Fortunes in Tea

There weren’t always dragons in the valley,

There weren’t always beasts in the sea.

There weren’t always wisps in the alley,

Nor were there fortunes in tea.

The world was once quiet and humble,

A place where none did roam.

But then came the spark and the rumble,

When the dragons made their home.

Marilla Oceana of Ferth was a witch of great renown. She had recused princesses and advised kings. She had been trusted with state secrets and secret missions. She had saved dynasties and brought down regimes.

And now, all she wanted was to be left alone.

“Oh come on Milly, something must have changed by now!”

The witch opened her eyes to glare at the boy across the table. “I’ve already told you, Rupert. Nothing has changed. Not in the leaves. Not in the cards. Not in the waters, glass, or bones. Your destiny,” she dropped her voice with a mocking wiggle of her fingers, “remains the same. You’re just going to have to marry someone else.”

“But there is no one else,” he huffed. “I knew I would marry Lucy Cooper the day that I met her. When I was six!”

“Do you think maybe that’s part of the problem?” Marilla muttered as she swept the yellowed knuckle bones into their velvet pouch. Apparently, young Rupert didn’t hear, for he earnestly pressed on.

“She’s smart, beautiful, courageous,” Marilla rolled her eyes as she brushed past him to the back of the shop. “Did you know one time she fought off a fox from her father’s hens with a stick?”

“Scared off, more like.” Rupert tailed her like a baby duck, neatly side-stepping a stack of books in a dance that was becoming unfortunately well-rehearsed. Marilla made a face as she mouthed along to the next part of the speech.

“She has a voice like an angel, eyes like a nymph, and the words she says,” he sighed, lost to the world in his daydream, “they make me feel like anything is possible.” The boy paused, drained teacups in hand. Wistful memories played across his face before he returned to his current circumstances. “But she won’t marry me unless I can change my destiny!”

Marilla sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, and noticed that her shelves desperately needed to make the acquaintance of a feather duster. She could have sworn she’d just cleaned them a week ago… or maybe three. Oops.

Turning back to the matter at hand and Rupert’s freckled face, she felt her frustration melt into sympathy. The poor boy was no older than 16, with honest features and hair bleached by long days in the sun. He was a good lad, a farmer’s lad, and he was right about Lucy Cooper. Albeit with some exaggeration.

Every village Marilla had ever passed through had a Lucy Cooper. A rare beauty, blessed by the Soil and the Heavens, who shone beyond the rest. Many of them, who had good luck and better timing, would be swept up by some knight errant and taken away to what should have been a better life. The girls’ families would wave handkerchiefs in teary goodbyes as they watched their beaming daughters ride away. All would be unaware of the true character such gallant knights possess, but that was for girls to find out and the parents never to discover.

Others would settle for less, marrying the alderman’s son and becoming a leader in the village that adored her. These young Lucy’s would go on to lead lives of quiet greatness, and towns would praise their virtues of humility and grace. Whether such virtues truly existed was beyond the point. The girls’ beauty would turn any withering looks and pointed comments into starry-eyed gazes and moments of great insight.

But a ragged few would tire of the attention and the pedestals. They would flee to the woods and the witches, away from groping hands and pleading eyes. These young girls would learn the secrets of the world and become their purveyors. They would let the sun crease their faces and small magics flow from their hands. The would gladly give their looks for knowledge and their adoration for reverance. It wasn’t Marilla’s story, but then, she’d never been much of a Lucy Cooper.

If Marilla had to guess, this particular Lucy’s ambition would lead her to the first category, although it truly didn’t matter. Regardless of what happened to her, Lucy Cooper would not marry Rupert Till, because Lucy Cooper’s never married Rupert Till’s. This challenge of changing fates was just another tactic of pushing back the inevitable.

But how could Marilla explain such things to the eager eyes before her? Rupert took his world at face value and gave it back the same. To explain Lucy’s cowardice in prolonging his affections, or Rupert’s selfishness at demanding hers seemed a cruel thing. And yet, someone had to curb the boy’s naivete, and he wasn’t getting younger.

