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.

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Five

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

Hattie opened the door and gave a shriek, putting a hand to her cheek.

"Doc! Doc, get out here right now!"

Doc came barreling up behind her, his face grey with trepidation. When he saw TP, he gave a great, gusty sigh and grabbed his friend, hugging him tightly. The three of them stood there a long moment, laughing, babbling incoherently. Doc kept patting TP's arm as if to make sure he wasn't a ghost.

"The beast?" he asked.

"Gone!" TP unzipped his backpack and pulled out the vegetable stone, holding it up triumphantly.

"Ah," said Doc, beaming. "This is more than I dared hope for. TP, you're a walking miracle."

"Stay for supper," said Hattie. "It's almost ready and lord knows you need nourishment."

He'd planned to go right home, but the cooking smells overpowered all but the urge to fill his stomach. He ate four large bowls of stew, embarrassed by his appetite. In between mouthfuls, he outlined what had happened. Later Doc gave him a cursory examination. Satisfied TP's vital signs were stable, he instructed his friend to sit in the parlor while he hitched up his draft pony.

"I'll get you as close to home as I can. I don't want you wandering around alone, especially at dusk."

TP nodded. "I'll not be taking the shortcut past the old mill again, that's for sure." He told Doc about the second chimera attack. Doc pounded a fist on the wall.

"I've been trying for years to get that old ruin torn down. It's just the sort of place chimeras like to inhabit. The owners had some hair-brained scheme to restore the mill, but they haven't got the money and no one wants to buy it. This is the last straw. I'll call a town council meeting and make sure it comes down right away."

While Doc hitched up Spotty to the carriage, TP chipped off a few pieces of the vegetable stone to take home, leaving the rest with Doc. It would provide medicine for hundreds if not thousands of ill people. Funny how things worked out, he thought. If he'd succeeded with the first stone, he may never have come back to Minglemist and produced this second one, which would save many others besides himself.

On the drive home, TP questioned Doc about Glorious.

"His nose...is there nothing that can be done?"

Doc shook his head. "I offered, but he won't let me touch it. Says it keeps him humble."

"Huh. He's an odd fellow. I don't quite know what to make of him."

"You and me both," said Doc. "I think this is where you get off, isn't it?"

Madeline was at the kitchen table when he walked in. She jumped up, knocking over her chair, and flung herself at him, nearly knocking him over as well.

"Take it easy, I'm a tottering old man."

"Oh God, TP." She was sniffling into his shirt. Madeline, whom he'd never seen shed a tear, was crying. She pulled back and gazed at him.

"You look terrible." Now she was laughing.

"Is there anything to eat?" he said.

Over a plate of sandwiches, two bananas, five fig bars and a glass of milk he told his tale once again. Madeline listened raptly, questioning him frequently. He was growing very sleepy.

"Go take a bath," Madeline said, "and shave off that scruffy beard, then I'll trim your hair so you don't look like an ancient gorilla. You can get it cut properly tomorrow if you're up to it."

After the ablutions it gave him great satisfaction to remove the deadbolt from his bedroom door. Tired as he was, he couldn't bring himself to sleep with it still in place. Right before falling into bed he swallowed another tiny chip of the vegetable stone, just to make sure no wisp of darkness remained in him. Then he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, knowing no more until the sun was high in the sky the following day.

It was nearly ten-thirty when he arose, an astonishingly late hour for him to get up. Usually an early bird, he felt disoriented standing in the strong light streaming in the window. In the bathroom, he dared to glance into the mirror, blinking in surprise. His hair had reverted back to its usual salt-and-pepper color. His face, though still gaunt, had lost the sags and wrinkles he'd gone to bed with. Delighted, he examined his arms. The knotty ropes of veins had shrunk, the dark age spots had faded. More importantly, he felt strong and spry.

He strode down the hall, whistling, and entered the kitchen.

"What's that smell?" He stood sniffing like a hound on a trail. Madeline was at the table, her nose in a book. She pointed to a pan on the counter.

"Gladys was by earlier. I told her you'd had a sudden loss and were in shock." She snickered, then eyed him in wonder. "You look like a new man, TP. I can hardly believe my eyes. How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful." Ravenous. He peered into the pan and almost swooned. Cinnamon rolls. One was missing; he assumed Madeline had sampled it.

Tearing one off, he devoured it, then poured a glass of milk and sat down with the pan in front of him. 

"What are you reading?"

