Won't You Guess My Name

Have you ever wondered if Dr. Doolittle's pushmi pullyu had trouble making decisions? It's hard enough to do with one head, let alone two! Plus four legs. How did it decide which direction to go, which head to follow? Either it was a highly advanced creature or it had magical abilities (apparently there was some unicorn blood in its ancestry), otherwise it would've spent all day struggling to get somewhere.

Too bad we humans don't know the pushmi pullyu's secret, because we're all constantly pushed and pulled between two opposing forces in our lives which often cause much chaos. Like it or not, the world's existence depends on the tension between these poles. Look around and you can see it everywhere: expansion and contraction, destruction and creation, waxing and waning.  

Chinese philosophy names these energies yin and yang, neither being good or evil, always seeking to balance each other out.

In Christianity, the poles are seen as two opposing entities, the good being Christ, the evil His adversary, Satan. 

Spiritual science teaches that there are actually two opposing entities that can draw us toward evil, with Christ as the balancing point between them. The names given to these beings are Lucifer and Ahriman.

The name Lucifer means "bearer of light". It was he who tempted Adam and Eve to eat the fruit of knowledge. But with the light of self knowledge and the freedom of choice comes the potential for evil. Lucifer inspires poets, musicians, artists, visionaries. He brings hope. But in excess, his influence leads to fiery passions, inflated ego, hyperactivity, wars and revolutions, fanaticism, superstition. Luciferic illnesses include fevers and inflammation. This entity seeks to lead us away from earth and from Christ to a realm of his own making. He persuades us that we are better than everyone else, that our point of view is obviously so superior we must do anything to defend it. Just think of all the people slaughtered in the name of religion.

Ahriman, also called the lord of darkness, is a lesser known figure to most, but very active in our times. He is Lucifer's opposite. He works through materialism, science and mathematics, knowledge and data devoid of human feeling (artificial intelligence), division, rigidity. He gives us technological advances and cold, clear, logical thinking, but takes away the poetry and beauty of life. Ahrimanic illnesses include sclerosis and calcifications. Ahriman seeks to bind us to the earth, severing our connection with our spiritual home.

So how do we protect ourselves from these two influences? The pushmi pullyu had a clever way of dealing with danger. One head slept while the other stayed alert, watching for predators. But even if we had two heads it wouldn't help much, because our predators attack from within, deep in our subconscious. So our first line of defense is knowledge. When you know your enemies, how they work and what they're capable of, when you can say their names, it gives you power over them. They can't hide in the darkness anymore.

Secondly, we do have a weapon other lifeforms on earth don't: self knowledge. We can view ourselves dispassionately, as if we were a separate entity. We aren't compelled to act on our thoughts and feelings. Again, this brings great power.

In every swing of a pendulum there is a point of stillness in the middle. It exists between heartbeats, breaths taken in and out, between thought and the emotion it engenders, between feeling and action. This is the place of balance where we meet the Christ. We can practice finding that point until it becomes habit. When we feel self-righteous anger, we can say, "Ah, Lucifer is poking at me!". When we feel fearful or worthless, like life is drudgery and it doesn't really matter what we do because we'll never amount to anything anyway, we can know Ahriman is knocking on our door, hoping to win us over to his side.

The best way to neutralize these two influences is to pour one into the other. Try to cultivate warmth and enthusiasm in all you do, even when emptying the garbage or reading a boring article or listening to a dull conversation. Put a little beauty into the beast! Ahriman hates this. Practice viewing yourself with a bit of cold, clear dispassion so you can see all the ways Lucifer is attempting to lure you into feelings of arrogance and egotism. Beware of the beast that may lurk in beauty! After a time you'll begin to catch yourself before the pendulum swings in the opposite direction, and you can remain in that still, stable place.

This article barely scratches the surface of a vast and complex subject. I hesitated to even write it, but decided the subject is too important to ignore, and blowing it off would please Ahriman. Every voice counts!

The Mysterious Will-o-the-Wisp

You might think the title of this piece refers to an unearthly, slightly scary light dancing across a meadow at night. But actually I'm referring to solid matter! Recent science journals report that scientists have discovered how light can become matter. This is extremely exciting.

Rudolf Steiner, (1861 - 1925), an Austrian scientist, philosopher and seer, stated that "every substance on earth is condensed light. All matter is, in essence, light." (He was highly ridiculed by his peers).

Einstein too was ridiculed, but now science is catching up. Consider this: under a microscope, you see molecules moving around in empty space. If you look into the atoms of the molecules you find even more empty space and less solid material. Go deeper yet into sub-atomic particles - electrons, protons, neutrons, and there is essentially nothing solid remaining. It is 99.999999996% empty space!

Hmmm...why then does my hand stop when it hits the table? Scientists say it's the result of invisible fields and forces. Mysterious indeed. Especially considering that even light is invisible. We only see it reflected off particles of dust or other "solid" objects like planetary bodies in space.

Religion teaches that all things are made by God. The Godhead does not have a physical body. But He has the power to create matter out of His thoughts. Steiner said that rays of sunlight are actually the thoughts of divine beings who pour wisdom and love down upon the earth. Thought to light to solid matter.

Whether you believe in God or science or both, the matter beneath our feet holds profound mysteries. Should we, as average citizens, try to penetrate them?  Or should we leave that up to God and the scientists? Maybe looking for the source of solid matter is like chasing after a will-o-the-wisp. Or is it?

