It Is Not Leaves

The fall leaves cascaded down the cracked sidewalk in multicolored carpets of honeysuckle red and yellow ochre. The London streets were suffocated by the dark smog produced by many of the thriving businesses. A lesson to learn when you work for one of London's many textile corporations is that the free housing they supply is often taken for granted until they nail a series of heartless eviction notices to your front door, and you realize that all the things you found so incredibly comforting, can be ripped away faster than anybody would ever expect. Fractured and reduced to nothing but my small messenger bag with my ruthless eviction notices and the few clothes I could grab from the hanger dancing by first floor window, I took to the street. 

As I crossed the moist, cobblestone road, a quaint hovel caught my attention. The humdrum air of the long-molded boards was not what captured my eye however, but the realization that the shed was, by all appearances, an antiquated teahouse. The small door bolstered a miniature trellis that displayed a beautiful vine of jasmine, the intoxicating aroma drawing me in close to the otherwise decrepit building. Letting my nostrils take in the sweet smell allowed me all the peace in the world, if only for a moment. I was jarred back to reality by a small woman, with a demeanor no more commanding than that of the average servant, yet clothes so vibrant that they could be described only as fluorescent. The blues and greens of her lace dress shaking as she let out a bellowing laugh, “Oh, my dear, that is not jasmine.” She said mischievously, reaching over and plucking a small white petal from its bud, severing it from the vine. As she holds out the velvety flower, I notice the red liquid oozing from the severed part of the vine, almost appearing as blood festering at a fresh wound. The formerly white petal became a glassy clear, revealing the inside of the intriguing flower. "The appearance is not always the truth, my love.” The woman stated, “Take this teahouse, it has been here long before I was a girl, and I am nearing the end of a life long-lived and full.” I stared at the wizened old woman, her grey eyes flashing under the sunlight. I wondered then what those eyes had seen, the black cloak of death, the white shawl of God the father? This was a woman who had seen far too much in her extensive lifetime. Yet instead of being weighed down, she made peace with the world that she had come to realize was entirely out of human control. A fire lit inside of me, a passion for the teahouse igniting in a relentless inferno that devoured any doubt or suspicion for the graying woman and her tearoom. “Would you care to hire me?” I asked with such enthusiasm I shocked even myself. The woman smiled, “Yes love, my name is Marianne Renod, I can hire you today if you would like, provided you give me your name and address.” “My name is Ethel, and I am uh-.” I struggled to find the words, fearing rejection that would follow me like that of so many before. “Homeless?” she said, arching a feathery eyebrow. I looked down in a combination of shame and brutal confirmation. “It matters not, you may live here.” My head snapped up at the sudden act of kindness, “Ma’am I simply cannot except that very generous off-.” “Nonsense!” she said as she escorted me inside the building, walls a velvety red and warm lighting flashing off the fine China. "Let's get you settled.” she muttered. I did not pay much heed to it; I really should have. 

