A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Four

(Scroll down for previous chapters)

That evening they took Archie for a long walk along a nature trail that almost bordered TP's back yard. It was a decent spot for birdwatching. TP often walked there, taking his binoculars and a stout stick for poking at plants or fungi. They spotted a kingfisher along a small stream and TP taught Harold how to identify poison ivy. Archie sniffed ecstatically at strategic spots and tried to roll on a dead frog.

Back home, Harold emptied his pockets of acorns he'd collected, took a bath, then sat at his desk to work on his artwork before bed. TP studied his drawing. Two figures dressed in tunics and very long, pointed shoes stood side by side. One wore a crown, the other a hat with a curving feather.

"Who are these fellows?" he asked.

"Troubadours," said Harold.

"I see. What are their names?"

"This one is Richard the Lionheart." He indicated the crowned man. 

"And the other?"

"That's the Duke. He's Richard's friend."

"Is that a horn he's holding?"

Harold nodded. "It's a magic horn. He announces things."

"What are those spots on him? Does he have measles?"

"No. Those are barnacles. He got them on a sea voyage."

"Interesting. Maybe he needs to shave them off."

Harold shook his head. "They'll fall off after awhile." 

He got into bed, and TP peered into the waste basket, retrieving the old teddy bear. Feeling foolish, he said, "I'll just put him back in the closet."

"Why did you throw him away?"

"He's old and pretty dusty."

"What's his name?"

"Shubert."

"He could sleep on the bed. We can give him a bath tomorrow." Harold patted a spot beside his pillow.

So there, Evalda.

After Harold was settled, TP worked in the lab again, then sat in the living room in his rocking chair with a cup of chamomile tea and classical music on the stereo, turned low so it wouldn't waken Harold. Nights were growing harder and harder. He was afraid to fall asleep because losing consciousness woke the dark Thing. In that slippery moment between wakefulness and sleep he saw its outline, like thick black smoke, and felt the gaze of its burning red eyes. And every night it grew stronger. Music helped ease his fear, and, he hoped, slowed the dark Thing's growth. Lately he'd been leaving the stereo on even after he went to bed. Cello was his favorite. The low, sonorous tones resonated deep inside him and soothed his nerves. Flute was good, too, for its crisp, uplifting energy. He pictured the notes as a bridge spanning a bottomless chasm, leading him safely over that terrifying moment of helplessness when he faced his enemy.

No doctor in this world could cure him, for the simple reason that his affliction was not of this world. He'd acquired it when traveling last summer in a land so foreign and strange he might be tempted to think it was all a dream, except that someone else had gone and come back with him. And because the dark Thing, which he thought he'd conquered, had followed him home as well.

When he could put off sleep no longer, he looked in on Harold, then went to bed. The last thing he remembered was a suffocating pressure on his chest and the urge to scream, but his voice wouldn't work, and only soundless vibrations echoed in his head. 

In the morning he awoke befuddled and exhausted. The clock on the night stand confused him further. Nearly eight o'clock! How could that be? He'd slept way later than usual. He lay still a few moments, trying to collect himself, then catapulted up as memory returned. Harold! He wrestled with the sheets and hopped out of bed hurriedly, his joints protesting the sudden movement, his head still in a fog.

He belted a bathrobe over his usual sleepwear - a pair of boxer shorts - then stared at the pants he'd worn yesterday lying crumpled on a chair. That's funny, he thought. He could have sworn he'd hung them on the bathroom door hook, like always.

From the hallway he heard voices in the kitchen. Harold's, and an unmistakable high pitched female's. What in the world?

Softly he crept to the kitchen doorway and peered around it. Harold sat at the table on the booster chair TP had rigged up for him made from his huge book of North American invertebrates. The table displayed a platter of multi-colored patties sprinkled with purple pansies and red rose petals, and a plate of steaming brown muffins. Gladys reigned at the kitchen counter, slicing oranges. Today she wore a full-skirted lavender frock with puffed sleeves, partially covered by another of her many aprons - pale blue printed with kittens in chefs' hats holding bowls and spoons. A charm bracelet jingled on her wrist as she sliced. Archie sat beside her, tail sweeping the floor, gazing up at her with mournful adoration.

Gladys glanced around and spotted him before he could hide. "Good morning, sleepyhead! We have a hungry boy here so I thought I'd better feed him. He needs a little plumping, doesn't he? Come and have some coffee, don't be shy. I've seen men in their bathrobes before. My Merle sometimes ate breakfast in his birthday suit, imagine that!" She tittered, and Archie let out a moan, overcome by the kitchen smells and Gladys' trilling voice.

TP must have moaned aloud as well, because Gladys raised her eyebrows and said, "Ooh, someone's gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. But I have just the remedy. Coffee's ready, come and get it!"