"Women, Art and Society, by Whitney Chadwick."

"Sounds like heavy stuff for a bright summer morning. Shouldn't you be out rowing?"

"On my way," she said. "I just wanted to hang around to make sure..."

"That I didn't die in my sleep? You can stop worrying about me now, Madeline. Go out and enjoy your life."

There was one cinnamon roll left. "I may as well finish these off," he said, "unless you -?" He held up the pan.

She shook her head. "I have a lunch appointment, so I'll be home mid-afternoon. Do you need anything from the store?" 

"No," he said, mouth full of roll. "Go, get out of here."

She put on a cap and pulled her ponytail through the hole in back, grabbed her purse and left with light steps. A moment later he heard the rumble of her green beetle as she pulled out of the drive. 

He tinkered around in his lab for a bit, then went out to the garden with some seed packets and tools. First he harvested the last heads of early lettuce, then added compost to the row, raked it in and planted more lettuce seed along with some mesclun mix and curly mallow which could take the heat. He stuck in a few bean seeds, picked worms off the tomato plants, found three cucumbers big enough to harvest and pulled a bunch of green onions. 

At two o'clock he fixed a huge salad with lettuce and dill, onions, avocado, cucumber and walnuts and ate it on the patio, watching the birds and butterflies. He still hadn't regained all his strength, but it would come. Soon he'd be able to hike and canoe again. He went inside and sat in his rocker, snoozing a bit. He heard Madeline come in, and shortly afterwards the doorbell rang.

"Thad?"

He looked up to see Gladys in a plaid housedress and her favorite turquoise mules hovering in the living room entryway. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"What? Oh, yes, thank you."

"It wasn't Evalda, was it, or Harold?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"No, no," he said. "A very close - ah - cousin of sorts."

"Thad, you've had a terrible shock, haven't you?" She ventured farther into the room, her eyes watering sympathetically. "I can see you're not eating. You've lost a tremendous amount of weight. You have the kind of constitution that loses flesh at the drop of a hat. I'll have to think of things to spark your appetite."

"I could probably manage a little oat bread," he said weakly.

A loud snort issued from the hallway. Madeline was eavesdropping, but Gladys seemed oblivious.

"Oh, you'll need much more than that. I'm thinking seafood chowder with plenty of potatoes. And cream."

He sighed and leaned back in his rocker, his stomach doing a happy little dance.

"Thad, about the dinner party. We can cancel or postpone if you're not feeling up to it."

"No, let's go ahead as planned. In fact - " He stood up, went to his desk and wrote her out a huge check. "Spare no expense. Let's make it a gala occasion."

He wanted to celebrate - in a big way. It would be a celebration of life. Of renewal. Of Glorious Beginnings. What a wonderful name that was!

"Marvelous!" Gladys rose up on her toes, bouncing a time or two as if preparing to lift off, and clasped the check to her chest. "I think it's very brave of you, Thad, and wise as well. A party will take your mind off the grief. Just leave all the details to me. Do you want me to arrange for the music?"

He'd forgotten about that. "I'll take care of it. It's the least I can do, while I'm, ah, recovering."

He put in a call to his cellist friend, Claire O'Day, apologizing for the late notice, but would she possibly be available to provide a few hours of music for a small dinner party on Saturday, four days from now?

She would be delighted to, and she'd bring two friends, a violinist and a violist.

He smiled into the phone, remembering now what a gracious woman she was. His chest expanded with warmth. How wonderful it was to be planning a party, and to be free of the terrible burden he'd carried for so long. There would be music, and laughter, wine and delicious food. Feeling peckish, he went to examine the contents of the refrigerator.

(Next chapter - twenty-six - is out of place, listed after chapter twenty-nine, so read it next!)

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Four

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

The chimera was about to attack. It's outline wavered in front of him, misshapen and purple. He had to get away.

"No!" he cried, striking the air with his fist, shaking his head from side to side.

"Mr. Dunlap! TP!"

"What?" 

"It's me."

He squinted in the bright light. Glorious Beginnings. That nose. 

"What are you doing here?" He struggled to sit up from the ground where he lay, a jacket stuffed under his head.

Glory helped him sit and he looked around in wonder. He was outside the mistangle, at the edge of the island.

"How did I get here?" His thoughts were fuzzy and confused.

"I carried you out."

"But..." Slowly it was sinking in. "You saved my life! You went in and found me. How? How did you do it?"

