Helene’s family was equally embarrassed. No one was visiting the pool hall anymore, and it looked like they would have to move away from town. They refused to open their door to their daughter and her new husband. Only Helene’s youngest sister relented enough to open the upper window of the pool hall and speak to her sister. She dropped a bundle of clothes down to Helene and then slammed the window shut immediately afterward to make her position clear. So George and Helene left town in disgrace to make a new life for themselves elsewhere.
Life moved on. The scandal grew cold, and new ones took its place as new interests arose among the young people and the gossips. Polly and George and Helene were forgotten. Then, a year after Polly’s death, George’s father passed and was buried in the local churchyard just a few plots away from the girl who had almost become his daughter-in-law. This event triggered gossip about the fatal wedding day. For a few days the story of Polly and George was revived and much discussed.
Everyone in town turned out for the funeral of the elder Mr. Dean. Everyone was waiting to see if George would show his face. But George was too clever for them. He waited at an inn outside of town until it was dark, and then he went to the churchyard to pay his last respects to his father.
The Handshake
George Junior stood by the freshly dug grave and told his father that things weren’t going so well. His old law firm had refused to give him a reference, and word of Polly’s death had reached those at his former university who might have once helped him. So he was working as a farmhand, barely able to feed and clothe himself and his wife, who flagrantly chased after other men.
As he unburdened himself at his father’s graveside, George heard a sweet female voice calling his name. “George. Sweetheart.” George looked up in sudden hope. Was that his mother, come to forgive him? But no, the voice was pitched too high to be his mother, who sang contralto in the church choir.
“George,” the voice called again. Puzzled, George turned toward the sound. And then he saw, rising up from a grassy mound under a spreading oak tree, a figure in a long white gown and a soft veil. Her eyes and her lips were yellow flames beneath the veil, and the rotted wedding dress glowed with a white-yellow light. It was Polly.
George’s body stiffened, shudders of fear coursing up and down his arms and legs. Every hair on his neck prickled, and bile rose up into his throat until he retched and threw up on his father’s grave. He put a shaking hand to his mouth and staggered backward, the other hand outstretched to ward off the specter floating toward him.
The spectral bride cackled with angry laughter and swooped forward until her hand closed over George’s outstretched one in a terrible parody of a handshake. The grip of the spectral bride was so cold that it burned the skin, and so hard that the bones crunched as she squeezed. “Come along into the church, George,” the glowing bride whispered. Through the veil, George could see maggots crawling in and out of Polly’s flaming eye sockets.
“Nooo! Polly, no!” George screamed in terror, but he could not wrench his hand free. The ghost dragged him step by halting step toward the front door of the church. His hand was a red-hot agony of pain, though the rest of his body was shaking with cold. The agony was spreading now, up his arm to his shoulder.
“No!” George gave a final cry of despair and wrenched again at his hand. And suddenly, he was free. The spectral bride gave a roar of rage as George ran pell-mell down the church lane and out into the street.
“You’re mine, George Dean! If not in this world, then in the next,” the spectral bride howled after him. Her glowing form swelled upward until it was taller than the treetops. George looked back once and fell headlong when he saw the massive form with its flaming yellow eyes and lips and the moldering rags of its white wedding dress. He picked himself up, terror lending him speed. Clutching his aching hand, he ran all the way back to the inn.
By the time George reached his room, the fiery pain in his hand and arm was seeping through his entire body. He rang desperately for the housemaid and begged her to send for a doctor. Then he fell into bed and stared at his hand, which was black and withered, as if it had been scorched long ago by a fire. Black and red streaks were climbing up his arm so fast that he could almost see them move.
George was unconscious when the doctor arrived, and the swelling was already extending into his chest and neck. There was nothing the physician could do. The injury was too severe and had spread too far. Within two days George was dead. Polly had gotten her man at last.
