A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Four

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

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

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

"Mr. Dunlap! TP!"

"What?" 

"It's me."

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

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

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

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

"I carried you out."

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

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

TP looked at him uncomprehendingly.

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

"What sort of green glow?"

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

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

"Where did you get it?" Glory asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon."

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

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

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

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

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

Glory nodded. "TP Dunlap."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you come in for a bit?"

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

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

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

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

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

  

  

  

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Call me TP."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Two

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

TP's gear was stowed in the bow of the boat while he sat on a padded chair in the stern. Glorious sat on a bench in the center, facing him, manning the oars. He wasn't a talkative fellow, which suited TP just fine. His mind was focused on the challenges ahead, not on idle chit-chat with a stranger. He certainly wasn't about to ask the man questions like where he lived or what he did besides ferry people around the swamp, because he really, really didn't want to know. The less he knew about him, the better. But he did ask one thing.

"So, ah, Mr. Beginnings, how long of a journey is this?"

Glorious didn't break his steady rhythm with the oars, only turned his one eye on TP and stared at him silently.

Growing uneasy and irritated, TP said, "Did I say something wrong?"

"Nobody's ever called me mister before."

TP forced himself to gaze back at the face in front of him, though it was almost physically painful. Why didn't he have the growth removed, for heaven's sake? Surely Doc could take care of it.

"You can call me Glory." He lifted his head as if sniffing the air. "Time depends on what route we take. Two to two-and-a-half hours."

"Oh? What are the choices?"

"Going through the mud flats takes longer. The water's only two or three inches deep for a half mile or so, and I have to pole through it. If we take the cypress grove route it shaves off at least half an hour. But it's full of stingles and snakes. And the Sharnhorn gang doesn't like strangers coming through there. Think they own the place." This last was said with disgust. "Bunch of idiots. But I can deal with them if that's what you want. I know where their traps and stashes are."

"Let's take the mud flat route." TP wanted this whole thing over as quickly as possible, but the cypress grove sounded ghastly. Minglemist didn't have mosquitoes, but it did have stingles - nasty, hummingbird-sized flying lizards with long, whip-like tails that could raise angry red welts on the skin. They hung out in swarms in the trees, diving down on people and lashing them with their tails, emitting clouds of purple fog that stained clothing. They were noisy too, shrieking, chortling and braying like a whole army of farmyard animals. They were the bane of barnicane pickers because they not only stung, but ate the fruit as well.

Then there were the snakes. TP wasn't afraid of them - he'd handled plenty in his day, but the thought of cottonmouths dropping from the cypress trees into the boat wasn't exactly enticing. Even more troubling was this Sharnhorn gang...did they shoot trespassers or drown them, or both?

"Mud flats it is," said Glory, maneuvering through a maze of channels lined with thick vegetation so tall in places it arched over the water on either side, forming leafy tunnels. How he kept his sense of direction was a mystery, but he seemed entirely in his element, handling the boat with ease.

They sat in silence a good while. TP could feel jolts of energy as the chimera stirred in him. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm, breathing into the heartbeat of the swamp, feeling it thrum all around him and through his veins, subduing his jitters. Its rhythm carried the subtle rustle of reeds as the boat pushed through them, the thump of the oars, the sluicing sound of the water, and all the croaks, splashes, squeals, quacks, and hums of life forms moving to its beat, flying, floating, hopping or swimming, sucking in water or air and letting it out again so breath and bone were inseparable. It was like the meditation on the dot in the circle, TP mused. When you focused on the dot, it grew and expanded until it contained the circle, and eventually you realized they were one and the same. 

The mud flats proved to be a welcome change from the claustrophobic channels. The vegetation was mostly short clumps of grasses and water lilies, and one could see islands rising in the distance. They passed other boats, rafts and waders up to their shins in muck digging freshwater clams and spatterdock roots. TP stood up in the stern and asked for a paddle so he could help pole, but Glory wouldn't hear of it.

"Save your energy," he said. "Sounds like you're going to need it."

They exchanged a look, then Glory said, "Doc told me you've got a dragon and are going into the mist to try and get rid of it." He shook his head. "Hell of a thing."

TP nodded and sat down, feeling useless while Glory poled through the muck, his shirt soaked with sweat but his movements tireless and steady. Finally they hit deeper water.

"Lots of springs here," Glory said, resting a moment as he drank deeply from a flask. "They boil up in spots." He pointed with an oar at a disturbance sending ripples outward. "You have to be careful going through them. They can flip your boat."

Up ahead were two islands with a narrow channel of water between them. As they drew closer, they could see men in boats attaching buoys to nets stretched across the passageway, fastened to stout poles driven into the banks of either island.

Glory blew out an angry breath. "Sharnhorns," he muttered. "Pardon me, Mr. Dunlap, but it looks like we've hit a snag. Hold tight."

He rowed toward one of the boats and pulled alongside. The men had stopped to stare at him with hostile eyes.

"This is public water, Wert Sharnhorn," said Glory, addressing the lone man standing in the closest boat. He was large and burly, with a broad face, thick black hair and a bushy beard. "I've got a paying passenger and I need to get through the channel."

"Well, you'll just have to go around the island," the big man said, "because as of now these waters is closed. And they'll stay that way till after barnicane season." His small grey eyes dared them to pass. Those eyes, TP thought, looked familiar. 

Glory kept his voice even, but TP could see he was furious. "You don't own the water or the islands or the barnicanes growing on them. Let us through. Now."

