A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-One

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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." 

   

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Seventeen

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

"So when did you first know the chimera was still with you?"

They were sitting in Doc's office, a small examining room at the back of his house with a table, desk, three chairs and an attached lab. The walls held shelves of medical books, watercolors of sunrise and sunset over the wetlands and a large poster identifying common species of fish, shellfish and crustaceans living in the swamp. The lampshade was covered with fishing lures. It wasn't hard to tell what Doc's hobby was. He had checked TP's reflexes, taken his blood pressure, listened to his heart and lungs, peered into his eyes with a light and tapped several spots on his head. As he peered and poked, TP told him in depth all he'd experienced.

"For a long time after the attack I had nightmares and anxiety, but I thought it was residual effects that would eventually go away. Then about a month ago I started seeing red eyes every time I fell asleep. That's when I began to suspect. When the sleep-walking started, I knew for sure."

"Any dizziness? Confusion?"

"Yes, especially in the mornings."

"These creatures live in the nervous system and brain. I can see the darkness behind your eyes."

"So what's to be done?"

Doc rubbed his whiskered chin and moved from his stool to his desk chair, laying his stethoscope next to a vase of Hattie's sweet peas. Breeze from the open window carried their perfume across the room.

"I'd say two things have saved you thus far. Firstly, you transported the chimera to a different world, and it's taken a long time for the beast to adjust to the new surroundings. Chimera dragons are sensitive to geographical locations. They draw power from magnetic and electrical impulses deep inside the earth."

TP nodded. "We supposedly have similar entities in our world called doppelgangers.  I've read about them."

"Doppelgangers! Hah, I like that word," Doc said. "It has a nice ring to it."

TP told him all he knew on the subject, which wasn't much, and Doc listened with interest.

"Chimeras are doppelgangers run amok, I'm thinking. Doppelgangers aren't quite as powerful."

"Yet," TP said.

Doc went on. "The second thing that's maybe worked in your favor is your age and occupation. You're not young, and you're a scholar. You've had lots of years to store data in your brain. Chimeras love facts and data. My guess is this chimera is very interested in your knowledge and wants to use it in some way. But it can only do that if you let it take you over willingly, because it needs your cooperation to accomplish its goals."

"So is there any hope for me?" TP asked.

Doc hesitated, and TP could see the worry darkening his eyes. He braced himself for bad news.

"I won't lie to you, TP, it's a serious condition. I'm concerned that you're starting to have episodes during the day. But let's get down to basics. The first line of defense is knowledge." Doc smacked his hand on the desk for emphasis, causing a stack of papers to flutter. "Knowledge is power. You need to learn as much as you can about your enemy. I'll tell you what I know, and afterwards we'll put our heads together and see where it leads us.

"You've heard me say in past conversations that Minglemist's culture used to be much more advanced than it is now, mostly due to a group of men who developed sophisticated electronic devices used for all sorts of things. These fellows called themselves the Brotherhood, and they pretty much ruled Minglemist. Women weren't allowed into the group." Doc smiled wryly. "A pity, because if women had influenced these men, maybe things would have turned out differently. Anyway, this Brotherhood developed more and more sophisticated devices and machines, and people relied more and more on them for everything; so much so that they didn't bother to think for themselves anymore. And the devices grew so highly sensitive they began to merge with human thought and take on a life of their own. 

"The Brotherhood knew very well what was happening, and even if their original intentions had been honorable, they began to see how they could use this artificial intelligence for their own selfish gains. They started using the devices to foster mistrust, hatred and intolerance between groups and factions, and even between individuals. People were manipulated so subtly they didn't realize the thoughts they were thinking weren't their own, but were put into them by the Brotherhood via the devices to further their agenda. 

"Eventually people began to figure out what was happening and a war was fought. Members of the Brotherhood were expelled from Minglemist, but not before having their revenge. The men, who had strange, occult powers, surrounded this land with a nearly impenetrable mist, cutting it off from the rest of the world. The few folks who dared to try and leave were never heard from again. The Brotherhood inactivated all electronic devices and left behind the shadowy creatures they'd spawned with their evil work. These creatures, named the chimera dragons, were highly intelligent and wanted to experience life on the physical plane, but they didn't have bodies to do so. Eventually they learned how to inhabit humans and live vicariously through them.

