A Dark Star Falling - Chapter One

 

Something was terribly wrong. TP Dunlap peered down into the beaker of roiling, hissing liquid on his lab table. His vision was blurry from the rising steam and nothing would come into focus. He blinked hard several times, shaking his head, then watched in horror as octopus-like tentacles bubbled up out of the beaker, reaching for him. Frozen in place, he felt their cold, slimy touch sliding around his neck, tightening, tightening—

With a strangled cry TP awoke in his bed, clawing at the sheet that was hampering his breathing. Gasping, he lay back on his pillow, awash with relief, waiting for his heart to calm down and the dream to dissipate. Good grief, what a nightmare!

The clock on his nightstand read 2:46 a.m. He’d set the alarm for 3:00, but decided he may as well get up now. He had a special preparation underway in the lab, and 3:24 a.m. was the most auspicious time to perform the final step of the procedure. According to the horoscope he’d cast earlier, Mercury would be in an exact trine with Uranus, the moon would be well aspected and several other planets were favorably positioned as well.

Taking a deep breath to blow away the remnants of the dream, TP arose, splashed cold water on his face, dressed and donned his white lab coat.

 A flickering flame in the small glass pane of his furnace lent a cheerful glow to the lab, keeping at bay the dark and chill November night. He’d stoked the fire before going to bed so the room would be warm for his nocturnal work. He could easily heat this smallish space with electricity, like the rest of the house, but the furnace was necessary for certain preparations, and wood fires gave off more than heat. The flicker, the crackle, the dancing fire spirits added life and energy not to be found in electricity. And the alchemists of old had used wood or coal, after all.

 Now he stoked the furnace once more and turned on the recessed ceiling lights, dimming them down to a soft, diffused beam in keeping with the hushed and holy atmosphere. A few stars shone through the shadowed windows, their panes spangled with hoarfrost from an unseasonable cold snap.

Standing still a moment, he soaked in the familiar smells of old books, smoke and ash, resin and wax and herbs. Alchemy, the ancient art of blending science and philosophy had always called to him, and after taking an early retirement from his job as a biology professor at John Hopkins, it had become something of an obsession. He was supposed to be writing a book, but he kept being drawn deeper and deeper into the occult sciences, and topics for the book kept changing from day to day as he made more discoveries. All he’d written so far were some boring articles for science journals.

He lit the Bunsen burner to sterilize his equipment and provide the gentle heat needed for combining his purified solid and liquid materials. Spagyric preparations like the one he was attempting differed from the usual herbal tinctures in that the whole plant was used, including the solids, which were dried after the water and alcohol-soluble substances had been extracted, then burned to a white ash, purified by repeated distillations and filterings, and added back into the tincture. The salts contained valuable minerals which otherwise would be wasted. This particular preparation was based on a formula he’d found in an old alchemical book, but he’d added something new to it, always hoping, of course, for spectacular results and deeper wisdom. It was intended to enhance brain function by stimulating communication between the nerve cells. As one grew older, one became more concerned with cognitive issues. TP, at 62, hadn’t yet noticed any mental decline, but it didn’t hurt to try and improve what one had.

In this experiment, he’d used gingko biloba, gotu kola, rosemary and lavender, all plants falling under the dominion of Mercury, which ruled communication and the nervous system, including the nerves of the brain. Additionally, he’d used blue chamomile, Matricaria recutita, which was associated with Uranus. Uranus was the higher octave of Mercury, meaning it vibrated at twice the speed, and its influence enhanced intuition – those lightning-quick flashes of insight that bypass the slower thought processes.

But besides the plants, TP had soaked a piece of amber in the tincture from a special tree species, letting the rays of the sun hit it for two weeks. He couldn’t wait to sample the results. At the appointed hour, TP set the beaker containing his preparation on a tripod over a gentle yellow flame and uncapped the vial holding the purified mineral salts. As he tipped it over the beaker, he had a sudden flash of tentacles and a twinge of uneasiness rippled through him. But it had only been a dream, nothing to worry about. He pictured fields of rosemary and lavender in high summer, releasing their volatile oils into the sun-drenched air. Slowly he let the salts trickle into the amber-colored tincture, stirring all the while with a glass rod. The first thing he noticed was a change in color. The liquid turned a lovely shade of green. Surprise, surprise. When the salts were completely dissolved, he turned off the flame, removed the beaker to a wooden rack, and, unable to resist, stuck his nose over the warm, misty-green liquid, inhaling deeply. Ahhhh. Closing his eyes, he let the scent carry him off through a maze of long-forgotten memories and feelings.