"Not going to happen, Beginnings. What reason you got to cross the channel anyway? Nothing on the other side but cypress and snuffle hogs."

"That's none of your business. I wonder what the queen will have to say about this."

The big man guffawed, showing blackened teeth. "Big fat nothin' is what she'll say. Because who's gonna tell her?" He wagged his head at Glory. "We both know it's not gonna be you, Purple Face. These is our islands and our barnicanes. Sharnhorns been living here for generations and everybody knows it.

"Squatting, you mean," muttered Glory. He turned the boat and rowed to the island on the right, hugging the bank where tangles of vines hung over the water. When he was no longer in sight of the Sharnhorns he pulled into a narrow runnel of water barely as wide as the boat. 

"Don't worry, we'll get around them," he told TP. Slowly and as quietly as possible he moved the craft down the runnel - really no more than a ditch with a foot or so of water in it. It cut in towards the center of the island, through brush so thick Glory had to hack it back in spots with a machete. After a short stretch of rough going, the ditch widened and veered out again to the island's bank, emptying into the channel past the nets and buoys. But just off the bank was a very large disturbance in the water, apparently one of the underground springs Glory had mentioned. TP eyed the boiling ripples nervously. Were they really going to go through it? He opened his mouth to ask, but suddenly the air above them erupted with raucous noises and a flock of stingles flew out of the trees, lashing their tails angrily, intent on defending their territory. Glory cursed under his breath, swatting at them with an oar as they whirled and chattered. TP felt a sting on his neck, another on his shoulder. But he was an old hand at dealing with stingles. Last summer on a field trip in Minglemist he'd discovered a good trick.

Pulling a dog whistle out of his pocket where he'd stashed it this morning before leaving home, he blew on it as hard as he could. Immediately the stingles fell back, circling around in confusion, then flying off with piercing shrieks. Glory watched with an open mouth.

"What the heck is that?"

"A special whistle. I bought it last year for dealing with some nasty dogs. Turns out it works for stingles too. It emits an ultrasonic sound they can't stand."

"Hah! That's the darnedest thing I ever saw. But we've got to get out of here fast. The Sharnhorns will surely have heard the ruckus."

Glory studied the boiling water one moment, two, then sat down, grabbed the oars and shot into the channel.

TP scrunched up his face, closed his eyes and gripped his chair tightly as the boat bucked and shuddered, rocking dangerously, spinning once, twice, then rocketing forward. TP drew a breath and dared to open his eyes. They were through the turbulent circle of water, moving at a good clip in an unseen current. Glory's one eye sparkled and a small smile curved his lips. He'd enjoyed this! Reckless fool, TP thought darkly, but he couldn't suppress a tiny smile himself. He was thinking of Madeline; picturing her cheeks flushed red and her eyes gleaming with exhilaration on this wild ride. 

But his smile faded as a sharp crack sounded behind them, and he looked back to see two men in a boat, one rowing, one standing up holding a long gun.

"Bastards," said Glory. "They'll never catch us. We've got the current here."

TP fervently hoped he was right. He crouched in his chair, but there were no more shots, and soon the other boat gave up the chase and turned around.

"Would they really have shot us?" TP asked.

"If it were Wert, I'd say no. He's just a big blow bag. But the one with the gun? That's his son - they call him Mud Puppy, and he's downright nuts. Killed a man in a knife fight and spent ten years in jail. Just got out, but the way he's going, he'll be back in before long. The whole pack of Sharnhorns are animals, if you ask me."

"How many are there?"

Glory snorted. "More than there should be. Wert's sister owns the Wiggle Hop."

"Oola?" Of course. Those small pale eyes, the same as Wert's.

"That's the one. She's maybe the scariest one of the lot." He threw TP a wry grin. "Sorry you've had a rough ride, Mr. Dunlap. It won't be much longer now." Glory glanced over his shoulder. "See that big cloud of haze up ahead to the right? That's the Widow."

TP's stomach lurched. It looked so benign from here - the soft green shoreline, the puffs of mist spiraling upwards, sparkling a little in the noonday sun.

"Have you ever gone ashore there?"

Glory nodded. "I pick barnicanes on the north side of the island every year. Some of the best I've ever seen. Easy picking and no competition. The Sharnhorns won't go near the place. They think it's haunted."

TP thought it very possible. The closer they came, the more ominous it looked. He could see ghostly arms of mist reaching outward from the main mass, as if grabbing for whatever was in reach. 

Glory beached the boat in a small cove, jumping out into ankle deep water and pulling it onto the rocky bank. 

Well, this was it. No turning back now. TP stepped out of the boat, took a big breath and squared his shoulders, eyeing the rough terrain.

"What's the best way to approach it," he asked.

"Glory handed him his backpack and lifted out the suitcase. "Follow me."

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-One

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

Wild roses blossomed on either side of the road as TP trudged towards Boggy Meadow, but he barely noticed the lush display, nor smelled the delightfully scented morning air. Even the many species of small, flying reptiles visiting the flowers failed to catch his attention. Last summer he'd spent hours in the meadows and fields of Minglemist with his butterfly net and magnifying glasses, enchanted with the array of reptilian life forms.

He'd left home at daylight this morning after a wrenching goodbye to Madeline. Neither one of them was very comfortable with displays of affection; he due to innate shyness, she because of past rejections, but on this occasion they clung together a long moment, murmuring useless words, trying to convey all they meant to each other. At the last moment, Madeline had slipped the green stone from its chain around her neck and pressed it into his palm.

