Seven: Continued.

The three of us scrambled up and followed Herman to his front door. Upon opening it, we found a woman standing upon a rock, clasping the skirt of her dress and looking down in alarm.

“Augie!” Herman scolded, and the small gray mouse came over to us, chuckling.

“Oh thank you so much. He just frightened me, that’s all--I didn’t mean to scream.” She looked up at us apologetically. She seemed to be about thirty-five, with long brown hair, gray eyes and a friendly face.

Herman cleared his throat and looked--now this is shocking--a bit timid.

“It’s no problem at all, ma’am. He has a very wicked sense of humor, you see. Can I help you off of that rock?”

“Oh yes, thank you.”

Once she was safely on the ground (she had leapt quite a distance in her fright) introductions were made.

“I’m Delia” she said, holding out her hand.

“I’m Herman” he said, shaking her hand. And continuing to shake her hand.

“Ahem” I suggested. She laughed.

“Oh yes” said Herman, “this is Miss Lima Bean” (he indicated without so much as turning around) “this is Eleanor, Pooka, and you’ve met Augie, of course.

She nodded hello to us.

“Would you care to come in? We were just about to have some tea.”

“Thank you, very much”

She came in a we had some tea, and then someone (I think it may have been Eleanor) suggested that we play Poker, so we did. Poker went on for hours and hours. Augie kept winning, and Pooka said it was because he cheated. Augie just chuckled and laid his cards out.

Over cards, we found out about Delia that she is one of the mermaids that inhabits the lake, who had asked the resident witches, Claudia, Shirelle and Vance, to work out a spell so that she might go on land for a day. The only glitch was that every hour and a half, Delia would fall asleep for five solid minutes, regardless of what she was doing, and then wake up completely disoriented--which happened twice during our game of cards alone.

Another thing that became increasingly evident over cards, was that Herman and Delia liked each other a lot. Herman was almost a completely different person--he was almost likeable, even--as he made sustained efforts to keep the conversation going. He asked about her life, her interests, her friends. They stared at each other a lot, but there were times when he would look at her pensively, even sadly--a hermit and a mermaid can fall in love, but where will they make a home?

Turns out there is quite an easy answer for that, which I’ll get to eventually.

Delia reluctantly took leave of Herman and decided to walk home with me around sunset, since we were going the same direction. We had a nice chat on the way home--mostly about the amazing nutrional value of sea vegetables--and I concluded that she’s certainly much more level-headed than most of the mer-folk.

After I saw her safely sucked back into the lake, I decided to go to Peter’s house, where I took the liberty of springing upon him as he was sleeping in bed, and inviting myself to stay the night (as admittedly, I had been doing more often than not, lately).

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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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Six: Continued.

As we reached the stage, somebody announced lunch-break, so the actors scattered in various directions, gathered various articles from various corners, and filed backstage where sandwiches were laid out upon a long wooden table.

We were spread out and sat in between various persons: Peter next to ‘James Dean’, Pipton next to ‘John Wayne’, I next to ‘Marilyn Monroe’ and Willoughby next to ‘Charlie Chaplin’ at which fact he was absolutely delighted (his favorite movie of all time is City Lights, with Lady and the Tramp being a close runner-up).

“So” I began to Marliyn, “How are rehearsals coming along?”

“Well” she laughed nervously, “when there is so much talent all together in the same place, there’s a lot of...umm...ego? You know. Actors...”

“I’ll say!” chimed in ‘Shirley Temple’ with an irksomely sweet smile.

It was just then that, from the other side of the table, the sound of a plate shattering caught my attention. ‘James Dean’ was standing up, looking angstily down at the table, holding out his arm as though he had just thrown something.

“Oh my! Why do you suppose he did that?” I asked, alarmed.

‘Marilyn’ and ‘Shirley’ looked uninterested.

“You know” Marilyn sighed, “he’s a rebel without a cause. Sometimes it does get a bit tiresome, I must admit.”

Shirley nodded, curls bobbing, still smiling.

From the opposite end of the table, I caught Peter’s big eyes looking in my direction in amazement, and then I understood: these people were never out of character. This was the resurrection of all the greats of Hollywood history. And our company was eccentric, even by Hermit standards.

