Saturday Short: The Tea House at the Crossroads, Part IV

“Drop the knife.”

The assassin sighed, but made no move.

“I won’t ask again.” The man behind her pressed the blade into her neck. One whisper of pressure more and it would break the skin.

“Then it appears we are at a standstill.”

The man snorted. “I don’t see how that is true.”

“Of course, you do not.”

The thief tried to maneuver out of the assassin’s grasp, but she drove his knife deeper into his throat and he stilled. He glared at her, but it was of no consequence. Only the kami and oni could kill with a look and this man was neither. He was, quite literally, beneath her and simply hadn’t processed this yet.

“My tea grows cold,” the assassin said.

No one replied. A shadow of uncertainty passed over the face of the thief like a wisp of cloud before his mask of defiance resettled. The few others in the teahouse didn’t move. The tea mistress, though, found her courage. It was her teahouse and the assassin was her guest and no one had cold tea in her house. She stood, still trembling, and peered over the counter.

“The Rule of the Crossroads still stands.” Her voice was like leaves quivering on the aspen. “You must leave if you dishonor it.”

The partner to the thief laughed and the knife nicked the assassin’s neck as his hand shook.

“It goes ill for those who do not honor the Rule,” the assassin said.

“It goes ill for those who do not know when to stand down,” the man replied.

There is no such thing as a true stalemate outside of the world of games. The world continues to move, the mountains continue to crumble, and the rivers continue to flow. There is always something that comes along, a breath of breeze, a flutter of wings, or a clap of thunder, that breaks the balance.

Or sometimes something as small a sneeze.

The boy by the counter let out a sneeze enough to shake the roof. The thief’s accomplice flinched. His hand drew back from the assassin’s neck.

She ducked, spinning on her foot, as she drove a fist into the man’s neck. He dropped the knife, sputtering for breath.

Before the thief could rise, she rounded on him and drove the handle of his knife into his temple and he went limp. His accomplice, still gasping for breath, was driven to the ground by her kick to his knee.

The assassin was tying together his hands before anyone in the teahouse took another breath. When both were loaded on the back of the thief’s horse and the horse was sauntering down the road, unconcerned about its burden and happy to not be kicked, the assassin returned to her table and sat down to her cup of tea. It was cold.

She looked up at the tea mistress, who still hadn’t moved from her position behind the counter. Her hands were white from gripping the cleaning cloth.

“Perhaps I could have some fresh tea.”

And like the breaking from a dream, those in the tea house breathed as one and resumed their meals or contemplations. The tea mistress hurried over with a fresh, steaming pot of tea.

“I beg your forgiveness for breaking the Rule,” the assassin said as her tea was poured.

“No, no,” the tea mistress said shaking her head. “Thank you.” She bowed.

“There is no need.” The assassin picked up her tea cup. “There will be two more.”

Saturday Short: The Tea House at the Crossroads, Part III

The sages said there was a hush before a storm, but the assassin never found that to be true. Before a storm there was always the scent of rain, the rush of wind, or the sound of thunder. Trouble likewise was always proceeded by a warning. Most people simply did not pay enough attention to such things and claimed trouble found them unawares.

The tea room was not silent, though to the unobservant it might have seemed so. The scattered few others in the room were pretending nonchalance, wondering whether to stay or go and which would be the safer option. Their choice was made for them as the sound of galloping filtered in from the road, followed by a snort from beast and rider and the sound of boots on the porch.

The assassin set down her cup of tea and did not look at the door as it slid open. Trouble entered in the form of a man, neither short nor tall, neither thin nor large, with nothing to distinguish him from anyone else in a crowd.

“Peace be on your Path,” the tea mistress said.

The man did not reply, but walked straight towards her leaving dusty footprints across the tatami mats.

As he stepped up to the counter where the tea mistress was worriedly rubbing a cleaning cloth over the spotless wood the assassin knew this trouble would not pass by quietly.

“You are the tea mistress.” It was a statement not a question.

