A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Eighteen

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It sat on Widow's Moan, sometimes simply called The Widow, an island in the deeper waters of Boggy Meadow Swamp. The name came from stories of the many fishermen who'd disappeared there, leaving their wives to grieve and lament and forever wonder what had happened. The mistangle was a foggy, circular cloud that swirled and churned no matter what the weather or season, perhaps a half-mile in diameter and height. TP had never seen it, but he'd heard the stories. It was like a black hole, people said, sucking in whatever drew near. And what went in never came out. Or almost never. A few folks supposedly escaped, the most famous being a young girl named Sarah Tucker who got sucked in during a storm. The following day, a fisherman who was checking his crawfish traps saw a bent old woman waving at him from the edge of the island. He was afraid to approach, but the woman called out that she was Sarah Tucker, and insisted on being taken home. Her puzzled parents watched in awe as the old woman rapidly began growing younger and younger until she was their sixteen-year-old daughter again. She told tales of the many skeletons she'd seen as she wandered for hours in the mist, terrified and alone except for the sad remains of humans and animals who'd perished there. 

Years later, Sarah became a scientist who made several more expeditions into the mistangle, tying one end of a rope around her waist and the other end around a tree at the edge of the island so she wouldn't get lost. She studied the mistangle's effects on time, determining that the further one ventured into the mist, the faster time passed. Supposedly, one hour at the center equaled twelve years.

There were other stories too, of moans at night from spirits trapped there, or eerie figures dancing on the shore, trying to lure men to their deaths. 

Some claimed the Brotherhood had learned the mistangle's secrets, and used the knowledge to create the barrier surrounding Minglemist.

Could he actually do this, TP wondered as he trudged homeward after a lengthy and sobering talk with Doc. Actually venture into the mistangle and emerge again before dropping dead of old age, with a remedy which may oust the chimera from his system? Sarah Tucker had gone in several times and survived, even regained her youth. But she'd been young to start with. TP was sixty-two. In twenty-three years, the length of time needed for the honey preparation to mature, he'd be eighty-five. If he stayed in the mistangle a moment longer than his natural life span, whatever it might be, he'd die there alone, of old age. But if he didn't try, he'd soon be in an institution for the insane. Doc had told him of a sanitorium in Minglemist for chimera-infected people, which would likely be his best option. Yet his mind recoiled from this.

Slim as it was, Doc had thrown him a lifeline when he'd mentioned the mistangle, and TP had grabbed on desperately. It was dangerous, foolhardy even, but it was a chance. And wasn't it better to go out in a great blaze of effort than to slowly wither away?

Now, though, as he entered the gloomy woods, he was struggling to keep the euphoria he'd felt in Doc's office alive. Doubts were assailing him. He was old, he was tired and sick. He had no business attempting such a wild quest. It was sure to fail. He was no warrior, only a simple man who liked to tromp through wild places, collecting dung beetles and frog eggs.

He'd stayed at Doc's longer than he should have. Hattie had insisted he stay for supper, and then Doc wanted to show him his new fishing boat, and by that time the drums and flutes were starting up behind the Wiggle Hop so he'd lingered a little while to listen, wondering if Madeline could hear them through the hedge. 

Now the shadows were long across the footpath; it was nearly dusk. And in Minglemist, when the sun went down, all sorts of strange creatures, including chimera dragons, began to stir. He could hear rustlings in the thickets as he walked, and a furry shape with a long tail darted past him, disappearing into a hole in the stream bank. TP quickened his pace. It wasn't far to the hedge now, but he still had to pass the creepy old mill. There it was, just ahead; a dark hulk undulating in the shadows as a breeze lifted the vines and briars twining up it. He tried to avert his eyes, focusing only on the path, but as he drew abreast of the ruins a small red light in front of it made him pause. Was someone smoking a cigarette? No, not a cigarette, because now he saw two red sparks and a slinky black shape coiled below them. A chimera dragon, a very large one, and it had surely seen him.

He felt anger more than fear. What was he, a dragon magnet? The vast majority of people in Minglemist lived their entire lives without even seeing a chimera. Yet here he was, being accosted again on his first day back after a year's absence. What made him so irresistible to these freakish things?  Surely one couldn't be infected with two chimeras at the same time, could one? Ah, it appeared he was about to find out. The black cloud approached. No use running. Running was the worst thing you could do. Showing fear excited them, making them more likely to attack. He had to stand his ground and stay calm. An easy thing to say, but his heart was thumping wildly in his chest and his mouth was dry as chalk. He tried to look dull and uninteresting. Pretending to be bored, he shoved his hands into his pockets and let his eyes wander, barely acknowledging the towering presence scrutinizing him like a hungry wolf looking at a rabbit. He could feel its energy reaching out, probing, testing. It took all his will power not to flee. A chill came over him and he suppressed a shiver, breathing deeply, slowly. 

