her habits, and kept her people on a tight schedule, as well. She went next to the Swami’s cottage, and knocked on the door.
“Someone’s knocking at the door,” a raucous voice declared. “Someone’s knocking at the door!” it repeated. Val sighed. Charles Algernon Burnswine was in residence, again. “I do believe that damn-fool parrot spends more time on holiday with the Swami than it spends at its own place,” she said to herself.
“Yup,” the Swami said behind her, startling Val. “And, from now on, this is old Charley’s home. I’ve just inherited the rascal.” Val turned to face the Swami.
“You poor man,” she said. “How long ago?”
“A week. I’m getting used to the mouthy thing, though. It beats listening to me talk to myself. What brings you out and about today?”
“Malcolm called me in as I was passing. He’s had a blight strike his violets. I think it’s something Vanna caused, although I’m not sure it’s intentional.”
“How do you mean?”
“The taint of her evil was on the destruction, but not in a way that said she had targeted these plants. I think she has been nearby, and something happened. She lost some control over her powers, perhaps. That occurs from time to time with all psychic activity, benign or malevolent.”
Charles Algernon Burnswine chose to comment. “All the world’s a brothel, and we’re merely the whores in it.” Princess Valiant shook her head and continued.
“Malcolm has graciously invited us to meet at his place tomorrow at seven in the evening to consider our options. I’ll let Emma and Haakon know, and I’ll talk to Ben and Dickon. I don’t want Ben to think I’m trying to take over his leadership.”
“Right. I’ve got nothing on tomorrow night. I’m due to see Mae Ling this afternoon to discuss correcting a translation of a minor text I’m working through. She has some ideas about it. I’ll tell her of the meeting.”
“When I talk with Ben, we’ll decide who else we need to notify, such as the Sharif family, and the rest of the Village. I’d best be off to see Emma and Haakon before they get too busy with their day. Take care, Swami, and be alert.”
“Will do. By the way, did you know Emma and Haakon have lost Prime Pussy? She passed a couple of days ago.”
“Yes, I had heard, but thanks for reminding me.” The Princess waved a goodbye to the Swami as Charles’s voice rang out.
“Go down, Moses, pleasure old Abraham,” the parrot declared. Princess Val Crowe smiled and shrugged. A parrot of wide experience, she thought to herself as she passed the path into Elke and Rosa’s cottage. They would be elsewhere, she knew, Elke at the Manor House, and Rosa at the Café of the Four Rosas. At Emma and Haakon’s cottage, she knocked on the door. Emma answered. Sorrow had etched lines in her plump cheeks. The house, strangely to the Princess’s experience, did not smell like cookies baking. A certain stale oppression hung in the air.
“Hello,” Emma said. “Come on in, Princess. We’re in the kitchen, about to have a cup of tea. Will you join us?”
“Certainly,” Val said. She followed Emma through the neat sitting room into the cheerful kitchen. Haakon stood to greet her. He, too, slumped with the weight of his loss. Prime Pussy had become a major force in his life.
“I have heard that Prime Pussy went to be with the Great Spirit,” Val said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Emma murmured as she got another cup out of the cupboard. Haakon nodded, to acknowledge the Princess’s comment. “Please, sit,” Emma said, indicating the third kitchen chair.
“Thank you,” Val said. She told them about Malcolm’s violets and the get-together at his cottage on the next evening. They chatted idly for a little, discussing the weather and the appearance of the first autumn flowers on the mountain. While they talked Emma held a small crystal cat, rubbing it with her thumb almost as if she were stroking Prime Pussy’s chin. Gradually their talk turned to remembrances of the lost cat, her spirit, her gentleness with those she loved, her fierce disciplining of Ermentrude, and other poignant points of importance to the people she had left. Val murmured appropriate responses; all the while her mind was worrying at how to guard the Village against Vanna’s surprise attack.
She saw suddenly how they might do it. Under her blouse the crow tattoo on her shoulder flew in happy circles. “Emma,” she interrupted her hostess, “will you bring your crystal cat tomorrow night? I have an idea it may be most important.”
“Yes, if you think I should.”
“I do,” Val said, “and I apologize for interrupting you.”
