Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(13)
Those issues aside, he was a Margaret Blake fan. He liked her vitality, her plain talk, her lack of bullshit, even her occasional careless eruption in anger. During his time at the Ottawa bureau, he’d watched her in the House. Yes, he could have taken the video to the main opposition party, the NDP, and let them train their big guns on Farquist, but Blake had earned the prize by standing up to that twisted blunderbuss. The government whip. Who’d called Lou a vacuous twerp.
LOVE ALL THINGS
Arthur waited until a heavy shower ended, then shouldered his empty backpack and set out for his daily health walk: the two miles to the general store. Today’s list: chutney, lemons, eye hooks, an oven light, and traps for the rats that were seeking a beachhead at Blunder Bay.
His farm was at the dead end of Potters Road, and he could have taken that longer, drier route to Centre Road, across Breadloaf Hill to Hopeless Bay, but he chose the tougher trail along the rocky beach, then up the headland, forgetting, until he came upon it, that he had to work his way across a wet patch thick with nettles.
He was wearing hiking shorts, and it suited his persistently grumpy mood that the nettles lashed his legs — deservedly, he felt; penance for past sins. The stinging let up as he climbed the hill under tall firs still dripping from the rain shower, like tears. He couldn’t avoid getting wet, and that too fed his mood.
The sun pried a path between the clouds as he emerged onto moss-thick bluffs ornamented with swirls of Garry oak and arbutus. He was rewarded with a sweeping view of the Salish Sea, the snow-peaked Olympics, and, across a wide channel, Ponsonby Island, Garibaldi’s wilder cousin. A bald eagle soared past him at eye level, regal and serene. The sun was sucking up mists from the sea.
He felt slightly annoyed that what had promised to be a dull and sombre day had turned so bright and warm and lovely, defying his resolve to remain in a sulk. And the weather continued to improve as he continued on up Breadloaf Hill, with its own rolling views of farm and orchard, grazing sheep and cattle.
The sun banished the last of the clouds as his path finally took him to Centre Road, and on to the island’s funky six-shop downtown core and scatter of homes on small lots. Daffodils glowed from beside the driveways, between apple and pear trees dripping with rain and blossoms. Song sparrows trilled. Violet-green swallows darted over Evergreen Pond. Under these conditions, it was an act of valour to keep his grumpiness intact, but he was a determined fellow.
A number of factors fuelled his dour mood: Margaret’s jitters as the clouds of war hung over Ottawa, her public spat with the environment minister, his own malaise as he looked dismally toward an election campaign.
And his partner’s little affair still gnawed at him, especially when he awoke from one of his nightmares. Their current leitmotif: Arthur as a silent witness, usually at a window, as Margaret was vigorously seduced by a ruggedly built, long-haired bastard named Lloyd Chalmers.
But those dreams lied. He was married, and happily for the most part, despite the long partings; despite the starkly different worlds he and Margaret occupied; despite her episode with that reptilian psychologist, now rued, repented, forgotten. She had been fatigued, lonely, hadn’t seen past Chalmers’s undoubtedly bloated ego — Arthur accepted all of that. She was human. Humans can be frail.
Also bugging the old grouch was the Personal Transformation Mission, with its spreading tentacles. More islanders had fallen under the sway of the charismatic Jason Silverson. At least three of the Nine Easy Pieces were encamped at Starkers Cove. As were several others from the island’s hippie community: soul-seekers, faddists, middle-aged New Agers.
None of these folks had much in their purses, so Arthur couldn’t figure out how Silverson was scheming to fleece them. Instead, he was spending heavily: providing tents, building temporary barracks and cabins. So maybe his motive was not profit, but, as Reverend Al surmised, to feed a hunger for power over others’ minds.
To Al, it was the invasion of the body snatchers. He was particularly peeved that Silverson had snatched several of his parishioners. The Chamberlains. Henrietta Wilks. The lesbian couple known as Wholeness and Wellness, not sisters but nearly indistinguishable, who ran the health food store.
That store was just across the road from Arthur now, among the little cluster of shops, and Wellness — or maybe it was Wholeness — was sunning herself outside with a mug of, presumably, herbal tea. “Just Do It!” exclaimed her T-shirt. A meaningless command, maybe a catchphrase. She called, “Love all things, Arthur.”
He was uncertain how to obey such a broad command. “I will. I do.”
“Oh, good. Here’s your reward.” She met him on the road, a crushing hug. Reward enough, but she also pressed on him a bag with two oatmeal cookies. “Sugar-free, gluten-free.”
“How kind of you.” He took a bite. It tasted of chalk. “Very delicious indeed.”
He tucked the cookies in his pack for later. They might be more palatable paired with sugared tea.
§
Occupying the sturdy bench outside the general store was Nelson Forbish, editor of the Bleat. He was feeding, with a spoon, directly from a family pack of Frosted Flakes.
“Late breakfast,” he explained. “Worked all night, had to catch up on my accounts. Your subscription is due.”
“I’ll mail a cheque.”
“I was thinking I could maybe drop over and pick it up. Maybe some evening when you’re not too busy.”