In the Land of Tea and Ravens (19 page)

~29~

Death, by definition, is the end of something. It’s a passing, a step from one world into something else. History is filled with cultures who prepare their dead for the journey. We often spend our lives being afraid of dying. We often spend our lives trying to avoid it. It’s while we are fighting this fear that we forget to live.

~The Tea Girl~

The cup.

Air.

No time.

There was nothing except flames, raining ash, grief, and the cup.

Screams rose into the late morning sky, but Grayson wasn’t sure anymore if it was Lyric screaming for him or if it was him screaming for her.

His stomach twisted, his sluggish mind overcome with horror and pain.

Grayson and Lyric’s relationship had been a brief one. In a strange way, this was what made it
more
. It was like watching fireworks. There was this moment of anticipation followed by the quick rise of a rocket. Then
came
the beauty, the explosive sparkles, and the pin-wheeling magnificence. It was light overcoming the darkness. Fireworks took the breath away and mesmerized the eyes. When they ended, they left behind a strange sort of wanting, an exhaling moment of waiting, as if the waiting would bring more.

Lyric and Grayson’s relationship was like fireworks.

They’d risen quickly, they’d sparkled, they’d captured the darkness and now … they waited.

The cup.

Air.

No time.

There was nothing except flames, raining ash, grief, and the cup.

It was the fear that made Grayson
do
it. It was the fear that made him rise. It was the fear that made him jump.

It was the fear of her death. It was the fear of holding another life in his hands and watching as it was destroyed. He’d destroyed his brother. Too many lives and not enough
healing.

It was the fear that made him leap. It was the fear that made him soar. It was the fear that made him fly.

It was the fear, an overwhelming sense of loss he knew he couldn’t live with, that made him do it.

The cup.

Air.

No time.

~30~

All romances, especially the tragic ones, have certain important elements. There is love, there is desperation, there is hope and fear, there are obstacles, and there are mediating characters. There are the people who care, the ones who help carry the characters, and then there are the ones who want nothing more than to destroy what is beautiful, not because they hate it, but because they fear it. Great love is often too much to bear. Great love is terrible. Great love guts a person. Great love is rebirth. Great love is rising from flames of ruin. Great love is an inferno. Great love is simply terrible. It was jealousy that changed the life of the first tea girl. In a way, it was jealousy that changed the life of the current one.
Because, no matter how terrible great love is, everyone wants it.
Everyone wants to feel like they are a careening train on an incomplete track. Everyone wants to feel what it’s like to jump, what it feels like to burn.

~The Tea Girl~

Flying wasn’t a frightening experience. It was the falling that was terrifying.

Screaming.
There was screaming everywhere. Sirens yelled, women cried, and ravens cawed.

Grayson flew.

He flew, and then he fell, his arms pulled into his chest.

It wasn’t until he landed on his back on the damp earth below, his eyes on the sky, that he breathed.

The sun was too bright, the air full of falling ash, the tiny particles captured by his lashes.

His lungs burned, his skin hurt, and his head throbbed, but it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

In that moment—surrounded by ash, popping flames and terrible cries—Grayson laughed. It was wild laughter. The sound of it grew in volume, the crazed guffaw overwhelming the rest of the world.

He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed.

Racking coughs welled up, shaking his body and burning his lungs, and still he laughed.

“Grayson!” a female voice cried.
“Oh my God!
He’s alive!”

Mildred Kramer hobbled toward him, her wrinkled face coming into view. She talked to him, she called his name, and she shook him … yet it didn’t matter. Grayson didn’t see or hear her. There was only the falling ash, the blue sky above, and the beautiful shadows that dotted the morning.

He laughed.

People surrounded him now, their curious gazes full of sympathy and fear. Again, it didn’t matter. Grayson saw no one.

“He’s gone crazy!” someone yelled.

He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed.

Coughs shook him, the pain of it traveling down his muscled frame, and still he laughed.

“We need help!” Mildred Kramer hollered. She knelt next to her grandson, her cool, wrinkled hand coming to rest against his forehead.
“Grayson?”

Instead of replying, he laughed.

Mildred’s touch grew desperate. “Why?” she asked. “Why did you go in there?”

Instead of answering, he laughed.

Above the mayhem, a female scream rose. “Let me go!”

This voice Grayson heard, his head rolling to the side, his gaze lifting.

“Release me!” the woman begged. “Please, release me!”

A scuffled ensued followed by a bellowing, “Do it!” The man’s order was firm. “Release her!”