TP drew back from the doorway and leaned against the wall, holding his head. Moaning dogs, shrill-voiced women, barnacled troubadours, images of naked men shoveling in bacon and eggs; his neat and orderly life had exploded into chaos. He fled back to his bedroom and closed the door.

After a quick, bracing cold shower he felt marginally better, and better still after a cup of coffee. Gladys had had the decency to leave, thank God. Harold was still at the table, finishing his breakfast.

TP eyed the plate of patties.

"They're blooming spring fritters," Harold said. "You can eat the flowers if you want."

"Do you like them?"

"They're pretty good actually, if you put catsup on them." He took a big bite, red sauce dribbling down his chin.

The boy certainly wasn't a finicky eater. Evalda's influence, no doubt. She'd probably raised her daughter and grandson on yogurt and tabouli.

"After breakfast we're going on a field trip," TP announced.

"We are? Can Archie come too?"

"Yes." They would take his old Ford pickup, useful for bumping along back roads and crossing creeks. And for transporting dogs, and the equipment he had in mind.

"What field are we going to?" Harold wanted to know.

"Field?"

"You said a field trip."

"Oh. Not a field, exactly. You'll see soon enough. We're going to the wetlands. It's time you got to know them." 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Three

 (Scroll down for previous chapters)

After lunch Harold organized his art supplies on the desk in his room. Coloring books, a big pad of paper, crayons and colored pencils. Archie snoozed on his furry cushion which Harold had neatly surrounded with old towels he'd brought from home. "He drools," he'd explained. TP had tried not to grimace.

"I'm going to work in my lab for a bit, if you're all set here. We'll go for a walk later when it's cooler. Just call if you need me."

Ah, at last. His vegetable stone was being prepared from celandine, and the distillation was all but complete. It was time for the next step in the process. He sterilized his equipment, washed his hands and carefully read the instructions once more. Just as he began to work, a shrill voice startled him.

"Yoo-hoo."

He rolled his eyes in frustration. It was Gladys, of course. He'd been expecting her. She would've seen Evalda and Harold arrive out her front window and had surely been chomping at the bit to find out who they were. He was surprised she'd waited this long.

"Yoo-hoo, Thad, are you home?"

Gladys was the only person on the planet who called him Thad. His mother had, but she was long gone. Gladys had seen his driver's license on the table one day, and ever since he'd been Thad.

She stood in the kitchen, her busy brown eyes taking in the sack of dog food, the dog dishes, Harold's shoes beneath the table. Tight reddish curls jiggled as her head swung this way and that. She wore a pink shirtwaist dress and one of her frilly aprons, and her painted toenails peeked out of turquoise mules topped with beaded rosettes.

"Oh, hello, Thad. Your door was open, I hope you don't mind." Her bow-shaped lips blossomed into a smile. There was lipstick on her teeth.

Of course he minded. Was his home an open house for nosy neighbors? She was holding that big brown casserole dish, and delicious smells were wafting out of it. Apparently home cooked meals gave one the right to enter without knocking.

A deep half-bark, half-howl sounded from the hallway and Archie appeared, nose in the air, tail waving furiously, hot on the scent of the casserole.

Gladys cooed at him. "Oh, what a lovely doggie! Where did you come from?" She looked at TP expectantly.

"My great-nephew's come to stay for a few days. With his dog."

"How wonderful, Thad. You should've let me know. I could've brought cookies. And some dog biscuits for this handsome fellow. What's his name?"

"That's Archie." Harold entered the kitchen. "He can't have treats. He gets too fat."

"I see. Well, maybe a soup bone then. What's your name, young man?"

TP made introductions, and Gladys held out the casserole dish. "Fancy Pants Chicken Casserole. I hope you like it, Thad. And Harold, too."

"You're too kind," TP murmured.

Really, he was going to have to start paying her. He knew she wasn't wealthy. She did a little cooking for a deli, but otherwise apparently lived on her dead husband's pension. She saved coupons and drove an old second-hand Toyota with a bad muffler. TP kept her supplied with vegetables from his garden, but still. He'd been taking advantage of her shamefully.

"There's going to be a concert in the park Friday evening," she said. "A jazz band. I love jazz, don't you?"

"Can't stand it, actually," TP said.

"Heavens, Thad, everyone loves jazz. How could you not? It makes me want to jump up and dance." She did a little twirl and swiveled her hips side to side, her curls flouncing. "Imagine that, a woman of my age." She tittered, putting a hand on her ample chest and batting her eyes. 

