In the Land of Tea and Ravens (18 page)

On the porch, the chair moved.
Creak,
it said.
Creak.

In the trees, ravens cawed, the sound drowned out by the machines.

Grayson refused to move. His grandmother was screaming
,
her voice lost to his anger and fear. Townsfolk murmured amongst themselves, their lips forming words he pretended not to understand.

Crazy.
Insane.
Mad. Deranged.
Unhinged.

He refused to see their words. A whole generation of women depended on him. Women he’d never met. Women he’d probably never meet.

“This house remains,” Grayson
stated,
his voice loud and commanding.

“He’s insane!” a voice cried.

“See!” Bridget Smith yelled, her haughty frame pushing through the crowd. “Do you see what she’s done to him?”

Richard Newton stepped forward, his hand falling to the gun at his waist.

Grayson watched him. “Shoot me, Richard!” he called. “Because if you don’t,
your
lifeless body will be another reason for me to return to prison.”

Gasps rose from the crowd.

Richard froze. “Be reasonable, Grayson. You’re outnumbered.”

“No!” a voice cried suddenly. “No, he’s not!”

Juliet Johnson pushed through the crowd, the bar owner’s smile-wrinkled face and small frame facing the mob as she joined Grayson in front of the home.

She glanced at him. “It’s in the house, isn’t it?” she hissed.

Grayson didn’t have to answer her; his eyes told her enough.

From the edge of the property, Freddie Graham sauntered into view, his hands in his blue jean pockets as he joined Grayson. “I get paid extra for this, right?” the man asked.

Anger rolled through the mob.

“I always thought you was nuts,” someone spat, a wad of tobacco landing at Juliet’s feet.

The woman grinned. “Better nuts than an idiot.”

One of the bulldozers went silent.

Henry Calhoun threw up his hands. “Until you do something about them, I
ain’t
movin
!” he yelled at the sheriff.

Protests rose from the crowd.

Hope was beginning to blossom behind Grayson’s chest, his gaze finding Lyric’s hunched form. She’d straightened, her body turning, her conflicted gaze capturing his.

Hope.
Salvation.

No one saw Daniel Stevens step free of the group. No one saw him pull a small box from his pocket. No one saw him strike the match. No one saw him throw it inside of the house.

No one saw him.

One match, and then a second.

Within the rotting living room, a spark lit, the small ember catching the edge of an aged curtain. Smoke curled upward, a flame eating greedily at the fabric.

There is nothing more insatiable than a fire, nothing hungrier than an inferno.

The edges of an old photograph curled.

The chair on the porch moved.
Creak,
it said.
Creak.

Ravens screamed.

Then
came
the chaos.

“Fire!” someone cried. “The house is on fire!”

The hope in Grayson’s chest withered, his body spinning to face the structure. A deep sadness filled Lyric’s heart, an overwhelming sense of failure choking her.

It had all started with a cup, and it was going to end with it.

It was simply a cup.

Only it wasn’t.

“Fire!” townsfolk cried.

Ravens took flight, rising like a black cloud into the sky. They’d fly and die together. Lyric’s gaze followed them.

Grayson yelled, but no one cared.

The mob began to cheer, hands clapping, laughter lifting from bright faces and relieved smiles.

“Burn!” someone bellowed. Other voices joined in until the word was a multifaceted echo.

“Burn!” they roared.
“Burn!”

It wasn’t until Lyric started screaming, the sound hysterical and shrill, her wailing so loud it managed to drown out the mob that the crowd realized Grayson was missing.

With a mighty howl, he threw himself into the smoke, his body landing hard in the house, his feet stomping at flames. There was no way to stop the fire, but he wasn’t leaving until he found the cup.

He’d find it, or die trying.
 

There was suddenly no sound from the house’s exterior, nothing but dead silence followed by Lyric’s terrible wails and Mildred Kramer’s despairing sobs.

Richard Newton screamed into a radio in his car, his voice desperate as he called for the fire department.

On the porch, the rocking chair moved.
Creak
, it said.
Creak.

