Seven: Herman & Delia.

At this point in my record of the Hermits’ Convention, it is necessary to re-orientate you--the reader--about its progress. Of course, being completely out of touch with the rest of the world, I have no idea what day of the week it is but I could guess based on the changing length of the days, the increasingly delicious feeling of surrender to North Carolinian summer laziness, and the steady progress of my writing, that about two weeks had passed since I had first arrived at the Convention--which meant that there were only about two more weeks left before we would all go our separate ways.

In addition to the hermits that I have already mentioned, Pipton and I spent an afternoon with Jack, Pipton’s good friend and the Convention’s founder, ‘fishing’. (Of course there was never any intention of catching anything, but there was one severely distraught fish who tried to convince us that he wanted to be caught. We immediately referred him to the resident psychologist); I spent an afternoon with the contingent of Martial Arts-doing Hermits, of whom there are quite a few and all very fit; and I spent an afternoon with the division of Hermits often referred to as Monks, who painstakingly decipher, analyze, and translate ancient texts all day, and who freely converse in ‘dead’ languages, but who love to cut loose in their freetime with some red wine and disco music.

On this particular day, Pipton thought it was about time that I made the acquaintance of Herman--the quintessential hermit of hermits.

Herman was by far the oldest of all of the hermits at the Convention, not so much in actual age, but in action. He despised conversation, so only came to a meeting or gathering if Jack or Camellia wrote to him specifically requesting his presence. I had met--or seen, rather--him on several such occasions, but he never allowed an opportunity to be spoken to; he would arrive, listen to the presentation, give his opinion to the necessary person and retire immediately back to his cave.

He had three pets: a rabbit named Pooka, a mouse named Augie, and a Great Dane named
Eleanor, after his ex-wife (she had named the dog, not him). Herman was peculiar man with a peculiar past. His life had been perfectly average--he had been a sucessful businessman with a narcissistic wife, a nice house in the suburbs, two nice cars, a white picket fence--the whole deal--until one day while in the midst of a conversation with Eleanor (his wife) he decided to go on a long walk with Eleanor (the dog) and never came home.

(It is rumored that this all took place one Summertime in the Sierra Nevadas, somewhere just off of Secret Town Road.)

He had walked and walked and walked and walked, further and further away from the suburbs, into the mountains, and had come across an abandoned house in very poor repair, far, far from anything but a small town where he withdrew the money from his bank account, mailed a letter to his wife, informing her that he would not be back (it is said she was shocked for a minute, cast into despair for three minutes, and then ran out of the house so as not to miss a pedicure appointment) and began careful renovations on the little house he had found, without any practical regard to whose land or house it was.

Being a practical person yourself, I am sure you are wondering whose land and house it was, and why they didn’t come to kick him out. In fact, this is one of the many ways that hermits act under the radar to find and keep each other: the land and house was owned by the Hermits’ Co-operative and was left abondoned with the express intent that a hermit in need of it would eventually find it and put it to use. This is also how Herman was eventually brought into the Co-op months later, via a pigeon delivered letter.

Most hermits have a similar story as to how they ‘became’ hermits, since the Hermits Co-op can not actually be found. It must be stumbled-upon.

(I’ll be sure to tell you my own story soon enough. Don’t let me forget)

But back to Herman. Once he and Eleanor (the dog) were established in their new residence and plugged into the World-wide Hermits’ Network, via a hermit provided computer and hermit provided wireless internet, he set about doing the things that he had for forty years dreampt of doing: growing a garden, writing poetry, and observing nature as a participant in its seasons--being battered by Springtime rain, escaping the heat of Summer with a icy-cold river swim, buried by piles of multi-colored leaves in Fall, and warmed by a glowing hearth in Winter--in the upper elevations of the mountain range.

But Herman is one of those hermits who was so zealous in his new-found solitude, that any impingement upon it spurns almost immediate resentment--or at least very unencouraging behavior on his part.

Now, in his sixties (well, approximately) he acted like more of a hermit than certain hermits thirty years his senior. It is for these reasons that I was slightly nervous about going to pay him a visit.

And to make matters worse, nobody could come with me! Peter had agreed to teach Calvin how to play a little guitar, Pipton had forgotten that he had agreed to have lunch with Isabelle du Bontemps (a very talented French artist), and Willoughby was off playing with Liam Darby’s Koala Bear, and Myrtle (Calvin’s squirrel).

And so I set out for Herman’s--nervous and all by myself.

When I finally found his cave, located near the top of one of the hills over-looking the lake, I had to knock four times before I could hear a stir within. At last the door swung open and Herman glared out at me. I jumped back.

“WHAT is it!?!” he demanded impatiently.

He was not bad looking, if exceedingly unfriendly. His brown hair sprung out in tufts all over his head and his grey eyes were opened wide and leering.

“I..umm...my...uh...name”

“SPEAK UP I say!”

I stopped my stuttering and dropped my eyebrows in vexation.

“Hey listen!” I bucked up, “There’s no need to shout. I’ve been sent here to meet you and it really doesn’t do that you’re being so rude before I’ve even had a chance to stutter out my name!”

He stared at me for a moment more then laughed heartily. “Now THAT’S better” he rather roared at me, “You’re Lima Bean. I know.” he laughed again, “I’m surprised they sent you up here by yourself.”

Although he was being more pleasant, his chuckles still struck me as being somewhat malevolant.

“Well COME IN!” he demanded, regaining his gruff tone, but smiling.

I glared at him, but nodded. I felt as though we had found our means of communication, and that was at least something.

Once inside, I saw that his yearly residence was comfortable, if little better furnished than my own. Books lined a wall--I gathered that the collection grew each year, since the shelves were becoming quite full--and a writing desk near the door was cluttered with papers.

Eleanor was an absolute love she walked elegantly over to where I sat cross-legged on the floor, and sat down on top of me.

“SO!” Herman began “What exactly have you come to find out, Bean? Hmm?”

“Mumble, mumble...haha..mumble” With Eleanor where she was, and the fervancy with which she was licking my face made conversation a bit complicated.

“Eleanor” his voice was shockingly gentle as he addressed her, and she looked up innocently, “Would you mind moving off of Ms. Bean a bit? Thank you. Miss Bean?”

“Well, sir, I suppose I am here to hear about your personal experience as a hermit and about the projects you are currently working on.”

“Bah!” he said, “When was the last time you ate cotton candy?”

It was then that we heard a little scream of fright, just outside of Herman's front door.

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