The Country Life

He stood still in the gate, one foot on grass and one on gravel, a statue of himself. His stomach was ice and he shivered, even in the hard Tennessee heat. Over his shoulder the last of the sunset stretched above the cotton fields, golden bronze and deep red. A new sickle moon hovered in the gathering dark, pale white and deep blue against the flaring colors below.

The white frame house was silent, still looking out over green fields and the clear waters of a spring-fed lake. Beyond the barn the old orchard rambled, bent and ripening under the heaviness of late summer heat. The wide gardens dripped with the bright colors and deep scents of flower, fruit, and vine.

The gentle sounds of the sheep and goats pastured on the far fields drifted over him, full of quiet contentment as he stood rooted at the edge of the lane. A rooster called from the direction of the old henhouse, where rabbit hutches would line the outside walls and a turkey or two might be growing up for Thanksgiving.

In the woods, he knew, hogs rooted among the oak and willow, the hawthorn and walnut and elm. He could hear them moving among the leaves in the park-like dusk of the acres under old forest. He could just pick out the huffs and snorts and shuffles of the adults, and the tik-tik-tik of small hooved feet as broods of pigs ran together as fast as water flows over the ground. He remembered their speed, their flapping tiny ears, their lemming-like tendency to follow one another into mischief… and he laughed aloud before he came back to himself.

The land was lush and verdant, rich in all the ways that counted, that lasted, that stayed. It seemed unchanged by the years - oak trees taller, gardens perhaps more sprawling, but that ancient yearly breath of life was as steady as ever. He was the one that had changed. Would he even find her here? Did he want to?

The wrought iron oak leaf frame of the front screen door popped and he jumped as if a gun had discharged. He blinked, one hand still on the gate, one foot still in the lane. For a moment, nothing moved.

Then she was there, black eyes seeking his even over the distance between them. Along the front walk, goldenrod and bergamot still bloomed with butterfly bushes in the riotous flower beds. They framed her on the front porch, her braided copper hair mimicking the morning glory slowly claiming the front columns. She was unchanged. The trees were taller, the beds of herbs and flowers ringing the house were thicker. But she was as she always was - the pale and quiet center of a verdant wheel.

And there it was, the conundrum of Flaxen Farms. Radiant light, with death inside. A landscape of riotous joy, tended lovingly by the darkness at its heart.

His breath left him as he watched her. In her own stillness, she watched him back. Did she know him? What would he feel if she didn’t? What would he feel if she did?

“Lianna?” His voice sounded wispy, as if his breath stuck in his throat.

“No,” she said sharply. Then, more gently, “I’m Elia, her cousin. Please come in. It seems we need to talk.”

Inside, carpets and rugs blanketed broad oak floors that were laid a century before polyurethane. The furniture was all imposing old wood and faded glass, but the curtains that framed the tall old windows were as fresh and bright as if the house had been finished the year before. Chairs and couches were comfortable, deep, and stately.

The kitchen was not large, but each square foot had a purpose. The deep-bellied refrigerator and double oven made the place seem as if the House itself were always prepared for extra company. Clean white cabinets housed practical crockery and canning tools. A deep farmhouse sink and gas range were crown jewels, placed practically across from one another on each wall. Though most of the house was timeless, the kitchen was a model of modern convenience.

She sat him down at the kitchen table as the dusk turned to dark, setting the kettle on the smallest burner without asking. “Still black tea with honey?” Her voice was small, but her back was straight.

“Please. It’s been a long time since I’ve had it made right.” Against his will, he smiled at her.

When she returned his smile, hers was small and neat, a little tight at the corners, the way he remembered. Even so, her teeth glinted in the light of the farmhouse bulb over the table. She reached for matches, lit the candles on the bar and the table between them, then dimmed the lights.

“There. That’s better.” As she poured water into the teapot, the smell of spiced black tea and wildflower honey caught him off guard.

Suddenly, he was 6 again, small and frightened in the kitchen doorway of an unfamiliar farmhouse, so alone. For the first time the school bus had dropped him here instead of his own familiar home and he was lost.

There was no one to greet him, to point the way forward. But on the kitchen table he noticed a piece of paper, a plate, and a teapot. A jar of honey and a little mug nestled in between. Behind them sat a strange contraption that looked like a cross between a pitcher and a microwave.

