Hugo had never actually let Alma and Shirin help the afternoon before. He had used the workbench vise to hold the funnel in place while he wrapped it in ripstop inside and out. Then he had built a smaller funnel to cap the large one, then connected that to some tubing that would go into the cloud-swirled container with the little windmill inside.
Now, up on the mountain, Hugo set about assembling the apparatus.
By himself.
“The springwater showed such unusual properties,” he said as he unrolled the tubing from its coil, leaving plenty of slack. “I’m very interested to see what my experiment here may yield.”
“Our experiment,” Shirin corrected him.
“It appears that the writer of the book—the True Paracelsus, as he calls himself—did in fact discover an alchemical system,” he continued. “A metaphysical overlay of sorts. My results here could continue that work.”
Before Shirin could snap at Hugo again, Alma picked up the pole that the funnel would attach to. “Here,” she said. “I’ll help you.”
Hugo snatched the pole from her. “I’d prefer to do it myself,” he said.
Alma pulled her hand back and held it, as if it was her hand that had been hurt rather than her feelings. Hugo, she knew, was smarter than she was, smarter than most people. He was focused right now, intense about finding this knowledge he was seeking. She understood that.
But she had gotten the quintescope. Shirin had found the containers. They were on this quest together.
“Hugo, I think you should—” she started.
“You need to let us help!” Shirin interrupted her. Her hands were on her hips and she was glaring at Hugo. The wind whipped her braids around her head, like two snakes coiling and striking, coiling and striking. “You already built this whole thing yourself. Don’t you remember what your mother said?”
“We need one another,” Alma said quietly.
Hugo busied himself with the assemblage again, avoiding their eyes. “I’ve got it under control,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” Shirin shot back. “Fine! I’d like to see you hold the pole, the container, and the tubing, and put the cap on by yourself!”
She threw herself down on a nearby rock. Alma sat next to her. They watched as Hugo finished attaching the components. Then he tucked the wind container under one arm, put the cap in his mouth, and hoisted up the wind-funnel pole with both hands.
The wind was blowing strong and cold there at the top of the mountain. When Hugo got the pole upright, the yellow nylon fluttered and flapped wildly, this way and that. He turned the pole, slowly and decisively, until the funnel billowed out. The air flowed into the tubing.
Inside the bottle, the windmill began to turn.
“It’s working, Hugo!” Alma called to him. Even Shirin was leaning forward in anticipation. “Put the cap on!”
Hugo was trying. He was wriggling his upper body around in an effort to dislodge the tubing with his elbow. Instead, his movements caused the pole to slip. The wind funnel deflated.
“Need help yet?” Shirin cried.
Hugo didn’t answer. He bent his knees and squeezed the pole between them for extra stability. He twisted it slowly, searching for the wind again, the container still clutched between his arm and his side.
Then a gust of wind came howling out of the starry sky. The wind funnel inflated with a sudden SWOOSH. The windmill spun.
And Hugo, knees bent, hands full, elbows akimbo, went toppling backward with a shout that sent the cap flying from his mouth.
“Help!” he shouted as the bottle fell to the ground with a sharp crash.