17
I Know Moonrise
Brunswick, Georgia
Mama told me I should never walk along the marsh shortcut that led from our plantation to the town of Brunswick. She said it was dangerous and I’d get myself killed if I didn’t listen to her. At first this restriction didn’t bother me none. I had plenty of work to do in the forge helping Pa, who was the plantation blacksmith. My tasks kept me on the plantation most of the time. But when I grew older, the fellers started laughing at me, saying I was a baby because my folks wouldn’t let me take the marsh shortcut. I got so mad I told Mama to her face that I wasn’t listening to her no more. She gave me a terrible scold and sent me to bed without supper. I was so mad over the whole thing I could have spit nails! She treated me like a baby and I was thirteen years old!
It was Pa, still smelling of charcoal and smoke from the forge, who came and told me why Mama was so scared of the marsh path. “We thought it best to wait until you had grown some afore telling you the story of the marsh path,” Pa said. “Yer mama’s little sister disappeared in the marsh a long time ago. She was taking the shortcut to the old pond to gather some firewood, and she never came back. They found her straw hat floating in the stagnant water, but they never found her body.”
“I ain’t gonna fall into the water like Mama’s sister what passed,” I protested. “I’m thirteen. Big enough to walk alone in the marsh.”
“That ain’t it, son,” Pa said. “I know you’re big enough to walk the marsh path without falling in. It’s . . .” He rubbed his face with a sweaty palm, eyes troubled. Chills ran up my arms. I’d never seen Pa at a loss for words before. “It’s the spirit of yer little aunt,” Pa said finally. “She comes to the marsh path some evenings and she . . . she sings.”
Color drained from my face and my arms grew goosefleshed. “She’s a ghost?” I gasped, clutching the blanket with tense fingers.
“Not just a ghost, son,” Pa said. “You heard about the Jack Ma Lantern?”
“ ’Course, Pa,” I said. “It’s an evil spirit that tries to drown you in the marsh. You can see his lantern flashing sometimes at night. That’s why all the fellers wear their jackets inside out when they walk through the marsh.”
“That’s right,” said Pa. “Yer little aunt, she’s kind of like the Jack Ma Lantern. After she drowned, her ghost started floating over the marsh at night, singing softly of death and the grave. She’s lonesome and wants her family to join her, so she lures them into the water with her song.” Pa swallowed hard and continued: “It’s safe fer your buddies to walk that path ’cause they ain’t family. But if you go there, the ghost will come fer you.”
I pulled the covers up around my eyes, and my whole body turned to shivers as Pa described the little girl in the swamp.
Pa continued, “The ghost almost got yer mama, back in our courtin’ days. If I hadn’t been with her, yer mama would have drowned. She was waist deep in the water, following that singing voice afore I realized she’d left my side. I hauled her out of the mud and threw her over my shoulder, dripping gunk and weed all over my new shirt. Yer mama kicked and hollered something terrible, trying to get away from me so she could follow her little sister’s ghost. The spirit floated beside me as I jogged down that trail with yer mama over my shoulder, singing ‘I Know Moonrise’ in a sweet voice that made my body shake all over. Yer mama screamed at me, wanting to go to her little sister,
but I held on tight. As soon as I stepped off the marsh path, the ghost vanished and yer mama went limp. Fer a moment I thought she was dead, but she’d just fainted when the ghost disappeared. That was the last time anyone in yer family ever walked the marsh path.”
I blinked. He was right. I couldn’t remember seeing anyone in my family on the marsh path. Grandpa, Grandma, my aunts and uncles and grown-up cousins, they all used the road. Pa saw realization dawn on my face and rubbed the top of my head.
“You stay away from the marsh, son,” he said.
I should have listened to Pa. But it was easy to forget the ghost in the long days of summer as the fellers and I rambled around the countryside after the day’s work was done. I sure wasn’t thinking about it the day Jimmy and I were caught in Brunswick after sunset. “My pa’s going to be sore at me if I miss dinner,” Jimmy said. “We better hurry.” We raced down the road toward the plantation. Suddenly Jimmy swerved toward the marsh, and I realized he meant to take the shortcut.
