The Book of Dave Read Free Page B

curry-stung lips.
    â€“ Because the moto is real, not toyist… The Driver's voice was low, but his enunciation was perfectly clear. Even in chitchat
he sounded like a zealot… and only toyist beasts may be scoffed.
    â€“ Come off it, Dad. Mister Greaves was up for a bit of bother, and the dads, who'd by now finished lashing Runti to the gibbet,
came up to hear them. The moto is a sacred creature, ordained as such by the Book!
    â€“ On one reading perhaps. The Driver hooked his hands into the side vents of his robe, mimicking Mister Greaves's posture.
However, on the true one – as higher authorities would tell you, if you listened clearly – it is an abomination.
    The Chilmen – both the Hack's pedalers and the sick fares – certainly looked disposed to agree with the Driver. Carl recognized
two of the older pedalers – they'd been in the party on previous summers – while the rest of them, some twenty dads in all,
had never visited Ham before. In the lad's eyes fares and pedalers alike were a motley crew, their awkward bones an ill fit
for their scrawny hides. Their blue caps, yellow tops and red jeans were garish – babyish even – and naturally most of them
bore fresh pox scars or weeping goitres. The Chilmen stood as close to the Hack as their rank allowed and stared at the moto
with frank disgust.
    â€“ Í lúks lyke an abominowotsit 2 me, said a slight man, whose bald head was cloven by a fresh trepanning wound. Í az ve eyes
owa ooman, ve teef, ve cok an balls 2. Iss feet ar lyke ands wiv pads uv flesh mell-éd intavem, but iss muzzle iz lyke a burgakynes
an iss bodi iz lyke vat uv an idëus bäcön … Í duz me fukkin éd in.
    â€“ Me 2! Yeah, me 2! the other Chilmen cried.
    Carl continued to cradle Runti's upside-down head in his arms, heedless of the blood coursing down his neck and blotting out
his T-shirt. With one hand he held an earflap closed, with the other he stroked the moto's bulging jonckheeres. He went on
whispering into the beast's free ear, Vare-vare, Runti, vare-vare, mì sweet … but it seemed doubtful that the moto could
hear him, for his baby-blue eyes were rolled back in their sockets, while his breath came in a laboured squeak and his blood
continued to pulse. Then Runti gave a final convulsive shudder, arching his long back, snapping the ropes. Before, the dying
creature had lisped in an undertone; now a single clear statement issued from his already bluing lips: Eye thleepy nah! Gonna
B wiv Dave! Then he went completely slack. Carl stepped back from the gibbet, letting go of Runti's head, and plodded away,
his face averted so the dads couldn't see his tears. He wished it were Changeover day with all his heart.
    â€“ Bluddë el! the cloven-headed Chilman said wondrously, iss trew, ven – vat vey speek!
    Hmm, yes, the Driver answered him, but only with the voice of a child just weaned; they have no more reason than any toyist
beast.
    â€“ Be that as it may, said Mister Greaves, pulling his shirt still tighter around his tank, I've been Hack here at Ham for
twenty-five years now and I've learned to love the moto well enough. I'd advise you, dads of my party, to love this fine beast
too. His flesh will preserve you, his fat will grease you, and once it's extracted his oil will – as you well know – prove
the most effective of remedies for whatever ails you. Is this not why you've been allowed to come here, to this most distant
and yet dävine island of our Lawd's? Nah – he slewed angrily into Mokni – pissoff ve ló-uv U – go an kip in yer gaff. Yaw
oasts av wurk 2 do – rispek vem.
    The Chilmen scattered in obedience, heading up the stream to the travelodge and disappearing one after another into its dark
doorway, their faces still white with astonishment.
    The Driver addressed the Hack:
    â€“ Mister Greaves, come and have a cuppa at my gaff; there's matters we must talk over