On the floor of the living room, more photographs curled, the frowning women captured in them disappearing.

Creak
, the chair said.
Creak.

~28~

The villain fell in love with the maiden. He fell in love with her over a cup of tea. He fell in love with her over the smell of herbs and conversation; guilt and forgiveness. He’d fallen in love with the idea of her. He’d fallen in love with the freedom she gave him. She’d saved him. Their strange, short-lived relationship was a series of images and sounds—creaking rocking chairs, slamming doors, cawing ravens, pouring rain, thunder, moon-bathed fields, wilting corn, a gold-streaked mattress, sunlit dew, humidity, colorful skirts, and a tea cup. It always came back to the cup. It all came back to a moment when the tea girl handed him a plain brown mug and begged him not to drop it. It all came down to one basic, beautiful thing.
Trust.

~The Tea Girl~

Grayson covered his mouth and nose with his hand, his arm thrown up over his head as he stumbled through the house, the crackling sound of flames chasing him, haunting him. Sweat beaded up along his brow, droplets sliding down the side of his face as his frantic gaze searched the interior.

“The cup!” he screamed “Where’s the fucking cup!”

The time for civility was gone, replaced by panicked desperation, by an invisible hour glass emptying of sand, one tiny grain at a time.

“The cup!”
Grayson cried, his eyes watering, his words cut short by a fit of coughing. There was really no reason to speak. There was no one who could answer. There was nothing except smoke and flame, and rotting history.

“Please,” he begged. “Please.”

He fell to his knees, his body staying close to the floor where the air was cleaner because his lungs were desperate for oxygen. Nausea gripped him, his head swimming. Glass dug into his jeans. Twigs, leaves, and wood prodded his palms. Rodents scurried past, the pests seeking safety.

In his despair and anger, Grayson wanted to throw things. He wanted to knock over as much furniture as he could to find the mug, but he risked breaking it, risked destroying the cup before the flames even had a chance to touch it.

He crawled, the house catching fire around him, the blaze climbing the wall nearest the door. He knew if it engulfed the ceiling, it wouldn’t matter if he found the cup. Neither he nor the mug would make it out.

Time was of the essence.

Wearily, he crawled, his
movements
quick and desperate, his hand sweeping carefully under the shroud-covered couch and chair, just as the cover caught fire. The aged sheets ignited, throwing up flames and heat.

Grayson’s chest burned, black spots wavering in front of his eyes.

Lyric,
he thought.

He could feel the heat of the blaze upon his skin. Perspiration covered his flesh, the condensation dripping down his face. He kept crawling despite the suffocating smoke and conflagration because stopping meant giving up, not just on himself, but on the woman handcuffed outside, on the women she called family.

He was getting slower, and he knew it.

“Please,” he begged.

His sweaty palms slid along walls that hadn’t yet caught fire. The feeling of insects and termites climbing over his hands caused him to shudder, not because it bothered him, but because it meant even the bugs knew better than to stay.

“Willow bark tea,” he wheezed, “would be good right about now.”

He needed to hear the birds, needed to hear the slamming doors and disquieting eeriness drinking the tea brought. Most of all, he had to know where the cup was. He desperately needed to know how to save the tea girl.

Fire climbed up the stairwell, the blaze cutting off the second floor, the flames laughing at him. If Lyric had hidden the mug there, it was lost to him now.

Grayson kept crawling.

“Where is the cup?” he gasped.

There was nothing except fire and ash, smoke and heat, and hopelessness.

Even crawling, he stumbled, his forearms hitting the floor hard, his forehead slamming the wood before rising again. Blood trickled and his chest heaved.

Everywhere, he saw fire.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, blinding him. He could taste the salt on his lips. Would this be his last memory?
The tang of salt on his tongue and the sensation of heat licking his skin.
He’d rather remember the tea he’d shared with Lyric, and the cool feel of her skin against his.
Black tea and passion.

“Keep going,” he told himself. “Just keep going.”

Pressing forward, he crawled toward the kitchen. He was racing the flames. A line of fire slid across the floor toward the doorway opposite him.

