Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(36)

“Help cleaning dining hall,” Yoki said with a bright smile, pointing to the buckets. “Open house tomorrow. Meet the Baba. Everyone come. You come. No problem.”

“We very happy give help,” said Niko. “Also serve refresherments . . . drinks at open house.”

Arthur suspected his very happy helpful Woofers had already been into the gupa. He’d been gone four days, and already Silverson had sucked them into his maw.

Morg, with his distant stare: “It’s a long way for them to walk, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“Just a second here,” Arthur said. “How many times have you girls been to Starkers Cove?”

“Three,” Yoki said. “Always do chores first.”

“We every time hitchhike,” said Niko. “Very easy. Everyone happy.”

“No problem,” said Yoki, her favourite phrase for practically everything. “Come back by five o’clock, weed garden.”

“I’ll bring these ladies back, Mr. Beauchamp.” Morg looked as zombie-ish as ever when he smiled.

The young women appeared embarrassed, averting their eyes from the foolish old man standing there in his pyjamas. Well, he wasn’t their father. They were of age. They’d come to North America to explore Western culture. Let them.

“Please, you come tomorrow, Arthur,” Niko said.

“I doubt I will.”

“Just do it,” Yoki called, as the van drove off. “No problem.”

Arthur went looking for his slipper.

§

After dressing and arming himself with coffee, he checked Margaret’s schedule, a computer printout on his desk by the phone. June 22: Antigonish, Nova Scotia. A speech at a social this evening. It would be mid-afternoon there. She would be hitting the bricks with her candidate. He dialled her cell.

“Hang on a sec,” she said, then addressed someone else, sharply. “No, Mr. Wiggins, I do believe evolution should be taught in the schools. It was nice meeting you.”

The sound of a door closing. “Asshole,” Margaret muttered.

“Exactly why I would rather eat razor blades than go door to door.”

“He believes God made everything, especially himself, in God’s image. That’s Teresa laughing. She’s on the school board.” She called, “I thought you knew this neighbourhood.”

Arthur apologized for interrupting her campaign and told her about the crisis, the transforming of their two young charges. “I’ve got to rescue them.”

Margaret laughed it off. “Cool. They’re having fun. I’d like to meet Baba Sri Rameesh myself.”

“Please don’t joke. I can’t return them to their Hokkaido parents as zombies. The international Woofer program would come under attack. I have to snatch those innocents away before they get immersed.”

“Darling, you sound very harried. Have you not been feeling well?”

Arthur hadn’t yet related his suspicions of having been drugged into states of euphoria. He was embarrassed by those events, by how she might see them as evidence of creeping senescence.

“I am sharp enough of mind to know that Silverson is up to no good. Fleecing well-to-do Californians, that’s my bet.”

“Yes, and while that is going on, the environment ministry is gagging its scientists. Farquist just had two of them fired for whistle-blowing. And the fix is in on the Coast Mountains Pipeline, I think they’re planning to bypass Parliament.”

Arthur got it. The Transformation Mission was a trivial pursuit.

“Still no blowback?” Code for repercussions from the hot-mike episode.

“Nothing. Did you talk to Frank Sierra?”

“He declined, I’m afraid. Prefers to grow roses.”

“Too bad. Back to work. Love you.”





SUCH SIGHTS AS YOUTHFUL POETS DREAM

Arthur had washed the Fargo that afternoon, proud of it, proud to have the oldest working truck on the island, and was pleased to see eyes turn as he slid it into a slot in front of the general store.

He’d planned a major supply run, but on entering the store was dismayed to find its shelves and bins almost empty. No bread, no oranges, barely any juice. Presumably the Transformers had looted the store for their party tomorrow. Fine. He could do without his regular morning toast and juice. He had a flourishing garden, a bounty of eggs and goat cheese.

He found better luck in the hardware section, the screws and hinges he needed for a broken gate. He carried on to the checkout, where he bought a newspaper, and to the mail counter, where Nelson Forbish was trying to mollify steely-faced Abraham Makepeace.

“I wasn’t in a good mood last week, because you rode me pretty hard. I have struggled with that and achieved calm and forgiveness. I respect you, Abraham. I love you, as I love all living beings.”

Makepeace ignored him, went to the Blunder Bay box, crammed with a week’s mail, and began the slow process of sorting it.

“Postcard from Deborah.” Arthur’s daughter in Australia. “Looks like she’s getting along with that new husband of hers. They’re on holiday . . . I can’t make it out . . . Papua something.”

Forbish was standing his ground, leaving Arthur little counter space. “I ask you to search your heart, Abraham, and heal the bitterness. Please don’t cut off my mailing privileges. Tell him, Arthur, explain that’s against the law.”