A Twist in the Mist - Chapter Six

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"The troubadours wore hats with feathers."

They were on their way home after visiting the butterfly garden and indoor displays at the nature center. Harold was playing with a duck feather he'd found, running it back and forth across Archie's back as the dog straddled his lap, front paws on the arm rest, nose stuck out the open window, tail thumping rhythmically against TP's leg.

"Did they, now?" TP said.

"Richard the Lionheart was the bravest troubadour there ever was."

Also pretty ruthless, according to some accounts. But if Harold needed a hero, TP guessed he could do worse than Richard.

"He can keep all the bad, dark things away."

TP looked at Harold sharply. "What sort of dark things?"

Harold shrugged. "You know, dragons and sea monsters."

"It takes a very brave man to face a dragon," TP said half to himself.

Harold nodded in agreement. His eyes were beginning to droop. "This was the best day of my life," he said, and fell asleep.

A warm sensation filled TP's chest. The babysitting was going much better than he'd anticipated. Small children, in his limited experience, were whiny, demanding, noisy creatures who always did exactly what they shouldn't. It was exhausting just being in the same room with them. But Harold was different.  Quiet, agreeable, able to entertain himself. So far anyway. He might turn into an obnoxious brat in a day or two, but TP didn't think so. No, he and Harold were in sync. Maybe it was a genetic thing, who knew? But Evalda had been right. Harold was special, and he'd already wormed his way into TP's affections. He hoped neither one of them would disappoint the other.

When they got home the land line phone was ringing.

"Uncle TP, it's Marnie, calling to check up on Harold. How are things going?"

"Fine, fine. We've just gotten home from an outing. Where are you?"

"I'm still in Paris and may be delayed another week. I'm doing an article on a fashion designer and my camera crew had some technical issues. Then yesterday we were supposed to do a shoot with horses on the beach but one of the models got thrown and broke her leg, so now she's got to be replaced. Anyway, that's life in the fast lane." She laughed. "Put Harold on, would you?"

While Harold talked, TP went to retrieve the daily newspaper from the sidewalk. 

"We had a field trip, but it wasn't to a field," he heard Harold say as he went out the door. 

His neighbor to the east, Melvin Turner, was on his front porch. Mel worked part time as a realtor and his wife Marge was a nurse at Johns Hopkins hospital. Mel had tried several times to get TP to play tennis with him, but TP always found an excuse. Mel was a pleasant enough fellow, congenial and easy going, but TP wasn't a tennis sort of person. It seemed boring and pointless, batting a ball back and forth over a net. He'd rather get his exercise exploring the outdoors where there were interesting things to delight the senses. And he always felt ridiculous in shorts. His legs were all knobs and bones.

"What's up, TP," Mel called. He was wearing plaid shorts that hung below his knees, flip flops and no shirt. TP tried not to look at his belly. It sagged, despite the tennis. Too much beer.

"Hey, Marge said she saw you at the laundromat last night. She waved and said hello but you didn't hear her."

"Wasn't me," said TP.

"That's what I told Marge. I said she'd better get her glasses checked, because TP would be the last person on earth to hang out at the laundromat at 11:30. She was coming home from her late shift. So I guess it's her glasses, unless you have a doppelganger." He laughed.

A doppelganger. TP smiled weakly. He started to go inside, but Mel wasn't finished.

"I hear there's a party in the works."

"What sort of party?"

"I got the impression it was your idea. Yours and Gladys'. Gladys has been telling Marge all about it. Some kind of gala outdoor supper with a jazz trio? In your backyard."

"This is the first I've heard of it," TP said uneasily.

"Uh-oh, somebody's in trouble. Probably me. But hey, I hear you and Gladys are..." he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Are what?" TP's face grew hot.

"Oh, maybe I misinterpreted. You know women. They speak a foreign language." He laughed again, but threw TP a curious look as he went inside.

Harold was still on the phone. "Blooming spring fritters, and lots of strawberries," he was saying.

