Tea in Pajamas: Beyond Belzerac

by Rachel Tey

  © 2019 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited

  Text and illustrations © Rachel Tey

  Published by Marshall Cavendish Editions

  An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International

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  National Library Board, Singapore Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Name(s): Tey, Rachel, 1980- author.

  Title: Tea in pajamas : beyond Belzerac / Rachel Tey.

  Other title(s): Beyond Belzerac | Tea in pajamas.

  Description: Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, 2018.

  Identifier(s): OCN 1053850476 | ISBN 978-981-48-4133-7 (paperback)

  Subject(s): LCSH: Girls--Juvenile fiction. | Magic--Juvenile fiction. |

  Animals--Juvenile fiction.

  Classification: DDC S823--dc23

  Printed in Singapore

  Illustrations on front cover and inside pages by Joseph Tey

  To

  Ignacia

  “Hello? Anybody Home?”

  Six o’clock in the evening was an odd time for the house to be empty.

  It was now a full hour since Belle Marie came home, showered, and chucked her dirty laundry in the washing machine. The soles of her feet were grazed with tiny cuts and callused, and her striped cotton pajamas – filthy, ragged, and battle-weary – had certainly seen better days.

  Belle Marie was desperate to see her family, but upon her return to Michelmont, there was no sign of her parents or older brother Éric. It was a little late for a grocery run, but since Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, her mother and brother must have made a highly unusual decision “Hello? Anybody Home?” to get takeout for dinner. And while it wasn’t uncommon for Dad to still be at work at this hour, she found it difficult to tamp down a gnawing anxiety that things weren’t quite right.

  The kitchen bore no trace of activity. No meat was left to thaw on the counter, the cutting board was devoid of its usual carrots and onions, and the slow cooker – typically switched on almost all day – was not even plugged into the power socket, its contents dry and empty.

  Is this home, she wondered.

  It certainly looked the part. The house was exactly the way she’d left it, yet that distinct sense of warmth and ease that came with being home was markedly absent. The place was spick and span, and fixtures and furnishings were in their rightful place, yet an unfamiliar quality clung to the air.

  Why does home not feel like home?

  A gust of wind blew in from an open window, making Belle shiver. She pulled the hood of her gray fleece jacket over her head and tucked her hands into the pockets of her blue jeans. Autumn was in full swing and the days were getting shorter: with nightfall imminent, she noted with irony how in a few hours she’d be back in pajamas, and found herself repulsed by the thought.

  No thanks, I’ll sleep in my jeans if I have to, she resolved. After a longer-than-planned sojourn in Belzerac, Tea in Pajamas was a chapter she’d closed – at least for now.

  So where was everybody? The uncertainty of it all was unnerving. Belle had waited so long to make it home, and now that she was, she was loath to wait some more. The stillness of her surroundings only served to amplify the slightest sounds, such as the low buzz of traffic from the street and the ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall.

  A quarter past six. Perhaps it was time to make some calls.

  Belle got to her feet and headed to the landline phone in the kitchen. At eleven, she was perhaps the only one in school not to own a cellphone. This was by choice, since she preferred not to be too contactable, but it was a decision she found herself regretting now.

  As her eyes panned the house, she caught sight of something shiny on a small side table. She recognized it immediately: Éric’s cellphone! Her absent-minded brother must have left the house with his device still charging by the idle computer.

  Almost crying with relief, she pulled off the cord and tapped away on the phone’s numeric touchscreen.

  There was no answer from Mom, and Dad’s phone went straight to voicemail. Belle knew the names of some family friends, though not their last names, and anyway none showed up in Éric’s phone. It seems he’d erased his call history too, so there was no way to find out who he’d last spoken to.

  Half past six. Ornately carved wooden arms merged at the bottom of the clock’s face as if to dissect night and day. It made no sense to just sit around and do nothing.

  Belle walked to the window and looked out. The street lights had come on, illuminating a darkening sky, and a few cars plied the road in a muted murmur. On the sidewalk, a cat sat dozing by a trashcan and a little boy she didn’t recognize was kicking a ball.

  Ask the neighbors, she decided, though her hopes weren’t high. The Maries did not live in a very tight-knit community. In this neighborhood where people generally kept to themselves, there was only a small chance anyone would know of her family’s whereabouts.

  But maybe. Just maybe.

  Shoving her brother’s phone into her pocket and slipping on an old pair of sneakers, she pulled open the front door. A strong breeze immediately blew the hood of her jacket down, sending her coppery curls splaying across her face.

  Well, this should only take a while, Belle thought, pushing her unkempt red hair behind her ears and pulling her jacket’s hood back up.

