All That Lives (37 page)

“You are cold to the touch.” She felt my forehead with the back of her hand, but did not inquire at all into whether we’d
enjoyed our afternoon outing. I saw she was clearly preoccupied with Father’s illness and paced nervously in and out of her
pantry, apparently uncertain which herbs she wished to dose him with. “Come, boys. It is the hour for you two to retire,”
she sighed and held her hands out for Richard and Joel. “I will tuck you warm in your beds.” She went upstairs with the boys
and I had the feeling she needed a task to focus her restless energy. I was glad she had not focused on me, for I was afraid
she might notice my own preoccupation. Drewry and I remained in the kitchen, finishing our supper silently together.

Outside the wind whistled, blowing gusts of snow against the house. I listened for the Spirit’s voice and watched white eddies
swirling against the window glass, putting me to mind of ghostly figures crowding near. The mood inside had altered drastically
since noon, for we were now somber and distraught, in contrast with our earlier exuberant merriment. Drewry and I did not
speak, but our silence was alive with our unspoken concerns. I wished to talk about the witch rabbit, and of what I had witnessed
while he slept, for suddenly I did not wish the Spirit to inform him before I had spoken my piece, but though I formulated
the beginnings of sentences which might express my thoughts, I spoke none aloud. The Spirit arrived as I placed my plate in
the washtub, but it spoke not to me, or about me, but to Father in his bedroom where he lay in his bed.

Jack Bell, die you will!

Drew and I ran to Father’s room, followed by Mother, who hurried down the stairs at the sound of the Being.

Have you any last words?

This frightening query was followed by peals of laughter from the Spirit and I saw Father, looking not at all himself, attempting
speech that would not come. He choked and gagged and waved his arms stiffly, as though in the grip of a seizure.

“Oh Jack!” Mother’s hands fluttered helplessly around his own. “Betsy, get me the good book!” I fetched the Bible from the
parlor, and I saw my own hands shaking while my heart raced fast with the Being’s laughter. Mother began to read from the
Psalms, the prayer of the afflicted when he is overwhelmed.

“Hear my Prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me on the day when I be in trouble.” She spoke
evenly, without faltering, and I saw reading gave her strength. My knees and legs began to shake and I prostrated myself on
the bare wood floor of Father’s bedroom, sudden tears overwhelming me. I could do nothing to stop my crying, but mine was
not the dominant voice in the room, for the Spirit loudly recited a perverted nursery rhyme.

Old Jack Bell went up a hill,

To fetch a lady’s garter.

On his way down, he broke his crown

And Betsy Bell came tumbling after.

“Leave him be!” I disregarded its insolent song and pleaded with the Being. Never had I seen Father so clearly ill. The image
of his skeleton dripping blood returned to me and I much regretted my earlier desire to hear anything at all from the Spirit.

“Incline thine ear unto me: In the day when I call, answer me speedily.” Mother continued to pray, her face raised to the
roof as she spoke, but her only answer was unearthly evil laughter. I carried on sobbing as though my heart would break open.
“Elizabeth, cease your tears and remove yourself to bed, immediately.” Mother was annoyed with me and moved closer to Father
to try and still his flailing hands again. “Drewry, go with your sister and comfort her. I will stay with your father here.”

Sit as long as you like, Lucy. I am here to take him.

“Shall I fetch the doctor or the Reverend?” Drewry was concerned and appeared ready to bolt from the house. Mother stroked
Father’s cheek and frowned at the mention of the doctor.

No doctor.

“I think we ought to wait and see how he progresses. The snow is falling thickly, and he does not have a fever.” Mother spoke
slowly, with great consideration. “You may help most by departing this sad scene.” There was a slight bitterness in her tone
I found most upsetting, but I realized she was dismayed by Father’s illness and our lack of faith. I thought guiltily back
to the wild abandon I had experienced when Father was away in Cedar Hill and I found myself reluctant to leave, but Mother
insisted.

“Go! The fury of your tears, Miss Betsy, will not raise your father’s spirits.” I saw he was stiff and pale in his bed, his
eyes closed, an expression at once vacant and resigned on his features. He had ceased attempting speech, but the grim set
of his mouth and the tension of his forehead gave over the pain he suffered, and I wondered, truly, was the Spirit attempting
murder? The Being had engaged me in a covenant of secrecy, for I had witnessed Father’s skeleton and innards dropping away
and the dreadful unshared image would not cease beneath my lids.