She nodded.

“Then bring me your coins.” He drew out a knife and held it to her throat. It was wicked with more teeth and sharp edges than necessary to do its work and it offended the assassin.

The tea mistress trembled like an ash before a cyclone’s blast and reached blindly for the money box. She yelped as the thief nicked her neck, drawing a drop of blood with his carelessness. And the Path roiled black around him, like den of snakes awakened before the spring.

“You do not belong here.”

He turned around, still holding the knife against the tea mistress’ neck, glaring. “Sit down before I slit your throat.”

The assassin did not reply, but neither did she sit down.

“I said sit, woman.”

The assassin again said nothing as the others in the room held their collective breath.

“I said sit down!” He pointed his knife at the assassin, the tea mistress forgotten and she seized her opportunity to duck beneath the counter.

Still the assassin did not move nor say anything.

The thief stalked towards her. “I will teach—”

He never finished as the assassin threw him to the floor and removed his knife from his grasp in one swift motion. His head cracked with a thud against the mats he had so carelessly soiled. And as he tried to sit up, his blade bit into his neck giving him a mark that was a twin of the one he had inflicted on the tea mistress. His was not made carelessly.

“You have no honor,” the assassin said.

He hissed at his attempt to rise, but he could not move from under her grasp.

“Go now and I will forget this offense.”

He spit in her face and laughed. “You are in no position forgive.”

And she felt the unmistakable cold touch of a blade to the side of her neck.

Saturday Short: The Tea House at the Crossroads, Part II

When the assassin set down her empty tea cup, she was unsurprised to see the tea mistress glaring down at her. The Path never lied, although she’d hoped it wouldn’t be that kind of day.

“Pay and go.” The tea mistress slid a small receiving tray across the table for the assassin’s coin.

The assassin pulled out a handful of coins from an inside pocket of her coat, slowly so no one did something stupid as if she was to pull her sword over rudeness alone. She’d let larger unkindness pass without retribution before and she would again. The coins clinked against the lacquer and gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Even the tea mistress could not contain her gasp at the golden glow, far too much for the poor meal and lukewarm cup of tea.

“Too much.”

The assassin shrugged. “It is what I’ve always paid here.” She stood, stretching her back like a fox before shouldering her pack.

“Peace be on your Path.” She nodded her head to the tea mistress who still hadn’t taken her eyes off the coins, enough to pay for a year’s worth of meals three times over.

“And ten-fold on yours,” the tea mistress replied.

As she slid open the door to leave, the assassin paused. “Trouble always comes in threes and I am not the first.”

The tea mistress looked up, a frown on her face that was touched with concern.

“I’d put those away if I were you and perhaps close before the moon rises. Sometimes trouble will pass by if not invited in.” Sometimes not. She set one foot over the threshold when the tea mistress called.


The assassin stopped, but did not turn around. The silence in the tea room was complete.

“Would you like another cup of tea?”

No one saw it, but the assassin smiled before she turned around. Yes, the moon and the Path were conspiring this afternoon. Someday she would be beyond such tests.

“Only a fool would turn down a cup of tea.” The assassin sat down at the table where her dishes and cup were still.

The tea mistress started as if from a trance and hurriedly whisked them away, returning with a tea pot with steam curling from its spout and a cup covered with delicate, intricate painted flowers. She poured it with an almost steady hand and opened her mouth, but said nothing before turning away.

Trouble would come, as it always did. There was nothing for doing except waiting and drinking a perfectly brewed, steaming cup of tea. And that was what the assassin did.

Saturday Short: The Tea House at the Crossroads

photograph of rock path in Japanese tea garden through a wooden gate flanked by two stone statues, one of a figure and one of a pagoda

“I don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do I,” the assassin said studying the whorls in the tabletop before her. Her hands were folded on her lap, where the tea mistress could easily see them.

“The Rule at the Crossroads—”

“I know the Rule and I know your duty. Do you?”

