off to the cosmic part of the human psyche.'
'Have I?'
'Yes, you have.'
'Ach, Jesus,' said Ted.
'Sshh,' said Israel.
'Ach, come on,' said Ted. 'I have never heard such a lot of crap. I don't know how you can believe any of that stuff at all. It's like astrology. It's a lot of—'
'You believe in the sun and the moon, don't you, Ted?' asked Bree, with an ironic smile.
'Yes, of course.'
'Well, astrology is simply the study of the vibrations sent forth by the sun and the moon and their effect on our psychological makeup.'
'I don't believe in astrology.'
'You're Scorpio, right?'
Ted blinked. 'How did you know that? Did someone tell you that? Did he just tell you that?'
Israel shrugged.
'No!' Bree laughed. She had a phlegmy sort of laugh, which was quite sexy, actually, Israel found, but also suggested that she could have done with sleeping somewhere with cavity-wall insulation and central heating. She reminded him of Gloria. 'It's just,' she continued. 'You're temperamental. You have a tendency to the…' She was teasing him now. 'Tyrannous. Tell me, do you suffer from ulcers, Ted?'
Ted had been taking medication for ulcers on and off for years.
'How did you…?' said Ted.
Bree smiled serenely. 'I can do you a birth chart, if you'd like,' she said.
'I don't think so,' said Ted.
'Ha, Ted!' said Israel. 'She got you!'
'And what about you, Israel?' said Bree.
'Me? Sorry?' said Israel.
'I'd say you w
ere probably…' Bree eyed him up and down. 'Sagittarius.'
'How did you…?'
'Long nose. Full lips.'
'He's Jewish, you know,' said Ted.
'Oh,' said Bree. 'Well, you of all people should understand our predicament here.'
'Well,' said Israel. 'I don't know if…'
'The travellers are the Jews of England,' said Stones.
'Erm. Well. Aren't the Jews the Jews of England?' said Israel.
'Stones often speaks metaphorically,' said Bree.
'Stones often speaks bullshit,' muttered Ted.
'When one of the trilithons went missing back in the eighteenth century, they blamed the Gypsies,' continued Bree.
'We've been hunted down like dogs for centuries,' said Stones. 'My own parents were involved in the Windsor Great Park festivals, you know?'
'Erm. No, sorry.'
'My father was one of the Global Village Trucking Company. I was taken away from my family when I was only three years old, in 1985, after the Battle of the Beanfield. Taken to a children's home. It took them a year to get me back.'
'Really?' said Israel. 'God, that's—'
'All very interesting, I'm sure,' said Ted. 'But all I want is our van back. It's ours.'
'Ah, yes, of course,' said Stones. 'You're very focused on the present, Ted.'
'Aye, that'd be about right.'
'We try to cultivate an eternal perspective.'
'Fine,' said Ted. 'You go ahead and crultivate your pspectre, and give me the van back.'
'Well, as you can perhaps tell, we're not that interested in material possessions. My real interest is in English antiquarianism.'
'Antiques?' said Ted.
'The sacred sites of England. Avebury,' said Stones.
'Stonehenge?' said Israel.
'Yes,' said Stones. 'And we follow the ritual year and the festivals—Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa, Samhain.'
'The van?' said Ted.
'I sense you want to talk about the van,' said Bree.
They talked about the van for the best part of an hour, and in the end it was agreed that Ted and Israel would return the following day with any documents and evidence of their legal possession of the van and that Stones and Bree would then accompany them to Barry Britton's in the van to resolve the problem.
'Well,' said Israel, as they drove back to London. 'They seemed very nice.'
'Bunch of flippin' hairy fairies.'
'You can't say that.'
'I can say what I like,' said Ted. 'Bunch of work-shy, drug-using poke-shakings.'
