by Mary Bowers
The others agreed quite seriously, and Ed completed the thought by mentioning something called the “Zig-Zag-and-Swirl” principle of Lawsonomy.
“That may have something to do with it,” Phineas conceded, “but this is hardly the place for a serious discussion of natural law.”
“Then why don’t we go to the Activities Lounge and continue the discussion there?” Ricky suggested. “Other people may be interested. We could make it an open forum.”
“Not now. We may just have to agree to disagree for now. We’ve been over and over it, and besides, I wanted to have a look at the infrared thermometers at the ghost-hunting booths. Mine is a dinosaur.”
Ricky snickered. “It’s like the size of a burrito.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” Phineas said. “I need one of the pen-size models, I think. Besides, I think I’ve been getting false readings. We all want results, but we’re not that haunted. Every time I turn it on, red zones start blooming all over the room.”
“Well, I think I’ll get going,” I said, edging away.
“Oh, do you have to go?” Ed said.
“I only wanted to see Orwell Quest speak. I’ve got a few things to do,” I lied. I had cleared my day for ParaCon, just out of curiosity, but suddenly I needed fresh air and common sense.
Somebody took me by the arm from behind and turned me around. I found myself staring into friendly brown eyes. Orwell Quest was gazing at me benignly and still holding my arm. “Is there a place around here where we can get our cake?” he asked.
I started looking for a way to escape. From what I’d been hearing, nobody really knew what Orwell meant by cake. All I could remember was that somebody had mentioned poison. I looked at Ed desperately.
“Don’t worry, Taylor. He really means cake. As in bakery goods.”
“Goodness, what did you think I meant?” Orwell asked.
I was spared having to answer by Ed, who told him, “Please don’t leave. I think Gavin has brought a cake for you. He’s around here somewhere.”
“Later, perhaps. I promise, I’ll come back. But there will be little enough time to see the area while we’re here, and coastal towns in Florida are always delightfully odd.”
“Personally, I don’t blame you,” Ricky said. “I’d take a break and get out of here for a while if I could, too.”
It was an obvious bid for an invitation to go along, but Orwell didn’t bite. He was scanning the crowd, and he said, “I seem to have slipped away from my jailers for the time being, but my luck can’t last forever. And my favorite little pixie has found me. She’d like some cake, too, wouldn’t you, Pixie?”
A young woman stepped out from behind him, exactly like a sprite materializing from the trunk of a tree. I had an uncomfortable moment, remembering Purity’s Wee Folk, but this was definitely a human being, although an unusually small one. She was clinging to him timidly, and she looked like she’d melt back into him again if she was startled. Orwell was gazing at the little woman with a Father Christmas smile, and she looked back at him adoringly.
“Cake would be lovely,” she said in a small voice. Then she added, apparently quoting, “Bread first. Then we must have our cake!”
“Have you seen Vanessa?” Ed asked her. Like a dog with a bone.
“Oh! Yes. I saw her over there,” the little woman answered, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the room. “I think she’s getting ready to set up a display for The Questian Society. She’s vewy vewy busy.”
“Oh, that silliness,” Orwell said. “Still, it keeps her busy. You should have told her not to bother, Pixie. You know how I feel about the Society. It was thrust upon me by enthusiasts. Gavin has developed a rather interesting secret ritual to open the meetings, but as a rule, I don’t believe in fraternal societies. They always end in pomposity.”
“Oh, I’d never tell her what to do,” the small creature said. Apparently, her name was Pixie. “She’s so – assertive. She crushes you.”
“Now, now,” Orwell said, actually patting her on the head.
“It looks like it’s going to be a lot of work,” Pixie continued. “There are these boxes full of Everything, and pamphlets, and some kind of big display. I offered to help, but she was rude to me. She actually told me to get lost. She wants to do it all herself.”
“She likes to do everything herself,” Orwell said, nodding. “Just leave her alone, Pixie. Your friend Gavin will help her. Gavin knows how to handle her.”
