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.
“How do you fare?” I could tell Josh was shaken, for his face had grown pale beneath his tan, but he focused all his attention on my welfare.
“I have seen much worse than that!” I tried to laugh.
“Dear girl!”
“The twigs did not strike strong enough to injure …” I did not want the Spirit to ruin my ride with him, though I knew it already had.
“But your cheek is scratched and your hands are bleeding.” Josh took my fingers in his gloves and I saw he was correct, fine scratches lined the backs of my hands, and they lightly put forth blood. Josh dropped them suddenly and running back across the bridge he shouted loudly in the place of our attack.
“Come out, you Spirit of the Devil, and let me have a round with you!” He picked up a large branch from the side of the path, preparing himself for a fight with the Invisible. I ran back after him.
“Stop, stop, dear Joshua. Please, take me home, it is useless to provoke this Being further.” My hands began to tremble uncontrollably and my knees were weak with the weight of me, as if I carried the large boulder of our fruitless search for treasure in my belly again.
Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
The Spirit spoke from every golden leaf in the surrounding canopy.
“Leave me alone …” I managed to whisper.
“Show yourself, that I may beat you to unconsciousness!” Josh raised his stick high above his head, and all around us the wheezy laughter of the Spirit issued from the shrub and woods like wind. Josh whipped his head from left to right, expecting blows, but none did fall.
“Otherworldly demon, fight or go! Trouble the innocent no longer!” Josh reminded me of Father for a moment, his jaw set, defiantly stern.
How do you know Miss Betsy is so innocent?
The sound of the Spirit’s laughter made my heartbeat quicken, and I worried I might faint. I did not want Josh to engage the Being in conversation, as there was no telling what it would say or do.
“Josh, please.” I stepped toward him and placed my arm on his. “I feel most suddenly unwell. Let us depart.” He turned to me.
“If you wish it to be so, I will take you,” he said, placing his stick down on the ground. He grasped my bare and bleeding hand gently in his gloved one and walked me back across the bridge.
“I am heavy …” I began, for when we reached the horse, he turned, and circling my waist with both his hands, he lifted me up so I nearly flew into the saddle. I hoped perhaps Josh could be a formidable opponent for the Being, but as my Father, the Reverend, Calvin Justice and Frank Miles all had failed, it did not seem likely any man, even so fine as Josh, could ever prevail against it. He mounted behind me, circling my arms with his arms and the reins, his left leg pressing against my skirt, holding me up. I felt protected and found the warmth of his body most comforting, but as we crossed the bridge and trotted through the space of air where the Being had unleashed its tortures, I grew cold and weak inside, and I shivered, distressed by the event.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Betsy,” Josh spoke with confidence, and kicked his horse into a trot. I did not reply, for what could I answer? I did not wish to bore him with my fears.
“Shall I deliver you to your front door, or to the spot of our rendezvous?” Sensitive soul that he was, he recognized I was unhappy, but might wish to keep it to myself. The thought of meeting Father or even Mother while riding with Josh Gardner with my hands cut and bleeding and having to explain did not appeal to me. Josh read me rightly.
“To the spot of our rendezvous,” I answered, repeating the sophisticated French, able to smile at the lightness of his choice of words. I liked him immensely.
We reached the field and Josh dismounted, holding his arms out for me to slide down. I was careful not to fall into him, but to remain arm’s length away. He gripped my elbows and made me look into his eyes. Earnest was his gaze and something passed between us that made the moment lengthen and be still. Our stance together felt just right.
“You must promise you will make your way to where you will be safe.” He dictated a course of action for me with utmost seriousness.
“I am safe right now,” I answered boldly, staring back at him, forgetting for a moment about the Being, thinking I would be frightened only if Father were to happen by and see me alone with Josh. He sensed my thoughts and looked up to the orchard, allowing his hands to gently slip over my forearms and clasp my fingers.
“No doubt you have not been missed, Miss Betsy, for that was a short ride indeed.”
“I am sorry it came to such an end.” I bowed my head and looked at his gloved hands holding mine. Truly, I had enjoyed it, despite the violence.
“On my word, we will meet again, and we will not be maligned. This incomprehensible horror can not long torment you.” Josh lifted my chin with one gloved finger, forcing me to look again into the gray pools of his eyes, reminding me of Kate Batts’s pond and the heron we had not seen. “Betsy, I know it is forward of me to say this, but with your circumstances as they are, I feel the regular conventions for relating do not apply.” Josh took a breath and I could see he was slightly nervous in his speech. “It’s just that I would have you know I think of you most constantly. You are so beautiful, Betsy Bell. Do not despair. Go, and care for yourself, for you are most precious and deserving.” He smiled and I blushed at his strong words to me, pulled my hand from his, and turned away, setting off as if the Spirit chased me.
Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
The phrase echoed in my ears, stronger than the feeling of his finger on my chin. Why would the Being say such a thing? Why was it so committed to my unhappiness? Why had I allowed myself even for a moment to think I might have happiness? I knew the Spirit had its ways and means and did not want me content, but why had it chosen to torment me so grievously? I slowed to walk through the cornfield, the prickly pumpkin leaves catching at my skirts. How wasted was my happy playtime. All the dolls of my game and joyful moments had disappeared, blown by the wind into the river, scattered amongst the rocks, I knew not where. Such was my fate, blown and bloodied by forces I could as much control as the wind. I felt Josh’s eyes on my back, but I did not look over my shoulder until I reached the hill and began the climb up through the orchard. There I stopped and saw he had mounted his horse and was waiting to leave until he could see me no more. I waved, suddenly aware he had revealed a deep liking for me and I had shared nothing with him. I turned away, miserable that I had not told him how very often he was in my mind. I ran up the incline, arriving breathless at the gate of the garden. There was Mother standing at the kitchen doorway, shielding her eyes against the sun with her hand. I hoped she was inspecting the plants in between us, but I had the feeling she was about to shout my name.
“Elizabeth! I wondered where you’d gone.” I felt if she saw my face she would see everything that had happened and I did not wish to sadden or anger her with my experience. I walked as slowly as I could, keeping my eyes to the ground, but it was difficult to keep secrets from Mother.
“Betsy dear, are you unwell?” She came to me when I stopped at the barrel by the side of the house where the rainwater was collected. She stroked my braid as I rinsed the dried lines of blood off the back of my hands. “Your hair is in a massive tangle, child, come inside, we’ll give it a good brushing.” Mother led me through the house into her bedroom, where she sat me down on the bed, facing the small high window above her bedside table that let in a cheerful bright blue square of sky. She took the wooden brush from the top of her chest and gently unplaited my braid, without speaking. I appreciated her silence, but found without her questioning me, I could do nothing but feel my sadness, and the tears welled up in my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks. I let them drop onto my dusty dress, and Mother ceased stroking the wooden brush across my hair, forced to pull out the twigs and brambles with her fingers. I cried a little harder, relieved to feel Mother’s concern.
“There, there, little one.” These simple words made me feel the way I used to, when I was nothing but a tiny girl and Mother could hold all of me in her lap when I was hurt.
“This is the matter …” I told her all, concentrating on the punishment I had received at the bridge.
“I was attacked in an evil way, with more violence than I have witnessed from the Being for some time. Look at my hands, scratched to pieces, for I used them to shield my eyes. It meant to scratch my eyes out, Mother, laughing all the while!”
Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
“See?” I turned quickly for the Spirit spoke from beside my mother. “I hate you, demon! I hate you!” I yelled into her face, though my words were meant only for the Being.
“Betsy!” Mother threw her hands up, and for a moment I was frightened she might smack me with the back side of her brush, but she was only startled by my turning or by the Spirit’s interruption, and her hands quickly dropped.
So what if you hate me? So what?
“Leave her be,” Mother spoke seriously to it, but without over much concern. She reprimanded the Being as if it were Richard, caught teasing Joel, and I soon heard why. “Elizabeth, it was indeed wrong of you to go riding with Joshua Gardner unchaperoned and without permission.”
She believes she will make her own rules.
“She knows the right true path,” Mother said. She turned her head to answer, for the voice now emanated from the blue square of light. “And she will walk it, I am certain. Take no pleasure assaulting and abusing her, for then what will she learn?” Mother picked up the brush to return to the task at hand, reasoning with the Being.
Your Betsy would go “preferably away from my abode.”
The Spirit taunted me with a perfect imitation of my voice and I saw Mother frown to hear the words I’d spoken, but good that she was, she had me turn my head so she might continue brushing, rather than chastise me. She put her attention to distracting the Being by sending it on an errand.
“Be useful, and let us hear news of John Jr.’s travels.”
I will bring you this, dear Luce, though I can not guarantee it will please you.
Mother’s artifice was effective and the room grew silent except for the swooshing of the brush.
