All That Lives (31 page)

I believe John Jr. was affected, as I saw him glance at Father, suddenly uncertain. For my own part, I thought I saw the beautiful
girl appear in the wavering flame of the candle Mother was lighting. The sun had gone from the parlor window, and the yellow
flame flared up the wick, revealing a young woman with a soft expression of love on her face.

“Seek not to deceive, you Devil, for it shall be your undoing.” Father’s voice was determined. “John Jr. shall not adhere
to fantasies from a manifestation evil as you are. Leave my house. Leave the decisions of God-fearing men apart from your
concerns.” His timbre was full of effort yet restrained, and I wondered if he was suffering the pains of his throat.

The Spirit laughed again, sounding like the creak of a wagon wheel stuck in the mud.

They that hate the righteous shall be desolate.

“How could a Being such as yourself be considered righteous?” Father was outraged and sat heavily in his chair, looking toward
his desk. I believe he wished he had his silver flask in hand.

I am righteous. And everlasting.

The Spirit departed suddenly, as if offended, and we sat uncomfortable in the silence it left behind.

“
Is
this journey truly necessary?” The Reverend Johnston raised a hand to Father. “Perhaps it would be better for all if the
estate could be settled without your representative, Jack?”

“Speak not, good Reverend, of altering our plans to align ourselves with demonic predictions. What must be, will be.” Father
sighed and clapped John Jr. on the leg again. “Son, if you would have an early start, you must retire.” Father seemed to relish
this exercise of his will over the Spirit’s talk and I felt annoyed with him.

“We will not pass the night here. Jack, Lucy.” The Reverend Johnston and Calvin Justice stood to take their leave.

“John Jr., God bless your endeavors and your travels. Numerous temptations you will meet along the road, but we will pray
for you and know the Lord walks with those who walk the right true path.”

“I will recall your counsel often, I am certain, Reverend.” John Jr. smiled and hung his head a little.

Upstairs, as I undressed, I hoped some sense would lodge inside John Jr.’s head instead of dreams and he would rise in the
morning and tell our Father he simply could not go, for the Spirit had said it was unwise. Besides, the opportunity to meet
a girl who
would please like no other
could not be missed, for everyone knew such matches in life were not easily come by. I thought of Josh Gardner’s gray eyes
and of his arm steadying my own months ago when we had walked on the path to the stream. I felt he pleased me like no other,
but I did not see enough of him, and soon I would be missing two of my brothers instead of just one. I crawled into my bed
and pulled the summer cotton quilt up high, though it was warm. I wished to wrap up my thoughts in the blanket, for I knew
whatever passion lay inside John Jr.’s adventurous heart, he took after Father in most ways, and I expected he would rise
before the dawn to leave.

I woke to the sound of voices, and I ran outside, clad only in my thinnest nightdress, afraid I had missed my brother’s departure.
I saw Drewry, Richard and Joel already gathered at the horse tie. Father was slipping a rolled-up map through the leather
straps of John Jr’s. saddlebag and Zeke was busy with last-minute instructions regarding the care of the horses to his boy
Isiah, who was to accompany John Jr. The horses stamped at the ground, impatient to be off.

“Farewell, and God bless you, my son.” Mother embraced him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek into his
shoulder. He was slightly taller than Father and looked every inch a man. Joel ran and hugged his legs and I believe Richard
and Drewry may have wanted to, but they hung back, waiting. John Jr. lifted Joel onto his hip, then swung him down to the
ground, tickling his sides.

“Be a good boy, Joel, and learn your tasks, and one day you and I may ride together.”

“I want to now!” Joel bounced up and down with desire, but John Jr. laughed.

“You want to, but you cannot!” He spanked Joel friendly pats on the bottom until he ran away to climb and swing on the horse
tie and John Jr. turned to me.

“Betsy, I will bring you home fine silk or lace, which do you desire?”

“I desire only you would not leave,” I answered truthfully. The first rays of sun cut through the wet half-light, illuminating
the stubborn set of his jaw along with the certain knowledge in my heart that his journey would be as the Spirit foretold,
full of pain and suffering for no great end and the sweet match he left behind would never appear for him again.