“It seems to me that Vanessa is better at handling Gavin – and everybody else – but you would know,” Ed said. “She’s back there, you say?”
“She’s really not in a good mood,” Pixie warned.
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, then, perhaps I’ll wait until she’s finished.” Ed can’t deal with masterful women. Everybody knows that.
“She is never in a good mood these days,” Orwell said. “But it’s only a matter of time before she tracks me down and ropes me into something. She’s been talking about a lecture on fish. I’ve never made a study of fish. Have I?” He looked at Ed as if he’d know.
“Fish rain,” Ed said. “Now that you mention it –“
“Ah! Fish rain. That’s different.”
“I’m trying to adjust the schedules of the workshops to accommodate you. Exactly when will you be making your presentation, sir?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know that. You must ask Vanessa. She always knows everything.”
Ed gave me a flat stare, and I tried to look sympathetic.
“And now,” the great man said, “I really must insist. I’ve been speaking for hours. I insist on having my way before something happens to stop us. Ed, would you like to join us?”
Ed was startled into forgetting all about Vanessa, fish rain, or anything else. He couldn’t even speak, but we took it for granted he was coming. For a paranormal expert, it was the chance of a lifetime: even to be seen leaving the building with Orwell Quest would give his reputation a boost.
Just at that moment Bernie Horning pushed in next to Orwell and said, “Hey, you promised me an interview.”
“Of course, dear lady. Join us, please. We’re leaving immediately.” He still had me by the arm, and with his other hand he took hold of Pixie, nodded at Bernie and made for the door.
Sparky, Phineas and Ricky watched us go, not quite daring to come along without a specific invitation. They hesitated and looked around at one another until it was too late to come galloping after us. I felt kind of sorry for them, and would have happily changed places with them. Orwell was hustling us along briskly.
Bernie asked me, “Where are we going?”
“He wants cake,” I said.
“And coffee,” Orwell added.
“Karma Café?” I hazarded. “It’s not too far down the road, and we can sit outside and look at the ocean if you like.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Coming, Ed?”
Ed was behind us where we couldn’t see him, but nothing short of a direct hit from a heat-seeking missile was going to keep him from an invitation to coffee – and cake! – whatever that meant – with Orwell Quest.
“Isn’t your friend Vanessa coming?” Bernie asked.
“No, I think we can do very well without Vanessa,” Orwell said. “She’s busy, and when she’s busy, she’s happy. No matter how she looks. But if we don’t duck out of here quickly, we may have to take her along, so shake a leg everybody.”
Out in the parking lot I looked at our group. “There are five of us,” I said. “Ed, want to drive – uh – Pixie, here, while I take Bernie and Orwell?”
Orwell lifted Pixie easily and said, “This little one can sit in my lap.”
“Oookay,” I drawled. “I don’t think that’s strictly legal, though. She’s a grown woman. She won’t have a seatbelt. We could be pulled over.”
“I’m sure my seatbelt will go around both of us,” Orwell said.
Pixie giggled.
Orwell was right: the seatbelt went around both of
them.
I wasn’t sure I liked it, but I didn’t feel up to arguing. Pixie seemed comfortable, Orwell was happy, and Bernie was highly amused. Ed accepted it as if this kind of thing happened all the time. When I took a look back at the church, Vanessa was nowhere in sight, and Gavin hadn’t come running out to stop us, so I got into the driver’s seat and hit the gas and we were off down Route A1A like bandits.
* * * * *
Karma Café didn’t have layer cakes, or even cupcakes, and that made Orwell sad. They also didn’t have bowls of extra frosting sitting around for those who wanted more.
They did have big, soft cinnamon rolls, though, and something they called “frosting shooters” – nut cups filled with nothing but frosting, for those who needed a quick fix. Orwell figured one cinnamon roll and three frosting shooters would just about do it. He could’ve dunked the resulting mess into his Pumpkin Pie Cappuccino if it hadn’t had about a cup of whipped cream on top. Pixie had clear green tea. The rest of us had plain coffee.
