All That Lives (38 page)

Jack Bell, you did not find my tooth, but you dug an excellent grave!

Drewry rushed to Father’s side, grasping his boots from the snow. He tugged first one, then the other, onto Father’s stockinged
feet with foolish determination. The boots flew off as fast as he replaced them and soon Drewry sat back, his purpose defeated.
The laughter of the Spirit filled the icy air around us and it began to sing a piercing song of torment, an evil little rhyme.

Jack Bell

Not well

Time will tell

You’ll lie in Hell.

Father’s contortions ceased as abruptly as they had begun and the Spirit’s song trailed away, dissolving into laughter, triumphant
and rejoicing. I rushed to sit beside him, seized with the same impulse as Drewry. It was absurd but somehow I felt if we
could just secure Father’s boots to his feet we could protect him. As we labored to that end, I looked at Father’s face and
saw tears coursing over his still shivering cheeks. Clearly he was suffering the most profound despair. Covering his face
with his hands he began to cry in earnest. What were we to do? Until that moment I had never seen Father cry and the visage
troubled me deeply. His shoulders shook with quiet sobs and Drewry and I simply waited, his witnesses, too frightened and
distraught to notice how stiff and cold our fingers grew, or how, when the snow gusted, it froze instantly to the folds of
our coats.

“Children, my dear children …” There was more compassion and fatherly affection in his words than I had ever heard before.
“Not long will you have a father to wait on so patiently. I cannot survive much longer the persecutions of this terrible affliction.
My end is near.”

“Say it is not so, Father!” I cried.

“Have courage!” Drew implored him.

“And faith in God Almighty’s triumph over evil!” I reminded him of the right true path.

“So you say, my children, but I am dying here.” He turned his eyes upward and began the most fervent and passionate prayer.
“Dear Lord, thine eyes are on the ways of men and you have seen all goings-on amongst us. Pray, in your divine wisdom, allow
this terrible demon to plague me no more.” If the earth could have opened up and swallowed us, I felt it would have been a
great deliverance, such was the tremor of fear that shook my soul. I raised my face to Heaven and silently begged the tragedy
of Father’s death would not be enacted before he might move from his position in the snow. “If this demon is some Devil spirit
and an enemy to you, as it is to me, Lord, pray that I might greet it with courage. Instruct me in the ways and means how
I might best expunge its evil influence from my life and from the lives of my good family. Forsake me not, but impart to me
thy love and faith in the blessed Savior that I might leave this world in peace.”

I waited until I heard his gruff “Amen,” to take my eyes from the gray and darkening sky. The wind was rising and the clouds
appeared heavy with snow. So intense were Father’s prayers, I felt God most surely
was
listening and would intervene to stop the torture, were it possible.

“Let us return home.” Father spoke evenly, and this time Drew and I were able to tie his boots and help him to his feet. I
felt witness to a miracle, as clearly the Lord had granted him the solace he requested. Drew and I each had Father’s arms
about our shoulders and our progress was quite slow. As we walked back up the hill toward the house, a squirrel rustled through
the orchard floor, searching beneath the snow for some acorn buried there, and I started, tripping over my own skirt, and
naturally, I clung to Father.

“Oh Betsy!” In his fragile state, I nearly knocked him down. I, who was supposed to be supporting him, clung to the man in
fear. I tried my best to control the wild anxiety in my breast, but I knew not the way. Each step our three pairs of black
leather lace-ups trod was taken with determination, for we knew not if the Spirit might attack again. There was a faint bristle
in the air, and though I hoped it was just the chilling wind, I knew it was most likely the Being, silently watching our struggle.

When we reached the door, Mother stood waiting. She had come out on the porch wrapped only in her woolen shawl. She had watched
us laboring up the hill and I could see in her face the knowledge of what had transpired. Perhaps the Spirit had played it
out for her. I did not ask.

“Here, Jack, let me help you,” she said, hurrying to get Father into bed. His face had tightened through his jaw and he looked
most uncomfortable.

“Lucy, a fungus grows inside my mouth and there are twigs inside my throat.” Father revealed his sufferings to her and his
eyes appeared covered with a film of glass. He did not focus on my face as I passed his arm along to Mother.