Micah, he read,

Welcome. If you’re hungry, the plate is for you. Press the red button (here there was a helpful arrow) to heat water, and then pour the warm water into the teapot to make yourself a tasty drink. There’s honey on the table and milk in the fridge if you’d like to sweeten your tea. If it’s too hot, there are ice cubes in the freezer to cool the tea, and a spoon in the drawer to the left of the fridge to stir it all with.

I’ll be up to meet you around dusk and we’ll get to know each other better then.

—Lianna

Her name was scrawled in a big friendly hand, and her words were kind, but he was still a small boy alone in a big house. Still, he let himself smile as he lifted a towel from the plate and found two ginger cookies and a slice of rich pumpkin bread.

Micah felt a sense of pride as he heated and poured his own water. He was fascinated as the tea darkened the liquid in the pot, by the deepening smells of spiced chai and black tea that wafted from his cup as he poured, by the sweetness of the honey and the way the whole thing morphed into something comforting and satisfying with milk and a good stir. After one too-hot sip, he took the note’s advice and retrieved a couple of ice cubes from the freezer.

It was only years later that he realized how wise and how kind she had been to give him this small task. He was immediately absorbed in doing something with his hands, distracted by something interesting and new. By the time he was ready to eat and drink he knew his way around one room of his new home.

Before he had quite finished the pumpkin bread he heard footsteps coming up the basement stairs and watched Lianna’s small, dark frame appear in the kitchen door. Though he still felt a little shy - and the deeper, constant sadness underneath - he had a full belly, a comforted heart, and a new sense of confidence.

***

She set out two cups, shook tea into the teapot, and sat down across from him.

“Of course it’s me,” she said simply. “But it’s been time for awhile to let Lianna fade and Elia take her place, inheriting the farm and taking on her duties. It’s been too long for me to continue to go by the name you remember. People start to wonder.”

He remembered how she’d sat with him that first night, adult and child, old and young, one at home and one at sea. “I know how strange this must feel,” she told him then in her strange, slight accent, “But you are welcome here, now and always. You’ll find this to be a peaceful home, and it’s here for you any time you need a place to rest. It’s a lovely and comforting place to be sad.”

And as the sad, small boy looked into those black eyes he found he believed her, and it was a welcome feeling. He didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to explain what it was like inside him right now. Somehow she already understood. He sipped his tea as she pulled a bottle from a cabinet and poured herself a wine glass - rich, deep red against a green stem. She sat with him in the quiet of the warm kitchen for several minutes, not rushing or questioning him, not wishing for change or motion. This woman understood silence, and time, and was afraid of neither. He swung his legs against the bars of his chair and watched flecks of spices swirl in his cup. Eventually, he looked up again at her.

“My daddy always said you were good to us. And Mamma would nod and smile this little smile. Kind of like yours. What did he mean?”

“Well, my family and your daddy’s family go back a long ways, back to when this country was much much newer. Your daddy’s people were slaves once, but my family came from a part of the world where that wasn’t something we could live with. We freed them, the Fraziers and several other families. The Fraziers chose to stay and we worked with them on this land. We owned it together, we worked it together, we went through feast and famine and feast again helping each other. Sometimes it’s been hard but we’ve always made it through. For a lot of long years there’s always just been one of us here, a woman alone in a big house, looking after the old place. Over time Fraziers have come and gone, lived on the land and around it, moved away or stayed.

“Your folks have always helped us out, kept us supplied with the things we need…”

she paused.

“…and kept our secrets.”

She seemed to shake herself from her thoughts.

“But enough of that. I’m lucky to have known your people for as long as I have. Good folks with kind hearts. I can see you have a kind heart too.”

He wondered how she could see that. He didn’t think he did. But he was only six, so how would he know?

He sighed.

“And now I’m the last one.”

“Well now.” She said, “Me too.”

She didn’t add anything, didn’t embellish. She just let that sameness hang in the air, a bond between the mismatched pair. The small boy with his curly dark hair and ebony skin, the tall woman’s pale skin emphasized as she placed her hand over his. At least they could be alone together.