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Wild roses blossomed on either side of the road as TP trudged towards Boggy Meadow, but he barely noticed the lush display, nor smelled the delightfully scented morning air. Even the many species of small, flying reptiles visiting the flowers failed to catch his attention. Last summer he'd spent hours in the meadows and fields of Minglemist with his butterfly net and magnifying glasses, enchanted with the array of reptilian life forms.
He'd left home at daylight this morning after a wrenching goodbye to Madeline. Neither one of them was very comfortable with displays of affection; he due to innate shyness, she because of past rejections, but on this occasion they clung together a long moment, murmuring useless words, trying to convey all they meant to each other. At the last moment, Madeline had slipped the green stone from its chain around her neck and pressed it into his palm.
"Take this with you."
"No, no, I can't - " he began, but she insisted. The stone was petrified resin from the lollywon trees, a gift to her from Sephyr. Supposedly it held magical powers, and he knew how much it meant to her.
"I'll bring it back," he vowed.
He'd taken the long way into Boggy Meadow, sticking to the main road so he wouldn't have to pass the abandoned mill, hitching a ride part way on one of the many farm wagons that rumbled along the rutted road. Now he was on foot for the last stretch, going over and over in his head all the details he needed to remember.
In his backpack was a half-mile length of thin but strong nylon cord, a box of waterproof long matches and a can of lighter fluid, two hour glasses, one registering an hour, the other five minutes (he didn't trust his watch to work in the mistangle), and the all-important card containing mathematical calculations.
"Sixty minutes equals twelve years," he muttered, "thirty minutes, six years; five minutes, one year; one minute, seventy-three days; thirty seconds, thirty-six and a half days." This was at the center of the mistangle. Time was proportionately slower the closer one got to the outer perimeter. All his actions must be carefully choreographed, executed as quickly and efficiently as possible. One delay could spell disaster.
He was also pulling a suitcase on wheels full of charcoal, his fuel of choice for the last firing of the stone after the aging was complete. Charcoal was light weight and burned slower than many other fuels, but he worried he might not have enough. The honey preparation was to bake for forty days, which would work out to slightly over thirty seconds in the mistangle. Would the charcoal generate enough heat to solidify the stone, or would it burn out too quickly? Of all the challenges facing him, this one worried him most. He felt confident that Doc's grandfather had completed all the necessary steps up to the last firing. If he botched it, all the time and effort spent creating this magical elixir would be wasted, the failure squarely on his shoulders. Pressure to succeed weighed heavily on him.
When he reached Crabtree Lane the grey clouds over the swamp were turning gold and pink and the water sparkled in long ribbons of light. Flat bottom swamp boats bobbed among the rushes; he could hear fishermen shouting to each other as they set out for parts unknown.
Doc answered his knock, dapper as always in a red bowtie and matching suspenders, white shirt and grey pants. His eyes took in the backpack, the suitcase and TP's serious expression.
"You're going in," was all he said, and TP nodded.
"Wait for me at the Wiggle Hop. I have a patient to see, then I'll come over."
TP decided he should try to eat breakfast, though his stomach was full of butterflies. He needed energy for his mission, and all he'd brought from home was a chunk of oat bread, a handful each of raisins and walnuts and bottled water.
The Wiggle Hop was crowded and noisy. He found a seat at the smallest table tucked beneath the staircase, stashing his backpack and suitcase against the wall. A cadaverous old fellow wearing a black apron and a cap sporting the frog prince emblem brought him a glass of water and a menu.
"Special is Swamp Stew. Spatterdock and bog bean."
"Sounds delicious," TP murmured as he perused the menu. "What about scrambled eggs?"
"Out."
"I see. What's in the Breakfast Scramble?"
"Spatterdock and bog bean."
"And the Sunrise Surprise?" He was almost afraid to ask.
"Same, with clams." The old man rubbed his whiskered chin and glanced over at Oola, clearing tables.
"Thing is," he said in a low voice, "the cook quit. And the fishermen and egg lady don't like to sell here no more. Oola shorts them and they're skairt to complain." Then he whispered, "Oola, she's got a temper. Know anyone can cook looking for a job?"
TP tried picturing Gladys in the Wiggle Hop kitchen. He thought she just might be a match for Oola. But maybe not. He got the heebie jeebies when Oola even glanced his way with those small ferine eyes.
"I'll have the spatterdock and bog bean," he told the waiter, who carefully wrote it out on a pad of paper. Then the old man hesitated. "Would that be the stew or the scramble?"
"Either one will do. And tea, please." He'd rather have strong coffee, but the coffee here was made from roasted roots and didn't pack the same punch.
