Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(43)

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.