A Twist in the Mist, Chapter One

 "TP, is that you?"

TP Dunlap heaved a sigh and braced himself. His widowed sister, Evalda. Two years his senior, she was the bossiest, most opinionated woman he knew. Her loud, accusatory voice had him feeling guilty already. As usual. What had he done now?

She rarely called, thank God, but when she did it was always with a list of grievances, criticisms and/or ridiculous requests delivered in her nasal honk.

"Who else would it be," he said into the phone, striving for the right tone. Slightly irritated and impatient, as if she'd interrupted something important. Firm and commanding. You had to be assertive with Evalda, else she would steam roll over you and have you backed into a corner before you knew it. Assertiveness was not TP's long suit, but dealing with Evalda demanded masterful tactics.

"You don't sound yourself. Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes." Thanks to his neighbor, Gladys, who kept him supplied with never ending casseroles, stews, salads and breads. Luckily his long, lean Dunlap genes allowed him to eat whatever he wanted and not pop his buttons. Yet.

"How can I help you, Evalda?" Might as well get it over with.

"I have a little favor to ask..."

Here it came.

"Marnie is in France for a month with her job, and I'm taking care of Harold. But something's come up. I'm terribly busy with the OPAA - we're having a fundraiser two weeks from now and there are a zillion things to do."

"OPAA?"

Now it was Evalda who sighed. Loudly. "Orphaned Pet Adoption Agency. I'm the president, which of course you wouldn't remember."

Oh yes, how could he forget? She'd tried several times to foist neglected animals with missing ears on him.

"I'm not adopting any pets, Evalda."

"What a mean-spirited man you are, TP.  Where is your compassion?  You, of all people, a biology professor -"

"Retired biology professor," he amended.

" - who's devoted his life to studying animals, or should I say animal parts, dissected and pickled in jars. All head and no heart."

"That's not true!" TP loved animals, but he wasn't a caretaker. Pets needed you.  Pets weaseled their way into your heart and then they got old and sick. You had to nurse them and gaze into their suffering eyes, and then they died, and you felt...ah, it was way too hard. He preferred animals in the wild, free and independent.

"So you say, TP. But that's not why I'm calling."

TP frowned. "So what's the favor?"

"I'd like you to keep Harold for a few days."

"What? Harold?"

"Yes, Harold. You know, your six-year-old great-nephew who's never once gotten a birthday card or Christmas present from you. The son of your only niece, my daughter, who hardly remembers you. It's past time you showed a little interest in your family, TP."

"That's not going to be possible." Stern, authoritative. Hopefully not panicked.

"Oh? And why is that?" Evalda's honking voice rose several decibels.

He scrambled, grasping for straws, then decided honesty would be the best weapon.

"Evalda, be reasonable. I'm a 62-year-old bachelor, set in his ways, who's never been around children. I'm not a fitting companion for a young boy." 

It would be a disaster. His heart fluttered just thinking about it. "What about the boy's father?"

"Oh, give me strength!" The honking grew louder still. "Derrick has been completely out of the picture for years. The man is a selfish pig, even more selfish than you." She sighed again, and TP imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose under those glittering cat eye glasses she wore. Her tone suddenly became honey sweet.

"This is a golden opportunity for you, TP. You've always been an introvert, just like Dad. But now that you're not teaching anymore I'm afraid you're falling into a slump. I wouldn't be surprised if you have agoraphobia. You need more contact with the human race. And God knows, Harold needs a male influence. He's a wonderful boy, smart, artistic, full of surprises."

TP would just bet. The thought made his skin clammy.

"I predict you'll get along famously. Harold loves the outdoors. Plants and animals. You can teach him biology. And he just might teach you a thing or two, if it's even possible, about empathy and caring for others. It's only for a week or so."

"I thought you said a few days."

"Just until I get the fundraiser organized. Thanks, TP. You won't regret it. I'll bring him by tomorrow morning."

"Wait!" No, this was not happening. "Isn't there daycare? I'd be glad to pay for it."