Within the context of a theatre, perhaps not as obviously. But several days later Calvin, Peter, Willoughby and I ran into ‘Catherine Hepburn’ and ‘John Wayne’ on our way to go swimming. That was quite a different matter.

“How do you do”, ‘Catherine’ asked.

“We’re fine thank you” I said, speaking for myself and my shy friends.

“It’s fine weather we’re having today,” ‘John’ began, “But watch out for those injuns. I’ve been told there’re injuns in these parts.” He looked around, leering into the forest with one hand on his holster, craning his best features towards a non-existent camera.

“The little lady felt like coming out for a walk, so I was obliged to escort her. Don’t get me wrong” he corrected, “it’s a pleasure, ma’am! A real pleasure.”

“Oh John, don’t be ridiculous. I’m a capable woman, and there are no indians in this forest,” she rolled her eyes, laying a hand on her hip and looking self-sufficient. She stormed off into the forest, he tipped his hat to us and ran off after her.

I remarked to the boys that the Dramatists were certainly an interesting bunch. Peter agreed, Calvin bashfully nodded, and Willoughby smiled a toothy grin.

We bumped into many more of them in the following week, as more H.H. organized events got underway. There was the ice-cream social at which ‘Sir Laurence Olivier’ would only condescend to speak Elizabethan English; the Summit For Oceanic Conservation at which ‘Charlie Chaplin’ snuck silly drawings onto some of the presentation boards--like top-hats and moustaches onto a chart of deep dwelling sea-creatures--and he at one point he got the whole room laughing by sneaking behind the presentator, who was Jack, actually, and dancing a most ridiculous jig.

Dr. Buttersfirth, who took the topic very seriously, tranquilized him after that and, at least our contingent, thought that was even funnier.

But the most important incident that happened concerning the Dramatists, was when ‘Clark Gable’ snuck me off for a twilight walk through the forest and tried to seduce me, insisting that gardeners and guitarists were not fit company for a lady. I laughed him right back to his theatre.

The dramatists were certainly an odd bunch, but they certainly did add a charming element of absurdity to an already very peculiar Convention.

But one thing I will add, is that on more than one occasion while walking through the forest, my direction would abrubtly change if ‘huminahuminahumina’ was heard from behind any approaching tufts of trees.

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Six: Barrymore, Bogart, Monroe & the Stooges

In short, this next bit is about the Hermits’ Dramatic Contigent. And, oh, what a contigent it is.

The D.C. is comprised of about twenty hermits from all over the world who are simply too eccentric to exist in the normal world. While hermits like Camellia Buttersfirth are working on global preservation, these hermits are working on stage preparation and oral recitation so that once a year they can put on a theatrical extravaganza at the Convention.

Pipton had gained admission to one of their rehearsals, so, with my ever-increasing entourage (we had Willoughby and Peter in tow) we strolled over to their cave. As was to be expected, the entrance was well obscured and passage precarious, but once we gained the main vestibule, all quartzitic qualities had been obscured by the lavish fittings of a very formal theatre. And the room that held the main stage was really stunning.

With enough seats for probably a hundred or so people, a huge stage smiled towards tiered stadium seats and red-carpeted aisles, and the high ceiling domed into skylights.

On stage, a gaggle of actors were going over their lines--but it didn’t seem as if they were doing so together. A gangly man with a cowboy hat drawled to no one in particular “Well, you see ma’am, these men are bad news, bad news. It seems to me this town could use a cleaning out.”

While a buxom woman in a Marilyn Monroe dress purred “Oh, for me! You shouldn’t have. Johnny, baby, mix me a martini? Make it dirty.” She winked, but also to nobody in particular.

There was a Humphrey Bogart type who sat in the corner pouring himself glasses of whiskey, and smoking a cigar, and a James Dean type who just lent against a wall, looking cool and saying nothing at all. There were scads more: a Sarah Bernhardt whose eyes kept going wide, a Charlie Chaplin who kept tripping over chairs and breaking his fall with a hat, an Audrey Hepburn, looking fragile and petite, in a chair, and John Barrymore being very dramatic with a Sir Laurence Olivier.

Watching them was like watching the all of the greatest films ever made, unravelled, and set to play simultaneously on the stage. Which, at least to some extent, is what I have since understood that they are trying to accomplish.

