All That Lives (12 page)

Mr. and Mrs. Thorn departed as soon as it grew light and the Reverend and Mrs. Johnston followed, leaving even before Chloe
had readied our breakfast. Jesse and Martha decided to remain another day and I could hear them upstairs talking with Drewry,
Richard and Joel. The scratch of Father’s pen across the paper in his book of accounts caused me to squirm on my chair at
the dining table.

“May I
please
go?” I turned, most earnest, to Mother. I expected she would oppose my request and I sat up straighter, trying to appear
as sturdy and robust as possible, hoping I could influence her decision.

“No, I would have you by my side today, Miss Betsy. And your brothers also.” Mother had her mind made up, I could see, but
I very much wanted to speak to Thenny and I did not think it right I should have to stay at home, as everyone would surely
talk of our family at recess.

“I want to go. I want to hear my lessons!” I unfolded my hands and banged my palm lightly on the table for emphasis to my
speech. Mother tilted her head at me and smiled slightly, implying I ought to know better than to tell such a bold lie.

“Betsy, to the spring for water go. Gossip is an evil thing.” She frowned at the word
evil,
which held new connotations for us both. “That reminds me, you need to bathe and cleanse your body and soul. I will have
Chloe build the fire and heat the water.”

“But I
am
the spring here, Mother. I am the source to drink from regarding what ails our family.” I did not like the picture in my
mind of Thenny telling stories gathered from eavesdropping on her parents’ conversations. And what of the Batts children,
what would they have heard?

“Elizabeth! How say you? ’Tis false pride on your face! How does false pride seem to our Lord?”

“They will say what ails us is demons and my fault!” I don’t know how I knew it would be so, but I was certain. Mother softened
her features and a heavy sigh escaped her lips.

“A true friend of moral character will come to you for the facts of the matter. All in good time, dear child.” Mother was
possessed of a patience and certitude I did not have within me and she was absolute in her decision I would remain at home.
She left me sitting on my own at the table while she went to heat the water for my bath. I laid my head down on my arms and
breathed my own heavy breath, impatient with my inability to change her mind, but by the time the boiling water had pushed
the lid off the pot, I knew there was nothing I could do but make the best of it. In the winter, bathing was accomplished
in the kitchen in the large washtub and Chloe always built the fire up high, but in the spring, summer and fall, we took our
baths outdoors.

“Fetch a pail of cold from where the stream runs fast,” Mother handed me the light tin pail and sent me off while she and
Chloe lifted the pots and carried the boiling water out. I ran down the stone path to our necessary house where Father had
built a platform with a cedar hip bath on the southern side. I passed it and went to the stream where I could easily fill
my pail, for the water ran close there, and Father had made a small dam of stones and laid a hollow hickory pipe to serve
as a waterspout. I hurried back to dump my full pail in the bath and repeat the process, for I liked my water deep. When I
returned from my fourth trip, Mother and Chloe were on the platform mixing my stream water with the hot water they had carried
from the house. Mother had pulled the sleeve of her dress above her elbow and she was testing the mix with her hand. I shed
my outer garments, climbed up the wooden foot stool, and stepped into the bath. The water was warmer than the breezy day and
I sank luxuriously deep.

“Bring more hot, Chloe!” I called out as she started back to the house, but I had a feeling she was moving on to other chores.

“Use this to cleanse your head, Miss Betsy.” Mother handed me a rosemary soap bar and I let it float between my hands, looking
down at the water. Chloe and Mother knew how to mix the lye, the ash and lard to make a perfect soap. My cotton petticoat
billowed up and I saw white fluffy clouds advancing across the sky reflected in the water behind my face. The sun was hot,
but the feel of my wet petticoat against my skin gave me cause to shudder and I was reminded of cold prickly airs and pins.

“Will you help me, Mother?” I dipped my hair back to wet it.

“Oh yes, I will help you, Miss Betsy!” She crossed quickly behind me, smiling, and I could tell by the mischief in her voice
she was set to play. She dropped the long wooden ladle by my knees and pulled it high, pouring streams of hot water over my
forehead. I plunged lower in the bath and shook my hair, like a fish wriggling on the line.

“I’ve got a live one!” Mother teased me, imitating Father at the fishing hole. “Whoa, it’s a big one.” I held my breath and
she dunked me under, but I sprang back toward her laughter, so welcome was the sound. She stood smiling down at me, then caught
the bar of soap and set to rubbing the top of my head and the nape of my neck, her fingers massaging peace and spicy lather
into my hair.

“Betsy, you are a beautiful girl …” Her fingers paused and I could tell she was finished playing and engaged in serious thought
over her next words. I tilted my head farther back on the edge of the cedar tub to keep the soap from my eyes. I squinted
against the sun, but I could not see the features of her face. “All your troubles, no matter how large, shall pass away like
the days. You may rely on the constant passing of all things.” Mother sighed as if distracted and I had the sense she was
keeping something back. She had meant to tell me more, I was certain of it. She pushed my forehead down and separated the
locks of my hair with her fingers, keeping my ears underwater, so they filled with heavy silence. The constant passing of
all things did not seem a very inspiring or even comforting thought to me, but I knew that was how she meant it.

When I had finished washing, Mother wrapped me in a cotton sheet and I returned to the kitchen to dress before the cook fire.
Martha had brought a pretty broomstraw yellow cotton dress she had stitched just for me and even though it was a little large
through the waist and hung too low over my petticoat, Mother allowed me to wear it, I wanted a change so badly.