Good God, Evalda was right! Gladys was angling for him. How had he not seen it before? Tongue-tied and flustered, he stared at her. She wasn't a bad looking woman. Stout around the middle with a broad backside, but she had nice legs. And dainty feet. Big brown eyes and a turned up nose. But that voice! And her pushy manner. He wasn't the least bit attracted to her. Only her cooking. Guilt assailed him. He really must start paying her for the meals.

After an awkward silence, Gladys said "I'd better get going, then. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"I was just working in my lab."

"Working on what? I'd love to see what you do." She peered down the hallway.

"No! That is, not today." Not ever. "I've got a very delicate experiment going on. Even a sneeze could ruin it."

"It sounds fascinating! Some other time, then. Maybe I'll see you Friday."

"Friday?"

"At the jazz concert. Bring Harold. The park has a nice children's play area. Toodle-loo!"

"Why does she call you Thad, Uncle TP?" Harold wanted to know. "Is that your real name?"

"Part of it, unfortunately. Do you want to know a secret?"

Harold nodded.

"But you have to promise never to tell anyone."

"I promise."

"My real name is Thaddeus Percival. Now you know why I prefer TP."

"It's a very long name," Harold said thoughtfully. "I don't like nicknames, though."

"Why is that?"

"In kindergarten they called me Hairball."

"Ah, that would be rough. Do you know what they called me in school?"

Harold shook his head.

"Toilet Paper Dunlap."

Harold laughed out loud. Finally! TP was beginning to wonder if the boy ever cracked a smile.

He chuckled himself. "But even Toilet Paper was better than Thaddeus Percival."

Harold went back to his room and TP reentered the lab, feeling guilty for neglecting his visitor. Harold was such a quiet child it was easy to forget he was there. The boy should be out doing boy-like activities with other children, or at the very least TP should be playing catch with him, or whatever it was fathers did with their sons. He vowed he'd make it up to Harold. Soon. At the moment, this alchemical work was vital. TP felt himself creeping closer and closer to an abyss and the vegetable stone was his life rope, his only hope of survival. 

"Breathe," he muttered to himself, ignoring the little flickers of fear pricking at him. Fear was his greatest enemy. "Stay calm. Stay centered. Focus."

There were many steps in preparing the stone. Separating the elements came first - fire, air, water, earth - it took many distillations and washings, dehydrating, purifying, then adding the purified elements back together. He worked diligently, glancing often at the Latin inscription above his table: Ora, lege, lege, lege, relege, labora et invenies. Pray, read, read, read, read once again, work and you will find.

After completing the next step, TP left the lab, locking the door behind him and hanging the key in a safe place. The house was very quiet. Feeling anxious, TP hurried to Harold's room but he wasn't in it. A brief moment of panic subsided when he looked out the window. Harold was in the back yard, trying to get Archie into the garden cart. He'd managed to get Archie's front legs up onto the back of the cart but the hindquarters didn't seem to be cooperating. After much coaxing and strenuous effort the deed was accomplished. Now came the task of getting him to stay in the cart long enough to be given a ride.

TP had to admit the drooling old dog was a godsend, keeping Harold occupied. He guessed Harold was a lonely boy, what with an absent father and a mother who galivanted off to foreign lands, leaving her son in the care of her overly busy mother. Marnie was a freelance journalist, if TP remembered correctly. Wrote articles for high class fashion magazines. Probably made scads of money, but was that more important than being home to raise your child? Harold had no siblings and was called Hairball by his classmates. TP felt a pang of sympathy. He promised himself he'd do something special with Harold tomorrow. Something Harold would never do at home. He'd give the boy his full attention and get to know him better. Before it was too late.

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Two

 (Scroll down for Chapter One)

Later that evening TP went into his guest bedroom and looked around. Twin bed with a red coverlet, night stand, dresser, closet, desk beneath the north window holding a globe atlas and a gooseneck lamp. The overhead light shone through a frosted glass pentangle with pale butterflies floating across it. Two book shelves held his collection of Audubon books and another shelf displayed three oriole nests, a dead locust - how did that get there? - a piece of driftwood, shells, fossils and a jar of dried grasses. He supposed those things could stay, but the Lord of the Dance poster above the bed would have to go. It would surely be frightening to a child. TP was half afraid of it himself. The god Siva was an imposing figure, half male, half female, with a huge headdress and many arms waving about. One leg was raised, the other stood firmly on an evil-looking dwarf. Who wouldn't feel uneasy sleeping beneath it?  

TP hadn't had an overnight visitor for ages, other than Madeline, but she was different. That girl was fierce enough to stare down Siva any day. He made a mental note to call her and see how her finals had gone. She'd just finished her first year of art classes at the university. 

