Whit

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

High Easter Offerance was beautiful that day; the breeze was warm, the air was clear and filled with the sound of fresh young leaves rustling; sunlight made each leaf a green mirror. We parked the car at the semicircle of pitted, weed-strewn tarmac in front of the rusted gates. Sophi's Morris was not there so I guessed she was at work. Yolanda and I walked down the curving drive, its crumbling, mossy surface a long carpet of shadow and restless, flickering light beneath the over-arching trees. My leather trousers squeaked. The long black jacket Yolanda had bought me felt light and elegant, especially over the silk shirt. The closer to the farm I got the more overdressed I felt, and the more contaminated by the Sybaritic antics of the previous night. I fingered the little black bead that was the head of the hat-pin Yolanda had given me years before and which I had remembered to remove from my old jacket and insert into the lapel of my new one (I had taken great delight in the fact that the police had not discovered it). I rubbed its smooth black head between my fingers like something talismanic. I briefly considered dirtying my jacket, but that would have been ridiculous. I was glad I'd kept my old boots, though I was starting to regret I'd cleaned both them and my old hat.

'Jeez; you make all your roads so narrow,' Yolanda said, stepping round a bramble bush that pushed itself out into the middle of the road.

'It's just overgrown,' I told her, shifting my kit-bag over my other shoulder. I felt a mix of emotions: elation at returning home and trepidation at the prospect of what Yolanda had hinted might be a frosty welcome.

'Yeah, but you do, anyway,' Yolanda insisted. 'Some of those roads up north… I mean, don't you like tarmacadam? I thought the Scots invented the damn stuff.'

The Woodbeans' house stood sentinel at the steep river bank, in front of the old iron bridge. I looked up at the quiet house, Yolanda stood shaking her head at the holes in the bridge's deck and the narrow pathway of odd assorted planks that led across it. Thirty feet below, the river swirled slowly.

'Hold my hand,' she said, putting her hand out behind her. I stepped forward and took her hand as she set one tentative foot on the first of the planks. 'Gettin' so you have to be Indiana fuckin' Jones just to git to your place…'

The drive left the trees and rose a little, heading between the wall of the apple orchard to the left and the lawn in front of the greenhouses to the right. A couple of the goats looked up from their tethered munching on the lawn to watch us approach. We saw the primary children, filing out of the greenhouse in an orderly fashion; one of them noticed Grandma Yolanda and me, and shouted. In a moment they had broken ranks and started running towards us. Brother Calum appeared at the end of the line of running children, looking at first concerned, then pleased, then concerned again.

Yolanda and I were surrounded by a small field of crop-headed children, all jabbering and smiling and raising up their arms to be lifted and held, while others pinched and stroked my leather trousers, and made ooing and ahing noises over my jacket and shirt. Calum stood by the open door of the greenhouse, waved once and nodded cautiously, then disappeared through the gateway into the farm courtyard. Yolanda and I followed, each holding hands with half a dozen children and trying to answer a whirlwind of questions.

We met Brother Pablo as we entered the courtyard, standing holding the bridle of Otie, the donkey, while sister Cassie brushed her. Several of the children left our sides to go and pat and stroke the donkey, which blinked placidly.

'Sister Isis,' Pablo said, lowering his eyes as he returned my Sign. Pablo is a couple of years younger than me, a tall, stooped, quietly spoken Spaniard who has been with us for a year. He usually had a smile for me, but not today, it seemed.

'Hi, Isis,' Sister Cassie said, nodding. She left the brush hanging in Otie's coat and let her hands rest on the heads of a couple of the children. 'Hey; you look… really elegant.'

'Thanks, Cassie,' I said, then introduced Yolanda and Pablo.

'We met, honey; last week,' Yolanda told me.

'Oh, yes; sorry,' I said, as more people appeared in the courtyard from the buildings; I waved and returned various greetings. Allan appeared from the mansion house and hurried through the crowd; Brother Calum exited shortly afterwards and followed him.

