Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 344

Tea is But a String of Fate
Singapore International School, Chang, Natalie - 13
A
single stem standing upright in the midst of a steaming cup of cloudy tea.
The peculiar boy perched on a seat behind the small straw-and-wood table that served as a counter that the other
patrons had been warily eying arched a thin brow at the phenomenon – the superstition said that this was the sign of a
new arrival coming one’s way – a friend or a lover, perhaps? The boy let out a slight chuckle, sounding brittle and rough like
they were being forced from his throat or scraping against rocks, as colourless lashes grazed the slight dip above where his
cheekbones were. In all his nineteen years he’d walked this Earth, no one could bring themselves to love a vile being like him.
Snow-white hair, dewy pale lashes, porcelain skin and pools of fiery amber pupils with yellow flecks like sparks of a raging flame
for eyes was out of the ordinary. “ A monster ,” he’d heard the murmurs that seemed to surround him wherever he went, they
pierced him with their words, but they didn’t care.
After all, a beast like him could take arrows to the heart and still survive, right?
( We may walk the same soil but behind my mask I can never be more than an unwelcome beast.)
“Guang Hong,” the madam of the quaint teahouse beckoned him over, a kind smile plastered on her face, making wrinkles of
happiness and time more pronounced. His head shot up and he guessed his eyes must have been alight with bafflement because
she elaborated in the same slow, sweet voice, “there’s a customer here, waiting to be seated.” He nodded in understanding, quietly
standing up to full height, whilst internally screaming at himself for not catching her drift the first time. He surely looked like a
fool now; of course it was a new client, he worked here, for goodness sake! It was his duty to earn his keep and work to be able
to sleep under a roof and on a slightly rickety arhat bed that was better than nothing.
He made his way over to the client donning a hanfu resembling the midnight sky devoid of stars that looked woven with rich
threads of heavy silk slowly, being careful not to disrupt the serenity of the teahouse and soft murmurs – maybe hushed whispers
about him? – more than he already was. With his head bowed low, his gaze fixated on his shoes, Guang Hong murmured,
“Welcome to the teahouse,” and let his pupils flicker to the client’s face. His heart stuttered as he took in silky locks of raven hair
framing a slim pale face with a soft smile adorned on it, but most captivating were the stranger’s eyes. A whirlpool of crystalline
blue rivaling that of the seas upon which junks sailed containing specks of golden flakes that seemed to change colour under a
different light. Praying that his pallor did not give his bewilderment away, Guang Hong guided him to a low table of mahogany
and gestured at the client to take a seat. As he proceeded to turn around and lean against a wall to wait for cues to assist a patron,
the fascinating raven-haired person’s voice rang out, clear and resonating with the slight tinkle to it like a bell in the wind,
“Excuse me, I would like to place my order.”
Slowly, cautiously, Guang Hong swivelled around and plastered on his signature lopsided grin. “Of course, what would you like
to have?” He cursed himself for sounding slightly too enthusiastic.
“Hot oolong tea, please.” The patron’s steady voice announced.