A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Sixteen

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He was in Minglemist. Even if his eyes were closed, he would know. The air smelled different - a peculiar greenish blend of ferns and leaves and whatever else inhabited this place. The path he was on wound through a dense patch of lollywon trees, their bent and crooked limbs draped with moss, looking like ancient hairy soldiers frozen in the midst of a battle no one remembered. To his left a spring branch bubbled over black stones worn smooth from the constant flow of water. He knew exactly where he was, though this was not the same spot he used to find himself in when coming through the hedge. He would recognize this scene even without the sign tacked to a tree five steps ahead where the path forked. Boggy Meadow it read. Beneath the letters was a crudely drawn frog painted green and black, wearing a gold crown. The frog prince was the emblem of Boggy Meadow, and it was proudly displayed everywhere. 

TP had traveled this foot path many times. It was a short-cut into Boggy Meadow from the main road running along the north side of the swamp. The right fork led to a wider, well-traveled thoroughfare at the base of high rock cliffs on the eastern edge of Boggy Meadow. Terraces had been cut into the rock, connected with stone steps or ladders or elevators worked by massive pulleys. The lowest terrace held the Great Lodge where the queen lived, a sprawling tangle of little, oddly-shaped buildings all connected by roofs and archways of different heights, and one soaring tower in the middle. The left fork joined a rough dirt road with cottages on either side, and farther down, a row of business buildings, all constructed from black stone chiseled out of the cliffs, with wooden, tin or thatched roofs. At the end of the road was the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse, and beyond that, the swampland stretched as far as one could see, dotted with tiny islands and docks along channels of deeper water where boats could be moored.

TP took the left path that followed the spring branch. Clouds of tiny midges swarmed over the water, dancing in patches of sunlight that filtered through the trees. A species from the Chironomidae family, he thought, commonly called muckleheads back home. Minnows darted through the stream, and little wriggling creatures waved at him from a shallow pool, making him itch for his microscope and magnifying glasses, but he mustn't get distracted. He was here for a purpose: to try and save his life, and every second counted. 

The air was muggy and still beneath the trees, the back of his shirt clammy. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, which he kept swiping with his sleeve. Something creaked and he looked up. Ah, the creepy old abandoned mill was still here, looming darkly over the water. Its splintered waterwheel listed to one side and the windows were gaping black holes with missing panes. Tall weeds smothered the walls, tangles of lollywon moss circled the caved-in roof. Not a place to linger, he thought, quickening his steps and suppressing a shiver in spite of the heat.

A few more minutes of walking brought him out of the woods and onto the dirt road leading into town, if one could call it that. A fresh breeze dried the sweat on his brow and brought with it the odors of the swamp, lifting his spirits. Strange how the smell of mud and muck and slime could excite him. It was life. It was growth and decay and renewal, primal and raw, and no fancy perfume enticed him more.

A horse-drawn cart approached and the driver eyed him curiously before nodding politely as he passed. TP loved that there were no automobiles in Minglemist. No gasoline engines of any kind, and no cell phone towers either. There was electricity generated from wind and water that often failed, and crude telephones that sometimes worked but usually didn't, but the air and water were clean. You could go fishing and actually eat the fish without ingesting toxic chemicals, and you didn't have to breathe noxious fumes or hear the roar of traffic from your bedroom window. Transportation was by steam train, ships and boats, carts and carriages pulled by high-stepping horses if you were rich, shaggy ponies or oxen if you weren't. There were bicycles and lots of walking trails. Being here was like stepping back in time to the late 1800's. Inconveniences were balanced by a slow and simple lifestyle that suited TP quite well.

But how bizarre to be back here! He thought he'd never see the place again. It'd been almost a year since the hole in the hedge closed up. Why had it opened now? Hopefully because something was guiding him towards a resolution to his terrible predicament. 

Doc Stubblefield's modest stone cottage sat on a lane behind the Roadhouse, where the road dead-ended at the swamp. A deep channel had been dug out along the water's edge and the banks built up to prevent the wetlands from encroaching on the town and to provide a harbor of sorts with a dock where boats could be moored.

