Tea before Dying

by Vered Ehsani

  “It won’t,” I whispered. “We need to do this. I must.”

  You must continue, persevere, until you have mastered your potential.

  Simon stirred as if hearing Prof. Runal’s words as clearly as I did. I waited until he’d settled back into sleep before climbing out of bed. Fumbling in the half-light, I dressed, collected my walking stick and my mother’s book of spells, and stumbled to the kitchen.

  Jonas was squatting by the old potbelly stove, stuffing more wood inside, his face wrinkled like an old apple as he concentrated on stoking the fire. My teapot—my mother’s teapot—sat on the stone counter, tea leaves brewing.

  “God bless you and your descendants,” I muttered, pouring a cup and slurping down its contents.

  Jonas merely snorted at the invocation.

  Somewhat awake, I made my way to the barn, too nervous to contemplate food. Was this the right thing to do? Or would doing nothing cause the greater harm? Of their own accord, my hands covered my midsection as if their presence could protect Emma from all the world might hurl at her. Before I could convince myself one way or the other, I stepped into the barn and was immersed in the warm, reassuring scent of horses, clean hay and sweet oats.

  Koki leaned against the pillar, her eyes glowing in the shadows as they caught what little light there was. Studying me, she indicated a bale of hay. “Your throne awaits.”

  Just as I sat, Mzito strutted into the barn. Her shells, bones and other unappealing trinkets dangled from her leather tunic, clinking together.

  “Who invited her?” Koki asked, glaring at me.

  I glared back. “I certainly didn’t.”

  “Bah, you no start without Mama Mzito,” the little witch cackled, her small eyes bright with humor.

  Hands on her hips, Koki asked, “Don’t you have some poor, defenseless creature to disembowel?”

  Snorting back a laugh, I said, “Isn’t that your job, Koki?”

  “You have a point,” Koki said and chuckled.

  “Well, since she’s here, she might as well help,” I suggested, hoping the two would keep the peace long enough for me to learn something. “And no disembowelment or decapitation in the barn, please. Jonas just cleaned up this place, and I deplore a mess.”

  “No promises,” Koki purred, her eyes narrowed, her teeth gleaming.

  “Lovely,” I said and stared between the two of them. “We’re rather like the three witches of Macbeth.”

  A voice announced, “Not quite, child. But you are now.” And in walked Lady Sybil.

  I stumbled to my feet, staring at the stiff-necked, straight-backed hag in her pristine white, ankle-length dress. Tapping her lacy parasol against the ground, she gazed about the place with a condescending smile. She was not the least surprised to find me associating with two Africans.

  “Lady Sybil,” I stuttered. “What a… a…”

  “A disaster,” Koki muttered.

  Mzito smiled. “Me, I invite her.”

  “You what? Why?” I gasped.

  Koki snarled, her hands rising before her and forming claws. “You little slug of a human.”

  “Bah, so rude,” Mzito huffed, crossing her wrinkled arms over her chest. “Me, I no human.”

  Lady Sybil sniffed and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Well, I can certainly appreciate why she did invite me, and it’s a good thing, too. At this rate, Mrs. Timmons, you’ll be dead before you master any of your mother’s spells.”

  Koki and I stared at the haughty Lady Sybil. Mzito rocked back and forth, cackling at us.

  “What…” I licked my lips. “You mean recipes, of course.”

  Huffing, Lady Sybil peered down her long, aristocratic nose at me. “I say precisely what I mean. And I mean to say spells, as in those described in the book you’re trying to hide. That book is rather famous. Some of us believed the Society destroyed it after your mother’s unfortunate demise.”

  “Murder,” I automatically corrected.

  A moment of silence descended upon us, although with Nelly in the stall behind me, there could never truly be absolute quiet.

  “Well, let’s see the book then,” Lady Sybil commanded. “There’s much to do, and I didn’t travel halfway down the world to sip tea and discuss the weather, as abominable as it is.”

  “You know,” I whispered.

