Candy (16 page)

“This is where you’re bunking down,” said a friendly but impassive girl with dark hair which came to her waist, as she showed Candy the place. “The head,” by which she meant the toilet, “is just over there,” and she pointed to a little bucket behind a screen in the corner. “Stow your gear, and we’ll get some hot chow into you.”

“Roger!” said Candy, and a minute later she and the dark-haired girl left the dormitory-tent and crossed over to the chow-tent nearby.

“This trooper could use some chow,” said the dark-haired girl to the jolly fat cook who was there.

“Roger-dodger!” said the cook and ladled out a nice bowl of hot broth for Candy.

“Oh wonderful!” said Candy, holding the bowl in both hands and drinking it, allowing just her big lovely eyes to show above the rim. “Broth and porridge are my favorite dishes.”

“Mine too,” agreed the dark-haired girl.

After the simple meal, Candy felt refreshed and ready for her Cracker work to begin. Although it was about ten o’clock, some of the shafts were still open and it was agreed that she could go down into “No. 9” and work for a while that night if she wished. She was all too keen for it.

“You can have some coveralls if you want,” said the dark-haired girl, “though most of us like to work in our regular clothes, and then keep them on—it gives us a real sense of the work we’re doing, and isn’t so hypocritical as changing.”

Candy saw now that the girl’s clothes were quite black from coal-dust, as were her hair and face.

“That’s for me!” said Candy.

She was taken to the elevator of the shaft by the dark-haired girl, who said:

“Now, when you get down to the
third
level, you get off and walk straight ahead of you till you come to the end of the shaft. You can dig there for a while, it’s lots of fun. It’s about a mile to the end.”

“Wonderful,” said Candy. “Will anyone else be there?”

“Yes, I think so,” said the dark-haired girl, then added with a frown: “Unless they’re goofing off. We’ve had a lot of goofing off lately—especially among the
boys.”

“They’d better get on the
ball!”
said Candy, cross at the thought of these boys goofing off.

“I’ll say,” said the dark-haired girl, “it isn’t funny! All
they
care about is getting into your pants—and then they’re too tired to help with the mining. A pretty girl has to be
very
careful with boys.”

“You’re telling me!” said Candy. “And how!”

They would have liked to stay together and talk some more, but the elevator had reached the top of the entrance.

“You’d better go on now,” said the dark-haired girl, “it takes about an hour to get to the bottom. We can talk some more when you get back. By the way, you’ll find a little green-handled pick there. That’s the one I always use.”

“Roger,” said Candy. She wished she could salute, but thought it would be silly since everything was so informal. She got into the elevator and pressed the button marked 3
RD LEVEL,
and was on her way down, waving back up at the dark-haired girl who watched the rapid descent from above.

Down, down went the little platform Candy was standing on, down, down and it was soon flying through absolute blackness. It was plenty exciting for the young girl and made her dear young tummy tingle.

Finally the elevator reached the third level, and Candy got off and started walking. The shaft was quite dark, but from one bend to another she could always just make out the faint glow of light ahead. At last she came to a long, unbroken stretch of shaft and she could see the soft light glowing at the end. As she got nearer, she could also make out the figure of a man there. He was sitting on a camp stool reading a paperback novel by the lamp overhead.

When Candy reached him he acknowledged her with a nod.

“Hi,” said Candy, a bit breathless but more keen for her work to begin. She looked around for the little green-handled pick that the dark-haired girl had told her about, found it, and started hacking at the wall of coal.

The man watched her curiously.

“So, you have come,” he said at last.

Candy wondered why he wasn’t helping with the work instead of sitting there reading, and she decided that he might be one of the boys the dark-haired girl had complained about.

“Yes, and
we’d
better get cracking on this work!” she said without looking at him.

The man nodded.

“I have been expecting you,” he said.

