And is there truly such a thing as reality, or are we all walking phantoms from a dream in the mind of Purusha, the slumbering god?
Ashvarinda Patanjali saw himself sitting in the lotus posture within his small living quarters. In his dream as in his daily meditative exercises, he saw the brilliant white light glowing upon his forehead and upon his chest, and by an act of will he caused the glowing energy, the life-giving prana, to spread out to every inch of his body, and he drew stength and life and peace from the prana, which was the very breath of God.
"Rinda," he heard Vernon calling from a distance.
Not now, Vernon. Not now, my little friend, my poor little outcast. Later I will walk with you through the woods and laugh with you at the birds and the little squirrels and find a cold stream to drink from and wade in. Now I meditate, Vernon. Now I renew all that I am.
"Rinda," Vernon called again.
Oooooommmmm, he chanted in the silence of his meditation, not needing to verbalize the mantra.
"Rinda! Rinda!" Vernon screamed.
The laws that govern dreams allow for movement without motion, and Ashvarinda Patanjali stood horrified as he watched the long mottled snake slithering toward the geek cage where Vernon Sweet was cowering, whimpering, trembling.
"Rinda!"
His feet were made of lead and he ran through an ocean of quicksand, trying to reach the cage before the snake, hoping that he would be able to unlock it and free his friend.
Slowly, so slowly he moved. So quickly did the snake slither.
"Rinda!"
His hearing, awake or asleep, was sensitive, and he heard the voices drifting to him. Dream voices? Real voices? Voices floating up from his sleeping mind or voices floating down upon his sleeping body? He did not know as he ran with agonizing slowness toward the cage.
"Who's he?"
"That's the other guy, the yogi guy."
"Like the Maharishi, that guy with the Beatles?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Where's the goblin, Lyd?"
"I don't know. Let's find another window."
"Shhh, shhh, not so loud."
"Rinda!"
He was close enough to the cage to see the face of the serpent, to see the cold eyes alive with appetite. He saw the jaws of the reptile open and unhinge, and he screamed as the beast's two long fangs became four and then eight and then grew innumerable as it slipped between the bars of the cage and clamped its jaw shut upon the back of Vernon's head.
"Goddamn it, Sean, will you watch what you're doing? That's my fucking foot!"
"I'm sorry. Jesus, how can I watch what I'm doing when it's so dark?"
"Shhh!"
"Rinda! RINDA!"
Vernon Sweet's eyes went wide as his brain was sucked out of his shattered skull and Ashvarinda Patanjali was yards away, unable to help. Then in an instant he was right in front of the cage, watching in speechless horror as the serpent's broad, flat head grew large and round, as short, stubby legs grew out of the long leathery body.
"Rshhhssssss," the snake breathed, staring at him, its rows of fangs still buried in Sweet's skull. The reptilian eyes grew vaguely human, and long, thin arms began to erupt from the scales just below the quivering head. "Rnnnssss," the thing breathed louder. "Rnnnnnn."
Ashvarinda's body shook uncontrollably as the crea-ture dropped Sweet's body onto the floor of the cage and smiled at him. "Rinnnnn," it said. "Rinnnnnnd . . ."
"Bhagawan Vishnu, "the yogi whispered, "meyriy muhdud kuhro . . . ." Lord Vishnu, help me, help me. . . .
Two Vernon Sweets were in the geek cage. One was lying dead, the other standing and staring at Ashvarinda Patanjali.
"Rinda," it said.
Om, shanti, shanti, shanti . . .
"This sucks, Lydia. Let's go."
"You gotta see this guy, Clay, really. You won't fucking believe it."
"Rinda," Sweet said.
I know what you are. It took me much time, much thought, much prayer, but I know what you are, and I know why Vishnu guided my feet to this land across the water. I alone can guide you and control you and bind your memory with psychic chains, that you may not take human life, that you may remain forever in this form, that you may forget who you are and what you are. . . .
"Rinda, Rinda, wake wake." Sweet was shaking his arm, and he sat up on the long mat that served as his bed. "Come see, come see. Friends! Friends for Vernon!"
"What are you saying, Vernon?" he asked, blinking his eyes to dispel the vestige of sleep that was clouding them.
"Come see, come see," Sweet repeated eagerly. "Hi hi hi, hello! Hi hi hi, hello!"