Through it all, Grayson laughed. His vision was cloudy, the ashes on his lashes causing his eyes to burn. Moisture rolled down his cheeks. Those who saw him swore the droplets were tears.

Still, he laughed.

Tears and laughter.

Above him, a face appeared, hazel eyes meeting his. This face, he saw. He
cherished
this face. Grayson’s arms loosened, his hands cradled against his chest. There, clenched to the scar across his torso, was the cup, unbroken and whole.

Grayson laughed.

The woman above him grinned, her teeth flashing. She was surrounded by ash.
Ash and fire and shadows.

He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed.

The smile above him grew, the woman’s tinkling laughter joining with his.

“They’re insane!” someone hissed.

There was something terribly beautiful about insanity.

There was something terribly beautiful about life.

Mildred Kramer sobbed. “A cup,” she breathed. “You went into a burning house for a cup?”

Grayson continued to chuckle. It was beyond him to stop now, as if his body held too much joy, too much of everything—guilt, pain, love, forgiveness, fear, relief. In the ash-filled sky behind the woman, ravens flew.

Grayson laughed, his cheeks growing wetter.

Beyond them, the house burned. A no man’s land, Lyric had once called it.

Except it wasn’t.

As he laughed, his hand clutching the mug to his heart, his gaze on the birds just beyond her head, he realized something.

He liked it here. He liked it in this insane world, in this no man’s land.

His gaze captured hers.

Kneeling next to him despite the crowd, their mingled laughter like crazed cackles in a sober world, Lyric touched him, her small fingers trailing down the moisture on his cheeks, her palms coming away black and bloody.

Grayson was bleeding, but he was alive. Most importantly, so was she.

Her hands closed over his on his chest, the cup—her life—cradled between them. Their laughter wasn’t as loud now, but it was still there.

“Crazy,” someone muttered.

It was true. They were insane. They were crazy and wild and free.
Because, in the end, they were going to survive.
They were going to live in their no man’s land. They were going to flourish in a land of tea and ravens.

For a long time the house burned, firefighters yelling and running and escorting people away. By some strange twist of fate, no matter how fast the wood burned, how quickly the house
fell,
the porch remained, the rocking chair sitting quietly among the chaos.

As the townsfolk stared, the chair moved.

Creak,
it said.
Creak.

Epilogue

The most beautiful endings are often the ones that still haven’t been told …

~The Tea Girl~

Three months later …

It started with a ceramic coffee cup, the handle too big for her hands, a small place in the top chipped away. It was a well-used cup, the color faded by time. There was nothing special about it, nothing remarkable. It was a plain brown mug, thick and comfortable when held.

The sun was just beginning to rise when she approached the porch, the chilly Mississippi wind beating at her long cotton skirt and bright yellow sweatshirt. Her long, mousy brown hair was piled on the top of her head, tendrils of it swinging against her neck.

If the wind blew just right, smoke still rose from the ruins piled behind the porch. There, standing like a beacon in a world of grey, sat a peeling, whitewashed rocking chair.

As if sensing the woman’s presence, it moved.

Creak,
the chair said.
Creak.

Her eyes fell closed, a thousand emotions descending, cloaking her. In the silence, she sang.

Sing to me, called the maid.

Smile for me, replied the raven.

But I cannot smile, the maid wept.

Then I cannot sing, the raven replied.

To the sky, to the mountain, to the sea.

The bird
flew
.

To the planes, to the future, to the past.

The maid withdrew

A cup, a cup, a cup.

A cup of tea, the raven called.

A cup of tea, my maiden dear.

A cup, a cup, a cup.

A cup of tea.
A cup of fear.

Above her, in the trees, ravens cawed.

“Like a pied piper,” a male voice called.

The girl stilled, her lips twitching, her head lifting. “Did you come for the tea?” she asked.

Colored leaves and twigs snapped as the man approached her, his boots stopping just behind the hem of her multi-colored skirt. She looked like a sunflower growing from ashes.

“I never turn down a cup of tea,” the man whispered.

It had been two months since Lyric Mason had seen Grayson Kramer. After the fire, he’d been rushed to the hospital to be treated for smoke inhalation and a concussion. With the cup safe, Lyric had packed her car and attempted to see him, but the family had refused.

Stories, Lyric was learning, didn’t always end the way we expected them to. There was no forgiveness after the fire, no acceptance. She’d forgiven herself for her past, but it didn’t change how people viewed her and her family. If she could tell them about the cup … Regardless, insanity ran in the family, too.

