Five: Continued.

The passage was be-decked with shells, stones and glass mosaics, and we spent a solid two minutes walking before we finally came to a brocaded door and knocked. A French-accented voice said to come in, so we opened it and peeked around into the room beyond.

The room was a huge laboratory. In shocking contrast to the grotto without, everything was undecorated stainless steel. Gauges wagged, beakers bubbled, monitors beeped, and panels’ knobs blandly reflected the plain, practical lights. A huge chair on the opposite side of the room swivelled from a computer screen to face us, revealing a very small woman, wearing very large glasses and a white lab jacket.

“Hmm. You must be Lima Bean and Willoughby” she said, “I wasn’t expecting you unteel tomorrow.”

“Yes. You must be Dr. Buttersfirth?” I ventured.

“Camellia, cherie, Camellia. Well, have a seat! And let me just see eef I can find you sometheeng to put on--you’re dreeping wet!”

It was true. I had turned up to meet one of the greatest scientists EVER with a wet navy blue bikini, and a very wet Willougby!

She handed me one of her own spare lab-coats to wear as a cover-up, but because she is such a small woman, and I am a rather tall one, it looked more like a very mod mini-dress than any attempt at modesty. I blushed (Willoughby laughed) but she was so kind that I was set at relative ease.

She gave us a tour of her lab, which was incredible: “Zis ees where I can track global weather trends” she said, pointing to a large monitor (attached to a panel with many knobs), “Zis ees where I am working on an compound zat weell destroy atmosphereec green-house gases” she said pointing to a counter with many elaborately labeled vials, “Zis ees how I prevented a life-eradicating meteor from smashing eento ze Earth two years ago” she said pointing to a chalk-boardful of calculations, “just a seemple trick of inter-planetary refraction” she said with a wink, “Zis ees the Convention’s teletransporter” she said, pointing to what looked like a beauty-shop hairdryer (it turns out that it had, in fact, been a beauty-shop hairdryer; apparently they are not far from teletransporters in their natural state) “and zis” she said, pointing to a bubbling vial, “ees where I am formulating a new soda pop.”

Willoughby and I looked on with awe. She was 5’1’’ of pure brain.

“I have many more projects underway, but zey are all in my real lab in France,” she added.

Next, we followed her to the opposite side of the lab from where we had come in to an elevator which linked her lab to the H.H. island.

“Thees is the front door, by the way” she laughed.

Arriving in the Headquarter’s Glen, we sipped cold lemonade and discussed many of life’s greatest mysteries. Like whether or not time-travel is possible, what happens to people when they die and how death can be almost entirely prevented; whether or not humans will ever be able to live peacfully as a species and whether monogamy is or isn’t a biological impossibility; how the pyramids were built, whether or not life like ours exists on other planets, why you didn’t have to breathe while swimming in the hermit’s lake (it’s infused with a skin-absorbable oxygen, she said!) and why vegetables like brocolli and cauliflower cause gas.

Then, as the afternoon waned, she abrubtly stood up, said that she must get back to work, but said she was happy to meet us, that she looked forward to seeing us again soon, and that I ought to keep the lab jacket that she had lent me since it was so becoming.

She must have been telling the truth, because it was on the way home that I caught the eye of the sexiest (and shyest) hermit that I had never met.

next chapter

Five: Singing Trees and a Lakeful of Surprises.

“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown...”
--T.S. Eliot


The invitation, it happened, was from Camellia Buttersfirth (scientist extraordinaire) and, needless to say, I was very excited to meet her. But the appointment was not until the following day, so I consulted Willoughby as to how we should spend the one at hand.

He reminded me that I ought to spend a good deal of time working--I had yet to produce any kind of written masterpiece--and then suggested we go swimming. This last suggestion was clearly his preference, and I knew it because, as excited as he tried to be about my writing, the thought of swimming not only got him wagging his tail with zeal, but indeed, wagging his whole body.

So I easily convinced him that we should go swimming first.