We humans were given the gift of reason. We were gifted with imagination, inspiration and intuition. Surely these tools were meant to be used. Surely we're not meant to sail through life enjoying all we've been given without seeking to understand it. 

Christ said "he who believes in me will also do the works I do, and greater works than these will he do". Christ healed the sick, raised people from the dead, walked on water. He understood how the Divine works in matter. If we're ever to even come close to His wisdom and power we have some work to do. I don't believe His abilities will be handed to us on a silver platter. Again, it might seem futile, like trying to capture a will-o-the-wisp, but we have to start somewhere. 

Why is finding the divine in nature so important?

1. It connects us with all the wide world and helps break down barriers.

2. It eases depression, loneliness and fear, bringing joy and a zest for life.

3. It honors and feeds the higher worlds. We aren't the only beings connected to the earth who are evolving. We all feed each other through our thoughts and deeds!

4.It fosters feelings of reverence, devotion and love.

5. It breathes life into otherwise "dead" words or concepts repeated over and over until they lose their meaning.

6. It counters the materialism of our age and our obsession with electronic devices which rob us of living contacts with others.

So where do we start? Here are a few suggestions that I've found helpful over the years.

1. Set aside a small block of time - even five minutes will do, twenty minutes is great.

2. Hold an object from the mineral, plant or animal world, or sit before it. Seeds and crystals are ideal, or use a feather or a blossom, anything as long as it's not manmade.

3. State your intent with a simple sentence, for example, "I intend to learn what secrets this object holds."

4. Have faith and trust in the process, also patience and an attitude of reverence and humility.

5. Observe and contemplate! Ponder the object's physical characteristics and purpose.

6. Meditate. After a time, let all other thoughts dissolve as best you can, close your eyes and concentrate on the feelings that arise as you hold the image of the object in your mind. Keep an open heart and know that you are doing blessed work.

That's it! Meditation actually changes our physical makeup. It calms the nerves, improves circulation and energy, slows heartrate, lowers blood pressure and allows the body to heal. Best of all, it merges the paths of knowledge and devotion, ending the mistrust that science and religion often have for each other. The light of God, working through us, transforms the earth!

 

 

Crystal Palace

Crystals talk. Their language isn't like ours, yet everyone who gazes at one will feel something inside. A little tug, a burst of light in the heart, a pulse of energy, wonderment and appreciation for such perfect beauty.

Clear quartz crystals formed during the early stages of the Earth's crust formation 500 million years ago, and some crystals found in Australia are estimated to be 2 to 3 billion years old. Just think of that! We can hold something in our hands literally older than dirt. What stories they hold! 

Because of quartz's durability and ability to absorb, store, release and regulate energy, it's ideal for making optical fibers used in telecommunications for high speed data transmission. Quartz is also used in microscopes, telescopes and lasers, and makes a strong insulator.

Crystals have long been used for healing, protection and spiritual growth. Do an online search for "healing with crystals" and you'll find reams of material to read. I won't attempt to repeat what others have said, but I'd like to share a little of my own experiences using quartz crystals for health and meditation.

I meditate twice a day for 20 minutes or so. I believe cleansing the mind and emotions is just as important as taking a daily shower. There are many ways to accomplish this; through prayer, reading, yoga, listening to music, walking in nature. Crystals can enhance all of these practices. They bring clarity to thoughts, foster feelings of strength and stability, deepen our connections to the world around us.

My method is simple and effective; in fact I'm often astonished at the results. I start with two of my favorite crystals, making sure they've been recently cleansed by holding them under running water (non-chlorinated), rubbing their surfaces briskly, then putting them outside in the sunlight for a few hours. I do this maybe once a week. There are other ways to cleanse crystals - you can read about those in books or online.

I hold the crystals in my palms, close my eyes and start by touching the smooth surfaces with my fingers, noticing what feelings arise. I think about how the crystals were formed so long ago. Before they hardened, crystals were liquid. I imagine divine forces guiding the liquid into geometric planes, gifting the earth with these exquisite objects for our pleasure, health and well-being.

Next I ponder on how the stones are beautifully formed but are finished evolving. They have no capacity for growth or change like living things do. They are permanent, unchangeable, stable, nearly indestructible. They are an oasis of safety. Now I imagine myself inside a crystal. I feel it holding me in a sacred space, insulating me from all outside influences. I feel calm and protected. I'm in my own crystal palace, safe and secure. I let go of all stress, all confusion, doubts, emotions and thoughts that aren't harmonious, and relax as they dissolve into the pure form of the crystal. After a time I take a few deep breaths, imagining light radiating down through my head and grounding me to the earth.

I'm constantly surprised by the thoughts that arise as I hang out in my crystal palace. They're very different than my usual thoughts. They come at lightning speed, without words, conveying their meaning in a sort of living picture that resides partly in my heart, partly in my head. How does this happen? I haven't a clue. The human brain doesn't yet have the capacity to understand how invisible energies work, making it hard to explain with words. It has to be felt. Different senses are needed for this, and practice is the only way to develop them.

When we use and appreciate crystals and start to unlock their ancient secrets, we benefit not only ourselves. Though crystals are lifeless, we can breathe life back into them by using them. We can carry their mission forward, and by so doing we grace the divine beings who created them with our gratitude. This forms a full circle of giving and receiving that elevates the entire world.