Karma Café is in a small, weathered-wood building on a quiet stretch between towns along the coastal highway, looking smack at the ocean. A friendly little neighborhood joint with a million-dollar view. I had chosen it instead of The Bakery, which was right in the middle of the Tropical Breeze business district, because I didn’t want things to get complicated. I could just see Ed trying to get us all back to ParaCon while Orwell wandered up and down Locust Street looking in the shop windows and pointing at pretty, shiny things. Karma Café was on the outskirts of Flagler Beach and was much more out-of-the-way.
We took a table inside because it was brisk and spitting drizzle outside, but we were by a window and could still see the dune across the street and the ocean beyond. The ocean was choppy, with a solid wall of fog standing not far out, and Orwell was fascinated. Also, he was blissful. I wondered if that was because of the sugar high or because Vanessa and Gavin weren’t there.
I kept throwing curious glances at the Pixie character, but nobody explained her. Normally, when confronted with stray details from Ed’s world, I don’t even ask what it’s all about, but she was such an enchanting little creature, and it was so obvious that she and Orwell adored one another that I couldn’t help getting more and more curious about her. The simple explanation was that she was a groupie, but I couldn’t quite dismiss her as a road doggy and leave it at that.
She was dressed in green, sort of a cobwebby, soft fabric sheath that covered her where it counted, but just barely. She hadn’t grabbed a coat, but she didn’t seem cold. She had one of those gamine figures that don’t need much covering-up and aren’t embarrassing when too much skin is showing. Her dark brown hair was cut into a short, smooth cap, and she wore little or no make-up. She had beautiful eyes, dark and slightly tilted. Her age was hard to guess, but I figured early-to-mid-20s. Her neat little hands were smooth and plump, like they are in young people, and her pearly fingernails were unpainted. Everything about her was small and pretty. Not bombshell beautiful. Just pretty. Orwell paid a lot of attention to her, but somehow it wasn’t creepy. It was benign, even protective. Like a child playing with a doll.
Bernie was determined to get on with the interview, and before any idle conversation could get started she took over, saying, “You don’t mind?” as she put a recorder on the table and activated it.
“It’s inevitable,” he said. “I accept it.”
“I thought you and Vanessa were inseparable,” she said. “Isn’t she your manager? I did a little research on you and I got some background on Vanessa Court and Gavin Lovelace, but Pixie, here, must be new.”
He smiled at her over the whipped cream. Ignoring the reference to Pixie, he began to talk about Vanessa. “My manager? No. Why would I need a manager? I’m not a celebrity, and my work is strictly nonprofessional. She’s useful, that’s all. She interfaces with the real world for me. Making reservations at hotels, paying bills, hiring and firing cooks and limo drivers. I tend to let these things go, I’m afraid. So much to do. I never know where my researches will take me next, but Vanessa always seems to, and she gets everything ready in advance.”
“What kind of research?” Bernie asked.
“The neglected kind. I’m taking up the slack of the scientific community, investigating things that are real, but don’t fit the construct.”
“What construct?”
He gestured around broadly. “The real world as the scientific community has decided that it is.”
“I see.”
Ed interrupted. “I thought Vanessa was your chronicler? That she was doing a biography. Many of us are looking forward to it, even though she’s writing it. As a documentarian, she’s competent, I guess.”
He considered what Ed had said as if it were profound. “Chronicler? Is that what she’s doing?” He mused for a moment, then shrugged, dismissing it. Then he took a big bite of his cinnamon roll.
We were dumb stuck. The concept of a woman attaching herself to him as Vanessa had without his really understanding why she was there had us floored. It entered my mind for the first time that Vanessa might be running a con on this man. I forgot about Pixie for the moment.
In the silence that followed, I asked something that had bothered me ever since I had heard of him, years before. “Why the name Orwell? Your mother must have been a pessimist. Or did you choose the name?”
He considered me very carefully. His scrutiny was strangely flattering, and I found I didn’t mind. Finally, in a quiet, misty way, he said, “My mother named me Orwell, and she wasn’t a pessimist. She was a realist.”