'Sister Yolanda, Sister Isis,' Allan said, smiling, and took our hands. 'Welcome back. Pablo; please take Sister Isis's bag and follow us.'

Yolanda, Allan, Pablo and I walked over to the mansion house; everybody else stayed outside. 'How are you, Sister Yolanda?' Allan asked as we climbed the steps. I looked at the poster advertising my cousin Morag's fictitious concert at the Royal Festival Hall.

'Felt better, felt worse,' Yolanda told him.

When we got to the landing between the Order office and Salvador's quarters, Allan hesitated, a finger tapping at his lips. 'Grandmother,' he said, smiling, 'Salvador said he was sorry he missed you the other day and he would love to see you now; would you like a chat?' He motioned towards Grandfather's quarters.

Yolanda put her head back a little and looked at my brother through narrowed eyes. 'You don't say.'

'Yes,' Allan said. He put one hand to the small of Yolanda's back. 'We'll just have a word with Isis; sort of a debriefing.' He nodded at the office doors. 'We'll just be in here.'

'Does-' I began, and had been about to say Doesn't Grandfather want to hear what I have to say? but Yolanda was there before me.

'Fine; I'll sit in,' she said.

'Oh?' Allan said, looking awkward. 'Well, I think Salvador's expecting you…'

'He's waited two years; he can wait another few minutes, I think.' Yolanda smiled narrowly.

'Well…' Allan began.

'Come on; faster we are, less time we keep him waiting,' my grandmother said, stepping towards the office doors. I saw Allan's jaw set in a tense line as we followed.

Sister Erin stood up from her desk as we entered the office. 'Sister Isis. Sister Yolanda.'

'Hello, Erin.'

'How ya doin'?'

'Thank you, Pablo,' Allan said, taking my bag from him and putting it down by the secretary's desk. Pablo nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Yolanda and I sat in front of Allan's desk; he brought a chair over from beside the smaller desk. Erin remained there, behind us. 'So, Isis,' Allan said, sitting back in his seat. 'How have you been?'

'I'm well,' I said, though in fact I still felt hung-over and was starting to wonder if I had a cold coming on. 'However, I have to report that my mission to find Sister Morag has not been successful.'

'Oh,' Allan said, looking sad.

I started to detail my journey, turning round once out of politeness to include Sister Erin in my audience, only to discover that she must have slipped out of the office. I hesitated, then went on. As I told Allan of my adventures - and he took notes, leaning forward over a pad on his desk - I realised that my kit-bag had vanished too; Allan had left it lying at the side of the other desk, but it wasn't there any more.

'A porn star?' Allan coughed, calm demeanour and voice cracking at once.

'Fusillada DeBauch,' I confirmed.

'Good grief.' He made a note. 'How do you spell that?'

I explained about my visits to Mr Leopold's office, La Mancha in Gittering, Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club, and my return to La Mancha. Yolanda nodded now and again and grunted when I got to the bits that included her. I left out falling through ceilings, attacks on racialists and visits to night clubs.

Unfortunately I couldn't easily evade being arrested or being seen on television. I mentioned attempting to use the zhlonjiz to ask God what to do, and taking the cannabis cigarette for the same reason when the zhlonjiz didn't work. Allan looked awkward, and stopped writing.

'Ah,' he said, looking pained. 'Yes, we heard from the Fossils about the zhlonjiz. Why- ?' His voice cut off as his gaze flicked behind me, towards the door.

Yolanda glanced round, then swivelled in her seat. She cleared her throat.

I turned round to see my Grandfather standing in the open doorway; Erin stood behind him. Salvador was dressed in his usual white robes. His face, surrounded with white hair, looked red.

'Grandfather…' I said, rising from my seat. Yolanda turned round in hers but stayed sitting. My Grandfather strode into the room straight up to me. He did not return the Sign. He held something small in his hand. He leaned past me and slapped whatever it was on the desk in front of my seat.