The poster could go to the lab. What else? Should he change the sheets? He swiped at the windowsills, checking for dust. The scenery outside the east window was blocked by a large cypress tree, but the larger north window had a pleasant view of his big back yard and garden and a small copse of pine trees beyond. A wax myrtle hedge hid his neighbor Glady's house to the west. A necessity, really, because Gladys was a snoop. 

He loved his hedge for other reasons too. Wax myrtle was a host plant for the red banded hairstreak butterfly. Many insects visited the nectar-filled flowers in spring, and the fall berries attracted vireos, warblers, tree swallows and bluebirds to name a few, and gave them winter shelter. 

TP ran a dust cloth over the shelves, vacuumed, then stood debating. A sudden inspiration had him rummaging through the large hall closet. He unearthed a much worn book of children's poetry kept from his childhood and, at the bottom of a musty box, his old teddy bear, faded and lumpy but still intact. Did six-year-old boys still play with stuffed animals?  He beat the bear against his knee to dislodge the dust, put it on the bed, took it off, put it back on, then put the poetry book on the night stand. That would have to do.

If only he could get himself in line as easily. Here he was, doing little chores and pretending to be a normal person while inside his soul the dark Thing twisted and turned. He dared not give it a name, even though he knew what it was. If it remained nameless, he could keep pretending it wasn't there.

By six a.m. the next morning TP had showered and dressed in his usual duds - an old pair of black dress pants and a white shirt. Wearing the same thing every day made life simple. If he went out he wore a newer pair of pants with a black suit jacket; if the occasion was fancy, he added a vest and tie.

Next he started the garden sprinklers. June fourth and already it was hot and muggy with no rain for the last week. TP grew lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, strawberries, onions and herbs, and a large patch of flowers for the pollinators.

Back inside he fixed breakfast - coffee, an orange and some of Gladys' oat bread topped with nut butter and cucumber slices (his favorite vegetable, he ate them with everything). He cleaned up the kitchen, then paced the floor, staring out the window every few minutes even though Evalda couldn't possibly arrive before eight unless she'd left at five-thirty a.m. She lived in Philadelphia, a good two hours away from his modest, ranch-style home in Cheswolde, a quiet neighborhood in North Baltimore, not far from the Johns Hopkins Homewood campus where he'd taught for thirty-some years.

He finally settled at the kitchen table with the latest copy of the Bay Journal and lost himself in an article on marsh grasses. At eight-twenty he looked out the window to see his sister striding up the sidewalk pulling a wheeled suitcase and clutching a large grocery sack. She wore a slim navy skirt, a cream colored blouse with cap sleeves and blue polka dots, and taupe slip on shoes. Her silver hair swung seamlessly against her shoulders and those ridiculous cat eye glasses hung from a chain around her neck.

Behind her trudged a small, pale boy wrestling with a back pack and a large furry cushion. His skinny legs poked out of brown shorts cinched up with a belt, and above that he wore a tan knit shirt, half tucked in, half hanging out of his waist band.

Bringing up the rear was a brown and white basset hound, bobbing along on crooked legs, tail aloft, ears dangling on the ground as he sniffed his way up the walk.

Harold tripped on the cushion and almost went sprawling, and TP hurried out to help. Evalda handed him the grocery sack and offered him her cheek, which he dutifully kissed.

"You need a haircut," she said. "Harold, this is your Uncle TP."

Harold gazed up at TP solemnly, taking in his great uncle's 6'2" height, his unruly shock of salt-and-pepper hair, his hawk-like nose and sharp blue eyes.

TP looked down as Harold looked up. Were all six-year-old boys so small, or was Harold a midget? He seemed so vulnerable standing there with his bowl cut brown hair, pale skin and blue eyes. Freckles dusted his nose and his cheeks were flushed from sun, or effort, or both. He had inherited the largish Dunlap ears, TP noted. An unfamiliar emotion flitted through him.

"Ah, yes, well, hello Harold," he said in a hearty voice. "I met you once, but you were only a baby. You've grown since then." What a stupid thing to say.

"Hello." Harold turned around and grabbed the basset hound's collar, pulling him forward. "This is Archie. Do you like dogs?"

"Certainly," said TP, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff. The saddest eyes he'd ever seen gazed into his. Oh my.

"Help him up the steps," Evalda said, "he's a little stiff from the car ride."

TP put down the grocery sack, slid his arms around the dog and hoisted, staggering under the weight. Good grief!

"I thought you said it was a little dog." He'd been picturing a terrier or poodle.

"He's barely over a foot tall, that's not very big."

TP shook his head. Her logic bewildered him. "He must weigh close to 80 pounds, Evalda, that's not small."

"Nonsense. Sixty eight pounds at most. You're out of shape. Help us get the rest of the gear in."

