The Book of Dave Read Free

yer oyl fer vair woonz, an yul be wiv Dave a lars,
yeah.
    â€“ In Nú Lundun.
    â€“ Yeah, thass rí, Carl said, kissing Runti delightedly, in Nú Lundun. It mattered not what doubts the lad had, for, in this
article at least, the creature's simple faith and his own scepticism were at one.
    They took all morning to get back to the manor. Carl led Runti round the northern end of the Perg, then up and down the bumps
and dips of Sandi Wud. He'd played here with Runti all of his life. When he'd been a tiny boy, the moto had minded him – and
when he grew older, he had minded the moto. They revisited all of their favourite haunts: the big hollow crinkleleaf that
stood at the edge of the curryings, the ridged bark of which was perfect for scratching moto hide; the boggy slough in Turnas
Wud, where Runti could wallow; the grove of silverbarks in the heart of the wood, where they stopped so that Carl could tear
off A4 strips and feed them to Runti on the palm of his hand.
    They ambled on with Carl's arm slung around Runti's neck, or, when the undergrowth grew thick, he'd tailgate so he could grab
the moto's cock and balls. Feeling his touch, Runti gently squeezed his mighty haunches together, lisping:
    â€“ Thath ware.
    â€“ Yeah, Carl answered him, thass ware.
    And he recalled the great beast's final mating: his feet crunching on the frosted leaf fall, his hot breath clouding the sharp
kipper air, while Runti's hands scrabbled to gain purchase on the barrel back of old Gorj. Such tiny genitals the motos had
– they could never have mated without human help. Surely this alone proved that men and motos were meant to be together? Together
on Ham– and together for eternity in New London. How could the Driver ever doubt it?
    Towards the beginning of the second tariff, boy and moto trudged back up to the Layn, crossed over it and broke through the
last tattered curtain of leaves. Below them they could see the gaffs of the manor, its bay and the easterly cape of the island.
From behind this – just that moment emerging – came the prow of the Hack's pedalo, a sharp black wedge against the brilliant
sea. Carl could make out five pedalers on each side of the vessel, and deep in its well the heads of at least fifteen more
fares. Yes, it was a big enough party this year. An weel mayk em elfy wyl vey mayk us sikk, Carl muttered. He turned to the
moto and kissed it on its snub nose. Cummon, luv, iss time 2 go 2 Dave. Then they ambled off down the hill.
    The six gaffs of the Hamsters' little manor were set in two rows of three, on each side of an evian stream that was rich in
irony. At the western end a seventh – used as a travelodge – was built above the spring itself. Pod-shaped, the gaffs hunkered
down into the land, their rough reddish sides hugged by the greensward, their lumpy thatched roofs lashed down by crude ropes.
For hundreds of years – perhaps even since the dawn of the Knowledge itself, for the gaffs were known to be very ancient –
they had gone by the names of the six clans of Ham. To the south of the stream, running from east to west, were the Edduns,
Funch and Brudi gaffs; while on the north side were the Dévúsh, the Ridmun and the Bulluk. The Breakup had not changed this,
although the dads now occupied the gaffs to the south of the stream, and the mummies those to the north. That the Hamsters
should cleave so to this redundant nomenclature was only one of the reasons why their Driver was now insisting that the unsanitary
manor – with its dwellings shared by kith and kine – be demolished and a new one built.
    On a frayed patch of ground a few paces from the Ridmun gaff, Fred Ridmun, the Guvnor of Ham, together with three of the other
dads, had knocked together a gibbet big enough to hang the moto from once its throat had been cut. In late autumn, when several
motos were slaughtered, such a gibbet would have been far larger, and all the Hamstermen would have