When he finally opened his eyes, he stood in a green tunnel that stretched away before him. The walls of the lab had disappeared. What on earth was this? His heart thrummed rhythmically in his chest and he fancied he could hear the blood moving through his veins. But wait – the rhythmical thrumming grew louder and merged into another sound: a horse’s hooves! A rider appeared on a silver-grey steed, galloping away from him, down the long, green tunnel. The figure – man or woman, he couldn’t tell which – glanced back over a shoulder and beckoned to him, then disappeared into the distance.

Slowly the tunnel faded and TP’s world righted itself. The furnace ticked, the bottled tinctures on a shelf above his table gleamed faintly, his tools, his books, his posters and charts rematerialized, and outside the walls of his house the city of Baltimore slumbered through the wee hours of the morning.

Mercury. It had been Mercury, the winged messenger, the mediator between heaven and earth. How he knew this he couldn’t say, but every bone in his body felt the truth of it. Intuition, he supposed, the gift of Uranus. His brow furrowed. There was a message somewhere that needed delivering. But to whom? And what was the message? And how was he to find it?

Be careful what you wish for, he thought as he capped off the tincture and turned out the lights. He wanted higher knowledge, increased brain function, but was he ready for it?

“What have I gotten myself into now,” he murmured. Whatever it was would have to wait. He crept down the hallway and went back to bed, falling into a restless sleep and dreaming not of tentacles but of winged sandals and quicksilver steeds.

***

“So a higher octave planet is like the eighth note in a musical scale compared to the first.”

It was Saturday and Claire had come for breakfast. Saturday breakfast had become a ritual for them. A very pleasant one. They’d been spending time together since last June, when TP had asked her to go canoeing. Then there’d been several dinners, more canoeing, some walks and hikes, and two concerts. And now? Now they spent nearly every weekend together, and TP, a 62-year-old socially awkward, introverted bachelor with big ears and a hawkish nose thought maybe he’d found the love of his life. Why now? Why not 30 years ago? But she’d been married then, though the marriage hadn’t lasted.

He’d met Claire O’Day at the university. She was a cellist and gave classes there besides playing professionally with a small group of musicians.TP had admired her from afar a long time before mustering up the courage to ask her out. Six years younger than him, 5’4” tall, she was slender and almond-eyed with lovely cheekbones and raven-black hair save for a few threads of silver. She’d inherited her love of music from her father, an Irish fiddler, and her beauty and elegance from her Japanese mother. TP thought she was like a night-blooming flower, shy and delicate until you got to know her and discovered her wit and hidden strength. TP loved making her laugh.

“You could say that,” he told her, taking a huge bite of omelet.

"Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.” She sang it in a clear contralto voice. “ Mercury being the first Do and Uranus the second, starting over again on a higher level."

“Mmhmm,” he replied, mouth full of egg, kale and onions.

He’d told her about his new tincture and the vision he’d had last night in the lab.

Now he said, “I just don’t know what to make of it all. I hope it wasn’t a transient ischaemic attack.”

“Hah,” said Claire. “You know better than that. You’ve opened another pathway from here to there, something you seem to have a knack for.”

He sighed, knowing she was right. “But where is there,” he asked to no one in particular.

Claire considered as she took a dainty bite of toast. “Have you tried swallowing some of the tincture? Maybe it would clarify things."

“No.” Frankly he was afraid to. Yes, he yearned for higher knowledge, but quiet, peaceful, Zen-like knowledge, not fireworks and volcanoes. He was at a stable place in his life after an extremely turbulent summer, and all he wanted was to bask in the glow of life with Claire. But no, he’d had to ruin things by stirring the pot again in his lab. His cursed curiosity. Mercury had beckoned and now he must follow.

 “You said you added a special piece of amber to the formula. Do you think that’s what caused the vision?”

