A Twist in the Mist - Chapter Six

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"The troubadours wore hats with feathers."

They were on their way home after visiting the butterfly garden and indoor displays at the nature center. Harold was playing with a duck feather he'd found, running it back and forth across Archie's back as the dog straddled his lap, front paws on the arm rest, nose stuck out the open window, tail thumping rhythmically against TP's leg.

"Did they, now?" TP said.

"Richard the Lionheart was the bravest troubadour there ever was."

Also pretty ruthless, according to some accounts. But if Harold needed a hero, TP guessed he could do worse than Richard.

"He can keep all the bad, dark things away."

TP looked at Harold sharply. "What sort of dark things?"

Harold shrugged. "You know, dragons and sea monsters."

"It takes a very brave man to face a dragon," TP said half to himself.

Harold nodded in agreement. His eyes were beginning to droop. "This was the best day of my life," he said, and fell asleep.

A warm sensation filled TP's chest. The babysitting was going much better than he'd anticipated. Small children, in his limited experience, were whiny, demanding, noisy creatures who always did exactly what they shouldn't. It was exhausting just being in the same room with them. But Harold was different.  Quiet, agreeable, able to entertain himself. So far anyway. He might turn into an obnoxious brat in a day or two, but TP didn't think so. No, he and Harold were in sync. Maybe it was a genetic thing, who knew? But Evalda had been right. Harold was special, and he'd already wormed his way into TP's affections. He hoped neither one of them would disappoint the other.

When they got home the land line phone was ringing.

"Uncle TP, it's Marnie, calling to check up on Harold. How are things going?"

"Fine, fine. We've just gotten home from an outing. Where are you?"

"I'm still in Paris and may be delayed another week. I'm doing an article on a fashion designer and my camera crew had some technical issues. Then yesterday we were supposed to do a shoot with horses on the beach but one of the models got thrown and broke her leg, so now she's got to be replaced. Anyway, that's life in the fast lane." She laughed. "Put Harold on, would you?"

While Harold talked, TP went to retrieve the daily newspaper from the sidewalk. 

"We had a field trip, but it wasn't to a field," he heard Harold say as he went out the door. 

His neighbor to the east, Melvin Turner, was on his front porch. Mel worked part time as a realtor and his wife Marge was a nurse at Johns Hopkins hospital. Mel had tried several times to get TP to play tennis with him, but TP always found an excuse. Mel was a pleasant enough fellow, congenial and easy going, but TP wasn't a tennis sort of person. It seemed boring and pointless, batting a ball back and forth over a net. He'd rather get his exercise exploring the outdoors where there were interesting things to delight the senses. And he always felt ridiculous in shorts. His legs were all knobs and bones.

"What's up, TP," Mel called. He was wearing plaid shorts that hung below his knees, flip flops and no shirt. TP tried not to look at his belly. It sagged, despite the tennis. Too much beer.

"Hey, Marge said she saw you at the laundromat last night. She waved and said hello but you didn't hear her."

"Wasn't me," said TP.

"That's what I told Marge. I said she'd better get her glasses checked, because TP would be the last person on earth to hang out at the laundromat at 11:30. She was coming home from her late shift. So I guess it's her glasses, unless you have a doppelganger." He laughed.

A doppelganger. TP smiled weakly. He started to go inside, but Mel wasn't finished.

"I hear there's a party in the works."

"What sort of party?"

"I got the impression it was your idea. Yours and Gladys'. Gladys has been telling Marge all about it. Some kind of gala outdoor supper with a jazz trio? In your backyard."

"This is the first I've heard of it," TP said uneasily.

"Uh-oh, somebody's in trouble. Probably me. But hey, I hear you and Gladys are..." he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Are what?" TP's face grew hot.

"Oh, maybe I misinterpreted. You know women. They speak a foreign language." He laughed again, but threw TP a curious look as he went inside.

Harold was still on the phone. "Blooming spring fritters, and lots of strawberries," he was saying.

TP went right to his desk and made a hefty check out to Gladys...what was her last name? Oh yes, Quizzenberry. He snorted. It suited her to a T. Should he enclose a note? He needed to put her in her place somehow, but didn't want to appear churlish. He settled on "Enclosed is payment for the meals you've thoughtfully provided. They've been much appreciated, but I don't want to take advantage of your generosity. TP." That should do it. He put the check and note in an envelope and stuck it in her mailbox, feeling relieved. There was still this party rumor to investigate; he'd have to confront Gladys about it before things got out of hand. A jazz trio!

TP was anxious to get back into his lab, but it would have to wait until tonight when Harold was in bed. He couldn't risk any interruptions. Harold had raced out the back door with Archie on his heels, charged up after his nap and a long talk with his mom.

TP browsed through the paper, his mind wandering to other topics. The lettuce needed weeding, Archie needed a bath after wallowing in the marsh, the canoe had to be unloaded, the unsettling conversation with Mel. 