I stared after my buddy, torn between speed and safety. I should take the road. But Jimmy was there, so chances were good that the ghost wouldn’t come ’cause he weren’t family. Besides, I reasoned, the little aunt never met me, so why would she want me to join her on the other side? Jimmy’s head appeared around a tussocky bend in the path. “Come on,” he called impatiently. I whipped off my jacket and turned it inside out to keep Jack Ma Lantern (and my aunt) away. Then I raced down the marsh path after Jimmy.
It was getting real dark, and phantom lights were popping up in the distance while the sky was still turning from gray to black. The wind swished through the marsh grasses, all whisper-whisper-whisper. Jimmy hugged his arms around his body. He didn’t like the sound of that wind.
We were walking single file along the path with Jimmy in the lead when a bullfrog bellowed beside us. We shouted in fear, nearly toppling into the water beside the path. Then we laughed nervously, clutching at each other to steady ourselves.
“I thought that frog was the Jack Ma Lantern!” Jimmy exclaimed. With a grin he shook me off and headed down the path. I paused for a moment to admire the moon, which was rising over the treetops, making a glittering path across the still water.
As I turned to follow Jimmy, the air around me grew cold till my whole body shook with chills. Out of the silvery moon-sparkle there came a childlike figure that danced and floated above the dark water like a will-o’-the-wisp. I gasped, my throat tight with fear. I called to Jimmy, just a yard in front of me, but he didn’t hear me, and I knew he couldn’t see the spirit floating toward us across the marsh. My legs shook so bad that I couldn’t walk. The silvery will-o’-the-wisp shimmered and grew until I saw a shining little girl in a straw hat. My mouth opened and shut like a dying fish. Puffs of freezing air formed in front of my nostrils as the little girl drew closer to the marsh path. Then she started to sing.
I know moonrise, I know star-rise; Lay dis body down.
I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight, To lay dis body down.
I’ll walk in de graveyard, I’ll walk through de graveyard, To lay dis body down.
I’ll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms; Lay dis body down.
I go to de judgment in de evenin’ of de day, When I lay dis body down.
And my soul and your soul will meet in de day, When I lay dis body down.
Suddenly I relaxed, lovely pictures floating through my head. I saw myself saving the life of the Master, who was so pleased with me that he set me free. Now a free boy, I went to school, studying long hours into the night to earn a place at university. Then I saw myself as an important lawyer, earning enough money to buy Mama and Pa from the Master and set them free. I ran to the old cabin where I once lived with Mama and Pa to tell them the great news. Mama stood at the far side of the room and I called out to her, but she didn’t hear me. She held a hand to her ear and beckoned me closer. I hurried toward her, splashing through water that came to my knees, my waist, my chest. There was only one thought in my head. I must reach Mama and tell her that she was free. I shouted the words as loud as I could, but my mouth filled with water and I choked. “Mama!” I called, stretching strangely heavy arms toward her. She reached toward me, and I was overwhelmed by the stink of stagnant marsh water. My heart froze in fear, for Mama’s eyes were glowing silver. The world went dark.
I woke gasping as someone pounded me on the chest. I choked and threw up all over the person who was thumping my ribs. The muddy water coming from my mouth tasted as foul as it smelled. I vomited again, this time vomiting my lunch along with the marsh water. I could hear Jimmy blubbering in the background but felt too ill to open my eyes. Then I heard Pa’s voice: “Son? You all right? Son!”
I opened my eyes and saw my pa’s face above me in the shimmering moonlight. I was soaked to the skin, and my whole body trembled with cold and shock. “I saw her, Pa,” I gasped. “She sang to me. She sang. . . .”
I lost consciousness again. When I woke I was in my bed and Mama was holding my hand and weeping. I stared up at her, vowing then and there that I would never again do anything to make my mama cry. I squeezed her hand and she looked up, startled, when she realized I was awake. She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe and scolded me something fierce for disobeying her. I promised her that I would never walk the marsh path again, and I kept that promise.
But after that night I had to leave the rice fields whenever the slaves sang “I Know Moonrise.” Hearing the tune made my whole body shake and my mouth taste of rotting marsh water.
