All That Lives (23 page)

Know your traps are full and your Injun friends collect the skins before you.

“Creature, recant your lies for they are foul.” Frank rubbed his head and hissed at the Spirit.

Get to your camp if you do not believe it so.

The Being struck him again, this time across his face with Father’s Bible, and to see Frank punching and flailing at the good
book, his wild black hair flying about his face as his cheeks grew bright red, caused me to laugh out loud.

“Elizabeth!” Mother was annoyed, and looked to Richard and Joel, who were forced to cover their mouths with cupped hands to
keep from giggling. It was uncannily amusing to witness Frank wrestling the holy word of God.

“Enough!” Father managed to wrench the Bible from the force that held it to Frank’s face and with great effort he pulled it
to his chair and sat on it. His jaw was clenched in anger and the wheezy laughter of the Being filled the room, abruptly ceasing
at its highest pitch. We were silent, realizing it had gone from us. I recovered myself quickly, no longer inclined to laugh.

“ ’Tis a foe to be reckoned with.” Frank wiped his brow with the back of his hand and remained standing. I glanced at Drewry
and John Jr. near the door and saw disappointment on their faces. Drewry cleared his throat before he spoke.

“It has told the truth of the future in the past, Mr. Miles.”

“Eh? How say you, young man?” Frank raised a bushy eyebrow at my outspoken brother and tilted his head. John Jr. and Father
looked annoyed with Drew, but I sympathized with his desire to share his knowledge.

“The Being does sometimes speak the truth.” Drewry sighed and I thought of Clara Lawson, and I expect everyone present, except
Frank, did likewise.

“I would concur with our good son on this subject,” Mother added.

“The Injuns know not where my traps are laid.” Frank Miles looked to my father, but Father turned from him and crossed the
room to his desk without speaking on the matter.

“The Injuns fear the wrath of Frank Miles as much as any white man,” Frank declared as he straightened his back and squared
his shoulders, cutting a formidable pose.

“Share this flask, my friend.” Father withdrew it from his desk.

“Do they know you are off the mountain?” Mother was concerned and stared bleakly at the untouched cup of coffee Father had
placed on the side table.

“Oh yea, they know when I am gone.” Frank scowled and took the whiskey.

“Perhaps you should return and discover if it speaks the truth.” Joel tilted back his golden curls and spoke aloud the obvious
suggestion with childish innocence. His feet dangled above the floor and we watched them swing, waiting for Frank’s answer.

“And will you come along, little man?” Frank smiled and rustled Joel’s hair with the same hand that had felt the Spirit’s
touch. I could see he had not planned to make his journey back so soon.

“Will you be departing?” I knew I should not ask forthright, but I could not climb the stairs without knowing, I so enjoyed
Frank’s presence in our home. Even though he was dejected, merriment seemed never far from his grasp.

“ ’Tis likely that I shall, Miss Betsy, but sooner than a weasel down a hole, I will return to prove your demon is a liar.”

Verily you shall return, Frank Miles, but not on the day of your imagining.

The lamps flickered and the candles sputtered out and the boys and I froze in our movements toward bed, surprised by the Being’s
return.

“Look, it’s lightning!” Frank squinted at the window confused by the flashing of the ground.

I am no liar, though I have tales to make the best of your small stories fit only for the children’s ears.

Mother pulled Joel closer, covering his ears with her hands in case the Being might begin to tell the tales of which it bragged.

“Please, I beg you, torment the children not one day longer. Say farewell to us this very night.” Mother spoke to the Spirit
but looked to Frank Miles with some desperation, as if she hoped he could take the Being with him on his travels.

No, Luce, I will stay awhile. And you, Frank Miles, you shall return here at my whim, for I do like you.

“I do not like you, demon!” Frank responded with honest disgust. “Your hand is smooth, alas, your curse is hard on John Bell
and his fine family.”

You know naught of it, and you bore me when you dabble with convention. It hangs like an ill-stretched skin on you. Yet, you
inspire me to share a song.

We were silent as the Being sang a hymn with such sweet timbre an angel from Heaven could not have equaled its tone.

Come my heart, and let us try,

For a little season,

Every burden to lay by,

Come and let us reason.

What is this that casts you down?

Who are those that grieve you?

Speak and let the worst be known.

Speaking may relieve you.

We were astonished to hear it possessed so lovely a voice, certainly unlike any I had ever heard before. It flowed over us
as if we were stones in the river, caressed by waters of smooth serenity. I felt I would sleep well and soundly in my bed,
lulled into sweet dreams by the music.

“How beautiful!” Mother expressed sincere praise unto the Being, for failing to make it depart, she wished to encourage its
best nature.

I shall sing for you another.

The Spirit responded like a child made bold, strengthened by adult attention.

“I shall listen no longer.” Father was irritated and stumbled clumsily across the parlor. “I refuse!” His gait was unsteady
and slurred with whiskey and Mother rose, to take his arm and help him, but he jerked away from her, bumping his hip against
the side table by the door of his room. “Curse the evil thing!” He spit on the floor crossing the threshold, then Mother blocked
my view. She lingered at the doorway of their room, watching to be certain he fell into the soft feather down of their bed
and not onto the floor, for clearly he was drunk and not mindful. She left him fully clothed and already sleeping, then turned
back to us, as we prepared to be audience for the Being’s concert.

