It's All Fun and Games

They called themselves the Romantic Antiquarians. A book club, some might say, but they were far more akin to a secret society. A sisterhood of sorts, they were eclectic, vivacious, and argumentative at times—well, quite frequently.

At first glance, you might have mistaken them for a bunch of spinsters playing poker. But upon closer observation, you would have noticed that this was no game of chance. This was a well-planned, deliberate rendezvous.

The rules were simple and strictly enforced. 

First and above all: Never disclose the location of the meetings. Especially not to any husbands or partners.

Second: Never dog-ear a book.

Third: Never spoil the ending.

Fourth: Never use trendy lingo such as, but not limited to, “situationship” or “ghosted.” 

And finally: Always bring dessert. Or tea (literal or figurative).

Their reading list was strictly limited to Gothic, Regency and Victorian-era novels. They had no interest in modern-day nonsense. To be inducted into this exclusive club was a matter of the utmost pride. There was no age requirement, though it certainly helped if you possessed an old soul. And, of course, there was one other unspoken rule: What happened at the meetings stayed at the meetings. 

They met promptly at seven o’clock on the first Wednesday of the month, each member taking their turn hosting. The October meeting was held in the old Vandiver farmhouse. The women trickled in one by one, filing through the foyer and down the narrow hallway to Monique Vandiver’s kitchen, the wide-plank hardwood, scuffed and softened by years of use announced every step with a creak. The women gathered round a heavy oak table, their spiral bound notebooks and copies of Frankenstein in hand. 

Monique owned a local farm, Fable and Field, where she along with her grown daughter cultivated and sold enchanted heirloom veggies, lemon thyme, purple basil, lavender, dandelion root and a rather enchanted assortment of loose leaf tea. 

The kitchen door swung open.

Monique scuffed and stomped across the entry mat, emerging from the mudroom with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. She was in her mid-fifties, her pin straight, salt and pepper hair woven into a loose braid down her back. Her denim overalls were weathered and well loved, an oversized hand knit sweater flung atop.

“Ladies!” She sing songs. “I have procured…”

She pauses for dramatic effect. 

“The goods.” 

Most of the women nervously laugh, teetering the line between skeptical and cautiously intrigued. Debra Collins looks…unamused. Her silver hair is trimmed to a sleek, neat bob - as refined and no nonsense as her temperament. She takes in the sight of Monique. Her reading glasses suspended from a blue beaded strap around her neck. She now fiddles with the chain. 

Monique digs into her canvas tote bag to reveal a peculiar woody bundle of herbs wrapped in jute twine, and an amber jar, its contents unknown. She places them delicately on the table. The women knew of Monique’s - craft - if you will, but hardly spoke of it and certainly none had occasion to witness it firsthand. In the spirit of the 19th century, Monique practiced tassology, an ancient divination of tea leaf reading that evolved into an entertaining parlor game. Monique had already placed white ceramic saucers and teacups on the table.

As if right on cue, the kettle’s sharp and sudden whistle reverberates.

“Perfect timing! So…” Monique gestured vaguely around the room. “Who would like to go first?” The women swiveled their heads about, polling each other’s faces before the silence was broken by Cheryl Mullen. 

Cheryl lifted her hand like an apprehensive school girl, “I’ll try.” 

“Excellent!” Monique chirped. She rounded the table and retrieved the tea kettle, collected her bundle of herbs and jar, and took her place beside Cheryl. Her formerly whimsical demeanor is suddenly replaced with a mysterious energy, as if she was practicing for her debut role as Madam Vandiver, psychic. Monique was a performer, no doubt, and enjoyed every bit of the mystique related to this game. She inhales sharply and closes her eyes, gently circling between her eyebrows with her index and middle finger for what feels like an eternity. 

“It’s her third eye” mouths Sue Ellen to Cheryl from across the table.

Monique opens her eyes. A portal opened. “I am ready,” she declares, and turns to Cheryl with instructions. 

“I am going to begin. Once the water has covered the tea, please focus your intent on whatever it is you’d like to have clarity - a love interest, your future, family matters. It is up to you.” 

Cheryl nods and studies Monique as she pours the steaming water atop the dried bits of leaves, the robust earthy and citrus aroma rising to meet her. She gently stirs the contents of the cup and pushes the saucer toward Cheryl. 

Monique drops her theatrical flair for a deep, subdued whisper. “Drink.”

Cheryl gazes down at the straw-yellow tea, piping hot and presumably supernatural, although it looks rather ordinary to her. There are bits of dark twig and shredded leaves sticking to the sides and floating in the center. She closes her eyes momentarily to focus on her intention. This was no easy task for Cheryl. She would often ruminate and dissect every aspect of her life from social interactions to things she should have done. She had tried meditating in the past using meditation apps, but not even the soothing timbre of Joy from Australia could quiet the chatter. She would attempt to view her thoughts like clouds, each passing by with no judgement. Time and time again her brain would betray her, like a defiant toddler responsive only to reverse psychology. Now, she tries her best to lower the noise. 

Cheryl gently raises the cup to her lips, taking a steady sip. It is fiercely bitter with a sour aftertaste, her salivary glands stinging in protest. Under the eager and watchful eyes of the women, Cheryl gulps the rest, her lips pursed, and places the cup on the saucer. What’s left at the bottom is an amorphous muddy slurry, not at all what Cheryl had expected. Wouldn’t there be some kind of shape or figure? An animal perhaps? Surely, she’s failed to tune out her continuous broadcast preventing Monique from channeling her divinatory wisdom. 

Monique gently grabs the handle of the cup between her thumb and index finger and flips it upside down on the saucer, a light clink to remove the remaining liquid. The room is still and breathless, only the sound of the refrigerator humming. 

“Now,” says Monique, “is the moment of truth.” She flips the cup right side up. The rest of the women are now leaned over the table from every which way, rubber necking in hushed chatter. What is it? What does it show?

At the base of the cup and slithering toward the rim has now formed an unmistakable figure. The damp and darkened leaves have shifted into a foreboding snake; its tubular body ending in a triangular head, a forked tongue.

Monique propels backward and gasps, the blood drained from her face. Cheryl stares at her, unmoving, waiting for Monique to explain her fate, but, to the confusion of all, it does not appear to be her fate.

“Ch Cheryl – how, how did you know?”  Her eyes widened and panicked. “How could you know?”

“Know what?” Cheryl is now frightened. She steps back from the cup. “This is not funny anymore! Know what Monique?”

The room is suddenly cold, the back of Cheryl’s neck now tingling.

“The viper…” Monique whispers. Hidden malice, danger.

“You must leave.”  “Now.”