"Some people believe that the Brotherhood is still active, working behind the scenes to manipulate people through the chimera dragons."

TP blew out a breath. "What a conundrum."

"It surely is. And we have only ourselves to blame. We can't blame the machines and devices, can we? Humans and machines have always been partners. But we do have to deal with the consequences of our actions. Apparently it's our task in Minglemist to overcome the dragons. That's why knowledge is so necessary. The chimeras, intelligent, clever and deadly as they are, do have blind spots. They can only experience emotions and feelings in an animalistic way. Love eludes them, because love, true love, contains an element of sacrifice and this they don't understand. They have no capacity for higher feelings. If you foster thoughts of love and devotion, it acts like a shield and keeps the beasts from growing stronger."

"But it doesn't get rid of them," TP said.

"No," Doc agreed. "We haven't yet found a way to destroy them. You can't very well blow them up, or burn them, or drown them, or poison them because they have no physical bodies. Although..." Doc paused, rubbed his chin, then chuckled. "There may be ways to drive them out of the body. I'm thinking of old Muster Cannon. Muster was attacked by a chimera while night fishing. He was in his early fifties at the time, I'd say, and he went downhill very quickly. Became completely mad and had to be locked up. His wife took care of him, and it wasn't an easy task. This went on for years and years, probably ten, at least. The wife had to spoon feed him, and it got to the point where all he wanted was garlic. Raw garlic. He ate it by the handful, just chewed it up and swallowed it down. You can imagine how he smelled! My God, your eyes would water just standing within ten feet of him. His wife tried to wean him off of it, but one night he escaped his room, went to the pantry and demolished a whole basket of garlic, one clove at a time. Shortly afterward he got very agitated and started rolling around on the floor, howling like a wild animal. His daughter fetched me, thinking Muster was dying. I tried to sedate him but nothing worked. Finally, after a terrible spasm, a great cloud of black smoke poured out of his mouth and flew out the window. The next morning he was perfectly sane, back to his old self. He lived another fifteen or twenty years and finally died peacefully in his sleep." 

They sat in silence a few moments, listening to the birds and insects outside the window. Finally TP said, "I was sure I had the answer, but stupidly I lost my chance."

He told Doc about the vegetable stone.

"I've heard of these stones! The Quinta Essentia, the fifth element, am I right? Made by separating and purifying the four elements, then joining them back together. Good grief, this is astounding!" Doc jumped up, his hair springing out from his head, his dark eyes sparking.

"What is?"

"Don't move. I'll be right back." The doctor disappeared into his lab and TP heard thumps, scrapes, clinks, rustles and clatters, accompanied by much muttering. Shortly afterward Doc returned with a gallon jar of amber-colored liquid which he placed on the desk.

"This was my grandfather's. He was a brilliant thinker, always full of ideas that made you marvel and wonder why you'd never thought of them. He had a fascination with the healing properties of honey. And this - " Doc held up the jar and shook it - "is the result of many years of research. Grandpa Stubblefield claimed it would be a vital remedy for dealing with chimera dragons, as well as other ailments. He called it the Quinta Essentia, made from honey, and left it to me when he died, along with instructions on how to use it."

TP peered into the jar. "So have you? Tried it, I mean?"

Doc's face fell as he shook his head. "The notebook of instructions was lost in a flood years ago. And the remedy was never even completed. There was something else that needed doing, but I don't remember what." Doc shook his head in frustration. "And to top it all off, the stuff is supposed to age for one hundred years. It still has twenty-three years to go." 

"I have a book of recipes for making vegetable stones," said TP. "I used herbs for mine, but one recipe does call for honey. Honey and nothing else. I didn't even consider it because of the hundred years needed for completion. I'll bring you the book. Maybe someone can complete it, though it won't finish aging in time to help me. I don't even think there's time for me to make another herbal stone. It takes over forty days, and my powers of concentration are growing weaker all the time."

Doc paced the room, pursing his lips and clenching his jaw as if struggling with thoughts that wanted to come out. Finally he dropped to his chair and gave TP a long look.

"What?" TP asked.

"It's a crazy thought. Absolutely insane. But there is one way twenty-three years could be compressed into a matter of hours. Do you know what I'm talking about, TP?"

A warm breeze blew in the window, a bee buzzed in the vase of flowers, and the clock on the wall ticked faintly as TP cocked his head, pondering Doc's words.