"It was getting late, so I tugged on the string and it gave. Trouble, I thought. I went in, letting the string lead me and when I got to the end I figured you weren't far off. It was hard to see, so I just felt the air currents, like I feel the water currents when I'm in the swamp, testing for disturbances that tell you something's below the surface."

TP looked at him uncomprehendingly.

He shrugged. "It's just something I do. Anyway, I crouched down and felt a ripple on my cheek, so I followed it. I still might have passed you up, but the strangest thing happened. I saw a tiny green glow on the ground, and there you were, next to it."

"What sort of green glow?"

"Turned out to be a resin stone from the lollywon trees. It was tied to your belt loop."

"Hah!" said TP. "Hah!" He brought Madeline's stone out of his pocket, still attached to its string.

"Where did you get it?" Glory asked.

"A friend loaned it to me, for good luck."

"Good thing. You're lucky to have such a friend." Glory sounded wistful and TP wondered if he had any friends. It would be a rough road, he thought, with that face.

Lord, it felt good to breathe. But he was so weak. And thirsty. Glory offered him a flask of water and he drank the whole thing without stopping for breath.

"I picked these while I was waiting," Glory said, holding out a small tote sack. "I thought you might be hungry."

Barnicanes. Suddenly he was ravenous. He shoved two of the plum-sized fruits in his mouth and chewed blissfully. Never had anything tasted so good. In short order he demolished the entire sack, purple juice running down his chin.

"Do you think you can make it to the boat now?"

He stood up creakily. "I must look a sight." He hitched up his pants, which threatened to fall off, and ruefully held out his emaciated arms. How much weight had he lost? Twenty pounds? Thirty?

Glory grinned. "You're looking a bit long in the tooth, TP, but your color's getting better by the minute. Did... did you get rid of the dragon?"

TP beamed at him. "I did! It's gone."

Glory tugged on his hat brim and nodded vigorously. "That's real good."

TP threw one last look towards the mistangle as they got in the boat, watching the coils of mist rise up to join the low-hanging clouds overhead, then he turned away, fervently hoping he'd never see it again.

He dozed in his chair while Glory paddled. When they drew near the twin islands where the Sharnhorns lived, barking dogs on the nearest bank roused TP from his nap. Four men stood on a dock watching their approach. In the trees behind them, TP could make out the outlines of crude wooden structures on stilts, stacks of firewood, pecking chickens and dogs of various shapes and sizes.

Glory pulled the boat close to the dock and TP looked on nervously. 

"Afternoon."

"What the hell you doing in our waters, Beginnings? You're trespassing."

The man who spoke planted a boot on Glory's boat and shoved, causing it to rock. He wore frayed pants, patched many times, and a loose vest hanging open to show off a bony chest with a few dark hairs sprouting from it. His face was narrow, his chin small, almost girlish. It looked like he'd tried to grow a beard to cover it up but hadn't had much success. Under a wide brimmed hat his eyes were the same pale color as Wert's, and TP guessed this was his son, Mud Puppy, though save for the eyes, he looked nothing like his broad-faced, barrel-chested, hairy father. Wert and two other unsavory-looking men stood nearby, smirking.

"These are public waters, Mud, and I'll be passing through just like I always do."

"You'll paddle yourself and your passenger around the island is what you'll do, Purple Face." Mud Puppy aimed another kick at the boat, but Glory fended him off with an oar. The man lost his balance and nearly fell into the water, cursing loudly.

"What the hell business you got here, anyway?" He squinted at TP, his anger turning to puzzlement. "That the same fellow you brought out here this morning?"

Glory nodded. "TP Dunlap."

Mud Puppy shifted uneasily. "What happened to him?"

"He went into the mistangle. Spent over two hours in there. He had to get rid of a chimera dragon."

All four men backed up at once, their eyes wide and fearful. 

"What's the matter," said Glory. "You boys never seen a ghost before?"

Mud Puppy made a feeble attempt at bravado. "You're lying."

"No, he's not." TP stood up in the boat to give them the full effect of his emaciated figure.

Wert's face was pale as milk. He grabbed his son by the shoulder and jerked him roughly backwards. "You got work to do, Mud Puppy. Quit gawking and get on with it."

The men's boots drummed hollowly down the dock like a herd of galloping horses.

Glory gave TP a small smile. "You'll be the talk of Boggy Meadow by tomorrow, and a legend around here forever more."

"Not a pleasant way to become famous," TP said, "but I'm mighty glad to be alive."