Winter is a perfect time to explore the world of crystals. Outside, nature is at rest beneath her  mantle of snow and ice. Birds and insects are silent, the air is crisp and thin, making thoughts clearer and sharper without the distractions that spring and summer bring. Find a crystal and explore.

 . 

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Six

( out of order )

It was Thursday, two days before the party. Gladys had been driving TP nuts, ringing the doorbell every five minutes with armfuls of party supplies. The counters were overflowing; there were bags and boxes in the laundry room, folding tables and chairs on the patio along with a pop-up tent ready to assemble. TP finally asked her to please come in without ringing the bell, and she didn't have to call out "yoo hoo" either. Her voice was growing shriller by the day as Saturday approached. She was in a frenzy, barking out orders like a drill sergeant to her crew.

Her sister and nephew had come to help. The nephew, a pale, droopy boy with bad acne and long, greasy hair had been given the task of stringing the hedge with tiny lights. TP worried about fire danger and electrocutions and nesting birds, but didn't want to put a damper on Glady's plans. Madeline was in charge of bouquets, but there'd already been several heated exchanges on the topic. Madeline wanted wildflowers from a nearby flower farm; Gladys insisted on white lilies and roses. The two were currently not speaking. 

 At the moment, Marge, Gladys and the sister were all in his kitchen making party favors and decorations. How three women could possibly produce so much racket was beyond him. He fled to the barbershop to get a haircut, then bought a new white shirt and swung by the farmers' market. His appetite was still voracious. In the last three days he'd gained back twelve of the twenty-six pounds he'd lost in the mistangle and he no longer had to cinch his pants up with a belt to keep them from falling off. 

The baby carrots looked excellent; he bought three bunches to snack on, then added some cheeses from the cheese lady and a bean and rice roll up hot off the grill. That should tide him over till supper. Gladys had been plying him with all sorts of dishes she was making ahead for the bash, so he'd been able to binge to his heart's content.

That evening Evalda called. "Harold and I will be coming down for the dinner party. I've got appointments with two realtors in Baltimore to look at potential buildings for our new OPAA branch. I'll drop Harold off with you in the morning and be back late afternoon. Oh, and we'll be spending the night - I hope you haven't filled the guest room up with weeds and dead insects. I'm very sensitive to dust."

You're welcome, TP thought as he ended the call. But he'd be glad to see Harold again.

Saturday came at last. Evalda and Harold arrived promptly at 8 a.m. Archie had come as well, greeting TP with a mournful woof, his tail wagging furiously. Harold had brought Richard and the Duke and his dump truck, and after greetings were complete, he went straight to the back yard to make a few runs along his dumping route.

"I'll be back by four to get Harold cleaned up. I'm sure he'll be filthy by then. TP, you look skeletal. There's something going on with you, and - "

He cut her off. "It was a parasite. You were right. I did a cleanse and got rid of it."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, I'm glad you finally took my advice about something."

Later as he was polishing his shoes in the laundry room Madeline came barreling in, her color high, her eyes sparking. She shook a bundle of napkins in his face.   

"I found these on the counter. Have you not seen them? Really, TP, Thad and Glad? Thad and Glad?"

He looked at the napkins and blanched. Good God. They were pale blue with silver embossing. 'Thad and Glad' was written in fancy script in the center, the words flanked by looping ribbons and pealing bells.

TP raised his eyes to Madeline's, his mouth hanging open. "It looks like..."

"Exactly," she said. "Wedding, or at the very least, engagement. She's planned this all out, don't you see? Gladys creates her own fantasy world and believes in it, no matter the reality. You have to set her straight. I wouldn't put it past her to make some crazy announcement at the party, hinting that you're celebrating your engagement. Rein her in, TP, or you're in for a big embarrassment."

She thrust the napkins at him and flounced out. He sighed heavily. Maybe he could just get rid of the napkins and tell Gladys there'd been an accident. Something got spilled on them. Yes. He went to the kitchen and ran water over the whole bunch, kneading them for good measure. When they were well past redemption, he put them in the trash. There wouldn't be time for her to order more. But maybe he should get some to replace the ruined ones?

Madeline was on the patio, making small wildflower bouquets for the tables. She and Gladys had apparently come to a compromise, as one large vase stood in the shade under the tent, overflowing with white lilies and roses.

"Madeline, will you keep an eye on Harold while I make a quick trip?"

"Sure," she said. "Did you get rid of them?"

"The napkins? Yes, I'm going out to buy something a little less, ah, suggestive."

He found some party napkins at the supermarket. White, with blue flowers. That should do. 

Back home, TP and Harold feasted on pre-party foods for lunch. There were three crock pots going on the counter, hors-d'oeuvres in the fridge and various pans, pots and bowls at every turn. It was heavenly.

Afterwards TP went to his room to line out his clothes and Harold came along, climbing up on the bed and rolling this way and that. Archie lay on the floor and promptly fell asleep.

"My mom's coming home in two days."

"That's great. You must miss her."

"She's going to start her own magazine so she won't have to go away any more. And we might move."

"Oh?"

"Grandma Evie wants Mom to help at the new pet shelter in Baltimore."

"And what does your mom think about that?" 

Harold rolled onto his back and stretched his legs up on the headboard.

"She might like it. She can take pictures of the dogs and put them in her magazine."

"Sounds like a good idea." 

"Uncle TP, did you get rid of the dark thing?"

"Yes, I did. It's all gone."