“Just for today,” she told me, “I will tailor it tomorrow,” but I doubted she would get to the tailoring anytime soon with
so many guests and I planned to ask Martha if she might do it with me later. Mother had to set the house in order. The pal-lets
had to be aired, the wood floors needed sweeping, and all the dishes had to be stacked in the cupboards, while Chloe prepared
the food. I was afraid Mother would ask for my help with these tasks, but she did not. Instead she encouraged me to go out
of doors.

“Go take in the sun, Miss Betsy, and dry your head, or you may well catch cold. I hope to join you soon, for I must sort the
beans for seed.”

I wandered out the front door and down the porch steps to our wooden swing, which hung on the lowest branch of the giant blossoming
pear tree. I sat down on the board, worn smooth by all our bottoms, and held tight to the ropes, pushing my legs up to the
sky, lifting my dress. I noticed the dye of the cloth was a perfect match for my hair. It smelled better than the blossoms
and made a long yellow cape behind my back when I swung out far, my feet dangling over the grassy hill. I leaned back, then
swept forward again, and the movement of the swing shook the branch, sending flurries of white petals down. I watched them
sail lightly to the ground and thought how good God was to give us flowers in the pear trees. Perhaps knowledge of the passing
of all things
had
comforted me, for I did feel quite content. Looking out, down the road, I was surprised to see Old Kate Batts appearing like
a dark nut amongst the flowery blossoms.

She was by herself, with her mare in tow, her copperas riding skirt under her arm, and she was turning off the road onto our
path. I dragged my foot to stop the swing and watched her tie up her horse, then maneuver her massive body into a fast waddle.
I sat still, hoping she might not notice I was there, but when she drew level with me on the path she stopped and removed
from inside her dress a bulky round bag about the size of my palm fastened and tied with a leather thong around her neck.

“ ’Tis you, Betsy Bell,” Old Kate was out of breath and puffed her words, “the picture of a pretty girl today, I see.” I thought
she did not like me and I was not able to respond as I would have liked, so I just sat silent, attempting a closer inspection
of the dark thing hanging over her bosom.

“ ’Tis an amulet to ward away your evil Spirit!” Kate followed my eyes and held the thing aloft so I could see it was a black
scrap of velvet she had stitched with undyed wool into a bag. Bits of herbs fell out between her sorry stitches when she squeezed
it. “I can now approach your home and discuss this matter with your good mother for I am protected. Run, tell her I have come
to call.” I did not like taking orders from Old Kate but it would have been disrespectful to ignore her completely. I jumped
down without speaking and began walking slowly up toward the house and there I saw Mother sitting in her chair above the porch
steps, sorting the seeds into folded pieces of paper. She could see Kate Batts clearly from her position and me as well. She
waved.

“Good day, Mrs. Batts. I trust you had a safe journey to your home last night?”

“I did, and it was well I went.” Kate climbed the last of the hill grunting, as she tried to speak and walk. “My girl had
accidentally dosed Ignatius, the poor crippled and suffering soul, with his
morning
mixture before bed, so he was wide awake and much in need of company when I arrived.”

“I trust he is settled and content today.” Mother sighed kindly, empathetic with Kate and her trials.

“He is, thank God, but I have not come to discuss his interminably bad health. I bear a remedy to dose your young’un with.”
Kate nodded pointedly at me as I slid past her to stand behind Mother. I gripped the top of her chair and fixed Kate with
a most impolite stare. Old Kate leaned against the railing of our porch and after fumbling inside the leather pouch she wore
about her waist, she withdrew a small green bottle.

“This is a potion against black magic, to rid a person of bad demons, made from herbs off the African continent. I acquired
it in a trade with that old slave, Nona. She lived near Clarksville, claimed she was a witch doctor.” I was not surprised
to hear Old Kate traded with the slaves. “I sold the poor woman a goat for some cash and a boxful of African herbs, and the
hag swore the contents of the box were good to cure all manner of ailments brought on by the Devil or his demons. I have been
thinking it was the worser deal for me, for even though my goat was old, she still ate the weeds and made the cheese, but
never have I had the use for driving out the demons!” Kate paused and returned to me my assessing stare. “Until now.” Her
eyes were small and black and when she turned them on me I desired to climb onto my mother’s lap, though I was much too big
for that.

“Driving out the demons …” Mother repeated the phrase, as if she did not understand.

“Lucy, you know the whole continent of black people is packed with demons, so they know of what they speak. I expect this
will do the job on your young’un and try it you must, for God knows where this possession of your girl shall lead.” Kate looked
down at the ground and cleared her throat of noxious phlegm and I thought she planned to spit like a man, but she did not.
Mother took the proffered bottle silently and turned it about in her hands, as if she were examining the glass and cork, but
I suppose she was wording her response so as not to hurt Kate’s feelings.

“What have you made it of?”

“Ah, if there were anyone to whom I would reveal my secrets, it would be you, dear Lucy.” Inappropriate laughter welled up
in my throat and I put my hands over my mouth and nose to conceal my response to Old Kate’s ridiculous arrogance. Mother could
mix potions of greater healing properties than anyone in the district. “Simply trust it will quell the poison spirits in the
young girl’s heart,” Kate continued. “Dose her with it, here and now!” Kate’s insistence made me nervous and I found the situation
suddenly no longer humorous. “Pardon me!” She did spit into the grass, then rested her hands on her enormous hips, awaiting
Mother’s response. I hoped Mother would not follow Kate’s advice, as I did not like the look of the dark liquid.

“We know not the source of our ailment, Kate,” Mother said. She set the seeds still to be sorted off to one side and got up
from her chair, the bottle in her hand. “Come in and let us share a pot of Chloe’s mint tea. It is already brewed.” I was
greatly relieved Mother did not plan to dose me with her remedy and I smiled, thankful one of Mother’s many talents was the
ability to turn a conversation well away from conflicting opinions.