The tea mistress’ cheeks flamed red, but not as red as the strand of hair that had escaped from the scarf covering the assassin’s head. The few other patrons in the tea house pretended not to listen, though each had edged closer to the door. They were not so foolish as to antagonize an assassin, even within the protections of the tea house. Rules had been broken before.

“Of course, I know my duty—”

“Then I would like some tea and the house special, please.”

The tea mistress huffed away, muttering under her breath as the assassin feigned indifference to everyone in the room. Service had been more professional the last time she had been here, but that had been a long time ago. Before there was a touch of snow in her hair, before she had a scar that could only be seen in the moonlight.

She truly didn’t want any trouble. But with the north wind might want to blow trouble her way with the darkening of the Path in the doorway. Her tea and meal arrived without another word from the tea mistress. The assassin ate her meal without haste, but also without pause. It was better to have a full stomach when trouble came than not.

Creating in 2019

Happy 2019! Yes, I know I’m very belated in writing that, but it’s been a bit of a year around here already. The hands you see in the photo below have kept me properly busy from the end of last year and into this year. Writing has slowed to the pace that my brain functions at after only an hour or two of contiguous sleep and calligraphy practice has only started back up within the last month.

photography of baby hands being held by an adult hand

Be that as it may, I’m excited about 2019 all around and energized to create, even in small bursts and more slowly than I might have in years past.

So expect Saturday Shorts to reappear soon as well as more musings about writing and creating, along with some examples of my calligraphy practice (although I mostly post my calligraphy to Twitter (@dthormoto), so feel free to follow along there, too).

I hope 2019 has been kind to you so far, your muse is being have (aka behaving), and you are feeling the creative burst of energy that spring so often brings. Thanks for reading and I’ll be writing again soon.

Saturday Short: Hearts and Minds

photograph of a glass heart on a wood table

“Heart” by seyed mostafa zamani on Flickr (CC-BY)

“No one believes that anymore. Not even my grannie believes that.” Robyn crossed her arms over her chest and flopped back in her chair as if that settled the argument.

Miss Everlee was used to such outbursts from Robyn and the other children by now. It was only two months into the new year and she was already counting down until the harvest, when her appointment would be over. Her sanity was worth more than her salary; she had done the calculation as she stared at the crack in her bedroom ceiling this morning before hauling herself up and out into the darkness to make it to the schoolhouse in time.

Sometimes she wished the students wouldn’t show up. None of them cared about reading or spelling or math beyond how much they could count on two hands. Sometimes she thought she’d made a mistake. Other times she knew she had.

“Really?” Miss Everlee asked in a way the children heard as an innocent question, but any adult listening carefully would have felt the hairs on their neck stand on end. It was not an innocuous question.

“Of course,” Tym replied, receiving a nod from Robyn. “I saw it when we went to the City last year. My da’ dropped us off at the museum and we saw lots of brains in jars.”

A chorus of icks and awes created a din in the room, which subsided more or less on its own, no one paid attention to Miss Everlee’s motions to be quiet.

“And what does that prove?”

“The person at the museum, she was even older than you, said that scientists showed all our thinking is done in the brain.”

“Yeah,” Robyn picked up after Tym took a breath. “We only need our brains. No one needs their heart for thinking.”

“You don’t need a heart?”

“No!” the children chorused.

“You can kill someone through the heart, but it isn’t the most important thing. The brain is.” Robyn nodded at Tym as if this settled the argument.

Miss Everlee wanted to sigh, but didn’t. Instead she moved on with the next lesson and the next until finally the day was done. Then she walked back home, though even weighted down with her bag, she had a slight smile playing on her lips that caused the foxes to scurry from her path for they were more observant than the children.

When she reached her cottage after locking the door behind her, she reached into her bag and withdrew a specimen jar large enough to hold a brain, but this one held what looked like the shadow of a heart. She put it on the shelf above her bed and considered how long it would be before the children noticed that parts of their hearts had gone missing.