Harold drummed his feet against the headboard.

"Did you have to fight it?"

"I made a special medicine that chased it away."

"Like the one Gladys spilled?"

"Yes, pretty much like that one." He held up a jar holding small bits of the vegetable stone.

"That's the medicine? It looks like red glass."

"It does, doesn't it."

"Does it hurt your tongue?"

"No, it melts after awhile."

"How much do you take?"

"Only a tiny bit. It's very powerful."

Harold sat up and sighed deeply. "That's a relief. I brought Richard and the Duke along in case we had to fight it off again."

TP felt a wave of regret that Harold had had to experience his nightmare. He hoped it hadn't traumatized the child for life.

"If I move to Baltimore, maybe we can go canoeing sometimes."

"Definitely. I'd like that very much." He rummaged through his collection of ties. Red, blue or silver? Blue, he decided.

"Uncle TP, would the medicine work for dogs?"

"I suppose so.  Are you worried about Archie?

"He's sleepy today. I think I'll stay here awhile with him, while he takes a nap."

Harold could probably use one himself, TP thought. He left the room quietly, closing the door save for a crack, and went out to the back yard.

Gladys was putting lace doilies and little bags of party favors on the tables, covered with crisp white tablecloths. The nephew was helping. His name was Chester, but he wanted to be called Fabian.

"There you are, Thad! Everything's coming together as planned!"

He went over to her. "Gladys, does this party have any particular theme?"

"Theme?"

"I mean, are we celebrating anything in particular?"

"Oh, no," she said breezily. "Just a happy summer get-together."

"Good," he said, feeling relieved. "What's the schedule again?"

"Drinks at five, dinner at six, poetry reading at seven, and of course, music."

"Who's reading?" he asked.

"Several folks have volunteered. One of our neighbors is reading Emily Dickenson, I think, and Mr. Burley from across the street will participate. He's a literature teacher, you know. And I have a little something as well. But the star will be our own Chester. He's quite the poet, isn't that right, dear?"

Chester/Fabian shrugged, flinging back a lock of hair.

"Who are your favorite poets?" TP asked him.

"I see myself as a torch bearer for Williams and Ginsberg. Someone's got to carry on the Beat, you know?"

"I can't wait," said TP.

Marge appeared from next door to help set up, throwing him one of her suspicious looks. What was it with her? She and Mel were both a bit strange, he thought. Anyway, he had other things to think about. The musicians would need a level spot to set up on. He had some sheets of plywood in the garage that could be covered with cloth. 

"Fabian? Maybe you could give me a hand."

The boy gave him a half smile, possibly in appreciation for calling him Fabian, or maybe for offering an escape route from Gladys and her doilies. TP could sympathize on both counts. He knew what it was like to despise your name. Chester didn't exactly conjure up images of sensitive poets. And having prolonged exposure to Gladys' voice and mannerisms would be enough to drive anyone to the brink.

 

  

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Nine

(for earliest chapters click on 2022 posts link on left sidebar)

 "I think I've found the right building for our new pet shelter."

They were eating breakfast the morning after the party; TP, Evalda, Harold and Madeline. Evalda had cooked oatmeal, and there were left over fruit tarts from last night.

"It's not too far from here, actually. Used to be a vet's office, so there are kennels and a big fenced area in back."

"Sounds perfect," said Madeline, spooning up cereal.

"I expect you to do some volunteer work, TP. It'll give you something constructive to do with your time."

He wouldn't rise to the bait. He had dozens of constructive projects in mind, but they wouldn't rate with Evalda unless she'd thought of them first.

"Yes, well, we'll see," he said.

"It'll be a family affair if Marnie and Harold move down here. I'm hoping she'll decide to oversee it."

"And I'll walk the dogs," said Harold. "And Madeline can take them for rides in the green beetle, and maybe I can come too."

They all laughed. After breakfast TP got a call from Charles.

"Morning, TP. Great party last night."

"It certainly was memorable, wasn't it?"

Charles chuckled. "I made a few calls, did a little nosing around, and unearthed some information you'll find interesting."

"Oh?"

"One of the orderlies at the hospital who'd been on duty the night the first three of Dr. Demento's victims came in confessed last night that he'd injected two of them with Gogetamine. He didn't have the authority to do so, but the patients were so distraught he took it upon himself to drug them."

"Hmmm, said TP."

"Yes, and now it gets even more interesting," said Charles. "The other victim, Marsha Trueblood, whose watch was stolen, was at the police station last night. She wanted you to be in a lineup, but I doubt she'd have recognized you even if you were Dr. Demento."

TP raised his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"I read up a little on Gogetamine. It has a long list of side effects, including blurred vision. Anyway, after questioning Ms. Trueblood some more, the police paid a visit to the friend she'd been visiting right before the attack. Turns out the friend takes care of her ailing mother, who was participating in the Gogetamine trial. The mother liked to put the drug in her tea and sip it over a period of time so as not to get the full dose immediately. While Marsha was visiting, her friend made tea, and somehow the mother's tea with the drug in it got served to Marsha. And finally, they've decided the sting Marsha felt on her shoulder that night was likely an insect bite."

"Thanks for letting me know all this, Charles. You've been more than helpful and I really appreciate what you've done."

"No problem."

TP ended the call and went out to the back yard, where Harold was collecting his dump truck. Chester/Fabian was removing the lights from the hedge.

"Everything all right?" he asked TP.