TP’s lips twisted wryly. “Quite possibly. Most likely. In fact, undoubtedly.”

“Tell me more about it.” Claire pushed her plate away and gave him her full attention.

“Strap in,” he said. “You’re in for a wild ride.”

She smiled. “It’s always a wild ride with you, TP. I’d expect no less.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dark Star Falling - Chapter Two

 

He’d told Claire about Minglemist. How could he not if they were to have an open and honest relationship? He’d put it off as long as possible, trying to work up the courage, agonizing over how to bring it up, certain she’d think him nuts like the others he’d told. Finally one evening last August after dinner he’d fixed her a relaxing tisane liberally laced with cinnamon and mint to counteract the bitterness of valerian which he hoped would blur the edges of what he was about to say.

With gentle strains of Brahms turned low on the stereo, windows open to catch the evening breeze and Claire ensconced on his old red sofa surrounded by pillows, he said, “I have something to tell you.”

 “Oh? What sort of something?”

 He paced the floor in front of her, hands tightly clasped. “Ah, it’s complicated, and difficult and strange.”

Claire leaned forward and frowned. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“No, No! It’s nothing to do with you, with us, well, it is, but it isn’t.” He was making a hash of this. Taking a breath, he blurted out, “Claire, I’ve discovered a different world called Minglemist. The doorway to it is in my wax myrtle hedge. I know it sounds crazy, and you may think I’m certifiable, especially because no one else can see Minglemist. Except Madeline, that is.” His unofficially adopted daughter. She was his ace in the hole. Because if she could see it too, didn’t that prove he wasn’t insane?

“We spent most of the summer before last there, studying the flora and fauna. There are such amazing creatures, Claire! Flying reptiles of all kinds and colors, fantastic insects, swamp birds and animals and hundreds of unique plants.”

He stopped talking and cast a tremulous look at her face. No confusion, no disgust or horror or grimacing. In fact her eyes were wide open, her lips parted in – dared he hope, excitement?

“TP,” she breathed, “this is the most delicious, delightful thing I’ve ever heard! Tell me more!”

He collapsed on the sofa beside her, weak with relief.

“You were afraid to tell me, weren’t you?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “My former colleagues think I’m bats.”

She waved a hand. “Bunch of fuddy-duddies. Don’t forget, TP, I spent the first eight years of my life in Ireland. My sister and I were raised on fairy tales. I used to pray every night that I’d find the door to fairyland. Please, continue this fascinating story.”

So he told her about the Boggy Meadow Swamp and all its strange inhabitants, the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse, the village of Barleytown with its cobbled streets and stone cottages and moss-covered roofs, the twisted old trees and riotous bramble roses lining the lanes, the arched bridge over the Felkie River that ran along the north side of town, the meadows and fields and pastures with leaning gates begging to be opened.

He spoke of the dark parts too, of the dangerous mistangle on Widow’s Moan Island in the swamp where time sped up and sucked the life out of any living thing that entered it and stayed too long. He described in chilling detail the deadly parasitic chimera dragons, black and mist-like that wandered through Minglemist at night, preying on unfortunate human beings by taking up residence in their nervous systems and driving them mad. He explained how the chimeras had been created by an evil brotherhood who’d ruled in Minglemist long ago, using sophisticated instruments and black magic. The Brotherhood had eventually been driven out, their devices destroyed, but the chimeras remained. He told of his own long and ferocious battle with a chimera dragon and the terrifying hours he’d spent in the mistangle, nearly perishing but emerging victorious over the beast.

Claire was entranced. Even the scariest stories didn’t stop her from wanting to see it all for herself, and now TP was faced with a different dilemma than the one he’d imagined; the one where Claire gave him pitying looks and suggested he see a psychiatrist, and then quietly walked out the door.

Should he take her through the hedge? While he’d love to show her Minglemist, he couldn’t quite picture this refined, cultured woman seated in a farm cart amidst turnips and cabbages, or dining at the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse being ogled by the rough and crude fishermen, or, heaven forbid, being accosted by a chimera dragon. If anything should happen to her, he’d never forgive himself.