Glory drew abreast of the barrier stretched between the islands and cut two of the buoys with a knife, causing the net to sink so they could pass through without getting tangled up.

The rest of the trip passed in silence save for the watery music of the swamp. TP floated in a peaceful haze, completely drained and wrapped in the languor that comes after extreme trauma. He let his gaze rest on Glory's hands rhythmically pulling on the oars. He could hardly bear to look at the other man's face, not only because of his appearance, but because he felt indebted to the point of shame. He could never, ever repay the service given to him. It made him very uncomfortable. To offer money seemed crass, especially since Glory had made it clear he wouldn't accept any. But he and Glory were now connected in a very intimate way and TP was not used to such intimacy with other human beings. He simply didn't know what to say, or how to act towards this stranger who'd saved his life. So he watched Glory's hands. They were calloused and rough and stained, with small cuts and nicks, though somehow they conveyed elegance as well. TP could imagine the long fingers playing a musical instrument or conducting an orchestra. They were young hands. TP guessed Glory was not yet out of his twenties. His visible eye had no lines around it, his movements were lithe and quick and full of the confidence of youth. Questions bubbled in him, but he wouldn't ask. Glory was a hero; best not to risk tarnishing the image with details that may be unsavory. 

The Boggy Meadow dock was busy when they arrived. Fishermen were unloading their gear, showing off their catches. Horse-drawn carts and wagons bearing tubs of ice were lined up, the drivers bartering and bickering over the choicest fish, clams, crawfish, roots, sedge grass tubers and bunches of herbs. Barnicane season was just beginning, so there were a few baskets of fruit, quickly snapped up.

Glory helped TP make his way down the dock and walked with him to Doc's house.

"Will you come in for a bit?"

He shook his head. "Got some things to do."

TP grasped his hand. "I - I don't know what to say. I can never repay you, or thank you enough."

Glory shrugged. "No need. Just doing my job."

"You did far more than that. Ah..." TP broke off, shaking his head. "What you did today, for me - it was heroic."

Glory bobbed his head, clearly embarrassed. "Well, then, TP, good luck, and I'm really glad you got rid of the dragon." He turned and walked away.

  

  

  

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Three

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

They made a camp of sorts on a level spot well out of reach of the mist. TP sat on a log and ate his bread, nuts and raisins, stretching out his legs in front of him to work out the kinks. His white shirt now had purple splotches, courtesy of the stingles. Evalda would love it.

The food tasted like dust in his mouth, but he figured it would turn to dust for real in the mistangle, and incredible as it sounded, this would be his last meal for over twenty-three years. Surviving with no sustenance for that long was inconceivable, but Sarah Tucker had done it, staying in the mistangle for the equivalent of over sixty years! He and Doc had puzzled long and hard over this. Doc concluded that the metabolism must slow way down in the mistangle to conserve energy, like a hibernating animal. This still seemed far-fetched to TP, but then, Minglemist itself was far-fetched. The rules of existence here constantly confounded his scientific doctrines. After drinking another bottle of water, he rummaged in his pack and brought out his pouch of pennies, holding it out to Glory.

"I want to settle up now for the trip, in case I don't come out. Take it all, you've earned it." He sincerely meant that, very glad now that Glorious had been his boatman. Old Doc had known what he was doing in hiring him.

"It's already taken care of," Glory said.

Doc must have paid him, then. But TP continued to hold out the pouch. "Please take it. I won't feel right otherwise."

Glory gave him a prickly look. "I don't overcharge my customers. But..." his eye gazed up into a copse of small, twisted trees growing nearby. "I wouldn't mind having that whistle."

TP pulled the dog whistle from his pocket and handed it over. "I'll bring you a dozen whistles if..." His voice trailed off as he stared at the column of mist. "Well, I'd best get started." He consulted his watch. "It's now about twelve-thirty. If I'm not back by three o'clock, you can go on home."

Glory shook his hand, holding it a long moment. "Good luck, Mr. Dunlap. I'll be waiting."

"Call me TP."

He got out his rope and tied one end securely to a tree, the other around his waist with the coil clipped on his belt so it would feed through behind him as he walked. Backpack on, suitcase handle in one hand, the five minute hourglass in the other, he approached the mist. He could feel a pull now, drawing him in. As the mist closed around him, he flipped the hourglass over to start timing. He could walk a half mile in ten minutes, one flip of the timepiece. That should bring him to the center of the mistangle and to the end of his rope.