“Certainly,” Emma said a little bewildered. She paused for a moment. “As I was asking, do you think we should invite another cat to live with us?”
Val thought deeply. “Wait a little while,” she said. “Perhaps another cat is on its way to brighten your lives even as we speak.” She finished her tea. “Please forgive my rushing off,” she said. “I’ve got to find Ben and Dickon, to talk with them about tomorrow night’s meeting.”
“Quite so,” Emma said. She smiled at Val. “Thanks for dropping by,” she said. “It’s a comfort to visit with friends.”
“Don’t mention it,” Val said, and went to the door. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Yes.”
Val let herself out and started toward her own cottage. As she passed the Swami’s cottage she heard Charles Algernon Burnswine screech in rage. She looked up. The bird banged its beak on its cage. “Follow the drunken sailor,” he said. Val shook her head and went on toward Ben and Dickon’s cottage.
The Lost Cowgirl
Vanna got a ride to Pueblo Rio with a local chicken farmer. The farmer had passed her by, less than impressed with her disheveled and off-balance appearance. She had simply swung herself into the bed of his stake truck. Today the farmer was not transporting chickens. He was, instead, transporting that well-known poultry byproduct, chicken manure. Vanna plunged into the truck’s bed with great vigor. She plowed into the manure pile full force. It was, sadly, quite fresh, and therefore quite wet and sticky. Vanna wiped the excess from her head and face as best she could, and determined to endure a reeking ride to Pueblo Rio.
The afternoon sun had driven the fog back from the redwood forests that lined River Road, but it was still cool, as sunlight only dapples odd bits of the forest floor among the stately trees. Pueblo Rio was a different matter, of course. Long ago the doughty pioneers had cut back the looming trees to make a clearing where they could build their town. Now, in common with most modernized towns, it had a great deal of concrete and asphalt to collect the heat and thrust it back into the faces of pedestrians. Vanna leaped from the truck when the unwitting farmer stopped for the first of Pueblo Rio’s two traffic lights.
The heat smote her, and, worse, excited the feces on her face. She snorted, a most unfortunate behavior to choose, as it drove the manure up one nostril. The stench became her world. Instinctively she turned toward the only refuge in town she knew, the Black and Blue Cowgirl Saloon. No one challenged her passage. The few pedestrians on the streets avoided the noisome harridan as quickly as they whiffed her eau de cologne.
She made her way to the saloon, only to meet grave disappointment. Where the staunchly feminist institution had squatted a fern bar now flourished, a fern bar labeled the Lavender Lily. Two pretty young men minced out as she approached the door. They hurried away from her, disgust distorting their perfect faces. Vanna sat on the curb, entirely disoriented. A passing dog mistook her for a fireplug. The abuse aroused her from her funk. She considered. The woods behind the Lavender Lily could provide a refuge. When she had worked here as Mistress Whippy she had often used the area for outdoor scenes with her clients.
She went along the street to a small alley she knew of, that led behind the bar and its neighboring buildings. It joined the lower end of a trail that wound up the steep hill into the forest above the bar. Vanna toiled her way up. Near the
ledge where the trail leveled out, she stopped to wipe her hands on the grass. They were not sanitary, but manure no longer clung to them. There was a campground on the level ledge, seldom used after Labor Day. She knew it had a washbasin, and an outdoor spigot. She could at least rinse the worst of her accumulated filth from her body.
When she got to the campground, it was occupied, to her dismay, by a group of men holding a picnic. She waited while they broiled wieners and ribs, consumed great quantities of beans and coleslaw, and quaffed liberal amounts of beer. When they were well-fed and quite mellow, much to her delight they went to play volleyball at the field up the hill. It was out of sight of the picnic tables.
Vanna darted into the picnic area, stole two cold wieners and a small paper bowl of beans. She forewent the coleslaw, having no great yearning for vegetable food. She’d rather have had soda, or water, to drink, but all that was available was beer and ale. Not paying much attention to which she picked up, she got away with a six pack of big ale cans. In the shadows at the edge of the campground she devoured the wieners, not even minding the faint aura of manure that tinctured their flavor. They were, after all, chicken hot dogs. The beans she scooped out with her fingers, and swallowed them without chewing them. Then she began to drink the ale.
The picnic party
Ben Soul Page 159