“Let us say the Lord’s Prayer together,” I suggested, standing to recite the prayer, but the Spirit began to whistle an uplifting
tune, in contrast to the emotions of the room, imparting I should hurry and finish with my business there, so it might do
the same. As though our business with Father could ever be one and the same.

“Deliver us from evil,” Drewry joined me in prayer, and reaching out he squeezed my hand and I was so overcome with sadness
I had great difficulty continuing.

“Forgive us our sins,” we said together, making our faces brave and sturdy in case Father opened his eyes, but he did not.

“Come away, sister, ’tis for the best,” Drewry said, pulling me toward the door. The Spirit launched into a raucous and vile
song containing words I know Father was pained to hear spoken in his home, coarse curses beyond what I had ever imagined.
Mother turned her face to the floor in sorrow and despair, for the Spirit’s song was so loud there was no opportunity to plead
with it to cease.

Drewry and I retreated upstairs into our rooms and soon I lay shivering under my quilts, listening to the horrible songs downstairs
and the wailing cry of the storm wind outside. Sleep was impossible. I tried thinking of Josh, and his lips pressed to mine.
I closed my eyes wanting terribly to relive the feeling of warmth and happiness his kiss had provided, but the feeling I sought
remained beyond my reach. Instead, the sour smell of whiskey on Father’s breath filled my nose as if he stood over me and
I knew it was a trick of the Being, attempting to poison the few good thoughts in my mind. Its malevolent laughter rose through
the floorboards and behind my eyes the figure of Father’s skeleton hid waiting. I lay paralyzed in fear and though I know
not how it happened, I did drift into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning when I awoke I discovered Father had risen, seeming fit and whole and very much restored to his regular health.

“Thanks be to God for this meal we are blessed to receive.” He bowed his head and said our grace at breakfast while I stared
at him from the half-shut corners of my eyes, unable to believe he could be so sound and wholesome after the night before.
“Work needs doing at the hog pen,” he said, cutting the tasty wild turkey Drewry had killed, spreading Mother’s butter liberally
across his cornbread.

“Shall we see to it?” Drewry asked. Since John Jr.’s departure, Drewry as the eldest son had taken on new responsibilities.

“May I come with you?” I inquired, spooning butter onto my own cornbread, hoping he would hear in my plea my most sincere
desire to be with him, and not my fear that his living hours were limited.

“Yes, darling daughter,” he said, looking directly at me, as though he were surprised I had requested to accompany him. He
laid his napkin down and stood. “I wish to do it while the weather holds, so both of you, make haste.”

We hurried through our breakfast and through dressing in our winter things, meeting Father in the hall where he slapped his
leather gloves together, clearly anxious to set out. “Dean reports my fences are in need of some repair and I intend to divide
the stock hogs from the porkers, for Easter fattening.” He spoke his intentions to Mother, who stood beside the door and kissed
us each quite tenderly, tightening our knit scarves securely around our necks as she’d done each winter since Drewry and I
were old enough to venture from the house alone.

“Be helpful to your father, Betsy,” she whispered in my ear before shutting the door tight against the cold.

We walked at Father’s brisk pace, not speaking. The snow had frozen lightly in the night and made a satisfying crunch beneath
our boots. We walked around the house and down the hill to the stables. Father led the way and so it happened Drewry and I
were nearly struck when his left boot came flying off his foot and shot back up the hill. He stopped and looked behind, but
did not speak, and I knew not how it had happened.

“I’ll fetch it, Father!” Drewry called out and sensibly retrieved the boot, which had fallen near to him. Father leaned against
him and they worked together, replacing it. We had not gone two steps more when it happened again, this time to the other
boot, on his right foot.

Call your angels down, Jack Bell, for you are like the hog to slaughter.

“Fiend!” Father drew a sharp breath but attempted to ignore the Spirit’s taunt. “Drewry, fetch my boot and lace it tight this
time.” He was clearly much annoyed, and I could see it was not easy for Drew to get the boot on him; the fit was close. I
watched my brother pull the laces taut and tie more than one knot, but as soon as we set out, directly the laces became strings
to the wind and, this time, both his boots flew off.