The morning was warm as we emerged from our tree, the air sweet, the sky clear, and the lake was glistening friendly. We laid down our towels on the rocky beach and waded in. At first quite cold, the water seemed to warm the further from the banks we got. So we went further out, and further out. And further out.

Soon, we were hundreds of feet from the bank, but the water was still only waist-deep.

“Look Willoughby!” I said “The water is STILL only up to my wai....” and that is where my sentence was cut off because, as I had turned back to look at him, the shallow lake-bottom had come to an abrupt end and, to my alarm, I found that I was being sucked at a swift rate deep into the lake.

Now: this is not a horror story, so I will tell you in advance that there are no lake monsters (at least no un-friendly lake monsters) and I am not about to be eaten, drowned or kidnapped. Having set your mind at ease, I must admit that I was quite perturbed in the heat of the moment, since no narrator was there to reassure me of these facts.

Mild panic aside, there are a few things that I noticed: firstly, that the water, however deep I fell, remained perfectly clear. Secondly, that I didn’t seem to need to breathe. And thirdly, that Willoughby was being sucked down also, and seemed perfectly enthralled with the situation.

Soon, we had reached the bottom of the lake, which seemed to have its own gravity, since both of us were able to walk upon its sandy surface. It was not nearly as dark as I would’ve imagined a lake bottom to be, and in the near distance I could discern what looked like a huge sand-castle. Of course, Willoughby and I immediately set out towards it; the walk was slow going, but the scenery fantastic.

It looked as though we were standing on an actual road. To either side of it were far-reaching sea-weed forests that waved in aquatic hues of brown, yellow, blue, purple, red and green. As we approached the castle, the forests receded into what I can only describe as intricate sea-weed gardens, of the Versailles variety, that stretched out around the castle in labyrinths of symmetrical designs.

Awed as we were by these sights, there were also the myriads of mer-people and sea-horses frolicking inside of, outside of and straight through the castle, audibly singing, laughing and talking. Yes, yes, I know: you thought they didn’t exist. But they do. People just never look for them in the right places. Mer-people, first of all, much prefer fresh water and second of all (obviously) prefer to go undiscovered more often than not.

In addition to fish and sea-horses were also the lake monsters that I (sort of) mentioned. They were swimming about with the rest, playing and laughing as heartily as anybody.

It was when we reached the edge of the gardens that we were spotted: a shapely, red-haired mermaid called loudly “Look, everyone! Visitors!!” As if the party had come to an abrupt halt, everyone turned on their heel...fin, rather...and swam in our direction.

Willoughby and I, eyes wide, smiled sheepishly as a they raced towards us in a herd and, having nowhere to go once they got there, swam around us in a tornado of fins, scales and toothy smiles.

The red-haired one, along with a mer-man friend of hers got within earshot and exuberantly fired off questions at us at such a rate that we could only look at each other and stammer “well...yes...you see...yes...in fact...” in between.

We ascertained that, although all of the hermits were invited to visit the castle as much as they pleased, few ever did. We ventured a guess that perhaps it was because mer-people are a bit too...um...chatty to most hermits’ tastes (imagine poor Calvin bombarded with so many questions; He would implode!)

She finally got around to introducing herself--Veronica--and introduced everyone in the mer-tornado that continued to swirl and laugh around us.

“This is Harold. That’s Sherry. That’s Emily, and Roger, and Carolyn, and Charlotte, and, and, and...” Willoughby and I felt on the point of implosion ourselves.

Be forewarned: Mer-people are very, very friendly!

Anyway. We finally arrived at the castle itself and were shown around it’s many chambers--it was just like a castle one might find inside a fish-tank, but much bigger (obviously). The rooms were decorated with various themes: one a music room, one a kitchen, many bedrooms. The lounge looked relatively unused.

Finally, Veronica showed us to a chamber at the very bottom of the castle where, swimming through an underground passage, we re-emerged (sopping wet) into the lobby of an underground, air-filled grotto. Being a mermaid, when we climbed out of the pool that had brought us there, she bade us farewell and told us that if we continued down that passage, there would be somebody who would be happy to see us.