“Mother, I believe it would be best not to trouble Father with this tale of my misadventure.” I spoke quietly though I was still upset.
“Betsy, I shall not tell your father, solely because he has far greater concerns, and it will serve no one to disturb him further, but what our mysterious Spirit will say of it, I would not try to guess.” She sighed and dropped my hair, ready to plait it up again. I did not see how she could remain so calm and my chin began to shake with tears again. “Betsy,” Mother pulled my hair back, “you are a young woman now and must constantly endure more than most. Be certain the Lord does have a special purpose for you. He loves you more than you can know, and He has assigned you suffering. Though it is hard to reconcile, pray constantly, and someday, perhaps, we all shall know God’s meaning in our special trials. You must trust it will be so.” Mother’s knuckles moved from the nape of my neck to the top of my spine, braiding swiftly.
“In truth,” I sobbed, covering my eyes with my scratched hands, “I do not feel my special purpose or that love of which you speak! I see only God’s punishments, for He does not protect me.” Mother paused only a moment in her plaiting, thinking on my desperate words, before resuming at the same rate as before.
“That’s blasphemy, Betsy, and you cannot mean it.” She pulled my hair tight. “You must have faith and that is the end of it, for the ways of God are as mysterious as our affliction. I tell you, trust the good Lord will provide and care for you as you trust your father and me to provide and care for you.” She tightened the knots quickly and I felt her tying the leather thong around the end of my braid before I could respond. What if she was wrong? What if there was no God in Heaven watching over me, directing my sad trials for some higher purpose?
“Let the tightness of this braid remind you of this wisdom I impart, for somehow you must keep it in your head, Elizabeth.” Mother patted my leg with the back of the brush, with more lightheartedness than she held in the tone of her voice. “Come now, we must turn our attention to the slippery elm, for your father’s throat is a great nuisance to him.” I threw my arms around her before she could rise, grateful my braid was fresh and tight, grateful, even though I could not grasp it, that Mother believed I had a special purpose to my trials.
We sat on the front steps for near the rest of that afternoon in silence, amused only by the golden yellow leaves falling from the pear trees. I had finally mastered the art of twisting and paring the slippery elm bark. My knife cuts were exact and deep enough to cause the bark to peel its own self off the twig. When it recoiled back, I grasped it easily, pulling free one long sturdy strip for Mother to store in the jars she’d lined up on the rail of the porch. The scratches on my hands were making the task more difficult, but working slowly I was accomplishing it. Near time to get ready for supper, I heard the racket of wagon wheels, and looking out, I saw a fine black carriage traveling down the Adams―Cedar Hill high road, and in its dust, a wooden cart full of Negroes dressed in white, laughing together.
It is the young lady from Virginia, come to visit.
I was not surprised to hear the Spirit make this pronouncement. I had been waiting for this visit since the night before John Jr.’s departure. The wheels of the fine coach rolled steadily toward us, and I saw the window open and the head of a young woman pop out. I recognized her face, for I had seen her in the candle flame. The carriage turned off the road onto our path.
“Tie up the bundles and stash them at the end of the porch.” Mother stood and wiped her hands on her apron before reaching back to untie it. “Will they be staying long?” she asked the Spirit as though she trusted it to know, but it did not respond nicely.
Long enough for you to see what folly John Jr. has committed.
I dropped my pile of deadwood in the corner, wishing I could switch the Being’s backside with it. I returned to tie up Mother’s bundle and saw she was already hurrying down the path toward the horse tie to greet the visitors. The young woman from Virginia was delicately stepping from her carriage, assisted by the hand of an elderly gentleman with a long gray beard. My tight braid reminded me, trust in God, but it also made my head ache. I sat down to collect myself in Mother’s rocker on the porch, for I did not look forward to the coming evening. I ran my fingers over the scratches on my hands and thought of Josh’s worn leather gloves, the heat in his eyes by the bridge.
Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
“I will have in my thoughts what I please.” I spoke aloud, though I was alone, for I was uncertain if the Spirit had actually spoken to me or if I simply heard its words strongly in my mind. The Spirit laughed, unquestionably speaking out loud, for I could feel the vibrations that were its breath around my ear.
You will witness what it means to lose a love, Miss Betsy.
“Why must I witness my brother’s spurned opportunity?” I stamped my foot on the wooden porch, covering my ears with my hands. “You need not cause me further pain, and I will have my own opportunity to make the match I please!”
Do you think so, Betsy Bell?