He rushed from the room, pulled open the front door of the old house, and ran down the steps. "Vernon, wait!" Ashvarinda called, and then, tightening his white loincloth, followed him out into the darkness of night.
Sean Brenner was lighting a cigarette as he, Clayton, Rebecca, and Lydia walked through the woods back to Rebecca's car. "Well, that was a lot of fun, Lyd. Really great idea."
"Well, shit, we didn't stay around long enough to see him! I'm not kidding, man, when me and Dork saw him a couple of days ago, I almost shit in my pants!"
Sean ignored her. "You want to go to Alex's place, or you want to drive to Charlie's?"
Rebecca shrugged. "Charlie's is a long drive, and we're all pretty fucked up."
"I don't know," Clayton said. "The air's kinda got me straight. Charlie's ain't so far away." He turned to Sean. "Gimme a cigarette, would you?"
Sean complied. "Alex's is a lot closer."
"But the place sucks, Sean."
"Look," Lydia insisted. "Why don't we just go knock on the front door and act like we're just being neighborly, like welcoming them to town or something?"
"Forget it, Lyd," Rebecca said. "It sounded real exciting and different before, but I feel like a Peeping Tom or something now."
"Hey, Lydia!" Clayton said. "I got an idea. Let's go peek in the windows at your place and see if we can catch Sarah or Dorcas naked."
"Fuck you, Clay," she spat.
"Sean . . ." Rebecca said softly, squinting her eyes and peering into the darkness behind them. "What's that?"
He looked in the direction of her gaze and squinted also. "I . . . I don't know. . . .
Vernon Sweet was running toward them on his short, bandy legs, his arms outstretched, yelling, "Hi hi hi, hello! Hi hi hi, hello!"
"Holy shit!" Clayton muttered. "Is that . . . ?"
"Yeah," Lydia said nervously. "That's Grogo."
Sean took a step backward and Rebecca moved behind him. "Is he . . . I mean, he looks like he's charging at us. . . ."
"Hi hi hi, hello! Hi hi hi, hello!"
Rebecca coughed. "I'm getting out of here." She began to run back toward the car, and her companions followed immediately. Their brisk jog became an all-out sprint as the little man drew closer to them.
"Hi hi hi, hello! Hi hi hi, hello!"
Sean tripped on a tree root and tumbled hard down onto his side. He scrambled to rise but his feet slipped on wet leaves and he fell again. By the time he got to his feet, Vernon Sweet had almost reached him. He backed away, yelling, "Get the fuck away from me, you goddamn retard!"
"Hi hi hi, hello!" Sweet repeated, but the hostility in Sean's voice seemed to have awakened long-buried anger in him, and his broad smile grew hard and sardonic as his voice dropped lower. "Hi hi hi, hello!"
"Vernon!" Ashvarinda cried from far back in the woods. "Where are you? Vernon! Come back, Vernon!"
Sean began to run again, just as Sweet's hand raked against the back of his jacket. Clayton, Lydia, and Rebecca had already reached the car and started the engine, and Sean saw the front door waiting open for him as the maddening greeting kept repeating from close behind him, lower and more menacing in tone with each repetition.
"Hi hi hi, hello! Hi hi hi, hello! Hihihi hello! Hihihihello! Hihihihellohihihihellohihihihello!"
Sean leaped into the car and Rebecca sped off before he was even able t
o close the door. "Jesus Christ, did you see that guy!" Rebecca exclaimed.
"Told you." Lydia was grinning, pleased at having her suggestion validated.
"What the hell was wrong with him?" Sean asked, shaking and breathing heavily. "I think he was trying to attack me."
"Like heavy-duty weird," Clayton muttered.
Vernon Sweet watched the red taillights disappear into the distance. "Hi . . . hi . . ." his low, guttural voice rasped. "Hello . . ." He heard a sound off to his right, the sound of footsteps. He turned and smiled hungrily. "Hi," he said.
Dorcas Ostlich emerged from the darkness of the woods and walked toward him.
He stretched out one long arm toward her, his delicate fingers quivering like serpents. "Hi . . . hi . . . hi. . ." he said.
She took his hand and squeezed it warmly. "Hello, Vernon," she said. "Do you remember me from the other day? My name is Dorcas. Remember?"
He stared up at her quizzically for a few moments, and then his face softened. "Dor Dor!" said Vernon Sweet. "Hello!" They walked slowly back toward the house, hand in hand.
