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Teabusk First published in Australia by Panda Books Australia in 2019 Copyright (c) Thomas Corfield All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Corfield, Thomas Teabusk ISBN 978-0-9945306-3-9 1.Corfield, Thomas – Literature 2. Narrative Panda Books Australia Limited
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Also by Thomas Corfield The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels: 1. The Purging of Ruen 2. The World Is Badly Made 3. The Alchemists Of Vra 4. When Fear Is Not Afraid Coleshanger Viscera Writing Worngly
THOMASCORFIELD.COM
For Oliver and Jeremy, Tabitha and Natalie
Teabusk
- ARRIVAL -
Moravia, August, 1907.
T
HERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE AIR. A sense of discovery. Of rebirth; that the world was open-ended. Summer cooked the countryside, lending air that certain weight of scented earth and aromatic grass. The breeze hinted at a lullaby I once knew as a child and left me just as content. I stopped to watch the world turn beneath a high sun, and could feel soil, tree and rock revel beneath its warmth. Birds flittered through hedgerows and somewhere beyond them, a cow brayed. In the distance, animals grazed in a smear of shimmering haze upon golden fields. The countryside was flat, stretching like a drum of earth, and where land bled into sky, foothills melted into paler hues. The road was dusty, and my shoes kicked at broken earth. I followed furrows churned by cart, wondering whether they’d found in their journey the same invigoration I found in mine. By the roadside, trees stood tall. Beneath them, hedgerows became sparse until a stone wall took their place. A distance along it, a wooden gate lay open, choked by brambles beside the path it once stood sentry to. I started through it, finding the air cooler beneath knitted boughs and heavy with a pungency of farmyard. It was sweet and layered, with a muddy weight arising from being brewed over days. I took several large breaths and felt a taste the city could never conjure; it was both unfamiliar, yet well-known. 1
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I had met the owners of this farm once before, many years ago when my father brought me to stay shortly after my mother had died. We hadn’t stayed long, however, as my father was pressed to return to a world more familiar, perhaps where grief hurt less in shapes he knew better. In the years since, I’d remained with him and grown up to find my place studying physics. I liked the city. It was impersonal. Its colours muted in grey grime and its smells born of concrete and dead rain. It left me alone, with an anonymity in populous; permitting my being part of the noise without having to contribute. I’d never inclination to mingle, not even with my fellow students, who’d come to regard me with a sort of unspoken dispassion. And although I was always alone, I was never lonely. Indeed, by avoiding their noise I felt to view the world untainted, convinced words only muddied its vistas. My sense of self, introverted as it was, had arisen from such disparity, and in populous, I found an obscurity that left me free to think without being spoiled by the banality of others. Rounding the path, I stepped into sun and saw before me a beautiful, two-storey farmhouse. It was old and thickset, and had a scaffold of ivy twisting up its sides that having devoured the walls, reached now for its chimney. Its steep slated roof was sunken where shingles and moss had weighed too long upon its frame, and the walls’ plastering had cracked in places and fallen to reveal dry, desiccated wounds. Despite this, its disrepair afforded the building an aloof pride, its stance suggesting indifference to any opinions regarding appearance. A cobbled courtyard spread before it, upon the far side of which stood another structure; a huge barn. Its wood was buckled and gnarled with age and held a grey of old, porous bone. Beneath its awnings, which were dark where rain never dried, it was caked in yellow lichen and stained from unleached tannins. Birds darted from a high loft, disturbing hay which fell in a rain of soft shards down its walls. Rusting hoes, an old wooden wheel and a pitchfork with a split handle leant against it, and bits of bridle hung 2
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too, along with old, faded leather straps that could only bend again if left in the sun for a day. Its stoicism also suggested a dignity, and I wondered at the myriad of things lying forgotten within its dusty recesses. Beyond the courtyard, an overgrown orchard spilled down a slope, its foliage a thick and tangled mass. A low stone wall ran along its edge, crumbling in places but repaired in others in a peculiar sculpture of churning masonry. A frenzied barking arose, and several dogs bounded from a corner of the house. I remained still, hoping their enthusiasm was in welcome rather than feast. A man followed, yelling words that staunched their fervour well enough. I recognised him as my father’s friend, Bojard. He raised his arms in greeting, still shouting at the animals. They eventually heeded his cries to become the most amiable of hounds, and sniffed