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.

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