Saturday Short: Morning Glory

photograph of a morning glory flower and leaves against a weathered fenceTo her mother, there was nothing more hopeful than seeing the flowers bloom against the unstained, worn fence that separated their land from their neighbor’s land. Every summer the dead vines sprung to life no matter how dry or wet the winter had been. They turned overnight from brown and dull to glossy green and buds formed as if conjured by magic. Her mother would walk over to the fence every morning as the sun rose to see if any had bloomed.

Moira hated the flowers. She hated how excited her mother became after seeing the first bloom. The delicate white in the center with the deepening purple, like sunsets over the ocean. The flowers mocked her, mocked her family’s life and she couldn’t see how her mother could stand it. The riot of color against their dreary fence. The only color left in the world outside the gated estate that led to the inner country where it was whispered there was still color left in the world.

The flowers weren’t signs of hope. They were jeers of conquest, a flagrant and fragrant reminder of what she and her mother could never have.

But Moira never said such things. They would break her mother’s already fragile heart.

So instead, every winter, she hacked back the vines in secret, on the nights without a moon, when the entire world was dark and she had to navigate by counting her steps from the back door to the fence.

The wind was turning and there was a coldness to the air in the morning. At the first new moon, she could no longer wait for the vines to die and she went to the fence. The still heady scent filled the air as she opened her shears to make the first cut.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Moira screamed and turned to find herself face to face with an old woman whom she’d never seen before, whose clothes were a swirl of colors that did not stand still.

“Do what?” Moira asked hating her quaking voice.

“Cut the morning glory.” The woman stroked one of the flowers with a hand and it glowed.


“It is often the small things, I’ve found, that create openings that we need.” The woman turned her attention back to Moira. “If we know where to look.”

“What? What opening?”

The woman patted her shoulder. “You are smart. Figure it out.” She began walking away, her shape dissolving into the night when she called back. “It’s time that the change hung on a flower. Hasn’t happened in an age.”

Moira frowned and touched her cheek. It was cold. She wasn’t dreaming. But the woman was clearly mad. No one could change the world with a flower. She turned back to the wall and raised her shears to the flower that still glowed faintly, but lowered them and brushed the flower carefully aside.

There was a crack in the fence, a knothole that had fallen out and she could see through to the other side. And the shears in her hand were forgotten as Moira began a plan that felt less like a dream and more like the glory of morning might finally rise again.

Saturday Short: From Here

photograph of two pairs of shoes on a rocky trail

“Which way?”

I shrugged. How was I supposed to know? I’d never been on this trail before and the paths that diverged from the fork were unmarked.

“Well, we have to pick one,” he said, stating the obvious.

Trying to peer further down each path was no help. The woods were thick with undergrowth and the spindly saplings made it difficult to get a bearing. Looking up was no use either. The canopy was thick enough to obscure all but the weakest sunlight that filtered down, not enough to even warrant heavy sun protection.

The map, now soggy from the morning mist, looked more and more like a child’s scrawling interpretation of trails up and down the mountain. I missed the days of precise, large, ordinance maps. When people seemed to care about the usefulness of their work.

“Well, we can’t stay here,” he said, fists on his hips, glaring at the fork in the road as if it was put there personally to offend him.

“I know,” I replied staring at our shoes.

“Which way from here?” His huff reminded me of our cat.

“I don’t know,” I said still looking at our shoes, funny they should strike me as so incongruous on the trail. I almost laughed.

“Fine. We’ll go that way.” And he started up the left fork of the trail.

“We could always turn around,” I called after his back, but I don’t think he heard me.

Saturday Short: Devil’s Club

photograph of the leaves and stalk of Devil's Club plant

Every year, after the first spring rains, the ground recalls that it is more than dirt. And the seeds, hidden deep within the dried cracks split open under the summer sun, learn that there is more to life than sleeping. All manner of plant life sprouts as one being from the ground, thirst for the cool breeze and air and sunshine. The earth sings, not with the sound of birds or rushing waterfalls, but with the pale new green of seedlings who don’t know yet but they will soon erupt in a riot of colors not seen since the last rainbow faded over the autumnal harvest.

