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The thing about bees, TP thought as he lay in the grey, no-man's-land of predawn, was their altruistic nature. They sacrificed themselves for the hive, collecting nectar and pollen, working tirelessly to care for the queen, the drones, their sister workers. The single drone bee lucky enough to mate with a new queen died immediately afterwards, his sole mission accomplished. All worker bees died after stinging invaders, but even the sting was a precious gift. It contained formic acid, used in making many medicines. And as they visited the flowers, bees left tiny traces of formic acid swirling around each plant, invigorating it. Without this magical elixir, all plants on earth would wither and die.
And then, of course, there was the honey, manna from heaven. Nectar from four thousand flowers went into one tablespoon of honey. It was the perfect substance for a vegetable stone, especially one that took one hundred years to ripen. Honey had been found in Egyptian tombs thousands of years old, still perfectly good.
He had read Hollandus' treatise on honey in the middle of the night, in between attacks from the beast urging him to do unspeakable things, torturing him until he wanted to die. At one point he'd awoken from a nightmare not knowing who or where he was. For an endless amount of time he couldn't remember his name. All he could do was breathe his way through the tunnel of darkness until his senses returned.
Hollandus' words were calming and soothing to his soul, an anchor to grab hold of in his anguish.
"Now I will reveal to you a great secret of the Vegetable Work, namely, the wonderful nature of honey, which is the subtlest and noblest of all plants and flowers, from whose purer and noble part it is elicited by the bees. My child should know that everything God has created is extremely good, perfect, and imperishable, like heaven; but all things found here on earth, such as animals, fish, and whatever is sentient, as well as herbs, plants, and whatever it may be, have a double nature, that is, a perfect and an imperfect one. The perfect one is called Quinta Essentia; the imperfect one, however, the feces or the poisonous combustible oil. You must separate those feces and the combustible oil, and what then remains is perfect and is called Quinta Essentia. It lasts eternally like heaven and cannot be corrupted by anything, including fire. This I am telling you out of love: God has put a secret nature or influence into all created things, and a general influence into all of nature, and also a particular influence or virtue into every single species or genus, either regarding medicine or other secret effects, which are partly brought to light through natural art but are by far still more hidden than is known to our senses. If God has infused into other things the power to heal, what will there be in honey, which is extracted from countless flowers, since each plant has its own gift? Truly, if one can bring it to its highest potency, it will operate wonderfully. Therefore, take note of what is hidden in this Quinta Essentia, so that you do not underestimate it but keep its secret as the most excellent of the whole Animal-Work. And when you have it, you do not require anything else for removing from the body anything bad befalling it."
Hollandus had then given instructions on how to make the stone. TP had read them carefully, pondering over the meaning of certain phrases, all the while thinking of Doc's grandfather slaving away so many years ago, bent over his flasks and furnace.
Now, in the first glimmers of daylight as he lay weak and spent from a long, tortuous night, he felt a small measure of triumph because he was still alive and rational. And because he'd come to a decision and was anxious to put it into action.
By the time he heard the dead bolt click he was dressed and ready for the day, despite shaky legs and a dizzy head. He glanced into the library as he passed and stopped in his tracks. Madeline hadn't moved into the guest room yet. On the table beside the couch where she slept was a pair of ear plugs.
He found her in the kitchen, putting a vase of flowers on the windowsill where the ceramic rooster had been.
"The coreopsis is beautiful right now," she said brightly. But her face was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.
"Are the noises horrendous?" he asked in a low voice.
She turned the vase and adjusted the flowers. "You saw the ear plugs?"
"I did. Madeline, I'm - "
"For God's sake TP, don't apologize. You're dealing with it the best you can."
"But - "
"One day at a time," she said firmly. Guilt washed over him at the sight of her standing there in her ravelly cut-offs and bare feet, so young to be placed in such a hellacious situation. Her early life had been rough; the scars of growing up an unwanted orphan had been plainly visible in her demeanor the first time they'd met. She'd been a prickly hedgehog, wary, afraid to trust, but with such character and presence showing through the armor. She'd delighted him with her gangly awkwardness (so like himself at that age), her mannerisms, her intelligence. He'd wanted at once to take her home, encourage and support her and watch her blossom. But now he'd put an unbearable burden on her shoulders, and he hated himself for it. He'd frightened her last night and there was nothing he could say to make things better.
Silently he picked up the chair with its broken leg and took it to the garage. He would have it fixed later, if there was a later.
