Chapter Twenty
In the dark depths of the mysterious tepee, Bob and the Shaman sat cross-legged on cushions and stared at each other. Bob was mesmerised by the man’s green eyes and hypnotic yellow irises.
‘Journeying is a diverse tool,’ the Shaman said. ‘It can enhance your spiritual growth and help you to connect with your cosmic guardians.’
He turned to a pile of stones that lay on a white-hot charcoal bed and tossed a handful of dried herbs and twig-like sticks across the surface. They watched as the sticks began to shrivel, creating a pungent smoke.
‘Breathe,’ the Shaman whispered and reached out his hands, as if to caress the smoke and guide it towards Bob.
Bob could feel his eyes beginning to smart as the acrid smell burned the inside of his nostrils and he longed to stand up and thrust his head into the fresh air.
But the Shaman held his gaze and soon, Bob’s body became a powerless tool.
His shoulders relaxed and any tension he was experiencing magically disappeared, as if soothing waters had bubbled up from the River Bevan and rippled through the meadow to wash over him.
‘Concentrate,’ the Shaman ordered and Bob obeyed. ‘Allow your altered state of consciousness to access the hidden reality of the spiritual world.’
Bob, who was used to meditation, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.
He thought about the uncomfortable aura he experienced whenever he was near Andy.
As he became aware of his heightened senses, this seemed to manifest and an image of Andy, swathed in a dark cloak, swirled in his thoughts.
‘There is a power amongst us that threatens,’ the Shaman said. ‘You must call on your guardian spirit to guide you from this evil.’
Bob breathed deeply.
He was enjoying the session now and sat with a beatific smile on his face, feeling far away from any evil, and wondered if his guardian spirit had popped out for a break during his last few days at Boomerville.
The smoke was the sweetest thing he’d ever smelt and suddenly the world was a wonderful place.
and he had the urge to reach out and embrace Andy’s ghost-like presence.
‘You must practice divination and act on your instincts; you are a receptive organ and the spirits will guide you.’
Bob was very happy to let the spirits play with his receptive organ and guide him anywhere they wanted and as he sat with his palms turned upwards on his lap, he smiled and began to raise his arms to embrace the swirling apparition.
‘It is a sign!’ the Shaman shouted and Bob wobbled. Shocked by the tone, he opened his eyes.
‘You’re not listening to your messenger.’ The Shaman threw more herbs on the coals. ‘He calls to you. There is work to be done, at this place and beyond, and souls to be protected.’
The smoke in the room thickened and as the Shaman wafted, Bob took deep breaths and felt a sense of relief, for his guardian spirit was no doubt hoofing it over the hills at that very moment and heading Bob’s way to help him.
Together with the Shaman, he began to chant.
The vision of Andy, swirling in the background, grew fainter and the Shaman whispered, ‘You have the power, use it wisely.’
At that moment, Bob felt that he had enough power to fly to the moon and back and wondered why he had waited so long to come and see the Shaman.
Forget about pottery and art, this was by far the very best class he’d taken.
* * *
Hattie ran across the courtyard and darted through the door to the garden. She brushed her hand across her skirt where two chalky palm prints were tattooed to her bottom. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed and rubbed at her rear in an attempt to remove them.
Lucinda, who was strolling across the grass, called out, ‘You’re looking very flushed. Have you got a temperature?’
Hattie wanted to tell Lucinda to get stuffed but as the artist was surrounded by a group of students who were spending the afternoon outside, with their canvases in one hand and paint brushes in the other, she smiled and gave the group a wave.
‘Everyone having a good time?’ Hattie asked. She noted Sir Henry and Hugo sitting on a bench, both wrapped up in overcoats and scarves. Sir Henry held a brush at arm’s length and appeared to be studying proportions before applying the brush to his canvas.
‘We’ve been working on our landscapes,’ Lucinda said and swept her arm out to the distant hills. The students looked frozen to the bone and one or two were shivering. ‘I was expecting you to join us.’
‘Sorry, but I got held up.’ Hattie felt the cold too and wished that she’d had time to put her knickers back on instead of stuffing them in her pocket when Paul’s class returned from their break, seconds from finding their tutor in a position that had nothing to do with his course.
She moved forward and peeked at the students’ work. ‘Lovely art, gosh what wonderful scenes.’ She studied the daubs of paint on canvases, held rigid in arms numbed by the Westmarland cold. ‘I think everyone should head for the bar and have a hot toddy.’
At Hattie’s invitation, bedraggled and weary artists suddenly found a new lease of life and Lucinda was shoved to one side as they stampeded across the lawn. Brushes flew and one or two dropped their canvas. Hugo helped Sir Henry rise to his feet and they hastened along behind.
‘Bloody cheek,’ Lucinda snarled. She lit a cigarette and, placing it in her holder, dragged deeply. ‘I spend all afternoon sharing my skill and knowledge and just look at them, they can’t get in the bar fast enough.’
‘If they stay out here any longer they may never see a bar again,’ Hattie said. ‘Get yourself in there too and I’ll be along in a mo.’
Lucinda glared and blew a cloud of smoke into Hattie’s face.
