All That Lives

by Melissa Sanders-Self

  And when I lay down in me coffin,

  These are the words that I say.

  I’ll never get drunk anymore.

  I’ll never get drunk anymore.

  I looked up and saw the lawn of snow was filled with strangers, all silent and willing to wet their boots that they might tell their grandchildren they were there on the gray winter day when John Bell was buried and the Being who killed him sang the songs of a brothel.

  Oh row me up some brandy O

  For on a journey I will go!

  We walked slowly on the path Dean had shoveled under the pear trees and down to the horse tie, where the casket was loaded into our sleigh. Dean had removed all the benches except the driver’s, but still the coffin had to be tied with ropes on both ends to prevent it from slipping out. I could easily imagine the catastrophe of the casket flying through the air, the wood box breaking into splinters, Father’s stiff corpse rolling into the snow. Frank climbed quickly on the bench and whipped the reins against the horses’ backs.

  “To the grave!” He whipped them wickedly and the sleigh took off at a great speed, toward the barn, and all the crowd gasped and staggered back, afraid they would be hurt.

  “He wishes our ordeal to be over,” Mother whispered into my ear, explaining Frank’s urgency, patting my arm under the shawl. The Reverend and Calvin Justice and Drewry walked alongside Mother and me, through ruts and gullies of snow. The path was too narrow to hold all present, and it was difficult going, what with stepping in the imprints of the horses’ hooves and buggy wheels. I watched my black boots stepping, crunching through the snow, and I was happy to have a point of focus, for it was all I could do to keep from running back to the house and gorging myself on sugared hog’s head, not attending my father’s burial.

  I was not in my bed until late,

  ’Twas only an innocent spree,

  My wife for my coming did wait,

  While sleeping I thought she would be.

  At the barn, the horses neighed and whinnied, as if the Spirit ran snakes through their stalls. The chickens set up squawking, the cows mooed in fear and protest, and the hogs began to scream and wail, as if they all were marked and called their angels down. It was the most horrendous expression of animal sounds I had ever heard.

  I found her in temper and tears.

  Oh! she cried, it’s a sin and a shame,

  And she scratched both my eyes and ears.

  But I told her I soon will explain.

  A loud screeching filled the air, and I thought it was the Spirit, but then Drewry cried, “Look!” pointing to the sky. Above us, Father’s owl flapped, dangling its tether, loudly celebrating its freedom. I wondered how it had been liberated, but watching it soar to the forest along the river I thought at least one being would profit from Father’s untimely demise.

  And when I lay down in me coffin,

  These are the words that I say.

  I’ll never get drunk anymore.

  I’ll never get drunk anymore.

  I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see the long line of mourners trudging through the snow as we made our way on the path across our meadow toward the poplar trees and the road. What a testament to Father’s renown. I turned back to walking, fairly certain there was no one in that procession, judging by the bowed heads and somber attitudes, who did not wish the whole thing over, just as I did. I put my attention on the toes of my wet boots, for I was frightened as we reached the poplars and began ascending the hill. I did not wish to cross the place where I had seen his skeleton.

  “Follow the tracks of the sleigh!” Mother called ahead to Calvin Justice, who was in the lead with Drewry on his right. The Reverend had fallen back somewhere in the line. I wondered if he had the stamina for such a long walk.

  “I know the way, Mother,” Drewry called back to her, reminding us that he knew the plateau well, as it marked the site of his most constant regret, the day he had stolen the jawbone. The cold burned the skin of my cheeks and I squinted, looking ahead, where we must turn off the road, to pass through the forest of elm and maple that led to the northern plateau. Large black winter birds gathered in the bare branches of the woods, and I felt they watched our parade, dispassionate as the white snow of the forest floor. We walked and walked, in the path made by Frank and the sleigh, and finally did reach the clearing on the northern plateau. I was surprised at the size of it, for three hundred strong men could join hands and make a circle there. Frank had driven the sleigh right up beside the northern edge where the large hill of red earth stood like a wound in the land.

  “Oh Betsy!” Mother stumbled when she saw the earth dug out of Father’s grave. She leaned heavily against me.

  “ ’Tis almost accomplished, Mother, do not be afraid,” I whispered in her ear, and pulled her closer inside the shawl as we walked the final steps. The Spirit stopped singing as we crossed the clearing. In the sudden quiet, a wind rattled the bordering field of thistles, and I recognized the sound as what was visited on us long ago, before the Spirit spoke. I remembered hearing conversations buried in the rustling and their hissing made me feel I would soon faint and fall into the gaping pit I drew ever closer to. We stood and looked into the hole of red earth and waited for the Reverend to make his way through the crowd behind us, trying to ignore the rattling thistles setting all our nerves on edge.

  “God does remind us we are as nothing to the force of His Will and nature.” The Reverend’s cheeks were bright red and he breathed heavily from exertion, but I could tell he wished to begin the service immediately, for he strode past Mother, Frank and me to the top of the grave where the stone would be set.

  Greetings, Old Sugar Mouth!

  The Being laughed as the Reverend adjusted his coat, and standing with his back to the river, he removed his Bible from the special pocket Mrs. Johnston had stitched for him. Before he could begin his eulogy, a mocking cry rose from the winter birds.

