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.”
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.”
No comments:
Post a Comment