“It’s a wild place, Claire,” he said. “Minglemist is cut off from the rest of the world and hasn’t progressed in the same ways. Whatever technologies the Brotherhood developed there were lost or forgotten or suppressed by unknown factors. So it’s like stepping back into the 1800’s. The electricity is off more than it’s on, the phones usually don’t work, there are no cars or computers or electronic devices. Life is very primitive.”

“That makes me want to see it all the more,” she said with a glint in her eye, “and one day I will.”

TP was learning to have great respect for that glint. It was a subtle hint of the will forces hidden beneath Claire’s gentle demeanor. She could conquer armies, TP thought, with sweetness and charm; have soldiers fall at her feet without realizing they’d been out-smarted, out-maneuvered and flattened by a force far greater than the sword. Death by graciousness.

Now, as she sat across from him at the breakfast table in a cherry-red, cowl-necked angora sweater, black corduroys and fuzzy black socks with white snowflakes on them, her hair twisted up into its usual knot, TP marveled that she found him worthy of her attention. He often felt like a big oaf around her. He was all knobby bones and bristles: his 6’2” gangly frame, his beak of a nose, the lock of salt-and-pepper hair springing up from his forehead and falling to the left like a clump of marsh grass blown over by the wind. But Claire liked him! She laughed at his jokes. And better still, she believed in him and his wild stories. It was a miracle.

“So the piece of amber I used in the brain formula is ancient, petrified resin from lollywon trees in Minglemist. Possibly millions of years old. It’s the only thing I’ve ever managed to bring back through the hedge.”

He pulled it out of his pocket and placed it in her cupped hand, a smooth, green stone with a golden glow in the center.

“Madeline wears one of these around her neck, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. Yes, she does. It was a gift from the young man she fell in love with while we were in Minglemist.”

“Sephyr Whitemoon, the prince of Boggy Meadow.”

“The very one.”

“Who disappeared. Did she ever find him?”

“She went back to Minglemist this past summer, but she never would talk to me about it. Now she’s back at school, living in the dorm, so I haven’t seen much of her. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.”

“Hmmm. The amber has a nice feel, doesn’t it? I hardly want to put it down.”

“All sorts of claims are made about lollywon amber. It heals wounds, it brings wealth, it protects against all evil, it illumines the mind and warms the heart. Supposedly if one person gives a piece to another, it binds them together for life. And they say it brings visions.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “We know that claim is true, don’t we?”

“My friend in Minglemist, Doc Stubblefield, says the amber absorbs and stores light

from the celestial bodies and it holds cosmic memories. That got me to wondering if it might possibly amplify the effects of the Mercury and Uranus-ruled herbs in the tincture.”

“I believe you’ve captured the stars, TP.”

The thought made him breathless. “Time will tell,” he said. “The swamp people make their own kind of magic from lollywon amber by crushing it and mixing it with other things – roots, resins, herbs, I’m not sure what, and forming it into beads. I’ve seen the beads used like money, for bartering, and city folks pay high prices for them. They’re something of a status symbol. The more beads you own, the more prestigious you are.”

“The lore and lure of the lollywon,” said Claire, gazing deep into the translucent depths. “What stories it could tell.”

***

What stories indeed, thought TP later that evening as he laid a fire in the fireplace and set a match to the kindling. He kept picturing the golden glow in the amber. Was it really starlight? Had he actually bumbled his foolish way into something far beyond his comprehension? Was Mercury actually calling to him?

Today had been dark and blustery, not good for hiking, so he and Claire had stayed in except for a brief foray to the market. Claire had made cream of potato soup and a crisp salad with greens, apples and pecans which they ate by candlelight in the kitchen. The cheerful yellow walls, the shelves holding cookbooks, blue crockery and a copper kettle, the framed monoprints of herbs, even the glass birds on the windowsill were muted and transformed into a flickering shadowland befitting the November evening. Now, after tidying the kitchen to the strains of Pachelbel Vespers, they settled in the living room in front of the fire. Claire had discovered The Count of Saint-Germain by Isabel Cooper-Oakley on TP’s bookshelf and they began reading it aloud. The intrigue, the drama, the mysteries swirling around the romantic count drew them in, and at last TP felt the remnants of his experience in the lab recede.

