Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(44)

“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.”