"Take this with you."

"No, no, I can't - " he began, but she insisted. The stone was petrified resin from the lollywon trees, a gift to her from Sephyr. Supposedly it held magical powers, and he knew how much it meant to her.

"I'll bring it back," he vowed.

He'd taken the long way into Boggy Meadow, sticking to the main road so he wouldn't have to pass the abandoned mill, hitching a ride part way on one of the many farm wagons that rumbled along the rutted road. Now he was on foot for the last stretch, going over and over in his head all the details he needed to remember.

In his backpack was a half-mile length of thin but strong nylon cord, a box of waterproof long matches and a can of lighter fluid, two hour glasses, one registering an hour, the other five minutes (he didn't trust his watch to work in the mistangle), and the all-important card containing mathematical calculations.

"Sixty minutes equals twelve years," he muttered, "thirty minutes, six years; five minutes, one year; one minute, seventy-three days; thirty seconds, thirty-six and a half days." This was at the center of the mistangle. Time was proportionately slower the closer one got to the outer perimeter. All his actions must be carefully choreographed, executed as quickly and efficiently as possible. One delay could spell disaster.

He was also pulling a suitcase on wheels full of charcoal, his fuel of choice for the last firing of the stone after the aging was complete. Charcoal was light weight and burned slower than many other fuels, but he worried he might not have enough. The honey preparation was to bake for forty days, which would work out to slightly over thirty seconds in the mistangle. Would the charcoal generate enough heat to solidify the stone, or would it burn out too quickly? Of all the challenges facing him, this one worried him most. He felt confident that Doc's grandfather had completed all the necessary steps up to the last firing. If he botched it, all the time and effort spent creating this magical elixir would be wasted, the failure squarely on his shoulders. Pressure to succeed weighed heavily on him.

When he reached Crabtree Lane the grey clouds over the swamp were turning gold and pink and the water sparkled in long ribbons of light. Flat bottom swamp boats bobbed among the rushes; he could hear fishermen shouting to each other as they set out for parts unknown.

Doc answered his knock, dapper as always in a red bowtie and matching suspenders, white shirt and grey pants. His eyes took in the backpack, the suitcase and TP's serious expression.

"You're going in," was all he said, and TP nodded.

"Wait for me at the Wiggle Hop. I have a patient to see, then I'll come over."

TP decided he should try to eat breakfast, though his stomach was full of butterflies. He needed energy for his mission, and all he'd brought from home was a chunk of oat bread, a handful each of raisins and walnuts and bottled water.

The Wiggle Hop was crowded and noisy. He found a seat at the smallest table tucked beneath the staircase, stashing his backpack and suitcase against the wall. A cadaverous old fellow wearing a black apron and a cap sporting the frog prince emblem brought him a glass of water and a menu.

"Special is Swamp Stew. Spatterdock and bog bean."

"Sounds delicious," TP murmured as he perused the menu. "What about scrambled eggs?"

"Out."

"I see. What's in the Breakfast Scramble?"

"Spatterdock and bog bean."

"And the Sunrise Surprise?" He was almost afraid to ask.

"Same, with clams." The old man rubbed his whiskered chin and glanced over at Oola, clearing tables.

"Thing is," he said in a low voice, "the cook quit. And the fishermen and egg lady don't like to sell here no more. Oola shorts them and they're skairt to complain." Then he whispered, "Oola, she's got a temper. Know anyone can cook looking for a job?"

TP tried picturing Gladys in the Wiggle Hop kitchen. He thought she just might be a match for Oola. But maybe not. He got the heebie jeebies when Oola even glanced his way with those small ferine eyes.

"I'll have the spatterdock and bog bean," he told the waiter, who carefully wrote it out on a pad of paper. Then the old man hesitated. "Would that be the stew or the scramble?"

"Either one will do. And tea, please." He'd rather have strong coffee, but the coffee here was made from roasted roots and didn't pack the same punch.

As he ate he watched the other customers to distract himself, imagining what their lives were like, living so primitively in one of the poorest, roughest parts of Minglemist. Many of them wore little more than rags, though he'd seen some ingenious gypsy-like costumes on the musicians made from scarves, ribbons, baubles and bells and odd bits of fabric pieced together. Once in awhile wealthy travelers stopped by for a respite, dismounting from spirited horses or fairy-tale carriages, decked out in fancy clothes. They likely came for a taste of the Wiggle Hop's legendary barnicane juice and wine, but he noticed these folks never stayed long. Open-eyed stares from the bearded, unkempt fishermen smelling of the swamp soon sent them on their way. And of course there was Oola, always poking at her beehive as though trying to dislodge something. Who knew what lived in there. 

The stew - or scramble? - wasn't as bad as it sounded. It was served with a hard biscuit, which he crumbled into the broth to help mask the bitterness of the bog bean. There were small pink lumps in it that he guessed were crawfish. Good -  he needed protein, and maybe the bitterness would settle his stomach.

He paid for his meal with pennies from a stash he'd saved last summer to use in Minglemist.

"What kind of coppers is these?" asked the waiter, scrutinizing them with a frown.

"Very rare," TP said. "Collectors' items, probably worth a lot. They're ninety-five percent copper." All pre-1982, when the copper content had dropped to 2.5 percent. It wouldn't be fair, he thought, to use the modern ones. Prices here were already ridiculously cheap. The least he could do was give a bit more bang for the buck.