Now, I’m sure this whole time, one question has really been bothering you: HOW could Willoughby and I have been not breathing this whole time? Well, I was wondering myself, and the person we met at the end of the passage was just the person to explain it...

next chapter

Four: Continued.

After I recovered from my Pipton-induced shock, the rest of the afternoon was lovely. Calvin, as Pipton was (had been?), was one of the hermits who resided at the Headquarters year-round, so his residence was especially well-habitated. And large.

As the gardens and vegetable patches that Calvin oversaw were sprawled and tangled in the forest, so was Calvin’s tree-house sprawled throughout the tree-tops. There were no less than fifteen rooms and all of them were connected by an impressive network of rope-bridges and ladders. And Calvin had many, many animal friends, including a small, gray monkey, a pair of Colugos, and a very friendly squirrel named Myrtle.

Myrtle was my favorite of his ‘pets’ (which is not to be repeated, especially to the Colugos who would surely take offence) because in addition to having an excellent disposition, she also had a fantastic sense of humor. She followed us all the day long as Calvin gave us the tour of the gardens, the dairy farm and his tree-house, and since she was so agile in the trees and quick on her feet, she could easily disappear as she pleased, only to pop up in the least expected places, often hanging upside-down, or sneaking down upon Calvin’s head while he was talking, without his having any idea about it, and lip-synching along to whatever he was saying. And in case you’ve never seen a squirrel lip-synch, let me just tell you that it’s funny.

Not to mention the fact that Calvin, even amongst friends, is a very shy person. Speaking on subjects with which he was familiar was trying enough for him, but any unrelated conversation would leave him stammering, with down-turned eyes and adorably flushed cheeks, like an embarrassed child giving a grade-school presentation.

And with a lip-synching squirrel on his head! It was all we could do to maintain straight faces, lest we cast him into a state of irreversible mortification.

The tour itself was magnificent! You’ve never seen such well-kept gardens or such a dedicated gardener. Clever Calvin! He made helpers of the local rabbits: and rabbits--believe it or not--are the best gardeners you could ever enlist. He explained how initially they had pillaged the gardens until he coaxed them into working for him and, in return for minimal work, they were rewarded with more fresh produce than any rabbit, or army of rabbits, could ever hope to steal--not to mention the daily gratification of a job well done.

The dairy farm was little more than a community of goats, cows, and sheep who stayed about because they were happy: they were free to wander about the forest at leisure, bathe in any of several forest pools, graze upon and roll around in, lush, green meadows, but still enjoy the protection and gratitude of the hermits. For the organization and maintenance of the ‘dairy farm’, Calvin had two apprentices of sorts: a pair of autistic twin brothers who had been abandoned at the edge of the forest as babies, recovered by the hermits, and who were ‘savants’ when it came to animal communication. Approximately twenty or so years of age, they tended to the animals with more care then most people give their children. In terms of themselves, they were the happiest two boys you’ve never seen. Acting as more of one mind than two, they went about in the relative solitude of a world that included but the animals, Calvin, and themselves (natural hermits, you see).

As the sun set, we helped Calvin prepare a delicious dinner: layered vegetable napoleon with spinach, tomato, and carrot salad, red wine and oven-fresh bread. We ate it on Calvin’s dinner deck (except for Pipton who had apparently lost his appetite along with his, umm, real body) and discussed the intricacies of raising healthy aubergines, the many varieties of tomatoes (of which Calvin knew every one!), the unbelievable prolificacy of zucchini patches, and the easy solution to ending world hunger.

After dinner, we said our thank-yous and good-byes and made plans for a morning lake-swim later in the week. Then, with Pipton by my side, I weaved my way home through the dark, friendly trees and arrived to find Willoughby curled at the end of my bed, and another invitation, sat on my desk.

next chapter

Four: Making the Rounds.

In fact, it wasn’t long at all until Pipton and I met again.

