“I must take our Betsy to bed.” He scooped me off the floor, curling my body to his chest with great strength.
“But, Jack …” The Reverend looked as if he wished he had not spoken, but could not help himself. “Are you certain you are able?” I thought he was concerned Father had consumed too much whiskey to carry me.
“I am able as always, Reverend.” Father lifted me up, grunting, and I closed my eyes against the Reverend’s worried concern, limply allowing Father to carry me upstairs without speaking. I heard Reverend Johnston’s footsteps, and then his voice as he joined Dr. Hopson, my mother and brothers in conversation in the dining room, far away. Father lay me down on top of my quilts and shut my door, so I knew he intended to spend some special time with me.
“Darling daughter …” His breath stank of sour whiskey as he bent over me, and I turned away, so his whiskers scratched against my cheek. “Let me help you with your nightclothes.” He rolled me onto my side so I faced the wall and he made room for himself on my bed. He untied my smock while I held my breath, as anxious as I had been on many dark nights previous, while I waited for the jerking of my braid and the slaps across my face. Father’s callused fingers walked across my ribs, undoing all my stays. “I find our trials are most disturbing to my soul.” He cupped his hand gently around my breast. “And you are a young woman now,” he sighed and pushed his hips against my bottom. “Give me refuge in your loving ways, Betsy, though it must not be as it was, still, darling daughter, you are a great comfort to me.” He placed his heavy hand on my hipbone and pulled me flat. Father’s breath was hard to face and I did not feel capable of satisfying his desire for comfort, but I feared the absence of his love much more than I feared his unwanted touch. I wished I could leave my body as I did when the Spirit spoke, but that power was no more under my control than the Being itself.
In the morning, I awoke feeling weak and quite worn out, but Mother had decided to set up the spinning wheel in the parlor and make it her day’s business to occupy my hands and mind with instruction in manipulating the cards, the wool and spindle.
“Betsy dear, not like that, try this.” Mother was patient and soft-spoken with her teaching, but I knew myself to be more adept with a needle and thread, and my heart was not in the lesson. My breaking cards would not separate the fibers, and my fine cards made lumps instead of rolls. Mother had already filled a corn shuck spindle on the wheel. I sighed as she passed it to me for inspection. I felt I could not do it. I wished Martha and Jesse had decided to stay on at our house so I might have an excuse to sew instead of learn, but they were occupied at their own home. I imagined Martha out-of-doors, planting her kitchen garden. I wondered what Mother would say if I suggested we put the spinning wheel aside and plant some beans. Averting my eyes from the spindle to the parlor window, I was rewarded to see a visitor walking up our path.
“Isn’t that Josh Gardner, frail Elsa’s son?” Mother set the unspun wool in her hands on her lap, following my gaze. We had been at it for several hours with little progress, and I believe she too was grateful for the interruption.
“It is,” I said, fumbling with the balls in my lap, ashamed to be wearing my plainest cloth work dress. Mother tilted her head to the side, inquiring.
“I wonder why he’s calling?” She left to greet him at the door and I busied myself wrapping the spindle, attempting to appear as though I was well experienced with it. Josh Gardner had been in the back of my mind since that day long ago when we played tag at school, shortly after the Spirit’s arrival. There was something about the curl of his lip when he said my name that caused me to catch my breath and grow warm inside. I thought of what Martha had said, how I would soon find my love, and although I did not look my best I hoped to impress Josh in some way. Mother ushered him directly to the parlor.
“Miss Betsy Bell, we have a caller, young Joshua Gardner.” Josh was already the height he would stand as a full-grown man, which was almost as tall as our front door. His dark hair coiled around his cheekbones like the twists of rope he’d used tying up his horse. I met his eyes only briefly, but I saw they were gray as a dark summer sky when it’s hot and holding back rain. I stood to curtsey and forgot the full spindle on my lap. It struck the floor and came unwound, rolling a white line of new-spun wool from me to him. I felt my cheeks grow red hot with embarrassment.