"If you say so. But I'll have to check with the boss." He looked worriedly at Oola.

"It's fine. Oola's taken my coins before."

"And I can vouch for that." It was Doc, who'd just walked in.

Relieved, the waiter left and TP followed Doc home.

"I've arranged for someone to row you out to the island. He'll be here soon. Meanwhile, I want to hear every detail of your plan, step by step."

While TP talked, Doc transferred the honey preparation to a flame-proof flask with a tight-fitting lid and added a small fold-up tripod to use for the firing. He also offered advice, suggestions and encouragement, and Hattie, who knew what was afoot, gave him a big hug and a bottle of homemade smelling salts.

"Very reviving when you need a boost."

Touched, TP thanked her. "It's a wonderful gift, Hattie."

"You've got a sound plan, TP," Doc told him, "and I have great faith in you. Though I wish to God there was another way..."

"I'll be back before you know it," TP said with more confidence than he felt. "So who's this person who'll be taking me to Widow's Moan?"

"Fellow by the name of Glorious Beginnings."

TP blinked. "Surely not."

Doc raised his palms and shrugged. "You know these swamp people, TP. They don't exactly hold with tradition. And a lot of them go by aliases. Heck, some of my patients have changed their names four or five times. Makes record keeping a challenge."

"So this Beginnings - how well do you know him?"

"Glorious showed up around here not long ago and posted his name on the water taxi board. Wasn't long before he had a list of customers. I don't know where he came from, but he knows the swamp like the back of his hand. I've used him for a number of journeys, and he's always been reliable. Don't worry, he'll get you to Widow's Moan. And back."

They walked down to the swamp, disturbing a turtle sunning on a log. It dropped into the water with a plop and disappeared, leaving only a ring of ripples behind. TP took several deep breaths and shook his hands, trying to calm his jitters. A heron flew up nearby, and behind it TP saw a long, wooden jon boat emerge from a patch of morning mist still hovering over the water. It glided silently up to the dock and a man tossed a rope to Doc, who wrapped it around a piling.

"Morning, Glorious."

The man jumped nimbly out of the boat and shook Doc's hand. "This the passenger, then?"

"TP Dunlap." TP held out his hand, trying to hide his shock. The man had a huge, hideous purple growth on the side of his nose. TP's gaze skimmed over it quickly and moved upward. A patch covered one eye, the other was very dark and narrow. A stubble of whiskers concealed his chin, and his hair was buried beneath a brimmed hat, save for a small, scruffy ponytail trailing down over his collar. His pants were patched and baggy, of no particular color; his shirt, also loose, was bunched up and tied in a knot at his waist, the sleeves rolled up tight against his upper arms. He was nearly as tall as TP, thin but lithe and muscular, exuding an air of vigor and vitality so strong TP's arm was still tingling from the handshake.

TP sent Doc a frantic look while Glorious stowed his gear in the boat. He did not want to ride with this man. Obviously he was some kind of criminal. Who on earth would call himself Glorious Beginnings? Only someone with something to hide.

"Relax," Doc told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're in good hands. Trust me on this." He pulled TP into an embrace, slapped his back and helped him into the boat. "God speed." His voice was gruff with emotion.

TP watched his friend as the boat pulled away from shore; a short figure with bowlegs firmly planted on the dock and one hand raised in farewell, his white hair aloft like a sail in the breeze.

 

  

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty

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

TP's fragile state of mind took another hit. When had he lost the button? He'd only noticed it missing today, and assumed it had come off in the wash.

But a search of the washer and dryer and his bedroom floor including every inch of the closet yielded no button. It was entirely possible the button found at the crime scene was his. But surely one button couldn't prove guilt, could it? Surely there were other shirts with identical buttons in the city. And how would anyone know about the missing button unless Marge tattled? Would she? Relax, he told himself, breathing deeply. No one could link the button to him, unless...oh, God, would there be fingerprints? Marge was already suspicious. How much did she know? 

Of course if his mission failed, the button would be a moot point. But he didn't want to be remembered as Dr. Demento, or have his name tarnished with suspicion. Or worse, cause Madeline to have to lie. He'd take the shirt with him into Minglemist and leave it there, and hopefully nothing more would come of it.

He took off the shirt and stuffed it into the bottom of his backpack. Might as well pack the rest of the gear he would need while he was at it. Lord, he was so tired. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week.

When Madeline came home TP was dozing in his rocker with Hayden's Cello Concerto No. 1 playing on the stereo. 

"Do you need help with anything?" she asked when he noticed her presence.

"Ah, I don't think so." He frowned, trying to collect his muddied thoughts. He'd considered leaving for Minglemist this afternoon, but was simply too tired to work out all the details. Better to go first thing in the morning. He would dose himself up with sedative and try to get some sleep tonight.

"Did you have a nice time with Todd?"

"Yes. He sends his greetings."

He wanted to apologize to her again, but knew it would just upset her more. So they sat watching the patterns of sunlight and leaves on the wall, listening to the soothing sounds of cello.

Later Madeline fixed a simple supper and they ate on the patio. TP didn't tell her about the button. No sense in adding to her worries. Just as they were finishing, it rained a little, making the air thick and sticky.

In the kitchen, Madeline washed dishes and scrubbed the sink with a vengeance. "I really should go with you tomorrow, TP. I can wait for you at Doc's and - "

"No." TP shook his head emphatically. "You need to be here. If anyone asks, just say I told you I was taking the bus to Marshy Point. Nothing more. If I'm not back by the day after tomorrow - Tuesday - then you can go to Doc's and find out what happened."

