Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(76)
“She’s been practically camped here, ever since Thursday.”
“Where have they gone?” Henrietta asked Arthur, somehow assuming he would know.
He helped guide her to Melanie’s car, in the pick-up lane. “Who’s gone where?”
“Jason,” Melanie said. “The Transformers. They’ve all gone.”
It was almost noon. Reverend Al would be seeing off his parishioners after Sunday service. Arthur climbed into his Fargo. It started right up.
§
The parking area at St. Mary’s Landing was emptying as Arthur pulled in. Al shook a last hand, waved a last goodbye, then strode toward the Fargo with a jaunty, crinkly-eyed look Arthur had not seen for half a year.
“Packed house, old boy. Quadrupled from last week. Eighty-seven larynxes joined in song: ‘Ring the bells of heaven, there is joy today.’ Yes, the flock has returned. Rueful, ashamed, forgiven. A dalliance with a false god. Come. Sit. Let us enjoy this splendid fall day.”
It was cold, an occasional spit of rain, but Arthur could not deny him, and they took a bench on the bluff, above the little inlet with its shell beach, its resident geese and bossy, patrolling ravens.
“I have my island back,” Al said. “There is a God. He does listen to my prayers.”
“I met Henrietta Wilks. She’s still hearing Silverson’s voice.”
“Mass hypnosis, old boy. The poor lady was extraordinarily susceptible.”
Arthur packed his pipe and lit it, wondering if he too had briefly fallen under Silverson’s sway: those gupa attacks, those strange episodes of tranquility. “Did the cultists just evaporate into the air?”
“Practically. They took the late ferry Thursday, in the dark. Jason and his space-case sidekick, Morg, all the Californian disciples and seekers, their bikes and VWs, plus that moving van they’d brought in. This had to have been planned some time ago, when they started dumping their pigs and chickens. They were giving machinery away too, toward the end. Gardening tools. Fridges, freezers, household appliances.”
“All done without a goodbye?”
“Not even a parting namaste. Poof. Gone.”
§
Reverend Al had wanted to continue their conversation at the Brig, over his customary Sunday tot, but Arthur first checked in at Blunder Bay. Niko and Yoki insisted on taking him around the grounds, a meet-and-greet with the goats and sheep and fowl. Eggs and cheese and a bumper crop from the walnut tree had sold out at the Saturday market, and hay was baled and in the barn. Both girls seemed indifferent to the flight of the Transformers, well free of their pull.
“Been there,” said Niko. “Done that.”
Arthur was perplexed by the Transformers’ exodus, and by their unexpected generosity. Maybe they’d decided Garibaldi was small potatoes and were moving to more fertile ground. What had Silverson gained from Garibaldi but the hundred or so adherents he had abandoned? Except, possibly, a handsome profit should they sell or subdivide Starkers Cove, which they’d bought on the cheap. Al had done a title search — it remained in the name of the Personal Transformation Mission Society. Al still insisted they were scamming. He was set on finding out how. Al was a bulldog.
Arthur returned to the house to take stock and make a shopping list, then got back into the Fargo. Again, he was startled to hear the engine fire up.
§
He had time for a brief detour up Stoney’s driveway, with its motley signs still proudly displaying his unlicensed businesses. It had taken a while, but Constable Dugald had finally surrendered to Stoney, to the island’s grand tradition of breaking bylaws.
The Fargo ascended past rust-buckets in the weeds, alder trees growing from them, and pulled alongside Stoney’s garage. Arthur found the master mechanic sitting with Dog, under a tarp, taking a beer break.
“And what brings you to my humble abode, good sir?”
“I felt I should express my astonishment and delight that my truck seems to be in proper working order.”
“My pleasure. She is the proud possessor of a relatively new battery. Started right up.”
Arthur wondered how many miles he’d put on it.
“Meet the latest addition to our fleet. We scored this baby off of the Transformers, a John Deere 7500.” Stoney gestured toward a handsome green beast behind the garage.
“We scored this baby?” said Dog.
“Okay, Morg gave it to Dog for being such an absolute jockstrap. He put in some big hours for them.”
“God bless them,” said Dog, with a rare smile. Arthur wondered whether he was still under their spell or had gone back to being a good Christian. Either way, clearly there were rewards for getting transformed.
“As for the battery, please let me have your bill. And, if you don’t mind, your spare key.”
Stoney pretended to be confused, then dug into a pocket. “Oh, yeah . . .” He handed it over.
§
The Brig was busy with locals, chatting, caught up in the mystery of the Transformers’ disappearance. Reverend Al and Taba were across the room at a table for two, looking merry. The mail counter was closed today, and Abraham Makepeace was performing a rare stint behind the bar.
“Call, raise, or fold.” The loud voice of Cud Brown sailed across the room, from where half a dozen poker players were seated at two joined tables. Arthur observed a pot of money in the middle, tens and twenties.