“What am I to do?”
Mix it in a boiling kettle, two parts water to two parts weed.
“Yes …” Mother nodded, weak and fragile, sinking back in her pillows.
How do you fare today, Luce? Are you much recovered?
“Yes, thank you, but I am not yet myself completely.” Mother was honest with the Being and seemed to bear it no malice.
What can I do for you? I wish to be of service.
“You are kind.”
I do not like to see you ill or disconsolate, dear Luce. I will make you well.
“God gives us health and strength.”
Speak not. You must rest and I will sing to you.
I sat with the milkweed on my lap, unable to move from my spot, mesmerized by the sweet music of the Spirit’s song.
This day God gives me strength of High Heaven
Sun and moon shining
Flame in my hearth
Flashing of lightning
Wind in its swiftness
Deeps of the ocean
Firmness of earth
This day God gives me strength as my guardian
Might to uphold me
Wisdom as guide
Your eyes are watchful
Your ears are listening
Your lips are speaking
Friend at my side
The song was so profoundly moving, I felt I might shed tears from the pure beauty of it, or perhaps it was just my relief over Mother’s turn for the better that made me weepy.
“Thank you,” Mother mumbled, polite even in illness. She gave the slightest smile and I saw she too had tears gathering in the wrinkles at the corners of her fevered eyes. She closed them, as though she would return to sleep, and in my ear the Spirit whispered.
Betsy, make the milkweed!
I had forgotten I was meant to do it, I was so absorbed. I almost asked, why did you not provide it ready-made? Yet I thought twice before questioning the Being. I went to do the task and in the kitchen questioned Chloe instead.
“I must make a milkweed tincture for Mother and the Being has returned to sing her lullabies, promising she will improve. Just now, did you feel the Spirit in the kitchen? The jar it brought came from the pantry, here.” I looked up on the shelf and saw the place where the jar usually stood between marjoram and mint was empty, and I turned to Chloe, who had her back to me, busy at stoking the woodstove so I might set the kettle on to boil.
“Miss Betsy, I do say, I feel that ’haint all the time, all the time, and everywhere.” She looked around the kitchen and rolled her eyes to the corners of the ceiling, as if she feared it listened even as we spoke.
“If it heals Mother quickly …” I did not know what to say, or what to think. If it saved our mother’s life, must it be redeemed in my affections? I made the tincture of milkweed as instructed and returned to wait silently at her bedside to dose her with it. Before long, her eyes fluttered open and her head shifted forward off her pillows. Immediately the Spirit spoke.
So, Luce, how do you feel now? Are you much recovered?
“Oh yes, thank you,” she replied in a hoarse whisper, but she did not look at all well to me. Her lips were swollen with white blisters and her skin was pale and dry where before it had been flushed. She was recovering, but clearly she was still unwell.
The doctor is on his way, Luce, and he will be most impressed.
“Betsy dear, help me.” Mother tried to raise herself with an elbow and found she could not lift her own weight. I pulled her up to sitting and she whispered she would need the chamber pot again.
I will be silent while he visits for I make him quite uncomfortable.
The Spirit spoke like a gossiping woman, though its intentions appeared kind.
I will be of service to you, dear Luce, in every way.
I wondered if it could be trusted, as I helped Mother to the corner and back.
I will fetch whatever the doctor prescribes for you.
True to its prediction, Dr. Hopson soon arrived. I heard the hoofbeats in the yard and a greeting shouted out to the boys who played on their sleds up and down the hill. I rose from Mother’s side and went to meet him at the door.
“How fares your mother?” he inquired, removing his greatcoat and top hat, inspecting me as before, from his lowered glasses. He looked as if he doubted I had properly cared for her.
“The inflammation is not so strong as her constitution, Dr. Hopson. You will find her much improved.” I turned away, hiding a small smile as I hung his coat, and he quickly went to Mother’s bedside.
“Hello, Lucy Bell, how do you fare?”
“I am weak, but feeling better than before.” She looked up at him with wide eyes and he placed a hand on her forehead.