  Lady Sybil leaned on her parasol, her two hands heavily veined as they clutched the handle, and stared at me, her wide nostrils flaring. “My dear child, fashion and fair manners are the robe of a noblewoman of good breeding. But intellect and keen observation are the chainmail such a lady wears under the robe if she wishes to advance herself in this world.”

  My jaw unhinged itself in a most unbecoming manner, dangling loosely as I returned the lady’s stare.

  Koki flung her head back and laughed. “Well, despite appearances suggesting otherwise,” she said in between guffaws, “it seems Lady Sybil has skills beyond snobbery and hosting tea parties.”

  “Indeed I do, demon,” she retorted, fixing her watery blue gaze onto Koki. “Yes, I know what you are as well.”

  “But how?” I said, my jaw still unable to clamp firmly closed. “Why? What?”

  “You forgot when and where,” Koki said although her eyes were wider than usual as she studied Lady Sybil with renewed interest.

  Lady Sybil’s gaze was unfocused as she twirled the lacy white parasol, its pointed end scratching faintly at the grit on the ground. Just as I was considering standing to attract her attention, she clicked her tongue. “Not all Society members are happy with the direction being taken,” she murmured, her eyes searching a distant point. “Especially in the colonies. The manipulations and lies, the outright theft and abuse.” She shook her head and frowned.

  “Bah,” Mzito said and spat a thick glob onto the ground before stomping to a bale of hay in a corner of the barn.

  Koki shrugged and folded her arms over her chest. The pale yellow of her simple dress emphasized the darkness of her skin and the glitter in her eyes. “That’s standard operating procedure for the British. Why should the Society be any different?”

  Lady Sybil’s chin jerked upward, her watery gaze hardening as she focused on Koki. “Because we’re supposed to be different. We are different. We know what it is to have to hide who and what we are, to lose our homes, our freedom and even our lives because of our paranormalness. The Society was formed in great part to protect our way of life.”

  She slashed the parasol through the air, wielding it as a sword, her voice rising in volume and pitch. “And now we join hands with our persecutors to inflict the same harm on others?” She speared the ground with the parasol. “No. A thousand times, no. It cannot be.”

  In the silence following her impassioned monologue, Nelly grunted but restrained herself from any other noise. Perhaps even she could sense the tingle in the air that emanated from this surprising woman.

  Clearing my throat, I ventured into the stillness. “That’s all well and good to say. But what do you propose to do about it?”

  A thin smile stretched across Lady Sybil’s wrinkles as Mzito cackled. “I propose to assist in your training, Mrs. Timmons, so that you can be worthy of your mother’s legacy and that book. And then I shall unleash you upon the world, or at least upon the Society.”

  “I think I like her,” Koki said, awestruck.

  “So you’re a witch then?” I ventured.

  “Indeed, but that’s not what you want to ask.”

  Sighing, I fiddled with a knob on my metal hand. “Is Prof. Runal behind all this? The attempted kidnapping, the… well, everything?”

  “Of course, he is,” Koki growled, accompanied by Mzito’s usual exclamation.

  “Possibly,” Lady Sybil said, her unsympathetic gaze fixed on me. “At least, I’m here to find out. Cilla’s wedding invitation provided a convenient excuse to visit this part of the world without raising any questions. And now I see he had your mother’s book the whole time. It should h
ave been yours from the beginning.”

  Twisting around, I pulled the heavy book of spells onto my lap and patted its cover. “Perhaps he saved it from others who wished to confiscate or destroy it.”

  All three women scoffed in their own unique ways.

  Koki said, “He’s not known for his charitable nature.”

  “He often has ulterior motives,” Lady Sybil said.

  “Stinks like a dog,” Mzito spat.

  I swallowed hard as I thought of his comforting presence during the dark days of my childhood. “But why give it to me then? He knows it will make me stronger.”

  Lady Sybil tapped the parasol against the ground. “It will also make your daughter stronger,” she said. “As we train you, we train her. And wouldn’t that be a coup for the Society: the granddaughter of Penelope Anderson, one of the greatest witches the world has ever seen, carried to England by a triumphant Prof. Runal. And if he happens to bring along the child of an African demon, so much the better. Two unusual babies with impressive powers and heritage. Why, he would regain his position and more.”

