Tea at the Threshold

 

Tea at the Threshold

by E Reid

(Being my journal of the Last Tea Shop game by Spring Villager)

 

 

 

 

My little, ramshackle wooden tea hut can be found right at the centre of an overgrown hedge-maze, in the abandoned garden of a house long burned to the ground. It’s a place of sunbeams, stones, lost objects, and lost people.

 

Only those who are most in need of help may find a path here, through the twisting maze and the gnarly branches, on their way between the worlds of the living and the dead. One last cup of tea is the only comfort that I can offer these weary travellers as I listen to their stories. Once the cup is empty, they each continue on their final journey, out of the maze and onwards to a land where I cannot yet follow them.

 

My place is here, in my tiny hut, The Threshold, waiting for customers, or, on rainy days, taking my basket and venturing out into the wider garden, in its unkempt state, gathering herbs, stones, and other ingredients for my teas.

 

 

1

 

This morning, a shaft of bright sunlight breaks through the dark clouds, heralding the arrival of a visitor. I smooth out the simple indigo-blue cotton cloth on the table, and set the iron kettle on its hook above the small hearth, then wait, listening for footsteps on the gravel path.

 

As the clouds break, a nostalgic sepia haze seems to envelop my little hut. I hear light, nimble footsteps on the gravel, and open the door to a young woman who moves with gentle elegance. I beckon her in, and settle her down on the small wooden bench, where her slight form seems even smaller among the many plump cushions made of bright fabrics.

 

As we wait for the water to boil, I look at her closely, analysing her expression, then say, “I can see that you are filled with a certain nostalgia. Is there something that you regret?” She thinks for a little while, her face wistful, then says, “There was a boy. When I was younger. And he didn’t ever know the influence he had on me. In a way, he set me on a path that led me to my career on stage as an acrobat. When our classmates laughed at me for swinging from tree branches, or turning somersaults in the playground, he told me that I was graceful. If fact, he nicknamed me Grace, and that’s the name I’ve used on stage ever since. I don’t regret the fall that killed me, because I experienced great joy in what I did, but I regret not seeking him out and telling him how much he’d helped me.”

 

I pour her a tall earthenware cup of Gumboot tea, something to warm her soul as well as her body, and say, “Everyone passes eventually, and, if I encounter this man travelling through here, I’ll tell him of your fondness.”

 

I walk over to the wooden bowl full of stones that rests on a wide shelf at the other side of the room. Plunging my hand in, I rummage around the rounded pebbles and highly-polished semi-precious stones, until my fingers find two of similar size and shape. I hand one to her, saying, “Take this, and carry it with you. If he passes here, I will give him the other, and it will draw him to you.” Turning, I set the other stone on a higher slim shelf running the length of the wall. From where she sits, she can’t see the long line of stones arranged along the shelf. I send her and her stone on their way, tidy up, and settle down to wait for the next patron of The Threshold.

 

 

2

 

A whole week passes, full of rain, until a day breaks with clear blue skies. This will be the day for my next customer, I realise, and begin to set up the room. Soon I see a figure emerging from the tangled branches of the maze. He is a large, heavy-set man, with ruddy cheeks, who wipes his brow with a handkerchief and puffs as he trudges along the gravel. He wears the brocade coat of a merchant. I invite him in, and he hangs his heavy jacket on the hook behind the door, and settles down among the brocade cushions that echo the patterns on his coat.

 

As I heat up the water, I look him in the eye, and ask, “I feel that someone did you a great kindness, am I correct? What was it that happened?” He looks at me with a slight sense of bewilderment, and says, “I have a feeling that you are right, but the problem is that, ever since I arrived in this place, and started to work my way through the maze, my thoughts have become a bit jumbled. I have a sense of gratitude, but I’m not sure for what.”

 

“What is that you have there for me?” I ask, and he hands me a single, perfect quartz crystal. “Ah! Perfect! Quartz for memory.” I say. “Your tea will soon be ready, and we can talk afterwards.”

 

I place the crystal in a teapot, along with a few of my favourite memory-inducing herbs, then add hot water. I leave it for a few minutes, as he relaxes and takes in his surroundings, then pour and serve his cup of tea in a fine floral bone-china cup on a saucer. He breathes the steam, deeply, then slowly drinks the whole cup in silence, seeming to become calmer and more settled with each mouthful.

 

“Thank you!” he says. “Now I remember. It was when I was a young man, but very poor. The old merchant next door was dying, and did not have anyone to continue his business, as his daughter had become a teacher and was happy in her chosen profession, so he signed his business over to me as he saw some potential in me.”

 

“I am sure you will be able to thank him in the afterlife,” I say. “Now, do you by any chance happen to know my previous customer, a young acrobat known as Grace?” I tend to find that there are often interesting connections between my visitors, and it’s often useful to explore these, so I am curious to find out how their stories might connect.

 

“Yes!” he says. “Remember I told you about the merchant’s daughter, the teacher? Well… I married her: something I’m even more grateful to him for! And, it just so happens that she was Grace’s teacher. A lovely girl, Grace, but many of the boys tried to bully her, except for one who she seemed to have a special bond with.”