"The only thing that comes to mind," he said, "is...but no, it can't be that. Can it? Good God, Doc! Are you thinking of..."

Doc finished the sentence. "The mistangle." His voice fell to a low growl. "I told you it was insane, didn't I?"

"Definitely insane. Hah! Hah! So insane I could suspect you of being the one possessed by a chimera." TP shook his head vigorously, as if trying to dislodge his thoughts. But the wheels were turning, and he felt a wild surge of power course through him, as if he'd suddenly turned into a mighty warrior facing an impossible quest. He felt like Richard the Lionheart, heeding the call to battle. The mistangle! 

 

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Sixteen

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

He was in Minglemist. Even if his eyes were closed, he would know. The air smelled different - a peculiar greenish blend of ferns and leaves and whatever else inhabited this place. The path he was on wound through a dense patch of lollywon trees, their bent and crooked limbs draped with moss, looking like ancient hairy soldiers frozen in the midst of a battle no one remembered. To his left a spring branch bubbled over black stones worn smooth from the constant flow of water. He knew exactly where he was, though this was not the same spot he used to find himself in when coming through the hedge. He would recognize this scene even without the sign tacked to a tree five steps ahead where the path forked. Boggy Meadow it read. Beneath the letters was a crudely drawn frog painted green and black, wearing a gold crown. The frog prince was the emblem of Boggy Meadow, and it was proudly displayed everywhere. 

TP had traveled this foot path many times. It was a short-cut into Boggy Meadow from the main road running along the north side of the swamp. The right fork led to a wider, well-traveled thoroughfare at the base of high rock cliffs on the eastern edge of Boggy Meadow. Terraces had been cut into the rock, connected with stone steps or ladders or elevators worked by massive pulleys. The lowest terrace held the Great Lodge where the queen lived, a sprawling tangle of little, oddly-shaped buildings all connected by roofs and archways of different heights, and one soaring tower in the middle. The left fork joined a rough dirt road with cottages on either side, and farther down, a row of business buildings, all constructed from black stone chiseled out of the cliffs, with wooden, tin or thatched roofs. At the end of the road was the Wiggle Hop Roadhouse, and beyond that, the swampland stretched as far as one could see, dotted with tiny islands and docks along channels of deeper water where boats could be moored.

TP took the left path that followed the spring branch. Clouds of tiny midges swarmed over the water, dancing in patches of sunlight that filtered through the trees. A species from the Chironomidae family, he thought, commonly called muckleheads back home. Minnows darted through the stream, and little wriggling creatures waved at him from a shallow pool, making him itch for his microscope and magnifying glasses, but he mustn't get distracted. He was here for a purpose: to try and save his life, and every second counted. 

The air was muggy and still beneath the trees, the back of his shirt clammy. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, which he kept swiping with his sleeve. Something creaked and he looked up. Ah, the creepy old abandoned mill was still here, looming darkly over the water. Its splintered waterwheel listed to one side and the windows were gaping black holes with missing panes. Tall weeds smothered the walls, tangles of lollywon moss circled the caved-in roof. Not a place to linger, he thought, quickening his steps and suppressing a shiver in spite of the heat.

A few more minutes of walking brought him out of the woods and onto the dirt road leading into town, if one could call it that. A fresh breeze dried the sweat on his brow and brought with it the odors of the swamp, lifting his spirits. Strange how the smell of mud and muck and slime could excite him. It was life. It was growth and decay and renewal, primal and raw, and no fancy perfume enticed him more.

A horse-drawn cart approached and the driver eyed him curiously before nodding politely as he passed. TP loved that there were no automobiles in Minglemist. No gasoline engines of any kind, and no cell phone towers either. There was electricity generated from wind and water that often failed, and crude telephones that sometimes worked but usually didn't, but the air and water were clean. You could go fishing and actually eat the fish without ingesting toxic chemicals, and you didn't have to breathe noxious fumes or hear the roar of traffic from your bedroom window. Transportation was by steam train, ships and boats, carts and carriages pulled by high-stepping horses if you were rich, shaggy ponies or oxen if you weren't. There were bicycles and lots of walking trails. Being here was like stepping back in time to the late 1800's. Inconveniences were balanced by a slow and simple lifestyle that suited TP quite well.

