Last Tea Shop: The Hermit

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The old man looked around, blinking in the fog. How long ago had he gotten lost? He had been wandering for some time now, and he didn’t recognize anything. He should have; he knew these forests like the back of his hand. Nevertheless, he had completely lost track of where he was. His cabin should be near, shouldn’t it?

Again, he was sure he had seen movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, peering into the fog. “Hello?”

Nothing. He was alone.

He kept climbing the steep path, (surely, his cabin wasn’t this high up, was it?) searching for some tree or rock that he recognized. Periodically a shape tickled his memory and he found himself turning on his heel, left or right, only for the shadow to vanish into the mist.

He wasn’t frightened — he had survived in the woods for weeks on end without flint or knife before — but he was confused. He wasn’t even thirsty, yet he had been walking for what felt like days…

Suddenly, the sole of his foot struck something hard. Staggering against the sudden resistance, he stepped backwards as the fog parted in front of him.

It was a bridge, small and thin. the stone blocks were smooth and weathered from years of the elements wearing it away. The river beneath it was slow and lazy, almost silent in the fog.

“There you are!” a bright voice caught hold of his attention, spinning him around to face a short raggedly-dressed woman reaching out for his arm. “Come on now,” she clucked as she gently pulled him away, “you don’t want to go that way, not yet. This way, I’m all ready for you.”

The fog seemed to melt away as the woman tugged, ushuring him not ten feet back to a tiny hut. It reminded him of his own, though it was far less sturdy or well kept. It rattled in the gentle breeze, and faint whistling and squeaking came from the walls tiny holes.

Inside was much the same. While his hut was bare of trivialities, the woman’s hut was full to bursting. Old tools, jewelry, straps of leather and polished wood, broken pieces of furniture and cast-off clothing. There seemed no end of the clutter, save for a small table and two chairs in front of a stone fireplace, where a warm fire was lazily burning.

He stared at the two chairs. “You knew I was coming?”

“Yes,” the woman grabbed his two hands and inspected them carefully. “Well, not you specifically, mind, but when the mists get like that, it’s sure ‘cuz someone like you is making their way here. Good thing I saw you before you tried crossing the bridge, there’s no telling what trouble you might have gotten in.”

“The bridge,” he turned to look at the door, as if by magic he might see through it to where the bridge had sat. “There’s no bridge by my hut, or anywhere in the forest. Where are we?”

“Neither here nor there,” the woman poked at the man’s arms and chest, peered at his knees, and inspected his clothing. “Hmm…no, that’s all fine…You got lost in the mist, but don’t worry about that. Lost things are my specialty.”

“I was…” the man paused. “I was headed to my hut…but then something…no, I don’t…”

The woman looked up, as if seeing him for the first time. “Come, have a sit down. I’m brewing some tea; it’ll be done in a minute, and then we can have a nice chat.”

“Tea?” He smiled weakly. “Is this a tea shop? Faith, ’tis worse for wear, I’ve never seen such a ramshackle —” He cut himself off at the sight of a small white mouse sitting on top of the small table.

The woman looked and gave a grin. “Well there you are. I was wondering where you’d got to. All your family safe and sound? Good. It won’t do for any of you to get stuck outside on a night like this.” She turned back to the man. “You’re not finished yet, are you?”

The man jerked back, almost sending him tumbling into the piles of junk. “No!” He shouted, sending the mouse scurrying away like a flash of lightning. “No, I’m not!”

The woman stared at him with such a compassionate stare that the immediately felt ashamed. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his forehead. “I…I don’t know what came over me. I was just…suddenly so angry, and…” he struggled to find the words. “I don’t know why,” he said at last.

“Hmm…” the woman gently pulled him towards the chairs. “My name is Ild. Do you remember your name?”

“Of course,” he said, opening his mouth only to close it again in stark confusion.

“Yes, well, there’s nothing to worry about. This happens quite a lot, frankly. Few people are ready to deal with this sort of thing, and when it’s surprising, well, some people lose a bit more than they expect. Let’s see what we can do about that…”

Ild picked up the porcelain pot and poured out a creamy brown tea. She tossed in a sprig of something green before handing over his cup. He took it graciously, and took a careful sip.

Before long, the cup was empty.

There was screaming. Shouting. The sound of metal on metal as soldiers fought in the streets. He hadn’t even wanted to be here, but he had needed food and candles. He had brought a few pelts to trade — he knew a tailor who would always buy his skins — but everything was wrong. People were running, men and women were swinging wood and metal about. The scent of gunpowder, the clatter of armor…

All was confusion. The scent and sound of death clouded the senses, and a city of once bright and loving people was now shrouded in miasmic clouds, smothered in a horrid blanket of pain and darkness.