As he ate he watched the other customers to distract himself, imagining what their lives were like, living so primitively in one of the poorest, roughest parts of Minglemist. Many of them wore little more than rags, though he'd seen some ingenious gypsy-like costumes on the musicians made from scarves, ribbons, baubles and bells and odd bits of fabric pieced together. Once in awhile wealthy travelers stopped by for a respite, dismounting from spirited horses or fairy-tale carriages, decked out in fancy clothes. They likely came for a taste of the Wiggle Hop's legendary barnicane juice and wine, but he noticed these folks never stayed long. Open-eyed stares from the bearded, unkempt fishermen smelling of the swamp soon sent them on their way. And of course there was Oola, always poking at her beehive as though trying to dislodge something. Who knew what lived in there.
The stew - or scramble? - wasn't as bad as it sounded. It was served with a hard biscuit, which he crumbled into the broth to help mask the bitterness of the bog bean. There were small pink lumps in it that he guessed were crawfish. Good - he needed protein, and maybe the bitterness would settle his stomach.
He paid for his meal with pennies from a stash he'd saved last summer to use in Minglemist.
"What kind of coppers is these?" asked the waiter, scrutinizing them with a frown.
"Very rare," TP said. "Collectors' items, probably worth a lot. They're ninety-five percent copper." All pre-1982, when the copper content had dropped to 2.5 percent. It wouldn't be fair, he thought, to use the modern ones. Prices here were already ridiculously cheap. The least he could do was give a bit more bang for the buck.
"If you say so. But I'll have to check with the boss." He looked worriedly at Oola.
"It's fine. Oola's taken my coins before."
"And I can vouch for that." It was Doc, who'd just walked in.
Relieved, the waiter left and TP followed Doc home.
"I've arranged for someone to row you out to the island. He'll be here soon. Meanwhile, I want to hear every detail of your plan, step by step."
While TP talked, Doc transferred the honey preparation to a flame-proof flask with a tight-fitting lid and added a small fold-up tripod to use for the firing. He also offered advice, suggestions and encouragement, and Hattie, who knew what was afoot, gave him a big hug and a bottle of homemade smelling salts.
"Very reviving when you need a boost."
Touched, TP thanked her. "It's a wonderful gift, Hattie."
"You've got a sound plan, TP," Doc told him, "and I have great faith in you. Though I wish to God there was another way..."
"I'll be back before you know it," TP said with more confidence than he felt. "So who's this person who'll be taking me to Widow's Moan?"
"Fellow by the name of Glorious Beginnings."
TP blinked. "Surely not."
Doc raised his palms and shrugged. "You know these swamp people, TP. They don't exactly hold with tradition. And a lot of them go by aliases. Heck, some of my patients have changed their names four or five times. Makes record keeping a challenge."
"So this Beginnings - how well do you know him?"
"Glorious showed up around here not long ago and posted his name on the water taxi board. Wasn't long before he had a list of customers. I don't know where he came from, but he knows the swamp like the back of his hand. I've used him for a number of journeys, and he's always been reliable. Don't worry, he'll get you to Widow's Moan. And back."
They walked down to the swamp, disturbing a turtle sunning on a log. It dropped into the water with a plop and disappeared, leaving only a ring of ripples behind. TP took several deep breaths and shook his hands, trying to calm his jitters. A heron flew up nearby, and behind it TP saw a long, wooden jon boat emerge from a patch of morning mist still hovering over the water. It glided silently up to the dock and a man tossed a rope to Doc, who wrapped it around a piling.
"Morning, Glorious."
The man jumped nimbly out of the boat and shook Doc's hand. "This the passenger, then?"
"TP Dunlap." TP held out his hand, trying to hide his shock. The man had a huge, hideous purple growth on the side of his nose. TP's gaze skimmed over it quickly and moved upward. A patch covered one eye, the other was very dark and narrow. A stubble of whiskers concealed his chin, and his hair was buried beneath a brimmed hat, save for a small, scruffy ponytail trailing down over his collar. His pants were patched and baggy, of no particular color; his shirt, also loose, was bunched up and tied in a knot at his waist, the sleeves rolled up tight against his upper arms. He was nearly as tall as TP, thin but lithe and muscular, exuding an air of vigor and vitality so strong TP's arm was still tingling from the handshake.
TP sent Doc a frantic look while Glorious stowed his gear in the boat. He did not want to ride with this man. Obviously he was some kind of criminal. Who on earth would call himself Glorious Beginnings? Only someone with something to hide.
"Relax," Doc told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're in good hands. Trust me on this." He pulled TP into an embrace, slapped his back and helped him into the boat. "God speed." His voice was gruff with emotion.
TP watched his friend as the boat pulled away from shore; a short figure with bowlegs firmly planted on the dock and one hand raised in farewell, his white hair aloft like a sail in the breeze.
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