There was something in his odd tone that caused Candy to turn and look at him now for the first time. He wasn’t a boy at all she saw then, but a man of . . . though as she scrutinized his face for a clue to age she felt she had never seen anyone whose age was so indeterminate. Anyway, she thought, with an urgent flutter somewhere behind her precious labia, he was not a boy but a
man.
Large, with a great bald head, and huge black mustache, his eyes blazed at her in the half-light; and if Pete Uspy had been impressive with his strange eyes, this man was a veritable Svengali. She knew at once that he was the man Pete Uspy had spoken of, and she knew too somehow that he was to be very important in her life.

“Are you . . .” she faltered.

“
I,
” he said with soft drama, “am . . .
Grindle.”

Candy was confused and embarrassed by his piercing look, which seemed to her to be undoing the top buttons of her shift and moving across her bare breast where the nipples now began slowly distending and throbbed painfully. She turned her eyes back to the wall and hacked at it some more, and the man looked down at his novel again. Candy was sure that he was the most spiritually advanced person she had met and she wondered what she should say to him. She tried to lose herself for the moment in her work and began a furious peck and flurry with the little pick. From time to time she would stop to get her breath and to scoop the chips she had done into a tiny pile. About the fourth time she stopped to do this, the man on the camp-stool raised his eyes from the book.

“That is enough chopping the coal,” he said. His accent, like Pete Uspy’s, was very strong, though not at all unpleasant. In fact it seemed to add a certain poetic seriousness and drama to his words. Candy had no doubt that he was in charge of this section of the mine, so she was quite ready to obey; also she was tired of the work now. “Roger,” she said, and gathered her remaining chips into the little pile she had begun.

“Your work is well,” said the big man watching her.

“Thanks,” said Candy, brushing her hands; she felt the warm sustaining glow of accomplishment within her. “We could use some chow after
that
work,” she said.

The big man put the novel in his pocket.

“I do not care to eat,” he said, standing up. “However, let us leave this mine now.”

“Right,” said Candy, “. . . but what about the coal?” She was looking at the pile she had dug.

“Yes, you’d better bring that along. Here . . .” He took out his handkerchief and spread it on the ground so that Candy could scoop her coal onto it; then she tied it in a little bundle and held it up by her shoulder, but it was awkward there, so she put it in the pocket of her shift, and they started walking back to the elevator.

The big man beside her began absently humming the Cracker song, and Candy joined in. This seemed to bring him out of his reverie.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize I was humming that song. As a matter of fact I don’t like to hear it. Not for the moment anyway. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” said the girl. She was confused by this, yet it was not wholly an unpleasant sensation.

Soon enough, considering the distance, they were at the elevator shaft once more and got in it.

“I will operate the machine,” said the big man. It was the first thing he had said since objecting to the song about a mile back, and after scrutinizing the buttons for a moment, he pressed the top one, marked
GROUND LEVEL.

The elevator started rising.

“Good,” said the big man. “Up we go. Up, up, up!”

It seemed to Candy that he was in a jovial mood now, and she decided to risk a question.

“Did Mr. Uspy write to you about me?” she asked, not realizing for the moment that of course there had hardly been time for a letter.

The big man looked at her a few seconds without speaking. Then he said: “I am in telepathic communication with Mr. Uspy, from time to time during the night and day. I knew that you were coming. Yes.
And
that you have good spiritual advancement.”

“Gosh,” said Candy, “he said
that?”

“
I know that it is so—you have come, seeking truth, have you not?”

“Oh yes,” the girl was quick to assure him.

“Then you have come to the right place—we will begin at once. Tonight.”

The attention of the great man, denied her up to this moment, was now like a luxurious bath to the young girl.

“I . . . I hardly know what to say,” she began with gratitude.

“He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.”

“That’s what Mr. Uspy says!” cried Candy with the delight she always derived from knowledge.

“He got that from me,” said the big man. “He is my secretary.”