'And what,' he hissed, 'is that?

I looked at the tiny piece of bakelite. 'The top of the zhlonjiz vial, Grandfather,' I said, perplexed. 'I'm sorry; it's all I got back from the police. I used a little-'

My Grandfather slapped my cheek, banging my upper and lower teeth against each other.

I stared, shocked, into his furious, livid face. My cheek burned, like some fleshly mirror of his rage. I was aware of my grandmother standing quickly at my side, shouting something, but gradually the view narrowed down to my Grandfather's enraged face while everything else seemed to darken and evaporate away at the edges, until even the angry crimson of Salvador's face appeared to go grey, and the various voices I could hear dissolved into their own audible greyness, roaring incoherently like a waterfall.

I felt hands on my shoulders and then the firm wood of the seat beneath me. I shook my head, feeling as if I was underwater and everything was happening very slowly.

'-the hell gives you the right- ?'

'-mine; my flesh and blood!'

'Salvador…'

'Yeah, she's mine too, so fuckin' what?'

'She doesn't belong to you! She is ours! You don't understand what she's-'

'Ah, you always were a goddamn bully!'

'Grandmother, if you-'

'And you always were a bloody interferer, woman! Look at the way you've got her dressed, like some city hoor!'

'Salvador…'

'What? Hell, you got no right to talk about whores, you old fraud!'

'WHAT?'

'Grandmother, if you could please-'

'What did you- ?'

'Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it!' I shouted, struggling to my feet and having to hold onto the front of the desk to stop myself falling. I turned to Grandfather, involuntarily putting my hand to my cheek. 'Why did you do that? What have I done?'

'By God!' Salvador bellowed. 'I'll-' He stepped forward, raising his hand, but Erin held it while Yolanda stepped in between us.

'What have I done?' I shouted, almost screaming.

Salvador roared and lunged forward, reaching and picking up the cap from the zhlonjiz jar. 'This is what you've done, ye stupid wee bitch!' He flourished the fragment of cap in my face, then threw it at my feet and pushed past me and Yolanda. He stopped at the doors and pointed back at us. 'You've no right being here,' he told Yolanda.

'Well, fuck you,' Grandmother said in a reasonable voice.

'And you,' he said, pointing at me. 'You can dress properly and think about coming on your knees as a penitent, if you can find some excuse for your treachery!' He walked out. I caught a glimpse of Sister Jess in the hall outside, then the door slammed shut, the noise echoing round the wood panelling of the room.

I turned to Yolanda, then Erin and then Allan, tears welling up in my eyes. 'What is all this?' I said, trying not to wail but failing.

Erin sighed, stooped and picked up the cap of the zhlonjiz vial. She shook her head. 'Why did you do it, Isis?' she asked.

'What?' I said. 'Take the zhlonjiz?'

'Yes!' Erin said, tears in her eyes now.

'That's what it was there for!' I exclaimed. 'I thought that's what I was supposed to do with it!'

'Oh, Isis,' Allan said heavily, and sat down in his chair.

'Did you think you heard God tell you to?' Erin said, as though confused.

'No,' I said. 'It was my decision.'

'Then why?' Erin implored.

'Because it seemed like the right thing to do. What else was I supposed -?'

'But that wasn't up to you to decide!'

'Why not? Who on earth could I ask? Zeb?'

'Zeb?' Erin looked confused. 'No; your Grandfather, of course!'

'How was I supposed to ask him?' I yelled, simply not understanding what she was talking about.

'Hey,' Yolanda began. 'I think you two are-'

'What do you mean, how?' Erin shouted. 'To his face, of course!'

'I was in London; how could I- ?'

'London?' Erin said. 'What are you talking about?'

'I'm talking,' I said, slowing and trying to keep my temper, 'about taking the zhlonjiz in London. How was I supposed to-?'

'Well I'm talking about taking it from here,' Erin said. 'How could you? How could you just take it? How could you steal it from us?'