“Hello, Betsy,” he smiled, most warm.
“Will you have some cake and tea with us?” Mother distracted him from watching as I rolled the yarn.
“I’d be honored, Mrs. Bell, but take no trouble on my account. I call to ascertain your daughter’s welfare and I bear a book from Professor Powell for her long days at home.” He withdrew a thin green book from the satchel over his shoulder.
“How kind of you. I’ll fetch refreshments for us all.” Mother excused herself and I directed Josh to take a seat, surprised when he chose Father’s. I settled across from him in Mother’s chair beside the unlit hearth and it felt odd indeed to sit that way with him.
“How do you fare, Betsy?” He leaned toward me with great concern, setting the Professor’s book on the floor with disregard so I knew it was not his real reason for calling. “I hear say you were cast down in a fit last night by your evil menace.” His straightforward nature pleased me greatly.
“And yet, I have no memory of it,” I answered.
“At school they say it is a witch or demon that attacks you. Would it were a dragon, and I, its princely slayer!” Josh spoke with passion but wore a wide smile on his face, and the image of him armed and dueling with a mythic beast did make me giggle.
“Would it were so!” I encouraged him, smiling, but quickly sobered. “I can tell you of what led to my unconsciousness …” I looked at my hands, still holding the roll of wool, and I remembered the words of God uttered by the faltering voice of the phenomenon. We see not our signs. It was enough to remove the smile from my lips, but Josh was such a sensitive soul he put his hand up to stop my speech, and leaned forward.
“Betsy, do not torture yourself further by speaking of it,” he begged me. “Might we take a stroll by your stream?”
Mother entered the parlor and I saw by her frown she had heard his request.
“Please, Mother, we will be so careful and when I return I will have new energy for the spinning.” Mother studied my face and for certain she was thinking of the cake already cut in the kitchen, as well as how improper it was to allow me un-chaperoned with a young man out-of-doors.
“You may go,” she agreed, recognizing I suffered experiences which circumvented all etiquette, “but ask Richard and Joel to join you. Walk where you will, but tarry not over long for you must return to the house for your cake.”
“We will not fail in that, Mrs. Bell.” Josh smiled with polite enthusiasm and his fine manners impressed me.
“Most likely it will do Betsy’s constitution a world of good.” Mother spoke aloud her thoughts, opening wide the door for us. Richard and Joel were engaged in a game of ball under the pear trees, but they were fast in running to join us. We set out walking to the stream in conversation.
“Which of you can skip a stone the farthest distance?” Josh was an only child and knew not the joys of a large family, but he was ever so friendly with my little brothers.
“I can!”
“No, me! You’ll see!” They raced ahead of us, eager to find the best flat rocks to show Josh their abilities. The elms were in full leaf and the wild iris and sassafras bloomed on the banks, filling the lush midday air with their fresh scent. There was no wind reminding me of evil and I was enjoying myself, picking out a path through the grass, listening to Josh tell of his adventures out rabbit hunting with Alex Gooch. I felt we were in our own private world, secluded in the forest, and it was so much the better world. Josh was describing the rabbits jumping in the field like popping corn when I slipped on some slick moss and he caught my arm, preventing me from falling to the ground.
“Careful as you go, Miss Betsy.
” He steadied me and the kind concern in his touch filled my heart with excitement. I was sad when he politely dropped my elbow as we reached the stream. Suddenly, I wanted to tell him about the way I’d felt alone in my bedroom, before the Spirit spoke. I wanted to tell him how I had known beforehand what would occur. I sensed he would try to understand, but I couldn’t find the words. He carried on with his stories, lighthearted and cheerful, and I gave myself up to listening, allowing laughter to flow from my soul like the water flowing beside us, careless and calm, held fast by the red mud of its banks.
the spirit disturbed
Josh’s visit was a great comfort to me and I thought of it often during the following weeks of isolation I endured. I attended the Easter sermon with my family but other than that grand outing, Mother continued to keep me at home, where I spent long days engaged in chores and tasks she insisted be performed, though they seemed meaningless to me. The days passed quite slowly, and the only surprise in them was how I had begun to look forward to their closing, for as the Spirit used its energies to develop its speaking ability, the violence against us was growing less.
