Tossing, Turning, Tea, and Trembling

Flames licked the bottom of a cast iron kettle, rising from a collection of branches and two pine logs. Resin cooked off the wood, shooing some savory funk up the flue. The small, round kettle boiled down snow and ice. The mantle held clay pots with earthenware lids, marked in strange chalk glyphs. Flames illuminated the wet, musty, purple rug covering the gypsum hearth. A fearsome black mold that crept out from it to a set of oak chairs, where the host and guest sat.

A doe slowly straightened her long neck in a wooden chair breathing rhythmic but shallow. Her chest barely moved a rank yellow wool blanket over her. In her sleep, she sat sprawled, in her damp clothes, letting the red wool blanket collect the snow and sweat under her. A rag was draped over her head to collect anything from her forehead, easing the pain from excess sulfites and a minor concussion, replacing the pink headband. She sat lame, save for her head, which rocked occasionally to a hum across her.

The ancient and obscure hum emitted from the host, who stared entranced by her craft. The sheep occasionally glanced in awe of such a tall, fair, athletic, young woman. An opportunity to entertain was equally as rare as finding a soul near her coveted woods. Most visitors ran screaming at the mere sight of the puffy, gray fleece she refused to groom, save for her brow. A deep red reinforced mulberry silk cloak hung heavily over her body and emitted a pungent aura. The sleeves were rolled up just below her elbows, showing her forearms were dyed in erratic streaks of green, yellow, black, brown, red, and violet. The untrimmed front hooves held a carving knife, where the bottom hooves held a wooden bowl firmly in place. Another finished bowl laid in front of the host with different cursive sentence and a rune fixed at the center.

Once the kettle melted the snow and brought the water to a gentle boil, the host blew off the wood shavings off. She finalized the strange alien cursive letters at the wooden bowl’s rim and placed it gently on the table for the visitor, displaying a simpler rune. She set her eyes on her guest’s forehead. Things fell into place for her, as nature, fate, and causality intended, sending her heart aflutter.

The host rearranged her feet and rose carefully moving to the mantle over the glow of the fireplace. She drew mint, milk thistle, rose hips, skullcaps, white willow bark, and a bug molting of unknown origin from each respective jar, one-by-one placing the ingredients into a mortar. She resealed the jars and silently leaned over to her guest in a swift motion to gingerly take the rag that rested upon the deer’s head. The rag glided above the two bowls, then was wrung it of all its fluids into each bowl evenly. The host sniffed the cloth and laid it back on the guest’s weary head. As she returned to her seat, she scooped up a mortar with her left arm and started to pulverize the herbs and spices with fervor, letting her legs wrap around the base.

The noise kept the doe rocking her head and mumbling. Her ears flopped between the snapping of the fire, the smashing, and eventually a benign whistle of the kettle. “Groooosss…” she addressed the illusions in her head, forcing the host to cease pulverizing briefly. “Stawppit Saydeee yeeew slut,” her guest moaned, keeping her eyes tightly shut, away from the fireplace.

The host cocked an eyebrow unsure of the slurred speech before her. She took the kettle off the fire awkwardly with the crook of her right arm. The room was luminated more clearly and heat flowed. The kettle was laid upon a wide, thin stone on a decorated yew table next to a pink headband. The host looked bitterly at the woodcut squares telling great stories and even more angrily at the unengraved spaces. Her arm was unwrapped from the kettle and she re-gripped the mortar again, and smashed the things in it harder.

“Geddoudahere or I’ll call your mom…” the rag flopped over the doe’s closed eyes and fell to the floor.

The host looked at the dust below her cloven upper toes after sublimating her anger. She poured each half of the powder in each bowl and added boiling hot water, slowly. She took up the straw whisk and stirred.

The deer finally woke to the scent of mint, mildew, must, and other strong scents. She witnessed her bowl of tea and started to move, realizing she was weighed down by the blanket triggering a horrid synesthesia induced memory. She tossed the yellow sheet aside, held her mouth shut trying not to vomit. She breathed heavily in, holding her nostrils down, feeling a sharp pain in a few ribs and her sternum. The melted snow mixed in from her sweat drenched her Fitchfield State University sweater, through the plain white tee shirt, soaking her natural brown coat. Tiny faint splotches of blood rested at the sides of her trunk. The pink ankle and wrist warmers were itching her over the thought that her blue jeans and unmentionables were a ringworm breeding ground. The host’s yellow eyes locked on her guest’s brown pupils.

“Ah! Yer awake,” the host took up her bowl. “Tea’s ready!”

The deer scanned the room, piecing together her personal, untold true-crime story that she was in. “Is this a prank?!”

“Aye?” the host’s partially crooked bottom teeth jutted out, showing off blades of grass and herbs stuck between the gaps.

“Can I help you?” her composure was hard to keep after her heart nearly vaulted out of her mouth.

“Reckon yer needin’ help.”

The guest spoke slower, prompted by the thick accent: “Okay let me re-pharase that: What do you want from me?”

“I wancha at ease,” she flapped the dusty hoof, frog up. “Cozy, innit?”