I Know Moonrise
18
Fiddler’s Dram
Dukedom, Tennessee
I reckon that no one who attended the jailhouse concert and fiddle contest ever forgot it. I know I never did.
I was just a young chap back in those days, but I was already county clerk, and I had ambitions to become a judge. I was at the county court the day the wall of the jailhouse fell out. This was a real tragedy, though I suppose the criminals in Dukedom didn’t mind, because the county court didn’t have enough money to fix the jail. All the prominent citizens gathered round the scene of the disaster, wondering what to do. Finally, I suggested we get up a fiddling contest. Folks around Dukedom would come from miles around to hear a good fiddler play, and we could raise the money in no time flat.
“Great idea, Fred,” Coot Kersey said heartily. He was the best fiddle player in Dukedom.
Everyone nodded enthusiastically, and the doctor said, “We’ll have to notify Ples Haslock.”
This brought cheers from everyone but Coot. In those days, we had fiddlers who could bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened criminal. They could make their fiddles sing, screech, cry, and play the sweetest music this side of the heavenly realms. And the best of the best was Ples Haslock.
Ples Haslock drew a crowd every time he picked up his fiddle. He fiddled for all the local parties and dances, sometimes going fifty miles or more because the folks in these parts figured a party wasn’t a party without Ples and his fiddle. I can still see him in my mind, calling out the figures for the local square dances, his long face solemn except for a sparkle in his light blue eyes. He always looked into the distance as he fiddled, as if he could see wondrous things just out of sight.
Ples was young and handsome and the girls vied for his attention, much to the chagrin of the rest of us young bloods. But I think Ples was married to his fiddle, because he didn’t pay the girls any attention. I once heard him say that as long as he had his fiddle and a place to tap his toe, he didn’t need anything else in all creation. Maybe that was true.
Ples had taught himself to play the fiddle when he was quite young. His daddy had traded an old horse for a bunch of junk being peddled by an Irish Gypsy, and Ples found a fiddle box among the crates. Ples made some strings for the old fiddle box, and soon he was playing better than all the other fiddlers in the are
a.
When Ples’s daddy died, Ples inherited the old family house. But he wasn’t home much. Ples liked to travel around, gossiping and visiting with folks. He was welcomed with open arms, not just for his fiddling, but also for his stories, which could keep a family spellbound into the wee hours of the night, and for the news he brought of the latest happenings.
Ples stayed with my folks a few times, and I remember the way he used his fiddle to help him tell stories. Ples could make his fiddle sound like the buzz of a mosquito, the grumbling voice of an old woman, a peeping chicken, or a mockingbird in a tree. By the time Ples was done with one of his tales, we were either breathless with excitement or lying on the floor laughing. Then he would play us a tune that would bring tears to our eyes. We were devastated when he left, but Ples never stayed anywhere for long.
Just hearing that Ples was going to play drew large crowds to the local fiddling contests, but it got so that it was hard to get any other fiddlers to sign up for a contest. Once they knew Ples was going to fiddle, they knew there was no contest. Ples always walked off with the Fiddler’s Dram—a gallon of fine drinking whiskey—at every fiddling contest in the district. Folks started offering a jug to the second place winner so other fiddlers would sign up for the contests. The fiddlers all vied with one another over that second jug; they never bothered about the first one. No one ever beat Ples, and well they knew it.
“I hear that Ples is down with heart dropsy,” Coot Kersey said to the folks gathered around the collapsed jailhouse wall. “Maybe he can’t come this time.”
“Or so you hope, eh Coot?” Everyone laughed, even Coot.
“I’m heading over that way on business tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll stop by and notify Ples of the contest.”
“You’re a good man, Fred,” ol’ Doc Smith said.
Everyone decided that the jailhouse benefit fiddling contest would take place two weeks from that Monday, and the crowd dispersed. In the morning I drove over to Ples Haslock’s place and stopped my wagon in front of the house. The house—a one-room shack, really—was looking pretty dilapidated. The shingles were beginning to curl up on the roof, and some of the clapboards had dropped right off.
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