  Goodbye, Jack Bell

  You’re off to Hell!

  The Spirit screamed with great vehemence.

  “Lord God, forsake us not!” I heard Calvin Justice cry an earnest prayer from somewhere behind me and then every noise the Being had ever visited on us descended. Stones dropped and bird wings flapped, hideous gulps and choking swallows filled our ears, and Mother sank to her knees, in the snow, crying, unwound from the shawl that had kept us together.

  “Finish this dreadful business! Bury the man!” Dr. Hopson pushed toward us, shouting in anger. He kneeled beside my Mother while Frank, Calvin Justice and Drewry hastened to unload the casket and lower it on ropes into the grave.

  Goodbye, Jack Bell, I fixed you!

  The Spirit laughed, but nobody else attempted to speak. I felt I could not stand it one moment more, then they pulled the ropes out of the pit, and the Reverend threw in the first handful of earth.

  “Return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” He shouted over the loud laughter of the Being, and Frank took up the spade and began to shovel, fiercely. Dr. Hopson had his arm around Mother, attempting to raise her to her feet. I looked away, and over my shoulder I saw Thenny had positioned herself beside Josh in the half-circle behind us. She was speaking in his ear, and I watched until I saw him turn and begin to answer her. I looked away from them both and saw shovels of red dirt and snow splattering across the gleaming dark wood of Father’s coffin. Let Thenny and Josh say what they liked, about Father, about my torment, about the evil inhabiting my life and how my battles with it should be waged. What did either of them know about my suffering?

  Old Jack, the soil falls over your head!

  “I cannot bear it.” Mother stumbled back when she stood, then clung to me, so I nearly fell myself. The Spirit laughed and continued singing.

  “It would be best to depart.” The Reverend abandoned his position, realizing the Spirit was not going to allow him to speak. Calvin Justice took Mother’s other arm and encouraged her to leave,
though the dirt in the grave was not yet the height of the coffin. The earth was frozen in clumps, and it made a hollow sound striking the wood. Mother looked to Joel and Richard, who stood with tears streaming down their faces by the sleigh.

  “Betsy, bring the boys.” She turned to walk between the Reverend and Calvin Justice and I followed, taking my brothers’ gloved hands in my own. I avoided all eyes by staring at the snow, and the gray and hickory coats I passed reminded me of so much dried tobacco and ash, rather than my friends. I listened not to the murmur of gossip hissing through the procession, but to the rattling thistles under the Spirit’s rejoicing.

  mother’s illness

  The new year of 1821 arrived without a single dropped stone and without a song from the Being. We had not heard from it since Father’s funeral. I hoped our most welcome respite would be permanent, yet I felt the evil Spirit’s absence and the absence of my father constantly. I also deeply felt the absence of Josh Gardner, for he had obeyed my request at the funeral and had not come calling.

  “I believe the Witch’s curses unto Father were its goodbye unto us,” Drewry suggested one evening when he saw me looking anxiously to the window at the sound of a gusty wind. He recognized how I feared the Spirit’s return in every noise.

  “I do hope that is the truth,” I answered, but I was uncertain.

  “ ’Tis a waste of good energy to speculate regarding what will be, children,” Mother said. “The Lord directs our days. Concern yourselves solely with right actions, and trust God for all the rest.” If Mother felt as insecure as I did she hid it well, and on her advice I tried not to ruminate excessively on all that had happened to us.

  We had hosted the town at Father’s funeral but since then, the path to our front door was allowed to fill with snow when it fell, and we were left alone to grieve. I went about the tasks of my former life under Mother’s instruction, continually amazed to find my hands and legs worked just as they had always done, unaltered by the dead weight of tragedy settled in my soul. I missed Father greatly and often woke in the morning thinking I heard the sound of his boots on the stairs, but as the weeks passed I began to feel a small sense of relief, for it occurred to me perhaps the Spirit’s purpose had been accomplished and we would hear from it no more.

  One afternoon, our quiet grief was interrupted by the arrival of a man employed to carry the mail from North Carolina. He brought a letter for us from John Jr. and Mother read it aloud in the parlor.

  My Dearest Mother, Sister and Brothers,

  I have received the news of Father’s passing. The evil demon spoke it to me on the day of the foul event and though I was afraid, I did not believe it, until your letter, dated December twenty-first of our year gone past. I wish to return home at once, yet I must acquire new horses for myself and Isiah, for ours were uncurried and hobbled on the road, and when we reached this destination I found the sides of my animal streaked with dried sweat lather and mud, and this where his ribs were not showing through. I have the funds to replace them, but I have not done so as yet, for I believe it was Father’s desire I bring the affairs of this estate to a close, and many issues here regarding livestock & land & improvements to the land, and many additional items not worthy of the ink required to list them remain unresolved, and until they are satisfactorily brought to a close, I will remain in this place.

  I pray constantly for Father at peace in Heaven, and for you, beloved family. May we be delivered from all evil.

  Yours always,

  John Jr. Bell

  Mother folded up the paper and tucked it in her apron, and I could see she was disappointed the news was not of his imminent return. Her general frustration increased, when less than one week later we had word from Jesse and Martha.