Madeline made coffee for him and tea for herself, and he told her his plan. She argued vehemently, but in the end he convinced her it was for the best.
At nine o'clock he left to do some errands. First, he went to his lawyer's office and made some changes to his will. Madeline would inherit his house, the rest of his assets would be divided equally between Madeline and Harold, with a few family treasures designated for Evalda and Marnie. That accomplished, he made some purchases and headed home.
The rest of the morning was spent at his desk, getting certain affairs in order and composing letters. To Evalda he wrote that he'd been diagnosed with an incurable illness and was going off to lose himself in the marshes, the place he loved best. He was sorry to have kept her in the dark, but it seemed best this way. The letter to Harold took some time and caused his eyes to mist over. There was so much he wanted to say, but he kept the message clear and simple enough for a child to understand. Finally satisfied with his efforts, he put the letters in envelopes, addressed them and left them in the top drawer of his desk. If he returned from his mission, he would tear them up. If not, the information included would prevent Madeline from having to answer difficult questions about his disappearance.
At noon Madeline left to have lunch with Todd, and TP discovered a loaf of oat bread on the front steps wrapped in green paper with a giant pink bow. No need to wonder who'd left it there. It was still warm and smelled heavenly. Suddenly ravenous, (he'd skipped breakfast) he cut two thick slices and ate them with nut butter and cucumbers, one of his favorite sandwiches. He thought he might be addicted to Gladys' oat bread. Would this be his last loaf? Pushing the thought firmly out of his head, he changed into old clothes and went out to his garden. Having his hands in the earth and the sun on his back always calmed and centered him. White cumulous clouds rimmed in dusty blue sailed overhead - maybe there would be rain later. A brown thrasher sang exuberantly in the hedge; silver-spotted skippers and a lone mourning cloak fluttered through the echinacea. Harold's carefully constructed dirt road still meandered along the tomato bed, dead-ending at the dump site where a pile of pebbles and twigs had been deposited.
TP tried to keep his mind clear as he weeded and pruned and picked, focusing only on the simple tasks at hand, knowing he would need all the wits he could muster soon enough. He ignored the fatigue weighing him down, the fog in his brain. He could cope. He must.
Two hours later he walked around front to check his mailbox. Mel's wife Marge was doing the same next door.
"TP," she called, waving and walking over to him. "I haven't seen you in awhile. How are you doing?" She eyed him closely; a short, sturdy, energetic woman with a mass of dark wavy hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Pretty much the opposite of her laid-back husband.
"Fine," he lied, "and you?" She was a nurse - could she see he was ailing? He straightened his stance.
"I'm well enough," she said. Her eyes fell to his mid-section and stayed there several moments. When she looked up, she seemed flustered. TP glanced down at his shirt, which was missing a button. Was that bothering her, for heaven's sake? She, the nurse, whose husband strolled around shirtless with his big paunch hanging out? Self-consciously he crossed his arms over his front. He'd never liked this shirt. Evalda had given it to him. For some reason it irked her that he only wore white shirts, but then, pretty much everything he did irked her. So she sent him white shirts, but with monograms or emblems or odd-shaped collars, or subtle, off-white stripes, just to make a point. Or maybe to aggravate him. This one had hideous gold buttons like some faux military uniform. He'd never worn it in public, only for working in the garden.
Marge's eyes were still darting up and down. "Is there something wrong, Marge?"
"No. Nothing." She was plainly nervous. "Well, I have to get going. My shift starts soon." She backed away, then turned abruptly and hurried off.
Puzzled, TP went inside and got a glass of water, sitting down to drink it. Yesterday's paper lay on the table, unread. Idly he browsed the headlines, stopping short when one jumped out at him.
Reward Offered for Information on Dr. Demento
Ms. Marsha Trueblood is offering a $1,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the man she believes drugged her and stole her watch in Cheswolde last week, dubbed Dr. Demento because of his outlandish behavior. "I can't let this man go unpunished," she told a reporter. "He caused me and his other victims horrendous harm. The watch he stole has sentimental value and is worth a great deal to me. He must be stopped before he attacks someone else. Some might view him as a comical prankster, but let me tell you, he is a monster. I'm still having nightmares."
The Sun has learned that a button was found at the scene of the crime, likely from a shirt or jacket; gold, embossed with a lion and a crown, similar to military buttons. If anyone has any information, please contact your local police or call the Baltimore Sun.
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