"Yes. Yes, it was all a misfortunate misunderstanding."

"The party got pretty wild after you left." He snickered.

"What happened," asked TP.

"Aunt Gladys was steaming mad that Marge called the cops on you. She said that if you were Dr. Demento, Marge was Lizzie Bordon, because nobody in their right mind could suspect you of being a criminal. They were going at it right in the middle of the party. I was afraid Aunt Gladys was going to bop Marge with a serving spoon, but Mel broke them up and everyone went home."

"Good grief," said TP, picturing Gladys in her sequined heels brandishing a spoon. "I hope I haven't ruined their friendship."

"Uh-uh," said Chester/Fabian. "One thing about Aunt Gladys, she doesn't stay mad long."

TP wandered over to Harold, who was standing near the garden. They stood side by side, watching a butterfly hover over a patch of white turtlehead in the flower patch.

"It's the Baltimore checkerspot," said Harold.

"Yes, it is. She'll be laying her eggs on the turtlehead. Harold, I've been wondering something."

"What?"

"I've been thinking about how the drug that Archie ate didn't make him sick."

Harold gave him a stricken, guilty look.

"And I've just been wondering if maybe you gave him a little piece of the special medicine from the jar in my bedroom."

Harold nodded and hung his head. "I know it was wrong not to ask, but I was so worried about Archie, and I only gave him a tiny bit, and..."

"And you were afraid you'd get in trouble?"

"Yes."

"Next time be sure and ask, Harold. But I'm very, very glad Archie's ok."

After Harold and Evalda left, TP found Madeline sitting in the living room, staring pensively out the window and fingering the green stone, now back on its chain around her neck.

"What are you thinking?"

She sighed. "I'm going through the hedge today."

"Ah." He'd known she'd go back to Minglemist.

"I just can't move forward with Todd until I've gotten closure with Sephyr. I have to go find him."

"Be careful, and don't walk past the old mill. Take the long way around. And just in case, I'll give you some chips of the vegetable stone to take along."

"Will you be going back?" she asked.

"I can't imagine not fishing now and then with Doc. And I have some whistles to deliver to Glorious Beginnings."

"I want to meet him, and thank him for saving your life."

"He's an interesting fellow. I'll look forward to getting your take on him."

"What are your plans for the summer?" she asked.

TP sat down in his rocker, frowned and steepled his hands under his chin. "You know I've been wanting to write a book. I thought if I could write about all the exciting life forms in Minglemist, and if people could come and see first hand how vibrant and diverse and pristine and wild and wonderful it is, maybe it would inspire them to help restore our own collapsing ecosystems." 

TP stood up and began pacing the floor. "I want to make people care that the puritan tiger beetle may become extinct, and that the whip-poor-wills and bobolinks are disappearing. I want to make them want to nurture and love and protect and foster life; to know how important the honeybees and the earthworms are. To understand that our lives depend on the health of the soil and air and water. I want them to get excited about the healing potential hidden in the plant world, waiting to be discovered. I want them to understand that we aren't separate from nature, that science and religion are the same damn thing, not two opposing sides at war with each other."

He stopped for a breath, giving her a lopsided smile.

She smiled back. "It's so good to see your spirit and zest for life coming back, TP." 

He nodded. "But here's the thing. No one but you and me can even see Minglemist. If I write about it I'll be labeled a lunatic and no one will believe a word I say, so what's the point?"

Madeline looked at him thoughtfully. "You could always write it as a fantasy story."

He huffed disgustedly.

"No, I'm serious, TP. Fantasy stories carry great power. The truths behind the tale can be as real as the ones in any dry, scientific tome, and much more engaging. Stimulate people's imagination, show them a world where nature is unspoiled. Make them long to see Minglemist become a reality here in this world. Except for the chimera dragons, of course."

"I think they're already here," TP said glumly, "and people need to know about them too, before they turn into monsters. The more humans lose touch with nature, the stronger the doppelgangers grow. They're parasites. Parasites move in when trash builds up and needs to be removed, just like insects attack diseased and dying plants when the environment is unhealthy. Our thoughts get overloaded with data not grounded in the real world and it makes us sick. There has to be balance."

"So write about it. Make it fun and exciting and passionate. I'll even illustrate it for you. I still have all my sketches from last summer."

He felt a tiny glimmer of interest. "I'll consider it." 

Right now, though, he needed to help Fabian/Chester clean up the back yard, and go thank Gladys for all her efforts, and compliment her on the job she'd done. And while he was at it, he'd ask her - no, tell her that he'd like to be called TP instead of Thad from now on.

And then he'd call Claire. 

THE END

(or is it???)

Comment if you'd like to see a sequel.

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Eight

(for earlier chapters, click on the 2022 posts link on the left sidebar.)

The policemen instructed him to stay where he was and disappeared down the hall. People came in the back door but were only allowed to use the bathroom. At one point, Gladys' strident voice rose, demanding to be let into the kitchen, but she was firmly rebuffed. Then he heard Madeline speaking to the officers, and shortly after that, another voice joined in. Todd's brother-in-law, Charles, he thought. He heard the word "attorney" followed by more murmuring, then Charles entered the kitchen and sat down beside TP. He looked like a lawyer, TP thought. Sharp brown eyes, dark, wavy hair carefully styled, grey creased pants, crisp shirt, shiny shoes, well-manicured fingernails and that subtle aura of privilege and authority.