'… ah,' I heard Allan say.

'Jeez,' Yolanda said, shaking her head and sitting on the edge of the desk.

'I-' I began, then stopped. 'What?' I asked. 'Steal? What are you talking about?'

'Isis,' Erin said. A wisp of greying brown hair had dissociated itself from her bun; she blew it away with the side of her mouth. 'What we all want to know,' she said, glancing at Allan, who nodded wearily, 'is why you took the zhlonjiz in the first place.'

I stared at her for a moment, and it was as though the floor beneath me tipped somehow; I thought the room itself, the mansion house and whole Community suddenly creaked and leaned to one side; my legs almost buckled and I had to hold onto the edge of the desk again. I felt Grandma Yolanda's hand on my arm, steadying me.

'I didn't take it,' I said. The note. I had lost the note. 'I didn't take it,' I repeated, shaking my head, feeling the blood leave my face as I looked from Erin to Allan and then to Yolanda. 'I was given it. It was in my bag. My kit-bag. I found it. In there. I found it. Really…'

I sat down again, my legs wobbly.

'Oh dear,' Allan said, running fingers through his hair.

Erin put her hand over her eyes, shaking her head. 'Isis, Isis,' she said, looking away.

'What is this stuff?' Yolanda said. 'This one of Salvador's holy ointments?'

'It's the holy ointment,' Allan said, sounding tired. He looked at Yolanda for a moment then gave a shrug. 'What it actually does…' he said awkwardly. '… I mean, it's very old… it's probably… The point is,' he said, leaning forward over the desk, 'Grandfather believes… he regards… he knows, in his own heart, that it is… effective.' Allan glanced at me. He hit his chest with his fist. 'In here, Salvador knows that it works. We respect that.' He glanced at me. 'We all respect that.'

'I didn't take it,' I said. 'It was in my bag. I found it. There was a note.'

'What?' Erin said. Allan just closed his eyes.

'A note,' I said. 'A note from Salvador.'

'A note?' Erin said. I could see the disbelief in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

'Yes,' I said. 'Well… it was signed with an "S".'

Allan and Erin exchanged looks. 'What did this note say?' Erin sighed.

'It just said, "In case you need it",' I told them. 'Then an "S".'

They exchanged looks again. 'It did!' I said. 'I think. Something like that. I think those were the words… or it was, "Just in case, S." Something… something similar…'

'Do you have this note?' Erin asked.

I shook my head. 'No,' I admitted. 'No. It disappeared. I think the police-'

'Don't, Isis,' Erin said, shaking her head and walking away with her hand over her eyes again. 'Don't. Please don't do this. Don't make it worse…'

Allan muttered something and shook his head.

'But it's true!' I said, looking from Erin to Yolanda, who patted my hand.

'I know, I know, honey; I believe you.'

'Isis,' Erin said, coming back over to me and taking one of my hands in hers. 'I really think you'd be better off just admitting you took the-'

'Look,' Yolanda said, 'if she says she didn't take the goddamn ointment, she didn't, okay?'

'Sister Yolanda,-'

'And I ain't your goddamn sister.'

'Isis,' Erin said earnestly, turning from my grandmother to me and taking both my hands in hers. 'Don't do this. Your Grandfather's terribly upset. If you just confess-'

'What, are you fucking Catholics now?'

'Isis!' Erin said, ignoring my grandmother. I had looked at Yolanda and now Erin jerked my hands, turning me back to her. 'Isis; make a clean breast of it; just say you took it on impulse; say you thought it was something else; say you-'

'But none of that's true!' I protested. 'I found the vial in my bag, with a note tied to it. Well, not tied to it; it was a rubber band-'

'Isis!' Erin said, shaking me again. 'Stop! You're only digging yourself in deeper!'

'No I'm not! I'm telling the truth! I'm not going to lie!'