A meme from the guest’s mind was recalled and she recited it: “I think we have different definitions of that word!”

“Somethin’ wrong, goody?” the host nonchalantly solicited constructive feedback about her hospitality.

“Goody?” the guest was perplexed.

“Yer a goodwife ain’t cha?” the gray head tilted coy and squinted.

“I- no!” she was blushing. “But thanks!”

The host entertained herself with another plausible rare quality of her guest. “Pity.”

“I- AHK!” the guest tried standing to grab her pink headband from the table and felt what seemed like shrapnel in her ribs.

“Oh, ya best be sittin,” the host wagged her hoof at her. “Tha’ there carriage had ya strewn cross th’ field like flotsam.”

She reflexively looked down at her smartwatch. A flush of terror spread from her spinal cord outward to her arms and legs. “Got to be honest, I don’t know what you said but I seriously need to go home,” the doe pointed at her large smart watch, spanning across half her forearm. The time was 8:49 PM. The battery was at a 20% charge. Internet and cell signal were non-existent. However, a notification from three hours ago stated there was water in the charging port. Around the same time, she got a text from her roommate that read: Did you change the wifi password? Another from her dad read: Veronica, Tell Sadie to stop calling me. Thanks.

“Ya made yerself home ‘ere, already,” the host giggled.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to impose, this place is small as it is, I should let you have your house back!” Veronica widened her eyes and waved her hooves in front of her.

Her host sat blowing air out her nose, holding her wooden bowl. “Jussa figure o’ speech,” she sipped the tea.

“Well, the notion was really, really, nice of you!” she plastered a fake smile on. “I’m sure you got stuff to do tomorrow, though! Hate to get in the way!”

“An’ what’s yer hurry?” the host’s forehead wrinkled and complimented an open-mouthed smirk.

“My family needs me!” fast-talked while she pricked herself with the sharp part of her left hoof on the right forearm under the smartwatch, wondering if the car crash put her in a coma.

The host rested the bowl in her lap. “At this hour? Yer keeper would un’erstan’ ya being truant, no?”

Veronica took the word keeper as an insult but then had an idea: “Yes! My dad gets very worried about me, see?!” she pointed at the luminated watch again to her dad’s text.

The witch squinted at the screen. “See wot?”

A sliver of hope she prayed for was answered and Veronica quickly pulled the display back to her. “I can’t stay here, I’m so sorry!” the whites of her teeth wiggled nervously in her forced smile.

“Snow an’ ice, o’er th’bramble’s no easy thing t’navigate. Surely-”

“It was very nice meeting you!” she pushed herself up using the arm rests, demonstrating her etiquette for ending a bad date. “But I have friends and family looking for me. I should get back!”

“We’re snowed in, stay awhile-” the host looked up at the deer’s tall figure with her tired eyelids.

“AH-bububah nonono but thank you!” she spat the words out as she bent down to grab her headband, eyes watering in pain, adrenaline pumping to numb it. She stood, donned it and stumbled over the wet and spongy oak floor. “I appreciate it but they’re worried and probably readying a search party to look!” She wobbled to the door, lying profusely in self-defense.

“They mussbe very fonda ya to trek ‘ere, an’ see a lotta nothing,” the host leaned to Veronica, trying to feign a form of jealousy, and hid the rest of her face with her bowl.

“Yeah! By the way!” she made an inference between the host's similar age to herself and the archaic speech pattern she had. “There’s someone I know who loves Humans and Hamlets themed places like this! I’m sure he’ll have a blast here!”

“Hmmm…?” the host slowly sipped.

“No really! In fact, there are two of them! They’d love it here!”

The host let the bowl down to her lap, “Whaddya waffling about?”

Veronica talked past her host’s question, “His name is Johan, I’ll send him here when it’s daytime and nicer out!” her face got a workout from the happiness-press exercises. “Him and, like, this other guy, Ben, are super into that! I think they’re looking for, like, a Hamlet Head or something to start a game up!”

The thinly veiled insult to her intelligence tangentially reminded her of something grim. “Children are too hard fer me t’ en’ertain,” she grumbled.

Veronica let a nervous “HA,” at the near perfect description of two group project members she despised. “Maybe some other time then!” she turned away, resting her cheeks, unable to hide her terror as she pulled at the door. “But uh-” The door resisted. Veronica scanned the door molding for any latches and locks and found nothing. “Maybe we can get you a nice handyman instead!” She tried again and found the door was caught on something from the outside.

“I’m too humble fer servants,” the host took another sip.

“Uh-yeah,” Veronica made another sharp, strong pull. “Then maybe we can also get you-” Veronica made another yank. The door flung open and revealed a tall wall of snow, naturally glowing with the door handle imprinted in it. She had her hooves folded above her head and then she looked up at the stick dolls, twisting and turning in the dark above her. Her pupils shrank.

“Gemme wot?” she paused her drinking to relish in the flavors and anticipated Veronica’s newest line.

Veronica turned to the sheep. “Out!” she pointed at the barrier.

A matronly smile could be seen from over the bowl. “Ya sure that’s wise?”