The Being had continued its established pattern of arriving after the supper hour, when the evening lamps were lit, with a rush of cold air and various noises, including knocks on the walls, splitting bed frames and gulping swallows of air. Yet, it wasted no time in blows but cast me down unconscious straight away, beginning its vociferous imitations, repeating phrases of Scripture previously recited by the Reverend and Preacher Justice in our home. The fainting was nowhere near as painful to me as the nightly slaps and jabs and pulling of my hair had been, for I quickly learned to prepare myself for the loss of breath by closing my eyes, and relaxing all the muscles in my body so I might not be further injured if it chose to thrash my limbs about the floor. No one suggested calling Dr. Hopson again. In this matter the Reverend and Calvin Justice had joined forces. They had instructed Mother and Father to trust in the Lord, for He would make certain that I would survive the fits.
The Reverend’s and the Preacher’s amazement at the visitation’s ability to speak at all was quickly giving way to overwhelming curiosity regarding what the force did mean by speaking. It could mimic the Reverend Johnston’s cadence so accurately, it was difficult to believe it was not himself. One evening, he insisted Father cup a hand over his mouth and search for evidence of ventriloquism, but Father found no such thing. Not that he expected to. On the next evening, the voice adopted Calvin Justice’s passionate tenor, as if to prove its versatility, and it read with eloquent force. When the Being finished its talks, it left and I awoke, whereupon I was told of its antics.
A new interest in the force was growing inside of me, for I enjoyed puzzling out the meaning in its recitations as much as anyone, especially since I was not privy to them. I was amazed to hear how the amorphous and intangible violence now parlayed the words of God while I slept unconscious, and I hoped Mother was correct when she said the Being was clearly altering itself into a new personality with a range of aspects beyond evil. Nevertheless, I remained uneasy as I scooped fish guts from the bucket to fertilize the garden and sewed through my afternoons, for despite its new regularity of action, I knew from experience what troubled us was entirely unpredictable.
One lovely spring night, the Reverend Johnston and Calvin Justice and my family were gathered in the parlor in our customary places discussing our supernatural visitation.
“Its tone reminds me of the marvelous talking bird we witnessed at the fair of Knoxville years ago. Do you recall it, children?” I closed my eyes and breathed the fresh night-blooming stock and the scent of Mother’s roses, heavy in the cooling air, drifting in the open windows. I had a picture in my mind of being small and craning my neck up to look at a large black carriage. There was a man standing tall before it with a wildly colorful bird on his shoulder, but I could not remember hearing the creature speak. I looked to Drewry and John Jr. to see what they recalled, but they had their eyes closed, and I could not tell what they pictured in their minds.
“If a bird can learn to speak, what of other lower forms?” The Reverend Johnston pursed his lips in open inquiry and I suspect he wished to discover if the Being could do more than repeat Scripture to him. Could it speak for itself? As his enthusiasm for the entity had grown, so had his Bible. I saw the leather binding of it strained to hold the many parchment notes he had stuffed within it.
“This form is low indeed, Reverend,” Father said. He did not look well. His brow was twisted down with ever growing concern. “Plead with the Lord, Reverend, on our behalf, plead that this demon would trouble us no more.” Father let no opportunity pass him by to remind the Reverend of what he hoped was his true purpose in the matter.
There was a general rustling of clothing as everyone sat up, in a position of alert meditation. I bowed my head, beginning to concentrate on my own breath, filling my lungs with the scent of flowers and my mind with peace. This was not as difficult as it had been previously, for I was not frightened of feeling nothing. I listened for the Reverend’s reading but before he could begin, cold air filled the room and I experienced a swirling of images, including the hearth where there was no fire filled with sparks, before I fell into unconscious darkness. When I awoke, I was lying with my belly and cheek pressed against the parlor rug and my toes touched the smooth wood of the floor.
