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)

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