Erin threw my hands down and walked off to the smaller desk. She stood there, one of her hands up at her face, her shoulders shaking.

Yolanda patted my arm again. 'You just tell it like it is, kid. You just tell the truth and the hell with them all.'

'Isis,' Allan said leadenly. I turned to him, still with a sense that things were happening in some strange, slowing fluid that was all around me. 'I can't…' He took a deep breath. 'Look,' he said. 'I'll,' he glanced at the doors, 'I'll have a word with Salvador, okay? Perhaps he'll have calmed down a bit, later. Then maybe you and he could… you know, talk. You have to decide what you're going to say. I can't tell you what to say, but he is really really upset and… Well, you just have to decide what's best. I…' He shook his head, stared down at his hands clasped on the desk. 'I don't know what to make of all this, it's just… it's like everything's…' He gave a small, despairing laugh. 'We must all just pray, and to trust to God. Listen to Them, Isis. Listen to what They say.'

'Yes,' I said, drying my eyes with my sleeve, and then with a handkerchief Yolanda produced. I straightened. 'Yes, of course.'

Allan glanced at the office clock, high on one wall. 'We'd better give him till this evening. Will you be in your room?' he asked.

I nodded. 'I may go for a walk first, but, later, yes.'

'Okay.' He raised his flat hands from the desk's surface and let them fall back again. 'We'll see what we can do.'

'Thank you,' I said, sniffing and handing my grandmother back her handkerchief. I nodded to her and we turned to go.

Erin was still standing staring down at the desk by the door. I paused, dug into my jacket pocket and took out a roll of pound notes bound with a little rubber band. I placed the roll on the desk and added two one-pence pieces from a trouser pocket. Erin looked at the money.

'Twenty-seven pounds, two pence,' I said.

'Well done,' Erin said flatly. Yolanda and I left the room.

'I guess a lawyer wouldn't be appropriate,' Yolanda said as we went downstairs.

'I don't think so, Grandma.'

'Well, first thing we should do is drive to the hotel, or into Stirling at any rate, and have us some lunch. I need a margarita.'

'Thanks, Grandma,' I said, stopping to face her as we got to the bottom of the stairs. I squeezed her hand. 'But I think I'd just like to… you know, be by myself for a bit.'

She looked hurt. 'You want me to go, is that it?'

I tried to work out how to say what it was I wanted to say. 'I need to think, Yolanda. I need…' I breathed in hard, gaze flickering over the walls, the ceiling and back down the stairs again until I looked at my grandmother again. 'I need to think myself back into the person I am when I'm here, do you know what I mean?'

She nodded. 'I guess so.'

'You've done so much for me,' I told her. 'I hate-'

'Forget it. You sure you don't want me to stick around?'

'Really, no.' I gave a brave smile. 'You go and see Prague; go and see your red diamond.'

'Fuck the diamond. And Prague will still be there.'

'Honestly; it'd be better. I won't feel I've disrupted your life totally too.' I gave a small laugh and looked around with an expression that spoke of an optimism I didn't feel. 'This'll all get sorted out. Just one of those daft things that comes along in a place like this where everybody lives on top of each other all the time; storm in a tea cup. Storm in a thimble.' I fashioned what I hoped was a cheeky grin.

Yolanda looked serious. 'You just look out, Isis,' she told me, putting her hand on my shoulder and lowering her head a little as she fixed her gaze upon me. It was a curiously affecting gesture. 'It ain't never been all sweetness and light here, honey,' she told me. 'You've always seen the best of it, and it's only now you're getting the shitty end of the stick. But it's always been there.' She patted my shoulder. 'You watch out for Salvador. Old Zhobelia once told me…' She hesitated. 'Well, I don't rightly know exactly what it was she was trying to hint at, to tell the truth, but it was something, for sure. Something your Grandfather had to hide; something she knew about him.'