“Who are you and why are you here?” the Reverend Johnston demanded, irritating me, for I felt I was just waking up from a too short nap, when into the cold silence I heard the voice distinctly reply.
I am a Spirit; I was once very happy, but I have been disturbed.
“Look, Jack, her eyes are open.” Mother kneeled beside me, her face concerned. I wished to tell her, do not be afraid, for I am well, but I found I could not force myself to speak. I struggled to move my tongue but it was as if my mouth was frozen still. I closed my eyes. For a moment I felt it was speaking only to me, expressing my own true feelings: I once was happy, but I had been disturbed.
“Mark its words!” The Reverend was excited.
“They are the first not taken from the Scripture,” Calvin Justice whispered.
“What do you mean?” the Reverend Johnston asked the air.
I am a Spirit; I was once very happy, but I have been disturbed.
It repeated the phrase once more, and I heard it, but pretended to be sleeping, as I could not speak of what it called to mind, an ugly incident our family had hoped would remain forever forgotten. With my body frozen stiff as my voice, I recalled it fully, measuring the import of the Spirit’s words.
Years ago, Father and the slaves had cleared a plot of thistles and brush up on the plateau at the northern boundary of our land above the river and in carrying out the work, they came upon a small mound of what appeared to be graves. Father surmised the site was an Indian burial ground and gave orders to work around it. A few days later, Vernon Batts came calling to our home, as at that time he was trying to make a friend of Drewry. Together the two boys went out to hunt down the spot of the graves, hoping to find some relics the Indians were thought to bury with their dead. When they reached the mound, Drew had suggested they leave well enough alone, as the graves did not seem fanciful up close, but Vernon maintained they would have to look inside them to be certain. Drewry had foolishly agreed and they had proceeded to scatter the rocks and dig up the earth, and in the process, they disinterred the bones. There was nothing of value in the grave but Vernon did not wish to leave empty-handed. He had removed the jawbone from a skull and carried it back to our house, devising an elaborate plan to scare Richard and Joel and myself. I was sewing in the parlor when they ran in, wildly excited. I had seen Vernon slip on Mother’s clean and polished wood, whereupon the jawbone flew from his hand and struck the wall with such force a tooth was knocked loose, and it disappeared from sight through a crack in our floorboard.
Unfortunately for Drewry, Father had been passing through the house at that very moment and hearing
the scuffle he had entered the hallway and demanded a full account of their doings. Once informed, he had reprimanded both boys severely. Vernon was sent home and Drewry was taken to the barn for a whipping. Father sent Dean to take the jawbone back to the grave and he was instructed to replace the bones that were disinterred and told to make certain the rocks were piled high to protect the graves from future marauders. The following year, Father had allowed the thistles to reclaim the area.
“She is waking now,” Mother said. I had opened my eyes but remained still. As I focused on Mother’s cotton dress I realized she had moved my head onto her lap. She stroked the hair off my forehead and I felt as though it was true, I was waking from a long and restful sleep though I was unaware of having slept at all.
“It has departed.” The Reverend shook his head with some consternation and his silver hair fell in front of his ears. I felt sorry for him, none the wiser on his mission.
In the morning, once the Reverend and Preacher Justice had departed, our family sat all together at the table, discussing the Spirit’s meaning in using the word disturbed. The same recollection of the lost tooth had visited all of us. Drewry, brave soul that he was, suggested perhaps our family troubles had been brought about by his own thoughtless and horrible mischief from that day long ago.
“I have thought it over and I must speak of how it seems not right.” Drewry set his elbows firmly on the table and raised his eyes to Father. “I cannot understand,” Drewry said nervously, “why, if the Spirit belongs to the bones I did disturb, why has it come to settle at our home rather than Vernon’s, since Vernon was the one who plundered the bone from its grave?”
“It would come here, Drewry, searching for the tooth it lost!” Richard was on my left and as he spoke I turned to him with great concern. Did he not realize our father was unaware of this significant detail?
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