The next half hour was a flurry of activity supervised by Evalda. She sent Harold out to the back yard with Archie, then whirled through the kitchen like a dust devil, inspecting the cupboards, drawers and refrigerator, sniffing and poking and peering, dumping what she considered unsuitable down the garbage disposal.  TP barely saved his latest batch of fermented chili paste.

"Egads, TP, this is covered in mold! You can't possibly eat it." She made to dump it but he snatched it out of her hand.

"It's not mold, only harmless yeast. You scrape it off before eating. Peppers do that." He put it firmly back in the refrigerator and hid his jar of homemade sauerkraut behind a loaf of bread.

"Don't you dare give Harold food poisoning. Lord knows what else you're eating. I've brought some things from the deli, and Harold's favorite crackers. What's this?"

She scrutinized the contents of a Tupperware container.

"Crab pithivier with scallop frangipane," TP said smugly.

Evalda raised her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're taking a cooking class."

He smiled. "We'll be having it for lunch, with tossed salad and strawberries, if you'd like to stay." He would dearly love to let her think he'd made it himself, but honesty won out.

"My neighbor Gladys cooks."

"Oh?" Evalda's expression turned speculative. "How old is Gladys?"

"I don't know, fifty something, I guess."

"Is she married?"

"Widowed." 

"Are you dating her, TP?"

"Heavens no!"

"Why not? She's obviously angling for you. No one cooks crab pithivier unless they're trying to impress. You should take her out."

"Mind your own business, Evalda." 

"I want to meet her sometime."

Not if he could help it. Evalda on her own was one thing, but she and Gladys together? It would be a tsunami.

"Show me where Harold will be sleeping."

TP took her down the hall to the guest bedroom. She checked the closet for spiders, ousting three in brutal fashion. The dead locust went into the waste basket, as did the dried grasses.

"Dust catchers. Bedrooms should be as free of dust as possible."

Her eye fell on the bed. "Really, TP," she said, lifting the ancient teddy bear by its ear. "Is this the best you could do?"

"Yes, on less than twenty-four hour's notice."

"It's filthy!" She pitched it into the waste basket and moved on, circling the room and reciting a list of instructions: Harold's bed time, meal times, suggested activities. Sun screen was a must; Harold burned easily. Archie needed a daily walk of at least a mile, two if possible. No snacks. One or two dog biscuits, period.

TP's head was beginning to ache. Finally he herded her back down the hall. She stopped as they passed the door to his lab.

"What's in there?"

"My lab," he said, blocking the doorway. "I keep it locked." No way was she setting foot in his sanctuary.

"What are you working on?"

"An alchemical formula."

"What's it for?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," he said vaguely. The tone of his voice had Evalda putting on her glasses and looking him up and down.

"Something's off about you, TP. I can't put my finger on it, but I knew as soon as I heard your voice on the phone. You're not coming down with a virus, are you?"

If he said yes would she take Harold and the sad-eyed dog and go away?

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

If she only knew.

"Everything's fine," he said.

"Maybe you should try a parasite cleanse. Do you still spend so much time in the marshes? If so you're exposed to all sorts of microorganisms."

He was saved from answering when Harold and Archie came in the back door.

"I found a toad." Harold held it up for inspection.

"That's wonderful, dear," said Evalda. "I'm sure you'll find all sorts of things here." She gave TP a look.

"Come give Grandma Evie a hug. I've got to go now. Your mama has Uncle TP's number and I'm sure she'll be calling. You can call me any time you want. Don't forget to brush your teeth."

Finally she was gone. TP took a deep breath and looked down at his small charge.

"Let's take the toad out to the garden and look for strawberries." 

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter One

 "TP, is that you?"

TP Dunlap heaved a sigh and braced himself. His widowed sister, Evalda. Two years his senior, she was the bossiest, most opinionated woman he knew. Her loud, accusatory voice had him feeling guilty already. As usual. What had he done now?

She rarely called, thank God, but when she did it was always with a list of grievances, criticisms and/or ridiculous requests delivered in her nasal honk.

"Who else would it be," he said into the phone, striving for the right tone. Slightly irritated and impatient, as if she'd interrupted something important. Firm and commanding. You had to be assertive with Evalda, else she would steam roll over you and have you backed into a corner before you knew it. Assertiveness was not TP's long suit, but dealing with Evalda demanded masterful tactics.

"You don't sound yourself. Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes." Thanks to his neighbor, Gladys, who kept him supplied with never ending casseroles, stews, salads and breads. Luckily his long, lean Dunlap genes allowed him to eat whatever he wanted and not pop his buttons. Yet.

"How can I help you, Evalda?" Might as well get it over with.

"I have a little favor to ask..."

Here it came.