“Listen, Rupert,” she said gently, taking the cups from his hands. Bless the child, he’d washed them and was trying to scrub away stains left by decades of readings. “Changing one’s destiny is no easy feat-”

“I know, I know.” He turned back to the wash basin, tackling the first stack of mortars and mixing bowls he found. “But I took your advice! I started with small things. I made myself a training sword from a birch branch and I’ve been practicing with it twice a day. I started patrolling the farm for beasts and pests. I left a gift for the spirits of the woods. And I started eating three portions of barley every day!”

Marilla opened her mouth to bring the boy back to the point but paused. “I didn’t tell you to do any of that, although I guess I can see how you came to those conclusions. Why the barley though?”

“Barley’s the crop the Mother of Fates gave the farmers when the good Soil threatened to freeze,” Rupert explained in a tone that implied an obvious connection, “It symbolizes humanity’s destiny to endure.”

Heavens save me from the superstitions of farmers.

“Right. Well, that’s an admirable effort,” Marilla said, smothering her exasperation. “My point is, changing one’s destiny is no easy feat. The whole purpose of a destiny is that it sums up future events, and it takes your attempts to change it into account.” Her face and voice softened as Rupert fiddled with the sponge in his hands. “Sometimes, it’s better to live a good life of contentment, rather than spending your years chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.”

The boy- no, the young man- reddened as he carefully scrubbed the last bowl in the pile, throwing all his attention into the task. It’d been an age since Marilla was sixteen, but his disappointment struck a familiar note within her. She watched his eyes as they searched for a way around her words.

“So you’re saying it’s impossible, then.” The statement was supposed to sound casual, but his sudden lack of emotion was revealing. Her next words would have to be delicate but conclusive. Any girl could break his heart, but Marilla had nursed every fever Rupert had since he was two. She refused to risk his trust now.

“I’m saying that your destiny is a good one, and there’s a big world that could be missed in the pursuit of Lucy Cooper.”

“Not that I’ll see it, if I’m to be a farmer like you say,” Rupert grumbled as she guided him to the door.

“Well, you never know what will happen between now and then.” She paused in the sunlight, enjoying the contrast to the cold shadows of her workshop. Herbs and tinctures had to be kept cool and dry to maintain their potency, but on spring days like this, when the dew danced on spiders’ webs and the breeze played coy, she wished she could throw open her shutters and invite the entire forest inside.

“Now,” Marilla said, turning to the squinting and sullen face before her, “I’m going to give you some advice that, as a small businesswoman, is frankly appalling.” She leaned closer to his confused expression and smiled. “Stop spending your money here. Take your friends and your sorrows and go do something that makes you happy. Something that doesn’t,” she emphasized, holding up a finger to his protesting mouth, “involve pining after a certain Miss Cooper.” She pressed a small bundle into the palm of his hand.

“And take this tea.”

“But I thought you said to give up on reading fortunes,” Rupert said, his confusion returning.

“My dear boy, it’s not for divination. You’ve been eating three portions of barely every day since last we spoke, no?” She leaned in even closer to whisper, despite her workshop’s relative isolation. “It’s for the constipation.”

She grinned at his scarlet cheeks, watching with satisfaction as he bowed his thanks before scurrying between the oak trees.

A good lad indeed. she was proud of the man Rupert was quickly becoming.

Marilla took one more deep breath as he disappeared from sight, then planted calloused hands on hips as she turned to face the woods to her left. The shadow was there again. More of a sensation than a physical apparition, it gave her the feeling of being under observation.

“I don’t care who you are or what you want. Understand this,” her voice was low but she knew the shade would have no troubles hearing, “I. Am. Retired. Find some other errand boy.”

With a resolute nod of her head, Marilla marched back inside the dark shop. Grandmother Elma would soon run out of nettle salve, and her arthritis wasn’t going to treat itself.

“Fortunes in tea,

Fortunes in tea,”

Marilla sang softly as she set about her work,

“Come now good witch, tell me what do you see?

Dragons in valleys or beasts in the sea,

Tell me of fortunes that swim in the tea.”