All That Lives (19 page)

Several nearly identical nights of Scripture recitations followed, then passed away, so many I lost count, for the only in-constants
were each evening our home held a different configuration of callers from around the district, as the word spread regarding
the Spirit’s abilities. The Thorns and the Porters came, and the Polks, whom we did not know well, came from the east and
brought old Mr. Harris and Mr. Gooch. They witnessed deeply engaging religious talks in place of the violence of before, but
all that was discovered was only that no one could compete with the Spirit’s pious knowledge. No one could successfully argue
with it. The Being could give correct interpretations of the Bible passages, and it could recite more than one translation,
as well as patiently inform the community which verse was most authentic and original.

“This is a most unusual parlor game,” old Mr. Harris concluded when he left our house and I thought it was an accurate description
for those evenings spent indulging the Spirit’s intellectual development, amid the rush and whir of turning pages.

Before long it had impressed everyone with its mastery of Scripture, and then abruptly the Being grew bored with theology
and turned to mischief. It began to gossip, tattling fervently on all members of our community. It told how Mr. Thorn had
fallen asleep in church during Reverend Johnston’s Sunday sermon, and it accused Sarah Ellison of regularly cheating Thorn’s
country store by filling her sack with five pounds of flour while only paying for three. Calvin Justice recalled how the Spirit
had spoken of truth,
whatsoever he shall hear, that shall he speak,
and he suggested the purification of our souls through upright moral behavior was perhaps the visitation’s true intent and
meaning, but I did not believe it was so. Even with our daily sins and trespasses, I felt our souls were infinitely more pure
than the Spirit’s intent.

Toward the end of April the days had lengthened so it was not necessary to light the lamps until well after supper. We had
the windows open all through the house and I was in the kitchen helping Mother and Chloe prepare two trays of tea for our
guests. The Randolphs were our callers and they had brought their cousin Clara Lawson with them. Though she was many years
younger than Mother, Clara’s husband, George, had recently passed away and made her a widow.

“Smell the roses and the charlock, Betsy,” Mother said as she shook the tea cloth out the back door of the kitchen.

“We are privy to one sweet spring,” Chloe said, and she held her nose high, looking out at Mother’s garden.

“Let us add fresh flowers to the tray.” Mother took my hand and pulled me down the path past the blooming orange calendula
to her bed of roses. We had no basket and she bade me hold my skirt up so she might gently place the thorny roses there as
she cut them from the bush.

“Observe perfection in these blossoms, Betsy.” Mother smiled at me and touched my hand. “Striving not, they are an example
of beauteous nature unto the Lord.”

“They are flowers, Mother.” I sighed, wishing to accomplish the task and return to have a slice of Chloe’s custard pie, but
Mother frowned at me and I realized I had given the wrong response. She felt compelled to correct me.

“Elizabeth, think on it. The Lord has given us perfection in His nature, that we might strive to emulate such beauty. Pray,
you shall one day blossom to such perfection as this rose.” She clipped a stem and tossed it so the thorn pierced the plain
cloth fabric of my skirt. I looked at the growing pile of blossoms, noticing the petals curled like lips, the edges darker
than their centers, like real mouths. If they could speak, what would they reveal of beauty and perfection? The last light
of day touched the garden and I sensed someone near, watching. The bright tinkle of Clara’s laugh fluttered from the house
sounding like a spoon dropped accidentally in its saucer and beyond it the crickets and katydids screamed, night has come,
night has come.

“That’s plenty,” Mother said and stopped her clipping. She looked around, listening carefully, as if she too felt the Presence
in the air.

“Mother, do you feel the Spirit?” I was frightened, but Mother turned me toward the house and spoke calmly.

“Yes, Betsy, I feel the Spirit. The Spirit of the Lord and the Spirit of the roses, and the Spirit of the katydids too, for
all living things are Spirit.”

The kitchen was warm and reassuring and we carried the trays into the parlor to serve our guests their tea. The Reverend cleared
his throat and was about to start his reading when a clatter of stones fell down the stairs and the room became cold as a
cave in winter.

I would speak to you of an ugly thing.
“Speak not, but return from whence you came.” Father was ever vigilant with his requests.

I would speak of adultery, and charge within this room there are some partaking of it.

A general gasp of shock, expressed by a sharp inhalation of breath, swirled about the parlor, as this was a most serious accusation.

“Charge thee before God?” Reverend Johnston narrowed his eyes and looked keenly at the Randolphs and Clara Lawson. “For He
is all knowing and all seeing in such matters.”

“How does a demon charge before God, good Reverend?” Thomas Randolph looked to Father for support.

Speak not, Old Sugar Mouth! In this purpose, I am the tribunal.

A strange and most disturbing silence followed.

“Old Sugar Mouth, what does it mean?” the Reverend Johnston mused, hugging his Bible to his belly, frowning. I saw Father
look away and smile slightly and I remembered I had heard him say to Mother our Reverend did indulge the sweeter words of
the Lord, as he did the fat corn cakes. Thomas Randolph shifted his feet as if he was uncomfortable in his position and I
saw Clara look to him, but sideways without turning her face. Abruptly, I knew what the Being said was true, plain as if it
spoke into my ear alone. Clara Lawson
was
engaged in a romantic tryst with her cousin Alice’s dear husband!

“How can you berate so good a man?” Mother rebuked the voice.

The wicked boasteth of his heart’s desire, the covetous blesseth himself and abhorreth the Lord.

“Dear Lucy, I feel most suddenly unwell.” Clara stood, nervously smoothing the folds from her skirt.

“It is common to feel unwell in the presence of our visitation.” Father turned to her with reassurance.