"Marnie is in France for a month with her job, and I'm taking care of Harold. But something's come up. I'm terribly busy with the OPAA - we're having a fundraiser two weeks from now and there are a zillion things to do."

"OPAA?"

Now it was Evalda who sighed. Loudly. "Orphaned Pet Adoption Agency. I'm the president, which of course you wouldn't remember."

Oh yes, how could he forget? She'd tried several times to foist neglected animals with missing ears on him.

"I'm not adopting any pets, Evalda."

"What a mean-spirited man you are, TP.  Where is your compassion?  You, of all people, a biology professor -"

"Retired biology professor," he amended.

" - who's devoted his life to studying animals, or should I say animal parts, dissected and pickled in jars. All head and no heart."

"That's not true!" TP loved animals, but he wasn't a caretaker. Pets needed you.  Pets weaseled their way into your heart and then they got old and sick. You had to nurse them and gaze into their suffering eyes, and then they died, and you felt...ah, it was way too hard. He preferred animals in the wild, free and independent.

"So you say, TP. But that's not why I'm calling."

TP frowned. "So what's the favor?"

"I'd like you to keep Harold for a few days."

"What? Harold?"

"Yes, Harold. You know, your six-year-old great-nephew who's never once gotten a birthday card or Christmas present from you. The son of your only niece, my daughter, who hardly remembers you. It's past time you showed a little interest in your family, TP."

"That's not going to be possible." Stern, authoritative. Hopefully not panicked.

"Oh? And why is that?" Evalda's honking voice rose several decibels.

He scrambled, grasping for straws, then decided honesty would be the best weapon.

"Evalda, be reasonable. I'm a 62-year-old bachelor, set in his ways, who's never been around children. I'm not a fitting companion for a young boy." 

It would be a disaster. His heart fluttered just thinking about it. "What about the boy's father?"

"Oh, give me strength!" The honking grew louder still. "Derrick has been completely out of the picture for years. The man is a selfish pig, even more selfish than you." She sighed again, and TP imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose under those glittering cat eye glasses she wore. Her tone suddenly became honey sweet.

"This is a golden opportunity for you, TP. You've always been an introvert, just like Dad. But now that you're not teaching anymore I'm afraid you're falling into a slump. I wouldn't be surprised if you have agoraphobia. You need more contact with the human race. And God knows, Harold needs a male influence. He's a wonderful boy, smart, artistic, full of surprises."

TP would just bet. The thought made his skin clammy.

"I predict you'll get along famously. Harold loves the outdoors. Plants and animals. You can teach him biology. And he just might teach you a thing or two, if it's even possible, about empathy and caring for others. It's only for a week or so."

"I thought you said a few days."

"Just until I get the fundraiser organized. Thanks, TP. You won't regret it. I'll bring him by tomorrow morning."

"Wait!" No, this was not happening. "Isn't there daycare? I'd be glad to pay for it."

"Absolutely not! You don't know what nightmares could be lurking in those places. Germs, junk food, sexual predators. For God's sake, TP, have a heart! Besides, they wouldn't allow pets, and -"

"Pets!" TP's blood pressure soared. He envisioned a menagerie of scruffy dogs and cats tearing through his laboratory, knocking over precious vials, scattering his notes, leaving piles of excrement in the corners.

"Only his little old dog, Archie. Very well behaved, you won't even know he's there.  He sticks to Harold's side like glue. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Is eight o'clock too early?"

"No! I mean, yes! I absolutely can't..."

But she had hung up. Once again, she'd buffaloed him, and he'd let it happen.

He threw the phone down in disgust and went into his lab, slamming the door loudly.

Half an hour after Evalda's call, TP sat on his lab stool, listlessly swiveling back and forth as he stared at a row of flasks filled with plant matter and bubbling liquid. Every time he swiveled left, the stool squeaked. He really should oil it. Oddly, the noise seemed to trigger fermentation bubbles. Squeak, bubble, bubble. Would it speed up the process? He'd been honing his skills at spagyric tinctures, using ancient formulas from musty old manuals collected over the years. The tinctures were intended as medicines and he had high hopes for them.

His eye then fell with some trepidation on the large distillation flask sitting before him. This was his second attempt at a complicated alchemical preparation. The first one had failed, partly because the instruction manual he'd found in an obscure little book shop was very old and the print smudged in places, and partly (maybe mostly) because he didn't know what he was doing. He was a mere novice at this ancient art. He'd followed the directions meticulously (at least the ones he could make out), fermenting, distilling, filtering out the solids, incinerating and calcining, carefully separating out the Death's Head (Caput Mortuum), dissolving the salt of the salts (Sal Salis) and adding it back in. He'd made more distillations and then fired the preparation in his furnace. And all this done under the proper positions of the planets. But the Quinta Essentia had eluded him. According to the instructor, M. Johannes Isaac Hollandus, the process should yield a substance "hard as stone, clear as crystal, red like a ruby and transparent. This is the vegetable stone which cures all diseases and infirmities in the world."

