Calyx of Teversall

CALYX OF TEVERSALL

by Maia Appleby

Text Copyright © 2011 Maia Appleby

All rights reserved. Calyx of Teversall first published in Canada by Brighter Books

Publishing House. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by

any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without

permission in writing from the publisher.

Platypus, an Imprint of Brighter Books Publishing House

First Published: December 2011

Smashwords Edition

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities

to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Appleby, Maia, 1970-

Calyx of Teversall / written by Maia Appleby ; illustrated by Angela

Souza.

Also issued in print form.

I. Souza, Angela II. Title.

PZ7.A643Ca 2011 - j813’.6 - C2011-905332-2

Illustrations © 2011 Angela Souza

In memory if Kelly Berthelot -- an amazing young woman who put her heart

into everything she did. We will miss your funny spirit and kindness, and hope

the horses in heaven have wings.

Content

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

~ 1 ~

The Blythe family had all the necessities. They had a small farm with fertile soil, a few hens, a vegetable garden, some fruit trees, and—most importantly—two good grain fields that they alternated to ensure a bountiful wheat harvest each year. Their modest stone cottage was strong, comforting, and neatly whitewashed with a snugly thatched roof, a wood cook stove, and a separate fireplace. In the four years since the couple had moved to Rimmolan, purchasing their property with what little they had saved, they had attained this.

Charles knew everything about wheat. He knew when to sow it, how to harvest it, how many seeds to save, how to keep the soil productive, how to separate the grain, and how to use the straw. He even thatched the roof himself.

Sigrid spent much of her time in the workroom at the back of the cottage, turning the unruly dried blades of straw into neatly plaited bundles that could be used by others to make bonnets, mats, or countless other useful objects. The straw was like gold to them, although unlike the fabled miller’s daughter, rather than spin, she braided.

She was twenty years old when Charlie was born. The child had his mother’s light hair, his father’s deep blue eyes, and the natural ingenuity of both of them combined. He learned to plait straw when he was just three years old. Sometimes, his mother would spend an entire day halving the long stems with the sharpened bone blade of the wanzer, her prized straw-splitting tool, while the toddler sat on the floor braiding and braiding an endless rope of flattened wheat stalks until the strand seemed long enough to be rolled into a bundle for Sigrid to sell.

She liked his company. In rural Rimmolan, some of the straw plaiters visited one another and talked while doing their work, but it was inconvenient to haul all the supplies around when neighbors lived so far apart. Charles Senior was out doing chores throughout most of the day. Little Charlie began to converse at an early age because he was his mother’s chief companion, and because he was exceptionally bright.

The couple planned to send the boy outdoors to help his father when he was a little older. It was a heavy load of work for one man, and the farm would be more productive when there were two. They intended to have many more sons and daughters.

A few months before the child’s fourth birthday, his father developed a high fever and all-over pain that would not subside. There was no apothecary within twenty miles and the local midwife had no sort of treatment that could help him.

Sigrid knew nothing about medicine. As far as she knew, her husband died of a fever.

Family members were notified, but most of them couldn’t arrive until days after his funeral. His sister and brother-in-law, Clara and Tyrone Overton, rode in from Teversall, where they ran a curio shop. To Sigrid, they were wealthy. Little Charlie marveled at their elegant Spanish horses and colorful clothing. The visit, overshadowed by deep grief, did afford the young couple a bright spot in being able to see the little boy for the first time, as they had no children of their own.

There were many painful questions to answer and problems to face.

How will you manage? the family asked Sigrid.

I don’t know, she replied. But I shall. I can tend the fields. I can take care of the house. Charlie is getting older and he will just have to help me.

Getting older, Tyrone thought. He is three years old.

Before they left Rimmolan, Tyrone pulled Sigrid aside and handed her a bank note. It’s not much, but please remember that we are your family. If you need anything at all, send for us. He looked at the child. I want my nephew to have a chance at a good life.

