All That Lives

by Melissa Sanders-Self

  “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.

  “Please, Father, please! Rest quiet!” I could not make sense of his struggle.

  Frantic wi
th annoyance, he thrust his arm in spasm toward the parlor and I suddenly understood he wanted his silver flask and book of accounts. I left to get it, relieved to escape, if only for a moment, Father’s extreme suffering. I ran across the parlor and grasped the walnut knob of his desk and pulled it, seeing Father’s things carefully arranged inside. I thought what a sacred place his desk was, as I reached for the leather book, his quill pen and the bottle of ink. Without thought I lifted the silver flask and unscrewed the top, smelling the sour brew inside. The silky feel of the metal in the palm of my hand was comforting but I was worried, would he never drink from it again?

  He was breathing regularly and his hands lay relaxed on the quilts when I returned. He managed to jerk his head forward in what I took to be a nod, acknowledging I had done right to fetch the book and flask. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, and knowing what he wanted, I poured the whiskey in. I looked over my shoulder anxiously while I did it, for I did not know what Mother would make of this, but I could hear her still busy in the kitchen. Father jerked his neck forward and closed his mouth, but the whiskey ran from the sides of it, as if he could not swallow.

  “Here, I will wipe it away.” I used the sleeve of my dress and set the silver flask inside the pocket of my smock. He jerked his head again, this time toward the book of accounts, indicating he desired to write in it. I opened up the book where it was marked with a red silk ribbon on the last page where he had made an entry. Along the parchment he had drawn many lines, and columns of numbers stretched across the page. All the running of the farm was documented there, from the number of slaves and livestock and their cost, to the hogsheads of tobacco harvested and the price they brought at market. There were also annotations regarding the weather and what-not in the margins. I did not try to read it. Father twisted his neck the other direction and I understood he desired I should turn the page. I did so, but thought he must be mistaken to want a clean new sheet,without lines or marks of any kind. Summoning all his strength, Father held the quill and I hurried to open the ink jar, realizing he meant to write something down. I tried to prevent drops of ink from falling onto his quilts, but he seemed wholly unconcerned, focused as he was on wielding the pen. His letters slid across the page, much larger than normal and not easily discernible. When he finished he dropped the quill into the open book and pushed it away, toward me, so I could read what he’d recorded.

  Forgive me.

  I was about to tell him, yes, of course, I forgive you, only the Spirit spoke before me in a windy hiss.

  Unspeakable.

  A large stone, near the size of the river rocks that lined the front path, smashed down to the floor by the doorway. I jumped from the bed and stood with the book clasped to my chest, the bottle of ink balanced in my hand. The Spirit screamed into the silence.

  Unspeakable, Jack Bell! Unspeakable.

  “Go away, you wretched Being!” My anger surpassed my fear and Mother hurried into the room to hear it answer.

  There will be no more of breathing in this house!

  Despite the many instances of terror I had survived, the full hate and malice of the evil creature had never been so frightful to me. It was as if the Devil himself had spoken. Mother and I sucked in our breath, horrified, and Father too gasped, and then seemed unable to recover. He choked and coughed and the bones of his brow stood out as if his brain was swelling with the pain. Bits of white mucuslike material rolled off his tongue, thick and hanging from his tense jaw. Mother rushed to him, and holding his head back and his mouth open, she dropped Dr. Hopson’s tinctures down his throat. In a moment he seemed to breathe again.

  “Drink this, Jack,” she said as she held the cup of valerian tea she had brought to his lips, and Father managed a sip.

  It will be no use. I will kill him.

  The Spirit spoke softly and calmly and Father closed his eyes. We watched in silence as he appeared to fall asleep. Mother sat beside him on the bed and lay her hand across his forehead, smoothing back his hair. He breathed an easy breath and so did I to see him peaceful. I felt inclined to leave Mother to comfort him, for I needed to return Father’s book to his desk. Backing out discreetly, so as not to disturb, I forgot about the rock in the entrance, and stumbled, spilling ink directly down the center of the open book in my hand. I had neglected to shut it, but did so quickly in an attempt to prevent the ink from spilling to the floor. Mother glanced at me, but did not appear aware of the importance of the book, or my error. Her only concern was that I not wake Father. I felt suddenly light-headed and dizzy, as if I might faint, and I wondered, did the Spirit mean to strike my head into that rock?