His eye fell on a headline that grabbed his attention: 

Three People Assaulted in Cheswolde

A bizarre set of circumstances in Cheswolde sent two women and a man to the hospital last night. The victims were reportedly accosted by a tall man who frightened them so badly they needed medical attention. Mr. A. Kiggens was found lying on the sidewalk near his home on Sulgrave Avenue hyperventilating, clutching his chest and babbling about a tall demon who had "messed with his head". He was taken by ambulance to Johns Hopkins Hospital for evaluation. 

The other two victims, Vicki Short and Amelia Rainier, were walking home from a party on Glen Avenue when a man jumped out at them from behind some bushes. "He just stood there, laughing this horrible laugh," said Ms. Rainier. "We screamed and tried to run away, but it was like he hypnotized us or something, and we couldn't move. I don't really remember what happened next. I was so scared I think I blacked out." The two women were found wandering along the street by a patrolman, who took them to the hospital. Ms. Rainier is being treated for extreme anxiety and Ms. Short, who has not spoken since the incident, is also hospitalized.

TP put the paper aside and got himself a drink of water. His hands were shaking.  "It means nothing," he muttered. "Some college student with a twisted sense of humor. Probably on drugs."

He heard noises and looked out the side kitchen window. Harold and Archie were having a tug of war using - good grief, was that his Aunt Freda's hand crocheted afghan that had been draped over his sofa for decades? Oh well, he'd never liked it anyway. Let it die a useful death. Archie was handily winning the contest. He probably outweighed Harold by a good ten pounds and was surprisingly strong, especially when he resisted going somewhere you wanted him to.

Doppelganger. The word kept bugging him. There were several meanings he'd come across over the years, the most superficial one being that everyone has a twin, or double, walking around somewhere on earth. But he remembered reading something about the doppelganger awhile back that had given him goose bumps. He rummaged through the clutter on his coffee table and found the book he wanted. Ah, yes, here it was: "the geographical doppelganger is an actual entity that dwells in the nervous systems of all human beings, providing the basis for electrical currents needed to process and coordinate sensory perceptions and react to them". That was quite a mouthful. Clear as mud, actually. The book further stated that this being was the cause of all organic illnesses, and that the geography of a place determined the power of these electrical currents used by the doppelganger to do its mischief. They had some sort of secret agenda, these beings, and could work through peoples' subconscious mind to manipulate them. This was the creepy part. Supposedly these creatures entered the fetus shortly before birth and left the body right before death. Nothing was said about how to defeat a doppelganger, only that it was humanity's task in this age to overcome them, and that the best weapon against them was knowledge. Knowledge of their existence and where they originated, knowledge of what their goals were and what they were capable of.

TP sighed. Yes, knowledge was always good. He could read books, but it wasn't enough to give him what he needed right now. How did he turn knowledge into the wisdom of experience?  He wished he could go back in time and talk with the old alchemists. They'd lived in an age before science and philosophy had been ripped apart. They'd understood the invisible powers that control nature. They could see the Dance and even orchestrate its movements. The vegetable stone had been their crowning glory, a mastery over all the elements. 

But one could never go back. One could only find the way forward from the present moment. Surely a path existed somewhere to lead him out of his predicament, and alchemy seemed like the best one available. The Dance was still going on, and always would. He must have courage, and hope. Feeling somewhat comforted, TP went out to his garden.

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Five

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 Marshy Point Nature Center was a short drive east from Baltimore. A quiet little park in Middle River, it was situated on a peninsula between Dundee and Saltpeter Creeks. There was a convenient canoe and kayak launch on the Dundee side that TP often used, and that's where he was headed with Harold.

They'd stopped at a store along the way to outfit Harold with tall rubber boots, a child sized life jacket and a small pair of binoculars. Archie got a life vest as well. 

"This is going to be a really good field trip," said Harold, delighted with his new gear and all the interesting things they were bringing.

The back of the pickup held TP's canoe, two buckets, specimen jars and some small nets, plus an ice chest with a hastily packed lunch.

Harold was fascinated with TP's field kit. Inside a rolled up canvas cloth were compartments holding tweezers, tiny scissors, vials, eye droppers, labels, magnifying glasses and glassine envelopes.

As they were leaving the outfitter store, Harold stopped to look in the window of a small shop next to it. Back Then Antiques read the sign over the door. The display window held a hodgepodge of dishes, faded clothing, books and toys from years past: hoops and sticks, marbles, china dolls and tin soldiers. In one corner of the window, a small group of medieval figures clashed with swords and shields. One wore a crown and held aloft a cross.

"That looks like Richard the Lionheart, doesn't it," said TP.

Harold nodded. "And there's the Duke."

Sure enough, a fellow in tunic and tights held a horn to his lips.

