Soot-painted sky, and a tall thin house on a steeply sloping hill, covered in waist-high, olive-green moor grass.
I’m in the top room of the tall house, where the ridge is the ceiling, and the walls and floors are thatched with twigs and woodbeams.
In the room with me is a woman. She turns from the open window, through which one can see the far-stretching moor, and the wind comb through the grass, wave after wave, here and there among the slopes.
She turns and has a wild look in her odd, olive-coloured eyes. What are you doing here? Who are you?
I-I don’t know. I just thought of this place, somehow.
Sit down and we’ll have some tea.
I sit at the dark wood table, rickety like the rest of the shuddering house, and sip green-coloured tea out of a faded white mug.
She gazes into her tea.
What do you see, I want to know.
She gazes into her tea and tells me about the wondrous things she sees in her teacup, every afternoon in this dreary countryside; all alone in this empty, trembling house, with the strange wind for company.