  I turned and walked with great speed to Father’s desk, where I opened the leaf and set everything down in a jumbled pile. I took the flask out of my pocket and hurried to the kitchen to get a rag to wipe the edges of the ink bottle clean, for my fingers and the lowest feathers of Father’s quill were already stained to black, and I wished not to spread the mess further. I opened Father’s book at the desk to inspect what damage I had caused, and I discovered the red ribbon had been shut halfway in. It wagged at me, half red, half black, like the Devil’s tongue. The words Father had written were completely obliterated and a black stain spread across the page where they had been, reminding me of the black stain on the snow under Father’s skeleton. I ripped the page from the book, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it without thought into the fire at the hearth.

  Betsy Bell. Unspeakable.

  The spirit whispered softly in my ear, making the hissing sound I associated with its departure. My eyes were fixed to the satin ribbon. Ought I to leave it stained but whole, a horrible reminder of the havoc wreaked by evil, or should I cut it out completely and hope its absence was no reminder of the same? Before I could decide, the front door opened and I heard the boys in the hall. “There is another storm brewing in the north,” Drewry said, stamping his boots, “and it looks to be worse than the last.” I shut the book and the leaf of the desk, and thought I would return to it later when my head had cleared.

  I went to my room and sat in the rocker Father and John Jr. had made for me. I wished my brother was present to spend the day in silent meditation and prayer for Father’s recovery. I worried Father might die and never see John Jr. on this earth again. And what of Jesse and Martha and Frank Miles, who was like Father’s own brother? I refused to believe it was possible. I looked out my window and saw the flakes of snow fell thick as swirls of eiderdown at a bed making, and the bare black branches of the fruit trees in the orchard were bent near to breaking with the force of the wind. The whistle of it bore down on my glass pane so it rattled in its wooden frame, and sharp gusts of cold blew inside, striking at the skin of my hands and face like tiny pinpricks. I wondered if the tiny stabbings I felt now were wind, or the Spirit. I felt sad I had become so accustomed to torture I could no longer recognize the difference between it and nature, but in the next minute, I thought it hardly mattered. Drewry appeared in my doorway.

  “Someone ought to call the doctor, or the Reverend.” He was restless and worried.

  “Not in this storm.” I shook my head and he followed my gaze out the window, where the view was rapidly diminishing to a few mere feet of moving flakes, and beyond that, all was white. “Will Heaven be so darkly white?” I asked Drewry, for the heavy flakes reminded me of angel wings, floating on clouds smooth as the white wall of snow gathering.

  “Surely Father will recover, Betsy.”

  “God’s will will be done,” was the only reply I could think of, and I recalled Kate saying, “It will do as it will do.”

  “I’m going to find Dean. Father will wish to know the status of the farm. The boys are at their games. Do not allow them out,” Drewry cautioned me, as if I was unfamiliar with the responsibility of their care.

  “Do you believe I’ve lost my mind?” I let my anxiety fly at him.

  “Do not be offended. I know not what your thoughts contain. I know only my own are dark with great foreb
oding and confusion. Verily, I wish no further misfortune on this house.”

  “Go visit Dean, brother.” I could not seem to keep the mean sarcasm from my voice. “Ask him if his wife has a hair-ball for us to hang near Father’s bed, or an amulet off Old Kate to keep away the witches!” Drewry simply stared at me in silent disappointment and left my doorway without speaking further. I could not seem to control my words or actions, for I had thrown Dr. Hopson’s medicine to the floor, and crumpled the page from Father’s book into the fire without a thought, and I had spoken thoughts I did not know I possessed to my brother. I rocked in anger, drawing my woven shawl ever closer about my shoulders. I wished to shield myself from the stabbing cold, but it seemed an impossible desire. I felt tremendously sleepy all of a sudden, and I tilted my head back and must have fallen instantly to sleep, for in the next minute Richard and Joel were pulling at my dress saying it was time for supper.

  Mother and Drewry were at the table, silent, listening to the wind wailing outside the thick log walls of our home. Was it the Spirit singing dirges, or was it just nature, crying her strength? Mother had every lamp lit, so the rooms glowed warm and bright, and the fires were stoked high in the kitchen and the parlor. Chloe served us cornbread and sweet potato pancakes with blackberry jam, a comforting supper dish, but she tarried not long at the table, for Dean was stopping in the kitchen for his supper and she wished to join him there.