He was spared this confusion. He could see the faces. He could hear every scream in perfect and vivid detail. He saw every drop of mud flying through the air as it was churned up by leather boots and wooden soles. He could taste the blood in the air, and could hear the whine of bullet and blade cutting through the air. He could feel the blood pumping through his body as his legs carried him through the streets. He needed to run, get as far away from the chaos and death as he could. He needed to escape the constant suffering. He needed to escape to his cabin, the forest, away from the war, the people, the pain…

There was a crack of a rifle, the sound of an iron ball spinning through the air, bone breaking, blood spilling…

And then…

The Hermit opened his eyes. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. His face was burning, but there was something cold…he lifted his fingers to gently touch the streaks of tears that now stained his cheeks.

“What was…” he paused as realization sank in.

“It’s a draft of recall,” Ild said as the man’s face fell. “Ground quartz steeped in boiling water for almost a day. You needed to remember, and I think you had forgotten quite a bit more than you realized, yes? You were crying for quite a while.”

The Hermit looked down into his teacup, where his tears had mingled with the leftover ground crystal. He took a shuddering breath. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Ild reached out to take his hand as the mouse returned to climb up her arm and rest on her shoulder. “The mists kept it from you for as long as they could. Good thing I caught you before you went over the bridge.”

“I…” The Hermit looked at his wet fingertips. “That was the clearest I’d ever…Life never felt that clear. It was always so…messy, wasn’t it? Like looking through water. There was always too much to see and smell and feel…” He looked up. “I wasn’t ready to die. I don’t…I don’t know if I’m ready now.”

“Life is an incredibly valuable thing,” Ild said, gently stroking the mouse with her thumb. “If it weren’t, why, I doubt you’d have cried much over it.”

“Will I become a ghost?” The Hermit gripped the cup tighter to keep from shaking as he asked. “If I am not ready to die…”

“Would you like to be?”

The Hermit shook his head as he looked back at his own tears. “But…There was still so much —”

He stopped. Had there been anything he had wanted to do? All his life, the world had felt too harsh and stinging to be something worth staying in. He had been consumed with the idea that there had to be something better, something more real than the world of cities, stone streets, and messy people.

“It all happened so fast,” his voice was aimless, dreamlike. “I was running, the bullet was…sharp…”

“Where did you live?”

The Hermit blinked. “In the woods to the east. I was a hermit, devoting my life to the contemplation of the divine…” he smiled. “You know, I tried to distance myself from the world, but I hunted and gathered for my food, kept no fire, and spent more time trying to survive than meditate. I wonder, was there more divinity in the forests than in my mind?”

“Hah!” Ild snorted and waved her hand from side to side. “Don’t ask me!”

The Hermit laughed along with Ild before he set the cup down. “In all my life, I never saw the world so clearly and brightly as I remember dying. How odd, that in death everything should be more divine than in my life.”

“The world is the world,” Ild shrugged. “We all live in it before we move on. Even dying is a part of life, like your forest. It don’t matter how much we try to separate ourselves, we always get pulled back.”

“Until now,” the Hermit smiled.

“Until now,” Ild nodded. “You knew the Tailor, then? Sold him your furs?”

“Just a few,” the Hermit scratched his chin. “He always paid me just enough to get whatever supplies I needed. A few candles here, some bread and milk there…I don’t think he ever knew I noticed. He was very…kind, to me. He spoke softly, never tried to tie me up in small talk or question my hermitage. He was…gentle.”

“I bet he’d be very grateful to know you felt that way,” Ild smiled. “Very grateful indeed.”

The Hermit stood up, and it was only then that he saw the hundreds of eyes peering out from the walls and piles of cast-offs. Countless mice were watching them from the rafters, the shelves, the holes that peeked through the half-rotten wood of the cabin. It could have been unsettling, but something about the mass of tiny bodies was comforting. He wasn’t alone, was never alone, had never been alone, no matter how hard he had tried.

“Did I waste my life?” he asked, more of himself than Ild.

“Who knows?” Ild answered all the same. “All I know is you, same as everyone, were worth every day you had.”

Those words kept with the Hermit as he bid Ild farewell and left the rickety hut. They stayed in his mind as he walked down the path towards the bridge — easy to see now that the mists had lifted. They echoed in his mind as he started to cross, and somehow, they were enough.