“Don’t try to speak, shhhh, now.” She and Drewry led him through the parlor to his bedroom where she had warmed his sheets
with pans of coals.

I leaned against our thick door, closing my eyes. Time seemed to slow down. I heard the low murmur of Mother and Drewry talking
in the bedroom and the hiss of the logs burning in the fire. The good smell of Chloe’s fresh-baked corn- bread drifted from
the kitchen, and it did not seem right that all should be amiss. I felt oddly light-headed as though I was not entirely in
my body. Heavy footsteps hurried toward me and Drewry returned.

“I’m to bring the doctor,” he told me, his voice high with worry.

“Godspeed to you, dear brother,” I said, recovering myself enough to wish him well. I opened the door to allow him out. The
black branches of the two bare pear trees swung viciously with a rising wind. I wanted to call after him, “Stay home!” For
what could the doctor do for a man being murdered by an evil spirit? But Drewry had the wind on his face as he ran for the
stable and I knew my words would be lost.

I went to Father’s room and sat in the corner chair, seeing Mother occupied the chair by their bed. Through the window I saw
the early dark of the winter storm fast descending, though it was only midday. At his bedside under the window stood the table
he had fashioned himself from hickory and cedar wood, made to match the stand of the bed he and Mother had shared since marriage,
where he now lay, propped on white linen pillows, his head back and his eyes closed. His jaw was tight, his whiskers limp
on his neck. He looked nearly lifeless, as I had seen him earlier in the snow, except for the hurried rise and fall of his
chest. Mother lit the oil lamp, and the room began to glow with amber light. The house was gravely silent, save for Father’s
irregular breathing. Mother and I shared the same thoughts as we sat vigil. Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy on his soul.

At the sound of horses’ hooves thumping through the snow, Mother rose to greet Dr. Hopson. I remained in my chair, where I’d
passed three mostly silent hours, watching my father decline. Abruptly, I threw my fists into my eyes and gave a silent scream.
I knew not what I wished to cry out, but there was something in me, something vile, a foul emotion, an evil wrong. I cried
not at all. I gazed at Father.

The doctor entered the room with his coat dripping snow, Mother and Drewry close behind.

“He fares quite poorly. Observe his eyes and pallor,” Mother said, clearly relieved to see Dr. Hopson. He set his bag on the
side table.

“Have you another lamp? ’Tis dim in here.”

“Betsy, fetch it from the parlor,” Mother directed me as she stood over Father and held the lamp high to assist Dr. Hopson’s
examination. I found the other lamp in the parlor, and returned to watch the doctor lay his hands from Father’s ear to jaw,
feeling his throat with his thumbs.

“Has he suffered a blow to the head?”

“He has!” I cried. “The Spirit threw Father’s own boot and struck him such a mighty blow he fell down on the ground. It happened
twice, this morning.” Dr. Hopson palpitated Father’s scalp with his hands, exhibiting only in the set of his shoulders how
ridiculous he found the truth.

“I feel no lump or wound. John Bell, John, can you hear me?” Dr. Hopson leaned over my father, who blinked his eyes and groaned,
as though he were not unconscious.

“Jack!” Mother joined the doctor, attempting to cajole him from his stupor. “It’s Lucy, Jack. And Dr. Hopson. Speak, if you
can hear us.” I moved to stand at the foot of the bed to better see, but no words issued from his lips.

“Father! Tell what happened, Father!” I squeezed the wooden bedpost and witnessed his eyes open. He blinked and in the shining
lamplight I could see his pupils, bright and clearly focused.

“Ah,” Dr. Hopson exclaimed. “What ails you, John?”

Father raised his right arm, returned to the land of the living, but unable to speak. His wrist quivered in the air as if
it were a great effort for him to keep it aloft. His fingers twitched violently in my direction and then up to the ceiling
before his arm collapsed back to the bed.

“He means you should bring the slate from upstairs, Betsy.” Mother turned to me, requesting I should fetch it. I do not know
how she knew what he meant, for no movement of his hands had revealed that to me.