Hattie ignored the insult and, pinching her fingers to her nose, moved away. She could see that the tepee was operational, as silvery puffs, drifting from the top, wafted across the sky.
The Shaman was at home.
She needed to have a word with him about their Indian evening and perhaps, as Jo had instructed, she should mention that he needed to tone down the recipe for his herbs.
Hattie raced down the path and as she turned the handle on the wrought iron gates that led to the meadow, she saw that the canvas flap on the tepee had been flung to one side.
Bob skipped out.
He glanced around then leaned down to grab a handful of wild flowers, which he began to toss, one by one, into the air.
Grinning foolishly, he started to dance.
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Hattie muttered. ‘He’s smacked off his face.’
She watched Bob prance up the steps of the gypsy caravan before pausing at the top. Placing the last of his flowers between his teeth, he pirouetted on one foot then flung out his arms and started to tap dance down the steps.
Curtains parted on the windows of the caravan and several faces peered out.
A woman wearing a headscarf and hoops of gold in her ears smiled and waved at Hattie.
Her skin was bright orange and as Hattie stared at the apparition she wondered if Hair and Beauty had a spray-tan offer that week.
‘Nothing to worry about, Queenie,’ Hattie called out. ‘Carry on with your session.’
Queenie, a Romany friend of Hattie’s who read Tarot cards at the annual horse fair in Butterly, nodded and gave Hattie a thumbs-up and Hattie returned the greeting.
Queenie’s readings for Hattie had been astonishingly accurate over the years and she’d been the ideal candidate to take clairvoyant classes.
‘She probably saw this coming,’ Hattie mumbled to herself as she turned to look for Bob.
Hattie found him dancing around the meadow. Jo was going to have a fit and Hattie couldn’t let Bob go back to the hotel in this condition. Damn the Shaman and his herbs. She must do something.
‘Oi!’ Hattie called out. ‘Fred Astaire! Get your dancing feet over here.’
‘I’m singing in the rain.’ Bob sang as he twirled over to Hattie.
‘And I’ll be singing in the sin bin if you don’t get your act together.
’ Hattie shoved one arm under Bob’s shoulder and tried to head him off and away from the caravan.
But Bob was not to be stopped and, pushing Hattie to one side, broke into a repertoire of song and dance from all his favourite shows.
Kicking his legs in the air and striding across the meadow, he belted out a medley.
‘And all that jazz!’ Bob sang.
‘You’re in bleedin’ Marland not Chicago.’ Hattie tried to grab Bob but he twirled away.
‘Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.’ Bob held up a finger and Hattie looked around. He clearly thought that he had an audience. ‘Bright copper kettles and warm coloured mittens . . .’
‘Look, Bob.’ Hattie grabbed his arms. ‘There are no brown paper packages tied up with string and these may all be a collection of your favourite things,’ she said, waving her arms vaguely, ‘but it’s time to get you safely back to your room.’
Bob shrugged Hattie away and ran to the gate.
Bursting through, he hooked his thumbs around a pair of imaginary braces and line-danced down the garden. ‘Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day.’ Bob arrived at the top of the steps and his chorus reached a climax. ‘I gotta beautiful feelin’ . . .’
A group of guests enjoying a game of croquet on the lawn looked up as Bob achieved full throttle.
They held mallets and one struck a ball in the direction of the hoop nearest the pond.
But the player, distracted by Bob, mis-hit and sent the heavy ball speeding across the path where it hit a stone and bounced up.
Hattie heard a whoosh as it sped in Bob’s direction.
In a split second, she pushed Bob out of the way.
Bob heard the players call out and as Hattie lunged, he turned and missed his footing and fell headlong into the pond. Hattie skidded to a halt and gravel flew in all directions, pebble-dashing the guests.
Time seemed to stand still as Bob started to sink into the water.
‘Help him!’ Hattie screamed and everyone dashed to the pond to pull Bob out. He lay motionless, with eyes closed, and Hattie fell to her knees. ‘He needs the kiss of life,’ she cried and began to rip his shirt open to begin chest compressions.
‘Everythin’s goin’ my way!’ Bob woke up and Hattie fell back.
He looked around and smiled at the crowd, then jumped up and began to wipe at his wet clothes. ‘Has it been raining?’
Hattie pulled herself to her feet and stared at Bob. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. A lump had appeared on Bob’s temple. He must have hit his head when he landed in the pond.
‘Where am I, sweetie?’ Bob looked vague.
Thank God! Hattie took his arm. He had a concussion, which could be put down to the fall and would explain his bizarre behaviour. Hattie knew that Jo would murder her if she thought the Shaman had been overdosing the guests again.
‘He’s fine,’ Hattie told the anxious bystanders. ‘Just a little incident which can easily be sorted out.’ She grabbed Bob’s arm and led him away. ‘Finish your game and we’ll all go and get ready for dinner. There’s hot toddy in the bar if anyone fancies a drink.’
The croquet players held up their mallets and formed a salute as Hattie and Bob staggered into the hotel.
Hattie looked back and sighed. Another bleedin’ day at Boomerville!