"Let's go in," said TP, opening the door.

Ten minutes later they emerged, Harold clutching a small brown sack containing Richard and the Duke. TP had winced at the price, but when was the last time he'd bought a gift for anyone, let alone his only great nephew? And the look on Harold's face was well worth the cost. It was the right time and the right gift, and that was that.

Paddling along the banks of Dundee Creek was one of TP's favorite pastimes. Each season held its treasure trove of scents, sounds and colors. In spring and fall, scores of migrating shore birds visited the shallows to fuel up on crustaceans, fish, insects and aquatic grasses. Osprey, eagles, herons, cranes, geese and ducks, rails, plovers, willets, coots, gulls and terns - so many species one could be dazzled by them all on any given day. 

Spring peepers were deafening in the swamps in spring and the redwings warbled their watery notes in the rushes. Later, bullfrogs chug-a-rummed and the trees vibrated with the rasp of cicadas and katydids.

In summer, too, turtles and snakes sunned themselves on logs, and ducklings jetted along behind their mothers, bobbing for tiny crabs and periwinkle snails, snacking on widgeon grass, coontail, wild celery and milfoil. Warm, still evenings brought the high pitched whine of hungry mosquitoes and an occasional owl's call.

In winter when the grasses turned russet-brown and cream and silver-grey and rattled in the wind, one could hike the trails, listening for the many calls of ducks and geese, and spot swans, mergansers, buffleheads, gadwalls and soaring eagles. In wooded areas there were fungi and lichens to hunt for, and after a rain followed by a hard freeze delicate frost flowers bloomed around the base of ironweed and dittany, looking for all the world like swirls of icing on a fancy cake.

Today was a fine day for a paddle. A good stiff breeze would help keep the biting insects away, the sky was clear and the sun was warm but not overly so. The only glitch was getting Archie into the canoe and keeping him there, but once they'd launched, the old dog sat still with his quivering nose in the air, breathing in exciting new smells and watching the ducks dive with focused intent. 

After a half hour or so of paddling, TP pulled the canoe into a small inlet and banked on a sandy spot where a fallen tree made a handy bench. TP showed Harold how to use his net, and they scooped up tadpoles, immature crabs, jewel- toned pumpkinseed fry and little mummichogs, the mud minnows, one of which could eat up to 2,000 mosquito larva in a day. They put their catches into jars to study up close, then released them. 

With magnifying glasses they looked at daphnia, cyclops, mosquito wrigglers, tubifex worms and fairy shrimp, TP explaining the importance of these miniscule creatures in the food chain.

He told Harold the names of the aquatic grasses - curly pondweed, starwort, water stargrass, widgeon grass and wild celery, necessary as food and shelter for many small creatures. He pointed out the rushes and reeds and how they stabilized the banks, preventing erosion.

After awhile they rested on the sand, drank limeade and ate their lunch from the ice chest. Archie had finally gotten tired of hunting frogs and lay snoozing in the shade.

Harold would not remember all the names or the facts recited to him, TP mused as he watched the boy sail King Richard and the Duke through the shallows in a bark boat. But he would remember the day, and hopefully TP had planted a seed or two in him that might blossom later in life. A wave of melancholy came over him. He may never have another day like this with Harold. One day was not enough, but it would have to do.

He'd been on countless field trips with his students over the years, all up and down the bay. He'd taught them as much as he could, trying to instill a sense of reverence for the magnificence of this place and the vital importance of preserving it. But the most important thing of all he couldn't teach them. They would have to find it for themselves. Many, maybe most of them never would. He was lucky enough to have found it when he was a young man. He'd been crouched down in a marsh, looking at something in the water, when a heron flew up nearby, cronking loudly. He'd stood up quickly, squinting into the late-afternoon sun as it sparkled on the water. The air was filled with darting dragonflies, their wings glinting as they dipped and turned, and suddenly he fancied they were all flying in an intricate, predesigned pattern, weaving an invisible tapestry. 

There were no words to describe what had happened next. It was not a thing you could explain. One instant he was TP Dunlap, college graduate about to take his first teaching job, standing alone in shallow water watching dragonflies, and the next instant he was staring into the face of the Lord of the Dance. He was surrounded and filled with Presence. There was no separation of anything, anywhere. He knew, in that moment, that the entire universe was a conscious, living being, filling everything, even chaos, with meaning and purpose.

He'd tried to explain the experience to a few other people; his parents, his girlfriend at the time. But he could tell they didn't understand. Words were not enough. He didn't know why this wisdom had come to him, only that it had been a gift, and it was the most precious thing he possessed.

It certainly didn't make him any better than anyone else. He was still the same gangly, socially awkward, self-absorbed introvert he'd always been. But it gave him a certain strength when he needed it. And now he needed all the inner strength he could muster to meet the terrible challenge facing him.

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Four

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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

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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

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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.