He'd been over this with her before. If he survived the mistangle but the vegetable stone didn't work, he was checking himself into the sanitorium in Minglemist, where he would end his days. He wasn't coming home unless he was healed.

"Try not to worry, Madeline. This is out of our hands now. Let the wheels turn and accept the outcome, whatever it may be."

"But what if I can't accept it," she said in a hoarse voice. "If you don't come back it will all have been for nothing!" She wrung the dish rag out until her knuckles were white.

"There's no such thing as nothing," TP told her. "Nothing is a necessary transition point between two somethings. It's just as much a something as anything else. It's all a matter of perspective."

She stared at him with those fierce blue eyes, and he continued. "It's like the empty space between two musical notes. If you isolate the off-beat, you hear nothing. But when put with the notes, it merges into the melody, which wouldn't be a melody without it."

He was warming up to the topic, getting into his teaching mode. "Think of a chrysalis. If you open it up, you find a little glob of goo. No caterpillar, no butterfly. Nothing but soup. Yet it holds the future, connecting it with the past. Death is only death because our perspective is so limited. We simply can't see what lies beyond."

"But I don't want you turning into a glob of goo," she said forlornly.

"Ah, but if I do, think of the beautiful butterfly I may become. No more knobby knees and big ears."

That got a little smile out of her. They finished in the kitchen and she helped him get ready for the next day. He needed some precise calculations made based on the information Doc had given him concerning the mistangle. Madeline did the math, writing everything out on a card for him to carry in his pack. It was humiliating. He'd always prided himself on his mental acuity, but now even simple math eluded him.

"This will be the last night you have to lock me in," he said when it was bedtime. "Dr. Demento will be a thing of the past." He wished he could tell that woman - what was her name? Marsha something - that she needn't worry anymore. He wished he could get her watch back, wherever it was.

A double injection of sedative at bedtime allowed him to get some sleep, but deep in the night he found himself in a strange state, neither awake nor asleep, unable to rouse himself or move his limbs. Too much sedative, he thought. But something was...different. He wasn't alone. He felt presences nearby, and sensed that they were restraining the dragon temporarily. He struggled to speak, to ask important questions, but couldn't form the words. None-the-less, ideas and thoughts were conveyed to him. He was one drop in a vast stream of beings, both human and divine, engaged in the age-old battle of progression versus repression. His mission was being closely watched, and much was riding on the outcome, not just for himself but for the entire stream. The gravity of this had barely registered when the beast came roaring back, and he awoke with a jolt to see its dark form at the foot of the bed, writhing in a mass of angry spikes.

"You'll fail, scientist," it said with contempt, "just like you failed before. Align yourself with me and my kin and your power will know no bounds."

"Never," TP whispered.

The creature's red eyes flashed. "Then you'll die, and even in death I'll haunt you. You're mine forever." 

"Never," TP repeated. He lay back in bed and rolled on his side, shuddering as the cold fog crawled over him, sinking deeper and deeper into him until his heart felt heavy as stone.

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Nineteen

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

The thing about bees, TP thought as he lay in the grey, no-man's-land of predawn, was their altruistic nature. They sacrificed themselves for the hive, collecting nectar and pollen, working tirelessly to care for the queen, the drones, their sister workers. The single drone bee lucky enough to mate with a new queen died immediately afterwards, his sole mission accomplished. All worker bees died after stinging invaders, but even the sting was a precious gift. It contained formic acid, used in making many medicines. And as they visited the flowers, bees left tiny traces of formic acid swirling around each plant, invigorating it. Without this magical elixir, all plants on earth would wither and die. 

And then, of course, there was the honey, manna from heaven. Nectar from four thousand flowers went into one tablespoon of honey. It was the perfect substance for a vegetable stone, especially one that took one hundred years to ripen. Honey had been found in Egyptian tombs thousands of years old, still perfectly good.

He had read Hollandus' treatise on honey in the middle of the night, in between attacks from the beast urging him to do unspeakable things, torturing him until he wanted to die. At one point he'd awoken from a nightmare not knowing who or where he was. For an endless amount of time he couldn't remember his name. All he could do was breathe his way through the tunnel of darkness until his senses returned. 

Hollandus' words were calming and soothing to his soul, an anchor to grab hold of in his anguish.

"Now I will reveal to you a great secret of the Vegetable Work, namely, the wonderful nature of honey, which is the subtlest and noblest of all plants and flowers, from whose purer and noble part it is elicited by the bees. My child should know that everything God has created is extremely good, perfect, and imperishable, like heaven; but all things found here on earth, such as animals, fish, and whatever is sentient, as well as herbs, plants, and whatever it may be, have a double nature, that is, a perfect and an imperfect one. The perfect one is called Quinta Essentia; the imperfect one, however, the feces or the poisonous combustible oil. You must separate those feces and the combustible oil, and what then remains is perfect and is called Quinta Essentia. It lasts eternally like heaven and cannot be corrupted by anything, including fire. This I am telling you out of love: God has put a secret nature or influence into all created things, and a general influence into all of nature, and also a particular influence or virtue into every single species or genus, either regarding medicine or other secret effects, which are partly brought to light through natural art but are by far still more hidden than is known to our senses. If God has infused into other things the power to heal, what will there be in honey, which is extracted from countless flowers, since each plant has its own gift? Truly, if one can bring it to its highest potency, it will operate wonderfully. Therefore, take note of what is hidden in this Quinta Essentia, so that you do not underestimate it but keep its secret as the most excellent of the whole Animal-Work. And when you have it, you do not require anything else for removing from the body anything bad befalling it."