Peter looked on, amazed, with his two huge, blue eyes, as he does; Willoughby grinned widely, as he does; Pipton grinned demurely, as he does, and I surveyed each of them happily in turn, as I do. And then a sudden noise from behind us made us all jump.

“Oh! Sorry to have surprised you!” a short man said. He was wearing pants that were three sizes too big for him, suspenders, and a hat from beneath which tufts of messy hair protruded, “Geez...err...huminahuminahumina...”

“I’m the three stooges,” he finally managed, “you can call me Bill”

“All three?” I ventured, smiling.

He wheezed and pumped his mouth open and closed a few times. It seemed as though conversation was no simple endeavor for him, “Yes, yes, yes. And, huminahum...wheeew. It’s no easy task!” This last phrase was said on an exhale and seemed to exhaust his energy to the last degree.

“You had better not ask him any more questions, Lima, or he’s going to pass out.” Peter whispered.

I nodded.

“Here” he expostulated, tripping (rather intentionally, I thought) over one of the seats and tumbling clumsily a few rows, “follow me and I’ll hum...humm...I’ll introduce you hh-around”
I’m on the Welcoming Commitee, you know!” (he slipped on a banana peel, slid a bit, wheezed, righted himself, but didn’t look back at us)

We looked at each other, giggling, and followed him towards the stage, first Pipton, then Willoughby, then Peter, then me.

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Five: Continued Some More.

Willoughby and I were left on a different bank of the lake from the one on which we had began, so had good thirty minutes worth of walking to get back to where we started. And neither of us were complaining about it: it was early evening and the air was just beginning to cool off a bit. To our right, the lake cooed and murmured, reflecting the blushing sky; to our left, the forest’s friendly tree-fringe provided a bit of shade and a choir of gleeful twilight chirping.

Coming to a particularly nice cluster of trees, Willoughby and I paused upon hearing an unexpected addition to this melody: someone was playing guitar. I looked up and directly found the origin of this music. There, on his tree-top balcony a boyish-looking hermit sat on a stool, effortlessly playing the most amazing song either of us had ever heard.

We watched, enthralled, for a moment or two, until, looking down, he saw us watching him and abruptly stopped playing, nearly dropping his guitar all together in quite a fright. To our amazement, when he stopped playing all of the birds that had been singing also stopped (it turned out that they are, in fact, a choir).

None of us knew quite what to do, so Willoughby and I just stood still, there beneath the wondering stare of his two huge blue eyes. Then, perhaps recalled to himself by the silence, he looked to either side of him (as if for an escape route) and began playing again.

As he did this, the whole (bird) choir struck back up with him. He played beautifully, and every so often looked bashfully back up to see whether or not I was still there. I was mesmerized; Willoughby just rolled his eyes.

I slumped down against a tree to listen for some time and then, realizing it was getting late, and that I was getting tired, I waved goodbye and turned to go. But there was another abrubt end to the music. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that he had stood up and was looking after us.

I laughed. Willoughby rolled his eyes.

“Hi” I called up.

He looked hard at the ground, and stammered back a hello. It was only twilight, but had it been midnight I think I still would have been able to see the beet color that flushed his face.

“I’m Lima Bean” I said.

“Lima...er...do you want to come up for a coffee?” he managed. Willoughby nudged me.

“Have you finished...um..playing?”

He nodded.

“O-okay” I shrugged. I am not typically a very shy person, but his shyness was making me a little bashful. He was very cute, and, you know, with my focus on moving into hermithood, it had been a long time since I had met a cute boy.

His place was neat--except for the vast amounts of instruments and music books that occupied every available table-top, counter, desk and chair. And that was just the stuff he was able to transport, he said.

Once he had been a successful musician in the, so to speak, real world, but had retired at an early age to the solitude of a self-sufficient ranch that had a large garden and a gigantic swimming pool, where he was working on his musical masterpiece.

I asked if it would change the future of music. He said no, but that it might produce some nice nursery school sing-a-longs. That’s musical immortality, he said.

I had gone up for coffee, but I ended up staying for dinner. And by the time dinner was over, we were conversing like old friends. In fact, there was so much to talk about, that we talked ourselves right to sleep.


So, here you have it first: I did spend the night with the cutest hermit at the Convention. But there was no funny business, save the gentle snoring of two soundly sleeping almost-hermits.

And his name? you ask. Peter Pan.

Of course.


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