about my legs as though having never seen such things. Bojard’s smile was as warm as the day. He was aged, nearing seventy, though his shuffle was from years of toil rather than weariness from it. He had a vigour, and shared the same golden hue as the fields I’d passed. The dogs fell from me when he approached. He grabbed my shoulders and placed his rough cheeks upon mine, admitting that I’d made good time, to which I confessed was due to the fine day I’d travelled beneath. He asked how my father was, and I said he was well enough, though would fare better were he to see countryside such as this. Bojard laughed and suggested my father would long for the grey of city the moment he stepped from the train. It was true, and I was struck by the colour of the man compared to the grey of my father. He guided me past the dogs and toward the house. His hounds knew nothing of courtesy, however, and pushed through the doorway the moment we stepped into it. Despite more shouts, their fervour was not to be reigned, and they turned to impede us both. The kitchen was broad, with a low-beamed roof and smelt of meals, charcoal and aged wood. While I struggled through dogs, I was introduced to Bojard’s wife, Duska, 3
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who planted me at a table before I’d managed to return anything of her greeting. Their son, Chival, who was six, and their daughter, Ruzna, perhaps thirteen, dragged the dogs back outside when their father surrendered further attempts. Their eldest son, Riacho, a little older than me, leant across the table and shook my hand. He was strong and tall, and his eyes as dark as polished slate, which left me feeling pale and feeble in comparison. He, too, asked after my journey, and while I replied as I had already, his siblings helped their mother bring steaming pots to the table. The walk had left me ravenous, and of this I commented. Duska said it was the air, and I readily agreed, wondering whether it also made colours brighter, as I’d surely seen some I wasn’t previously aware of. The children brought plates to the table and piled food upon mine. Despite my appetite, I struggled to match Bojard and Riacho’s fervour, despite having taken the same air as they. I did my best, however, but Duska was eager to replenish anything I’d eaten, leaving me to make no progress whatsoever. My appetite sated, I remembered that there were four children, not three, which left me asking where their other daughter might be. Their mother laughed and said that I should not take offence if Katia remained elsewhere, as she had an inclination to live in a world of her own. I assured them I took nothing of the sort, though said nothing of my tendency to do the same. But Riacho decided otherwise. He stood, saying that regardless of which world his sister inhabited, there ought to be courtesy enough in both, and left to fetch her. I tried a plum brandy, which, unlike my father’s, didn’t strip my throat so much as bring the sun to my gullet. And after several coughs at its strength, I sensed soil and scent and hue as well, leaving me to stare at the glass in surprise. Bojard smiled, saying that if made well, the drink put the very countryside in a bottle. Duska asked what part of the farm I might like to see first, but the brandy permitted only coughs in reply. Chival suggested the chickens, before 4
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informing me that their best friends were geese, though Ruzna told him not to be so silly, as the geese were wild and would have nothing to do with them. Outside, the dogs started up again, and when Riacho returned, so did they. Once he’d removed them, he took his seat again. Behind him, a girl followed. While she greeted her parents, I stopped chewing and stared, and for some time afterward I can’t be certain what occurred. My father had mused that she’d be the sort of woman eyes should not linger on, for fear of never having them free again. And when she glanced at me, mine were wrenched from their sockets like roots from earth. Her eyes were large and brown, with a shine of rust and wet shale. Her hair was dark and fell about her face in a twists of mahogany frame, and her skin, I was certain, would taste of caramel—though that might have been the brandy. I stared until realising her family were doing the same at me. I was standing, but couldn’t recall at what point I’d risen. I mumbled something in greeting—though it sounded like nothing of the sort, as I’d forgotten to swallow first. When she sat at the table, I did the same, watching her bosom press at lacework. For the remainder of the meal, she didn’t glance at me, and her indifference was painful, despite my preference for it. Nevertheless, her arrival brought the sun indoors, and all at the table seemed to revel in it. Although they talked, I heard little of their words, feeling myself cumbersome and my eyes ungainly. Everywhere I looked contained her. So I closed them, which only broadcasted the fact. I looked at my food then, uncertain what to do with it, until Riacho offered me more, perhaps to remind me. In my determination not to look at his sister, I stared at him until my eyes twitched. He asked a question which I didn’t hear, and I muttered something before realising I’d glanced at her again. My stomach fell and the world became loud in a volume of storm and rain. Breath faltered, along with my words and I didn’t trust myself with cutlery. 5