The old stone roadhouse still had the same red-checked curtains framing the grimy windows, the same purple printed sign hanging beside the door: Barnicane Juice Sold Here, Pressed on Site, Bottles: 25 coppers, Gallons: 150 c, or 60 clams. Wooden benches and chairs were scattered across the front deck, and the sign over the door: Wiggle Hop Roadhouse still listed to the right. TP recognized several customers talking together and drinking bottles of purple juice as they sat in the shade out front.

He walked past them and turned west onto Crabtree Lane, halting at the picket fence in front of Doc's house. His wife, Hattie, was in the front yard, tending her flowers.

"Goodness me, TP, is that really you? We figured we'd never see you again. What brings you back?"

She pushed her sunhat back on her head and eyed him up and down, her wispy grey hair framing a round, weathered face with a snub nose and faded blue eyes. Her smile was just as bright as he remembered.

"Hello, Hattie. I know it's been a long time, but it seems my business here isn't finished. Is Doc around?"

Hattie thrust her chin eastward. "Over at the Wiggle Hop. He had a rough morning seeing three patients. I wish he'd retire for good, but you know Doc. He can't turn anyone away who needs help, and no one wants to take over his practice, so there you go. Take him fishing!" She waved and went back to her weeding.

Doc sat at one of the scarred wooden tables in the open dining room, nursing a drink. His mouth fell open when he saw TP, and he blinked several times.

"Good God, I'm seeing a ghost," he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

"Hello, Doc, it's been awhile." TP smiled and held out his hand, which Doc pumped vigorously.

"Not a ghost after all. Sit down! Oola, bring this man a drink." He motioned to the bartender, a dour woman as tall as TP but massively built, with arms that could lift a man off his feet and fling him across the room like a rag doll. Oola owned the Wiggle Hop and ran it with an iron hand, or fist when the occasion called for one. Nobody messed with Oola. Even the most hardened outlaws who dwelled in the swamp were afraid of her.

"What'll you have?" asked Doc.

As if there were any doubt. "I wouldn't say no to a bottle of juice." 

Barnicane juice was what TP always drank here. Squeezed from small purple fruits that grew in the swamp, it could be brewed into an alcoholic libation, but TP preferred the straight juice, finding the fruity, sour taste and fizzy tingle on the tongue a perfect pick-me-up.

Oola lumbered across the rough stone floor, wiping the dust off a bottle with her apron and popping the cap with her thumb. Plunking it down in front of TP, she said, "Hadn't seen you around lately. Come back to stay, is you?"

"Just visiting." 

She squinted at him, her small grey eyes nearly disappearing between the broad expanse of her red, rough-skinned cheeks and the bristly eyebrows above. A few coarse hairs sprouted from her chin. She jingled a bunch of keys hanging from a belt around her faded red dress and glanced at the staircase behind the bar. "Need a room, then?"

"Ah, no thanks, not right now." TP took a swallow of his drink, squirming a little under Oola's scrutiny. Finally she nodded and poked at her towering beehive of brown hair which stayed intact with no visible means of support, then took the coins Doc handed her and lumbered back to the bar, leaving behind the scent of sweat and stale grease. 

"So tell me, TP, why did you stay away so long and why are you back?" Doc settled back in his chair and crossed his legs expectantly. He was short, stocky and bow-legged, rather like a little gnome, TP always thought, with round, dark eyes and a halo of long white hair that stood up like a dandelion gone to seed. He wore scuffed boots, khaki pants, suspenders and a blue plaid bow tie over a pale green shirt. He and TP were close in age and shared a love of biology, medicine, philosophy and life in general. 

"The door in the hedge closed up."

"Huh. Strange, isn't it? Wonder why it opened again."

TP drew a deep breath. "Maybe because I'm in trouble and need help."

"Uh oh. Tell me what's going on."

"It seems the chimera dragon I encountered last summer is still with me."

Doc shot upright in his chair, gripping the edge of the table. "Lord," he said softly. "Lord, TP." 

He studied TP for a long moment in silence, then abruptly stood up and motioned TP to do the same.

"Let's go to my office. I want to examine you, then we need to plan our strategy."