The Steep

"Is the water boiling?"

"Not yet. You always ask too early."

I prefer the sound of it beginning. The low hum before the rattle. It is as though the house were waking up.

The house, Arthur, never sleeps. It just waits."

Have you brought the sprigs out of the garden? The ones near the fence?"

"I did. My fingers are still purple by the berries. This time I was forced to go through the thorns. They are increasing at a rate that I can hardly cut back.

"That's good. Growth is a sign of health. We want the garden hungry."

I do not know whether I could say that it is healthy. The earth reeks of ancient copper, lately. Anyhow, the kettle is whistling. Bring me the jar."

"The blue one?"

"No, Arthur. The heavy one. The one behind the flour. The one we get on Thursdays only once per week.

"Right. Thursday. I lose track. they are all as one long afternoon, do they?

The reason is that we have made them to be that way. It's safer in the loop. Now, hold the strainer. Steady. Your hands are shaking."

"It's the anticipation. I love the feeling of the steam on your face. It makes you look like a girl once more. Like the day at the lake."

"Don't talk about the lake. We aren't there. Here we are and the water is hot. Pour it slowly."

"There. Look at that color. It is as though a bruise bursting in the cup.

"It's beautiful. Now, the final part. You know what to do."

"Do we have to? Every week?"

There must be a price in connection, Arthur. When we began this you said that of yourself. You would give anything to have the thread not snap," you said.

"I know. I just--I have no more places to conceal the marks.

"Wear long sleeves. Everyday the weather is changing. Come here. Give me your wrist."

"Wait. drink a drop of the plain water first. My throat is dry."

"No. It has to be pure. The ritual fails in case you are diluted. Just a small nick today. I shall have the silver paring knife.

"It's so sharp."

"It's quick. There. Let it drip into the center. Watch the steam change color. See? It's turning gold at the edges."

"It's glowing. It actually looks warm. Is he coming? Can you feel him yet?"

"The tea is steeping. The smell is striking the rafters. He's in the hallway. I can hear the floor-boards straining.

I can hear no sound, save the wind.

It is so because you are peeking with your ears. Look with your skin, Arthur. Feel the hair on your arms."

"Oh. Oh, there it is. The cold. It is like an ice cube against my spine.

"He's sitting at the table. Move the chair for him."

"Which one?"

The one that has the velvet cushion. The one we have not dusted since four years. Put the cup in front of the vacant area.

It is hot as thie end of the world, I cannot see the other side of the table.

"That's the point. It's a bridge. Look at the surface of the tea. Do you see the ripples?"

"He's drinking. He's actually drinking it. The level is going down."

"He was always a thirsty boy. He gets that from you."

Does he... does he... look happy, Claire?

"He looks like he's here. That's enough for me."

"Can I touch him? Just his hand?"

"No! Don't reach across. You'll break the surface. He will drag you into the heat or you will drag him into the cold. We just watch. We sit, we watch and we wait till the cup is empty.

"It's almost gone. The gold is fading."

"The sun is coming up. The Thursday is ending."

"He's leaving, isn't he? The room seems to be growing heavy again. The air is regaining its normal air.

"He's gone. Pick up the cup, Arthur."

"It's freezing cold. What could make the porcelain this cold? It was boiled two minutes ago.

How he stole the heat with him. He needs it for the walk back."

"My wrist hurts. And I'm so tired. I have not slept in a century, it seems to me.

"Go to bed. I'll wash the cup."

"Claire? And shall we get enough next Thursday? The jar is looking a bit thin."

I will go back to the garden to-morrow. The thorns will then have more berries. And you'll have more blood."

"It's a lot of work. It is only to take tea with a ghost who never talks.

"He doesn't have to speak. He showed up. That is the best love he can have.

"I suppose. I'll see you in the morning?"

"I'm already there, Arthur. I never left the kitchen."

"Good. Good. Always remember to lock the cellar. I believe I heard something scratcheth down there.

"That's just the leftovers. Go to sleep."