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Katia spoke then. Not to me, but to her sister. Her voice was soft, with a strange edge of velvet. There was a mauve to her words, and a tinkling of blue shattered crystal. When I looked at her again, the world doubled in size. And although I’d eaten, I felt hollow and my joints ached as though having been used too much. My gaze was drawn to her on threads of cotton, and I saw, in my mind’s eye, tall rooms with dark wooden walls and fine roads lined with white pebbles. I felt roses stretch in bloom beneath sun and tasted the scent of sea through white windows. Startled, I stabbed again at my food. When Ruzna replied, Katia watched her with the indulgence one might hope of an older sister, and I found myself staring again; at an eclipse this time while her attention remained elsewhere. Her profile held a mathematical elegance; the line joining her lips was perpendicular to that of her lower jaw, and the curve to her neck was a reference to both in a manner strangely cubist. Her posture was excellent, and had me correcting my own. It thrust her chest forward, its shape leaving me guilty and disorientated, and I forced myself back into food. Riacho spoke again. But I couldn’t look at him either, convinced he’d seen my ogling his sister, so I gave a range of replies in the hope that one might be satisfactory. As the meal progressed, I regained composure and despite my preference for anonymity, I attempted the odd, amusing observation which I hoped might suggest something of a lively mind at least. When I dared glance at Riacho, he showed no disapproval, and continued conversing in manner that left me both relieved and grateful. They spoke of Tizovca, the nearest town, and the Autumn Leaves festival held towards the end of my stay. I was told of horses and cows by the younger siblings, and that despite the dogs, there were cats around as well, and when Chival mentioned the chickens and geese again, Ruzna chose to indulge him. Riacho and Bojard told me of the neighbouring farms and the fortunes—and misfortunes— of knowing their owners. They asked after my studies and 6
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of my father, to which I replied as best I could, trying to conjure a little of myself for Katia’s benefit. When my gaze passed her, the strength of her features sang in my head and brought disparity to my thoughts. She indulged me and was courteous in attention, but didn’t ask for elaboration on any of them. Which was fortunate, as her request would ensure thought abandon me altogether: were I forced to gaze upon her framed in lace and tassel, words would be rendered obsolete. Following the meal, Riacho and the two youngest took me upon a tour of the farm. Katia left the moment lunch was over, and although disappointed she did not accompany us, I was also relieved; should I attempt charm and intelligence beyond the kitchen table, my stay would be a short, sorry one. Nevertheless, her absence left me both warm and lost, which painted the day still brighter. I was introduced to animals, with Chival giving wild anecdotes which Ruzna corrected as necessary. Riacho indulged them both while demonstrating what chores would be mine. We walked through the orchard, where the air was saturated with an alcohol of fallen fruit. Its trees were thick and knotted and the grass between them long. Small white flowers indispersed with yellow blooms grew in places, amongst which the dogs played, looking like sharks swimming through a green sea. Chival guided us to a broken byre which had been adopted by chickens as their roost. The chickens were good at keeping pests at bay, apparently, while the dogs did the same with wolves. The hens would spend the day meandering around the farm and return to the byre as evening fell, with a clockwork all their own. He insisted they were on good terms with a flock of wild geese living on the lake in the valley, though his sister assured me that this was not the case. But Chival was adamant he’d seen geese staying in the byre, particularly during the winter, though conceded, when probed by his sister, that he hadn’t seen the chickens staying at the lake in return of favour. They wouldn’t, he reasoned, because their eggs would get wet. I met two cats also, which were 7
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apparently excellent at catching vermin. I suggested they must be full of mice, considering how they lazed on stone. Ruzna patted them and recounted their playfulness as kittens, which they tolerated with resigned patience until stretching to have their tummies scratched. As afternoon faded, I was sorry not to have explored the barn. It stood dark against the world, and in our tour around farm, I felt to have orbited it. As shadows grew longer and the air cooler, we turned back toward the house, and I felt flutters at the thought of seeing Katia again at the table. ####
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