“So it’s not a family name. I wondered. But it is a reference to the writer, and you think George Orwell just got the date wrong, is that it? We’re way past 1984, you know.”
He regarded me sadly. “You too? I had hoped . . . because of the cat . . . you might have been selected. No, dear lady, he didn’t get the date wrong; he was calling out a warning. And inch by inch, step by step, his world is creeping over us, even as we sleep. The next time the word police forbid you to use a particular expression, remember this conversation. The next time you go for a check-up, only to find that your insurance company is dictating your healthcare, not your doctor, remember this conversation. The next time you watch any of our national news broadcasts, take off the rose-colored glasses. Put them back on quickly, mind. Only one immune to the shock can take it for long. 1984 has happened, Ms. Verone. I wear my first name as a badge of honor, designating myself as one of the few who noticed.”
I sat back, silenced. Of all the gloom-and-doom people who for some reason like to think we’re all going to hell in a hand-basket, (and soon, they hope), this one was the most unexpected. He seemed so contented. There had to be logical arguments against what he’d just said, but they didn’t spring to mind. He hadn’t put any spin on his examples, but surely there were counterpoints? I was sure Bernie would print his words verbatim, and I decided to wait for the article. I wanted another go at this. Still, I already knew that no line of reasoning was going to make me join this guy’s cult. I’m just not that kind of a person.
But it was in that moment that I began to understand why Orwell Quest was such a big deal in occult circles. You couldn’t agree or disagree with him. He seemed to know so much more than you, but you weren’t quite sure just what that was. He might be a crank. He might be a genius. And paranormal investigators don’t really know what to think of what they are seeing, either. Maybe they are the few among us who can accept not knowing.
I shook my head to clear it. This was the magic of Orwell Quest. He didn’t seem to be pushing an agenda, but he had flocks of devotees hanging on his every word. I looked at little Pixie, who had wrapped her hands around the cup of tea in a childlike way. She smiled at me, little and vulnerable, and I hoped that she wasn’t about to join some kind of freak show.
Then I looked at Orwell and couldn’t believe him as a cult leader. He was too positive. Too happy. Too healthy. Wasn’t he? I looked around for other r
eactions. Ed was his usual negative presence in a group, not giving me any vibes at all, but Bernie looked concerned. She was thinking the same things I was.
When I looked back at Orwell Quest, he was smiling at me.
* * * * *
In the end, I told him all about Bastet. Not then and there, at the table. I waited until we were standing on the walkover across the street, just the two of us, looking into the fogbank on the ocean. It was just hanging there, not advancing or dissolving, and it made it seem like we were standing at the edge of the world. I was cold, and the damp penetrated right to my core, but somehow I didn’t mind. Talking about Bastet in such a setting didn’t seem strange. I wouldn’t be making a speech about it at the Chamber of Commerce any time soon, but Orwell wanted to know, and since everybody else in Ed’s world seemed to have read his book about my experience anyway, I went ahead and told him.
“She comes to me in dreams,” I said, wondering that it was really that simple. “But in my dreams, she’s not a cat. She’s a woman. At least, they seem like dreams, but they also seem real. In the beginning, she wanted me to find out why my friend had died. It had looked like a natural death, but it wasn’t. Bastet wanted justice. She’s been with me ever since. For some reason, she stayed.”
“And when communication between animal and human is not sufficient, she comes to you in dreams. Yes, there’s some validity to that. Throughout history, our guides have invaded our dreams when they are unable to get our attention in any other way.”
“I suppose I do try to . . . normalize her. As a cat, I can deal with her. As a goddess . . . no. I can’t open myself up to that. I need boundaries. I need to be in control. I need to know what the rules are. If I step over that one boundary, I don’t know where it will end.”
He nodded. He got it. What a relief it was to talk to someone who was completely non-judgmental. He didn’t think I was crazy. He didn’t think I was sane. He just accepted that I was telling the truth as I knew it.