  A coldness stole across me, and I clutched the book to my chest as if to use it as a shield against any who would harm Emma or Grace. “Surely he wouldn’t,” I whispered.

  Koki held her hand in front of her and stared at her long nails. “I’ll rip his heart out before he ever has the chance.”

  Nelly neighed and kicked her stall door in agreement.

  “Your children aren’t the only ones in danger. Others have already been taken,” Lady Sybil said. “Let’s cease with the idle chitchat and get on with the training, shall we?”

  With that pronouncement, she strolled to my bale and carefully positioned herself next to me. Lifting her chin to reveal a neck as wrinkled as a tortoise’s, she nodded once at Koki.

  “Let the games begin,” Koki said, grinning.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  AFTER SEVERAL FALSE starts and failed attempts, the training took on the semblance of torture.

  “This is not amusing,” I grumbled as Koki snickered at my latest efforts.

  “Bah,” Mzito spat. “Pathetic.”

  “Why do I need to learn this?” I asked, too weary to wince at my whining tone and the obvious answer.

  Lady Sybil clucked at me. “If you intend to galavant through automaton-infested forests or stalk poachers, you need more than just a walking stick, no matter how fully loaded it may be,” she lectured, her voice piercing and unapologetic. She gestured to the two pigeons nesting in the rafters above us. “These are the easiest bird brains to access. If you can’t manage them, there’s no hope at all.”

  She paused and tapped her parasol a couple times on the ground. “Of course, if you prefer, you could retire from the world and behave like a proper Englishwoman with child.” Peering down her nose at me, she added, “You know: stay at home, busy yourself with needlework and lord it over the servants. I’m sure you’d adjust to the lifestyle, eventually.”

  Scowling at the three tyrants, I rubbed my lower back and straightened my shoulders. When had I started to slouch?

  “Yes, and do stop slouching,” Lady Sybil said as she stood and strolled around the barn with the air of a proprietor. “It’s terribly unbecoming. Again. See with your inner eye the thread that connects you to the birds. They’re pigeons, so it will be a boring gray thread with little color or light but still visible.”

  I shifted on the bale, ignoring the prickling of the hay through my skirt. Leaning against the pillar behind me, I closed my eyes and focused on my breath. A heaviness descended on my limbs.

  “This is exhausting,” I mumbled.

  Instead of shifting my energy to the two birds and their thread—whatever that meant—I allowed myself to sink into a wakeful slumber. I was still aware of the sounds of the horses as they ate, the shifting of hay under Lady Sybil’s shoes, Mzito’s muttering in a far corner. Yet they were distant, muted. The hay no longer pricked my skin. The cool shadows inside and the dry heat outside faded from my senses.

  Imbecilic pigeon thread. A nap is just the thing I need, I thought.

  But I didn’t fall asleep.

  Instead, something tugged at my mind, like a niggling worm of doubt but brighter, more hopeful. Bored and wanting nothing more than to rest, I drifted to the source of the tugging: a thin, brilliant yellow current of energy surrounded by the tinkle of unseen bells.

  Well, this is more interesting than gray pigeon brain, I decided. Even if it is just a dream. It is a dream, isn’t it?

  The current carried me outside the barn into a world of abstract shapes, alien colors and unearthly flute music. Before I could become distracted by the dream-like quality of the scene, the current ended in a bundle of energy I knew to be a weaver bird. Without hesitation, I merged with the energy, and the bird flung itself out of its nest.

  I wanted to scream as we dropped toward the earth at an alarming speed. Before I could summon the wherewithal to do so, the bird’s wings flapped in a swirl of sparkling color. Up we zoomed, flittering around the barn, then over the cottage.

  As I mentally clung to the weaver’s essence, I became aware of flight in a way I hadn’t when riding Nelly. This was more intimate, as if the wings were my own. I could feel the wind rustling through my feathers while my eyes detected colors and details unknown to the human eye.

