Taboo Brew

My hand trembled as I lifted it to the latch. The door suddenly swung towards me, pushed by another person, forcing me to stumble backwards.

“Ope! So sorry!” He dipped his chin in a polite gesture, more bow than nod. He looked like a normal enough fellow: graying hair, faint smile lines starting on his face, the round midsection and smooth hands of a person who worked indoors. I even noticed a modest chain around his neck with the a religious symbol.

If someone like that could patronize this shop, surely I would be all right.

Heat flooded my face as I shifted to the left, giving the man ample room to pass. I stammered out a, “Sorry.”

His smile took an indulgent turn, reminding me of the syrupy way Pastor Michael addressed children and sick people. “Not at all, Miss. Have a nice day.” The man held the door open for me.

“Thank you.” I didn’t even know if I had made my voice loud enough. I just stepped into the mysterious shop before my courage deserted me.

Mamma had always spoken of places like this with a disgusted scowl. She insisted that only Lost Souls would imbibe these brews—a phrase she usually used to describe murderers, kidnappers, and unwed mothers. I looked at the old chess-playing men and the young scholars with books. Aromatic steam drifted from the brown or green liquids in their cups. Were they really all Lost Souls?

I turned to the counter and froze. The fey, green-haired person behind it looked like everything Mamma had warned me about. A constellation of silver jewelry adorned their ears, their fingers, and even one nostril. They smiled at me, and my mind immediately reached out for the prayers to ward against demonic influences.

The door opened behind me. This time, I had enough presence of mind to flatten myself to the wall and give the customers space.

“Are you in line, Dear?”

I gestured that they were welcome to approach the counter before me.

I watched the two white-haired women discuss the brews they wanted with the person behind the counter. Lithe arms covered in arcane-looking images reached confidently for ingredients in small drawers. I recognized some of the things that went into the first cup: ginger root, honey, the zest of a citrus fruit. I had never before seen the inky, bitter-scented liquid or glittering white crystals that went into the second cup.

The women paid the fairy—the demon?—the person!—behind the counter. They smiled. They chatted with each other, relaxed and happy. They weren’t afraid that the contents of their cups would condemn their souls to everlasting torture.

Mamma and Pastor Michael had been wrong about other things. I left my home and everyone I had known so that I could find out the truth for myself. I swallowed the icy lump of terror that had lodged in my throat and approached the barista.

“Hi! Could I have a small mocha latte with whipped cream?”