Chapter Four
November 22, 1968
Alex Brown gazed out the window of his bar with irritation and distaste. From his vantage point he could see the sheet-and-blanket-swathed heathen walking nimbly toward the general store across the street at the same time that Clayton Saunders parked his jeep un-evenly in front of the bar.
What is the world coming to? he wondered glumly. Old Man Schilder is right. We got them hippies up on the mountain, and now a heathen and a circus freak move in. It's disgusting, it's horrible.
"Afternoon, Al," Clayton said merrily as he stomped into the bar. "It is afternoon, isn't it? What time is it, anyway?"
Alex Brown gritted his teeth as he replied, "Two o'clock."
"Ah, good. I was right, then." He slid up onto one of the bar stools. "I'll just take a beer, then. A little too early for a drink."
"So what's a beer?" Alex muttered, but placed a glass beneath the tap nonetheless.
"Mother's milk, Alex, mother's milk." Clayton yawned. Alex placed the beer in front of him and he took a long swallow and then emitted a contented sigh. He saw Alex looking past him toward the window, and he followed the direction of the older man's gaze. "Oh, the Hindu," he said, watching Ashvarinda Patanjali entering the store.
"Should wear clothes," Alex muttered to himself.
Clayton chose to pretend that this was part of a conversation, so he added, "Yeah, and take a bath." He laughed softly as Alex shot a dagger glance at him and then turned his attention back to the sink. Clayton drained the glass and said, "Another, Alex, if you'd be so kind. And . . . oh, what the hell, a shot of bourbon, too. Hair of the dog, as they say."
Two o'clock in the afternoon, Alex thought angrily as he refilled the beer glass and poured the shot.
Clayton nursed the boilermaker and Alex began to wonder what he was doing there. It was Clayton's custom to stop in, have a drink, ridicule whoever else was in the bar, and then be off on his way to whatever he happened to be doing that day; but now he sat and waited, as if Browns' Hotel was in fact his destination. Alex did not ask him about it. The less they said to each other, the better Alex liked it.
Soon thereafter Ashvarinda left the general store, carrying a large brown paper bag from the top of which extended the green stems of assorted vegetables. He stepped of the curb, very carefully looked both ways on the deserted street, and then walked over to Alex's bar.
Let him try to come in here for a drink, Alex thought angrily. Just let him try. I'll kick his black ass into the street, by God, kick him into the gutter where he belongs.
Ashvarinda walked up the few steps to the door and then pushed it open slowly. He walked in, set his grocery bag down upon a table, and then approached the bar. He placed his palms together, brought the tips of his fingers to his lips, and bowed slightly to Alex. "Namastay," he said softly. I bow to you. He turned his entire body to Clayton and repeated the gesture. "Namastay."
"Nama can stay wherever he wants." Clayton grinned, lifting his shot glass in a gesture of greeting.
"What do you want?" Alex spat.
"The proprietor of the store is unfortunately out of nuts—" Ashvarinda began to explain.
"If you're looking for nuts," Clayton interrupted, "you're in the right town."
Alex glowered at him for a moment and then looked back at the aged yogi. "So? So what?"
"He suggested that I see if you have nuts available for purchase." He paused, looking from Alex to Clayton. "I am what you would call a vegetarian, you see. I do not eat meat, and—"
"I know how that is." Clayton nodded. "I'm on a liquid diet myself."
Ashvarinda glanced at the amber liquor in the shot glass. So much poison in this culture, he thought sadly. "In any event, I have been able to purchase most of the vegetables I seek, but—"
"I ain't got no nuts," Alex muttered, and then thrust another clean glass into the soapy water.
Ashvarinda looked with some perplexity at the row after row of cellophane bags attached to the clips of the nut rack, and Clayton was about to make a quip about Alex's last statement, when the door opened and Russell Phelps walked in. "Hi, Clay," he said. "Artie gave me the message. Why'd you . . . ?" He stopped speaking when he noticed Ashvarinda, and he smiled broadly. "Namastay," he said with a curt, prayerful bow.
"Namastay," Ashvarinda bowed back, repeating the gesture once again, pleased and surprised at the young man's courtesy and knowledge.
"My name is Russell Phelps." He was aware of caste prohibitions, and thus knew better than to attempt to initiate a handshake.