"I came to see if I could be of any assistance, TP," he said. "What's going on?"

TP threw up his hands. "I wish I knew. A prescription bottle was found in my trash and the police have a warrant to search the house."

"Who found the bottle?"

"I believe it was my neighbor, Marge. She's been helping Gladys with the party."

"Did you ask to see the warrant?"

TP shook his head. "I suppose I should have. I'm not very savvy about these things."

"Sit tight," said Charles, "and don't talk to anyone. I'll see what I can find out."

A few moments later he was back.

"They're looking for two things: a shirt with a missing button and evidence of drug use - used syringes, vials, empty gel caps, that sort of thing. What can you tell me about this, TP?"

He talked to Charles, trying to sound cool and collected and innocent, though guilt hung over him like a heavy black cloud.

"Marge seems to think I'm Dr. Demento."

Charles gave him a penetrating look. "I have to ask this, TP. Are you Dr. Demento?"

"No," he said emphatically. At least that was truthful. Dr. Demento was gone, never to return. And he could be honest about not knowing how the pill bottle had gotten into his trash can.

"I find it strange," said Charles, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs, "that Marge, a nurse who's probably one of very few people with access to this experimental drug, should be the one to find the bottle."

They sat in silence a moment, and TP could see Charles' lawyer-mind sifting through the facts. "I think I should help you navigate through this. If you want me to, that is."

"Seems like a good idea," TP said. 

"Ok, then," said Charles.

The policemen were back in short order. Of course they'd found the shirt. They'd also asked for a key to his lab and taken his vial of herbal sedative and some used syringes.

"We'd like you to come with us to the station, Mr. Dunlap, and continue our discussion."

"Go with them," said Charles. "I'll meet you there. Remember, don't answer any questions." 

At the police station he was escorted to a small room and left there alone. Charles soon joined him.

"I've learned a few things," he said. "It seems that your neighbor Marge had visited a patient at home shortly before the first Dr. Demento incident happened. This patient was using the drug Gogetamine, but had decided to stop taking it due to side effects. Marge took the bottle with three remaining pills in it to dispose of properly at the hospital. She went home and left the bottle in her car for an hour or so, then went to work. When she got to the hospital, the bottle was gone."

"So she thinks I stole the bottle and drugged people with it? But that doesn't make sense. How could someone be forced to swallow a drug without even knowing it?"

"The pills were gel caps," said Charles. "The liquid in them can be drawn into a syringe and injected, so it would take effect almost immediately. Then the suspect could rob his victims or scare them to death or do whatever his twisted mind told him to do."

TP frowned and shook his head. 

"Seems far-fetched, I know," said Charles, "but somehow the drug got into three of the four victims' systems. It sounds like nasty stuff, only used for treating very disturbed people. No telling what it would do to normal folks, especially when injected."

The two policemen returned, one holding the shirt with the missing button. TP's heart began to pound. More questions followed. Was the shirt his? Yes. Where had he lost the button? He didn't know. Did he ever walk along the street where Ms. Trueblood had been attacked? Yes, quite often, actually, when he walked to the park. Had he attacked Ms. Trueblood? No. 

After awhile they changed tactics. "Mr. Dunlap, would you be willing to participate in a lineup? It would be a good way to help clear this up quickly."

Good lord. TP opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Charles, who murmured, "You don't have to. It's completely voluntary."

No way, thought TP. He would surely be recognized. But would they think him guilty if he refused? And would he now spend the rest of his life in fear of being recognized by one of the victims?

"I don't believe I will," he told them firmly. Hadn't he been through enough? He'd endured a horrendous ordeal with a monster, survived over two hours in the mistangle which hardly anyone else had ever done, been chased by outlaws in the Boggy Meadow swamp, shot at, and now, now on top of everything else would he have to spend years behind bars as punishment? 

The men looked disappointed. 

From behind the closed door TP suddenly heard a familiar honking voice. What was Evalda dong here? A moment later she burst into the room. Harold was with her. What on earth? 

"Ma'am, you can't come in here," one of the men said, blocking her path.

Evalda was tall and had the Dunlap nose, a very effective tool for looking down on others to put them in their place. She used it now.

"I'm TP's sister, Evalda, and this is my grandson, Harold. He has something to say that you need to hear."

She pushed past the policeman, an arm around Harold, drawing him with her. "Go ahead, Harold, tell the officers what you told me."

Harold's freckles stood out against his white cheeks. He peered up at the men from under the fringe of his bangs, gripping his grandmother's skirt.

"Uncle TP couldn't have given those people the drugs. I know, be-because - "

He stopped and hung his head.

"Did you see the pills?" asked one of the men.

Harold nodded.

"And what happened to them? Where are they?"

"Archie ate them!"

"His dog," Evalda said.

In bits and pieces, the story came out. When Harold had first come to visit, Archie had escaped his leash and run over to Marge and Mel's house. He sniffed around in some bushes beside their driveway and came back with the pill bottle in his mouth. It had likely rolled out of Marge's car unnoticed until Archie came along. Harold had put it in his dump truck and driven it to the dumping site. This morning, when he went to play in TP's backyard, the bottle was still where he'd left it. He had opened it up and taken out the pills, laying them on a leaf for further examination. But Archie had promptly eaten them. Feeling both frightened and guilty, Harold had thrown the bottle in the trash can.

The men looked dubious. "Impossible. That much drug would kill a dog."

