A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Four

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That evening they took Archie for a long walk along a nature trail that almost bordered TP's back yard. It was a decent spot for birdwatching. TP often walked there, taking his binoculars and a stout stick for poking at plants or fungi. They spotted a kingfisher along a small stream and TP taught Harold how to identify poison ivy. Archie sniffed ecstatically at strategic spots and tried to roll on a dead frog.

Back home, Harold emptied his pockets of acorns he'd collected, took a bath, then sat at his desk to work on his artwork before bed. TP studied his drawing. Two figures dressed in tunics and very long, pointed shoes stood side by side. One wore a crown, the other a hat with a curving feather.

"Who are these fellows?" he asked.

"Troubadours," said Harold.

"I see. What are their names?"

"This one is Richard the Lionheart." He indicated the crowned man. 

"And the other?"

"That's the Duke. He's Richard's friend."

"Is that a horn he's holding?"

Harold nodded. "It's a magic horn. He announces things."

"What are those spots on him? Does he have measles?"

"No. Those are barnacles. He got them on a sea voyage."

"Interesting. Maybe he needs to shave them off."

Harold shook his head. "They'll fall off after awhile." 

He got into bed, and TP peered into the waste basket, retrieving the old teddy bear. Feeling foolish, he said, "I'll just put him back in the closet."

"Why did you throw him away?"

"He's old and pretty dusty."

"What's his name?"

"Shubert."

"He could sleep on the bed. We can give him a bath tomorrow." Harold patted a spot beside his pillow.

So there, Evalda.

After Harold was settled, TP worked in the lab again, then sat in the living room in his rocking chair with a cup of chamomile tea and classical music on the stereo, turned low so it wouldn't waken Harold. Nights were growing harder and harder. He was afraid to fall asleep because losing consciousness woke the dark Thing. In that slippery moment between wakefulness and sleep he saw its outline, like thick black smoke, and felt the gaze of its burning red eyes. And every night it grew stronger. Music helped ease his fear, and, he hoped, slowed the dark Thing's growth. Lately he'd been leaving the stereo on even after he went to bed. Cello was his favorite. The low, sonorous tones resonated deep inside him and soothed his nerves. Flute was good, too, for its crisp, uplifting energy. He pictured the notes as a bridge spanning a bottomless chasm, leading him safely over that terrifying moment of helplessness when he faced his enemy.

No doctor in this world could cure him, for the simple reason that his affliction was not of this world. He'd acquired it when traveling last summer in a land so foreign and strange he might be tempted to think it was all a dream, except that someone else had gone and come back with him. And because the dark Thing, which he thought he'd conquered, had followed him home as well.

When he could put off sleep no longer, he looked in on Harold, then went to bed. The last thing he remembered was a suffocating pressure on his chest and the urge to scream, but his voice wouldn't work, and only soundless vibrations echoed in his head. 

In the morning he awoke befuddled and exhausted. The clock on the night stand confused him further. Nearly eight o'clock! How could that be? He'd slept way later than usual. He lay still a few moments, trying to collect himself, then catapulted up as memory returned. Harold! He wrestled with the sheets and hopped out of bed hurriedly, his joints protesting the sudden movement, his head still in a fog.

He belted a bathrobe over his usual sleepwear - a pair of boxer shorts - then stared at the pants he'd worn yesterday lying crumpled on a chair. That's funny, he thought. He could have sworn he'd hung them on the bathroom door hook, like always.

From the hallway he heard voices in the kitchen. Harold's, and an unmistakable high pitched female's. What in the world?

Softly he crept to the kitchen doorway and peered around it. Harold sat at the table on the booster chair TP had rigged up for him made from his huge book of North American invertebrates. The table displayed a platter of multi-colored patties sprinkled with purple pansies and red rose petals, and a plate of steaming brown muffins. Gladys reigned at the kitchen counter, slicing oranges. Today she wore a full-skirted lavender frock with puffed sleeves, partially covered by another of her many aprons - pale blue printed with kittens in chefs' hats holding bowls and spoons. A charm bracelet jingled on her wrist as she sliced. Archie sat beside her, tail sweeping the floor, gazing up at her with mournful adoration.

Gladys glanced around and spotted him before he could hide. "Good morning, sleepyhead! We have a hungry boy here so I thought I'd better feed him. He needs a little plumping, doesn't he? Come and have some coffee, don't be shy. I've seen men in their bathrobes before. My Merle sometimes ate breakfast in his birthday suit, imagine that!" She tittered, and Archie let out a moan, overcome by the kitchen smells and Gladys' trilling voice.

TP must have moaned aloud as well, because Gladys raised her eyebrows and said, "Ooh, someone's gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. But I have just the remedy. Coffee's ready, come and get it!"

TP drew back from the doorway and leaned against the wall, holding his head. Moaning dogs, shrill-voiced women, barnacled troubadours, images of naked men shoveling in bacon and eggs; his neat and orderly life had exploded into chaos. He fled back to his bedroom and closed the door.

After a quick, bracing cold shower he felt marginally better, and better still after a cup of coffee. Gladys had had the decency to leave, thank God. Harold was still at the table, finishing his breakfast.

TP eyed the plate of patties.

"They're blooming spring fritters," Harold said. "You can eat the flowers if you want."

"Do you like them?"

"They're pretty good actually, if you put catsup on them." He took a big bite, red sauce dribbling down his chin.

The boy certainly wasn't a finicky eater. Evalda's influence, no doubt. She'd probably raised her daughter and grandson on yogurt and tabouli.

"After breakfast we're going on a field trip," TP announced.

"We are? Can Archie come too?"

"Yes." They would take his old Ford pickup, useful for bumping along back roads and crossing creeks. And for transporting dogs, and the equipment he had in mind.

"What field are we going to?" Harold wanted to know.

"Field?"

"You said a field trip."

"Oh. Not a field, exactly. You'll see soon enough. We're going to the wetlands. It's time you got to know them."