It was hard to see, to breathe. The air was warm and steamy. Could you drown breathing mist? His ears kept popping and the ground was soft and heavy, sucking at his heels. The suitcase felt like a lead weight. He hadn't counted on the strength of the pull. It kept dragging him to the left, so he tried to compensate by altering his steps. Two forward, one to the right, two forward, one right. He tripped over something and nearly fell, dropping the hour glass. No time to search for it; he'd have to rely on the rope to tell him when he'd reached the center. His watch had stopped, as he'd expected, and the needle on his compass flew around the dial in crazy circles. Again he tripped, and peered downward to see white bones. Pelvic, he thought, and a femur. Definitely human. Panic hit but he forced it away and went on. Couldn't stop. Must hurry. Willing his feet to go faster, he leaned forward and careened through the mist. Not one thing alive in here except himself. No trees, grass, birds, insects. Only bones. Ah, it was such an effort to breathe!

The ground seemed to be sloping downward, which was good. It gave him a bit of momentum, but he had to be very careful not to fall. His leg muscles were already burning, his chest was sore and tight. On he trudged, thinking of marching songs to help carry him along. "Pride of the Wolverines", "The British Grenadiers" - ah, those drums! "The Imperial March" from the Empire Strikes Back. Yes, he was a soldier of the universe, on a mission to help vanquish the evil Black Brotherhood of the Mist. To help end the terrible scourge of the chimera dragon. Onward. Can't be much farther. He thought of Madeline, of Harold, of his favorite students over the years. He thought of his garden. Must plant another round of lettuce when he got home.

When the string tugged against his waist he pulled up in surprise. He'd made it to the center! The mist here was very thick and turbulent, hissing as it spiraled upward like steam from a giant cauldron. Quickly he shrugged off the backpack, opened a side pocket and pulled out the hourglass, flipping it to start timing. Now he had only to wait for a bit less than two hours, which would equal twenty-three years outside, for the honey to ripen. He worried that the air was too damp here for the charcoal to light. It was wrapped in plastic in the suitcase, so he'd best leave it in there till the last minute. 

He needed to sit down and rest his legs, but the ground was soggy. Very carefully he set the hourglass down, making sure it was level, then laid out a windbreaker from his pack and sat on it, using the suitcase as a back rest. There was a darkness in front of him, close to the ground. Blinking hard, he strained to see what it was, then realized with shock that the earth fell away there into a pit. Supposing he'd fallen into it? Would his string have held, or would he have tumbled down into the bowels of the earth?  

He tried to grasp what he was witnessing. Very powerful forces were rising up from deep underground; forces that were destructive to all life. But why were they here, and what had unleashed them? Fallen angels? Evil spirits? Black magicians? Or something beyond his comprehension. Whatever this eruption was, the human race obviously didn't have the wisdom to deal with it, and he guessed the chimera dragons were the result, being a strange cocktail of human ignorance and greed, supernatural powers and electronic devices. Doppelgangers supposedly fed on the earth's magnetic and electrical charges, and witnessing the power of this upheaval, he could very well imagine monsters emerging from it. 

TP had also pieced together a story of struggle between two factions battling over this energy, one that wished to use it for evil purposes, one that wanted to transmute it, gaining power not from the energy itself but from the strength and wisdom achieved by taming it.

There were always warring factions, he thought. Battles seemed to be a necessary part of evolution. But some fought for the good of all, like the honeybees protecting the hive, and some fought to gain at the expense of others. Some wanted to divide and separate, some to unite. In the end, separation was an illusion; the Lord of the Dance had taught him that. But unity had to come through choice, not compulsion. So battles would be waged, one side against the other, until all dross was burned away and the Quinta Essentia emerged, eternal and incorruptible, so powerful that no darkness could touch it. 

At least that's what he hoped, sitting here watching pure chaos pour out of the pit. He hoped he'd soon behold the Quinta Essentia and be released from the darkness that had taken root in him.

The first hour dragged to its close and he turned the hourglass. The second hour was an eternity, testing every ounce of his resolve and fortitude. He grew weak and faint, his bones ached, the skin on his face sagged, the veins on his arms protruded in knotty cords from shrunken, mottled flesh. He was now over seventy years old. His hair had grown well past his collar, a scraggly beard covered his chin and trickled down his chest. It was snow white. His breath sounded raspy, his thoughts and movements were slow and labored. He kept fearing he'd fall asleep and never wake up. Then he remembered Hattie's smelling salts. The sharp fumes allowed him moments of clarity, and silently he blessed Hattie's thoughtfulness. 

