In the Night Garden

“Have you seen the new wife?” she asked, her timbre low as an iron horn.

“No—I did not know we were due.”

“I have seen her. She is not kept with us. But if you would leave this place as I would—”

“Why would I want to leave? I chose to wear yellow and play cards with the old wives.”

Immacolata looked at me as though I was mad. Her eyes widened, and I could see the oily gold with which she lined her lashes. “I thought you were like me,” she said quietly.

“I am!” Foolishly, I clutched her hands. She snatched them away.

“No, no, I wish to leave this place more than anything, more than I wished to be a bird when I was a child, or to learn the craft of tea-making, when I was grown…”

THE TALE

OF THE

TEA-MAKER AND

THE SHOEMAKER

I DO NOT REMEMBER BEING MADE OF TEA. MY mother told me this story, and then my father told it to me, and it was the same story, so I am sure that it is true, or at least that they have agreed upon it.

Saffiya was a shoemaker, and she lived in her cobbler’s shop, which had a copper bell over the door and a knocker in the shape of a sole. She was not a beauty—but among her shoes no woman would shine. She made shoes of blue silk and shoes of black leather, shoes embroidered with scenes of leafy forests and flowers as intricate as a fingerprint. She made huntsman’s boots and soldier’s boots and boots fit to withstand a Quest, and she made dancing slippers: shoes of gold and shoes of silver, shoes of fur and shoes of glass. She made tiny shoes shaped like cups with woolen sides and iron soles for her cloven-hoofed customers, and long, knitted socks for the serpentine. She made three-toed shoes for aviary custom and gently shaped iron into horseshoes. She had even made, as an experiment, a large and generous single shoe, with space to wiggle the toes, in case a Monopod happened by. On this great shoe she carefully stitched scenes of wine-making in expensive violet thread, dyed with the saliva of a certain snail. Her most famous shoes, which none had yet been able to afford, sat in the window like a relic in a shrine. They were made of raw black silk and green thread, and had soles which were so fine they would not dare to whisper on a floor of pebbles. It was said that they felt like the dreams of Saffiya when slipped on the feet. Among her shoes she was plain and hardworking, her hair the color of leather laces, her eyes the shade of well-worn soles.

Elpidios was a tea-maker, and he lived in his teahouse, a small place with a grass-thatch roof and long rows of tea plants before and behind. He was not a beauty—but among his teas no man would shine. He made green teas that tasted of warm hay and sunlight, black teas that tasted of smoke and sugar, red teas that tasted of cinnamon and blood, yellow teas that tasted of frankincense and dandelion root. He made delicate white teas that tasted of jasmine and snow. He made winter tea from the last dried leaves and twigs of the harvest, and this tasted of bread and grief. He made teas from cherry blossoms and chrysanthemum petals, rose and lotus, orange peel and magnolia. Some of these tasted light and sweet, like clouds drifting from the sun; others tasted spicy and dark, like thick cakes. His most famous tea, which none had yet been able to afford, was brewed from white tea leaves, violets, and a single red leaf. This was the tea that tasted of the dreams of Elpidios, and he priced it dear. Among his teas he was plain and hardworking, and his hair was the color of oolong, and his eyes were the color of wet leaves.

One day it happened that the tea-maker found himself in want of shoes, and the shoemaker found herself in want of tea, and these two met. She fitted shoes to his feet; he fitted tea to her throat. For her he made his dream tea, and held his breath while she drank. For him she took down from the window the slippers of black silk and green thread, which would make no sound on the floor of his teahouse.

She sipped the deep red tea and exclaimed, “Why, you have been dreaming of me!”

He slid into her shoes and exclaimed, “Why, you have been dreaming of me!”

And so it was.

Now, the years went by and though Saffiya stitched her shoes and Elpidios steeped his tea, they had no child of their own. Saffiya was not greatly troubled, as she had plenty of baby shoes to make without adding any of her own, but Elpidios longed for a daughter, and his teas began to taste bitter and brackish, and he no longer made the dream tea at all. Finally, he went to his wife and said:

“The ways of the world are marvelous and strange. Let us take my finest teas and fashion them into the shape of a child. We will place her in one of your shoes for her cradle, and let her lie under the light of the Stars. Who knows what may happen?”

“Husb

and, this is not the way of making a child.”

“Let us try. And if it remains a pile of brown leaves with no life in them, I shall forget that I ever dreamed of a child, and begin to brew my tea of white leaves, and violets, and a single red leaf once more.”

Saffiya was mild and even-tempered, and she knew that madness must play itself tired if it is to pass. She made a sweet green shoe with crimson teaberries on a snowy hill embroidered on its sides. It had a little heel of cherry-wood. On the tongue she sewed with infinite care a living chrysanthemum with sixteen petals. But when it came time for Elpidios to reveal his tea doll, he refused.

“There is one leaf missing,” he said, and departed for the highest hills with a sack on his shoulder. He was gone through the fall and into the winter, and Saffiya began to worry for him. Perhaps she should have made sturdier shoes for him, she thought. She drank a pale tea of dried birch bark and strawberry leaves he had left behind, and stroked the sweet green shoe. But at length Elpidios did return, smiling his old smile. In his hands he held a slender leaf, the color of the moon shining on an open well. He told his wondering wife that he had heard of a place where a tea bush grew that had been touched by a Star in the first days of the world, and that he was certain now that their child would wake.

So together they placed this shimmering leaf in the center of the tea doll, and placed the doll in the shoe. In the long rows of tea they laid the sweet green shoe, and waited.

For many days nothing happened. Saffiya assured her husband, for by now she had begun to hope, that all children take time to grow. Elpidios paced in his teahouse. Finally, they heard a crying in the tea rows, like a kettle boiling. The tea-maker and the shoemaker ran out into the long leafy paths and found there a little girl wailing in a sweet green shoe.

But I do not remember being made of tea. I suppose no one remembers what the world looked like from inside their mother.

We lived happily and well, and I drank the dream tea every day, and found how often my father had dreamt of me. I grew to wear the sweet green shoes on my own brown feet, and found how often my mother had dreamt of me, too, when my father was in the highest hills. I learned to make green teas and black teas and red teas and yellow teas, and white teas like melted ice. I learned to stitch forests and flowers and fashion shoes of gold and silver and leather and glass. In time, my parents died, as parents will do, and though I was younger than I would have liked when this occurred, I dried my tears. I made both the famous tea and the famous shoes, and I believed myself complete.

But as they were not beauties, I am not. Even when the procurer came with a sword at his hip and velvet in his coat and a warm helmet on his head, I was not beautiful enough to be stolen for the Raja’s bed, only for his prison of silk and bronze. None of the girls in our village were spared service of some kind or another, and I was made a slave to slaves, maid to the wives and concubines. I paint on their breasts as once I drew patterns on the silk for stitching. They are unhappy, and I do not know how to soothe them, for I am unhappy, too. But I make for them the dream tea of my father, the tea of white leaves and violets and a single red leaf, and hope they taste my dream of a life outside.