But as they got ready for bed, Claire urged him to try taking some of the tincture."

You might as well do it now, TP, while I’m here. That way if you suddenly gallop off on a silver steed I’ll know what happened.”

“Would you try to follow?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Wild horses couldn’t hold me back.”

“Supposing I turn into a lollywon tree?”

“Then I’ll plant you in the garden and sit on your branches every day.”

“Deal,” he said. He went to his lab and uncapped the new brain tincture. Using a pipette, he transferred a small amount to a tiny spoon and lifted it to his mouth. The taste was sharp and green on his tongue and left a tingle after he’d swallowed. But other than a warm sensation as the alcohol went down, nothing happened. Okay, then, he thought and turned around to see Claire peering at him from the doorway. He gave her a thumb’s up and she smiled. “Can I try some too?”

“Ah, I don’t know if that would be a good idea, until we know more about it.”

“Oh nonsense,” she said, coming into the lab. “Give me that spoon.” She expertly filled it with the pipette, took a swallow, then crossed her eyes and gasped.

“I’m seeing stars,” she whispered hoarsely, “and wait! Is that a winged chariot approaching? Help me, TP, I’m being pulled awayyyyyy.”

TP shook his head. “Idiot,” he said, and kissed her. “Let’s go to bed and build some brain neurotrophic growth factor.”

 

           

           

           

           

 

A Dark Star Falling - Chapter Three

 

The morning dawned cold but clear and the wind had died away. TP arose early as was his habit, feeling refreshed after a sound night’s sleep.

In the kitchen he made coffee, heated a pot of water for hot cereal and got out the tea canister. Claire liked green tea, Sencha loose leaf, 4 grams for two cups, brewed exactly three minutes. He hummed as he weighed and measured and stirred, adding a blend of grains to the now bubbling water, sprinkling in a bit of cinnamon, stirring some more.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

 Claire appeared, looking like she’d just popped out of an Easter basket, soft and rosy in a plush pink robe. Her hair was down around her shoulders, though not mussed from sleep, of course, but lying smooth and glossy against her neck. Claire was never mussed. Dirt never clung to her, she repelled it. She could emerge from the marshes they liked to explore after wading through muck and weeds for hours looking as pristine as when she’d gone in, while TP would have several holes in his shirt, muddy knees, burrs in his hair and at least one boot squishing wetly as he walked. Another of life’s great mysteries.

 TP stopped stirring and cocked his head. What had he been humming? “I haven’t a clue,” he said, looking puzzled.

 “It sounded like an old Romani tune my dad used to play on the fiddle.”

 “Romani? As in gypsy?”

 “The Roma people don’t like to be called gypsies, but yes, like gypsies. Dad used to sneak away sometimes to the Romani camp near our village in Ireland on summer evenings to play music with them. Mom hated him going – she thought Romas were rough and low class, and of course my sister and I were forbidden to go, but we loved the colorful stories Dad told about them and the music they taught him. Hum that tune again, TP.”

 As he did so, a tiny snippet of dream from the night before filtered into his mind. He remembered seeing bits of wispy white filaments, some woven together, some broken or torn, all floating in space, and music notes sounding with them. And a feeling of melancholy. He stopped humming and frowned.

 “What is it, TP?” asked Claire.

 “I don’t know,” he said, “I think that tune was in a dream I had.”

 “Hmmm,” said Claire, “interesting.” She looked at him thoughtfully but said no more, and he went back to stirring the porridge.

 By the time they ate, sunlight was streaming in the windows, promising a pleasant day after three days of inclement weather.

 TP noticed a black Lexus parked across the street, opposite his neighbor Gladys’ house. He’d seen the car there several times recently.

 “Gladys must have house guests,” he said to Claire.

 “I believe she’s seeing a French chef.”

 “What? Gladys? How do you know?”

 “I went by the deli where she works on Friday. There’s a new manager, Antoine something. Gladys seemed pretty chummy with him, but I could be wrong. There was just this vibe between them, you know?”

 “Well,” said TP.