The statement hurt her deeply, but she understood. Tyrone was not related to her and Charlie was only his nephew by marriage. She appreciated his good heart.

After everyone left, Sigrid Blythe set about forging a new routine. The wheat field was the top priority. She had never done much farming herself, but she had been around it enough to know what needed to be done. She moved the workshop outdoors and young Charlie braided wheat alone while she hoed, weeded, irrigated, and tended to the field each day.

One day, as Charlie sat on a blanket that his mother had spread out on the lawn, a tremendously fat bumblebee-like insect flew out of the woodland beyond the east field and, in a straight line, advanced exactly to where he worked. It was furry and striped with silver and blue, rather than yellow and black. Its stinger appeared metallic, like a polished steel saber, and Charlie had no time at all to react to its approach before it landed on him, sending a wave of pain throughout his little arm. He swatted at it instinctively and it flew away without even leaving the stinger behind.

The boy screamed and ran toward Sigrid, who raced urgently toward him when she saw him clutching his arm. He was not a child who cried often.

The bee sting swelled to the size of a snapping turtle shell, which was easily the length from the boy’s shoulder to his elbow. Sigrid picked him up and ran into the house, rinsing the sore lump with water and then packing it with a solution of bread and milk. She wrapped it up with a long strip of muslin and rocked him until the pain seemed to subside. Was it a bee? she asked him. What bit you?

A blue bee, he replied, finally able to talk calmly. A big blue bee.

Sigrid sighed. She would never know. She hoped it wasn’t a spider. Did the big blue bee fly to you? She shot her hand toward him to simulate a bee. Or did it walk?

It flew, he said. The big blue bee flew very fast and stung me on my arm.

It stung you. Did you see a stinger in your arm? Did you pull out a little black stick?

No, he said. The stinger was like a sword.

She wished she had not told him about King Arthur just yet.

She wished that he didn’t have to stay outside all day long.

The next morning, a small, strange-looking man arrived at the cottage. He walked around the outside of the house and stopped at the spot where Charlie laboriously struggled to plait straw with a sore arm. The man lifted up a long braided rope and raised his eyebrows. Excellent work, he remarked, turning it from the shiny side to the dull side. Did you do all of this?

The boy nodded, absently. Praise meant nothing to him. The man would just buy it all and leave him to start all over on a new bundle.

Sigrid noticed their visitor and walked briskly from the field, wiping her hands on her apron. He smiled pleasantly as she approached. Mrs. Blythe?

I am, she replied. Would you like to order some straw?

The man shook his head. No, madam. I heard about your misfortune. I am very, very sorry. I am sure that the burden is very immense now that your husband is gone.

Sigrid looked at the boy, whose emotionless eyes remained fixed on his work. It is rather manageable, she replied, lifting her chin and making it clear that she wanted the man to get to the point.

I am Fenbeck, he said, removing his hat and taking a low bow. I am looking for work. I would be happy to help you with your wheat field for a very reasonable wage.

Sigrid looked him up and down. He was nearly a foot shorter than she was, and she was not a tall woman. He was also scrawny. And pale skinned … almost green. She couldn’t imagine him able to do much farm work. Thank you, sir, but I don’t need help at this time. If you would like to leave me your name, I will keep it in mind in case I ever do need to hire someone.

He grinned, knowingly. I’m aware that I don’t have the physique of most excellent farmers, but I assure you that I am one of the best, and you would be amazed at how strong I actually am. Shall I demonstrate?

Sigrid was amused by the image of him walking over to the barn and lifting it off the ground with one hand. No, sir. That is quite all right. I do not doubt that you are strong.

He laughed. I meant demonstrate, as in, work at no charge. For one week, so you can assess my skill.

Why would you want to do that?

Fenbeck sighed and lowered his head. "Mrs. Blythe, I have been having a very difficult time finding work ever since I arrived in this town. Nobody wants to hire me. I am sure that it is because I am too small, or