All That Lives (39 page)

“I’ll have none of it!” I cried, thinking the Spirit was not present in any way, apart from its stranglehold on Father, so
I must be responsible myself for this bad behavior. I ran through the darkened parlor and up the black stairs into my room,
dark and colder still. No light came through my window for dark snow clouds filled the sky. I fell down on my bed and cried
until the sobs choked at my throat. I cried until it seemed the Spirit had its hands inside me too, distorting my face, and
then I stopped. I dried my eyes with the sleeve of my dress, and sat up, fairly ripping the laces through my boots. In a temper
I pulled them off and climbed under my cold quilts. I did not undress, and I expected all would not be well, come morning.

Mother did not come up to speak to me, as I supposed she would. I guessed my behavior deemed me unworthy of receiving whatever
calming tincture the doctor had intended for me. I heard her voice downstairs, talking with him, and then I heard the big
door close and the sound of his horse thumping through the snow. I thought he must be a brave man to leave our home on a dark
winter evening with no companion save a traveling lantern and a fruitcake packed in his saddlebag. But perhaps it was not
bravery, but desperation forcing him to go, for despite his attitude of disbelief, it was possible he did not wish to spend
any additional minutes in our cursed home. Who would? I fell to sleep and dreamed I was standing at the foot of Father’s bed,
trying to speak, but I was prevented from doing so by a fat and slimy frog stuck in my mouth. It was attached by one webbed
foot to a place deep in my throat and pull as I might, I could not shake it loose.

I woke to the dull winter light of early morning. I heard Father’s boots on the stairs, a sound familiar to my ears from countless
mornings of his routine, and my first thought was, something is not right, and when I recalled the day before, my next thought
was, how can he be fit to rise and light the morning fires? I lay deep beneath my quilts where it was warm, wary of rising
into the frozen air. Down the hall, I heard him waking Drewry, Joel and Richard, and in answer to their inquiries, I heard
him say he felt well rested and much recovered. Drew was quick to dress and I heard his boots join Father’s on the landing.

“The troughs will be frozen, but perhaps only on the top.” Father apprised Drewry with tasks for the day and I noticed he
did not sound entirely like himself. There was a weakness in his tone, and his voice seemed altered. “Tell Dean to break the
ice and cart new water up so all the stock may drink. And have him check the feed bins in the upper barn, for they are in
need of replenishing.” Their boots descended the stairs and I could no longer hear them clearly.

If he could rise, then so could I. The creases and wrinkles in yesterday’s dress put me of a mind to change, and I picked
from my wardrobe a gray wool dress that reminded me instantly of Josh Gardner’s winter coat. Mother was setting out bowls
of grits and molasses at the table where everyone was gathered, and she did not immediately look my way. I observed her chin
was set in a line of sadness and the skin around her eyes looked pink, as if she had been crying. I sat at my place and the
front door burst open, swirling in eddies of snow, the air bristling with the presence of the Being.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!

Father twisted unnaturally in his chair, as though a strong hand gripped his shoulders. The spoons stood at their places and
flew to his hands, and his fingers grasped them tight and jerked up and down above the table, clattering so awful a rhythm
we were forced to cover our ears.

“Stop!” Drewry shouted. Father’s hands were forced to move ever faster and harder, until the spoons pounded indentations in
Mother’s breakfast cloth, leaving marks on the table underneath. The racket and clatter was accompanied by the hoarse laughter
of the Spirit, obviously delighted by Father’s pain.

“Please,” cried Mother, “he is not well, might you spare him this humiliation?” The Spirit ignored Mother for a few more moments
of clattering silver, then one by one the spoons fell from Father’s hands onto the floor. He did not speak, and his eyes turned
glassy as we sat watching. A silence fell over us all. Joel moved from his chair to sit on my lap, and Mother stood to close
the door.

“Please!” She begged for mercy from the Being and her face displayed how worn and sad she was, how, like Father, she felt
the end might truly be near.

Luce, for you I would do most anything, but this is as it must be. Take old Jack to bed and leave him there, for he will not
walk again.

I gasped, and Father slumped forward on the table, his head narrowly missing the bowl set before him.

“Drewry, help me, we must dose him with the doctor’s tinctures!” Mother cried. With effort they managed to raise Father’s
arms about their shoulders and hoist him up, though he was limp and appeared unconscious of their ministrations. Because neither
Drew nor Mother was as tall as he, his boots dragged the floor from his knees, as they headed to his bedroom. Joel burst into
sobs at the sight of him being carted away and Richard came to throw his arms around my waist.

“All will be well,” I lied, knowing it absolutely would not be. “Eat your grits.” I spoke to give them the comfort of routine,
and once I’d kissed their hair, they settled into their chairs and did spoon the food silently into their mouths. Mother and
Drewry did not return, and soon the boys had finished.

“Run, throw snowballs at the squirrels.” Chloe gave them direction, and I was grateful, for I was about to cry myself and
I knew I would not be able to carry on pretending for their benefit. “Help to clear this table, Miss Betsy, so I can get to
the washing.” Mindlessly, I did what Chloe asked, carrying the empty bowls to the sideboard in the kitchen. Mother entered
in a hurry to set the kettle to boiling on the woodstove. She did not speak and I was afraid to ask after Father. She went
into the herb pantry and I followed, watching her lift great glass jars full of dried leaves and powders from the uppermost
shelves of her cupboard. Abruptly she gave a start, for pulling down a jar, she beheld it empty and she grew very much concerned.

