Shadow Chatter

The Minister of Tea

From the dunes of the crystal desert far off in the Eitherlands

Where the sun stretches horizon to horizon

He wore a mask of marbled bone 

And carried a satchel of dried leaves that trembled in their restless sleep

He hungered for nothing in his flesh

For the dust of the Ebony Matron's womb was

Pressed into a shallow dish of water from the sea

And pasted across his cheeks, under his mask

And the dunes rolled in a sun-soaked stillness, frozen in heat

Until he came to a small headstone of compressed clay

The inscription gnawed both by sand 

And Memory

He placed the small jar

Filled it with water

As the tea leaves swirled, glistening

A thin arm shot up from the grave and grasped his coat sleeve

A black cloud as if of flies burst from the sand beneath the jar

And then there was a small girl of gray skin and dark eyes

Clutching his wrist

He reached out and touch the stream of tears on her right cheek

And wiped the moisture onto her left ankle

He took two fingers and dipped them into the tea of the jar

And wiped it onto her right ankle

Her tears became dust and blew away

She gazed upon his mask and asked,

"What is your wish?"

He lifted his mask just enough to sip the tea from the jar.

"I wish to know what you always wanted that you never received."

Her eyes shone as if the tears would flow anew.

"A kiss on the forehead."

He sipped the tea a second time.

He spat upon his left hand and rubbed it on his mask.

With the same two fingers, he pressed them to his lips

Then he pressed the same fingers two her forehead

And she blinked.

"I mourn for those who never knew you," he whispered.

"I mourn for myself," she sighed.

"As you should," he nodded.

And she became agitated and reached out to him, crying

"O Father, Father I've been waiting for you to find me!  Hold me!"

And she expired and slept on the heated sand, her tears turned to ink

He emptied the tea upon her.

And she became a heap of gray ashes in the shape of a dove, 

licked at by the breeze.