“You shall spend the night with us, Clara.” Alice Randolph stood and took her arm and Mr. Randolph also rose.

The wicked are snared in the work of their own hands.

“ ’Tis not wise to ride when you are not sound.” Mother was concerned. “We have pallets and plenty of beds.” She followed
Clara, who hurried from our parlor attempting to fetch her cloak. “What ails you, Clara? I will make you a special tea.”

I turned in time to see Clara trip and stumble on the pile of rocks at the foot of our stairs. Her lithe form fell heavily
onto the hallway floor.

“Clara! Are you hurt?” Mr. Randolph was quicker to her side than Mother or Alice, and I saw Clara raise fearful eyes to focus
on his face.

Let thy sentence come forth from my presence, behold the ways of the wicked.

At this Clara fainted into unconsciousness and Mother and Alice Randolph kneeled beside her.

“She must not be moved,” Mother said as she lifted Clara’s hand to feel her pulse.

“Indeed she must! It is the evil of this house that makes her ill!” Mr. Randolph was quite upset.

“I have smelling salts …” Mother rose to fetch them from the kitchen but Mr. Randolph ignored her.

“Open the door, Alice!” he commanded his wife, and we watched him cradle Clara’s limp form to his chest. He carried her out
onto the porch.

“I believe we will depart,” Alice said hastily, grabbing her cloak and Clara’s from the pegs. The Spirit slammed the door
after them, letting loose a malicious laugh.

The wages of sin is death.

“Judge not, lest you be judged …” The Reverend’s eyes were downcast and he was disturbed and Mother stood helplessly gazing
at the shut door.

Be quiet, Old Sugar Mouth, for you know nothing of it.

Mother had placed the cut roses in a blown glass vase on the table beside the tea tray and their perfume sweetness filled
the air. I breathed deep their luxurious scent, pitying poor Clara, for though she had a friendly disposition, the Spirit
clearly felt unkindly toward her, and the natural outcome of the Being’s dislike would undoubtedly be great tribulation for
her. I did not suspect it could be greater than my own. I realized I had witnessed the entire exchange without being made
to suffer pain or unconsciousness, and I wondered as I fell asleep that night, Was there any meaning to the Being’s actions?

I do not know who first repeated the Spirit’s accusation, I know
I
did not, but perhaps it was destined to be known, for only a few days later Alice Randolph came calling alone, intent on
speaking with Mother.

“Hello, Mrs. Randolph!” I heard Richard greet her from the bottom of the hill where he was playing. It was wash day and I
was hanging the bed linens on the line that ran beside the garden. “Mother’s clipping lavender,” Richard informed her, skipping
along, accompanying Mrs. Randolph up the hill to Mother’s garden. She seemed unaware of him, walking quickly, but Richard
carried on talking. “My father has said I might be allowed to bring the corn to your mill, come fall.”

“Has he? Are you already so big?” Mrs. Randolph answered, but from her preoccupied tone I could tell she was not at all interested
in whether my little brother was of age to be trusted going to the mill. “I shall not forget to look for you,” she politely
reassured him anyway. They arrived at the edge of the garden and I saw that Richard’s face was lit with happy thoughts of
a fall paddle in the mill pond, but Mrs. Randolph wore a serious expression.

“Mrs. Randolph, why hello! Might I offer you some lavender to scent your wardrobe?” Mother stopped her work, her sharp iron
clippers suspended in midair.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Bell. I call with a delicate matter on my mind.” Mrs. Randolph wore a dark woolen cloak dyed from walnut
hulls and I saw her fingers were busy with the somber material about her throat. Mother set her tool down and placed the long
lavender blooms into a basket at her feet.

“Shall we repair inside and hold our discussion over tea?” she asked her guest.

“ ’Tis not necessary, as the matter is brief.” I peeked from behind the wet sheet I was pinning and saw Mrs. Randolph appeared
to be struggling with the task she had set herself. She was a skilled miller’s wife, adept and practical, but clearly she
was more comfortable grinding corn than discussing the unpleasant aspects of life. Mother quietly and politely waited for
Mrs. Randolph to reveal her trouble.

“Malicious rumors regarding my good husband, Thomas, and my cousin Clara issue from your home.” Mrs. Randolph sighed, confessing
her concerns. “I come to beg you, please, you must affect this evil gossip, for tarnish grows on our good name!”

“Were it possible to affect this visitation, do you believe that I would not?” Mother touched Mrs. Randolph’s arm. “This Spirit
is not influenced by me nor by any other.”

“There are many who say it speaks the truth!” Mrs. Randolph was close to tears, and allowed Mother to comfort her in an embrace.

“It speaks both lies and truth in equal measure.” Mother’s countenance was thoughtful as she stroked Mrs. Randolph’s back.
“No one of good upbringing gives credence to its tales.” She moved back a step but kept a reassuring hold on Mrs. Randolph’s
arms, searching her face, encouraging her to be stalwart. “You are unconsoled,” Mother sighed, as if she knew not what to
say.

“There are many in these parts with upbringings leaving much to be desired!” Mrs. Randolph pulled her arms free, with some
impatience. “This talk is hard for Thomas, and how will it affect our livelihood if folks refuse to use our mill?” She used
a corner of her cloak to dab her nose. “And what of our dear Clara? She is of a delicate constitution, as you know. When she
was small, often she did spend the winter months in bed, with fevers and the like. Her mother went to an early grave caring
for her, and now Clara is widowed so young. I believe she can weather no more suffering.” Mrs. Randolph shook her head and
I could see she was more deeply concerned for her cousin’s welfare than she was for her good name. “If my Thomas consoles
her with his company, what is the sin in that?”