 Gladys Quizzenberry’s back yard bordered his on the other side of his wax myrtle hedge. A widow in her mid-fifties, she’d had a huge crush on TP for a long time and showered him with gourmet treats, though recently the casseroles, breads, stews, salads and desserts were not appearing as often. Possibly due to the new French chef. How did he feel about Gladys having a beau? She was a nosy busybody and often a pain in the neck with her shrill voice, blunt comments, innuendos and tired clichés. So he should be happy to have her attention focused elsewhere. But somehow he felt miffed. Good grief, was he so shallow that he wanted to continue basking in her adoration without giving anything in return? Or was it that he didn’t want the delicious food to stop being delivered? He did pay her from time to time for the treats, and gave her produce from his garden, but… a French chef! Who drove a black Lexus. It was a good thing, he decided. He just needed time to adjust.

 Claire grinned at him. “I believe you’re jealous, TP.” She knew very well how Gladys felt about TP. The woman was as subtle as a blowtorch, and had made it clear she thought Claire was not worthy of him.

“I’ll try to bear it manfully,” he said, “and maybe you can offer some comfort.”

 After breakfast they drove to Claire’s house to feed her cat. Claire lived in a small two-story house in Mount Washington, a suburb of north Baltimore only minutes away from TP’s ranch-style home in Cheswolde.

 TP never felt quite comfortable at Claire’s. It was too clean and white. White walls, white sofa, white curtains. Turquoise arm chairs and colorful pillows relieved the whiteness, but he was always afraid of spilling something or tracking in mud. The kitchen chairs were pale pink plush. Who would have plush kitchen chairs? Only Claire. When he ate there, TP hunched over the small table like a vulture, hoping not to drop food. Claire’s bedroom and bath were behind the kitchen, and upstairs was a small music room and two more rooms with dormered windows and a bathroom between them, one a guest bedroom and the other used as an office/den/exercise room where Claire did her tai chi routine every morning.

 Luther, the cat, was lying on top of Claire’s piano in the living room. He glared at TP and twitched his tail. Solid grey with pale yellow eyes and a permanent scowl, Luther had been a stray and was not exactly the cuddly type, though he would occasionally sit in Claire’s lap and allow her to stroke him. He and TP were not on good terms.

 “Hello, Luther,” said TP, and received a hiss in return.

 Luther jumped down from the piano and sauntered into the kitchen where Claire was filling his food dish. He deigned to let her scratch his ears, then settled over his dish after glancing around to make sure TP was not sneaking up on him.

 “So, do you want to take a walk and go to a matinee? Or we could look at slides of transitional forms of gymnosperms during the Carboniferous period under the microscope. Or you could play cello for me naked.”

 “Oh, ick,” said Claire. “Walk first, then maybe matinee.”

 “No cello?”

 “We’ll see,” she said.

They took a brisk two mile walk at the arboretum, then a leisurely stroll through the gardens, enjoying the November sunshine, then ended up back at Claire’s, as there were no matinees they wanted to see.

 “I brought our book along if you want to read,” Claire said.

 “The Count of Saint-Germain? Certainly. The fellow is one of the most mysterious and controversial characters in all of history and possibly one of the most influential. I learn something new every time I read the book. I wish I could get my hands on some of his alchemical formulas.”

 “I love his music,” said Claire. “I read once that he hid secrets in his musical compositions about who he really was and all his magical accomplishments. How did he slip through the cracks of history, do you suppose?”

 TP shrugged. “He obviously wasn’t after fame. Some thought he was a charlatan. Many officials in high places tried to destroy him. People fear what they don’t understand and believe what they want to believe even if the facts say otherwise. What would you think if someone disappeared and then reappeared right before your eyes?”

 Claire arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking the wrong person. If you recall, that happened to me when you tried to take me into Minglemist.”

 Three times they’d tried, TP holding tightly to Claire’s hand as he pulled her through the hedge, but much to Clare’s disappointment, it hadn’t worked. She’d found herself in Gladys’ back yard, while TP had completely disappeared.

 “Oh, well, but you’re different. Thank goodness.”

 “Most people would assume it was a trick.”

 “Of course. Trickery is the most likely explanation and far safer than believing someone had so mastered the elements he or she could disappear into the ethers and appear elsewhere. People are uncomfortable with the unknown. It’s messy, it’s untidy, it’s disturbing and possibly evil. So we all formulate explanations for mysteries that suit our beliefs.”