  My weariness forgotten, I soared atop shimmering airwaves, content to let the dream take me where it willed.

  Mother.

  The voice floated around me but came from me. Although we had yet to meet, I knew who it was.

  “Emma?” I inquired as I tilted my wings and veered toward town.

  Search.

  “For what?”

  No answer was forthcoming and none was needed. Floating over the town, I studied the energy bundles below me: two oxen trudging down Victoria Street; a woman dragging a protesting offspring into a store; a man pulling a rickshaw; the wolf…

  As far as I knew, there were only two wolves in East Africa, and one was on his honeymoon, not skulking through the tented camp.

  I followed an air current and sunk closer to the sprawling workers’ camp. Most of the occupants were out at work, either on the railway or in related support services. The canvas doors of the yellowing tents flapped in time to the gusts of dusty wind that swooped through the empty camp.

  Prof. Runal was hastening along a path that exited on the far side, away from town, his wolf energy mingling with his human energy. Once clear of human settlement, he shifted into a large wolf and raced through the tall grass, almost losing me on several occasions.

  Maybe that’s the point, I thought. But I was too high for even his sensitive nose to detect me. I continued to float high enough to see the entire town and its environs laid out before me.

  After zigging and zagging through the grasslands, the wolf veered toward the forest rising above the town. My little bird-heart sank. Why couldn’t he be sipping tea at the Stanley Hotel? Why did he have to go to the place in which the automatons lurked?

  Because he’s a traitorous villain, I thought.

  Or maybe he’s also trying to stop whomever controls the automatons, a more optimistic voice retorted.

  Either way, I dropped lower so I could follow him into the trees. His destination soon became clear: a series of caves strung through the hillier part of the forest. I perched on a branch and watched him pad into one of the caves.

  So that’s where you’re hiding, I thought. As birds can’t grin, I had to satisfy myself with a mental gloating.

  The wolf turned and stared out at the forest, ears perked, watching and listening for any indication of pursuit. After a few minutes, he retreated into the cave and didn’t reappear.

  Still mentally grinning, I pushed off from the branch and sped through the air back to the Hardinge Estate where I released the bird. With a whoosh of energy, I dropped back into my body, the loss of my wings almost painful.

  “Goodness, that was some dre
am,” I said, breathless and dizzy as I slumped against the wooden pillar behind my bale of hay.

  Mzito rocked on her heels, cackling and waving a crooked finger at me. Koki smirked while Lady Sybil clicked her tongue against her teeth.

  “That was no dream,” Koki said. “You connected with a weaver bird.”

  “Oh.” I stared up at the nondescript pigeons cooing in their nest. “What about them?”

  “What about them?” Lady Sybil huffed. “It seems, Mrs. Timmons, that you don’t do boring.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “ABSOLUTELY NOT,” SIMON growled as he paced his home office.

  “Bah,” Mzito huffed.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warned her just before she could spit on the oriental carpet.

  Stalking out the room to spit elsewhere, Mzito muttered another, “Bah.”

  “Why are we wasting our time? There are children in need of rescue.” Koki asked, studying her long nails. “Do you need this male’s permission?”

  Simon’s lips pulled back in a snarl that matched Koki’s.

  “Koki,” I said, hoping to verbally interrupt the glaring contest before they resorted to fists and claws. “He’s not just any male. He’s—”

  “Coming,” Simon interrupted, shifting his glare to me. His eyes were twin storms. “If you’re going to run off into the forest again, I’m accompanying you. There is absolutely no way you’re going without reliable protection.”

  “She has me,” Koki reminded him.

  “Exactly,” he muttered.

  Amazed, I gawked before asking, “You mean, you’re not going to try to dissuade me?”

  “Try being the operative word,” Koki said, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed at Simon.

  Simon leaned against his desk, his hands gripping the edges, and stared up at the ceiling. He appeared to be supplicating the gods for patience. More likely, he was visualizing what he’d like to do with the lot of us. “Yes, I’m coming. No, I’m not going to waste my time arguing against this ill-advised, poorly designed plan of yours.”