“I will go in my stocking feet through this snow, evil demon! You will not alter my course,” Father said. He continued walking
in his stockings and Drewry and I followed behind, witnessing the boots rise up from where they lay in the snow and fly, as
if thrown by a strong man with accurate aim, striking our father two horrible blows to the back of his head. He fell heavily
to the ground and we rushed to him.

“Put them on my feet again, children.” He lay flat on his back, stretched against the hill with his eyes closed, as though
he were sleeping in his bed. Drewry and I did what we were told, he did the right boot, and I the left. Gently, I brushed
away the snow encrusted to the sole of Father’s wool stocking and slipped the boot beneath his narrow foot, pulling it up
around his heel. It was more difficult than I anticipated, and I had to use so much strength I felt myself grow warm inside
my coat. I sat back, removing my gloves so I could better grip the laces, and I saw Father’s eyes remained closed. I could
not tell if he was living or dead he lay so still. I glanced at Drewry to see what he was thinking, but he was furiously lacing.
I felt the bristle in the air of the Spirit close to me, and I followed Father’s example and did not speak, hoping it might
be just the cold. When his boots were well and completely secured, Father opened his eyes.

“I shall need your assistance,” he grunted, rising to his elbows.

“Shall we return to the house, Father?” I inquired, but he shook his head and frowned.

“No, we shall attend to the business at hand.” Slowly we helped him to his feet and he leaned on our shoulders while we brushed
the snow from his coat and trousers. He bore up strongly considering he was obviously much worried and disturbed, and we managed
to reach the hog pen without further incident. Dean was waiting for us there and he detailed to Father the problem he’d experienced
with a section of double-gated fence.

“Leave it be for now, so long as it will hold the hogs till spring.”

“It will do that, masta, but not much more.” Despite the concern in Dean’s voice, I could see Father had clearly lost his
desire to inspect the problem. This was most unlike him and Dean appeared surprised when Father wished to busy himself directly
with the second task of separating the hogs. “Yes, suh, we got some good ’uns this year.” He began to point them out but Father
was distracted and Dean’s brow furrowed with concern. “Are you feeling all right, masta Bell?”

“No, Dean, truly, I am not.”

“Leave the hogs for me to sort then, suh. I will make certain the best is fattened up for you, for Easter.”

“For sure you will, man, but perhaps I shall not taste it.” Father paused and looked over his shoulder realizing Drewry and
I had heard his despairing comment. He said nothing to us, but turned back to Dean. “Let us undertake it together, for I am
here now and prepared to make the choices.”

Drewry and I stood silently watching with an attitude of uncertainty regarding what might happen next, as Father and Dean
walked into the pen. I felt the cold tension in my stomach and in my mind I heard the voice of the Being,
Torment the life from old Jack Bell.
I wished to know if Drewry shared my misgivings, but how could I share my fears without enlarging his? “Shall we say a prayer
for Father?” I asked him.

“Betsy, I believe our prayers no longer have much meaning,” Drewry answered. He bent his head and breathed a funnel of frost
into his two gloved hands, clasped before him. He was clearly upset and perhaps troubled with the same prescient thoughts
as I.

“Please, Drewry, we must keep trying,” I insisted and he allowed me to turn him around, so we did not face the barn, lest
Dean or Father wonder what we were doing, and he joined me in a short but hearty petition for Father’s deliverance from evil.

“Dear God, with respect to all your ways too mysterious for ourselves to understand, allow our father to return to robust
health. Cast asunder his demons and light his way!” Drewry, not overly hopeful, walked away from me into the hog pen and,
not knowing what else to do, I followed, discovering the hogs had already been properly segregated as Father desired.

“Let us return to the house, children,” Father called to us and we began to walk back in a silence most tense. We had just
reached the edge of the orchard when again Father’s boots flew off his feet and through the air, commencing to kick and strike
him. We heard a loud crack, similar to a branch breaking suddenly from the weight of too much snow, or a gunshot near to our
ears, and we saw Father suffer another blow to the head, which struck him to the ground. He lay in the snow on his back, but
now his face twitched and jerked as though the demon had its hands on it again. His contortions were so violent that he appeared
quite unlike himself and I was terrified by the spectacle before me, afraid he was converting into the demon itself.