'They were… they were married,' I said, falteringly. 'The three of them were married. I imagine that they had lots of little secrets between them…'

'Hmm,' Yolanda said, obviously not convinced. 'Well, I always wondered about her heading off, just disappearing like that after the fire; seemed kind of suspicious. You sure she is alive?'

'Pretty sure. Calli and Astar seem still to be in touch. I can't imagine they'd… lie.'

'Okay, well, look; I'm just saying there might be more than one hidden agenda here. You will take care now, won't you?'

'I will. I swear. And you mustn't worry; I'll be fine. You come back in a week or two. Come back for the Festival and I'll have everything running back on track again. I'll sort it out. Promise.'

'There was a deal to get sorted, Isis, even before this, like we were talking about in the car today.'

'I know,' I told her, hugging her. 'Just have faith.'

'That's your department, honey, but I'll take your word for it.'

One night in November 1979 a fire destroyed half the mansion house; it killed my mother Alice and father Christopher and Grandmother Aasni and it might have killed me too if my father hadn't thrown me out of the window into the garden fishpond. He might have saved himself then, too, but he went back to look for my mother; they were eventually found huddled together in the room I had shared with Allan, overcome by smoke. Allan had escaped on his own.

Grandmother Aasni died in her kitchen in the house, seemingly the victim of her own culinary experimentation.

The fire engine called from Stirling that night could not be taken across the already holed and tumbledown bridge by the Woodbeans' home; the Community put out the fire itself, mostly, with some help later on from a portable pump brought over the bridge by the fire brigade. My Grandfather had always known that, with the number of candles and paraffin lamps we used, especially in winter, the risk of fire at the farm was high; accordingly he had always treated fire prevention with the utmost seriousness, had bought an old but serviceable hand-powered pump from another farm, and ensured that there were lots of buckets of water and sand stationed at various points throughout the farm, as well as carrying out regular drills so that everybody knew what to do in the event that a fire did break out.

Fire officers came the next day to survey the gutted wreckage of the mansion house and to attempt to discover how the fire had started. They determined that the seat of the fire had been the kitchen stove, and that it looked very much as though a pressure cooker had exploded, showering the room with burning oil. Aasni had probably been knocked unconscious in the initial blast. Zhobelia - distraught, weeping, incoherent, hair-tearing Zhobelia - left off her wailing just long enough to confirm that her sister had been trying to develop a new type of pressure-cooked pickle whose ingredients included ghee and a variety of other oils.

I don't remember the fire. I don't remember smoke and flames and being thrown from the window into the ornamental fish pond; I don't remember my father's touch or my mother's voice at all. I don't remember a funeral or a memorial service. All I remember- with a strange, static, photographic clarity - is the burned-out shell of the mansion house, days or weeks or months later, its soot-shadowed stones and few remaining roof beams stark black against the cold blue winter skies.

I think Allan felt my parents' loss more; he was old enough to know that he would never see them again whereas I could not really understand this idea, and just kept waiting for them to come back from wherever it was they had gone. I suppose the nature of the Community itself made the blow less keenly felt than it might have been in Benighted society; Allan and I would have been brought up much the way we were even if our parents had not perished, our care, upbringing and education spread out amongst the many faithful of the Community rather than left solely to one binary nuclear family.

I believe it dawned on me that my parents weren't coming back only as the burned-out mansion house was rebuilt during the following year, as though while the building's shell was still open to the weather and the skies my mother and father could somehow find a way to return… but as the roof was rebuilt and the new beams and rafters hoisted into place, the roof boards laid and the slates nailed down, that possibility was gradually but irrevocably removed, as though the wood and planks and nails and metal fittings that went to complete the house were not making a new place for people to live, but making instead a huge, too-lately-made mausoleum my mysteriously vanished parents ought somehow to inhabit, yet were forever excluded from.

I have a vague, contrary recollection of thinking then that my parents were still there somehow, hanging around in a sort of ghostly, spectral way, snagged there, caught by all those fresh floorboards and shining nails, but even that feeling gradually slipped away over time, and the completed, refurbished house became just another part of the Community.

