The 'Sacred Tea Ceremony' is a ceremony as old as the hills. It's practiced, in one fashion or another, from the geishas of Japan, to the shaman tribes, and in witch's covens.
On the Motherland, it's said that when a man comes a callin', when a man comes a courtin',... you serve him tea. It's the way maidens serve their suitors, to show them what magic they can make.....
Venecia had a big, black witch's pot sat upon the fire, that she liked to stir. She threw in all sorts of mysterious, mystical herbs and spices. Every girl on the isle had her own recipe, and she didn't share her secrets except to closest friends, because they were magic, and she didn't want anyone to steal her magic.
This is the magic by which you can lure a man.
A fire-being. Cast a witch's love spell.
Lure him into the hearth and home life of your magic brew from your witch's pot.
We can't tell you here, at least not yet, the full recipe of her secret love-potions. But we can tell you this: there's a bit of maté (the energizing tea the South American natives use) in it. And of course the Damiana herb. That herb of amour the witches use. Perhaps a bud of 'Mary Jane', the tall mystic plant from her garden. And a bit of clove and cinnamon. And various witchy herbs of the jungle. And a few rose and other floral petals. And what more we cannot tell you. Not yet.
~ ~ ~
The pot began to steam. A lovely scented, rich, aromatic mist steam rose up out it. It was slightly pinkish, due to all the rose petals in it.
Tomek began to realize that this was part of the scent in the mist that had lured him here. Beguiling and intoxicating. It was bewitching.
When brew was brewed, she used the ladle to fill the teapot, and they took this to their teahouse.
Climbing up the ladder, Tomek was right behind her, and was mesmerized by the way her feminine bottom shifted from side to side, right over his face, as she worked her way up. He saw a lotta leg, — way up under her long skirts, into her shadows. They climbed this way to the teahouse every evening, and once, he couldn't help himself, — he craned his neck just enough, under her skirts, to get a blessed view of her round, white-pantied bottom, scurrying its way up. He felt a bit guilty. But not too much.
☼ ☼ ☼
Now they're sitting cross-legged up there, she in her pretty, flouncy, lilac, loose dress, as she pours two cups. ''Here is thy tea I have brewed for thee" she says ceremoniously, "may the gods bless you, and may you find enjoyment in my tea...''
There are some women who have poisoned a man with these words. And with this tea ceremony. Witches. You can never tell for sure what their brew is.
They poison him for daring to come courting her. Sometimes their mothers help them. And when he passes out, they take off all his clothes and go through his pockets. Steal all his goods. Then bury him out in the ravine, with a red apple in his mouth.
Tomek looked into her eyes as she knelt there, holding the brew up to him. They were the eyes of an angel. As pure and clear and green as clear spring lake water.
Virginal eyes.
If these were the last eyes he looked into, it would be worth it.
He smiled and took the cup. Witch or not.
~ ~ ~
As she kept her eyes intensely on him, she stuck her finger in her mouth. Her middle, long finger. Sucking on it and twirling it around.
Then she put that shiny, wet finger in his tea. Stirred his tea with her finger, all the while keeping her eyes on him, smiling coyly.
She stirred it around, for that is how a maiden sweetens a man's tea. With her finger.
'Real men' don't put honey or sugar in their tea. That's not manly. Not on this isle. But if a lovely lass wishes to sweeten your tea with her finger, well, that's just lovely.
On this island, when a maiden wants to show she likes a man, she sweetens the brew with 'herself'. For the island girls have a legend that if you put your finger in every drink and food dish that you make for a man, then he will be able to 'taste' you, and remember you. And he won't want to leave you.
Eventually, Tomek was to get so used to this, that whenever he made himself some tea, he'd hold the cup up to her, saying, ''will thee sweeten this cup for me....?'' And she'd smile, dipping her finger in and stirring it around. It was the only type of sugar he ever used. Girls are so sweet.
So they sat in their place in the treetops. In the vibrant, velvet verdure, overlooking the pond. And drank of the hot, steamy brew. They said nothing, but they kept looking at each other. They let the hot steam and the taste of the herbs imbue their consciousness. They could start to see a little, into each other's soul.
~ ~ ~
Tomek was fascinated by the way, every time she lifted her cup to her lips, her dainty little pinkie finger would shoot straight out, perpendicular to the rest of her hand, like a shooting star, leaving a trail of stardust as it arced across the air each time. It looked like a little ballerina.
Men's fingers don't do that.
Tomek recalled a poem of a hundred years ago, by Stephen Crane:
''Ah, God, the way your little finger moved
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb a silly gilt comb
Ah, God — that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.''
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