“The fever has broken, indeed, a good sign.” He took his instrument out and listened to her lungs, nodding, postulating, “I expect the tincture is the cure.” He looked on the table to see how much we had used and noticed the bottle of milkweed.
“What is this? Milkweed? Who made this?” He turned to me, inquiring.
“The Spirit told me to,” I answered truthfully, knowing he would not like it.
“So you have had a visit from your demon friend, Miss Elizabeth?” He shoved his spectacles down his nose with impatient annoyance.
“It was not a demon this time, doctor. It sang a gentle song and spoke the recipe for the milkweed tincture at Mother’s request.”
“At your request?” The doctor raised his eyebrows at my mother, who nodded an affirmative reply, but spoke no explanation.
“How odd, your demon is an evil murderer one day, and a ministering angel on the next.” Dr. Hopson shook his head, unwilling to investigate the matter further. I knew he was implying something, but I could not say exactly what. I wished the Spirit would speak, for I felt it was my defense against the doctor’s doubts. But the Spirit was not at my beck and call. There was silence, except for Mother’s quickened breathing, until the doctor sighed.
“ ’Tis a good sign the fever has lifted, but the illness is still a danger. You must drink a broth to improve your strength, and prevent a worsening in your chest.”
“I have no desire for food.” Mother spoke softly, but Dr. Hopson heard her.
“You must eat, desire or no. Your body is weak with affliction. If you do not wish to leave your children orphans, rise not from this bed for the next month.” I was surprised by the severity of Dr. Hopson’s warning, surprised and displeased he could imagine such a horrible outcome to her illness.
The next day I stood by her bedside attempting to discover what I might fetch from the kitchen, or the storehouse even, that she would like.
“I have no appetite,” Mother lamented and I was greatly frustrated, as I felt Dr. Hopson’s orders must be strictly adhered to, despite the Spirit’s assurance she would improve.
“There must be something, Mother. Chloe’s sage cheese? Clotted cream?”
“Betsy, there is nothing I desire. Save, perhaps, a sweet summer cherry.” She looked down at the quilt, dismayed she could think of nothing I could possibly bring to her.
Ah, Luce, a cherry is a pure delight.
The Spirit spoke from the ceiling and I looked up surprised to see a rain of cherries falling as stones had fallen down our stairs. They appeared from nowhere, a darker, more purple-red than any off our trees in the orchard.
Taste them!
Mother and I exchanged a glance, was it safe? Were they poison, and a trick? The skin of the cherries gleamed like Dean’s arms at work in the fields of summer.
Dear Luce, they will heal and help you. I cannot bear to see you ill! Eat them!
Mother obediently plucked a cherry from the pile and dangled it briefly over her lips before biting into the sweet meat of it.
“ ’Tis like a beam of sunlight in my wintry soul.” She licked her lips with her dry tongue. “Thank you.”
What else would you like, dear Luce? Speak its name and I shall fetch it for you.
The Spirit pressed her for more information as to her cravings.
“The fruits of summer are my favorites,” Mother ventured, hesitant as a child, receiving undeserved gifts.
’Tis summer now in many tropical environs.
Again, from the ceiling fell a rain of fruit: sweet plums, peaches, large purple grapes, green figs and hazelnuts, in such abundance I was forced to gather them off the floor into my skirt.
“How lovely!” Mother graciously accepted the offerings. “But I am much too weak for cracking nuts.”
Hold out your hands.
I stopped collecting when I heard the sound of nuts splitting apart. Mother stretched out her palm and the meat of the hazelnuts dropped straight into it, while the shells dropped over the floor, clattering at my feet.
Fetch a basket, Betsy.
The Spirit ordered me around like a slave and I nearly shouted, I do not belong to you! Only the look of gratitude on Mother’s face and the ripe peaches at her fingertips silenced my urge to anger. I told myself I must thank the Being for the luscious gifts it brought to my dear mother, for rather figs and hazelnuts rain down on us than we become orphans.
the gifts of the spirit
Mother’s convalescence was long, but by no means dismal, as the gifts of the Spirit overflowed in every wooden bowl and woven vine basket in our home. The fuzz of fresh peaches stood up like the new whiskers on Drewry’s chin, screaming they had just been plucked off the tree, and the strawberries brought by the Being were red as fresh blood, the leaves still sticky with small prickers. Mother was confined to home, and Dr. Hopson came once a week to check her progress.
