Good Tea

Anna laid in silence, listening intently, hearing only the patter of rain on the oilcloth and the sound of her own breathing. Was the coast clear?

Easing the canvas back, she slowly peeked out, examining the alley. No one was around. She quickly slipped out from the wagon, climbing down the rear wheel closest to a plain wood door. Reaching in on tip toes to snag her pall, she pulled it hastily over the edge of the wagon.

A tassel snagged on one of the tie hooks. Anna went wide eyed, fearful it might tear off.

It strained but resisted. She carefully eased it off, then gathered the rest of the pall cautiously from the wagon bed, tucking it all under her right arm.

Infested flour or not, the load was currently still dry. She wasn’t going to let it get ruined in the rain, especially after the kindness of the elderly driver. Anna replaced the canvas and pulled it as taunt as she could, hastily securing the ties. As she did, someone passed by the alley.

She froze in place. The person continued on, not looking in her direction. Whew.

Ties secured, Anna tried the door latch behind her. Iron clacked and the wood door swung in. She stepped in without looking, immediately shutting the door behind herself.

The room was dim and windowless, the space comfortably warm. A large fire burned in a brick fireplace, the only source of light. A large dark cauldron hung over the fire, supported by a thick iron cross bar. Several smaller kettles hung from another rod above that. The air smelled intensely of grain, honey, and baked bread. Anna’s stomach rumbled with approval.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she spotted a middle aged, plainly dressed woman sitting on a bench behind a large heavy wooden worktable set in the center of the room. Its tabletop was worn smooth from years of use, peppered by dings created by many utensils visiting the space. The woman had her hands hidden in her lap. A small knife sat on the table in front of her, within easy reach. Beside it, an iron trivet.

“Greetings,” she said softly, offering a slight bow of her head.

Anna eyed the knife.

“My name is Clara d’Runetown. You are safe here.”

“Hi. I’m Anna,” she replied cautiously. “Are you a friend of the driver?”

“No, I do not know him. He brought me some infested flour for purchase, which I am grateful for. He also said he had a witch hiding in his wagon.”

“How would he know if I’m a witch… or not.”

“Your accent, your speech pattern. Rumors have been circulating about a blue haired woman the past few weeks. You are not from this realm, are you? ”

Anna shook her head.

“Unfortunate.” Clara looked away, staring into the fire. “As I said, you are safe here. Being a witch alone does not concern me. Not until you engage in concerning actions.”

“The only magic I am capable of is death magic. And that’s not something I’m going to be engaging in.”

“Hmm,” the woman began, making an expression that was impossible to read as either good or bad. “The rumors are that you have used it. To significant effect. Either those are made up… or you are choosing to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Anna replied immediately. “I just arrived here. But it seems as if I have been here for a while. Which makes no sense to me.”

“Anna, I fear that someone may be manipulating you.” She re-established eye contact. “Please, sit down,” Clara offered, gesturing with her left hand.

Anna crossed the room, taking the single wooden stool available opposite the woman, pall placed atop her lap. Her eyes lingered on the knife. At this distance, it looked fairly dull.

“You can hold it, should that make you more comfortable.”

“No.”

Anna remembered her manners. “No, thank you. It’s just that I’ve been repeatedly threatened with amputation lately. I’m not very fond of knives at the moment.”

“I understand,” the woman replied solemnly.

She slowly set the stump of her right wrist on the table beside the blade’s handle.

Anna recoiled, startled by the horror.

Clara did not respond to Anna’s reaction, likely familiar with it, seeing others do the same. “Found guilty of suspicion of witchcraft, which was their fancy way of saying they thought I used magic.” She answered the question she knew Anna was thinking.

“Cutting off your hand just because of suspicion is pretty intense.”

“The alternative? Being found guilty of using magic, which is punishable by death.”

“Why is using magic considered so wrong? A lot of it can be harmless.”

“It would seem that way, harmless.” The woman rose and began to make her way around the dim kitchen, the licking flames of the fire casting long shadows. “I suppose that is why people do not understand and begin to play with fire.” She removed one of the smaller hanging kettles from the top rod and returned to the table, setting the kettle atop the trivet.

“Magic ultimately has to follow the laws of nature. If you keep pushing nature, eventually it pushes back.”

“Tea?”

Other than moistening her mouth with rain, nothing else had passed Anna’s lips since arrival. The thought of finally drinking something safe hit hard.

“Please.”

Clara continued about her kitchen, setting two small stacked plain earthenware cups on the table in front of Anna, one nestled in the other. She separated the two, then found some recently picked mint, grinding it in her hand before placing several leaves into each cup. Her movements were slow and deliberate, almost as if preparing the tea were ceremonial for her.

She bowed her head. “Creator, please look after Anna. Help her find the right path.”

Anna remained respectfully silent.

A long stream of water then poured from the kettle into each cup, before returning to the trivet.

“Good tea requires patience.” Clara sat back down. “As do all things in life.”