The earthy aroma of the cafe began to feel familiar, a warm feeling burying itself between my ribcage and making itself known every time I heard a kettle boiling water soon to be tea.  Ms.Renod was right, appearances are deceptive, for every morning the teahouse is filled to the brim with lords and ladies who all fancy the infamous tea that is provided. Not to mention the doughy “lady fingers” made by Marrianne herself. I never questioned why I was the only worker in the tearoom because the building itself was smaller than most flats. Even if Marrianne had the money to hire other people, it would not be necessary. I stared out of the stained-glass windows, watching the smog curl round the dark figures walking back and forth along the cobblestone streets. A loud cough brought me back to my senses, a woman, who commanded the attention and authority of a lady of high status, stood before me. She wore a veil of black cloth, obscuring her face enough to render her invisible to the untrained eye. The dress tumbling down her breasts and shoulders was no exception to the gothic attire in her hair and face, black velvet sweeping across the wood planks in a gloomy brush along the well-worn floor.  A choked voice muttered under the shadowed cloth, “Earl please... Earl Grey for my Earl.” I hesitantly started pouring the tea into a small pot, carefully measuring the dried leaves from the small tin, crumbling into the small infuser, and bringing it to the steaming water. The steam dancing in serene ribbons along the smooth porcelain stage. “Here is your tea Mrs. Earl.” I quietly started, watching her draw the pot from the counter to her arms, cradling it like a newborn infant. “Olly, Olly, oxen free, meet me in the hanging tree if you see my Olly, whining Olly, Olly oxen free.” She lulled, the haunting lullaby enchanting all the tearoom's clientele. Caught in a melancholy daze, it began to dawn on me that this woman was not just a widow, but a woman who had lost her children to the horrific atrocity of miscarriage. I watched patiently, waiting for her to glide over to a table or perhaps put down the tea and leave. I was met with an action that shocked me out of my dreamlike stupor. The widow, raising the pot high above her head, slammed it onto the floor, sending a starburst of chromatic porcelain flying into the farthest reaches of the tearoom. Falling to the ground, the widow let out a horrendous sob, “Oh Earl, forgive me for not being able to harbor our dear sweet Olly, yet you are no longer on this plane, and I will never hear your warm voice forgive me for my sins.” The mad widow clawed at her veil, revealing eyes that showed signs of intense sleep deprivation and insomnia. I stared at Ms. Renod, who had been silent all the while, and gestured to the chaos brewing in the room. “What do we do about this Marriane?” I croaked hoarsely, my throat turning cotton under my flesh. Without looking at me she responded with a malicious question. “Do you know what makes the tea so coppery Ethel?” I caught the flash of a small piece of silver under her floral dress, jasmine flowers interlocking in blue and green lace. Thats when I felt the blood chill in my veins, leaving me frozen in terror as I watched Ms. Renod advance on the widow. “It's all my old workers blood, rather distasteful I know, but what are you to do when someone expends their use? Besides, all those girls were much better served as tea.” I saw the silver flash from her hand and into the widows jugular, silencing the cries of grief and terror that very nearly escaped her throat. “It is no dilemma really, for your death will give me more blood in which to steep my tea.” My hands shook. Raw, paralyzing fear dissolving under the weight of the unrequited rage bubbling inside of my chest.  I took a step forward, posturing myself against the counter. How many had taken my place and died simply to find themselves served on this very counter.  My nails scratched against the elegantly carved wood. “Stop.” I said, watching as the multiple slices along the widows body became less visible as Ms.Renod drew herself to her full height, addressing me with a stormy glare. “Your next Ethel, would you like me to simply end it for you now?” Some may feel the need to run when faced with the brush of death, but not me. I have lived my life commanded and tortured by a corporate world that saw me and all other women like me as tools to be used and replaced, leading me to work in a cannibalistic teahouse. Teatime was over, the widows body lay flat as a plank on the ground, her face severed so badly she may not survive. I pictured myself there, bright red blood pooling around my face and neck as I contemplated my judgement. It was then I chose, I am not a victim, I am a woman, I have faced hardship, loss, and now death, but I feel no fear. I stepped forward, once, twice, three times, the sound echoing through the now empty building. “Appearances are deceptive, at least that's what you told me, and I never really paid it much heed.” I said, gritting my teeth as I kicked the shattered pottery out of my way. “Here’s something you were wrong about; I may seem like I'm helpless and homeless but watch yourself Marianne.”  I leaned in close to her ear, drawing out each word with dripping malice. "I don't like being threatened.” A look of terror crossed over her face, leaving me elated with a twisted sense of pride. I witnessed her retreat as she slowly backed into the wall. “What are you going to do.” she choked, her eyes betraying a courageous facade.  My face fell in pity and disappointment. The cannibal turned and ran, colliding with the glittering China cabinet. Shuddering as the glass shelves tipped and fell, Ms.Renod let out an animalistic scream. Poetic, I thought, the same instruments she had used to channel her victims' suffering she finds herself buried under. I kneeled to the widow, feeling her pulse. Dead. I brushed my hand over her milky eyes as I stood, turning the sign on the door from “Open!” to “Closed.” as Night fell in a cold blanket over the city.