“Don’t cry, dear sister.” He kissed my cheek and embraced me, misunderstanding the quivering in my chin as concern for myself
with him gone away. “I will return to you.” I saw Mother was busy, discussing some aspect of John Jr.’s route with Father,
and because they could not hear me, I pressed him.

“Brother, did you not hear the Being’s warning? Will you not listen?”

“Betsy.” He frowned and held me squarely by the shoulders. “Be a good girl and helpful to our mother and father. Speak not
of our evils but endeavor to lead a good life, and pray to God.” He turned away, much preoccupied, and I saw in the set of
his shoulders the same stance he took patrolling the fields alongside Father looking for worms in the tobacco. He was going
to do it whether he wanted to or not. I put my index finger in between my teeth and bit down to keep from crying, for I suspected
John Jr. knew, as I did, his journey would be arduous and most likely all for nothing, yet he was obligated to complete it.
I thought the Spirit’s words must have dampened his enthusiasm for the ride ahead, particularly if he thought of the beautiful
young lady in the candle flame, but John Jr. gave no clue as to whether these thoughts truly occupied his mind. Instead, he
mounted the horse Father had chosen, and waited for Isiah to do the same.

“Ya!” He flicked the reins and they set off walking deliberately down the path to the road, where he turned and waved, before
kicking his horse into the brisk and steady pace he would set for his journey.

“Will he come back, Betsy?” I felt Joel lean against my side, wrapping his fingers into mine.

“Of course he will, of course,” I reassured him, certain it was true, John Jr. would return. Only I had the strongest sense,
watching the back of his sturdy horse swaying from our farm, when we did see him again, some vast change as yet unpredicted
in our lives would have altered the faces we turned to one another. I wished I could know for certain what trauma lay ahead.

I thought of John Jr. often, and said prayers at night for his safety, but the harvest time was on us and I was constantly
at work. The skies were cloudless and blue, day after day, and the air was crisp and dry, allowing near perfect conditions
for tobacco curing. In August each tobacco plant had been cut off close to the ground, impaled on slender iron sticks with
sharp points capable of pushing through their tough stalks, and then each plant had been hung in the barn to cure. Now they
were being culled and carefully bunched into flat fan-shaped hands so they could be stacked into burdens and loaded into the
hogshead drums Father would take to market in spring. The boys and the hands did most of that work, and I spent my days beside
Mother and Chloe, sorting the beans for drying and seed, canning tomatoes and squash.

One afternoon, early in October, I told Mother I must go for a walk out-of-doors before I could pay careful attention to the
afternoon’s task of stripping slippery elm again. She gave her permission and I walked out through the orchard. The air was
warm but no longer heavy as it had been most of the summer. I could hear the thud-thud of ripe fruit dropping to the ground
with the breeze and I picked up a golden apple to eat as I walked. I looked down the hill toward the stream where the flat
cornfield was dotted with pumpkins, bright orange and ready for harvest. Chloe would soon be making pumpkin soup, a treat
of unsurpassed goodness, and I looked forward to sampling this year’s crop.

Father had already harvested the corn and only the stalks were left in the field, tied into bunches and laid in stacks. They
would soon be dissected into kindling and powder. Chloe had shown me when I was Joel’s age how to make a doll from a corn
husk and there was nothing I had liked better, when I was little, than spending an afternoon in the cornfield indulging this
pastime under the blue autumn sky. It seemed long ago when I played, mindlessly happy. I made a pillow of my skirts in a flat
place between the bundles and managed for a few moments to focus purely on my own enjoyment. I chose the best husk from the
pile at my feet. Sufficiently dry, yet supple. Carefully I smoothed it to shape a face and tidy bonnet. What fun it was, caressing
the silk skin in my hands. I twisted and tied, and soon had a lovely little figure. She was sweet, but lonely, so I made another,
then another, and before long I had a party of dolls. I got to my feet and used a stick to make roads in the red earth, pretending
the dolls had come to live in pumpkin houses surrounded by prickly green leaf lakes and cornstalk mountains. I did not think
of the mountains John Jr. was toiling through, I thought only of my game. I contemplated what lives my dolls might have, and
I was about to give them names and invent the stories of their town when I was startled from my play by the shwoosh of a bird
wing near my ear. I looked up. It was so peaceful and quiet in the field, a swallow traveling from tree to barn made a great
sound. I looked to the woods beside the stream and saw dust rising from the bank and in the next moment I saw a horse and
rider. I held the edge of my cotton bonnet to better shade my eyes, pleased to recognize Josh Gardner riding toward me. I
waved and walked to greet him, leaving my dolls where the wind might take them.