"I am Ashvarinda Patanjali"
"I'm honored to meet you, Pantanjaliji."
Ashvarinda smiled. "You seem to know quite a bit about our culture, young man,"
"I've always been interested in India," Russell explained. "I visited your country two years ago, during the summer, and—"
"The summer!" He laughed. "Summer is not the best time for Americans to visit India!"
Russell returned the laugh. "Yeah, it was kinda hot." He glanced at the table upon which Ashvarinda had placed his grocery bag, and he gestured toward it, saying, "Please, sit down." He saw neither Alex's furious glower nor Clayton's amused smirk as he and Ashvarinda seated themselves. "I'm a great admirer of Jawaharlal Nehru," he said.
Ashvarinda shrugged noncommittally. "The Nehrus are secularists."
"Of course they are"—Russell nodded—"and they have a difficult task ahead of them. India has been drowned in religion, castrated by imperialism—"
Clayton leaned to Alex and said, "That must be why he's looking for nuts." Alex ignored him.
—pressured by America through our puppet state in Pakistan. India has to deal with a hostile Chinese regime, a terrible population pressure, crippling ethnic diversity. . . ." He shook his head. "Your government has an awesome job to do. At least the Soviet Union is giving some support and assistance."
"Yes, well . . ." Ashvarinda made a motion to stand.
"I've been following Indian policy toward East Pakistan with great interest," Russell went on, and Ashvarinda remained politely seated. "The Bengalis have been second-class citizens in Pakistan for two decades now, and I wouldn't be surprised if the separatist movement—"
"Russ," Clayton broke in.
"What?"
"All the guy is trying to do is buy some nuts. Give us all a break, will you?"
He looked back at Ashvarinda. "Nuts?"
"Yes. As I was explaining, I am a vegetarian."
"Of course you are."
Ashvarinda blinked. "Are you a vegetarian?"
Russell coughed. "Well, no, but I have the greatest respect for the ethical aspect of vegetarianism, and of course I respect the ethnic tradition."
"What a guy!" Clayton chuckled.
"Yes . . . yes, well . . . " Ashvarinda did not quite know how to behave in the midst of what was to him a peculiar social situation, so he attem
pted to extricate himself from it by saying, "I have been unable to purchase nuts in the general store, and the proprietor of this establishment has informed me that he, too, is lacking a supply of the food."
"Yeah." Clayton nodded earnestly. "Alex ain't got no nuts."
Russell looked over at the bar. "Excuse me, sir, but you have rows of nuts over there."
"They ain't for sale," Alex muttered as he dried a glass.
Russell frowned in confusion and then began to bristle. "Oh, sure. I get it. He isn't wearing a gray flannel suit and his skin's a little too dark for your tastes, right?"
Alex's face grew red with anger. "Who do you think you're talking to? You get the hell out of here!"
"Hold on, hold on," Clayton said calmly. "Let's not all get pissed off. Al, just sell the old man some nuts and be done with it."
"You don't tell me what to do in my place!" Alex shouted.
"I'm not, I'm not," Clayton said soothingly. Jeez, what an asshole! "Look, I'll pay you double for ten bags, okay? You charge a dime for 'em, right? Here's two bucks," and he took the money from his pocket and placed it on the bar top. "Just give him ten bags and he'll be on his way. Okay?" Alex did not respond, and Clayton repeated, "Okay?"
Alex took the money, ripped a few bags of nuts from the rack, and tossed them in Ashvarinda's general direction. He had only taken six bags from the rack, but Clayton did not quibble. "There," the older man muttered. "Now get out."
Ashvarinda took the nuts and dropped them into the grocery bag. He smiled at Clayton. "Thank you for your generosity, young man."
"Skip it," Clayton said. "Hey, Al, another beer, and one for my friend."
Ashvarinda took his groceries and went to the door. "Namastay," he said as he opened it.
"Namastay," Russell said.
"Take Nama with you," Clayton said.
As Ashvarinda left the bar Clayton took the two fresh beers and went over to the table where Russell was still sitting. "Clay, why did you tell Artie to have me meet you here? How come we aren't doing this at your trailer?"
"Because Peter has been there for the past two days rehearsing his fucking speech, and he's driving me crazy." Clayton explained. "If I hear him talking about monomers and polymers one more time, I think I'll scream."
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