“Your recovery is remarkable,” he proclaimed, after listening to her chest with his instrument.
“The Lord protects and heals us,” she answered, smiling. She did not look me in the eye when Dr. Hopson was present, for we both knew her recovery was entirely the good work of the Spirit. It did not speak or perform any miracles of apportation while the doctor was in our home, but he saw the gifts it brought strewn everywhere. Only once did he mention them.
“I know not your secret in obtaining such delicious fruits of summer.” He adjusted his spectacles to focus on the gray winter fog outside the window in Mother’s bedroom, and I thought he would expound a theory of his own, but he merely sighed. “Yet, John Bell’s cold storehouse is legendary in these parts, and however you have managed it these fruits are certainly a heavenly cure.” He left with purple plums and grapes carefully packed in his saddlebag, but I wondered if he dared to eat them at his home.
By the end of February, Mother was able to walk about in her bedclothes, unaided, and she could sit at the table for supper. She could not yet dress and sustain a day of her usual activities, but she asked Drewry to let it be known she was ready to entertain callers.
“I desire some news of our community. How is Reverend Johnston? And the Thorns? And what of Calvin Justice, where has he been hiding?”
They are afraid, dear Luce. They grasp not the other worlds.
“Never mind about all that.” Mother was pragmatic in her approach. “I should just like to hear of this world, going on about us.” The Spirit laughed, charming as a tin music box.
You are such a sensitive soul, Luce, I must tell you, you are right in all your actions. This other world you will forever wander, and your moments of now are most precious.
I thought about that statement while I poured boiling well water into cups of milkweed sweetened with just a little sugar, the way Mother liked it. I stirred and stirred to make the herb dissolve, but try as I might, I could no longer conceive of another world of forever. I missed Father and my faith seemed to be fading, along with my happy memories of Josh, into the darkness of Father’s murder and so many long days of illness as my lot. All happened against my prayers, where was God in my long suffering?
Mrs. Johnston and Mrs. Thorn responded immediately to Drewry’s invitation, arriving the following morning. Old Kate saw them on the road to our place and she trailed along without an invitation, but Mother was pleased to entertain them all at her bedside.
“Lucy, we were much disturbed to hear of your illness, so sudden after your tragedy. We have prayed daily for your swift recovery.” Mrs. Thorn clasped her hands tightly to her knee, as soon as she settled into her chair, appearing to be most kind and concerned. I wished she had brought Thenny.
“At church, the Reverend has you constantly in his prayers,” Mrs. Johnston said, but she was distracted by the large basket of fruit on the bedside table.
“You must sample it,” Mother offered with a smile, following her gaze.
“Forgive me for staring, but where have you found such treats? Mr. Thorn will carry no fruit approximate to this for many months.” Mrs. Thorn leaned forward for a better view. “Has Dr. Hopson brought it here, from that newly opened store in Springfield? We did hear they carry much that is exotic from downriver, but I had no idea!”
I brought them, ladies, and I will bring some more!
The Spirit announced its presence with a hail of black cherries that shocked Mrs. Johnston and Mrs. Thorn immensely. They twisted their necks wildly to see from whence the fruit did fall, but Old Kate thought quickly and held her skirt out to catch the fruit.
“My word, ’tis like the loaves and fishes here!” She laughed as her apron filled.
“The miraculous is ever possible.” Mother looked radiant and in the best of health, as if the Spirit’s demonstration of kindness caused her to rejoice.
“But, Lucy, if the demon brings them hither, is it not the fruit of the Devil?” Mrs. Johnston spoke softly, very much concerned.
“Do her pink cheeks look like Devil’s work to you? Clearly what haunts this house is more complex.” Kate popped a cherry in her mouth and Mrs. Thorn gasped.
“Is it true what they say of you, Kate Batts? Is the origin of this unusual visitation inside your iron pot?” Mrs. Thorn stepped outside the bounds of permissible speech with this query and I wished there could be an end to the accusations.