TP's efforts had only yielded a few black crumbles. Hollandus' words on the subject haunted and humbled him: 

"We also find many simpletons among scholars and the illiterate who would also dare to undertake these works. They begin to work in the laboratory and imagine that they also have an understanding of the art of separation of the four Elements one from another, each separately. And then they imagine that they have performed great wonders. They say, 'We have made the Quinta Essentia.' True, with it they drive away many diseases in man, because it has in itself much power and good virtue; that is certain, more than they themselves know. But that the miserable fools imagine that they have made the Quinta Essentia and separated the Elements one from the other, that is nothing but sheer deception. They may well have great medicine, moreso than they realize. But that they pretend and say, 'We have the Quinta Essentia,' is far from true. You poor simpletons, you have no Quinta Essentia. Quinta Essentia is quite another thing than you believe. It is a glorified Corpus that has been brought to perfection and is fixed and lasts eternally. Whoever has that can say he has the Quinta Essentia. Such a person has an earthly treasure that is better than a kingdom, and it is a gift of God which He bestows especially upon His friends. Happy is the person who has attained it and knows how to use it well for the salvation of his soul and benefit of the poor."

TP knew as he squeaked back and forth on his stool that he shouldn't even be in the lab right now. His foul mood could contaminate the preparation. Evalda's phone call had thrown him completely off balance. He was to babysit Harold, a six-year-old boy, for an unspecified length of time, days at the very least, (knowing Evalda she would exploit the situation to her advantage), and he was terrified.

Caring for a young boy gave him trepidation, to be sure, but this was not the reason for his dread. No, it stemmed from a much larger issue, a dark and terrible secret he harbored within. If harm should come to Harold because of this secret, TP would never forgive himself. The thought left him faint and breathless. No one else could know or understand! No one else could help him. And this was why he desperately needed the Quinta Essentia, the vegetable stone.

Now there would be an interruption of his work, a distraction costing him precious time. Utmost concentration was needed. If he had any hope of succeeding, his mind must be clear, his emotions calm, his hands steady. 

"Heaven help us," he muttered.

The State of the Divide

 With the midterm elections just over and the 2024 campaign gearing up, (which looks like it will be a blood bath), I felt compelled to write this. It's necessary, sometimes, to speak out even if you are a shy creature.

I've been deeply distressed listening to many of the advertisements and speeches given lately. It seems to me that public speakers with large followings should be extra aware of the impact of their words. There are many people walking around these days, particularly young men it seems, who are mentally disturbed and easily influenced by leaders they admire. A word, a phrase, or a constant barrage of information designed to inflame and incite may be what sets them off, and mass shootings or cars running into crowds are the result. Helping those troubled by dark thoughts should be everyone's responsibility, and one way we can do this is through our speech.

We all speak in anger at times and say things we shouldn't in the heat of the moment, but to purposely construct speeches using sarcasm, foul language, and words meant to belittle or even destroy others is a different matter. Insults don't seem to be a very intelligent way to win followers or persuade others to your way of thinking. Fiery and passionate speeches can be delivered without insults. Think of Martin Luther King's speech; think of how many people he inspired and continues to inspire today.

We teach our children to follow the golden rule in Sunday school, so why is it we accept, condone or even admire disrespectful behavior in adults, especially those who lead? What sort of example are we setting for young people?

Some might argue that it's the principles behind the words that matter, and of course darkness and greed and corruption can hide behind flowery phrases, so it's up to the individual to make choices about what and who they believe in. But I think many forget how powerful words are. They can be a weapon just as deadly as a gun or knife. No, people don't drop dead from them immediately, but words accumulate over time and last far longer than the moment they are uttered. 

Words spoken today and everyday shape and create our future. If you believe this, then maybe we can all take it to heart and work towards a higher standard when we speak and post and tweet and make choices in who should lead us. 

Grey Dove's Tale

Some years back I published a blog post about my hen, Grey Dove.  I decided I needed to complete the tale, because her story is part of my story, and I'm the only one who can tell it.  She deserves to have her say.

As I said in my first post, Grey Dove made a big impression on me when I first picked her up as a day old chick.  She didn't struggle and peep to be put down, nor nestle in my hand and close her eyes like the other 79 chicks did.  She calmly turned her head and looked right into my eyes.  A connection formed between us then and there.  It was uncanny, and I'll never forget the feeling of that moment.  As time passed, Grey Dove continued to impress me.  She was very smart and independent.  She figured out how to fly up into a cherry tree in the chicken yard, hop onto the fence post and fly down with a flutter and a squawk to the grass below.  She foraged around the yard and at the edge of the woods, hitting all the hot spots for worms, grubs, beetles and sow bugs.  She found a feed sack filled with straw on the back porch and made it her own.  No laying eggs in the coop with the rest of the riff raff.

