Al glowered at the painted sign. “‘When you realize there is nowhere to go, you have arrived.’ What horseshit. That’s when you should be rethinking the purpose of your journey.”
“Remember, don’t eat, don’t drink. I still think I got high from that gupa spill.”
Arthur had told him about being transported into that disturbing state of bliss. Al’s response hadn’t been satisfactory: “They’re called mood swings, old boy.”
Morg came to Arthur’s window, his expression blank. “I have a special place for you, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I expect you have a special place for me too, Morg,” Al said.
Morg ignored that, maybe confused, sensing a double entendre but not getting it. “Yoki and Niko wanted to stay, Mr. Beauchamp. They needed to meet the Baba.” He called to Dog: “Put them over by the fence there.”
He hurried off before Arthur could say a word. Al muttered, “They needed to meet the Baba? I want to see this fraud in action.”
Dog led them to the VIP parking section, and Arthur pulled in beside the Mercedes Cabriolet, its top up, doors open, and Robert Stonewell inside wielding some rags and leather wax. A plastic bag on the dashboard held several beer caps, butts, roaches, and an empty cigarette pack. Gelaine, Stoney explained, had asked him to get it shipshape for Silverson.
Arthur pocketed the Fargo’s new spare key, reluctantly handed over, though experience suggested that was a futile effort. “Ah, yes, Gelaine.” The black hipster with the mat of wild hair. “And how is that relationship working out?” An improbable one.
“I had to dump her. She told me she likes to do it with girls. That just turned me off.”
Dog held Al’s door for him, offered him some promotional material, and recited what seemed a scripted greeting: “Welcome to the Personal Transformation Mission. Buddha is love.”
“Kindly expand on that great thought,” said Al.
“I am Buddha. We are all Buddha.”
“Who told you that?” Al asked.
“The Baba. He is Buddha too.”
“Christ,” said Al.
“Him too.” Dog hustled off.
Stoney stood by expectantly, so Arthur brought out his wallet. “The muffler works splendidly. How much?”
“Eighty-five bucks for parts and I’ll eat the labour.”
“That seems unusually generous.” Arthur offered a tip but Stoney, astoundingly, declined it.
“Everything isn’t about money, Squire.”
Maybe Stoney had been into the gupa. “Have you been talking with Silverson?”
“Yeah, this morning. Cool dude. Not what I thought. He has some deep thoughts.”
Arthur was confounded: could he be witnessing the gradual conversion of Robert Stonewell? He asked if Stoney had seen Yoki and Niko.
“Yeah, Jason kind of took them under his wing.”
Arthur didn’t like that at all. He and Al walked briskly to the gate, following the bearers of the arrested chickens and duck. As it opened for them, a volunteer snagged a small, agile pig, thwarting its own brave efforts to escape. “The animals know,” Al said. “They sense the evil.”
More tents had sprung up around the lodge and cabins. Games were underway in a nearby field: volleyball, bocce, Frisbee-tossing. The pock-pock-pock of table tennis. Massage tables had been set up under an awning. The new dormitory loomed, ugly, motel-like. Henrietta Wilks was hanging bunting over its main door, under a banner demanding that all who enter must bring love.
She bowed to them with palms together. “Namaste,” she said. She was wearing a sari. Al went to Arthur’s ear. “Hinduism, Buddhism, New Ageism, everything goes at Starkers Cove.”
Arthur asked if she’d seen Niko and Yoki.
“I saw them with the Baba.” She gestured to the beach, where a large marquee tent had been set up above the tide line. A scrawny Ghandi clone in a dhoti sat cross-legged before a sprawl of several dozen truth-seekers, kneeling, sitting, lying on blankets or sleeping bags.
“Reverend Al, don’t look at me so sorrowfully,” Henrietta said. “I know I’ve missed your last few services. I hope you understand.” She cupped her hand to her ear. “You have to stay tuned. Sometimes Jason calls. Isn’t that fun? Sometimes he calls from the forest. I thought it was the wind at first, but he says if you stay tuned you can hear his thoughts.”
Hearing voices. More proof, said Al as they walked on, that Silverson had mastered post-hypnotic suggestion.
Jason kind of took them under his wing. What exactly did that mean? As they descended to the beach, they could make out that Baba Sri Rameesh was powered with a clip-on microphone, amplifier, and stereo speakers and was fielding questions from the audience.
“I am asked, how do we maintain a peaceful mind.” Arthur was expecting a reedy voice but his was deep and sonorous. No accent to speak of. “The unspiritual mind is cluttered with frivolous thoughts, my friends. They come at all hours, all day, thousands of useless, repetitive thoughts. We can reduce that barrage, even end it, by meditating, by focusing on the moment.” Murmurs of agreement.
“You can’t deny, Al, that that makes good sense for some.”
“Right. Empty the mind. Let them fill it up with tripe.”
Al’s inexhaustible cynicism was starting to get to Arthur. Yes, there was innocence here, but also warmth, smiles, comfort. That useful triteness, good vibes, came to mind. Arthur was feeling them.
They shooed away a goat and took cover from a sudden shower in the tent by a corner pole. Arthur had a good view of the fifty or so bodies splayed about but couldn’t spot the girls. Maybe they were in the dining area, passing out refresherments. There was no crisis. They were safe.
“Baba Sri Rameesh.” A woman’s voice from somewhere. “What happens when we meditate?”
“True meditation has neither direction, goals, nor method. It is an awakening to our true nature, and it may happen for a moment, or it may happen for an hour or day or week, or it may happen permanently. Whichever way it occurs, it is perfectly okay. There are many paths, friends, but there is no true path. The great Maharishi taught us: ‘Let what comes come; let what goes go. Find out what remains.’ That is at the true heart of meditation.”
Arthur found himself nodding. He was warming to this sage, such a kindly voice, such a free, undemanding philosophy.
“Here is a simple mantra to take with you on life’s beautiful journey. ‘Joy is wisdom, time an endless song.’ Do you know who penned those lovely words?” The Baba looked about brightly. “Does anyone know?”
Arthur couldn’t resist and called out, “William Butler Yeats.”
“Excellent!” the Baba cried. “Yes, the gentleman in the back — you, my friend, are a scholar, a literary man. Yeats, indeed. A voice from the West that sounds of the East. And why is that? Because West and East, we are all one. Yes? Let us sing it!”
A chorus from the floor: “We are all one!” Arthur was about to add his voice, but held back, noticing Al’s shocked and disapproving look.
“Let’s get out of here.” He tugged at Arthur, who resisted, held by the Baba’s sonorous voice, but finally allowed himself to be pulled away. He was feeling a little light-headed, even disoriented, because the day had suddenly — miraculously, it seemed — turned fair, the greyness above dissolving, sunlight glinting on the placid bay.
“Good Lord,” said Arthur, “have they cast the clouds aside?”
Al asked if he would like to sit for a minute. Arthur said they should continue their quest; he was fine.
“You’re not. You’ve turned all gooey. Suddenly you’re a celebrant of the Baba? Because he called you a literary scholar?”
“I found him quite poetic. Don’t scoff, but I think I’m having another attack of calmness.”
“I’m starting to wonder if you’ve developed some sort of mild bipolar disorder
. You might want to have yourself looked at.”
As they strolled back up toward the lodge, the Baba’s voice followed them: “However you seek the beauty that is truth, the message seems always different. But it is also always the same.”
“What crap.”
“It’s a conundrum. We are being asked to work through it.”
“He probably gives the same scripted spiel at every stop on his worldwide tours. Get over it.”
That was hard. Made more difficult, somehow, because a long arc of rainbow had appeared above the green hills of Garibaldi.
Arthur paused on the grassy ledge above the beach to marvel at the sight. He tried focussing on the moment, letting what comes come and what goes go, but was getting interference from Al, who was asking passers-by where they got their sandwiches and soft drinks.
Al nudged him ahead, and they arrived at the back of the lodge, where, under an overhang, was a long table arrayed with sandwiches, vegetable dips, fruits, and cheeses. Predictably, Nelson Forbish was there, loading up a plate. But no sign of Yoki and Niko. Felicity Jones and a couple of other Easy Pieces had taken over server duties, ladling out scoops of chili.
Felicity winked at Arthur, which made him uneasy. Al deserted him to graze at the table, deaf to Arthur’s advice about gupa additives, leaving him to deal with Taba’s daughter, who was suddenly beside him, grinning, poking him in the ribs. “What’s this about you and Mom getting all torchy outside the Brig yesterday?”
That unexpected and overly generous hug, witnessed from the patio. Surely that’s all Felicity knew. Taba would not have breached their pact of secrecy, even with her daughter. Would she? “Oh, that. A friendly embrace. I offered to drive her home.”
“And did she invite you in?”
“Of course not. Put your imagination to rest, my dear.” Felicity was just teasing, the scamp. But he felt his face redden. And all of a sudden the whole peccadillo came rushing back, desire under the arbutus tree. The good vibes evaporated like mist from the Salish Sea; time stopped being an endless song.
“Excuse me, Felicity, I . . . I’m looking for Niko and Yoki.”
“Oh, I heard they’re being prepared for transformation.”
“Prepared?”
“Jason likes to personally initiate the new ones.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just silly, nothing to worry about.” A smile, a shrug, and she returned to the chili pot.
Arthur called Al over. “This is becoming serious.”
§
Arthur couldn’t calculate how long he’d been sitting on this bench, staring out at the sea. Maybe minutes, maybe half an hour — the same bench, behind the lodge and heated pool, on which he’d sat with Silverson on his first visit. Al had deposited him here, ordering him to relax and get his head together while he searched for Silverson and the Woofers. Who were being prepared. Jason likes to personally initiate the new ones.
He was barely aware of Wellness and Wholeness when they came running from the lodge, calling out: “Come on, everyone, they’re demonstrating yogic inner exploring.” That caused a dispersal toward the grassy area by the tents, leaving Arthur alone with his own inner exploring. About infidelity, guilt, and forgiveness.
Al finally approached, studying him, a look of concern. “Feeling better? You look wrung out.” He handed him a bottle of soda. Arthur was thirsty, but hesitated — the cap was off. “It’s only Canada Dry, for Christ’s sake. I opened it myself. Drink.”
Arthur took a deep swig. “I’m okay. I was just missing Margaret.” Somehow he must make it up to her. Not flowers, chocolates, or a starlit cruise. Something large, memorable.
“Shake the cobwebs. Kurt Zoller has a line on the girls. He just got back from snooping through the lodge.”
Zoller was on a deck chair by the pool, in dark glasses and a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Everything has beauty.” He seemed in no hurry to enforce any laws against the several women splashing about the pool topless. Californians. Uninhibited. A few others were in the hot tub, locals who had brought bathing suits.
Al slumped wearily into a recliner while Arthur knelt beside Zoller. “Al says you know where the girls are.”
“Act normal, pretend you’re looking at those half-naked ladies.” A low, cautious tone. “I’ve pretty well infiltrated the scene here. I can talk their lingo, peace and love and all that. So they let me tour the lodge. All except one room — don’t be obvious about it, but look up, top floor, the big windows with blue curtains.”
A quick glance identified those windows.
“Anyway, the door was closed and I could hear girls’ voices. Giggling. I interpreted some noises as relating to sex. I have reason to believe it’s Jason Silverson’s bedroom.”
Arthur blanched. “What reason?”
“Mainly because Silverson’s gorilla, that Baumgarten character, Morg . . . Reverend Al said he kidnapped your Woofers, eh?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, he came out of a hallway bathroom and caught me at that door. Told me to get out of there or he’d jam it up my ass. He’s always had it in for me.”
Arthur’s anxiety surged. Some dark sexual ritual was underway. They’re being prepared for transformation.
“There he goes,” Zoller said. They watched Morg hurry past the yoga demonstration, across the grounds, back to the parking area. Zoller jumped up. “Follow me.”
Arthur and Al looked to each other for guidance, found none. There seemed no option but to follow him, and they did so at a distance. Zoller had obviously reconnoitred well because he entered the lodge by a back door, near the hot tub. Inside was a flight of fire stairs that led up to a long hallway, its living units variously named with flower-embossed signs: “Thoughtfulness.” “Creativity.” “Harmony.” The undercover sleuth had removed his dark glasses and was pressing his ear to a door labelled “Radiance.”
They approached warily to a point a few feet behind him. Arthur could hear female voices, high, spirited. “Oh, yeah!” one cried. “Yes! Yes!”
That didn’t quite sound like either Niko or Yoki. Astonishingly, the door wasn’t locked, and when Zoller sprung it open three nude bodies were exposed on a king bed, blankets and sheets askew. A woman with a crop of orange hair was supine, in the throes of orgasm, another with her face in her crotch: Gelaine, with her cloud of wild hair, bringing Becky to climax. Xantha was sitting against the headboard, filming their progress, and on spotting Zoller frozen in the doorway, shrieked, “Whack off, you cretinous pus bag!”
Arthur and Al had already bolted, but Zoller stood bug-eyed for several seconds before recovering use of his arms and legs, slamming shut the door, and racing after his confederates down the stairs.
§
After releasing Zoller from any further investigation, Arthur and Al spent a while recovering, speechless, watching a grizzled Transformers veteran lead a yoga class. Several of his students lost their balance and a few fell when Al finally gave way to sputtering laughter. Arthur joined in helplessly. Under the instructor’s reproving gaze, they retreated, still cracking up.
The laughter broke Arthur out of his buzzy space. He put his marital guilt on hold, and refocused on the Woofer hunt. While Al looked elsewhere, Arthur went directly to Silverson’s office, found it locked and uninhabited.
He hurried outside, past the massage centre, and braked when he heard a woman ask: “Hey, Jace, you want the full Rolf?”
Jace. Jason. There he was, prone and shirtless on a massage table. A hefty woman approached him, rolling up her sleeves.
“Just one of your good hard rubdowns, Molly,” Silverson said. “Those girls gave me quite a workout.” He welcomed Arthur’s approach with a grand, sunny smile. “Here’s the great man himself, how delightful that you found time to join us. It’s turned into an splendid day, hasn’t it? Just give me ten minutes with Moll
y and then she can have at you. Loosen up all those tight knots. Ow, ow, yes, right there.”
“I’m trying to track down my two Woofers, Jason.”
“Yoki and Niko? Lovely, lovely girls. Worked up quite a sweat with them. Very agile young ladies. I thought myself quite the whiz at the ping-pong table, but they took turns cleaning my clock. Ah, that’s good, that’s lovely, Molly.”
Ping-pong. Arthur turned. There, just beyond the volleyball court, were the girls, playing doubles, agile indeed, smashing their opponents’ balls with sweeping arcs of their paddles, having a whale of a time.
Arthur smiled with relief. “I was told you’d taken them under your wing.”
“So to speak. They wanted to be initiated into our creative growth program. I gave them the beginners’ lesson. Life-path counselling. Preparing them, we call it.”
Though he continued to smile, there was something mocking in those impenetrable blue eyes.
§
An hour later, close to goat-milking time, Arthur drove from Starkers Cove with Niko and Yoki. Al had got a ride home with a neighbour.
The girls were repentant, of course. “Sorry, so sorry. Work very extra hard. Do milking. No problem. Weed garden. Sorry.”
They seemed reasonably together. No hundred-mile stares. But Arthur couldn’t get past the niggling concern that their supposed initiation had involved a trespass upon them.
“Sorry, but I have to ask. Did Jason touch either of you?”
“Of course,” said Niko. “I touch him too.”
“What is meaning, touch?” Yoki asked. “Everyone touch.”
“More than that. Intimately, I mean.”
“Intim . . .” Yoki grappled with the word and failed. “What you mean, Arthur?”
“Like sex?” said Niko. “Is sex what you thinking? We are shock.”
“Very shock,” said Yoki.
“Sorry,” said Arthur.
TWEETS
Pierette was staring glumly at her iPhone. “Houston, we have a catastrophe.”
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