“Fear not, the fruit is good and healthful. I have subsisted on it for several weeks.” Mother calmed her guests, seeking to prohibit further discussion of Old Kate’s possible hand in our mischief, and the Spirit interrupted with a silly song.
The world seemed topsy-turvy, and people of renown
Were doing the most outrageous things,
When the world turned upside down!
“What is its meaning?” Mrs. Thorn leaned forward and whispered her query to Mother, leaving Old Kate out of it.
“I know not the Being’s meaning. I know only this fruit is the sweetest and most succulent ever tasted and I believe it has greatly contributed to healing my pleurisy.”
“ ’Tis the least it could do, having murdered your husband,” Kate said bluntly. A shocked silence followed her remark and the room grew tense and so quiet, I heard the last of the cherries rolling over the floorboards into the sloping corner. “Lucy, I mean not to offend,” Old Kate began to apologize, but seeing the smug set of Mrs. Thorn’s chin, she simply shifted the blame, “unlike some others present …”
Mother looked down at her hands, resting, filled with fruit on her quilt, and the pain she must have felt was not evident on her face.
“Not so, Kate, cherries are my most favored summer delight and these do look delicious.” I could tell Mrs. Johnston felt sorry for my mother, educated as she was in our long suffering, and she wished to save the discussion from Kate’s vulgarity. Though Mrs. Thorn glanced uneasily her way, she took the bold step of tasting the fruit. “If you don’t mind,” she said as she plucked a cherry from Kate’s lap.
“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children.” Mrs. Batts stood, apparently addressing the Spirit, quoting from the Scripture, requesting further gifts. She held her apron at both corners, hoping more fruit would fall.
A wicked doer giveth heed to false lips; and a liar giveth ear to a naughty tongue!
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“You would be the one to know of that! Offend me not!” Kate gathered her apron in one hand and rested the other on her massive hip as she spoke to the empty ceiling. “The Lord knows my faith is true. A gift is as a precious stone in the eyes of him that has it. ’Tis written in the Proverbs.” She turned to Mrs. Johnston, who was slowly chewing to the pit of her cherry, casting a serious, doubting glance at Kate.
“Verily, Kate quotes the Scripture accurately,” Mother interrupted, sighing. “Please take the fruit home with you, we have more than enough.” The ladies hastily rose, realizing Mother had suddenly tired of visiting.
“Be well, Lucy dear, we shall call again.” Mrs. Johnston took Mother’s hand in her own, patting it affectionately.
Chloe had prepared muslin bags full of fruits and nuts for the ladies and I helped her distribute them at the door. All the way down our path we heard them discussing excitedly the health benefits of fruit from the Spirit. I laughed and realized suddenly I had experienced a moment unafraid and without anxiety. It was pleasant to suck on cherries in the winter and to laugh, knowing Mother was well and protected by the Spirit. I wondered if it could be possible that we were finally to reap some benefits where pain had previously been sown.
Sunday morning, Mother requested I take a basket of fruit for the congregation to enjoy at church, and I set out in the buggy, driven by Zeke, along with Drewry, Richard and Joel. The snow had mostly melted but the ground was still hard and dead and the branches were completely bare. The thicket and the hedgerow were a mass of gray brambles, reminding me of the tangled basket of old wool Mother had asked me to wind. I was grateful to have left it behind. Though it was still very cold, a pale sunlight glinted in the sky, a gentle reminder spring was coming. The clopping of horses’ hooves on the roads through the woods multiplied as we grew closer to the church and met our neighbors. Thenny’s father’s carriage crossed the bridge into the yard just before ours. Excited, I adjusted the basket of fruit in my lap. Chloe had wrapped it well in a summer muslin cloth so the cherries and grapes would not spill from the edges. The churchyard bustled with talk as we rode in and I heard neighbors greeting neighbors, checking their Sunday invitations to meals following the service. It felt like a long time since folk had gathered at our house. Zeke stopped the carriage and the boys climbed out ahead of me. I had to make certain the basket was secure on the floor before I climbed down myself. Straightening my coat I looked for Thenny in the yard, but did not see her.
All That Lives Page 34