Just when he thought he could hold out no longer, a great burst of energy shot through him accompanied by an ear-splitting shriek. He dropped to his knees and covered his ears against a barrage of horrible ripping and rending sounds. Leaves and bits of debris whirled up into the air and around two black funnel clouds slamming against each other, wailing and moaning and shrieking like gale force winds.

Stunned and disoriented, TP cowered on the ground, gathering his wits. What was happening? Then comprehension dawned. They were fighting over him! The chimera he'd been struggling with for so long was defending its property. 

He scuttled backward, putting more distance between himself and the dueling dragons. What would happen if he fled now, while the beasts were engaged in combat? There was only one way to find out. He stood up slowly and backed further into the trees along the path. The two chimeras seemed not to notice. It was now or never. He turned and ran for his life, fear and hope spurring him on. The hedge wasn't far ahead. If he could just get through it and leave the chimeras on the other side, surely he'd be safe. Stumbling over roots and stones barely visible in the dying light, he pressed on, his lungs burning. Finally he could make out the portal, a dark opening between two old stumps and a thorny patch of wild blackberry bushes. He literally dove through head first, scrambling and clawing at the twigs of his own wax myrtles. He rolled a time or two to make sure he was well away from the hedge, then lay gasping and spent on the grass. As his breathing slowed he sat up, hardly daring to hope.

"I've done it," he said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. But the elation was short-lived. A familiar voice hissed inside his head: "You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?"

Madeline saw him lying on the ground and came running out. "TP, what in the world happened?" She helped him stand and eyed him anxiously.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said fiercely, shrugging her off and limping into the house, where he shut himself in his bedroom.

An hour later he emerged, in fresh clothes, his hair wet from the shower. Madeline was slouched at the kitchen table in her draw string pants, texting someone. Probably Todd.

"Sorry," he mumbled, plunking himself down across from her and staring darkly at the wall. They sat in silence awhile, letting the sweet green smell of early summer drift in the window. Finally TP spoke.

"Doc and Hattie send their greetings."

"How are they?"

"Spry as ever. We had an interesting talk, Doc and I." He told her an abbreviated version.

Her mouth dropped open at the mention of the mistangle. "You can't be seriously considering going in there."

"Why not?" he asked.

She gave him a look. "Well, because! It's just crazy talk."

"I am crazy. Or getting there." Moodily he got up and stood at the counter, looking down at a little basket of garlic cloves he kept there. How many did the old fisherman eat, he wondered. Twenty? Thirty? One hundred? Could he do it? Would it work? He picked up a clove, peeled it and popped it into his mouth, chewing vigorously. A moment later, eyes streaming, throat on fire, he sat back down.

"I was attacked again."

"No! TP, seriously?" Madeline shook her head in disbelief, her ponytail swinging.

He told her the story. Now it was she who stood up and paced as he talked.

"It must have overtaken me just before I came through the hedge. I was so sure I had shucked it." A sudden rage assaulted him and he brought his fist down hard on the table, making dishes rattle and Madeline jump. Twice now his hopes had been crushed. It was too much. He couldn't take it a moment longer. Thrusting away from the table, he stood, grabbed a chair and, growling like a wild animal, threw it hard against the wall. The chair leg splintered, three cookbooks stacked on a shelf tumbled off, and his mother's antique ceramic rooster fell from the windowsill and shattered on the floor. He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, aghast at what he'd done.

Madeline watched him warily, shock and uncertainty written on her face. Slowly, gently he sat back down and put his head in his hands.

"Sorry," he said again. "I'm not myself." He looked up and guffawed. "I'm not myself." The raw truth of it made him explode with laughter. Doubled over, he held his stomach and wheezed, "I'm not myself!"

Madeline's mouth twisted and a small puff of air escaped her lips. In a moment she was laughing with him. It was release, and the best possible reaction to the horrendous circumstances. They howled and gasped until tears were streaming down their faces. Every time they began to wind down TP would repeat the phrase and they'd be off again.

Finally, entirely spent, Madeline asked, "Have you eaten anything lately?"

"Supper at Doc's. Mud bass and new potatoes. Doc asked what you were up to and wanted to know if you'd be visiting. I told him it was up to you."

She fiddled with the fringe on a cloth napkin. "Um, did Doc mention Sephyr at all?"

"Yes."

She looked up. "Well?"

"It seems Sephyr has disappeared."

She gaped at him. "What? When?"

"No one's seen him for over three months. According to Doc, the queen doesn't seem very concerned, or at least she's not showing it. Her son is well known for disappearing now and then."

"But surely not for three months."

TP shrugged. "I wish I could tell you more." He gathered the cookbooks and put them back on the shelf, swept up the broken rooster. "Don't worry about that," he said, gesturing to the chair and bits of plaster fallen from a dent in the wall. "I'll deal with it later. Lock me in my room. I've got a lot of thinking to do."