“Hello, Betsy,” he called out happily. “Might you be allowed a short ride with me? I have my father’s saddle and it’s plenty
wide enough for both of us.” He smiled and I felt he was even better looking than I recalled, for his face was tanned to the
color of his dark saddle and his gray eyes stood out like the fox grapes ripening on the vines. I looked hastily over my shoulder
pleased to realize from where we were in the flat space between the field and the stream, my house could not be seen.

“We needn’t be gone long and I would have come before, but every minute of every day I have been in service to my father on
our farm.” Josh offered his arm to pull me up, his smile sincere. When I did not immediately take it he placed his hand on
his hip, impatient. “I have but a short time now, Betsy Bell, and I did use it to make haste to your lands in the hope we
might share a short ride along your lovely stream.” The way he said my name caused my stomach to tighten. I wished to go,
but I knew Father would not allow it.

“I am uncertain …” I stalled, assessing if it would be worth the possible consequences.

“We won’t be long …” Josh spoke of it as though it was no great matter. He let the reins of his mare droop and she nuzzled
my face, inviting me herself, so I felt I must consent.

“Why, yes, I’ll come, but let us ride preferably away from my abode.”

“Of course.” Josh laughed and leaned down, extending his arm to me again. I blushed, but grasped his elbow and nimbly climbed
up the side of his horse.

“Betsy, you are graceful as the beautiful heron recently residing on Old Kate Batts’s pond.” He watched me twist my skirts
to fit in sideways behind him on the saddle.

“I have heard of no heron in this vicinity,” I lied, not wanting to reveal what I knew of the witch creature predicted by
the Being.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Never.”

“Then we must go there,” he declared, snapping the reins. It seemed quite a sensible choice of direction, for we were nearest
the trail to our southern boundary and to take that path we need not pass my house.

“Hold tight about my waist and we will get there all the sooner.” Josh was friendly even when commanding. I did as he requested,
discovering the white cotton shirting of his back had a fresh smell much different from the lye of our laundry. We galloped
at a good pace on the trail without speaking, while I pretended to admire the lovely yellow and red colors of the many trees,
but really my eyes absorbed nothing more than Josh Gardner’s jaunty angling of his reins, and the sure movement of his buttocks
in the saddle.

We reached the log bridge Father had built over the river near the boundary of our land and Kate Batts’s and we slowed considerably
to cross it. The golden light of the sun filtering through the autumn leaves in the woods made the air around us glow with
warmth. I felt secure and happy with my arms around Josh Gardner, and I wished our ride could last for days. All at once,
a sudden shower of sticks and stones from the hedge growth by the bank caused Josh’s mare to whinny and neigh and rear up
sharply and I found myself fallen to the ground, his horse’s hooves stamping dangerously close beside my head. With expert
skill, Josh rode forward through the barrage and across the bridge, where he dismounted, left his horse to recover on its
own, and hurried back to me.

“Betsy, are you hurt?” I saw him running but as he moved closer the falling sticks intensified, such that I could not answer
or even uncover my head, for fear my eyes would be put out by the twigs attacking. I was surprised, as the Spirit had not
been violent with me for some time. Nonetheless, it felt as I remembered, appalling and hideous. Josh fought his way through
the storm of branches and tried to shield my body with his own, but it was no use.

“Get up!” he urged, pulling hard on both my arms, managing to drag me upright. I kept my hands over my eyes and I do not know
what Josh did so he might see, but somehow he led me stumbling after him over the bridge and there the pelting ceased.