I suppose, according to the more facile schools of psychology, I ought to have resented the mansion house, and especially the library, which survived undamaged but which for many, many years thereafter had about it the lingering odour of smoke, but if anything the effect was quite to the contrary, and I came to love the library and its books and its old, musty, smoky scent, as though through that faint aroma of the past I soaked up more than just the knowledge contained in the books as I sat there reading and studying, and so was still in touch with my parents and our happy past before the fire.

I think that for my Grandfather the loss of his son was probably the worst thing that ever happened to him. It was as if there was a God of the sort he did not believe in: a cruel, capricious, closely involved God who did not just speak from some great, passionless distance, but moved people and events around like pieces in a game; a greedy, spiteful, manipulative, hands-on God who took as much as He gave, and - provoked, or simply to prove His power - fell upon the lives and fates of men like an eagle upon a mouse. If my Grandfather's faith was shaken by his son's death, he gave no sign at the time, but I know that to this day he still grieves for him, and still wakes himself from sleep every few months with nightmares of burning buildings and shouts and screams inside rolling flame-lit billows of black smoke.

Things never were quite the same again; they are still good, and we thrive (or I thought we did), but they are good in a way that must be quite different from the way they would have been good had Alice and Chris survived, and Aasni and Zhobelia grown old together with Salvador. Instead, three of them died, and Zhobelia at first withdrew within the Community, and then withdrew from it.

My great-aunt mourned prodigiously, extravagantly, epically; she tore her hair out by the roots, which you hear about people doing but I'll bet you never actually saw. Neither have I, but I have seen the evidence and it was not pretty.

Zhobelia stopped eating, stopped cooking, stopped getting out of bed. She blamed herself for the fire; she had gone to bed that night instead of staying up with Aasni to carry on with their pressurised pickling experiment, and anyway felt that the accident would not have happened if she had ensured the pressure cooker had been properly cleaned; both she and Aasni knew that some of their earlier experiments had blocked the safety valves and caused dangerous pressure build-ups in the cooker. Zhobelia had been more concerned than her sister had appeared over the safety implications of this development, and blamed herself for not staying to make sure that Aasni did not put herself in danger.

Zhobelia recovered, slowly. She started to get up and to eat, though she never again cooked; not even as much as a popadum. Calli and Astar, Zhobelia's daughters, moved smoothly and quietly into the gap left by their aunt's death and their mother's domestic secession, jointly taking over the mistresship of the kitchen and the stewardship of the Whit family. Zhobelia entered a kind of self-imposed exile within her own home, having nothing to do with its running and taking little apparent interest in its welfare; she existed there, but she seemed to have little to say to anybody, and nothing that she wanted to do. A year to the day after the fire she left High Easter Offerance without warning.

We found a note from her saying that she had gone to visit her old family - who were now based in Glasgow - in the hope of effecting a reconciliation. We later heard that some form of rapprochement had been arrived at, but that Zhobelia had been looking for forgiveness and understanding only, and not a new home; she left there too, and, well, there seems to be some confusion over where she ended up after that. Astar, Calli and Salvador all seem vaguely sure that she is still alive and being well cared for somewhere, but the two sisters become sadly uncommunicative if pressed on the details, while Grandfather just gets tetchy.

I think the fire changed my Grandfather. By all accounts the least important aspect of it was that he took to dressing in white, not black, but more importantly he seemed to lose some of his energy and enthusiasm; for a while, I'm told by those who were around at the time, our Faith seemed uncertain of its way, and a mood of despondency settled over the Community. Morale recovered eventually, and Grandfather rediscovered some of his drive and vitality, but, as I say, things were never the same again, though we have prospered well enough.

I know the fire changed me. My memories begin with that vision of aching, empty blueness, the smell of dampened smouldering and the sound of my great-aunt's grief; the Gift of Healing came upon me two years later.