A few days after the fateful Welcoming Dinner at the H.H., I received a letter from Jack informing me that the next thing I ought to do was to make my rounds of the Convention, meeting and spending a day with each hermit, one by one, and that I should be expecting invitations for visits to start arriving (with the exception of one crochety old hermit, named Herman, who would surely not send me an invitation, but who I would have to see sooner or later, nonetheless). The first arrived from Calvin Clennam, the gardening hermit.
Calvin I already knew by reputation, and I suspected the reason that he had been eager to see me was because I had been so impressed by the provisions he had almost single-handedly prepared for the Welcome Dinner. Calvin was a gardener and cook extraordinaire.

It had been explained to me how Calvin grew enough food for thousands of hermits, let alone the hundreds at the convention. And not only that, but he also cared for the animals at the Convention’s small dairy farm, which produced the finest quality goat, cow, and sheep’s milk cheeses. The truth of the matter is that Calvin has figured out how the world’s resources could be optimized in order to nourish every single one of its inhabitants--indefinitely. Unfortunately, the world at large isn’t ready for his plan. As of yet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had been out swimming in the lake one morning when one of the Convention’s Messenger Pigeons dropped by a message from Calvin Clennam. (That’s right: Carrier Pigeons are not, in fact, extinct. A pacifistic race exposed to too many wars, they’re just hermits, too.) It contained detailed information as to how to reach his hidden farm on the outskirts of the Convention and asked if I could stop by that very afternoon.

As it happened, I hadn’t planned anything for that afternoon and, since Willoughby was off on a playdate with a Meerkat friend he had made, I had a little lunch and set off for Calvin’s on my own.

As usual, the directions were confusing and impossibly specific so--not as lucky as I had been upon my arrival--I soon flubbed them. And it wasn’t long before neither trail, nor lake was anywhere in sight and I was becoming increasingly frustrated.

I found myself, then, at the edge of a ravine. To my right was a steep wooded incline, to my left a steep and somewhat creepy descent into a darker part of the forest. It was then that I noticed that clever Calvin had drawn a rough map on the back-side of his instructions. (Remark: Calvin is clearly clever, I am clearly not--having been lost for two hours at least before noticing it). Based on his drawing, I deciphered that his farm was most likely a mile or so on the other side of the hill I was facing. And then it happened: I heard voices.

These were no hermit voices I was hearing: these were people. People who had somehow found their way to the end of the over-grown trail at the end of a dirt road at the end of a gravelled lane, through the gate at the end of a pot-holed country road at the end of a rural highway at the end of a forlorn interstate! And what’s worse: they were hunters! And had a mangy growling dog!

I was struck with terror. The kind of terror you experience if you have taken psychedelic drugs and are forced to interact with anyone who has not. Oops, did I really just use that metaphor?

Well, nevermind. The point is I was terrified! I was terrified and using swear words and ducking futilely behind a clump of bushes without ANY idea WHATSOEVER of what to do. And what was worse was that, not only were they blocking the only observable path in the direction that I needed to go, they had decided to take a lunch break. Sitting right down upon it.

Sweat was beading on my forehead as I ran over my options: the way back was completely lost to me. The way down the hill into the dark, unfriendly forest was no option whatever. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and would have screamed, except, spinning around in alarm and, seeing Pipton as I did so, I fainted instead.

When I woke up, he was carrying me. I was not alarmed, as the whole scenario was simply too surreal to react at all. We were in a different part of the forest all together, and as my bleary eyes came into focus on his kind, smiling face and twinkling blue eyes, I could hear his voice speaking in low melodic tones.

“You were in a bit of a bind over there, I see. Don’t worry, we’re back on the right trail now. Would you like to sit down for a bit? Here we are.”

He sat me down upon a rock and I just stared at him (rather rudely, in fact) as my thoughts slowed their scrambling around my head and began to fall into some sort of order.

“Pipton, you are dead, are you not?”

“That’s right. I’m dead.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Follow me, then. We’re nearly there.”

I followed him, still just every so slightly confused. Still waiting, in fact, to wake up.
Or something.