I feared for her safety being outside the fence, but didn't want to cramp her style by clipping her wings.  Indeed, she was once almost eaten by a fox.  One day while in our front field, I heard a loud squawk and knew it meant trouble.  I took off running down the hill, hollering at the top of my voice to scare off whatever was after her.  When I approached the house, I saw a pile of feathers in the driveway and my heart sank.  Ronnie got his gun and followed the trail of feathers into the woods.  Shortly afterwards I heard a shout and went to investigate.  Grey Dove was cowering in a tangle of brush, traumatized and minus all but two of her tail feathers, but otherwise unharmed.

Years passed and still Grey Dove roamed the yard, laying many bright blue eggs on the back porch, then clucking and running up to me to open the gate and let her back into the hen yard.  She didn't like to be held - too independent for that, but she would deign to be stroked now and then.  She liked to hang out with me in the mornings, accompanying me as I cleaned out the nest boxes in the coop, peering into each one to make sure I did a good job, talking all the while.  When in the yard she would often follow me closely, discoursing in her hoarse, froggy voice.

High temperatures are very hard on chickens.  This summer has been a particular challenge to keep the hens going.  A few days ago I noticed Grey Dove was in distress, running from the coop to the shady spot under the mulberry tree where the other hens were, then back again.  She finally lay down behind the water tub in the shade and I thought she'd be all right there.  The electricity happened to be off that afternoon, so I couldn't connect the mister hose like I sometimes do for the hens.  Later I went to check on the chickens and didn't see Grey Dove.  A bad feeling came over me.  I went into the coop and found her curled up under the nest boxes.  The heat had been too much for her.  So I lost her, and felt horribly guilty for not doing more to help. 

It may seem silly to mourn a hen, but every creature from the tiniest up to the largest is a miracle of creation, and our connections with them can be as deep and full as we want.  It means opening yourself to grief when they are lost, but grief is a teacher, enriching our lives.  The lesson is to feel the loss deeply, then let go, because if we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by every emotion, we become unstable and lose our center.  There are many ways to deal with grief.  My way at this moment is to express it in writing, letting thoughts and feelings flow outward for transformation and renewal.

The Selfish Giant

 

The other day while I was picking blueberries, a story I hadn't thought of in years and years suddenly surfaced in my mind.  What triggered it I'll never know, but I've learned to pay attention to the small, peculiar happenings in daily life, because these will-o-the-wisp occurrences can open doorways to a treasure trove of revelations.

I found the story online and reread it, feeling once again its powerful message.  I knew right away I wanted to post it on my blog, but hesitated, thinking maybe it was more appropriate for Easter time.   But the longer I pondered, the more I realized this story is always appropriate, possibly never more so than now.  With its gentle purity, it can help keep our hearts from growing cold and bitter in response to the barrage of distrust, anger, intolerance and division assaulting us from all sides.

It cuts through even the thorniest of barriers and finds its way to the center of our beings, where we are all human as well as divine.  I offer it from the inmost place of my own being which strives for light.  With its many layers of meaning, you can take as little or as much as you want from it.

THE SELFISH GIANT

by Oscar Wilde

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.

     It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other.

     One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

     'What are you doing here?' he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

     'My own garden is my own garden,' said the Giant; 'any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

 

TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED

 

     He was a very selfish Giant.

     The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.

     'How happy we were there,' they said to each other.

  Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. 'Spring has forgotten this garden,' they cried, 'so we will live here all the year round.' The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. 'This is a delightful spot,' he said, 'we must ask the Hail on a visit.' So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

     'I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,' said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; 'I hope there will be a change in the weather.'

     But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. 'He is too selfish,' she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

     One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. 'I believe the Spring has come at last,' said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

     He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 'Climb up! little boy,' said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the little boy was too tiny.

     And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. 'How selfish I have been!' he said; 'now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever.' He was really very sorry for what he had done.

     So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became Winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. 'It is your garden now, little children,' said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were gong to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.  

 All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.

     'But where is your little companion?' he said: 'the boy I put into the tree.' The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

     'We don't know,' answered the children; 'he has gone away.'

     'You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,' said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

     Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. 'How I would like to see him!' he used to say.

     Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. 'I have many beautiful flowers,' he said; 'but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.'

     One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

     Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

     Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'

     'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.'

     'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

     And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.'

     And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms