Thoreau in Phantom Bog

by Oak, B. B.

  Granny’s eyes flew open. “No, I ain’t!”

  “Nothing wrong with your hearing, though,” I remarked dryly.

  “Nothing wrong with me at all exceptin’ I am dyin’!” Granny said. “And since you are here, Julia Bell, you can help Harriet carry me downstairs.”

  There was no reasoning with her, I realized. Hence, I saw no point in further depleting her energy by trying to. “Very well,” I said, ignoring Harriet’s reproachful look. “Where would you like us to put you?”

  “On sich a fine day as this, I wish to be brought outside.”

  And so she was. But we could not very well lay her on the ground, so first Harriet and I lugged the heavy, humpbacked sofa from the parlor and set it under the chestnut tree. Moving Granny proved to be a far easier task, for she is near as lightweight as the anatomical skeleton in Adam’s office. But before we carried her down from her bedchamber she insisted upon being properly attired in her yellow-checked gingham frock and a fresh white neckerchief and cap. It would shame her, Granny said, to receive company in a nightgown in the middle of the day.

  Once we’d settled her upon the sofa, propped her up with pillows, and covered her with a quilt, Granny asked Harriet if she would kindly go to Daggett’s store and fetch some pekoe tea for Mr. Thoreau.

  “Henry doesn’t drink beverages containing caffeine,” I helpfully interjected.

  Granny scowled at me. “Don’t you think I know that, missy? But I mean to offer it to him anyway out of common courtesy, and ’twould be deceitful to offer what I don’t have on hand.”

  “No one is more truthful than Granny Tuttle,” Harriet added.

  I, for one, could debate that. Hadn’t Granny lied to Adam about his parentage for twenty-four years? I threw her a glance, but she avoided looking at me and kept her eyes on Harriet.

  “Off to town with you then. You are a dear, sweet girl to do my bidding.” Granny smiled at Harriet with the warm affection she reserved for a chosen few.

  I, needless to say, was not one of the chosen. Indeed, I belonged to another category entirely—those Granny had no regard for whatsoever. Therefore I became wary when she told me, as soon as Harriet departed, that she wanted to have a frank talk with me. But I could not very well refuse to listen to the old dame, so I sat myself down at the opposite end of the sofa and waited for her to speak. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at me a good long moment but, without uttering a word, she sank back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

  I gazed at her deeply etched, sunken face and thought it no wonder Granny looked so worn out. When she married Eli Tuttle half a century ago the farm had not been near as gainful as it is now, and she had worked as hard as her husband to make a success of it. In addition to that, she had borne six children. It is said that there is no greater pain than having to bury a child, and the Tuttles buried all six of theirs. Three died in childhood, of whooping cough, scarlet fever, and diphtheria. The eldest son died of blood poisoning caused by a cut from a fish hook, and one daughter died in childbirth. Adam’s mother, the last of their offspring to survive, fell to her death from a tree twenty years ago, and ten years ago the influenza took Granny’s husband. Yet never once have I heard Granny rail against God or even Fate. And I very much doubt she has ever felt sorry for herself, either.

  She opened her eyes and sat up with a start. “Lors me! I clean forgot about the dandelions. They must be bloomin’ right about now.”

  “They are,” I told her. “They popped up overnight as if from fairy dust sprinkled over the meadows.”

  “Fairy dust.” Granny sniffed. “You was allus full of fancy and nonsense, Julia Bell. Dandelions come up same time every year to feed hungry little critters like cottontails and goldfinches. And to supply me with the fixin’s for my Ladies’ tonic.”

  “Ladies’ tonic, indeed,” I said wryly. The fermented brew Granny made from dandelion blossoms, sugar, water, and yeast had quite a kick to it.

  “If dandy heads ain’t gathered as soon as they blossom, the tonic don’t taste as good,” Granny said anxiously.

  “Why don’t I go pick you some right now?”

  “It’s too late in the day,” Granny said. “They should be picked whilst the dew is still on the grass. So you just stay put. We need to have us a private talk.”

  I shook my head. “If you had been honest with me the last time we talked in confidence, Adam and I would be married now.”

  “You can’t lay all the blame that you two ain’t married at my feet, missy!”

  “Are you blind to your own culpability, ma’am?”

  “Oh, I see clear enough where I was at fault. And don’t think I haven’t suffered over it,” Granny said. “But when I finally twigged how much Adam cared for you, I told him the truth. And he went to France as quick as he could to fetch you back, but you had already gone and married someone else. Is that my fault?”

  Yes! I wanted to shout back at her, but I pushed down my anger and held my tongue. What possible good could come from quarrelling with this weak old lady? She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep again, much to my relief, for I needed time to regain my equilibrium. I gazed out at the newly plowed fields and fresh green meadows and contemplated what had led to the unwarrantable situation Adam and I now found ourselves in.

  I’d come back to Plumford two years ago to nurse my maternal grandfather, Dr. Silas Walker, who had badly broken his leg and was being treated by his grandson, my cousin Dr. Adam Walker. Adam and I had grown attached as children, but we’d been abruptly separated when my mother died and my father took me off to France at age eleven. I had not laid eyes on Adam for twelve years when I returned to Plumford, but in a matter of weeks we had fallen in love—deeply and irrevocably. And most imprudently. In the Walker family history, the offspring of first cousins had always been born with birth defects too severe to sustain life. Therefore, I had listened to Granny Tuttle when she’d advised me to go back to France before Adam and I gave in to temptation. I listened because I wanted for Adam exactly what she did—a happy life with someone who could give him the family he so desired. Someone like her darling ward Harriet Quimby, for instance, who bore no blood relation to him.

  But as it turns out, neither do I! Adam and I are not consanguineous cousins, after all. His biological father was not his legal father, Owen Walker, who was my uncle. And Granny Tuttle always knew this. Her daughter Sarah, Adam’s mother, had confided in her before Adam was born.

  To her credit, Granny did eventually inform Adam that he was a Walker in name only. Alas, she told him too late. I had already married an elderly, seemingly kindhearted man whom I’d met on the ship back to France. Admittedly, I had acted hastily and as it turns out most unwisely, but my motive for doing so was based on a lie Granny had led me to believe. Therefore, who is to blame for this quandary Adam and I now find ourselves in? I turned my head to look at Granny. She had awakened and was regarding me intensely with her gimlet eyes.

  “You got somethin’ to tell me, Julia Bell?” she said.

  “I thought you had something to tell me, ma’am.”

  “I intended on tellin’ you to get the blazes out of Plumford.”

  The wind had picked up a bit, and I tucked the quilt around her scrawny neck. A neck, I admit, I would have gladly wrung when I first learned how she’d deceived me. “You already told me that once,” I reminded her. “And I was fool enough to listen.”

  “We have chewed over that already, missy.”

  “Do you still cling to the hope that if I went away Adam would marry Harriet?”

  “Oh, no. That hope was dashed when Harriet told me she would never have an adulterer for a husband. She knows for sure that Adam is one, for she has followed him to town when he leaves here at sunrise and observed him go up to your chamber.”

  “You must have been scandalized when she told you,” I said.

  Granny gave one of her sniffs. “ ’Twould take a heap more than that to scandalize the likes of me. I rec
koned it was only a matter of time afore you and my grandson got biblical.” She gave me another hard look. “You look a bit green about the gills, Julia.”

  In truth I did feel both dizzy and nauseated. I hurriedly went behind the lilac bushes and spit up a stream of yellow bile. When I returned to Granny, she was staring up at the sky.

  “Looks to be a storm brewin’. There’s a big thunderhead yonder,” she remarked.

  “Then I’d best bring you inside,” I said.

  “No need yet. The wind might blow it east of us. We’ll just wait and see. Come sit down again and give me yer hand, dearie.” Her request for my hand astonished me as much as her calling me dearie, but I did as she asked. “Now where were we?” she said.

  “You were telling me to get the blazes out of Plumford.”

  “No, I said I was goin’ to tell you that. Afore I saw how things were with you.” Granny squeezed my hand as best she could with her stiff, crooked fingers. “Does Adam know yet?”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to be completely sure before I told him.”

  “Well, I am as certain that you are with child,” Granny said, “as I am certain that thunderhead is about to burst.”

  We watched as the roiling storm cloud, shaped like an anvil, rose higher and higher up into the sky until it towered over the countryside a few miles east of us. The head of the cloud was gleaming white in the sun, and its base as black as night, with pulses of light coursing through it. Suddenly, a dazzling bolt of lightning shot forth, quickly followed by another bolt of even more intensity. The air shuddered with the crack and boom of thunder. Then, just as Granny had predicted, rain burst from the massive cloud in heavy, gray sheets.

  “I pray no man nor beast got struck by that awful lightning,” she said.

  The wind shifted, and the thunderhead swiftly moved off like a tall clipper ship tacking away. In less than five minutes the sun was shining down on the unfortunate area that had been so terribly deluged.

  ADAM

  Thursday, May 18

  ’Tis no wonder Henry’s surname is pronounced the same as the word thorough. By following his systematic procedure, our search party managed to cover every foot of the bog in a comprehensive, efficient, and timely manner. Even so, the unstable terrain and the exceptional warmth of the day, not to mention the fearsome thunderstorm, wore all of us out, and I was feeling as logy as a porcupine as I drove Henry toward Tuttle Farm. The last thing I wanted to do was get into a heated discussion, and Henry seemed even more inclined to silent contemplation than usual. But there was a bone of contention between us that needed gnawing at, one I was not about to let go of.

  “I don’t want Julia put in danger again,” I told Henry without preamble.

  He had been observing a tanager flit through a stand of beech trees, and he turned to me with a rather startled expression. “Julia was in danger? When?”

  “Last night, of course. You put her in harm’s way by bringing fugitive slaves to her door.”

  “I brought an exhausted young couple with a frail babe, and Julia welcomed them into her home. I see no harm in that, Adam. Only good.”

  “Did you not consider that we have a cold-blooded killer on the loose? One who is most likely a slave hunter?”

  “In fact, that was my primary consideration. Because Julia’s house has never been used as a Station before, I was confident no one was watching it. Your concern is unwarranted, Adam. I shall remove the Cooper family from Julia’s house and bring them to another safe Station tonight.”

  “Julia already did so, dammit! So do not tell me my fear for her safety is unwarranted.” My agitated tone caused Napoleon, pulling the gig along at a placid trot, to glance a wide-eyed look back at me. In a calmer voice, I proceeded to inform Henry of Constable Beers’s arrival at Julia’s door and the flight to Acton that ensued.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Henry said in response. “Julia acted with good sense and courage.”

  “What is courageous in a man is foolhardy in a woman,” I countered. “And you know from past exploits how foolhardy Julia can be. That’s why you should never have involved her in this Underground Railroad business. Her inclination to take risks is too great.”

  “Are you saying that she should be denied participation in a cause she believes in because she is a woman, Adam?”

  “Because she is the woman I love.”

  My declaration was hardly news to Henry. I’d told him of my intention to marry Julia two years ago, and that I loved her still, even though she was married to another, did not seem to surprise him. “Loving a woman doesn’t give you leave to control her actions, my friend,” he said in a rather kindly tone. “It’s up to every individual to decide how to act, and Julia has made her own decision.”

  I saw no point in discussing this further with Henry. I do not think he will ever deliberately put Julia in harm’s way, but I also realize it is up to me alone to protect her. If only I were her legal husband! Then, as the acknowledged head of our household, I could make sure she was safe at all times.

  When Henry and I arrived at Tuttle Farm I was astounded to see Gran under the chestnut tree, reclining on her parlor sofa no less. I asked Henry if he would be so kind as to barn Napoleon, jumped down from the gig, and hurried to her.

  “You should be in your bedchamber, Gran,” I said.

  “I am better off right here,” she retorted.

  I placed my palm against her forehead and then reached for her hand and took her pulse. “I allow that being removed outdoors does not seem to have done you any harm. Did you finagle a couple of the farmhands to lug this sofa out here for you?”

  “Harriet and Julia did it.”

  “Julia is here?”

  Gran nodded. “Here she comes right now.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Julia walking from the house toward me. She was holding a quilt and proceeded to place it over the one already covering Gran. She then turned to me, eyes filled with apprehension, and inquired about the bog search. When I reported that we had not found the runaway’s body, Julia expressed her certainty that the runaway must still be alive. Gran was not so optimistic. She accepts nothing as truth unless proven to her. Except for the existence of heaven and hell, that is.

  When Henry joined us he drew Julia aside to hear her firsthand account regarding the Cooper family. He then gave his full attention to Gran.

  “You look like a rajah lounging on that sofa, Mrs. Tuttle.”

  “And what pray is a rajah?” she asked him.

  “A royal person in India.”

  “What do you know of India, Henry?”

  “Only what I read in Hindoo mystical writings.”

  Gran squeezed tight her face to show her disapproval. “Ain’t Hindoos heathens?”

  “I suspect Hindoos would say the same of Congregationalists.”

  “You are a heretic, young man!” There was color in Gran’s cheeks and a sparkle in her eye. She loved sparring with Henry.

  He laughed. “Will you accept a present from a heretic?”

  Gran’s eyes got brighter still. “You brung me a present?”

  “Flora from the bog.” Henry reached into the deep pocket of his jacket and withdrew a long, thick stem decorated with small yellow blossoms. No doubt noticing that Gran’s arthritic hands would be unable to grasp it, he placed it on the quilt.

  “What is it called?” she said.

  “Platanthera hyperborea.”

  “I’ll never manage to get my tongue around that.”

  “Call it a bog orchid then,” Henry said. “It’s an early bloomer of the species, and when I saw it in the sphagnum I thought of you and plucked it.”

  Gran wrinkled her nose. “It’s got a funny smell.”

  “To me it smells like snakes,” Henry said.

  Gran hooted. “Is that why you thought of me?”

  “No, it was the delicacy of the blossoms that brought you to mind, Mrs. Tuttle.”

  Gran sniffed off his rema
rk, but the color in her cheeks deepened. Julia and I exchanged an amused glance. What a charmer Henry could be when he chose to. Which was not all that often.

  I fetched two ladder-backs from the kitchen and placed them under the chestnut tree for Henry and me. Before he sat down in his, Henry admired the workmanship, and Gran looked proud as punch.

  “My husband made them chairs,” she said. “Eli was real handy with a spokeshave.”

  “Indeed he was,” Henry said, running his hand along the rounded legs and stretchers. “And who wove the rush seats?”

  “I did,” Gran said.

  “You did a fine job of it.”

  Gran was not one to accept compliments concerning herself and quickly changed the subject. “Let’s hear more about the bog search.”

  Henry began to describe the sudden storm we’d endured.

  “You could see the thunderhead break from here,” Julia said. “We had no idea you were right under it, but Granny prayed no one got struck by lightning. Perhaps her prayer protected you.”

  “Or perhaps the bog phantom protected us,” Henry said.

  Gran looked at him with narrowed eyes. I thought she was going to reprimand him for his pantheism as she had in the past. Instead, she asked, “Did she show herself to you?”

  “You acknowledge the existence of the bog phantom, Mrs. Tuttle?”

  “When I was a girl, most everybody did. And many had seen her. But then she hid herself away, never to appear again. I reckon ’twas because witless boys started tryin’ to espy her for sport. Ain’t that right, Adam?”

  “Maybe the phantom stopped appearing when folks stopped believing in her,” I replied.

  Gran ignored my comment. “Did she show herself today, Henry?” she asked again. He nodded, and Gran gave out a hoot. “I wager she scared the dickens out of you menfolk.”

  That said, she relaxed against the pillows. But only for a moment. Her gnarled hands started twitching, and her eyes began darting hither and thither. I knew these to be signs of the anxiety that has plagued her since her illness took root.