Soon--and I wasn’t paying enough attention to tell you how this time--we were there, on the edge of a vegetable patch. Calvin was on the opposite side of the zucchini patch from where we were when, spotting us, he straightened up, waved, and started over.

He looked little above 25 years of age, was slight of frame with a fuzzy blonde-beard and long blonde hair tied back into a pony-tail. In the outside world, he might have been best described as “a hippy”.

“You must be Lima Bean! How do you do?” he said, shaking my hand, then, turning to Pipton, “Ah, hello there, Pipton. Didn’t you die the other day?”

“Indeed I did.” Pipton returned.

“Hmm. I thought so. How’s that going for you, then?”

“Well, you know, I’ve been meaning to lose some weight for a while," he laughed "and so now ...well, watch this” and he walked right through a tree.

My mouth fell open again, but both just looked at me as though I was the odd one out.

(to be continued)

next chapter

Three: Off To a Bumpy Start

Pipton steered our dingy to a corner of the island where the banks receded into a narrow inlet beneath its tree-fringe. The narrow inlet became a small river that wound its lithe serpantine self towards the center of the small island, the banks becoming nearer and nearer on either side until it seemed we would be able to go no further. But before my squinting eyes had any more time to wonder at the increasing impossibility of our passage, the river opened into a small bay, with thirty or so dinghies tied to several docks.

Bringing our own dinghy around to the last available spot, Pipton helped Willoughby and I out onto the landing platform before tying up the boat and ascending himself. By lantern-light, Pipton lead us down a small trail, at the end of which a faint glow could be detected, as though a congregation of fireflies had settled amognst the islands’ many interior trees.

As the light grew closer, so did the din of the cheeriest party you have never heard: even I did not know that hermits could be so very chatty! Finally arriving at the clearing, the scene was nothing if not jovial: Five long banquet tables, heaped with the most appetizing array of fruits, vegetables, nuts, loafs of bread, cakes, cheeses and pitchers of wine, encompassed a grassy dance-floor of sorts, where hermits danced, laughed, joked, frolicked and cart-wheeled.

Animals ran in circles, animals of all kinds: cats, dogs, rabbits, deer...a monkey or two. At the head of one of the tables, a koala bear looked on, amusedly chewing at a bit of Eucalyptus, and several different kinds of birds looked demurely on from nearby tree-branches, in mid-air conversation with each other.

I looked down at Willoughby and then at Pipton: we were all smiling as broadly as our faces would allow. Willoughby’s face allowed for the broadest grin of us three, and he set off without further ado to join in the romp himself.

Pipton and I began to make our way towards the tables. A large-eyed lady with ankle-length blonde braids and a beret conversed with a jolly-looking bearded man (I later found out that this man is, in fact, Santa Claus); three cloaked men (who otherwise might have been confused with Druids) were laughing so heartily over their wine and cheese that their faces were turned bright crimson; women in patch-work skirts gigged to flute music and men in top-hats disco-ed, children (or elfish, ageless-looking people) hoola-hooped, and from the trees on all sides, as I had naively observed, but hadn’t hoped to believe, millions and millions of fire-flies did, indeed, set the scene a-glow.

We were just coming to the second table when we heard someone call to Pipton. It was a short and gnarled man with twinkling eyes, who grinned a toothy grin and introduced himself as Jack.

“I am the host of this convention” he said “and just wanted to extend a hearty welcome to you. Pipton tells me that you are quite a brilliant writer, and, from the pieces of yours that I’ve had the luck to come across, I feel that there is a good chance that is true.”

I looked at Pipton in surprise, and then back at Jack to thank him....And then back to Pipton. How and when had he ever read my writing, I wondered. He just smiled his benevelont smile and twinkled his blue eyes at me.

Jack brought us over to his table and introduced us around. Afterwards, over wine and cheese, with sporadic intervals of dancing and frolicking, I was treated to the long story of their acquaintance, which had begun seventy-some years before in California, when California still had land to farm, small towns, and non-toxic beach sand with which it was still safe for little boys to build sand-castles.

