*Okay, okay, okay. Tober's okay, and even though this isn't ideal, it's manageable. I knew this might happen.*
Scott surveyed the scene: the dragon, surrounded by a now-calmer menagerie of neighborhood deer, rabbits, birds, bees, and bugs, all gathered around the plate of dragon bait. The initial frenzy had subsided; they were now quietly sniffing the bait. The birds, bees, and bugs moved in lazy circles above the other animals.
He chuckled to himself. *Were they all getting high on the aroma? Doesn't matter. Back to the crisis.*
His gaze returned to Tober, still nestled high in the tree. *I'll just go inside and make the Fairy Flight potion, then fly up to get him. Yeah, right!*
He looked back at the dragon, its eye half-closed, its nose twitching. *Or more likely,* he mused, *I could get a 'fairy high' on a psychedelics.*
He remembered Ted Andersen, three streets over, who owned an extension ladder that reached the gutters above the third story of his house, possibly high enough to reach Tober in the tree. It was a tall house. Tober, likely still asleep after the excitement, would probably remain there. The dragon, too, seemed sedated by the lingering aroma of the bait.
He could retrieve his keys, drive to Ted's house, hope he was still awake, borrow the ladder, concoct some believable excuse, tie it to his car, and drive back. It might work. Or...he could roll the dice and make the Fairy Flight potion in his kitchen, where he could keep an eye on everything through the window.
Scott went back inside. His keys lay on the table next to the flower packets containing the recipes. The decision, for now, remained unresolved.
**Faerie Flight**
Scott quickly scanned the recipe for Faerie Flight, glancing up to confirm Tober was still asleep in the tree and the dragon was still woozily sniffing the bait. He focused on the tiny text:
*Faerie Flight:* A reduction of flower essences to adapt the body to fey flight.
*Ingredients:*
* 8 drams fireweed stamen
* 8 drams fireweed carpel
* 8 drams cardinal stamen
* 8 drams cardinal carpel
* 8 drams bloodroot stamen
* 8 drams bloodroot carpel
* 1 whole, fresh Death Cap mushroom
* 16 drams ipecac syrup
He momentarily set aside the unsettling use of a "Death Cap" mushroom. He'd Google that later. Checking that all was well outside, he weighed the flower packets on his kitchen scale. Each packet was half an ounce; 8 drams was roughly the same. He needed all the fireweed, cardinal, and bloodroot. The instructions stated he had to brew the flower parts in one pint of boiling water, reducing it to half a pint. Once cooled, he was to swallow the entire concoction, including the stamens and carpels. This was to be followed by swallowing the whole Death Cap mushroom, ensuring no contact with his tongue. After 17 seconds, he was to swallow the ipecac syrup and immediately vomit the contents of his stomach into the roots of a tall tree.
A quick online search confirmed his suspicions: Death Cap mushrooms were extremely poisonous. He located the ipecac in his mother-in-law's "new parents first-aid kit" in the hallway bathroom closet. He checked on Tober and the dragon one last time before beginning. This was insane, but he was committed.
He brought the water to a boil, adding the six flower packets. He needed to be ready. Google also showed him where to find Death Caps and what they looked like. The recent week of rain was perfect for their growth. The water neared boiling.
He headed to the Davis's backyard, lower ground than the others bordering the same cluster of trees, receiving more runoff and often hosting mushrooms. He pushed through the trees, found a damp, shady spot under a cherry tree, and spotted a patch of white caps dusted with pale greenish-yellow. He almost reached for one until he remembered their toxicity. He raced back to his house for a sandwich baggie and a sharp knife. Returning to the Davis's yard, he carefully cut the mushroom while holding it in the plastic bag. He sprinted back to his house, ignoring the sharp knife clutched in his hand. He checked on Tober and the dragon one last time before heading to the kitchen. He was about to do this: drink the flower brew, swallow the Death Cap, and induce vomiting with ipecac. The neighbors' backyard lights flickered on.
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Scott had left his flower concoction simmering on the small, stainless steel saucepan when he went hunting for death caps. The one-quart pan, initially half-full of water and flower parts, was now reduced to just over a quarter full. The small gas burner, on high, licked blue flames around its base. He stopped the simmering, carefully placing the pan into a sink heâd begun filling with cold water. He checked on the dragon and its entourage, they remained largely unchanged, and even craning his neck, he couldn't clearly see Tober in the tree.
Leaving the sink to fill, Scott went to the dining room window. In the faint glow of a neighbor's backyard light, he saw Tober. He descended to the basement, retrieved a box of nitrile gloves (used for handling toxic chemicals), and placed it on the kitchen counter, along with the baggie containing the death cap mushroom. Returning to the sink, he turned off the water; it was about half full. He used a wooden spoon to stir the thickening flower brew, it was now down to a quarter of the pan's capacity. He turned off the burner and carefully floated the saucepan in the cold sink water, stirring occasionally to accelerate cooling.