“Betsy, you must ride to Kate’s, and ask if she can spare some valerian root. There was plenty here, yet now ’tis gone! No
doubt the Spirit has whisked it away, for I need it for your father.” Mother was clearly frustrated and upset.

“Must I?” I did not want to go, for I would be forced to take the path where I had encountered Father’s skeleton and a visit
to Old Kate’s house was never to my liking, but Mother was desperate.

“You must.” I could tell my reluctance irritated her and I did not wish to make things worse. I fetched my hat, my gloves,
my coat, my boots and scarf, and when I returned to the kitchen, Mother gave me a fruitcake packed in a satchel for Kate.

“Betsy, yesterday is gone from us now, and all I wish to say in speaking of it is, do not shame yourself with weakness. Your
Father needs his family to be mighty against affliction. All will come right when this illness passes.” She helped me tuck
my scarf into the collar of my coat, but she did not look into my eyes and, despite her reassuring words, I knew she was more
worried than she had ever been. “Make haste to bring me back the root, and answer Kate whatever she asks regarding Father’s
illness.” Mother implied Old Kate might have some knowledge that could help Father in his suffering, and I only hoped I could
keep any measures she might prescribe straight inside the jumble of my mind.

I rode quickly there and back and when I returned Mother was tending to Father while Drewry, Richard and Joel sat solemnly
at the table.

“How does Old Kate today, sister?”

“She had the root our mother requested.”

“Will it make him well?” Joel held his chin in his hands, inquiring hopefully.

“Will it get rid of the Witch?” Richard asked, revealing he knew the source of Father’s ailments.

“Who can say?” I sighed and we heard Mother’s steps across the parlor and the hall.

“Have you the valerian, Betsy?”

“I do, and Mrs. Batts thanks you ever so kindly for the cake.”

“Did she give you counsel on his illness?” Mother was anxious to hear Kate’s recommendations, but I did not wish to repeat
her remarks. Old Kate had crooked her index finger in my face and said, “Everyone has a time to meet their maker, Betsy Bell,
and it sounds as if your poor father has started down that path. Make no mistake, the fiend that harrows you will do as it
will do.” I recalled the ugly brown color her finger was stained and I sighed, deciding to repeat her less offensive words.

“All Mrs. Batts said was, if she could cure troubles such as Father’s, she’d be a rich woman indeed.”

“A greedy woman is what she is now!” Drewry snapped, angered by this slander.

“Drewry!” Mother looked sharp at him, taking the root from my outstretched hand. “You are not Kate’s judge. God will take
care of that, and all else. Pray, make yourself useful. Engage the young ones in lessons of some sort.” Mother appeared exceedingly
preoccupied, as though she could not recall what to do with her own children.

“But Father has our slate,” Joel protested. He was not overly fond of home lessons at any time.

“So he does. Go outside and play then.” She looked over her shoulder and paused, listening a moment before continuing. “Or
perhaps you’d rather brew valerian and slippery elm into a tea with Chloe and me in the kitchen?” She made it sound dull on
purpose so the boys decided to leave.

“Do you want to come, Betsy?” Joel tugged at my hand, wanting me.

“No, I have just come in, go with Drewry.” I felt tired and irritable and decided I would sit with Father while Mother concocted
the herb.

Father lay in his bed exactly as he had the day before, tucked beneath the gray wool blanket. I saw Mother had dressed him
in his heaviest cotton nightshirt, the one with the winter collar. His head was propped against the pillows in what looked
to me a most uncomfortable and unnatural position, for his neck seemed tilted forward in a way that made the stern set of
his jaw most menacing. I was startled to see how ill he looked. His face was gray and his eyes and mouth had sunk deep into
his bones. His whiskers were uncombed and the skin beneath them seemed to have shriveled, so they stuck out in wild directions.
He was not asleep however and he saw me enter. He did not speak, but his dark eyes flashed and he gestured weakly with his
fingers splayed across the blanket that I should sit beside him on the bed. I took his hand.

“Oh, Father!” I cried out in despair, seeing his condition. He raised his head off the pillow slightly, and I saw the skin
of his neck under his whiskers quivered with the effort. His lips moved, attempting to shape words, but no sound issued forth.
He squeezed my hand and I understood he had something of importance he wished to tell me. I waited, but observed his face
growing paler with each passing moment and I feared soon the very lifeblood would leave his cheeks.

“Pray, Father, do not trouble yourself to speak. Reserve your strength.” I did not wish to cry and dishearten him, but I was
afraid I might not be able to control myself. He gave a choking sound and fell back against his pillow, and the Spirit arrived,
singing.

Howdy my brethren, Howdy yo’do

Since I been in de lan’

I do mi’ty well, an’ I thank de Lord too

Since I bin in de lan’

Oh yes, Oh yes, since I bin in de lan’

Oh yes, Oh yes, since I bin in de lan’

I do mi’ty well, an I thank de Lord too

Since I bin in de land.

I recognized the song as common amongst the slaves. They sang it all over the lands, especially at harvest, but why the Spirit
chose it followed no logic I could understand, except I guessed it wished to torment Father with the knowledge he would not
set foot on his lands again. He would never walk through a field of lush tobacco ready for sticking, with a full heart of
thanks for the Lord. Father ignored the voice and as it died away I felt the Spirit had gone. He lifted his hand, attempting
with some urgency to express himself again. He tried to use his fingers to push his lips to form the words he could not speak,
but he lacked control and so appeared to be attacking his own face.