Tyoborha, 11 July, 1889
From her vantage the Black Mountains slithered, rock and woodland strewn artfully as if by God’s own hand.
And there, beneath the dark, roiling clouds, a stab of lightning appeared and made its blinding voyage towards the dry, famished earth, awesome and frightening in its brilliance.
Her eyes grew wide against the surge, the very pits of her stomach leaping to the tines of her wings, her fingers…
‘‘Liziwe…’’ the very air whispered, consuming her senses; a voice carried on the wings of a falcon.
‘‘Liziwe!’’ the sharp tone of her Mother’s voice overcame her, and she sat upright, the hazy edges of sleep escaping her mind. ‘‘Child, what on Earth possessed you to sleep unclothed? Good heavens, and without a covering, as well! You’ll catch your death of cold, mark my words. Wake up! We have company-’’
‘‘C-company?’’ yawned Liziwe, stifling a groan as she stretched her stiff, frozen limbs.
‘‘Yes, company, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times- Boniswa will have breakfast ready soon, I need you to milk the cow. Bandile is running late as usual...’’
‘‘Who’s coming?’’ Liziwe enquired absently, crossing to the wardrobe to retrieve her dress.
‘‘I must have died and gone to hell,’’ Miriam grumbled despondently. ‘‘Hurry up, you dozy dodo!’’ she exclaimed, unreservedly maddened.
Her father met her in the pantry with a glance of carefully schooled surprise, the hints of a smile tugging at his thin, parched lips. A man of lean stature, Elias was, with a kind face hidden behind black, horn-rimmed spectacles; the sort of man that one instantly felt at ease with. ‘‘Ah, Lizi,’’ he said upon seeing his daughter.
‘‘Good morning, Papa,’’ said Liziwe, raising a brow as he beckoned her surreptitiously closer. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘Don’t show your Mother- here: a present.’’ He passed her a heavy tome that had been bulkily concealed underneath the slick, yellow fabric of his raincoat. Its weight surprised her, and she glanced at the cover. Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical, by Henry Gray.
‘‘I- thank you, Papa! But it’s not my birthday-
‘‘Does a Father need a reason to dote upon his daughter?’’ enquired Elias with a trifling smile. ‘‘Come, hide it quickly, or Mrs Matiwane will have my head on a spike.’’
‘‘But Mother’s just asked me to see to the cow-’’
‘‘Nonsense. Bandile will do it. Go now, quickly, and hide it somewhere she will not see.’’
Trusting that everything would find itself in order, Liziwe smiled and darted back to her quarters; the room on top of their house- her precious attic.
With the access door safely closed, she chanced a moment to look at the book. And what a book it was: filled with the most fascinating anatomical illustrations, and cautious commentary as to many a cutting-edge surgical procedures. The drawings were executed with the utmost precision, and Liziwe longed to have the luxury of hours in which to study it. What a treasure! For if there was anything in which Liziwe Matiwane took the keenest pleasure, it was in learning her Father’s profession. Elias was a Doctor, and though this trade might have been seen in the highest of lights, he was merely a village Doctor, as it were; and the most difficult cases he had seen in recent years were Mrs Bayeni’s common complaint of headaches. They were of healthy stock in Tyoborha, and Dr Matiwane was rarely called for any excessive grievance.
But it was in Dr Matiwane’s extensive library that his daughter had found her first passion: in the examination of the human body, hidden away in the crackling bindings of her Father’s books. It was, of course, an undertaking neither decorous nor entirely proper; but in the absence of sons, Dr Matiwane was obliged to humour his only daughter’s every whim. So he began to teach her, slowly, under the disapproving remarks of his wife- but Liziwe was steadfast in her desire, and so it was allowed.
And now, as she slowly gained the formidable age of twenty-five, it had become abundantly clear to Mrs Matiwane that this incessant coddling had not been in her daughter’s best interest. Liziwe had become willful, with a strong and immoderate manner of speech; and yet, somehow, she had managed to gain the interest of a small handful of young men, God be praised. But Liziwe Matiwane would not have a husband to stem her learnings; a husband to curtail the experiments she squirreled away in her quarters using her Father’s equipment. No: a husband was not an ideal she would subject herself to, for she fancied herself a woman who would not be an accessory to domestic bliss. And needless to say, the running of her own household was a business in which Liziwe cared not a whit. But this had become somewhat of a problem for our young lady of society: for Liziwe Matiwane had become downright scandalous.
She might have, mind you, simply developed into a mere curiosities in her old age, unmarried and a bit queer; but sadly, the niggling issue of inheritance was one that her mother could not ignore. So, Liziwe persevered in her studies, with the steadfast yearning to become a physician, no matter how unlikely the outcome; while her beloved mother, the old bird, as Miriam was affectionately known to her loving husband and daughter, just as voraciously employed all possible veins to entice a young man of good fortune to marry her odd, stubborn daughter. But alas, the prospects had grown thin, and indeed, the possibility of marriage was beginning to look bleak, with or without any goodly sum of income.
It was with this in mind that Liziwe cautiously stowed away this absolute marvel of a textbook, and reconciled herself to an afternoon with her Mother’s chosen company.