 

I send him on his way, but, after he leaves, I discover that he has dropped a gold ring under the table. I look out the door, but he has vanished through the maze and it’s too late to call him back. I can’t leave here when the sun is shining like this.

 

3

 

The next day I awake to bruised purple fog, but the sun begins to break through heralding the arrival of my next visitor. I look out the door and see a young scout walking towards my tea hut, looking smart in his uniform. He hangs his cap on the hook behind the door, and sits down.

 

“Hello,” I say, “Please wait while I boil some water to make you tea. While you wait, why don’t you tell me what was the greatest lesson that you learned in your life? I know that your life wasn’t a long one, but I believe that we all have great wisdom that we can pass on, and sometimes the youngest have the greatest wisdom.”

 

He thinks for a little while, then says, “When I was little, my parents took me to the circus. When the trapeze acrobats came on, I saw the smiles on my family’s faces, and those of the people around us, and I decided to do what I could to make others happy. And that’s how I’ve lived my life since then.”

 

“In that case,” I say, “I may have a task for you. Do you know the man who passed through here yesterday, a merchant in a fine coat?”

 

“Yes,” says the boy, “He used to live in our village, selling all sorts of things. He sold us some lovely leatherbound books, with gold patterns on the covers, from which my sister learned about great alchemists, and now she is studying alchemy herself.”

 

“Well,” I say, “He left this gold ring yesterday. Can you make sure that he gets it?”

 

“That’s his wife’s ring,” says the boy. “She used to be the teacher in our village. I think I should leave it here until she arrives, because that would make her smile.”

 

I brew a pot of rainbow tea, using extra ginkgo leaves for their golden hue, and pour it into a chunky, brightly-coloured mug, sending colour and light cascading through the room to the lad’s delight. I smile, feeling glad, because this boy deserves some smiles of his own.

 

In the days that follow, I sweep and tidy the room, and find a small cache of stones that the boy tucked behind a cushion. They’re nothing special, just larger pieces that he found among the gravel on the way here, but I add them to the bowl all the same. They will eventually find the right people.

 

4

 

More days pass, and a soft indigo drizzle falls, but again the clouds part to allow a ray of sunshine to fall on the path, illuminating a woman with long greying hair and the white dress of a sorceress, who approaches the hut with gentle sadness.

 

“Come in!” I say. “Stay for some tea, but, first, tell me, what do you think lies beyond this tea shop?”

 

She answers without hesitation, “I don’t need any tea, for I must be on my way! I know I will find my husband waiting for me, because he has left my ring here for me to find!”

 

“But,” I say, puzzled, I thought his wife was a teacher, and here you are, obviously a sorceress!”

 

“Well,” she says, “if I was going to talk in cliches, I could say, what is teaching if not a form of sorcery? Teaching young people magical facts, and this knowledge mysteriously entering their brains, so perhaps it’s no surprise that I appear as a sorceress on this journey. But, in truth, sorcery was always a hobby of mine, and since I retired from teaching it has become my new calling in life.”

 

“What did you sacrifice in life?” I ask.

 

“Well, I didn’t ever get round to having children of my own. There never seemed to be the right time. But I have found great happiness in helping the children of others, and watching them grow.”

 

I ask, “Did you know the boy who passed a few days ago? A scout?”

 

“The illness has taken so many of late in our region, hasn’t it,” she says. “Yes, the boy. Before I retired, his older sister was one of the last children I taught. She had a great interest in alchemy, which I encouraged because it intersected with my own interest in sorcery, and she is now studying under a great alchemist in the larger village that my husband and I eventually moved to.”

 

I hand her the golden ring, and she slides it onto her finger. “Go well, and find your love,” I say.

 

 

5

 

Two days later, a figure emerges unexpectedly from the heavy blue fog. I rush to set up my kettle. A young man, looking melancholy, walks along the path gently, with barely a sound. He does his best to smile, and I invite him in.

 

I begin to prepare a comforting brew, with plenty of sage, to ease his sadness, pouring it into a heavy cup with a textured exterior. His hands grip the cup, fingers and thumbs seeming to fit satisfyingly into the indentations.

 

“Where did you live?” I say.

 

“I grew up in a little village, then eventually went travelling with my work” he says.

 

“And what do you hope lies beyond the tea shop?” I ask.

 

“I hope to catch up with a girl I once knew,” he replies. “Her acrobatic ways, at the school where your previous visitor taught, inspired me to become a trapeze acrobat, and I’ve always thought fondly of her. I’d always hoped that we would come across each other again in our lifetimes, but life was too short for me to catch up with her: when our circus travelled back to the village I grew up in, I discovered that she’d fallen and died on stage the day before. My grief weakened me, and then the illness came.”

 

As he sips his tea, I pick up a particular stone from the narrow shelf, and hand it to him. It’s nothing special, just a plain grey pebble, but it’s the right one. I say, “This stone will bring comfort and joy to you. Keep it until you reach your destination.”

 

As he heads on his way, the sun breaks through the fog, illuminating him as he walks down the gravel path and turns out of sight behind the high hedges of the maze. I bend down to pick up something that he has dropped. It’s a sepia photograph of a girl standing on a boy’s shoulders, his hands gripping her ankles, and both of them have beaming smiles.

 

On the back is written just one word: Grace.