But how bizarre to be back here! He thought he'd never see the place again. It'd been almost a year since the hole in the hedge closed up. Why had it opened now? Hopefully because something was guiding him towards a resolution to his terrible predicament. 

Doc Stubblefield's modest stone cottage sat on a lane behind the Roadhouse, where the road dead-ended at the swamp. A deep channel had been dug out along the water's edge and the banks built up to prevent the wetlands from encroaching on the town and to provide a harbor of sorts with a dock where boats could be moored.

The old stone roadhouse still had the same red-checked curtains framing the grimy windows, the same purple printed sign hanging beside the door: Barnicane Juice Sold Here, Pressed on Site, Bottles: 25 coppers, Gallons: 150 c, or 60 clams. Wooden benches and chairs were scattered across the front deck, and the sign over the door: Wiggle Hop Roadhouse still listed to the right. TP recognized several customers talking together and drinking bottles of purple juice as they sat in the shade out front.

He walked past them and turned west onto Crabtree Lane, halting at the picket fence in front of Doc's house. His wife, Hattie, was in the front yard, tending her flowers.

"Goodness me, TP, is that really you? We figured we'd never see you again. What brings you back?"

She pushed her sunhat back on her head and eyed him up and down, her wispy grey hair framing a round, weathered face with a snub nose and faded blue eyes. Her smile was just as bright as he remembered.

"Hello, Hattie. I know it's been a long time, but it seems my business here isn't finished. Is Doc around?"

Hattie thrust her chin eastward. "Over at the Wiggle Hop. He had a rough morning seeing three patients. I wish he'd retire for good, but you know Doc. He can't turn anyone away who needs help, and no one wants to take over his practice, so there you go. Take him fishing!" She waved and went back to her weeding.

Doc sat at one of the scarred wooden tables in the open dining room, nursing a drink. His mouth fell open when he saw TP, and he blinked several times.

"Good God, I'm seeing a ghost," he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

"Hello, Doc, it's been awhile." TP smiled and held out his hand, which Doc pumped vigorously.

"Not a ghost after all. Sit down! Oola, bring this man a drink." He motioned to the bartender, a dour woman as tall as TP but massively built, with arms that could lift a man off his feet and fling him across the room like a rag doll. Oola owned the Wiggle Hop and ran it with an iron hand, or fist when the occasion called for one. Nobody messed with Oola. Even the most hardened outlaws who dwelled in the swamp were afraid of her.

"What'll you have?" asked Doc.

As if there were any doubt. "I wouldn't say no to a bottle of juice." 

Barnicane juice was what TP always drank here. Squeezed from small purple fruits that grew in the swamp, it could be brewed into an alcoholic libation, but TP preferred the straight juice, finding the fruity, sour taste and fizzy tingle on the tongue a perfect pick-me-up.

Oola lumbered across the rough stone floor, wiping the dust off a bottle with her apron and popping the cap with her thumb. Plunking it down in front of TP, she said, "Hadn't seen you around lately. Come back to stay, is you?"

"Just visiting." 

She squinted at him, her small grey eyes nearly disappearing between the broad expanse of her red, rough-skinned cheeks and the bristly eyebrows above. A few coarse hairs sprouted from her chin. She jingled a bunch of keys hanging from a belt around her faded red dress and glanced at the staircase behind the bar. "Need a room, then?"

"Ah, no thanks, not right now." TP took a swallow of his drink, squirming a little under Oola's scrutiny. Finally she nodded and poked at her towering beehive of brown hair which stayed intact with no visible means of support, then took the coins Doc handed her and lumbered back to the bar, leaving behind the scent of sweat and stale grease. 

"So tell me, TP, why did you stay away so long and why are you back?" Doc settled back in his chair and crossed his legs expectantly. He was short, stocky and bow-legged, rather like a little gnome, TP always thought, with round, dark eyes and a halo of long white hair that stood up like a dandelion gone to seed. He wore scuffed boots, khaki pants, suspenders and a blue plaid bow tie over a pale green shirt. He and TP were close in age and shared a love of biology, medicine, philosophy and life in general. 

"The door in the hedge closed up."

"Huh. Strange, isn't it? Wonder why it opened again."

TP drew a deep breath. "Maybe because I'm in trouble and need help."

"Uh oh. Tell me what's going on."

