Daniel drawled – a fraction too slowly, Jean Bluer would have noted – ‘I got it figured ’twernt any ol’ moonshiner done did your ’lectronics.’
‘No, it was a young electromagnetic genius, a German anarchist in love with waves.’
‘I heard Wild Bill claim more than once that “German anarchist” was a contradiction in terms. That the best you could hope for was a Hegelian Baptist.’
Volta laughed. ‘Bill’s prejudices are notorious. But let me welcome you to my retreat, which is known locally as Laurel Creek Hollow. I wouldn’t forbid you to reveal its location, but I ask you, as I do all visitors, to exercise the utmost discretion.’
‘You may depend upon it,’ Daniel promised, vaguely mimicking Volta’s formality.
‘Tell me,’ Volta said, ‘do you find me a bit grandiose and dramatic?’
‘A little,’ Daniel answered.
Volta leaned toward him, his gaze so intense that Daniel was surprised when he whispered, with a mixture of apology and exasperation, ‘That’s show biz, Daniel. Pure show biz.’ Before Daniel could respond, Volta pointed out the window, adding, ‘And that’s the house. It’s four fifteen. I suggest you unload our bags while I start a fire and cook us some breakfast. It’ll be your last meal for a while, and I’d like to make it special.’
It was. Air-light buckwheat pancakes with fresh butter and Vermont maple syrup. Ham from the Blue Ridge Mountains, cooked with a peach glaze and sliced thin. A fruit dish of apples, grapes, and slivered pecans, barely sauced with curried sour-cream. For beverages: Gravenstein apple juice and a choice of Vienna Roast espresso or Volta’s own blend of tea, the latter with a squeeze of lemon and a dollop of fireweed honey.
As Volta cooked, he told Daniel about the origins of the ingredients. The buckwheat was grown and milled by a Montana woman named Jane Durham. She sent him a fifty-pound sack every year because Volta had personally tracked down her grandfather’s grave – he’d been a Wobbly organizer – and purchased a headstone for it. Tick Hathaway cured the ham, the last of twenty Volta had received in exchange for the 1925 Honus Wagner baseball card Tick needed to complete a collection. The apples were from a feminist commune in coastal Sonoma County, juiced on an old screw press. Smiling Jack had brought him ten gallons of maple syrup from the Hewlitt Jefferies’ farm near Burlington. The honey was from the five-percent dues of another commune, whose members rejected the use of money – Dead President Trading Cards, as they called it.
Although Daniel felt both the urge and obligation to savor each morsel, it was all he could do not to wolf the food. It had been almost twelve hours since the airline dinner of gooey Yankee pot roast and boiled vegetables. Daniel was eyeing the last slice of ham, half listening to Volta recount the geological history of the Eel River watershed, when suddenly Volta stopped and delicately pushed the ham platter toward him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Daniel said. ‘I’m so hungry I’m afraid I can’t really appreciate how good it is. But I do appreciate you cooking it for me; I really do.’
‘I’m sure the food appreciates your hunger as much as my preparation. Hunger, you know, has always fascinated me. I have seen people on the verge of starvation standing in line to give food away. This was in Tibet, in a small mountain village. There was a holy man who lived in a cave higher up the mountain. Every full moon, for as long as it was visible in the sky, he would receive petitioners at the mouth of his cave. Each petitioner brought him a gift of food. In exchange, he would answer one question. When the holy man had enough food to last the month, he would start giving each gift to the next person in line. It was a rough climb to the cave, remember, and food was scarce, but the line of petitioners would begin forming well before sunset. There were often over a thousand people in line, and all of them knew that the holy man would withdraw when the moon set.
‘The first time I visited I asked him, “What is reality?” Without hesitation he replied, “A handful of rice.” Sort of your standard holy-man answer. The second time, I asked, “What is the greatest obstacle to wisdom?” He shut his eyes a moment, and when he opened them they had this wonderful delighted twinkle. “Wisdom is easy,” he said. “The mind is difficult.”’
Daniel wiped his lips. ‘I don’t know about how easy wisdom is, but the mind being difficult, he got that right.’
‘Indeed. But I mention it because I’m experiencing some of that difficulty. I have reservations about your attempting to vanish. Gut reservations, nothing I can explain – except to assure you that they reflect uncertainties regarding my judgment, not yours.’
Daniel, surprised by the turn of the discussion, said, ‘I want to try it. That’s my judgment, my call. You’re relieved of the responsibility of the decision.’
Volta said, ‘I don’t accept responsibilities that can be absolved. Clearly, since your approval is necessary to the attempt, and my instruction may be critical to your success and safety, it is a mutual decision. I’ll be responsible for my part; you take care of yours.’
‘That’s all I was trying to indicate – that I intend to.’
Volta leaned back in his chair and looked at Daniel closely. ‘All right. From this moment onward, Daniel, don’t speak to me. Don’t speak at all. If you do, or if you violate any subsequent instructions, our work will end there, and along with it, my responsibility. Now please, finish your tea.’
When they’d cleared the dishes, Volta took a six-volt flashlight from a shelf and told Daniel to follow. He led him out the back door and along a wide trail toward the cedar-shingled barn. Stars still glittered overhead, but the sky had begun to pale in the east. Volta followed the trail around the barn, then down a gradual slope to a small shack. Volta opened the door and entered, shining the light back for Daniel. When Daniel was standing beside him, Volta shined the light around the room. Along the far wall was a narrow bed. Three thick quilts were folded and stacked on the foot of the bed, a small white pillow on top. The only other furnishing was a straight-backed wooden chair.
Volta held the light on the chair and told Daniel, ‘Sit down.’
When Daniel was seated, Volta held the light on a door in the wall Daniel was facing. ‘The door opens on a small compost toilet. If you’ll remember to sprinkle a small can of wood ashes when you use it and replace the seat cover, there shouldn’t be any odor.’
The light flicked back to the bed. ‘Against the wall at the foot of the bed are three one-gallon jugs of local spring water. I advise you to use it sparingly.’
Volta snapped off the light. ‘I want you to shut your eyes, Daniel, and I want you to listen well, listen as if your life depended on it. This is where I make my speech.’
Volta began pacing around Daniel in the chair. Daniel shut his eyes and sat up straighter, concentrating. He felt fatigue evaporate as his attention sharpened. But as Volta continued his silent circling, an image of a jackal formed in Daniel’s mind, then a vulture. Circling, waiting for his flesh. His heart started pounding so hard he couldn’t breathe, so hard he thought it would explode, and he felt himself lifted to another plane, a plane of glassy power, smooth, translucent, solid. It wasn’t a mystical experience. From his days with Mott Stocker, he recognized the feeling as the first rush of excellent amphetamine. He shook his head – not to clear it, but in mild disbelief. Volta had dosed him with crank! It made sense – Volta wanted him exhausted but alert. But Volta could have asked, or suggested.
Daniel was approaching righteous anger when Volta stopped in front of him and said, with an irony not lost on Daniel, ‘I know you trust me, but I can feel you don’t trust me deeply. That’s fair enough. You don’t know me well, and you may think I’ve withheld information on your mother’s death, or that I may have brainwashed you while you were in your coma, or that I have otherwise controlled your behavior and limited your expression. You’re wrong, but I understand your caution. However, do trust me in this: What you’re about to attempt is extremely dangerous – more so if you succeed than if you fail. Banish frivolity, boredom, self-pity. They can only compound the peril. The states of mind you may enter are almost impossible to imagine. They make drugs look silly.’