 They let that thought linger while Claire heated water for tea. “I guess it would be intimidating to be around a man who never aged, who played every instrument imaginable, composed music, painted beautifully, spoke French, German, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian and English and had traveled all over the world.”

 “His name’s also been linked with the Order of the Rose Cross.”

 “Ah, Rosicrucianism. The Secret Stream, isn’t it called? I don’t know much about it.”

 “Hah,” said TP. “You and most everyone else. That’s why it’s called the Secret Stream.” His blue eyes glinted as he addressed one of his favorite topics. “Rosicrucianism is the union of the Cross and the Rose, or science and love. The resurrection of matter. The ultimate goal being to transform the substance of the earth into love. Evil into good, lead into gold, matter into light. They were alchemists, of course.”

 “And apparently healers, musicians, artists and much, much more. Seekers of higher knowledge, like you are, TP.”

 His chest swelled at her compliment.

 “I think you are too, Claire. That’s why you’re sitting here right now.”

 "Oh, that, and many other reasons.”

 “Such as?”

 She smiled. “When I first saw you loping across campus with your suit coat flapping in the breeze I wanted to run after you.”

 “Really? Why?”

 “You had a brief case in one hand and a jar of water filled with wiggling things in the other, trying not to jostle it as you hurried along. I knew wherever you’d come from and wherever you were going was very vital and exciting.”

 “So why didn’t you? Run after me?”

 “I thought I’d better let you make the first move. I didn’t want to scare you back into the marsh.”

 “Hah! As if. It took me months to get up the nerve to speak to you.”

 “After a concert, it was, at the refreshment table. You came up and asked if I liked lilies.”

 “How absurd. What was I thinking?”

 “There was a bouquet of them on the table.”

 “Ah, yes. I was thinking you put them to shame. I’m surprised you didn’t run the other way from a great awkward oaf like myself.”

 “Oh, I couldn’t run.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I’d looked into your bright blue eyes.”

 “And?”

 “And that was that.”

 Claire served up mugs of clove and cinnamon-smelling tea and they began to read, losing themselves in the drama of the French Revolution and the Count’s dire predictions that all came true.

 Late in the afternoon as the shadows grew long and the day was winding down, Claire played cello for TP, first a new piece she was working on for the Christmas concert, then some French and Moravian folk songs, then, after rummaging through her sheet music, she drew out a paper with a flourish.

 “Voila! Here we have a sonata by Saint-Germain. It would sound better with the violin, but you can get an idea.”

 How strange and wondrous, TP thought as he listened to the music written centuries ago. He was actually sharing an intimate moment with the Count of Saint-Germain! Was his spirit hovering over them this very minute as the notes sounded? Goose bumps rose on TP’s arms as he glanced around the room, now bathed in twilight. His eyes fell on Luther sitting under the piano bench, staring intently at the bottom of the floor-length curtains as they lifted faintly, then settled.

 When the notes died away he said, “Thank you, Claire. It was exquisite.”

 “But I’m not quite finished,” she said, and began to play again

TP recognized the melody at once. It was the tune from his dream. He sat up straight in his chair, hands gripping the doily-covered arms as the notes wove their spell. It all came back to him; the dream, the white filaments, the snippets of melody. But as Claire played, the snippets coalesced into a complete song. He remembered parts of it he’d forgotten, or that were lost in his subconscious before he awoke. Claire kept glancing at his face as she played, stumbling a bit here and there when memory eluded her. When she’d finished they sat silent for a time, letting the notes linger in the dying light, and though the minor key lent an air of melancholy, TP felt a lightness enter the room, as if something long held captive had been released. Maybe it was his imagination, but even Luther seemed less dour and more kindly disposed towards him, batting at his shoelace as he skittered past and disappeared under the curtains, his tail lashing back and forth.

 

Finally Claire said, “I don’t even know the name of that piece. My dad’s the only one I ever heard play it. And I could say something trite here, TP, like it came to you for a reason. Or we can dismiss it as a fluke. Or we can just sort of circle around it slowly and gently, searching for connecting threads.”

 

“I like that,” said TP, an idea coming to him. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

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