"It seems the chimera dragon I encountered last summer is still with me."

Doc shot upright in his chair, gripping the edge of the table. "Lord," he said softly. "Lord, TP." 

He studied TP for a long moment in silence, then abruptly stood up and motioned TP to do the same.

"Let's go to my office. I want to examine you, then we need to plan our strategy."    

A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Fifteen

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

The night was not what he'd expected. He'd been dreading the nightmares, the jolts of electricity that wreaked havoc on his nervous system, the pressure on his chest, the terrible sensations of falling. He did have to endure the soulless red eyes burning into him as he fell asleep, but then a gentle breeze lifted him upward, farther and farther and farther still, until he felt completely free and unfettered, detached from all worries and fears and pain. He looked down and watched huge vistas appear in blazing colors. Mountains rose up, rivers wound through green valleys, animals crawled or swam or flew out of oceans and spread over the land. Plants sprouted, grew and morphed into masses of vegetation, from tiny lichens to towering trees. Time lost all meaning. He watched whole civilizations rise and fall in the blink of an eye. Epochs followed one after another, each with new cultures, races, religions, achievements and discoveries. So much knowledge passed before him he was dazzled and overcome.

A barren field drew his attention. He floated towards it and found himself walking on fallow soil. He spread his hands and flowers shot out of his fingertips, each one unique and beautiful. They populated the empty field, their presence drawing insects, birds and other animals. He marveled at his creation, gazing in awe at the majestic sweep of color and movement. He had done all this with a wave of his hand! Now he could bestow names on every plant and animal, give them virtues or vices, habits and habitats, voices, odors, everything down to the tiniest detail. The thought gave him great joy. But some small part of him knew this was only a dream. Or had he died? Was this heaven?

A voice whispered in his head. "Scientist, remember the promise I gave you. You can have all this and much more. It's yours; take it!"

But he couldn't. He wasn't ready for such knowledge or power. This was illusion; like drug-induced euphoria that destroyed the will and left only an empty shell. If he gave himself to the beast he would lose what made him human: his will, his soul, maybe even his spirit. With great sorrow, he turned away and fell back into a dark but familiar place. 

TP woke in his bed, the dream's euphoria quickly fading to grim reality. He felt bereft, but he was still himself. He lay there awhile, pondering the cleverness of the creature inside him, how it had first showed him the hell he faced if he fought it, then the illusion of paradise if he gave in to its wishes. Thankfully he hadn't done so. The feelings inspired by the chimera were entirely different than the ones he'd experienced in the marsh long ago. That had felt real and solid, blissful but imbued with reverence and humility. The chimera's illusion had stroked his ego, making him the center of the picture. Maybe that was the chimera's weakness. It didn't understand reverence, or humility, or love of something higher than oneself.

Tired of thinking, he arose and started the day. Madeline and Harold were up, their voices floating down the hall. He doubted Gladys would make an appearance this morning. She'd seemed truly shattered with guilt and remorse yesterday. Glumly, he supposed he'd have to confront her. He decided to turn over a new leaf starting today: no more dodging difficult conversations. Character flaws must be overcome sooner or later, and the longer one waited, the harder it became to root them out.

In the kitchen, three faces looked at him, one worriedly, one expectantly, the third (Archie's) with its usual mournful hopefulness. He dared not disappoint. Mustering all his resolve, he gave them a dazzling smile. "This morning we're having Eggs a la TP and toast with strawberry crush."

He set Harold to work on crushing the strawberries with a potato masher. Madeline made toast and managed not to burn it while he fixed the eggs. After eating they discussed the day ahead. Evalda was coming around two, so Harold needed to get his gear packed and ready. His main concern was the dump truck, which had to be emptied of its final load and cleaned. He and Archie went to attend those duties while Madeline tidied the kitchen.

"I've got to go speak with Gladys," TP told her. Better do it now before he lost his resolve.

"Be firm with her, TP." she said. "Don't let her off the hook. I'd have strangled her by now, but that's me."

"I'll be resolute." 

He went to the garden and cut three heads of lettuce, snipped dill and parsley and pulled a bunch of green onions. Putting everything into a bag, he headed over to Gladys'. She must have seen him coming, because he hadn't even rung the bell when the door burst open and Gladys threw herself at him, sobbing into his shirt.