“Go, Betsy!” Mother’s impatience brought tears to my eyes. I turned and fled without a lamp. The parlor glowed with the warm
red light from the hearth, but the hall and stairs were black. The day had come to an early end. It did not matter, for I
felt as if I was moving through an even greater blackness, from which I would never emerge. At the landing I saw a light gleaming
in the boys’ room, and I made haste to it. Richard and Joel were on Joel’s bed and Chloe sat between them, holding them both
to her breast. Father would not have approved, but I thought it best that she was there to comfort them.

“Where is your slate?” I demanded. Richard purposefully left the bed and crossed the room into the darkest corner where his
slate was set by his schoolbooks. He brought it straight to me.

“Is Father dying?” he asked, handing it over.

“No,” I answered and left the room running, heedless of the dark.

Downstairs, Dr. Hopson had his quill pen and paper out and he was writing a note. He had lined several glass bottles labeled
in his tall smooth cursive across the bedside table.

“At nighttime, give him a dose of this, and also whenever he complains of pain. This will soothe his throat. This tincture
will improve his blood and restore him to strength. You may dose him three times a day until he has regained his color and
voice, when twice a day will be sufficient.”

“What is his affliction, doctor? Do you recognize the disease?” Mother appeared most concerned, but Dr. Hopson remained occupied
recording his instructions and did not immediately answer. Father appeared to have fallen into a deep sleep, and his chest
rose evenly, his breathing regular and calm.

“There are as many diseases in the world as there are people to fall ill with them,” Dr. Hopson sighed. “Though I cannot say
for certain what ails your John, I do not believe it is of a serious nature. He has no fever and his breath flows easily.
I have looked into his throat, his ears and eyes, and found nothing amiss. He has no lumps or wounds. His pallor is disturbing,
but perhaps he has attempted overly strenuous activity of late?” The doctor raised questioning eyebrows.

“He took a trip to Cedar Hill and back and complained of suffering the same ailment of the throat which I now believe prevents
him from speaking. Yet this morning, he rose early in his customary habit and felt well enough to journey in the snow to the
hog pen to separate the stock.” Mother seemed uncertain in her description of Father’s activities.

“Most likely he has a minor irritation of the throat which will be healed by medicine and rest in bed. From Drewry’s face
on my doorstep I should have thought much worse. Pray, do not be overly concerned by his condition, the causes of illness
often remain a mystery, Lucy.” Dr. Hopson turned his gaze to me, and in his eyes I saw his thoughts. Despite the testimony
of the many friends, neighbors and strangers who had come through our home, he maintained his belief the Spirit’s antics were
created from my imagination. I could see if I were his daughter, he would have me appropriately punished.

“We are ever so grateful for your prompt response, Dr. Hopson. It is so unlike Jack to have an illness requiring rest in bed,
we are naturally beside ourselves! Please, take a fruitcake home to Abigail and bid her enjoy it for Christmas.” Mother lifted
the lamp from the table to escort the doctor out.

“You do bake the finest fruitcake, Lucy Bell.” Dr. Hopson smiled and closed the straps about his bag.

I knew what was wrong with Father was not at all what the doctor said, and further, I doubted he would be helped in any way
by tinctures. I bolted to the doorway and fell down purposely on my knees, blocking his way out.

“Please, you must do something more to save my father!” I raised my hands up clasped in the posture of prayer to Dr. Hopson,
and a sour expression of distaste fell across his features. Mother’s eyes filled with tears but they did not overflow. Gently
she sank beside me and the amber light of the oil lamp swung across the walls with her movement.

“Betsy darling,” she spoke into my ear, “the good doctor has done his best. The Lord will care for Father in his every moment
of need. Trust in God, for He is the only Savior for us all. Look, your father sleeps peacefully.” She paused for me to look
at him, his face a ghastly gray on the white pillow. “All will be well with him come morning.” She pulled at my arm most urgently,
digging her nails into my muscle, encouraging me to rise and move aside. I did so with great reluctance and the sobs I had
previously kept quiet issued forth. It was an awkward moment, as Mother was torn between her manners and her sincere concern
for me. The doctor heaved a sigh so loud I heard it through my tears. Opening his bag, he withdrew another bottle.

“Give her this,” he said to Mother. “She is clearly over-wrought.” I grasped the bottle from the doctor’s hands and threw
it violently onto the bare floorboards, but it did not break.