Hollandus had then given instructions on how to make the stone. TP had read them carefully, pondering over the meaning of certain phrases, all the while thinking of Doc's grandfather slaving away so many years ago, bent over his flasks and furnace.

Now, in the first glimmers of daylight as he lay weak and spent from a long, tortuous night, he felt a small measure of triumph because he was still alive and rational. And because he'd come to a decision and was anxious to put it into action.

By the time he heard the dead bolt click he was dressed and ready for the day, despite shaky legs and a dizzy head. He glanced into the library as he passed and stopped in his tracks. Madeline hadn't moved into the guest room yet. On the table beside the couch where she slept was a pair of ear plugs. 

He found her in the kitchen, putting a vase of flowers on the windowsill where the ceramic rooster had been.

"The coreopsis is beautiful right now," she said brightly. But her face was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"Are the noises horrendous?" he asked in a low voice.

She turned the vase and adjusted the flowers. "You saw the ear plugs?"

"I did. Madeline, I'm - "

"For God's sake TP, don't apologize. You're dealing with it the best you can."

"But - "

"One day at a time," she said firmly. Guilt washed over him at the sight of her standing there in her ravelly cut-offs and bare feet, so young to be placed in such a hellacious situation. Her early life had been rough; the scars of growing up an unwanted orphan had been plainly visible in her demeanor the first time they'd met. She'd been a prickly hedgehog, wary, afraid to trust, but with such character and presence showing through the armor. She'd delighted him with her gangly awkwardness (so like himself at that age), her mannerisms, her intelligence. He'd wanted at once to take her home, encourage and support her and watch her blossom. But now he'd put an unbearable burden on her shoulders, and he hated himself for it. He'd frightened her last night and there was nothing he could say to make things better.

Silently he picked up the chair with its broken leg and took it to the garage. He would have it fixed later, if there was a later. 

Madeline made coffee for him and tea for herself, and he told her his plan. She argued vehemently, but in the end he convinced her it was for the best.

At nine o'clock he left to do some errands. First, he went to his lawyer's office and made some changes to his will. Madeline would inherit his house, the rest of his assets would be divided equally between Madeline and Harold, with a few family treasures designated for Evalda and Marnie. That accomplished, he made some purchases and headed home.

The rest of the morning was spent at his desk, getting certain affairs in order and composing letters. To Evalda he wrote that he'd been diagnosed with an incurable illness and was going off to lose himself in the marshes, the place he loved best. He was sorry to have kept her in the dark, but it seemed best this way. The letter to Harold took some time and caused his eyes to mist over. There was so much he wanted to say, but he kept the message clear and simple enough for a child to understand. Finally satisfied with his efforts, he put the letters in envelopes, addressed them and left them in the top drawer of his desk. If he returned from his mission, he would tear them up. If not, the information included would prevent Madeline from having to answer difficult questions about his disappearance.

At noon Madeline left to have lunch with Todd, and TP discovered a loaf of oat bread on the front steps wrapped in green paper with a giant pink bow. No need to wonder who'd left it there. It was still warm and smelled heavenly. Suddenly ravenous, (he'd skipped breakfast) he cut two thick slices and ate them with nut butter and cucumbers, one of his favorite sandwiches. He thought he might be addicted to Gladys' oat bread. Would this be his last loaf? Pushing the thought firmly out of his head, he changed into old clothes and went out to his garden. Having his hands in the earth and the sun on his back always calmed and centered him. White cumulous clouds rimmed in dusty blue sailed overhead - maybe there would be rain later. A brown thrasher sang exuberantly in the hedge; silver-spotted skippers and a lone mourning cloak fluttered through the echinacea. Harold's carefully constructed dirt road still meandered along the tomato bed, dead-ending at the dump site where a pile of pebbles and twigs had been deposited.

TP tried to keep his mind clear as he weeded and pruned and picked, focusing only on the simple tasks at hand, knowing he would need all the wits he could muster soon enough. He ignored the fatigue weighing him down, the fog in his brain. He could cope. He must.

Two hours later he walked around front to check his mailbox. Mel's wife Marge was doing the same next door.

"TP," she called, waving and walking over to him. "I haven't seen you in awhile. How are you doing?" She eyed him closely; a short, sturdy, energetic woman with a mass of dark wavy hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Pretty much the opposite of her laid-back husband.

"Fine," he lied, "and you?" She was a nurse - could she see he was ailing? He straightened his stance.

"I'm well enough," she said. Her eyes fell to his mid-section and stayed there several moments. When she looked up, she seemed flustered. TP glanced down at his shirt, which was missing a button. Was that bothering her, for heaven's sake? She, the nurse, whose husband strolled around shirtless with his big paunch hanging out?  Self-consciously he crossed his arms over his front. He'd never liked this shirt. Evalda had given it to him. For some reason it irked her that he only wore white shirts, but then, pretty much everything he did irked her. So she sent him white shirts, but with monograms or emblems or odd-shaped collars, or subtle, off-white stripes, just to make a point. Or maybe to aggravate him. This one had hideous gold buttons like some faux military uniform. He'd never worn it in public, only for working in the garden.