"Oh, Thad, I'm so, so sorry! Please, please forgive me if you can. I couldn't bear to think I'd ruined our friendship. It means so much to me."

He dropped his sack and patted her back awkwardly, then pried her hands loose from his collar and pushed her gently but firmly away. She stood there hiccupping and sniffling and wiping her eyes with her apron while he cringed inside, wishing himself a thousand miles away. He couldn't stand it when women cried.

"Gladys," he said, "If we're to renew our friendship, it has to be under certain terms. You're never to go into my lab, period. And you're never to enter my house unless I'm home and have invited you in. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her watery eyes round and contrite.

"It's not entirely your fault," he told her. "I should have expressed myself more clearly from the start. And I do appreciate your help in caring for Harold."

"I'd do anything for you, Thad. I admire you so much, and I've loved cooking for you and Harold. Has he left yet?"

"No, my sister's coming for him at two o'clock."

"Oh, then he'll be needing lunch. Could we still have a little party for him?"

She looked up at him tremulously, hopefully, her voice wobbling.

"I'm sure he'd like that."

"Wonderful!" 

He winced. The screechy voice was back full force. She drew a huge, shaky breath, clasping her hands together and beaming at him. "I'll fix something special and come over about 12:30. Oh, Thad, I can't tell you how happy I am that you've forgiven me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

He mumbled something, thrust the sack of produce at her and fled before she could launch herself at him again.

Harold was packed and ready by noon. TP had told him Gladys was bringing lunch, so he sat by the window watching for her.

"Here she comes!" he shouted. "She's got balloons and a giant picnic basket." He ran out to meet her.

Though she'd caused him more grief than she would ever know, TP had to laugh when he saw her lurching up the sidewalk with her load, a bunch of red helium balloons tied to one wrist and a cluster of party hats dangling from the other. She wore a ruffled blouse with a gold vest and an ankle length multi-colored skirt. On her head was a jaunty pink hat covered with silk flowers.

"The gypsies have arrived," Madeline said, standing beside TP.

Harold manfully grasped one handle of the basket which caused it to tip precariously, but they managed to deliver the goods unscathed. Gladys had to make one more trip next door, and Harold went along to help.

Good grief, how had she managed all this in a few short hours," TP wondered, watching as the kitchen was festooned with streamers and balloons, the table set with paper plates and party napkins. 

"I love napkins," Gladys said, doling them out beside the plates. "They add just the right touch to a party." 

She had brought a variety of delicacies from the gourmet deli she cooked for: tiny tea sandwiches, tartlets, vegetable roll-ups sliced to look like pinwheels, fig and feta canapes, crab cakes, and Harold's favorite - beggar's purses - chicken salad inside crisp wonton wraps gathered at the top and tied with a chive stem. For dessert there were mini lime cheesecakes and bird's nests made from drizzled chocolate, filled with chocolate mousse.

TP dutifully wore his party hat, feeling foolish as Madeline made him smile for the camera. He was hoping Gladys would leave before Evalda arrived, but at one forty-five the party was still going on and he couldn't very well shoo her out the door. She had gone to such efforts, even bringing Harold a present of building blocks wrapped up in a box with a bow. She and Madeline were being quite civil to each other, Gladys deigning to give Madeline pointers on cooking. But there was no telling what she might blurt out in Evalda's presence, and he didn't want his sister getting any ideas. She couldn't stand it that he was single and nagged him constantly, trying to hook him up with her acquaintances. He'd tried pointing out that she was single as well, her husband having died seven or eight years ago. Why didn't she date? But she had a life, and apparently he didn't. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy women's company. He dated occasionally, but only women of his choosing. Blind dates were almost always a disaster; he avoided them like the plague.

Ah, well, it was too late now. Evalda's car had pulled up to the curb. She breezed into the kitchen wearing a tailored grey suit with red pumps and matching scarf, a large black purse over one arm and a trail of L'air du Temps following her. She eyed the balloons and streamers, the party hats, the remnants of the feast, Gladys in her colorful costume. "It seems I'm interrupting something."

"We had a party," Harold told her. She greeted him with hugs and kisses, gave Madeline, whom she'd met before, a smile and a handshake, then turned her attention to Gladys. TP introduced them.

"I've been hearing about your cooking. It seems you're quite the gourmet."