  Closing the door behind her and walking across her front lawn, she was hungry for answers but also dreading what she might find out. She decided to try the Carrolls: Emmett and Margery were an elderly couple who lived right next door and she noticed that their lights were on.

  Belle approached their front door in hurried footsteps and rang the doorbell.

  “Who’s there?” asked a nasally male voice that sounded quite different from Mr Carroll’s usually soft, husky tone.

  “It’s Belle Marie from next door,” she replied. “Mr Carroll?”

  “He isn’t here,” the voice answered.

  “Oh.” That was odd. Maybe her neighbors had guests over.

  “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

  “Wait, I’m sorry,” Belle persisted, “I only wanted to ask if you’ve seen my parents or brother. Do you happen to know if they were home earlier? Or what time they left the house?”

  A long pause followed. “Come back tomorrow.”

  How rude and unhelpful, thought Belle, turning to leave. She w
as deliberating whether she should approach another neighbor’s house down the road when a deafening clap of thunder convinced her it might be a better idea to get back indoors.

  She was right. Within seconds of returning home, rain was cascading from the sky in heavy sheets. The storm raged for hours, and still her parents and brother did not return.

  That night, Belle ate cheese and crackers for dinner. After that, she lay in bed, still dressed in her jeans and hoodie, and stared at the clock until she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The Ferryman

  It was the first time that Charon cried.

  Since being appointed ferryman of the dead, he’d seen and heard it all – or so he thought. In the eternity he spent rowing “new arrivals” across the inky waters of Acheron, he’d lost count of the number of souls left stranded at the margins of death’s realm because they had no passage fee.

  It was unfortunate if you died alone and had no funeral rites, or if no living relative had made the effort to slip a coin beneath your tongue to safeguard your ride into the Underworld. Souls in such a predicament devised creative means to obtain that crucial boat fare, or they paid the penalty of waiting a hundred years. Most adopted the former measure – begging or stealing – for nothing frightened the dead more than being dead and homeless.

  Those who ever harbored any hope of moving Charon with a sob story quickly realized the futility behind such thoughts, for he was immune to histrionics. Every single day, thousands upon thousands of souls would fling themselves at his feet, afflicting his ears with their piteous tales and wracking sobs, only to be driven away. No coin, no ride, plain and simple. Charon was known for his unyielding nature – he only did his job when he was paid.

  But today there was something different about this curious young man who confidently approached his boat. At first the ferryman did not pay heed to a tug at his cloak – probably another desperate soul clamoring onboard – but when the tug grew firmer and more insistent still, he turned to strike the offending party with his oar.

  However, the sight that greeted Charon was no wretched soul.

  The lad had eyes the color of the deepest ocean and cheeks tinged with the healthy ruddiness of youth. He carried a lyre in one hand, which Charon found peculiar, for most souls passed into the afterlife with only a coin under their tongues. There was moreover a vivacious aura about him that was so distinctly absent from the listless, sallow appearance of other deceased beings.

  If this person were a mortal, how did he arrive on the shores of Acheron, and what business did he have in the land of the dead? Surely he must be aware this was a one-way trip into the Underworld?

  “Your passage fee, Sir,” Charon said gruffly. Behind him, souls twitched impatiently in the boat and craned their necks to see what was causing the delay.

  “My lord Charon, my name is Orpheus and I’ve come from the Overworld to retrieve my bride,” said the youth in a smooth baritone voice. “I do not have the coin you seek, for I am not dead, but I wouldn’t dream of getting on your boat without offering payment for your trouble. If you permit me onboard, I will play my humble lyre and let my music accompany us for the entire journey.”

  How ludicrous, thought Charon.

  “No coin, no ride,” he declared, thrusting his mighty oar between himself and the musician as a signal to stay back. He’d already wasted enough time and attention on this frivolous youth, and was loath to tarry any longer. The ferryman had a fixed schedule that ensured souls disembarked into the Underworld in timely batches, and there would be no exceptions to the rule – not even for a deluded mortal on an unprecedented mission. He set the boat in motion and released its anchor.

  The shores soon retreated from sight and Charon watched as Orpheus’s silhouette faded into a distant blur. “Miserable boy,” he muttered, dragging his oar forcefully through the waters. “Should’ve known better than to attempt a trip into the Underworld without a coin. What will become of him now?”

  As he rowed on, he was both surprised and disgusted by his own sentimentality. He rowed hard to regain his composure, but the more he tried to channel his impassive nature, the more he was reminded of how it wasn’t every day that a living person risked it all to reunite with his dead lover.

