— Wassermattah, boy? Luvvie Joolee rasped. Aynt chew evah seen a meeta B4? Her Mokni was fluent, her manner lucid. Despite her eccentric appearance there was no trace of madness.
— N-no, mum, Carl stuttered.
— Mum! she snorted. Mum! Eye tellya, boy, vat vare iz ve diffrunz Btween U chavs an reel folk. Tym, munny, distunz. She pointed at the diaclass="underline" Daves tym — nó Rs. Daves munny — nó yaws, Daves distunz — iz root 2 Nú Lundun! Then she rounded on Böm: Djoo bleev in Dave, ven, Böm? she spat out.
— Enuff, the teach replied.
— Djoo bleev in iz cummagayn, djoo bleev in iz mirrakulz, djoo bleev in Nú Lundun?
— Yeah, Enuff. Carl had never seen Böm so tongue-tied.
— So ow cum ve Dryva sez U 2 iz fliars? Djoo bleev, boy? she said, rounding on Carl again.
— Yeah, L–Luvvie, he stammered.
— Luvvie! she spat. Wotevah, ve pawtunt fing iz djoo bleev, Eye carnt B doin wiv fliars. Eye carnt B doin wiv vose oo aynt lé Dave inter vair arts. Eye tellya boaf vat Dryva issa nastë bituv wurk. E aynt no trú bleevah. E aynt got Dave in iz art. Dave vat iz gentul, Dave wot luvs us jussaz if we woz awl ve Loss Boy. The old boiler's face took on an expression both wistful and profound. Transfigured by her Dävinanity, she was, Carl understood, almost beautiful.
— Eye bleev vat, Böm said in a hushed undertone.
— Wel ve Dryva doan, an eel shaft ve 2 uv U B4 U gettof Am, so Eyem gonna affta elp U. U bin cummin 2 ang aht 4 yeers nah, Böm, but Eye aynt toal U nuffing, ri?
— Nuffing much, Böm conceded with a rueful nod of his head.
The old boiler bent down from her great height and shuffled into the corner of the room where a pile of cloth scraps lay in a heap. As she rooted among them, Luvvie Joolee continued: Wot Eye aynt nevah toal U iz vat Mistah Greaves brungus maw van juss trayd plastik, ee brungus vese inall. She held up a bundle tightly wound with twine. Lettuce, she announced, lettuce from Lundun, ees a frend, Mistah Greaves, no an alii but a mayt. She unwrapped the bundle, and Carl gazed wonderingly upon the sheaves of onion-skin-thin leaves that sprang from it, each one covered with spindly phonics. Siddahn, Luvvie Joolee commanded Böm, siddahn on ve flaw. Eyem gonna reed U wot me öl mukkas in Lundun av bin sayin abaht ve PCO an vat. U 2 needta no.
It was with the motos that Carl was able to be himself and accept his secret mummyself. The motos gathered together in a rank in a woodland clearing under the screenwash, their backs shiny with moisture. When the shower ceased their bristles caught the bigwatt like jewels. The motos were always prepared to admit him to their cuddling and nuzzling. Unlike the Hamsters, the motos maintained an exact knowledge of who was whose mum and dad, going back for many generations. Old Champ, who had been the minder of Carl's dad, Symun, when he was a young boy, would hunker down before the lad and in his sing-slurp voice intone the moto lineage: Ven Darlin an Shoogar ad Hunnë, an Hunnë an Gorj ad Boythë, an Boythë an Poppit ad Wunti, an Wunti an Thweetë ad me. That there were only a handful of names for all the motos that were, had been and ever would be on Ham did not confuse the beast. In recounting who he was, old Champ's baby-blue eyes took on a strange luminousness that they never ordinarily possessed.
Those dävine dads most in sway to the Driver were apt to dismiss such evidence of moto wisdom, asserting that the nicety of their intimate relations was a mere mechanical contrivance. Yet Carl had seen for himself that when a moto was put to mate with another he or she deemed unsuitable, a frightful motorage ensued; and his grandmother Effi told him it was the motos who mysteriously instructed their human keepers in their own management. Vares no Am wivaht ve motos, she had often said, no Am, juss barran Ian.
During the blobs since the departure of the Hack's pedalo in JUL, while the Hamsters turned their attention to preparations for the kipper, Carl went increasingly to the motos. He sought out the rank that trundled over the harvested fields depositing dung, and, with old Champ's agreement, cut out a moped — usually Sweetë or Tyga — to accompany him on his forays. Despite the dads' objections, Carl's half-brother, Bert Ridmun, also accompanied him on trips along the ragged shoreline of the Gayt, where the rotten stumps of crinkleleafs subsided into the lagoon. In this unusual seclusion, Carl encouraged Bert to join him in riding the moto, as they were wont to do when kiddies. While the older beasts would have bridled at such treatment, the moped docilely accepted it, even allowing Carl to spur him a few paces into the sea. Here, half swimming, half wading, the moped conveyed the lad through the placid waters of the lagoon.
One day, towards the end of the second tariff, they were both being taken for a ride by Tyga. When they'd gone a few hundred paces round the headland, the two lads saw that the entire population were gathered in front of the Shelter. The daddies, mummies and opares were listening, rapt, to one of the Driver's spontaneous effusions, while, despite the cuffs of their dads, the younger kids were playing tag. One or two motos cropped the turf, their muzzles gooey with forage.
Carl and Bert slid off Tyga's back, and, drawing nearer, they heard the Driver's angry voice rising high over the bowed heads of the Hamsters. He stood facing the low wooden hut, his back to his audience, his eyes on his mirror. His deep voice shouted through the wall of his chest:
— It's not enough! Your Knowledge is not enough! I have never reviled the motos, my fares, yet, in those passages of the Book that describe the moto, it is clear that Dave didn't mean these … creatures but conveyances of the kind that I have seen in the streets of New London. I know your attachment to these beasts and how you have depended on them; nevertheless you must understand that their oil is no longer in demand elsewhere in Ing; there are diverse other fuels, beeswax, tallow and suchlike, with which to conjure letric. In accepting the oil in place of dosh-rent, my Lawd's Hack is supporting you as if you were the meanest foundlings!
The Driver paused and ran a hawkish eye over the congregation; there wasn't even a mutter of dissent, so he resumed:
— Since I came among you and abolished the vile practice of anointing, many more of your infants have survived!
This was manifestly the case, for the evidence was right behind him, a gaggle of infants and toddlers that exceeded in number all the other Hamsters.
— You all know, the Driver continued, his voice dropping still lower, that you will have to change if the island is to support these greater numbers. Mister Greaves is prepared to pay for more bubbery and London bricks if you increase your industry. He is prepared to pay for the feathers of seafowl as well; however he will no longer offer you a good price for the oil of these … these … toyist beasts!
At this the Hamsters let out a great groan, but the Driver, feeling the rhythm of his own rhetoric, was not to be halted:
— Yes, yes, toyist beasts, with their infantile slubberish and gross bodies. You muss free yawselves from your chavveri, he said, beginning to slide, for emphasis, into Mokni. U awl no viss, U muss taykup ve Nú wä aw Nú Lundun wil nevah B bilt. U muss folio ve Buk aw U wil afta leev Am — U no viss. He suddenly broke off, having seen Carl and Bert trying unobtrusively to join the back of the throng.
The Driver had the ability to incorporate chance phenomena the cry of a bird, the shape of a cloud, even the breaking of a large wave on the reef — into his calling over, which mightily impressed the Hamsters. So it was now; he stretched out his hand and clawed at Carclass="underline"