Marge's eyes were still darting up and down. "Is there something wrong, Marge?"

"No. Nothing." She was plainly nervous. "Well, I have to get going. My shift starts soon." She backed away, then turned abruptly and hurried off.

Puzzled, TP went inside and got a glass of water, sitting down to drink it. Yesterday's paper lay on the table, unread. Idly he browsed the headlines, stopping short when one jumped out at him.

Reward Offered for Information on Dr. Demento

Ms. Marsha Trueblood is offering a $1,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the man she believes drugged her and stole her watch in Cheswolde last week, dubbed Dr. Demento because of his outlandish behavior. "I can't let this man go unpunished," she told a reporter. "He caused me and his other victims horrendous harm. The watch he stole has sentimental value and is worth a great deal to me. He must be stopped before he attacks someone else. Some might view him as a comical prankster, but let me tell you, he is a monster. I'm still having nightmares."

The Sun has learned that a button was found at the scene of the crime, likely from a shirt or jacket; gold, embossed with a lion and a crown, similar to military buttons. If anyone has any information, please contact your local police or call the Baltimore Sun.

  

    

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Eighteen

(for previous chapters click on the chapter links on the left sidebar)

It sat on Widow's Moan, sometimes simply called The Widow, an island in the deeper waters of Boggy Meadow Swamp. The name came from stories of the many fishermen who'd disappeared there, leaving their wives to grieve and lament and forever wonder what had happened. The mistangle was a foggy, circular cloud that swirled and churned no matter what the weather or season, perhaps a half-mile in diameter and height. TP had never seen it, but he'd heard the stories. It was like a black hole, people said, sucking in whatever drew near. And what went in never came out. Or almost never. A few folks supposedly escaped, the most famous being a young girl named Sarah Tucker who got sucked in during a storm. The following day, a fisherman who was checking his crawfish traps saw a bent old woman waving at him from the edge of the island. He was afraid to approach, but the woman called out that she was Sarah Tucker, and insisted on being taken home. Her puzzled parents watched in awe as the old woman rapidly began growing younger and younger until she was their sixteen-year-old daughter again. She told tales of the many skeletons she'd seen as she wandered for hours in the mist, terrified and alone except for the sad remains of humans and animals who'd perished there. 

Years later, Sarah became a scientist who made several more expeditions into the mistangle, tying one end of a rope around her waist and the other end around a tree at the edge of the island so she wouldn't get lost. She studied the mistangle's effects on time, determining that the further one ventured into the mist, the faster time passed. Supposedly, one hour at the center equaled twelve years.

There were other stories too, of moans at night from spirits trapped there, or eerie figures dancing on the shore, trying to lure men to their deaths. 

Some claimed the Brotherhood had learned the mistangle's secrets, and used the knowledge to create the barrier surrounding Minglemist.

Could he actually do this, TP wondered as he trudged homeward after a lengthy and sobering talk with Doc. Actually venture into the mistangle and emerge again before dropping dead of old age, with a remedy which may oust the chimera from his system? Sarah Tucker had gone in several times and survived, even regained her youth. But she'd been young to start with. TP was sixty-two. In twenty-three years, the length of time needed for the honey preparation to mature, he'd be eighty-five. If he stayed in the mistangle a moment longer than his natural life span, whatever it might be, he'd die there alone, of old age. But if he didn't try, he'd soon be in an institution for the insane. Doc had told him of a sanitorium in Minglemist for chimera-infected people, which would likely be his best option. Yet his mind recoiled from this.

Slim as it was, Doc had thrown him a lifeline when he'd mentioned the mistangle, and TP had grabbed on desperately. It was dangerous, foolhardy even, but it was a chance. And wasn't it better to go out in a great blaze of effort than to slowly wither away?

Now, though, as he entered the gloomy woods, he was struggling to keep the euphoria he'd felt in Doc's office alive. Doubts were assailing him. He was old, he was tired and sick. He had no business attempting such a wild quest. It was sure to fail. He was no warrior, only a simple man who liked to tromp through wild places, collecting dung beetles and frog eggs.

He'd stayed at Doc's longer than he should have. Hattie had insisted he stay for supper, and then Doc wanted to show him his new fishing boat, and by that time the drums and flutes were starting up behind the Wiggle Hop so he'd lingered a little while to listen, wondering if Madeline could hear them through the hedge. 

Now the shadows were long across the footpath; it was nearly dusk. And in Minglemist, when the sun went down, all sorts of strange creatures, including chimera dragons, began to stir. He could hear rustlings in the thickets as he walked, and a furry shape with a long tail darted past him, disappearing into a hole in the stream bank. TP quickened his pace. It wasn't far to the hedge now, but he still had to pass the creepy old mill. There it was, just ahead; a dark hulk undulating in the shadows as a breeze lifted the vines and briars twining up it. He tried to avert his eyes, focusing only on the path, but as he drew abreast of the ruins a small red light in front of it made him pause. Was someone smoking a cigarette? No, not a cigarette, because now he saw two red sparks and a slinky black shape coiled below them. A chimera dragon, a very large one, and it had surely seen him.

