We walked the horse round a little out of his harness and I clapped his flanks and held his head and talked to him for a while, rubbing my face against his while his breath thundered out of his black-pink nostrils in hay-sweet clouds. Eventually he nodded once, taking his huge head out of my grasp and then holding it high, looking around.
I laughed. 'He's fine,' I told the men.
I crossed to the mansion house; this is the rather grand title given to the dwelling Mr Woodbean's father had built to supersede the original farmhouse at the turn of the century. It is built of chiselled grey-pink sandstone rather than the rough, undressed stone of the earlier building, and its three storeys stand taller, better lit and devoid of whitewash. It was reduced to a burned-out shell some sixteen years ago, in the fire that killed my parents, but we have rebuilt it since.
Inside, Brothers Elias and Herb, two muscular American blonds were on their hands and knees, buffing the hall floor. The air was filled with the sharp, clean smell of the polish. Elias and Herb are converts who came to us after hearing about our Community from Brother James, our missionary in America. They both looked up and smiled the broad, perfect smiles which they have assured us (almost proudly, it seemed to me) cost their respective parents many thousands of dollars.
'Isis-' Elias began.
'Beloved,' Herb snorted, glancing at me and rolling his eyes.
I smiled and gestured to Elias to continue.
'Beloved Isis,' Elias grinned, 'would you kindly cast some light into the poor occluded mind of our brother here on the matter of the co-essential nature of the body and the soul?'
'I'll try,' I said, suppressing a sigh.
Elias and Herb seem to thrive on interminable debates concerning the finest points of Luskentyrian theology; points so fine, indeed, that they were almost pointless (at the same time, I have to admit to a certain feeling of gratification at having two such glowing examples of Californian manhood - both a couple of years older than I - on their knees before me and hanging on my every word). 'What,' I asked, 'is the exact nature of your dispute?'
Elias shook his yellow duster at the other. 'Brother Herb here contends that if the Heresy of Size is to be fully rejected, then the soul, or at least that part which receives the Voice of the Creator, must effectively be the skeleton of the believer. Now, it seems obvious to me that…'
And on they went. The Heresy of Size came about when a few of Grandfather's original followers, misunderstanding his teachings on the physicality of the soul, decided that the bigger and fatter one was, the larger a receiver one presented for God's signals and so the better one would hear God's Voice. Perhaps the fact that Salvador had filled out somewhat over the previous few years to become an impressive and substantial figure had something to do with the Sizist Heresy; the disciples concerned had only known our Founder as a big, bulky man, and did not know that his rotundity was entirely a result of both blissful inner peace and his wives' extravagantly generous cooking; had they been able to see photographs of Salvador when he first appeared on the sisters' doorstep, when he was, apparently, quite skinny, they might not have deceived themselves so.
While Elias and Herb argued on, I nodded with all the appearance of patience and looked fleetingly round the wood-panelled hall.
Hanging in the hall and on up the gleaming walls of the broad stairwell there are various paintings and one framed poster. There is a portrait of the elder Mrs Woodbean, our benefactress, several landscapes of the Outer Hebrides, and - almost shockingly, given the way Grandfather feels about the contemporary media - a bright purple and red poster advertising an event in something called The Royal Festival Hall in London two years ago. The poster publicises a concert on the instrument called the baryton to be given by the internationally renowned soloist Morag Whit, and it is a measure of Grandfather Salvador's love of and pride in my cousin Morag that he suffers such a garishly modern thing to be displayed so prominently in his sanctum. Cousin Morag - the jewel in the crown of our artistic missionary work - was to be our Guest of Honour at the Festival of Love at the end of the month.
We are not a wealthy Order (indeed part of our attraction for outsiders has always been that we ask nothing from our followers save belief, observance and - if they come to stay with us - honest toil; all donations are politely returned) but we are more than self sufficient and the farm produces a decent surplus each year, part of which it pleases our Founder to spend supporting missionary work. Brother James in America and Sister Neith in Africa have saved many a soul over the last few years and we hope that Brother Topee - currently at Glasgow University - will become our envoy to Europe after he graduates and receives suitable instruction from Salvador. Cousin Morag is not a missionary as such, but it is our hope that her fame as an internationally famous baryton soloist, when combined with her espousal of our faith, will help turn people to the Truth.
Additionally, it has been Morag's expressed desire since the last Festival of Love to take a fuller part in this one, and we were happy to hear a couple of years ago that she had met a nice young man in London and wanted to marry him at this year's Festival.
When Elias and Herb had both explained their positions I looked thoughtful and answered them as best I could; as usual it was a dispute about nothing very much resulting from them making two subtly different but equally profoundly mistaken interpretations of Grandfather's teachings. I assured them that the answer would be found in their copies of the Orthography, if they only studied them properly. I left them still looking puzzled and ascended quickly to the first floor before they could think of any supplemental questions (that they would in any event I had no doubt, and could only hope that they would have moved on to another part of the floor or a different - and preferably quite distant - task entirely when I descended again).
The rattle of the Community's ancient Remington typewriter sounded from one of the old bedrooms, now the office, to the left at the top of the stairs. I could hear my brother Allan's voice as I reached the landing, where the floorboards creak. Allan's voice cut off, then I heard him say something else, and while I was walking towards the double doors which led to my Grandfather's quarters, the office door opened and the broad, flushed-looking face of Sister Bernadette poked out, framed in crinkly red hair.
'Sis - ah, Beloved Isis, Brother Allan would like a word.'
'Well, I'm a little late already,' I said, clutching the handle of Grandfather's anteroom and knocking on the door with the hand in which I was holding my travelling hat.
'It won't take-'
The door swung open before me and Sister Erin - tall, greying, primly elegant and looking somehow as though she'd been up for hours - stood back to let me in, sparing a small smile for Sister Bernadette's crestfallen face on the other side of the landing as she closed the door behind me.
'Good morning, Beloved Isis,' she said gesturing me towards the door to Grandfather's bedroom. 'You're well, I hope?'
'Good morning, Sister Erin. Yes, I am well,' I said, walking across the polished floor between the couches, chairs and tables while Sister Erin followed. Outside, beyond the partition at the courtyard windows which screens off Grandfather's private kitchen, I heard the school bell sound as Brother Calum called the children to their studies. 'And you?'
'Oh, well enough,' Erin said with a sigh it was hard not to suspect was fully supposed to sound long-suffering. 'Your Grandfather had a good night and a light breakfast.' (Sister Erin will insist on talking about Grandfather as though he is a cross between royalty and a condemned prisoner; admittedly he does encourage us all to treat him somewhat regally, and at the age of seventy-five may not have all that long left with us; but still.)