Chapter 5 #2
Oaklin pulled down each tea tin and smelled the contents until they found the one that suited their mood.
One was the same soothing yellow-and-orange flower blend from the day before.
The second was a black tea with chunks of dried fruit mixed in that smelled rich and sweet, like chocolate and cherries.
When Oaklin popped the lid on the last one, they were instantly transported, a child slouched beside the hearth in their family home, reading a book after being sent inside as an ineffective punishment.
Being a random middle child in a very large, very practical farming family hadn’t always been easy.
Being the only one with magic in a family that scorned it was even less easy—hard work triumphed over all.
And yet, despite that, the holes in Oaklin’s memory where those family members should be were painful.
There were snatches of time, the occasional face, a general memory of their own personal timeline and feelings, but so many of the specifics were gone.
That hearth, though…that they remembered.
Those moments by the hearth had been tiny pockets of joy where they could wholly sink into their own world.
The tin of tea was like that feeling in a box, heavily smoky and almost savory in its aroma.
Oaklin took it over to the table and measured out a scoop of the loose tea leaves into their mug. The ghost hovered just behind the entire time.
“Still think ‘just borrowing a library book’ is too easy a task?”
Oaklin closed their eyes against the memory of the Enchantrix’s voice, scowling.
“You’re awfully cheeky for a dead person,” they shot back.
“What, you think I should be grumpy and mope around the house?” the ghost retorted. “Because I can do that.”
“Please don’t.”
“Ohhh woe, my life is over! Now all I have in the entire world is the endless power to annoy this one single human—”
Oaklin sighed. “I have regrets.”
There was a moment of quiet as Oaklin added water to the mug and watched the tea leaves slowly unfurl, releasing their flavor in ribbons of brown.
Without any distractions, the incident from earlier planted itself front and center in Oaklin’s mind.
That voice… Was it memory? A vision of the future?
Or was the Enchantrix calling out from somewhere, still alive and summoning their followers?
Oaklin took a slow breath and turned to the ghost.
“Did you know what was going to happen?” they asked in a whisper. The pause that followed was heavy, the snarky mood evaporating.
“Eh. ‘Know’ is a strong word,” Granny finally replied. Oaklin couldn’t even muster the energy to be frustrated. Cryptic as always. They lifted the steaming mug of tea to their nose and inhaled deeply, letting their eyes fall shut.
The second they closed, though, the images from earlier were waiting for them. The smokiness of the tea was the scent of burning torches, the aftermath of fire magic, and the Enchantrix was there, bellowing their dying panic.
“NO! I WILL NOT—”
Something in Oaklin’s head snapped.
The cultist stands in a vast subterranean chamber with stone walls and flickering torches, head aching like their skull has been cracked open. Blood slides from their knife to the floor in a slow
drip
drip
drip.
Why do they have a knife?
Why is there blood?
The Enchantrix looms atop a dais in the far corner, battered and bloody, hands raised as they channel some hellish spell. And there in front of them…a band of five heroes, powerful and righteous, locked in combat with others who wear the same robes as the cultist.
Cutting down their brethren.
No remorse.
No hesitation.
The cultist sees their same sudden terror and confusion in the eyes of the others as they too awaken to this nightmare.
Just in time to die.
One of the heroes turns toward the cultist, sword raised, with an expression of grim determination.
They are a thing to be exterminated.
Oaklin wrenched their eyes open and breathed…breathed…
Just…breathed.
They stared down into their tea, too afraid to close their eyes again, but too overwhelmed to do anything else. The ghost, who had thus far only paced restlessly or lurked in dark corners, sat down beside them.
“You’re going to be okay, you know,” she said gently.
The tears came all in one hot rush.
The ghost. Oaklin could almost see maybe a curl of gray hair, or the faintest impression of a lined mouth. But then it was gone, all depthless shadow once again.
“Oh, you know that, do you?” Oaklin choked out, swiping angrily at the droplets on their cheeks.
“I do,” the ghost said.
“I thought ‘know’ was a strong word.”
“It is. And I say again: I know you will be okay,” the ghost said, her tone firm and brooking no argument. “Now, drink your tea.”
Oaklin took a sip of the deep brown liquid and…
It was like the tension bled out of their limbs all at once.
The flavor was rich and comforting, as smoky as its scent implied, like drinking a quiet night around the campfire with friends.
Oaklin drank and breathed, drank and breathed, letting their body come down from the skin-tingling panic.
Beside them, the ghost turned, though she still seemed to stare into the hearth flames.
“Tomorrow, we start learning things that will help,” she said. “The real work.”
“Farming, you mean?” Oaklin asked.
“That too.”
Well, that was as straightforward as Oaklin had come to expect. They had no idea if they should believe this weird ghost lady, but gods above, they really, really wanted to.
Oaklin wanted to be okay. They wanted the new life they’d been dreaming of.
And tomorrow, they would start making it happen.