“Normally it is my custom to treat my readers to a Thanksgiving dinner on the night before the holiday season starts,” she said. “But circumstances prohibit it this year. Let me just wish you all happy holidays, and we will all gather here again on the second of January.”
Readers began filing out to find their cars in the blow. The abruptness of it all was unsettling. Not many goodbyes were said.
I was putting on my topcoat when Miss Theresa accosted me.
“Mr. Shaner, I will have my keys.”
I gave them up without a quiver of regret.
“Now you must go,” she said, showing me to the door. “I must shutter the windows and be away before this thricedamned storm gathers its full strength.” Her voice had lost its thin Yankee gentility. She was all business now. The door cracked open, letting in a gust of bitter air and freezing particles.
“Be happy to help,” I offered.
“That is Cap’n Terrill’s duty,” she coldly returned.
“See you in the New Year, then,” I said, exiting. But she was already locking the door behind me.
I pushed out into the snow. The Nor’easter pushed back. Squinching my eyes shut and lowering my head, I tried to make headway, but the wind was too stiff. I wasn’t planning to go far, anyway. Creeping back, I found the cellar window that once doubled as a coal chute. It opened easily. I had unlatched it when I got the day’s tea that morning.
Feet first, I slid down the coal-dust-smeared chute and awaited nightfall. I was still without a plan. Perhaps I would accost the old woman, and pry from her the exact location of the family tea plantation in modern Thailand. Possibly a more elegant solution would present itself. It didn’t much matter. As long as I got what I wanted.
Darkness fell howling. I stood inured to it, immured in the ancient cellar like a man loitering in his own tomb. I rather enjoyed the delicious feeling of imperviousness to the roaring elements. It appealed to the same Scorpionic side of my personality that had compelled me to play among the headstones and tombs of the old Copp’s Hill Burying Ground as a child.
I let time pass. Examining the open chests, I found only a crumbly pound or two of Kingsport tea. It had long since lost its aromatic pungency. Yet even in its weakened state, it filled my head with strange fancies.
King Mongkut came to life in my mind’s eye. I saw him, shaven of skull and attired in saffron and maroon vestments, and standing before that basalt idol with the inexplicably Egyptian name, ceremonially pouring what appeared to be copper vats of rich red wine into a dark soil that would give back the nutrients added therein in the form of bushels of fresh green tea leaves. Normally, I do not smell things psychically, but I detected a metallic odor that was unmistakably blood. Intuitively, I knew it was human blood.
I shuddered in spite of myself. Blood sacrifice. That was what nourished the strange soil that gave up the dark leaves of Kingsport tea. No matter. It was the final product, not its manufacturing process, which concerned me. If I had to spill human blood to maintain my supply of tea, I would do so without conscience or compunction.
The thick boards above my head were creaking in the incessant wind buffeting the old home. The great timbers of the frame — the very timbers that gave shape and form to the hull of the long-lost Blue Moon—groaned like a stirring giant. But I felt no fear. For over a century, this place had survived gales and hurricanes without losing its structural integrity. Just hold together for another night, I beseeched whatever gods might be, and I will have what I most lust for.
Above my head, I detected footfalls. Time to act!
Climbing the stairs, I came to the entry door. It fell open at a touch. I eased it wider, hoping the Holy Lord hinges would not make a betraying creak. They obliged me.
Stepping out into darkness, I moved from pantry to kitchen, into the reading rooms. All was dark. The universe outside was a white howling madness.
And in the middle of the floor stood two facing figures: Miss Theresa and old Cap’n Terrill. They were deep in low, earnest conversation and took no notice of me.
Cap’n Terrill was saying: “We must sail now, mistress, lest the ship come apart in this blow.”
“Tradition demands we sail with the new moon, and return with the blue. I will not brook breaking with tradition, captain. Misfortune will result, according to the stars.”
“Curse yer stars!” The old salt flung his arms open, as if to encompass the entire environment. “Look about ye! She’s shaking and complaining. What if she’s carried out to sea in this state? What will ye do then, I ask?”
Miss Theresa started to object, but the old seaman cut her off.
“Damn yer eyes, woman! I built this ship long before you were born, and I’ll not stand by and watch her be destroyed all over again! You may be the owner, but I am captain. Before God and the Infernal One, my word is law and my will shall be done!”
The words lifted above the howl and whine of contending winds. They registered on my ears, but my brain refused them.
At that moment, the house gave a sudden sideways jerk. Then a jolt knocked me off my feet. My heart went into my throat. I thought the structure had been thrown off its foundations. Another jolt flung me in the opposite direction. It felt like an earthquake.
Stifling a cry of fear, I scrambled to my feet. I was heard.
“Who is that?” Cap’n Terrill demanded. “Who goes there?”
Miss Theresa’s reply was cool and unconcerned: “Just a new member of the crew, Esau. Pay him no heed.” Something in her words frightened me more than Terrill’s challenging bellow.
I made a run for the back door. It refused to open. The door stood in its jamb, as firm and fixed as a tomb portal. The kitchen window had been shuttered from without. No exit there.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The house was heaving, its floor — no, its deck — no dammit its floor, was warping and rolling as if the raging Atlantic had swept in to carry it off into the storm. I rushed to the pantry window. It was a small octagonal pane, but large enough for my purposes.
In the darkness, I could not find the latch. It was not where it should be. The wood frame felt cold and steely, and I had the curious impression I was fighting to open something other than a conventional window.
Heavy booted feet came up behind me. I turned — and caught a flash glimpse of Cap’n Terrill, wrapped in a slick yellow Sou’wester, his wind-reddened features a knot of angry meat, lifting an old belaying pin high.
It came crashing down. I did not hear the crash.
When I awoke, there was thick blood in my mouth, tooth fragments on my tongue. I expelled these. Groaning, I climbed out of a malodorous bunk bed in some dark space.
The whining howl of winter winds buffeted the dark walls of the room. I did not recognize it, for the clanking of heavy chain drew my attention away from my surroundings.
I was in fetters and leg irons, I saw. My soul grew cold.
Going to the solitary window, I found an octagonal port. It resembled the pantry window, but was fixed. The world beyond its porthole-style glass was a cold white confusion. Where was I?
The room was small and cramped, its walls a dark plum hue. Like the tea room pantry, but even more unlike it. There were familiar cupboards. I opened one. It was empty. But on the reverse of the door lay a discernable profusion of carven initials. I recognized Thom’s distinctive brand. And Starla’s. I shrank from the impossible sight.
Was I dreaming?
Fumbling open the only door, I came upon a set of rough-hewn plank stairs identical to the tea room’s cellar steps. But this was not that cellar, though the heavy damp atmosphere possessed a similar musty salt tang.