"I assure you he's very much alive," Evalda said. "And Harold doesn't lie."

The men turned away with their heads together, talking softly, gesticulating, frowning.

"Get the dog down here," one said.

"He's in the car, actually," Evalda told them.

"Wait a minute, then." One of the men left and returned with a specimen cup, holding it out to Evalda.

"See if you can get him to - you know. We'll do an instant drug test. That will tell us if there are drugs in his system. If so we can follow up with a blood test to get the specifics."

Archie's urine was loaded with benzodiazepines. The policemen were confounded.

"How he can still be alive is beyond me," said one, shaking his head. Archie eyed him dolefully, sitting calmly beside Evalda with his crooked legs splayed in front of him.

The officers looked grim. Now they were back to square one on how the victims had been drugged.

Not my problem, thought TP, feeling a huge wave of relief. 

"You're free to go for now, Mr. Dunlap.

The words were music to his ears. Apparently the shirt with the missing button was not enough evidence to hold him on. His steps were light as he approached the front desk. A woman stood there, talking loudly.

"Can't you make the guy be in a lineup? I'd recognize him in an instant. Those staring eyes, that ghastly grimace." 

Her eyes fell on TP. He braced himself, sucking in his cheeks, narrowing his eyes, slouching a little. But after a brief glance, she turned back to the man at the desk.

"I'm very glad you found my watch at the pawn shop, and I know the camera showed the seller to be young, bald and short; but there obviously were two of them working together. One drugged me, the other ripped me off. You said you had a suspect, so let me look at him."

Again her eyes shifted to TP, who was hurrying towards the door, then she turned away. She hadn't known him! He felt like crowing. Maybe his nightmare was finally over.

 

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Seven

 (IMPORTANT: before reading this chapter, read chapter twenty-six which got listed after chapter twenty-nine by mistake!)

At four-thirty the musicians arrived to set up. TP had built a brick and plywood platform between the flower patch and the food tent, covering it with old sheets which Gladys had sprinkled liberally with dried flower petals.

"Oh, this is charming, TP. I feel like I've walked into a fairy tale." Claire O'Day, the cellist, arched an eyebrow and looked around appreciatively. It did look grand, TP thought. Gladys had done absolute wonders. The hedge would be magical after sunset, as would the gazing ball, strategically placed to reflect the lights. The bouquets, the drinks lined up, the food, the decorated tables... he'd never imagined his back yard could be so transformed. But his eyes kept returning to Claire. She had marvelous cheekbones. Her mother was Japanese, her father Irish, and this interesting blend of genes had produced a raven-haired, almond-eyed, exotic creature blessed with warmth and elegance and great musical talent. She was fifty-six, small and slender, her black hair showing a few threads of silver. She'd swirled it up into one of those bun-things - what did they call them? French twists, he thought. It showed off her neck and pearl earrings. She wore a plain black skirt and a white blouse with lace at the throat and mother-of-pearl buttons.

He'd taken her to dinner twice last year and very much enjoyed her company. But then she'd gone on tour for the summer, and Minglemist had happened, and he hadn't called her again.

He helped her onto the platform. "I hope this is all right?"

"Perfect."

"Well, then, I'll let you get settled."

Other guests had arrived. Todd had come, as well as his sister and her lawyer-husband and their two children, so Harold would have friends to hang out with. Evalda was conversing with Mel, no doubt about real estate, while Gladys teetered around in sequined heels, wearing a peach-colored sheath draped with beads, bangles and feathers. The final touch was a sparkling tiara perched in her coppery curls.

More guests arrived and the three musicians, all women, began playing. TP sighed in contentment. They started with "Le Cygne", his favorite cello piece, and his heart swelled as the beautiful strains filled the yard. Could life get any better than this? "Le Cygne" was followed by "Diamonds and Rust", also his favorite, and then came "Star of the County Down", which he decided was his most favorite of all. In fact, everything Claire played on the cello was his favorite.

He ate a plateful of hors d'oeuvres, talked to some of the neighbors he knew and met some he didn't. There were maybe twenty people here. Crowds had always made him uncomfortable, but he did his best to be a good host.

Shortly before six the musicians took a break and headed to the food tent where Gladys and her crew were laying out the dinner feast. TP drifted that way himself, then stopped short in shock. A whole stack of the dreadful "Thad and Glad" napkins sat beside the plates and silverware. 

Hot with embarrassment and consternation, he reached out to snatch them off the table just as Claire came up with a plate of food.

"Wonderful music," he said, stepping between her and the table. He didn't want her to see the napkins. "Can I help you find a seat?" He took her plate in one hand and her elbow in the other and propelled her away from the tent. As soon as she was seated, he said, "Excuse me, I'll be back in a moment. Don't move!"

Hurriedly, he took the napkins off the table, went inside and stashed them under the towels in the linen closet. The flowered napkins he'd bought at the supermarket were still on the counter, so he took those out and laid them firmly on the food table, then took one to Claire and sat down beside her. He hoped she hadn't seen the others. 

"Aren't you eating, TP?"

"Oh, I'll get something later." For once his stomach wasn't clamoring to be filled. He wanted only to feast his eyes on Claire.

"Is my hair falling down," she asked, putting up a hand to feel it.

TP realized he'd been staring. "Sorry," he said. "It's just that, well, I'm a biologist. I study living things. And you're about as alive as anything I've ever seen."