‘‘My dear Miriam, what a pleasure it is, how very long it has been!’’ exclaimed Nomthunzi Mbovane, sweeping into the lounge. Miriam had barely the time to rise and greet the exuberant woman before Nomthunzi bore down upon the other occupant of the room. ‘‘And Lizi, my goodness, you’re a woman grown now! The last time I saw you, you were still in your short-skirts. My, but your home is such a treasure, so quaint and utterly cozy, is it not, Edward?’’ She had during this time shed her outer garments, piling them haphazardly into poor Miriam’s waiting arms. Her hat ribbons quivered underneath her generous chin as she briskly untied them, revealing elaborately set curls at either side of her cheeks. She casually gestured at her surroundings, decorated in a modest and unassuming manner, before turning to glance at the man who had followed her into the room. He was a slender fellow, with keen, slanted eyes and a lon
‘‘The absolute nerve,’’ she muttered under her breath, treading carelessly on any weed or flower that dared cross her path, the clean air invading her faculties, clearing the cobwebs and dust of gossip from the nethermost corners. Exercise, she noted, always did one good.Time became open then, unoffending in the expanse of the rugged landscape as she followed the trail with determined strides ever upwards, towards an outlook she loved best. And there, where craggy boulders stood like broken teeth against the cool horizon, she shuddered suddenly as a gust of wind wrapped its probing tentacles around the thick wool of her shawl.She glanced at the sun hidden behind the thin sweeping clouds, and supposed that people, perhaps kinsfolk, had lived and worshipped and existed on this here woodland for far longer than she could ever imagine.The breeze grew chill, and she pulled her shawl closer.And at last she foun
It felt like an awfully long time before she became aware, slowly, of the warmth of fingertips at her throat. They pressed, gently, and then were gone; then brushed against the tip of her nose and hovered above her lips. Her eyes snapped open suddenly, and she met the startled gaze of Edward Skweyiya. She was surprised to see his eyes were an odd assortment of brown and hazel, as they widened in the shock of contact. He jerked his hand back and spoke deliberately, ‘‘I was checking for your pulse, and to be sure that you were breathing, Miss Matiwane. Forgive me; I have startled you, and you are clearly unwell.’’‘‘Oh,’’ she gasped breathlessly, ‘‘Oh, it’s you...’’ she winced, clutching her head and sitting upright, ever so cautiously. ‘‘I thought I heard...something...’’ she mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Embarrassment could not begin to describe her emoti
‘‘Hurry up, Liziwe, we will be late!’’ exclaimed Miriam, tugging Elias alongside her as if he were a small child.‘‘Coming, Mama,’’ Liziwe called in a sing-song voice, as she attempted to make her strides as short as possible. But no matter the size of her steps, they did inevitably bring her to the entrance of the church, where the Pastor stood in all his pompous benevolence. His presence served to hold the doors open as much as to greet the congregation, and she scrutinised him for all of a moment, attempting to extract from his manner the subject of today’s sermon. A small and sallow man, the Pastor was, with the shrewd face of a weasel and a vacant glance that seemed to nevertheless hone in on the most unwanted of aspects. The wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy as she approached, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering behind her. Dr and Mrs Matiwane had already disappeared into the depths of the church,
The ride was a long one, made longer by the incessant chattering of her mother; but arrive they finally did, as the carriage clattered up the extensive drive. A long reflecting pond dominated the front, the speckled flames of sheltered candles illuminating the way. She had never seen such a grand house, and was reminded once again how very little and plain her life was: Liziwe Matiwane, the odd duck verging on spinsterhood. The delicate silk gown she had flattered herself in only an hour before now seemed homely and exceedingly modest and, as she stepped from the carriage in her neat little shoes, she shrank from the grandeur in shame. She could not understand the reasons why she and Edward were being pushed together; she was hardly of the same rank as Mrs Mbovane. Perhaps, the niggling voice in her head spoke, he is just as hopeless as you. ‘‘Ah, Dr and Mrs Matiwane, and Lizi!’’ shrilled Nomthunzi as they ascended the
Dear LiziweI have solved that case which called me away in such a hasty manner. It was, in the end, divinely simple; but that is not why I write you now. No, now I write on matters most adroit at turning the edge of boredom, that foul, double-headed serpent. It is decided: let us test your mettle. I throw at your feet a case: not a demanding one, but a case all the same. I will endeavour to the utmost not to influence your verdict, and will supply you with ample details, though the challenge truly lies in reading a scene in its natural state; but alas, it is not to be. You are not here, and we must make do, and hope for the best. Nevertheless, I beg of you to send a return with your thoughts, whatever they might be. Think of it, if you will, as an exercise in mental dexterity. The life of the Spinster of Tyoborha could hardly be a challenging one; though I grant that you do have a thirst for knowledge which, I must admit, rivals my own- but only in
Dear LiziweThe stink of summer heat is upon us, and I do not envy the poor wretch that roams the street below in search of a crumb. I observe him from my window, and on occasion throw him a scrap of food. He scurries forward on wasted limbs, squinting up at where I stand, his broken teeth winking in the sun’s burning light. Tell me, Miss Matiwane, do you think it kind of me, or terribly low?Have you heard of this aphorism, in which the heat encourages humanity to act at their very worst? That the fever of the sun encourages all vices, even those long dormant in the gentlest of souls, to rear their ugly heads? The delinquents have been driven from their stifling burrows and now they roam the streets, thieving and plundering at every opportunity that presents itself. The city is rank with the wretched elite; yet laced between the layers of heavy stench lingers the fragrance of sin. East London has become a grea
Thunder roared across the vale, a crackling burst that birthed great forks of lightning. The sleek white shards tumbled to the indebted earth, and the shattered heavens flew asunder in feral delight. Deep in their burrows the little creatures cowered, and waited for the rains to subside. And low the storm came, its shadowy wing beckoning over the window where Liziwe sat with hands folded, peering through the thick panes of glass. She smiled, and shifted to a new position, pressing her nose to the window in childish enchantment. There was something so awfully thrilling in the nature of the storm; the unadulterated power coursing through the heavens, and through her fingertips she felt it. It was as if some essence could be harvested from the very air around her, tingling with jagged, electric energy.When she was young, she had often sneaked out from the house, bursting forth at the slightest bloom of thunder and prancing barefoot among the knee-deep brush, howli