And this terrestrial spring swelling is when the children learn the respect that the plants are due. The healer, whose grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother, taught her how to recognize the true uses of each plants takes the groups of children into the woods. There, they help her collect the first buds of the season, for her back was not what it once was. And they learn how to identify each plant, in every stage. Later, when the sun is no longer a warm friend, but a hot-tempered intruder, the children will be rewarded with wild strawberries that will paint their faces red.

The first plant any of them learn is the Devil’s Club. A misnomer, perhaps, for those with the knowledge to harness it, who know that rough exteriors often belie soft, giving interiors. But it’s not a kind teacher. The children give it respect and do not shove each other towards it like they do with the giant webs, daring each other to go closer to the jewel-toned spider dangling above. The Devil’s Club’s bite is less kind, festering for days. The healer demonstrates how to handle it, with thick gloves and care. How to clean the thorns from its side and strip out the inner remains, to boil and to cure that which ails some in the village.

She has no takers when she asks for volunteers to try their hand at harvesting it. She is not surprised.

Two of the children, twins, are the most studious of the group. They have the makings of healers and she is glad.

A week later, the twins are in the woods, lounging by a creek, waiting for the fish to bite when a stranger stoops down and reaches out his hand to a plant by the side of the path. The leaves are stretched out, collecting the sun, and look soft. But looks can be deceiving.

“I wouldn’t touch that, if I were you,” the girl calls to him as her brother nods his head in agreement.

The man hesitates, but then touches a leaf anyway, drawing his hand back with a start as the underside bites him.

“I told him,” the girls says under her breath. Her brother agrees silently.

The stranger walks on, but will stop at the house of the healer that afternoon, his hand blistering and swollen. And the healer will hide her smile when he tells her that he should have listened to the warning of two children who knew better than him.

Saturday Short: To the Waterfall’s Beginning

photograph of a small waterfall over mossy rocks in a temperate rainforest

Running was not Jekily’s favorite activity, nor were they particularly good at it. While others in their class could cover ground tirelessly, with little more than a sheen upon their brow at the end, Jekily looked and sounded like a wounded moose by the end of any run more than a few yards. Running up the side of the mountain was tantamount to agreeing to torture oneself slowly and willingly.

Yet there Jekily was, on an overcast, damp, too cold for the end of spring morning, running up the mountain. In between labored breaths, or more accurately gasps, Jekily swore they might be mad. No one in town would have sworn differently had they been up on the mountain, too.

But no one else was, not now, not following the waterfall up to its beginning on some fool’s errand, quest, thing that Jekily couldn’t even be sure mattered. They’d awakened to weak light creating a glow around the sides of the curtains in their room and couldn’t shake the feeling to see where the waterfall began. Not any waterfall, although the mountain had more than could be counted on both hands, but the waterfall. The compulsion was an itch that wouldn’t go away.

So they ran. Not packing anything, barely remembering to throw on a waterproof shell as the mountain seemed to whisper, to pull with a strange force they’d never noticed before.

Some care where the waterfall ends… the wind sighed as even the morning bird calls were drown out by the rush of the water. Jekily shook their head.

“Wind doesn’t talk,” they muttered, it coming out in bursts on exhalations that looked like small clouds.

You should care where it begins…the trees whispered with a shake of their limbs.

Jekily tried to ignore the feeling that they were running against the clock up the mountain. They didn’t dare look up to see how much of the steep incline was left, pretended they didn’t hear the very earth grown and the water contort in ways that defied reality. Instead, they focused on the pain shooting up their calves and steadying their breath, pushing the drops of sweat from their eyes.

The waterfall’s beginning…that’s what had been whispered in the dream. That was what played like a jumbled up track in their head and that’s why Jekily, who hated running, now launched into a sprint up the mountainside to find what the waterfall’s beginning had to do with their end.