Iain Banks - Whit

I think my Grandfather was more upset by Mo making his living on television than by his conversion to another faith, but I'm sure both hurt; the record of that first generation of those born into the Faith has not been a good one, with Brigit and Mo joining other religions and Rhea surrendering maritally to the cult of fundamentalist Blandness in Basingstoke. So much had depended on Calli and Astar and my father, and then he was taken from us by the fire; the full burden fell on my step-aunts, replacing him in some ways as well as their mother and aunt. I think it is fair to say that but for their dedication and sense of purpose our Order might have stumbled and fallen.

I had met Uncle Mo a few times and thought him a sad creature; we do not ban or banish people, even if they renounce their Faith, so he was still welcome to visit us, and he has done so for each Festival. He had a surface presentability and heartiness which proved brittle and easily broken; underneath was desolation and loneliness. I think he might have rejoined us and even come back to stay in the Community, but he had too many ties in the north of England by then, and would have felt uprooted and alien wherever he went, and - by whatever algebra of longing and belonging he applied to his situation - had decided to remain with his chosen allegiance rather than his original persuasion.

The last time he had been here had been for the Festival of Love four years ago, when he had told me frankly he was looking for a wife (but did not find one). I'd assumed - indeed I'd been quite certain at the time - that he was joking when he'd asked me if I would marry him. We'd both laughed then, and I am still sure he was only kidding, but now he was on his way here, was he not? 'I come for her,' he'd said. For whom? For me? Morag, maybe? Somebody else? More to the point, why? And at whose behest?

I held Sophi like a drowning man holds a life-belt, so that I squeezed her and made her grunt and mutter. She stirred in my arms, not quite waking. I relaxed, content with the tactile reassurance that she was there. It seemed I could feel the world spinning around me, out of control, meaningless, mad and dangerous, and she was the only thing I had to hold on to.

The sound of the toilet flushing came from along the landing. I tried to turn the noise into a drain for my swirling thoughts, consigning my confusions, woes and fears to the same watery emptying and so leaving my head empty and ready for the sleep my body craved. But then the image struck me as absurd, and I found myself shaking my head in the darkness, chiding myself for such tortured foolishness. I was even able to raise the hint of a smile.

Sleep came for me eventually, after many more reviewings of the long, involved and fractious day, and many more attempts to stop thinking about all the mysteries surrounding me.

I dreamed of a wide, unsteady landscape of shaking bed clothes, and pursuit by something I could not see, forever just over the quivering horizon, but terrifyingly near and threatening. I was vaguely aware of disturbance and a warm kiss, but when I awoke properly Sophi was long gone and I was alone with an already half-aged day of brightness and showers.

Mr W had gone too. I used the Woodbeans' bath and made myself some toast and tea. I read the note - in Sophi's hand - that Grandmother Yolanda had left for me the previous day, giving me the number for her hotel in Stirling and telling me that she had booked a twin room so I was welcome to come and stay. She'd detailed her flight number and departure time today, too. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; she would be at the airport by now.

I let a shower pass then walked back to the Community under dripping trees.

I nodded to a few Brothers and Sisters, who nodded back - warily, it seemed to me. I went straight to the office in the mansion house, where Sister Bernadette sat typing slowly at the desk by the door.

'Sister Isis!' she said, looking confused. She stood, smiling nervously.

'Sister Bernadette,' I said. 'Is Allan about?'

'He's with the Founder,' she said. 'Shall I ask him… ?'

'Please.'

She turned to go. 'Oh,' I said, 'and do you know where my kit-bag is?'

'I think Allan said… I'll look, Sister Isis,' she said, and went quickly out the door and across the hall.

I glanced at the letter she had been typing. It looked like a request for money; it was addressed to Aunt Brigit, the one in the Millennialist cult in Idaho. There was a pile of similar letters on one side of the typewriter, and a long list of names and addresses in an old school exercise book on the other, with ticks down to Brigit's name. The list didn't seem to be alphabetical. I glanced up and down the list, then found Cousin Morag's name just as I heard footsteps out in the hall. Morag's old address in Finchley had been scored out, as had her old telephone number. La Mancha's full address had been added by hand. The footsteps were almost at the door…. And there was a telephone number, no; there were three telephone numbers beside the Essex address. I felt my jaw drop in astonishment.

I stepped away towards the windows a moment before Allan came into the room, carrying my kit-bag. He closed the door behind him, placing the kit-bag to one side. I tried to collect my scattered thoughts.

'Isis,' Allan said, putting the bag down by the door. He had abandoned his suit and was dressed in a robe not dissimilar to Salvador's. He indicated the seat in front of his desk. 'Please,' he said. He sat behind, in his swivel seat.

I stayed where I was, between the tall windows. A quick shower threw raindrops against the glass. I said, 'Good afternoon, Allan. I came to find out where I stand.'

'Ah,' he said, tenting his hands together and looking at them.

'What did Grandfather say about last night?' I asked.

'He… he seems to feel that you… need to confess,' Allan said, with what looked like a pained smile. 'That your soul is… muddied by… by something you've done.' He gave a great sigh. 'Salvador feels you've betrayed… well, yourself, certainly, but also him, and, I suppose, all of us, in a way. Do you see?'

'I didn't take the vial,' I said. 'And if anyone ought to feel betrayed after last night, it should be me.'

'What?' Allan looked genuinely puzzled, his fair, handsome face coated with a single layer of puzzlement. 'How do you mean?'

I looked at my boots. 'I can't tell you,' I told him. 'I'm sorry. That's up to Salvador.'

He shook his head. 'Well, I'm afraid he just doesn't want to see you until you apologise and admit you did wrong. He seems pretty determined about that; like a bear with a sore head this morning, believe me.'

'How are the revisions going?'

He looked startled, just for a moment. 'Oh,' he said, smoothly, shrugging. 'Well enough; you know.'

'Hmm,' I said, giving him time to say more if he wanted to. Apparently, he did not.

I said, 'I hope I'm not being kicked out or anything?'

'Oh, no!' Allan said, shaking his head. 'No. I think Salvador feels that… that a time of reflection and prayer may be called for. Retreat, even. You may want to contemplate things here, in your room, in the library …' He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though just having an idea. He raised his eyebrows. 'Perhaps a pilgrimage to Luskentyre, if you wanted to travel?'

'Perhaps. What about Cousin Morag?'

Allan exhaled loudly, putting his head to one side. 'Another sore point,' he admitted. 'Salvador feels… terribly deceived.' He shook his head. 'I don't know how he'll jump there. I'm not sure Morag will be welcome here for the Festival at all. She has made us look foolish.'

'But am I to stop looking for her?'

'I suppose so. You said the trail had gone cold, anyway.'

'All we'd need would be …' I shrugged '… a telephone number or something, and then I, or somebody, could…'