He returned to the dining room. The dragon and the other animals were all huddled together, moving even more slowly than before; the birds and insects had mostly settled. The brew, he thought, was more of a reduction than tea. He stirred rapidly, testing the temperature with his pinky finger. It was warm, but cool enough, probably. He grabbed a large coffee mug, a "New Jersey: Hey, you got a problem with that?" mug, and placed it next to the baggie with the death cap.
He went back to the dining room; the dragon, deer, rabbits, birds, bees, and other insects were all piled loosely together, seemingly asleep, as was Tober in the tree.
Scott gave the reduction a final stir, tapped the spoon against the side of the pan, and carried it to the counter. He poured the contents into the coffee mug, returning the pan to the sink.
"Okay," he murmured. "Here goes nothing."
He reached for the mug, paused, and looked at the mushroom. He donned two blue nitrile gloves. Returning to the dining room, he confirmed everyone was still asleep. He picked up the mug, paused again, and placed it back on the counter. He opened the baggie and, using two fingers, carefully removed the death cap.
âDefinitely a death cap, right?â he muttered, taking out his phone and using the Google Reverse Image Search app. The app confirmed his identification: toxic if consumed. He kept the gloves on. He retrieved the ipecac syrup, twisted off the cap, and placed it between the gloves and the death cap. He picked up the coffee mug, raised it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. It smelled like boiled potpourri.
Holding the mug in both hands, he returned to the dining room, located Tober in the tree, and drank the entire contents in one long draught. It tasted like flowers, not tea. He felt the pieces slide down his throat. He went back to the counter, picked up the mushroom, and started to lift it to his mouth. And then, everything went blue.
A wave of dizziness hit him; he stumbled, catching himself on the counter. When he opened his eyes, the world was awash in various intensities of royal blue. It wasn't like looking through tinted glass; it was as if every object emitted its own blue light, a vibrant, almost sun-like radiance. He blinked a few times, the dizziness subsided slightly. He closed his eyes for almost a minute. When he opened them again, everything was still, intensely, blue.
The world was a swirling vortex of intense blue. Through the vibrant wash, Scott could barely make out the death cap on the counter. He grabbed it, then gently touched the ipecac bottle to confirm its presence.
"Shit, shit," he muttered. "No choice. Got to go through with it."
He held the death cap with two gloved fingers, tilting his head back. The blue intensified, shapes blurring. He positioned the mushroom over his throat, aiming to swallow it without touching his tongue. *I wonder how much that matters,* he thought, as the blue overwhelmed him, erasing all shapes, even with his eyes closed. He touched the ipecac again, ensuring he could locate it after swallowing the mushroom. He took a deep breath and pushed the death cap down. It hit the back of his throat, good. Then, the gag reflex kicked in, bad. He muscled through the gagging, swallowing hard. The instructions had said 17 seconds.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippiâ¦" He felt the urge to vomit. He paused for breath. "Four, five, sixâ¦" Another deep breath. Holding his breath seemed to help. "Seven, eight, nineâ¦"
His feet felt weightless.
"Ten, eleven, twelveâ¦" His legs felt light, as if he didn't weigh anything. *Got to grab the ipecac; I'll need it soon.*
*Oh shit, I need to vomit on a tall tree!* Scott grabbed the ipecac bottle and stubbled out he door.
"Thirteen Mississippiâ¦" He was on the lawn circle the pile of slumbering beasts. The ipecac bottle was in his hand; but he couldn't feel it. He felt like he was spinning.
"Fourteen Mississippiâ¦" Where was the tree Tober was in? He stumbled forward, falling, then his feet or what felt like his feet slapped something hard.
"Fifteen Mississippiâ¦" It was the tree; everthying was blue and blurry
"Sixteen Mississippiâ¦" He grabbed the ipecac bottle with both hands, twisting off the cap.
"Seventeen Mississippiâ¦" He brought the ipecac to his mouth, spinning upright. He chugged the entire contents. His stomach heaved. He bent forward, attempting to reach the ground to vomit, but there was no ground. He spun, his stomach tightening, his ribs aching, as he began to vomit. The flowers, water, death cap, and foul-tasting ipecac erupted, as if his ribs might crack. The volume lessened, then dwindled to a trickle. After some dry heaves, the vomiting ceased. The spinning slowed. He opened his eyes. The blue was gone. He was floating in his backyard, three feet off the ground, beneath the lower branches of the tree.