High Tea

November 11, this year
Pico Island, Azores, Portugal
4pm AZOT

From the open tent door Loche can see an emerald grid of hedgerows and vineyards far below. The encircling blue of the Atlantic beyond is like an airy hangman’s noose. His fear of the ocean… ever present, he thinks. A short distance away, across the flat summit, Edwin is searching the stone fissures and cracks for frogs. He is bundled up in a black stocking cap and coat. For some reason he believes frogs live at this height.

Loche touches Julia’s hand. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Julia shrugs. “The Rathinalya is nearly unbearable. I’ve heard several others say they’ve never felt anything quite like it.” She turns and watches Edwin for a moment. “Even Helen is forced to keep her distance. I suppose for me, it is a sensation I’ll have to get used to.”

“How are you able to manage it now?”

“I’m coming out of my skin, to tell you the truth.” He sees her hand pinching the key beneath her blouse. “But I can manage.”

He pulls her close. She is shaking.

“I won’t be parted from you again,” she says. “So I must figure out a way to bear this, this, whatever this is. I hope there is a way.”

“Ribbit,” Edwin says. His head down and his fingers scrabbling in the stones.

“I’ll need breaks from him,” she says. “I’ll figure that out.”

Half a dozen guards in all black walk the perimeter of the stony height. Loche thinks he can hear them whispering. Maybe they are questioning just how long they must endure the stinging Rathinalya emanating from the young god among them. Maybe they are lamenting the dark fate that seems inescapable.

“Poet?” George’s voice calls from outside. “Join us, yes?”

Loche and Julia step out into the cold. Corey Thomas and George are standing a few meters from the tent, and both are craning their necks, scanning the pyramidal structure that looms above.

“How is the boy?” George asks.

“Looking for frogs,” Loche answers.

George smiles.

“Why are we here?”

Corey interrupts, “Angofal, should we do this first?” He points to Loche’s bag.

“Yes,” George says.

“Loche, Julia, let us take your shoulder bags. We would like to provision them.”

The two pass their bags to him. Corey hands them to another of the company.

“We are here because this,” George says, pointing to the rising stones. “And tea.”

“I don’t understand,” Loche says.

Corey laughs. “No—and why should you? Of course, your imagination may have catalyzed many strange and formidable powers, but you cannot be the sole creator. For from your creation come efficacies and artisans building upon your word. This, my dear fellow, is a pyramid.”

“So I see.”

“Ah, but do you? Mysterious structures, these. Millenniums old.” He sighs and questions as if to some disembodied audience, “Tombs? Energy beacons? Extraterrestrial origin?” He shrugs and chuckles.

“This does not look quite symmetrically designed,” Loche notes, “It looks more like a volcanic cone has pressed upward.”

“Yes,” Corey agrees. “And it is so. Endale, she too builds her own pyramids. The Earth, her art influences us all. Fascinating.”

“Pyramids exist here in our lives,” George says, “and they exist there, as well. In the Orathom. Or so says your brother, Basil, yes?”

Loche traces the triangular lines upward to the blue sky. Some fifty or so meters up, three of the Orathom Wis are steadily climbing. The summit is perhaps another twenty meters above. Given the rocky terrain, the climb does not appear to be difficult save for the steep incline.

“As a rule,” Corey says, “Three at a time may use an omvide, that is, a pyramid.”

“Use a pyramid?”

“Why yes, and after, there must be a period of waiting. Some thirty minutes.” He says to George, “Enough time for tea.”

“Yes,” George agrees. “After tea, omvide is ready again.”

Corey turns and calls, “Alice? Are they making tea yet?”

From inside another tent, Alice calls back, “Indeed, my Lord, Thomas.” Alice appears with a tray of cups. Behind her, another of the company carries two silver pots. The flutes steam in the icy air.

Leonaie Echelle follows behind Alice, carrying a plate of yellow cakes. “Is this your first time?” she asks. Both Loche and Julia share a confused glance.

“So it seems. Though, I don’t know what you mean,” Loche answers.

Leonaie smiles. “Samuel took me to a pyramid in Mexico once. 1969, I think it was. We had tea and watched William and two other Orathom Wis…” she breaks off. She leans toward Loche and says quietly, “Dr. Newirth, I have something that I think you should have… But I don’t know if… My Samuel would have wanted you to have it…” George’s voice interrupts her, “See there,” he says. Leonaie steps back and looks up the incline.

The three climbers have reached the top. At the summit (which is no larger than maybe five or so meters across, Loche figures), they turn and face the company below. One waves. George responds by raising his hand, as if signaling approval.

The three turn to the center of the summit, take two steps inward and vanish.

Loche scowls and rubs his eyes.

Julia says, “What the?”

“Now,” George says, “we sip the tea.”