The night was magical, that is until Pipton snuck off for something or other and, as the din of the party raged on unwitting, clutched his heart and fell silently to his death.

It didn’t take long for people to notice, and soon all the world’s hermits, and all of their animal friends were gathered in silent awe around his still body. I alone was weeping.

The reason for this is simple: hermits have long since done away with death as a natural part of their life progression (Camellia Buttersfirth, hermit and scientist extraordinaire, figured out how to get around THAT nasty human glich in the early 20th century) so, not as yet a hermit myself, I was the only one who felt the full impact of that antiquated equalizer.

When the ordeal was resolved and I was helped back to my hermitage, I reflected on the intensity of my feelings: it did seem strange that I was so affected, having only known Pipton for a single day. But I suspected there was more to the story. In a single day, I felt as though I had known him a lifetime, but perhaps I had known him an entire lifetime and it only felt like a single day.

By the time I fell asleep, traumatized though I was, I felt some kind of resolution. Afterall, Dante had had his Virgil and, I, Lima Bean (or whatever my name is), felt honored to have a Pipton Lear.

next chapter

Two: Pipton Lear.

Willoughby and I took a quick nap. Exhausted by the extensive travel, our twin-size futon bed seemed the perfect retreat.

An hour or two had gone by when a queer rustling woke us from our revelries: at the base of our bungalow, a low voice bellowed “Hallo? Hallo? Miss Lima Bean?” Peeking my head over the parapet, I could see the up-turned face and balding head of a man holding a candle.

I shimmied down the stairs and opened the trunk-door to see whatever could be the matter.

“My name is Pipton Lear” said he, “I wish to have a word with you.”

I smiled, nodding my approval of his request. Closer to him, I could see that he was tall, rotund, and smiling benevolently. His voice was low and pleasant; he had Irish-blue eyes. In the light of his candle, I could discern that he was wearing a worn sailor suit.

“You see, dear” he began, “not only am I in charge of ferrying you to and from the H.H., but I have also been assigned to you as your counselor and guide for the entirety of your sojourn. Anything you wish to know, you can ask of me.”

“Thank you, Pipton” I assured.

“So” he continued “the first thing I need to know is: what are your favorite books?”

“My favorite books?” I reflected. Willougby helped me out with a friendly nudge. “Oh yes, of course! I do really enjoy Jane Austen...”

“THAT will not do” he said “What else”

“Well, I have been reading the Divine Comedy, Shakespeare, Milton, Hemingway, Nabokov...”

“No, no, no, no, NO! Come with me.”

He led me through the midnight forest to an abode, equally as obscure as my own. Upon entering his hermitage, what immediately struck me was the incalcuable quantity of books lining every wall. They also served as night-stands, bed-stands, and, ironically, book-stands.

“Here” he said, handing me a volume.

I turned it over in my hands, feeling its weight and smelling its age.

“The Witching Hour. By....Anne Rice?!”

“Yes. I think you will like it”

I was flabbergasted. Dante, Nabokov and Hemingway had been disregarded for ANNE RICE?

Who was this hermit?

The next two or three hours revealed that he was anything but a vapid fellow; it just happened that he had a penchant for pop. lit. He also enjoyed, I soon discovered, macrobiotic foods, oatmeal, sailing, the orient, detective stories, and the ancient art of Judo.

We spent hours watching John Wayne movies and discussing world politics. I liked him more by the hour. I felt as though we had been friends forever, and the twinkle in his Irish eyes only confirmed my suspicion.

I felt happy to have made a friend. All the more so as he was ferrying me, in a yellow rubber dinghy towards the intimidating island: Hermits’ Headquaters. I knew--I just knew--that Pipton and I would be fast and lasting hermit friends.

The lake was placid and water, dark. Small fish lept from it alongside our dinghy and were impercetible in the moonlight, but for the ripples with which they pocked the lake's surface. As we approached THE island, the faintest--but only the faintest--murmer could be discerned. And only the faintest clinking of plates, the faintest chatter, the very faintest sound of hermits’ laughter.

next chapter

One: North Carolina.