He stated it factually, as a child would, without pride or embarrassment; but it was a fact quite impressive to Candy even so, because of her strong memory of Mr. Uspy and the day behind her, so much of which was connected with Derek and the warmth of her own joyous heart.

I
N THE REC-TENT
, after a cup of hot chocolate, Candy and great Grindle sat talking—he on the edge of the Ping-Pong table, and she at his feet.

“What stage of spiritual advancement are you in at present?” he asked the girl.

“Gosh, I have no idea,” she said.

“Ah yes, the heart knows,” he said. “And the heart knows best.”

“I think I’m in an early stage of some sort,” said the girl with perfect candor.

“There are six stages along the mystic path,” said great Grindle, “and you are in one of them or another, at all times. Now your
first
stage is this: to have read a large number of books on the various religions and philosophies, and to have listened to many learned doctors profess the different doctrines—and then to experiment seriously yourself with a number of doctrines.”

“That’s only the
first
stage?” asked Candy, hardly able to believe it.

“Yes. The path is arduous, you see—many take it; few arrive.”

“What is the second stage?”

“The second stage is to choose one doctrine from among the many one has studied and discard the others—just as the eagle carries off only one sheep from the flock.”

“Gosh,” said Candy.

“Then does the path become truly arduous. The third stage is to remain in a lowly condition, humble in one’s demeanor, not seeking to be conspicuous or important in the eyes of the world—but behind apparent insignificance, to let one’s mind soar above all worldly power and glory.”

“And then?”

“Then you must attain the fourth stage:
indifference to all.
Behaving like the dog or the pig which eats what chance brings it. Not making any choice among the things one meets. Abstaining from effort to acquire or avoid things. Accepting with equal indifference whatever comes: riches or poverty, praise or contempt. Giving up the distinction between virtue and vice, honorable and shameful, good and evil . . . neither repenting nor rejoicing over what one may have done in the past.”

Candy was enjoying it immensely. She settled herself more comfortably.

“Then what?” she asked, wide-eyed and lovely. “Then do you attain to your
fifth
stage,” said great Grindle, “there to consider with perfect equanimity and detachment the conflicting opinions and the various manifestations of the activity of beings. To understand that such is the nature of things, the inevitable mode of action of each . . . and to remain always
serene.
To look at the world as a man standing on the highest mountain of the country looks at the valleys and lesser summits spread out below him. That is your fifth stage.”

“Good Grief,” said Candy.

“Yes, the mystic path is an arduous path, you see; many depart, few arrive.”

“What on earth is the sixth stage?” the girl wanted to know.

“The sixth stage cannot be described in words, unfortunately. It corresponds to the realization of the
void,
which, in Lamaist terminology, means the Inexpressible Reality.”

“I don’t get it,” said Candy.

“Well,” said great Grindle, “one must understand here the realization of the non-existence of a permanent
ego.
This is your great Tibetan formula: ‘The person is devoid of self; all things are devoid of self.’”

“And that’s the end?” said Candy after a moment.

“Yes, for all practical purposes it is. There
is
a seventh stage, physically, of
suspended animation.
But that need not concern us here.”

“Suspended animation!” cried Candy, as though that pleased her more than the rest.

Great Grindle nodded, and the girl gave him a searching look, wondering indeed if he were not capable of this feat himself.

“Gosh, I’d
love
to be able to do that,” she admitted at last.

“The path is arduous,” said Grindle.

“And how!” said Candy.

“Well, what do you say? Will you walk the mystic path? Already you have good spiritual advancement.”

“Well, I
would
like to try,” she said, “what do we do first?”

“First you must have a good
guru,
a spiritual teacher, to train you.”

“And you . . .” Candy began.

“I shall be your
guru.”

“Oh that’s wonderful,” said the girl; she was doubly pleased and stood up as though to kiss great Grindle; but he was quick to reassert a more formal tone.

“First,” he said, “there is the problem of mental discipline and the basic yoga exercises.”