The ongoing collection Volume XIII

 

By J. R. Wagner

TheNeverChronicles.com

       

                               J. R. Wagner TheNeverChronicles.com

The twenty-first day of August (corrected) The year is unknown Yet again I woke to find myself somehow returned to my childhood bed. Once again I updated my journal and moved quickly through the doorway. He was there, of course, sitting in that same corner seat. This time inspecting two tea tins. He looked up briefly before returning to his analysis. I cautiously made my way to the table. When it became apparent he was not going to interrupt his study, I took it upon myself to sit in the opposite chair, which was, of course, pulled away from the table in enticing fashion. The old man lifted a tall rectangular tin, removed the lid and inhaled. A grin spread across his face. Even from where I sat, I could make out the intoxicating fragrance. He repeated the process with the other, shorter, round tin. The scent was distinctly different yet no less seductive. He replaced the lid and finally looked up at me. I find it particularly vexing to decide between the Chinese dian hong an India’s Darjeeling. Both, when harvested at the proper time of year, are absolutely fantastic. Do you have a preference? He asked casually. Of all the questions I expected him to ask, this wasn’t in the realm of candidates for an introductory inquiry. The old man held his gaze making it apparent he was not continuing the conversation until the question was answered. I have to admit, I said, I’ve never had a Chinese. You’ve never had dian hong? A tragedy to say the least. It’s decided then, we will share the Chinese. He raised his finger as if getting someone’s attention. I turned, looking behind the counter. Nobody was there. Turning back to the man, I noticed in place of the tins were two cups and a steaming pot of tea between them. Shall I? He asked already lifting the pot and filling the cups. I was about to ask him how on earth he’d managed to do that so quickly when he spoke again. I must insist that you take your tea as nature intended –without all that nonsense . So many have gotten into the habit of infesting their tea with these impurities. Milk, sugar, honey, blasphemy! He lifted his cup and waited for me to do the same. As I lifted, the aroma wound through my nostrils sending every scent gland into a state of orgasmic euphoria. The old man smiled once again and moved his cup to his lips. He drank slowly. I did the same. The taste was of soft caramel –sweet, a combination of flavors I recall from my youth. The golden buds offered very little astringency. Perfection in a cup. I lifted my eyes –The old man was studying my expression.

       

                               J. R. Wagner TheNeverChronicles.com

Clears away the worries of a lifetime in a single swallow, he said in his deep buttery voice. I nodded and sipped again, feeling the warmth course down my throat into my core and out my extremities. Never had I felt such a sensation. Not a word was spoken as we finished our cups. The old man refilled both, steepled his fingers and exhaled sending his moustache away from his lips with a burst of air. I am certain you have questions you’d like to ask just as I am certain that I have much to tell you. This is a process that must be handled with the utmost care. We must now proceed with measured caution and pacing. Now, a courtesy we have so rudely bypassed; allow me to introduce myself, he said. My name is Akil Karanis, the old man said with a smile. A strange name no doubt but somehow fitting for this strange man. I presume you have already reasoned that I am well aware of who you are, he said. I hadn’t time at all to think about much of anything let alone the thoughts of the old man in my imaginary tearoom but I presume it made sense that this man, being a part of my mind’s creation, would be familiar so I nodded. Very good, he said excitedly. You may call me Akil. I nodded again. He lifted his cup and slowly sipped. His eyes were a dark purple –a color I’d never seen before. They had a far away look to them as he drank. Now, he said, lowering his cup. To business. Indeed, I replied. What is it you came to see me about? He asked. I was perplexed. I certainly had not called this meeting yet I suppose if it was taking place in my tearoom that thusly must be a manifestation of my own creation, it was only logical that he was correct. Are you one of them? I asked like a fool grasping at the first question I could think of. I’m not entirely sure what you mean, he replied. Are you an Alverist? I asked. He looked at me quizzically for a moment then replied. Oh, yes Alverist. I apologize. I so seldom hear the phrase, I’d forgotten the intent. He paused looking out the window as a cluster of dry leaves blew past on a late autumn breeze. No, sir, he said, I am not an Alverist. Then what are you? I replied. A man. A guide. Nothing more, he said. My pardon, Mr. Karanis, but you are far from an ordinary man, I said. Am I? He asked. I am a clever man, I suppose. I believe I understand what you think I am, which in part is correct and similarly incorrect. I am here as your guide, Sir, and at this moment we have but one destination, he said. Where? I asked. Down the black stair, he replied as fear gripped me and drug me into blackness.