When the top of the hourglass was half empty, he opened the suitcase and dumped half of the charcoal on the ground, mounding it up and placing the small tripod over it with the flask of purified honey on top, sealed except for a small hole at the top to allow steam to escape. Then he sat with the lighter fluid and matches in one hand, the hourglass in the other, his eyes glued on the sand spilling through it. When only a small trickle of sand remained, he poured lighter fluid over the charcoal, lit a match and touched it to the bottom of the pile. The match fizzled and went out. Again he tried with the same result. He poured on more fluid and held the match as close as he could to the charcoal. This time it stayed lit, but within seconds the pile had burned down to a few coals. Frantically he doused the remaining pile of charcoal with fluid and fed it to the fire, bit by bit, as fast as he could. How many seconds had it been? Thirty-two seconds would equal forty days. That was all he needed. When the last piece of charcoal had been used, he peered into the flask, hardly daring to hope. At the bottom was a flat, hard substance, glowing red in the fog. He could hardly believe his eyes. Gingerly he touched the flask, finding it already cold. He picked it up and looked closely inside. Lord almighty, he had done it! Uttering a mighty cry, he raised the flask up high and brought it down hard on the metal rim of the suitcase. It took three tries to smash the glass, but finally he extricated a luminescent red stone about a foot in diameter and six inches thick. Carefully he brushed off the glass shards with his shirttail. 

Using his pocket knife, he chipped off a small piece and popped it into his mouth. Should he swallow it whole or wait for it to dissolve, like a piece of hard candy? It had almost no taste, only a faint flowery sweetness. He swallowed.

Immediately warm currents hummed through him, followed by a great pressure on his chest and in his head. Something was wrong. Was he dying? Clutching his head in his hands he fell to his knees, wailing with pain. Louder and louder grew the wails until it dawned on him the sounds were not all his own. He looked up and saw the dark form of his adversary writhing in the mist, its red eyes flashing as it twisted and turned. Horrible sounds made him cover his ears as the chimera was sucked up into the vortex, disintegrating save for the eyes that glared at him, until finally they, too, grew small and dull and disappeared.

No time to rejoice. He still had to get out of the mistangle. With great effort he got the stone into his pack and put it on. His movements were slow and fumbling, his fingers stiff and gnarled, his back bent. He was eighty-six years old and counting. Powerful as the stone was, it hadn't stopped the aging process. But maybe it would keep him alive a bit longer. Leaving the suitcase where it lay, he set off with tottering steps, keeping the string taut in front of him. 

Very shortly he knew he was in serious trouble. He couldn't catch his breath and a roaring sound filled his ears. On the verge of passing out, he found the bottle of smelling salts in his pocket and sniffed deeply, coughing and sputtering. He staggered forward, blinking repeatedly to clear his watering eyes. Was there movement up ahead?  Yes! He saw a figure waving, surrounded with light and beautiful flowers. Joyfully he pushed onward, but the image vanished and he realized he'd been hallucinating. Ah, he could swear he'd seen the Lord of the Dance, beckoning him. 

The dance; it was all about the dance. It went on eternally, everywhere, in all cultures and religions. How did that old Christian hymn go? 

            I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black
            It's hard to dance with the devil on your back.
            They buried my body and they thought I'd gone,
            But I am the dance and I still go on.

He tripped and fell, hitting something hard that brought sharp pain to his shin. He struggled to stand, groping for the string, but it wasn't there. It had broken in the fall. On his hands and knees he crawled slowly in a circle, feeling the ground in front of him, squinting to see in the dim light. Nothing but sticky black mud. No time to keep searching, he'd have to go on without it. But which way had he been going? Confused, he took a few more steps and fell again. 

Sleep...that's what he needed. Nothing else mattered. He'd gotten rid of the devil on his back, that was the most important thing. Others could carry the torch now. He wished, though, that he'd been able to deliver the stone to Doc. One last time he struggled to stand, then fell back exhausted. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out Madeline's green stone, taking comfort from the smooth feel of it in his hand. He'd put a string through the clasp holding it and fastened it to his belt loop to make sure it didn't get lost.

"I'm sorry, Madeline," he whispered. But she'd find another stone. And she'd find Sephyr, he was sure of it. Sighing deeply, he drifted into sleep.