Gladys waved a hand modestly. "It's what I enjoy. But sit down, Evalda. There's still plenty of food left. We gave Harold a little going-away party. Can I get you some coffee?"

"Never touch the stuff," said Evalda, perching on a chair and fending Archie off, who was delighted to see her. "Is there tea?"

Gladys bustled around heating water in the kettle and measuring tea leaves, and TP watched Evalda's eyes follow her every move, no doubt assessing her familiarity with the kitchen.

"So, Evalda, TP said, trying to distract her, "what brings you to Baltimore today, other than picking up Harold?"

"The OPAA is thinking of opening another shelter here. We have three in Philly, but the need is so great. People have been bringing animals in from all over, and a shelter here would help ease the pressure. I've been looking at possible buildings, but the most affordable ones are in bad neighborhoods. Safety is a priority, especially because I'm trying to get Marnie to run this one." She glanced at Harold, who was playing with his blocks, and lowered her voice. "My daughter needs to quit traveling so much and start being a proper mother. She could use her writing skills in better ways, like promoting the OPAA's cause. But don't get me started."

She sipped her tea and took a tiny nibble of cheesecake.

"If you do open a shelter in this area, I'd be happy to volunteer now and then," Madeline said.

"Wonderful!" Evalda took a business card out of her purse. "Here's our web address. Have a look, and I'll email you more information when you're ready. We can put your artistic talent to good use."  

"I'd like a card too," said Gladys. "And I have a suggestion. Thad and I are hosting a little get-together Saturday after next. We'd love to have you and Harold come, wouldn't we, Thad? You could meet some people and make some connections. One of our neighbors is in real estate."

Evalda raised an eyebrow. "That's very kind of you Gladys, and Thad." She smirked at him, knowing full well he hated his name. Thaddeus was pompous and pretentious, Thad was almost as bad as Todd.

"I'll check my schedule and let you know."

It happened in an instant. TP had almost forgotten about the chimera, sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking and conversing like ordinary people do. So far the beast hadn't troubled him much in the daytime, and his guard was down. But suddenly his brain was on fire and a surge of rage swept through him. The people around him became enemies. He hated them; they were weak and despicable. He wanted them cowering and whimpering at his feet. He itched to smash the dishes, upend the table, roar and howl until they fled from him in terror. One small part of him knew this was all wrong. He lurched to his feet and strode from the room, running to the bathroom and slamming the door. He stuck his head under the faucet and let the cold water dampen the blaze. After a moment it all passed, leaving him shaken to the core. What would he tell them? He had to act normal. Evalda was sharp as a tack; she already suspected something was off with him. And Gladys! He could just picture her blabbing about his strange behavior to Marge, who thought he was using drugs. Quickly he toweled off his hair, ran a comb through it and went back to the kitchen.

They were talking about him.

"I hope it wasn't the food. It came on so suddenly."

"Believe me, Gladys, it wasn't the food. TP has a cast iron stomach. You wouldn't believe some of the things he eats. Though maybe you know, since you seem so familiar with his kitchen."

TP strode back into the room. "Sorry," he said, "I got something in my eye and had to get it out."

"I'm so glad you're not sick, Thad. I was worried."

"Everything's fine. Let's get your car packed up, Evalda, you've got a long drive ahead." 

She didn't believe him, but waited till they were outside to say anything. "When was your last physical, TP? Do you even have a doctor? I'll book an appointment for you with my physician. He's very good at diagnostics."

"Leave it alone, Evalda. I'll get a check up soon."

"Make sure you do. Gladys seems nice."

Here we go, he thought.

"She's not very intellectual, and I can't quite picture her tramping through the swamps with you, but you're sixty-two years old, for heaven's sake. You need some companionship for your golden years."

Luckily they were interrupted when Madeline and Harold came out. TP practically slung Archie into the back seat, gave Harold a hug, and waved them on their way.

Madeline looked at him closely, questions brimming in her bright blue eyes.

"I believe I'll go out to the hedge," he told her. 

"Wait," she said, running back to the house. She came back out with a party streamer. "If you get through, leave this tied to the shrubs, so I'll know where you are. And please be home by dark. I'll get rid of Gladys."

Seconds later he found a slim opening in the wax myrtles that hadn't been there yesterday. Winding the streamer around a twig, he plunged through the hole.