He felt anger more than fear. What was he, a dragon magnet? The vast majority of people in Minglemist lived their entire lives without even seeing a chimera. Yet here he was, being accosted again on his first day back after a year's absence. What made him so irresistible to these freakish things?  Surely one couldn't be infected with two chimeras at the same time, could one? Ah, it appeared he was about to find out. The black cloud approached. No use running. Running was the worst thing you could do. Showing fear excited them, making them more likely to attack. He had to stand his ground and stay calm. An easy thing to say, but his heart was thumping wildly in his chest and his mouth was dry as chalk. He tried to look dull and uninteresting. Pretending to be bored, he shoved his hands into his pockets and let his eyes wander, barely acknowledging the towering presence scrutinizing him like a hungry wolf looking at a rabbit. He could feel its energy reaching out, probing, testing. It took all his will power not to flee. A chill came over him and he suppressed a shiver, breathing deeply, slowly. 

Just when he thought he could hold out no longer, a great burst of energy shot through him accompanied by an ear-splitting shriek. He dropped to his knees and covered his ears against a barrage of horrible ripping and rending sounds. Leaves and bits of debris whirled up into the air and around two black funnel clouds slamming against each other, wailing and moaning and shrieking like gale force winds.

Stunned and disoriented, TP cowered on the ground, gathering his wits. What was happening? Then comprehension dawned. They were fighting over him! The chimera he'd been struggling with for so long was defending its property. 

He scuttled backward, putting more distance between himself and the dueling dragons. What would happen if he fled now, while the beasts were engaged in combat? There was only one way to find out. He stood up slowly and backed further into the trees along the path. The two chimeras seemed not to notice. It was now or never. He turned and ran for his life, fear and hope spurring him on. The hedge wasn't far ahead. If he could just get through it and leave the chimeras on the other side, surely he'd be safe. Stumbling over roots and stones barely visible in the dying light, he pressed on, his lungs burning. Finally he could make out the portal, a dark opening between two old stumps and a thorny patch of wild blackberry bushes. He literally dove through head first, scrambling and clawing at the twigs of his own wax myrtles. He rolled a time or two to make sure he was well away from the hedge, then lay gasping and spent on the grass. As his breathing slowed he sat up, hardly daring to hope.

"I've done it," he said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. But the elation was short-lived. A familiar voice hissed inside his head: "You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?"

Madeline saw him lying on the ground and came running out. "TP, what in the world happened?" She helped him stand and eyed him anxiously.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said fiercely, shrugging her off and limping into the house, where he shut himself in his bedroom.

An hour later he emerged, in fresh clothes, his hair wet from the shower. Madeline was slouched at the kitchen table in her draw string pants, texting someone. Probably Todd.

"Sorry," he mumbled, plunking himself down across from her and staring darkly at the wall. They sat in silence awhile, letting the sweet green smell of early summer drift in the window. Finally TP spoke.

"Doc and Hattie send their greetings."

"How are they?"

"Spry as ever. We had an interesting talk, Doc and I." He told her an abbreviated version.

Her mouth dropped open at the mention of the mistangle. "You can't be seriously considering going in there."

"Why not?" he asked.

She gave him a look. "Well, because! It's just crazy talk."

"I am crazy. Or getting there." Moodily he got up and stood at the counter, looking down at a little basket of garlic cloves he kept there. How many did the old fisherman eat, he wondered. Twenty? Thirty? One hundred? Could he do it? Would it work? He picked up a clove, peeled it and popped it into his mouth, chewing vigorously. A moment later, eyes streaming, throat on fire, he sat back down.

"I was attacked again."

"No! TP, seriously?" Madeline shook her head in disbelief, her ponytail swinging.

He told her the story. Now it was she who stood up and paced as he talked.

"It must have overtaken me just before I came through the hedge. I was so sure I had shucked it." A sudden rage assaulted him and he brought his fist down hard on the table, making dishes rattle and Madeline jump. Twice now his hopes had been crushed. It was too much. He couldn't take it a moment longer. Thrusting away from the table, he stood, grabbed a chair and, growling like a wild animal, threw it hard against the wall. The chair leg splintered, three cookbooks stacked on a shelf tumbled off, and his mother's antique ceramic rooster fell from the windowsill and shattered on the floor. He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, aghast at what he'd done.

Madeline watched him warily, shock and uncertainty written on her face. Slowly, gently he sat back down and put his head in his hands.

"Sorry," he said again. "I'm not myself." He looked up and guffawed. "I'm not myself." The raw truth of it made him explode with laughter. Doubled over, he held his stomach and wheezed, "I'm not myself!"

Madeline's mouth twisted and a small puff of air escaped her lips. In a moment she was laughing with him. It was release, and the best possible reaction to the horrendous circumstances. They howled and gasped until tears were streaming down their faces. Every time they began to wind down TP would repeat the phrase and they'd be off again.

Finally, entirely spent, Madeline asked, "Have you eaten anything lately?"

"Supper at Doc's. Mud bass and new potatoes. Doc asked what you were up to and wanted to know if you'd be visiting. I told him it was up to you."

She fiddled with the fringe on a cloth napkin. "Um, did Doc mention Sephyr at all?"

"Yes."

She looked up. "Well?"

"It seems Sephyr has disappeared."

She gaped at him. "What? When?"

"No one's seen him for over three months. According to Doc, the queen doesn't seem very concerned, or at least she's not showing it. Her son is well known for disappearing now and then."

"But surely not for three months."

TP shrugged. "I wish I could tell you more." He gathered the cookbooks and put them back on the shelf, swept up the broken rooster. "Don't worry about that," he said, gesturing to the chair and bits of plaster fallen from a dent in the wall. "I'll deal with it later. Lock me in my room. I've got a lot of thinking to do."