Her eyes widened and then she laughed. "Why TP, I believe you're flirting with me."

"Claire," he sighed, "I'm no good at this sort of thing, but... would you like to go canoeing sometime?"

She took a bite of crab cake and chewed thoughtfully while he waited with baited breath. Then she smiled and his chest expanded.

"I'd like that very much."

"Excellent! I'll call you."

Gladys had seen him sitting with Claire and came bustling over.

"You haven't introduced me to your friend, Thad." She gave Claire a sugary smile. 

TP stood up. "Gladys, this is Claire O'Day. Claire, Gladys, my neighbor. She's the orchestrator of this party."

"Very nice to meet you," said Claire.

"Likewise," said Gladys, her eyes taking in every detail of Claire's appearance.

"You've done a wonderful job, Gladys. The atmosphere is delightful."

"I couldn't have done it without Thad," she said, leaning towards him and reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Face burning, he backed up a step and glanced at Claire, who arched an eyebrow and smiled faintly at him.

"But we'll let you finish your dinner so you can get back to your job. So nice of you to blend into the background in your plain attire and contribute to the atmosphere. I admire people who know their place. Thad, I wonder if you'd give me a hand with something?" She grabbed his arm and pulled him off. Over his shoulder he threw Claire another look, hoping she could read his mind. She winked at him.

"Nice woman," Gladys said as they walked away. "A bit of a plain Jane, but we can't all be peacocks, can we?"

Thank God, TP thought. "What did you need help with?"

"The food table needs to be pulled back a bit."

Which Chester/Fabian could have easily helped her with, or anyone else for that matter. Grumpily he moved the table back two inches.

"I don't know what keeps happening to my party napkins," Gladys said. "They keep disappearing. I suppose people are taking them for souvenirs."

It seemed everyone was enjoying the party. Harold and his friends chased each other around the garden, and Archie, revived from his nap, tagged along. The only ones who seemed out of sorts were Mel and Marge, standing off to one side with their heads together, conversing privately. Marge had something in her hand showing it to Mel, who threw TP a dark look. A tingle of alarm crept up his spine. He couldn't see what Marge was holding, but something strange was up. Tomorrow he would confront them. Right now, he wanted peace and tranquility, music and poetry and the rosy promise of a date with Claire.

Promptly at seven, Gladys rang a little bell to announce the poetry reading. First up was the neighbor Mr. Burley, who recited Oberon's monologue from A Midsummer Night's Dream in a booming voice: "I Know a Bank Where the Wild Thyme Blows..." Others followed, including Gladys who, much to TP's embarrassment, read a love poem by Kelly Cherry in her trilling voice and looked straight at him the whole time. People noticed, and he felt like crawling under the table. But finally she ended, and then it was Chester/Fabian's turn. He drifted up to stand in front of the tent, unfolded a crumpled piece of paper, and began.

"The Blue Man"

The light of day falls short.

No one sees the blue man

against a sea

of glass shards,

His outline rippling

wherefore.

He blended back into the crowd while everyone sat looking confused till Gladys and his mother started clapping vigorously, then the rest joined in. 

The musicians began playing again, and a few people danced. TP caught Madeline's eye, sitting beside Todd at one of the tables, looking glamorous in a green, low-cut dress with her hair falling down her back. She gave him a thumb's up, and he smiled. He was still smiling when he spotted two policemen in uniform walking around the side of the house. Where had they come from? Surely the music wasn't bothering anyone; most of the neighbors were here. Marge went up to them and handed something over, then they looked his way and began walking towards him. His stomach lurched, his heart began pounding. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. 

"Mr. Dunlap?" said one, "Would you come inside with us? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Certainly," he said, hoping his voice didn't waver. Everyone was watching, including the musicians, who'd stopped playing. TP threw Claire a sickly smile, aware of her troubled gaze following him as he stood and walked into the house.

The officers introduced themselves, but their names barely registered. They all sat down at the kitchen table. One of the men handed TP a pill bottle.

"Have you ever seen this before?"

He looked at it and frowned. The label read Gogetamine, the drug Dr. Demento had supposedly used on his victims. The patient's name was unfamiliar, and the bottle was empty.

"No, I haven't," he said.

"Can you explain how it got into your trash can?"

"What? Here in the house? Someone must have put it there. It wasn't me, I assure you."

"Have you ever used this drug?"

"No."

"Have you ever given this drug to someone else?"

"No."

The questions went on and on. Where was he on such and such a night. Was anyone with him. Did he know the people who'd been attacked.

A small movement caught his eye in the archway between the kitchen and hall. Good grief, it was Harold, his eyes round and wary, taking everything in. How much had he heard? When Harold met TP's gaze, he ducked his head, turned and ran down the hall, and just as the back door slammed behind him, a knock came at the front door. TP started to get up, but one of the officers motioned him to stay seated and answered the door himself. TP couldn't see who stood on the steps, but words were spoken, then the policeman came back to the table with a paper in his hand.

"Mr. Dunlap, we have a warrant to search your house." 

He stared at the men, alarmed and confused. What were they looking for? Surely they'd find nothing incriminating. Keeping his expression neutral, he nodded curtly. Let them look, he was hiding nothing.

But then he remembered. The white shirt with the missing gold button! He'd meant to leave it in Minglemist, but he'd forgotten. It was still in the bottom of his backpack. Feeling sick, he sat frozen in his chair, watching the second hand crawl around the kitchen clock.