Greybeard

“But what’s never been irrelevant to you is other people me, among others. You’ve always put me first. I’ve seen it; as you say, I’m not a fool. You put me before your job in Washington and in Cowley. Do you think I minded? If more people had put their fellow human beings before abstractions last century, we shouldn’t be where we are now.” She stopped abruptly. “That’s all, I think. End of lecture. Feeling better, Greybeard?”

He pressed his lips to her veined temple. “Darling, I tell you we’re all suffering from some form of madness. After all this time — I’ve discovered yours!”

When he woke again, it was light, and Pitt was shaking him. Even before the old trapper spoke, he heard the throb of the steamer again.

“Better get your gun in case it’s pirates, Greybeard,” Pitt said. “The women say the boat’s coming in here.” Pulling on his trousers, Greybeard moved out barefoot over the dew-soaked grass. Martha and Charley stood peering into the mist; he went behind them, laying a hand on his wife’s shoulder. This morning the mist was thick as milk. Behind, the hillside was lost. Summoned by the throbbing of the engine, the women of the religious community were materializing and shuffling down to line the bank.

“The Master is coming! The Master is coming!” they cried. The throbbing engine stopped. The sound of it died across the water. They strained their eyes to see. A phantom river steamer appeared, gliding forward in silence. It seemed to have no substance, to exist merely in outline. On its deck, people stood motionless, staring over the sea. The old women on shore, those of them that were capable of it, sank to arthritic knees and cried, “The Master comes to save us!”

“I suppose there must still be depots of coal about, if you know where to look,” Greybeard said to Martha. “Presumably there’s not a coal mine left in action. Or maybe they fuel it with wood. We’d better be wary but it hardly looks as if its intentions are hostile.”

“I know now how savages feel when the missionaries turn up with a cargo of Bibles,” Martha said. She was looking at a long banner draped along the steamer’s railings which bore the words: REPENT — THE MASTER COMES! And beneath, in smaller letters, The Second Generation Needs Your Gifts and Prayers. Donations Wanted To Further Our Cause.

“Looks as if the Bibles have a price tag,” Greybeard observed. A group of people on the steamer came forward and removed a section of rail; they lowered a small boat into the water, obviously with the intention of coming ashore. At the same time, a loud-hailer opened up with a preliminary rasp and began to address the women ashore.

“Ladies of Wittenham Island, the Master calls you! He greets you and he will deign to see you. But this time he will not leave his holy vessel. If you want to speak with him, you’d better come aboard. We’re putting out a boat to ferry you and your gifts over. Remember, it costs only a dozen eggs to get you into his presence, and for a chicken you can have a word with him.”

The rowing boat put out from the steamer and laboured towards the shore. Two women rowed it, bent double over the oars, coughing and gasping as if on the verge of thrombosis. They became less insubstantial as, emerging from the mist, they reached the bank and climbed ashore.

Martha clutched Greybeard’s hand. “Do you recognize one of those women? The one spitting into the water now?”

“It can’t be! It looks like old — what was her name?”

”We left her at whatever that place was — Becky! It is, it’s Becky Thomas!” Martha hurried forward. The women of the island were jostling to get into the boat. Carried in their arms or in baskets were provisions, presumably offerings to lay before the Master. Becky stood to one side, watching the proceedings apathetically. She looked even dirtier than she had in her Sparcot days, and much older, though her body remained plump. Her cheeks were sunken and her nose sharp.

Regarding her, Martha thought, “She’s of Algy’s and my parents’ generation. Amazing how some of them still survive, despite those gloomy predictions we used to hear about everyone dying young. Becky must be eighty-five if she’s a day.”

Arid, stabbingly, “What’ll be left of the world if Algy and I ever reach that age?” As Martha approached her, Becky changed her position and stood with her hands on her hips. On one scrawny wrist, Martha noted, was strapped the battered old non-functioning watch that had once been Towin’s pride. Where was he?

“Hello, Becky,” she said. “It’s a small wet world. Are you taking a summer cruise?” Becky showed little excitement at meeting up with Martha again, or at seeing Greybeard, Charley, and

Pitt as they came over to speak to her. “I belong to the Master now,” she told them. “That’s why I’m privileged even at my age to bear one of the