TP went right to his desk and made a hefty check out to Gladys...what was her last name? Oh yes, Quizzenberry. He snorted. It suited her to a T. Should he enclose a note? He needed to put her in her place somehow, but didn't want to appear churlish. He settled on "Enclosed is payment for the meals you've thoughtfully provided. They've been much appreciated, but I don't want to take advantage of your generosity. TP." That should do it. He put the check and note in an envelope and stuck it in her mailbox, feeling relieved. There was still this party rumor to investigate; he'd have to confront Gladys about it before things got out of hand. A jazz trio!

TP was anxious to get back into his lab, but it would have to wait until tonight when Harold was in bed. He couldn't risk any interruptions. Harold had raced out the back door with Archie on his heels, charged up after his nap and a long talk with his mom.

TP browsed through the paper, his mind wandering to other topics. The lettuce needed weeding, Archie needed a bath after wallowing in the marsh, the canoe had to be unloaded, the unsettling conversation with Mel. 

His eye fell on a headline that grabbed his attention: 

Three People Assaulted in Cheswolde

A bizarre set of circumstances in Cheswolde sent two women and a man to the hospital last night. The victims were reportedly accosted by a tall man who frightened them so badly they needed medical attention. Mr. A. Kiggens was found lying on the sidewalk near his home on Sulgrave Avenue hyperventilating, clutching his chest and babbling about a tall demon who had "messed with his head". He was taken by ambulance to Johns Hopkins Hospital for evaluation. 

The other two victims, Vicki Short and Amelia Rainier, were walking home from a party on Glen Avenue when a man jumped out at them from behind some bushes. "He just stood there, laughing this horrible laugh," said Ms. Rainier. "We screamed and tried to run away, but it was like he hypnotized us or something, and we couldn't move. I don't really remember what happened next. I was so scared I think I blacked out." The two women were found wandering along the street by a patrolman, who took them to the hospital. Ms. Rainier is being treated for extreme anxiety and Ms. Short, who has not spoken since the incident, is also hospitalized.

TP put the paper aside and got himself a drink of water. His hands were shaking.  "It means nothing," he muttered. "Some college student with a twisted sense of humor. Probably on drugs."

He heard noises and looked out the side kitchen window. Harold and Archie were having a tug of war using - good grief, was that his Aunt Freda's hand crocheted afghan that had been draped over his sofa for decades? Oh well, he'd never liked it anyway. Let it die a useful death. Archie was handily winning the contest. He probably outweighed Harold by a good ten pounds and was surprisingly strong, especially when he resisted going somewhere you wanted him to.

Doppelganger. The word kept bugging him. There were several meanings he'd come across over the years, the most superficial one being that everyone has a twin, or double, walking around somewhere on earth. But he remembered reading something about the doppelganger awhile back that had given him goose bumps. He rummaged through the clutter on his coffee table and found the book he wanted. Ah, yes, here it was: "the geographical doppelganger is an actual entity that dwells in the nervous systems of all human beings, providing the basis for electrical currents needed to process and coordinate sensory perceptions and react to them". That was quite a mouthful. Clear as mud, actually. The book further stated that this being was the cause of all organic illnesses, and that the geography of a place determined the power of these electrical currents used by the doppelganger to do its mischief. They had some sort of secret agenda, these beings, and could work through peoples' subconscious mind to manipulate them. This was the creepy part. Supposedly these creatures entered the fetus shortly before birth and left the body right before death. Nothing was said about how to defeat a doppelganger, only that it was humanity's task in this age to overcome them, and that the best weapon against them was knowledge. Knowledge of their existence and where they originated, knowledge of what their goals were and what they were capable of.

TP sighed. Yes, knowledge was always good. He could read books, but it wasn't enough to give him what he needed right now. How did he turn knowledge into the wisdom of experience?  He wished he could go back in time and talk with the old alchemists. They'd lived in an age before science and philosophy had been ripped apart. They'd understood the invisible powers that control nature. They could see the Dance and even orchestrate its movements. The vegetable stone had been their crowning glory, a mastery over all the elements. 

But one could never go back. One could only find the way forward from the present moment. Surely a path existed somewhere to lead him out of his predicament, and alchemy seemed like the best one available. The Dance was still going on, and always would. He must have courage, and hope. Feeling somewhat comforted, TP went out to his garden.