“Being cooped up here isn’t good!” Veronica turned to the obstacle and punched it. She passed through the ice shell and scooped out some soft, light powder, pouring it down on the threshold.

“Well, that’s nice! Welcome th’ elements an’ all o’ Kedward t’ tea!” she addressed Veronica like she was a child having a playschool tantrum.

“All of wh-” Veronica stopped herself from talking and frantically continued to dig the flakes into the house from the base of the snow wall, prying the ice layer. “I NEED AIR!” She made a small avalanche to make a slope to the surface. She peeked at a black night sky from a small hole, where a few more flakes fell on her; however, the slope too steep for her to climb out of. The air was fresh, but she couldn’t breathe it since her ribs were being stabbed by imaginary knives, below a dampened set of clothes that made her nearly freeze in place. Her head was rushing, making her dizzier each passing second.

“Ya need ta be more prudent,” the host’s left arm hooked around Veronica’s right bicep as she coaxed her.

Veronica tried to confront the host. “I’m FINE! Just-” she turned to find a set of gray legs on the couch, balancing the wooden bowl, but nothing was attached at the rusty femur heads. Nothing else was at her front. She reflexively looked right to find a gray left arm coiled on her right. The sight of such anatomical impossibilities sent Veronica into a blood curdling scream, flinging saliva and phlegm out her mouth uncontrollably. She flailed her right arm and fell on her back upon the snowbank she made, trying to backpedal and kick herself up, she kept slipping and sliding, pushing mud and flakes in the house.

The witch held her right hoof over her muzzle, laughing at her softly, peeking from behind the opened door. In a way, she saw her younger self in the screeching mess and admired it endearingly. The gray cloud of wool floated from behind the door and to Veronica.

Once Veronica stopped screaming, the witch decided to uncoil her arm and retrieve it. She pet Veronica’s head as if to reassure her.

“Whatever you’re planning, just do it,” Veronica's voice wailed.

A set of chapped lips floated to the back of Veronica’s left ear, taking her up on the offer, “Come along, then.” The witch nudged her up.

Veronica was guided under gentle arrest. As she scanned the living room, objects had their outlines pulsing like waves at a beach. The analgesic sensation wore off, forcing her to short shallow breaths again. The emotional whiplash liquefied down her cheeks and scattered droplets to the guest chair. Every part and crevice of her body felt moist from the harsh weather, terror, and relief.

“Sit down,” she cooed the hot and humid suggestion down the back of Veronica’s nape. Mint, thistle, sourness, and melted tonsil stone vapor coiled gently around her neck, while she was guided down. “An’ drink up.”

Veronica grabbed the bowl, “What is it?”

The witch’s body floated around the table, “Tea. Hava try.”

“What kind?”

“A kind that I’m drinkin’” the witch jostled her bowl with her dismembered limbs and let the dust whirl in.

Veronica secretly hoped there was poison in it as she whiffed the steam. It smelled like a rose garden by the sea somehow. “Maybe this will finally wake me up.”

“It’ll do the opposite.”

“Of course, what was I thinking?” she took a sip reluctantly. The tea was well infused in a salty and copper body. Her stomach churned as it trickled down her throat, but a soap water aftertaste came about.

“See, now ya can keep warm,” The witch landed softly behind the heads of her femurs. Her arms floated back on her shoulders.

“So, when does it work?”

“It jus’ did.”

“Oh good, I’m dying finally?”

“No, it’s as ya said…” her face sobered.

“What did I say?”

“Yer too valuable,” she pointed her cloven hoof up, “Specially to yer friends n’ kin.”

“Thank you,” she held her tea bowl like a kewpie doll, having more tears drop into it as she accepted the award. “I was lying.”

“Nonsense…” the witch’s shifty eyes looked at the fire as she sat smug hearing the admission.

“Come on, of course you knew that! What kind of friends leave someone for dead after their own car wreck?” Veronica rested her eyes again. “Why would they? The stupid group project is done anyway! They don’t need me to do all the work anymore. They don’t need me to pass along answers for the exams. They don’t need someone to pick up the tab! They don’t even need me to drive them home!” she leaned on the armrest and covered her eyes. “I’m some useless stuck-up prude now!” she blubbered.

The witch’s ears perked at the half-drunken meltdown.

“This happens every time!” the sob was shriller, “Ohhhhhhhh NOOOOOOOO!!!”

The witch waited for Veronica to exhaust herself then spoke, “If you’re looking to make yerself useful, finish yer tea.” the witch leaned forward.

“Great, I can die useful.” Veronica rocked her head back and slurped down the putrid, metallic, liquid, forcing her eyes shut, locking her sinuses in her head as best as she could.

“…just get some rest, poppet.”

Veronica opened her eyes back up briefly and watched the stick figures above her dance, mesmerizing her to a dreamless sleep.

Cold air blew across Veronica’s brow, while she sat upright on a pine tree trunk, in her musty, dried out clothing. Her pain returned to her fractured ribs while her head pulsed violently. She managed to open her eyes that were nearly frozen shut from the tears.

“Oh, good you’re awake!” A nasally guy’s voice greeted her back to the bright mid-morning snow. “So, you know how to change a tire, right?”