There had been nowhere for her to go except home. She’d stood outside of the hospital the day she left and stared up at his window, but he’d been unable to meet her there the way he often had when she was inside Old
Ma’am’s
house, their silhouettes facing each other across the fields.

Facing the porch, Lyric stared at the ashes.
So many memories gone.
Her story hadn’t changed. It couldn’t be changed. The cup would always be a part of her life. There’d always be a fear of it. One day, Lyric would pass away and come back as a raven or it would break, and everything would end. Until then, she lived life.

“You don’t want to stay here,” she said.

Mist floated on the breeze in front of her as Grayson exhaled, his breath tickling her ear. He smelled like mint and smoke.

“Your tea girl story needs a new ending,” he said suddenly, his arms snaking around her waist.

She laughed. “Unlike curses, promises can’t be broken.”

Grayson’s chin fell to her shoulder. Her hands fell to his on her waist. He made her feel safe, less on edge.

“No,” he agreed, “they can’t. They don’t have to be broken.”

Her head turned, her gaze catching his. He was thinner, but no
less masculine
, his jaw shadowed.

“Fairy tales have happily ever
afters
,” he said. “True life rarely does. Love isn’t about being with someone because he knows she will live. Love is about being with someone despite knowing she could die.” His gaze searched hers. “Life isn’t guaranteed for anyone. You won’t leave me, Lyric.” He glanced up at the ravens. “You’ll always come back.” His gaze fell back to hers. “It’s why you returned, isn’t it?”

She snorted. “That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?’

“What?” he asked “To presume you’ve fallen in love with me?”

Her brows rose.

He laughed. “Remember, I never told you
not
to fall in love with me. It’s good for a guy’s ego.”

She grinned. “And you?”

“Me?” he asked. “
Oh
, are you asking if I’m in love with you?” His head lifted, his hands rising to her shoulders, turning her so that she faced him. “Lyric, I fell before you told me not to.”

Lyric rarely cried. There was no time in her life for tears, but she felt them now, the moisture burning the back of her eyes.

Grayson’s hand came up to cradle her face. “Aren’t you tired of doing it alone?” he asked. His gaze searched hers.
“Because I am.”
His other hand joined the first, her cheeks smooth against his calloused palms. “I’d rather share every moment with you over your strange cups of tea.”

Laughter escaped her, sending mist rising between them, the temperatures cold enough to carry their breaths on the breeze.

“I’ll never be accepted here,” she whispered.

“And?”
Grayson asked. His hands tightened on her face. “There are other places.
Different towns.
I love my family, and I know they love me. Maybe they’ll accept it at some point. Maybe they won’t.” His gaze went once more to the trees, to the ravens. “But sometimes it’s enough just being with someone who understands.”

He dropped his arms, his hand finding Lyric’s. Lifting it, he placed her palm against his torso, against the healed knife wound on his chest. “We have our scars,” he pointed out, “and that’s okay. It’s okay
not
to be okay. It’s even better not to be okay together.”

Lyric laughed. “Oh, we’re destined for
such
a beautiful future.”

He leaned closed, his solemn expression sobering her. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think we are.”

With that, he lifted something from his pocket, a plain silver necklace. It wasn’t fancy, the chain long. “I’ve been watching the house,” he said. “I knew you’d be back.”

He lifted the necklace. On the end, there was a miniature tea cup with a raven perched on the rim. “It’s corny, I know,” he said on a laugh, “but it makes sense.” He pointed at himself and then at her. “This is it,” he said. “This is home. Not a place. Not a town.
This
.
Us.
Two people.”

He placed the necklace over her head.
“A land of tea and ravens.”

He kissed her then, because not kissing her was wrong. Her lips tasted like tea. They tasted warm. They tasted like home.

Pulling away, Lyric peered up at him. He was right. Walking away from this when there could be a future, no matter how brief, was wrong. She wanted to see where a relationship with him would go.

The memory of their night together in the camper sent warmth through her middle. “The art,” she whispered, “is in the doing not how well it’s done the first time.” The words he’d whispered to her then worked just as well now. The beauty of a relationship was in the trying, not in how much you stumbled while learning to walk.

Her hand found his face. “Smile, Grayson.”

He grinned. “Run, Lyric.”

On the porch, the rocking chair moved.
Creak,
the chair said.
Creak.

Caws filled the air as ravens took flight, their wings fluttering. On the breeze, two breaths lifted, the mingled mist making a journey through a no man’s land, through a land of tea and ravens.