Using what little energy he had left, he threw himself at the opening, his body slamming into the wood before rolling into the litter strewn room beyond. A part of the roof in the living room caved in with a crash, the sound met by despairing screams beyond the house.

“No,” he breathed.
“The cup.”

He refused to believe the mug had been in the living room … that Lyric may no longer be alive. He refused to believe she was gone or that he’d failed.

His chest heaved, his fingers searching, his heart pounding.

Lyric’s battery operated butane stove sat on the floor among the smoke, the newer appliance the only reminder of the world beyond this hell.

Flame and smoke; heat and ash.

Desolation and fear.

Hopelessness and regret.

Grayson was sluggish, the energy he needed to move forward almost gone now. He faltered, his gaze searching the room’s fire-lit interior.

Death was often a recap of life, a quick series of images to remind us why we lived in the first place.

As Grayson struggled to breathe, he saw his brother, Ben, in the smoke. He saw
all
of his brothers, the echoing sound of their laughter a strange, distant noise in a desolate room. He also saw Lyric. Through the flames, he saw her running free across a field of wildflowers, her skirt whipping around her ankles, a quick smile thrown over her shoulder.

Time was running out.

Without realizing it, somehow Grayson had ended up lying on his back on the floor, his gaze on the ceiling. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the fire coming for him, a mighty orange beast that breathed smoke and belched ash.

Somewhere in the house was a teacup.

Lyric and Grayson were adding to her family’s odd history, their names being etched by the flames. It seemed less dramatic somehow than a poisoned king or a murder/suicide, but no less tragic.

Lyric
, Grayson thought.

The sudden, cawing sound of a raven filled the burning space.

Grayson’s head rolled to the side, his gaze finding the stone fire pit where Lyric had made their first shared pot of tea. Perched on the edge was a raven, its beady, black eyes staring at him.

“
Move, you fool,
” it said.

For what felt like an eternity, but was really only a few seconds, Grayson stared. Somehow, he knew this bird.

“
Move,
” it repeated.

He forced himself to roll on to his stomach, his limbs heavy. Inch by inch, he crawled, his hand fighting to grip the fire pit when he reached it. Iron bit into his palm, his muscles bulging as he pulled himself upright, his chest heaving as he wheezed.

Nausea and dizziness and pain.

There, lying within the pit, cradled by one of Lyric’s colorful skirts, was the cup. It wasn’t a very original hiding place, but Lyric hadn’t needed anything original. The house was enough. There wasn’t anyone brave enough to enter it. It had been a perfect haven.
Until now.

Grayson’s eyelids felt heavy, his limbs weak.

The raven cawed.

There was no need for words.

If the mug was still intact, then it meant Lyric was still alive.

Grayson glanced at the raven. “You’re her mother,” he wheezed.

There was no reply. There was no time for a reply.

Carefully, Grayson lifted the mug, cradling it protectively as he dragged himself across the floor.

The fire was eating away at the walls, the blaze reaching for the ceiling.

Resolved, Grayson struggled to reach the doorway, his lungs desperate for the clean air beyond.

Flames licked at his boots, the smell of smoke so strong it was suffocating. The closer he got to the door, the farther away it seemed to get.

The raven cawed.

This wasn’t about Grayson. This was about an entire family who’d never known what living life without the constant threat of death was like.

The cup felt heavy somehow.

Lyric trusted him with her life.

She
trusted
him.

Clean air tickled his
cheeks,
his head hanging out of the door’s opening. Flames ate the kitchen.

Grayson stared at the blue open sky beyond the trees, his vision blurred. He could hear sirens in the distance. As long as he had the cup, Lyric was alive.

The raven cawed.

Somehow, Grayson managed to pull himself over the edge of the door, his body hanging precariously over the yard beyond.

Inside of the house, more of the roof collapsed.

Time was out.

The force threw him forward. In the process, Grayson lost his grip on the cup.

The brown mug was suddenly airborne.

There was no time to scream. There was no time to feel regret. There was no time to cry.

There was simply no more time.