"Absolutely not! You don't know what nightmares could be lurking in those places. Germs, junk food, sexual predators. For God's sake, TP, have a heart! Besides, they wouldn't allow pets, and -"

"Pets!" TP's blood pressure soared. He envisioned a menagerie of scruffy dogs and cats tearing through his laboratory, knocking over precious vials, scattering his notes, leaving piles of excrement in the corners.

"Only his little old dog, Archie. Very well behaved, you won't even know he's there.  He sticks to Harold's side like glue. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Is eight o'clock too early?"

"No! I mean, yes! I absolutely can't..."

But she had hung up. Once again, she'd buffaloed him, and he'd let it happen.

He threw the phone down in disgust and went into his lab, slamming the door loudly.

Half an hour after Evalda's call, TP sat on his lab stool, listlessly swiveling back and forth as he stared at a row of flasks filled with plant matter and bubbling liquid. Every time he swiveled left, the stool squeaked. He really should oil it. Oddly, the noise seemed to trigger fermentation bubbles. Squeak, bubble, bubble. Would it speed up the process? He'd been honing his skills at spagyric tinctures, using ancient formulas from musty old manuals collected over the years. The tinctures were intended as medicines and he had high hopes for them.

His eye then fell with some trepidation on the large distillation flask sitting before him. This was his second attempt at a complicated alchemical preparation. The first one had failed, partly because the instruction manual he'd found in an obscure little book shop was very old and the print smudged in places, and partly (maybe mostly) because he didn't know what he was doing. He was a mere novice at this ancient art. He'd followed the directions meticulously (at least the ones he could make out), fermenting, distilling, filtering out the solids, incinerating and calcining, carefully separating out the Death's Head (Caput Mortuum), dissolving the salt of the salts (Sal Salis) and adding it back in. He'd made more distillations and then fired the preparation in his furnace. And all this done under the proper positions of the planets. But the Quinta Essentia had eluded him. According to the instructor, M. Johannes Isaac Hollandus, the process should yield a substance "hard as stone, clear as crystal, red like a ruby and transparent. This is the vegetable stone which cures all diseases and infirmities in the world."

TP's efforts had only yielded a few black crumbles. Hollandus' words on the subject haunted and humbled him: 

"We also find many simpletons among scholars and the illiterate who would also dare to undertake these works. They begin to work in the laboratory and imagine that they also have an understanding of the art of separation of the four Elements one from another, each separately. And then they imagine that they have performed great wonders. They say, 'We have made the Quinta Essentia.' True, with it they drive away many diseases in man, because it has in itself much power and good virtue; that is certain, more than they themselves know. But that the miserable fools imagine that they have made the Quinta Essentia and separated the Elements one from the other, that is nothing but sheer deception. They may well have great medicine, moreso than they realize. But that they pretend and say, 'We have the Quinta Essentia,' is far from true. You poor simpletons, you have no Quinta Essentia. Quinta Essentia is quite another thing than you believe. It is a glorified Corpus that has been brought to perfection and is fixed and lasts eternally. Whoever has that can say he has the Quinta Essentia. Such a person has an earthly treasure that is better than a kingdom, and it is a gift of God which He bestows especially upon His friends. Happy is the person who has attained it and knows how to use it well for the salvation of his soul and benefit of the poor."

TP knew as he squeaked back and forth on his stool that he shouldn't even be in the lab right now. His foul mood could contaminate the preparation. Evalda's phone call had thrown him completely off balance. He was to babysit Harold, a six-year-old boy, for an unspecified length of time, days at the very least, (knowing Evalda she would exploit the situation to her advantage), and he was terrified.

Caring for a young boy gave him trepidation, to be sure, but this was not the reason for his dread. No, it stemmed from a much larger issue, a dark and terrible secret he harbored within. If harm should come to Harold because of this secret, TP would never forgive himself. The thought left him faint and breathless. No one else could know or understand! No one else could help him. And this was why he desperately needed the Quinta Essentia, the vegetable stone.

Now there would be an interruption of his work, a distraction costing him precious time. Utmost concentration was needed. If he had any hope of succeeding, his mind must be clear, his emotions calm, his hands steady. 

"Heaven help us," he muttered.