At the end of a lushly over-grown trail through a heavily-treed forest at the end of a dirt road at the end of a gravelled lane, through a gate marked “NO TRESPASSING” with 20yr old rusted chains wound round and round, at the end of a pot-holed country road at the end of a rural highway at the end of a forlorn interstate, is a lake. This lake is somewhere in North Carolina, but most of the people who live in North Carolina would not be able to confirm its existence. If they were, by some magical stroke of luck, to find themselves at the end of the trail at the end of the gravelled lane at the end of the pot-holed country road at the end of the rural highway at the end of the forlorn interstate, facing the lake, they certainly would not be able to detect the hundreds of little hermitages, camofloged within the surrounding forest. What they would not know that they were looking at, is the site of the Annual Hermits’ Convention.

As I arrived, one dusky June...er...dusk, I also did not see anything of a Convention. What I saw, upon my arrival, was simply: a lake. A beautiful lake, of a somewhat Alpine aspect, with sloping, forrested banks and a tree-fringed island in the center. As the last of the light drained from the sky, the only noise that fell upon my ears was the sweet chirping of crickets, the occasional amphibious hiccup, the soft hum of the evening air, settling into the trees. Of course, I was not alone: aside from the Hermits, who I knew were near, I also enjoyed the company of Willoughby, my dog. (Please don’t stop to ask me what kind of dog Willoughby is; he takes offence. He is of diverse ethnic background and rightly claims that the canine heritage is shared by all dogs alike, as the human heritage is claimed by all humans alike, so his kind is of little or no importance, except that it has provided him with all four legs and an extremely pettable person.) We took our time, savoring the favorable cooling off of North Carolina, and referred back to our directions--a task that was becoming increasingly difficult in the dimming forest:

Eighteen paces forward. At the shrub with 12 orange blooms, turn 60*NE and go 32 more paces until you run into an oak tree.

One, two, three, four...Willoughby loafed along behind me, wiggling his nose at every new waft of forest air...seventeen, eighteen. Aha! Twelve orange blossoms!

Thirty-two paces later, and fifty-three paces after that, I crossed down over the last of flagging slopes that brought me nearly to the edge of the lake, where I could see upon its now-black surface a myriad of watery, white stars reflected. There was nothing but a few wiry trees now to my right, left, and behind me; I could see nothing else. I had but five paces to go.

I consulted my directions: Due South, they said.

My compass indicated that “Due South” was just behind my right shoulder, so I looked--somewhat confusedly--at the trees in the specified direction. Perhaps I had foibled the directions earlier on! Perhaps I had gone NE and a half, when I ought to have gone NE, or turned at the wrong mushroom patch!

Pace one (there’s nothing there! I’m sure of it).
Pace two: “Willoughby, we may be camping tonight”
Pace three, pace four...pace five.

I was standing two feet from a double-helix tree-trunk. Nothing more. Until--clever Hermits!--my eyes adjusted and I realized there is a door handle! Suddenly, everything was clear. Looking up into the underbelly of the tree’s branches, I realized that what looked like a labyrinth of healthy branches, was really a very clever camofloge on the bottom of my tree-top cottage.

The trunk-door opened without a squeak. Willoughby and I climbed up the narrow passage with little difficulty and arrived in our comfortable accomodation: the room was of a funny shape, conforming to the natural shape of the tree, but was of a comfortable size with half-walls encompasing it and a door opening onto a small veranda over-looking the lake. It was furnished with a small, but comfortable bed, a “kitchen,” consisting of a small wash basin, counter-top (atop which was thoughtfully laid a basket of fruit, crackers, and dog-treats), and a writing desk.

Setting down what few things I had brought with me, I noticed a small, white card with my name on it. It read:


Dear Ms. Lima Bean (obviously, not my “real” name, whatever that means)

The pleasure of your presence is requested, by the prestigious
Hermits’ Convention Welcoming Commitee, at the Annual Hermits’
Convention Reception Dinner, to be held this very evening, at
two loud owl hoots past Mid Night, at H.H.