Frank Miles moved the chairs and laid out his pallet before the empty hearth. I sat cross-legged on the rug by his feet. He
gave his quilt to the boys, who rolled themselves into a cocoon shape, resting their heads on his broad side. We listened
to the Spirit sing for several hours and it was a most remarkable experience, for as the voice rose high and low, so too did
the lights outside the window and in the lamps. Even Frank with all his knowledge of the world declared he’d known nothing
like it, ever.

I enjoyed the warmth of cuddling on the rug and the beauty of the lights did move me, but I found myself looking often to
the doorway, missing Father immensely, and looking also inside myself, at what I truly felt. I settled my head beside Joel’s,
against Frank’s unusual deerskin trousers, reminding me of wilderness unknown. Could there be places wilder than my home?
I recalled the hateful laughter and cruel torments the Spirit was capable of and I felt the beautiful voice it used for singing
was false. I was quiet and though I nodded agreement when Mother praised the Being for bestowing on us such a harmonious recital,
my thoughts were entirely otherwise. I preferred the lovely singing to its other voices of evil, mischief and Scripture, but
I perceived the Spirit’s true nature was simply pain and torment when it came to me, and even its sweetest notes fell flat
into my ears.

I remained dejected for days after Frank Miles left our home, and I was not the only one. Mother and Father and my brothers
were similarly depressed. The Spirit’s ability to control the lives of everyone it came in contact with was terribly oppressive.
Though I had grown accustomed to my own life being directed by the Presence, I could not adjust to it holding sway over the
grown men I admired.

In one way only were we fortunate; Frank departed near our May day celebrations, and they were a great distraction for us.
We prepared as usual, the only difference being as we stitched new bonnets and polished boots, we were serenaded by the unearthly
voice, for after Frank had gone, the Being was able to speak in the day as well as the night.

“What experiment that godless trapper performed in your good home, Jack Bell, apparently had the opposite effect from your
desire.” When the Reverend Johnston called, he was smug regarding the failure of Frank’s strategy, but I believe he regretted
his insensitivity a moment later when Father replied.

“It hardly matters when the demon chooses to speak, Reverend, for every moment of its existence, silent or not, is a shrill
and constant noise inside my soul.”

Constant was the garrulous Spirit during the days leading up to the holiday. It sang hymns a plenty, including some we had
not previously heard. Mother fretted, for she was afraid the Spirit planned to attend the church services on May Day, and
who could judge what the response of the entire congregation would be if the Spirit sang like a trouvère through the holy
hour?

“We are privileged indeed, privy to your entertainments here,” she spoke softly to the Being while she sewed in the afternoons.
“But, please, stay silent for Reverend Johnston’s sermon.” She rocked and sewed as she pleaded, finishing fine lace for the
collar of my new white May Day dress. The Being did not directly reply to her, but chose instead to sing an enigmatic “Song
of the Bee.”

Buzz, buzz! buzz!

This is the song of the bee.

His legs are of yellow;

A jolly good fellow,

And yet a great worker is he.

In days that are sunny,

He’s getting his honey;

In days that are cloudy,

He’s making his wax:

On pinks and on lilies,

And gay daffodillies,

And columbine blossoms

He levies a tax!

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

From morning’s first light

Till the coming of night,

He’s singing and toiling the summer day through.

Oh! we may get weary,

And think work is dreary;

’Tis harder by far

To have nothing to do!

I took this song to mean the Spirit intimated it would be bored, if it was capable of such emotions, without attending the
Reverend Johnston’s sermon, but contrary to our expectations, when our bright May Day dawned, the Being was remarkably silent
and our family was allowed a lovely sunny afternoon, strolling in our finest clothes in the company of our entire community,
along the gently sloping grassy banks where the river ran slow near the church.

What an excellent time I’d had, visiting with Thenny, and viewing Josh Gardner across the river. Thenny had winked at me and
cast her eyes slyly under her new bonnet in Josh Gardner’s direction, while complimenting me on my fine dress, but our parents’
ears had loomed above our conversation. If my brothers and Mother and Father had not been present, what would she have said?
I exchanged only a brief glance with Josh, for he and his family had walked the path on the church side of the river. His
mother had appeared very frail, needing the support of her husband on one side and her manly young son on the other, but when
Josh saw me, he did wave. I had returned his gesture, wondering if from that distance he could appreciate Mother’s fine lace
stitched about my sleeve.

The thought of him was still a consolation to me, but it was not so vibrant as before Clara’s death and Frank’s departure.
A heavy sadness born of my continuing isolation and out-of-the-ordinary experience pressed down on me. I wished Mother would
allow me to return to school, for I had not been since my birthday, but she was disinclined to do so, preferring to keep me
close by the house. I was lonely, for Joel and Richard and Drewry went to take their lessons with Professor Powell, and John
Jr. went with Father, on horseback, to the fields. Jesse and Martha were still involved setting their small homestead in good
order for the growing season and I was all alone, my only company Mother, Chloe and the invisible voice. Maybe Father would
allow me to go with him when next he rode to Thorn’s store. Or perhaps he could bring Thenny back with him? I planned to ask
him about it at dinner, but in the evening the opportunity did not arise and right as we were finishing our meal, the Reverend
and Preacher Justice arrived.

As we settled into our places in the parlor Mother related to us all how the Being had upended the milk jugs in the dairy
during the day.

I did, I did!

The Spirit acknowledged the mischief in a childish tone and the Reverend Johnston decided to interrogate the Being regarding
its afternoon prank.

“Pray, tell us the significance of milk spilled on the floor?” His brow was puzzled and concerned, for he took his inquiry
quite seriously.