  Dear Mother, Sister and my brothers,

  I hope this missive finds you in good health. I received your message regarding Father’s passing, and I am ashamed to say I had already heard the news from that evil demon that plagues your house, for it visited us announcing its triumph over my father. We prayed it was not so, but alas! How cruel! We would pack our buggy and brave the winter storms to return and comfort you, but for the one happy detail of this letter—Martha is carrying our first child, and already more than half her time is gone, and the midwife cautions against travel.

  Mother stopped reading and laid the letter down on her lap.

  “Martha? With child?” Joel was amazed to hear he would soon be an uncle.

  “Our first grandchild … My first … What does your brother mean about the midwife? It would be no trouble to midwife to Martha.” Mother was annoyed and frowning, and I could see she was upset they did not plan to return.

  “Read on,” I encouraged her.

  I say this next, hoping you will accept it in love, and will not be offended—Now that Father has passed on, might you consider leaving Adams? We have a homestead much larger than we can fill, and the land is arable as paradise. All crops grow with little effort, as the Being did predict. Apart from the visit we received at Father’s passing, we do not hear from the Spirit that tormented us in Robertson County. Has John Jr. completed his journey? How is Betsy? And Drewry? Richard? And Joel? We should welcome you into our home, at any moment of your choosing, and we pray for you, always.

  Your loving son,

  Jesse Bell

  Mother folded his letter and held it in her hands on her skirt.

  “What say you, Mother? Shall we prepare to depart?” I could see Drewry was ready to leave at any moment, and he itched with hope that Mother would wish it so.

  “I think not, Drewry.” Mother sighed. “This is our home, and our livelihood, we cannot up and leave. What would your father say to that?” She looked irritated, acknowledging our circumstances were not to her liking, but were entirely beyond her control.

  “I will be out with Dean then,” Drewry said, clearly disappointed. “The pump at the well is frozen again and needs fixing.” Mother nodded as Drewry left, for she had set him up with the majority of Father’s tasks. If I needed Drew for any reason, I looked first to where the hands were working, as he was certain to be there, the sole white face amongst the slaves. Richard and Joel followed him, as they did most every morning, for they were never bored with sledding down our hill. The snow had not melted, and on one or two occasions, more had fallen, though we had experienced no further heavy storms.

  “Betsy, get the loom,” Mother announced, tucking the note away, determined to think on what disturbed her later. “I shall try again to teach you the finer points of weaving.” I was not happy with her choice of how to spend our time and after several hours of constant effort on her part and mine, she admitted my weave had to be torn out and done again, it was so uneven.

  “I find this thrusting and shoving motion impossible to master!” I made an excuse for my sorry work.

  “Elizabeth, even your spinning, which is not your strength, is better than this weave.” Mother held my efforts up to the light, and the cloth appeared to be a fishnet. “Enough. Retrieve your sewing, child, for ’tis wise to work to your strengths.” I was happy to abandon the clumsy loom for the needle and thread, for my thimble fit just right on my thumb, and through the dim winter afternoons of our mourning, I found I could sew for hours without a tangle.

  Toward the end of January, Mother and I sat together sewing in the parlor. The light was at my back and my needle moved smoothly over and through the white cotton shirting of the new tunic I was stitching for Drewry. I was having a moment of thoughtless contentment, absorbed in the repetitive motion, when Mother gave a groan and I looked up, surprised to see she’d dropped the cloth she worked onto the floor.

  “Uh, Betsy, I feel unwell. I believe I must lie down.” I studied her face. Her cheeks were flushed and red and small tendrils of her dark hair appeared damp at her forehead. What was the matter? Mother was never ill. I laid my sewing down and stood to help her.

  “Mother? What is it? What ails you?” She shut her eyes and leaned farther
back against her chair. She did not rise, or immediately reply.

  “Dear Betsy, just help me to my bed.” I took her arm and we slowly walked across the parlor. I could not go into her bedroom without thinking on Father’s passing, and I imagined it must trouble Mother also, to sleep each night in the bed where he had died. I wondered if it was in her mind to have Dean build a new one. She had said nothing of it. She sat down heavily and I removed her boots, while she struggled to untie her sewing apron.

  “My bedclothes, Betsy. I would have them …” Though it was the middle of the day, I helped her dress in nightclothes. “ ’Tis cold …” she said, shivering. I pulled the quilts up high around her neck for the room was chilly, even with the fire next door in the parlor.

  “What may I fetch for you, Mother?”

  “Water,” she answered in a hoarse whisper that was frightening, and I hurried to the kitchen. Dean and Drewry had managed to unfreeze the pump at the well, and Chloe had drawn a pitcher, so the water was fresh and cold.

  “Mother is feeling poorly,” I told Chloe and saw my hands shook slightly as I poured. I returned quickly, but when I reached her, she was sleeping, with her head at an odd angle, reminding me of the last head I had seen lying askance on that pillow. I set the water on the bedside table, and put my hand against her forehead, pushing back her hair. I found her flesh burned hot as embers from the fire under my fingertips.