(ie: Hermits’ Headquaters) (ie: the island in the center of the lake)

A dinghy will be put at your disposal; we do not recommend
that you swim.

Best Regards,
The HCWC,
huminahuminahuminah.

(Oh, I’ll get around to explaining THAT soon enough.)

next chapter

The Hermits' Convention

Introduction.

It is a June twilight. The moon is orange and hanging lazily; the air is heavy and making halos around the small town street-lamps that are twinkle buzz pop and flickering, one by one, on. In the fields, plants are beginning to tuck their leaves and small animals are beginning their evening bustle. Meanwhile, from all corners of the continent, quiet pilgrims are starting their procession towards a common meeting place. Across prairies, over mountains, through forest and brush, there is the pitter-patter of light foot-fall. From dells, and farms, from the ends of country-lanes thought to be abandoned, is the shuffle and brush of steps. From remote ranches, from caves and bungalows:

hermits are setting off for their annual convention.

Hermits: the most misunderstood race. Let me tell you what I know you think you know about them. Firstly, most obviously, that they live by themselves and as far from civilization as possible. This is true. Except for those that choose to live in pairs--or threesomes(!)--but even those only speak for under an hour a day, and usually during an allotted hour at that. That they are eccentric could not be more true, by traditional standards. Most of them dress in strange ways, an haute-couture that is entirely their own. But consider! Where do you suppose a hermit can, or would ever choose, to go shopping? Exactly. This certainly does make clothes very hard to come by. And would you guess that hermits (generally speaking) love animals? My, do they! A hermit is never near without his/her dog, bird, cat, zebra, cow, chicken, or, as I have witnessed, panda bears. But then, a hermit is never near.

The preferred residence of a hermit varies greatly. Some hermits reside in marvels of environmentally friendly architecture; some prefer the simple and reliable comfort of a cave. Some have huge ranches; some inhabit deserted islands; some live in trees and only come out once a day, strictly to gather food and use the...er... facilities. Some enjoy yoga. Most of that you could have guessed, and most of it is correct. Most of it.

But that once a year they gather at an undisclosable location in North Carolina to brainstorm, and--gasp!--socialize, you may not have guessed. But they do, and it’s the highlight of any hermit’s year. For hermits are certainly not as solitary as I’m sure you suppose.

Now, of course the first logical question you may have, is “How do all of these hermits know when and where to meet?” and the answer to that is simple enough. If you were smart enough, you could hack into a vast network of hermits’ computers. But nobody is clever enough to do that, since hermits, few realize, are the smartest of all the creatures to inhabit the world. Contrary to popular belief, they are a tightly connected community who just choose to live separately, but who are, in fact, the only real-life super-heros in existence, working every-day, and more successfully than any other manmade organization, towards the successful preservation of planet Earth. They are just too evolved to desire acknowledgement for this feat, and too elitist. Their solitary lives amongst the exclusive ranks of their own society are what they most prefer.

Your second question might be: “Why hasn’t the CIA or FBI or the super-powers of the world intervened to glean information, steal their inventions, or to regulate their activities since, without regulation, they might well-be considered a terrorist organization? What if they are harboring weapons of mass destruction?” The answer to that question is that they are the super-powers, my dear. And it’s a good thing, too. For if the world were truly left at the hands of the powers that seem to be, we would all have good reason to be very, very, terribly, and truly terrified.

Your third question, naturally, should be “WHO exactly are YOU, Narrator?” The answer to that must remain a bit of a mystery. So, I will tell you first what I am not: I am not someone that you've ever met, most likely. I am not a person who reads People magazine, who watches reality TV, who drives an SUV, or who attends church on Sundays; I am not a person who condones video games or Twitter accounts. I am a person who reads a lot of books, has very little money, speaks to few people, and has nomadic habits; in short, I am a hermit in training. For this reason, I was allowed to infiltrate the very intimate goings-on of the best and most productive Hermits’ Convention to date. And I am writing this from the front line, reporting everything faithfully, with the security of a sound conviction that not a person will ever believe me.