  He’d been quick to reject Orpheus’s offer to serenade him on this dreary journey and now the ferryman was having second thoughts. Shutting his eyes, Charon struggled to recall the sounds a lyre produced. As the child of Erebus the God of Darkness and Nyx the Goddess of Night, he’d been raised in the shadows. But they were a music-loving family: growing up, he was no stranger to wondrous banquets involving dancing and musicians. Music always managed to penetrate the deepest recesses of his soul, and filled his being with such light and wonder.

  If only I’d allowed the youth to play just a few bars.

  The ramshackle boat bobbed along Acheron’s shiny black waves, water seeping through its leaky seams and sloshing over the laps of passengers. It was a cold and choppy ride, but no one said a word, for the souls had picked up on the ferryman’s sudden pensiveness, and were awaiting his next move. They didn’t even need to say it out loud, for Charon could hear their deepest thoughts and sense the hunger behind their desperate hopes – it was a singular and universal plea that echoed through the ages.

  Just this once.

  He turned away from their expectant faces and carried on rowing, his oar etching a dark trail behind the boat.

  What would they have me do? They saw for themselves that the young man had no coin!

  As they neared the Underworld, the sky began to darken from a dusky red into a deep violet. Intermittent claps of thunder were accompanied by flashes of lightning, and Acheron’s waves rose and crashed dramatically to the symphony of light and sound. Each time a bolt of lightning forked across the sky, it illumined the faces of miserable and terrified souls onboard. Huddled together or clinging to the edges of the vessel with all their might, they knew a ride on Charon’s boat was no perfect guarantee that they’d make it all the way across. After all, it was the ferryman’s job to transport them to their destination, not to rescue any who had the misfortune of falling overboard.

  This was Charon’s favorite part of the journey. Entranced by the spectacular view, he quite forgot all about the young man and his music. This was until one particularly dazzling bolt snaked through the air with a speed and intensity that almost blinded him, followed by a deafening rumble of thunder.

  When the glare passed, he opened his eyes and was startled by the image in the water. Staring back at him was a hunched, skeletal-like figure with hollows for eyes and cheeks, and a long grim face partially obscured by a scraggly beard. Wispy strands of white hair flapped against the wind from beneath a thick, hooded cloak.

  Is that me?

  Charon had always pictured himself as an imposing figure: a commanding captain or a formidable gatekeeper – certainly nothing near the likes of the grotesque creature in the waters.

  He looked down at his hands and examined his mottled and blue-gray skin and palms that were callused beyond recognition. His fingers, blackened and claw-like, resembled those of a winged demon. Was this how others saw him: a monster?

  The boat jerked unsteadily and his strokes lost their rhythm. It was difficult to row when one’s shoulders were trembling, he realized. Charon suspected that the wetness on his cheeks came not from the sprays of river water, and that the sharp stinging in his eyes were not the result of the harsh, biting winds. He was never one to bat an eyelid in the face of raw emotions, so it surprised him that he had any to begin with. But something inside him had broken and given way under the weight of the universe’s colossal pain.

  Charon knew there was only thing that could take away his pain.

  Music.

  “We’re turning back,” he said.

  Persephone’s Dream

  Life wasn’t always this dark, thought Persephone, as she sat gazing into the flames of her torch, something she was wont t
o do whenever she was in a pensive mood. The Queen of the Underworld struggled to remember a time when she inhabited a world filled with laughter and sunshine instead of the impenetrable fortress of darkness that was now her permanent home.

  Once upon a time, she’d been a carefree young maiden who’d taken the passing seasons for granted. Crisp spring mornings faded into languid summer afternoons, and chilly autumn evenings passed into frosty winter nights. If she’d only known then that there would be a fifth season – a time when she would bid the Overworld goodbye and descend into the murky depths of the Underworld.

  For Persephone, it all began on a midsummer’s day that started out like any other. She was basking in the flowery meadows of Nysa with her Nymphs when Hades sprang out from behind her, wrested her from her companions and spirited her away from everyone and everything she loved and held dear.

  As they plunged into the dark realm, she was both terrified and confused.

  “Where are you taking me?” she’d asked, but Hades stayed silent until they reached their destination. “To your new home,” he finally replied, “where we are to be married.”

  Thinking about her former life always made her resentful, but today the young musician who was serenading her was proving to be a welcome distraction.

  Watching his fingers flit deftly between the lyre strings, Persephone could not deny the magnetism of Orpheus’s music. He was on his knees, strumming his lyre, and the tune had a melancholic lull to it.

  The Queen leaned back in her golden throne, closing her eyes to let the music take over. Before long, her mind began to drift.

  In her reverie, she found herself wandering through a misty, blue forest. It was hard to tell what time of the day it was or which way she was going, so she summoned the flames to her trusty torch. At once, the sapphire-tinted woods were illuminated and restored to their original colors.

  It was in this moment that Persephone saw a shock of red darting between the trees and back into the shadows.