The Spirit teased me. “You are not my maker, and know not what will be!” I was angry with the Being, and insisted it no longer dictate my actions, but abruptly I felt a hand grab my braid and yank my head back, as if its intent was to divide my scalp from my soul. I cried out.
I am all things, and your future is known to me. You would do well to remember it.
The Spirit laughed and caused Mother’s bunch of slippery elm to bust its jute and gather into a massive round ball of sticks. Before I could stand and grasp it, the giant sphere of twisted wood bounced down the porch steps, rolling with great accuracy toward the horse tie at the foot of the hill. I jumped from my chair and flew after it, calling to Mother.
“Look out!”
The Spirit’s haphazard sculpture was near the size of me and moving with such speed whoever was at the end of its path would certainly be hurt.
“Aiii, ’tis a whirligig!” The young woman from Virginia heard my cry and with great presence of mind she grabbed her escort by the hand and flew so quickly up the lowered steps of her carriage, the plume of her fancy hat went fast as a real bird through the sky. She shut the door with a bang and when the ball of sticks passed the horse tie, it miraculously lost its invisible glue, dissolving into a pile of wood.
“Praise the Lord!” cried the old black man who drove the cart, “this must be the place.”
“If you have come to see the Bell Witch you will be greatly disappointed, for what haunts us is unseen, except by mischief such as this.” Mother looked forlornly at the batch of slippery elm, so dusty and cracked I doubted it was usable.
“Mrs. Bell, I presume? This is my uncle, Sir Thomas Barton, and I am Miss Sallie Barton.” The young woman popped out of the carriage again and descended the steps, withdrawing a gold case from the brocade purse swinging on her arm. I had never seen anything like it and I watched mesmerized as she took from it a card, placing it urgently in Mother’s hand. There was an elegant quality to the swish of her light blue skirt and I saw the fabric was fine.
“We hesitate to impose on your good graces, Mrs. Bell, but we are traveling to Nashville and at the inn in Springfield we heard remarkable tales of stimulating activities about your farm, and we thought it worth the short journey to come calling.” Sallie Barton looked sideways at her uncle for confirmation and he nodded, clearly accustomed to allowing his pretty niece to speak for both of them. “Already we have experienced excitements beyond most days!” She smiled, so her face lit up with charm, expressing her clear beauty. “Please, Mrs. Bell, if we are any inconvenience, we will turn our horses straight, but if not, might we tarry just a short while?” Sallie Barton spoke so politely I was not surprised to hear Mother invite her to supper and to stay the night, adding that her slaves were welcome to join ours in the cabins.
Before we could lead the young lady and her uncle up the hill and into the house, two new sets of travelers, strangers who had met Miss Sallie Barton at the inn in Springfield, turned off the road and onto our path. Mother greeted them, and also Calvin Justice, who rode in behind the company.
“I heard the Negroes singing, Mrs. Bell,” Calvin Justice said. “I thought perhaps someone had passed away without my knowledge.”
“Why Calvin Justice! There is no such calamity.” Mother stopped and put her hands on her hips, sounding annoyed the preacher would jump to such a morbid conclusion. “Merely visitors from the state of Virginia. Meet Sir Thomas Barton and Miss Sallie Barton.”
Calvin Justice dismounted and removed his hat and I wondered if he realized whom he met. I expect he did, but what could be done about it? He was invited to share our supper of mince and pumpkin pies, along with the unknown travelers. I looked at no one, trudging back up the hill. I concentrated on the tip of my nose and the base of my neck, still tingling from the tight braid and the jerk of the Spirit.
“I feel an autumn chill,” Mother remarked, after our supper was finished. She led our guests into the parlor. The front window was open, but no one moved to close it, for it let in the pleasant undulating and unfamiliar songs of Sallie Barton’s slaves, rising up from the cabins, through the crisp fall evening air.
“Drewry, build us a small fire,” Father said as he crossed the room and stood at his desk, removing his silver flask from within. I had watched him casting studious glances at Miss Sallie Barton throughout our meal as she spoke of her plantation in Virginia and her travel on a ship to England and back. I wondered if he was thinking of John Jr.
“ ’Tis warmer than Virginia in this season.” Sallie had a heavy fancy shawl intricately woven in a cup and saucer pattern, wrapped loosely on her shoulders.
“Sister, she’s so pretty …” Joel tugged my arm, whispering his observation.
And a perfect match for your absent brother.
The strangers gasped as the voice of the Spirit entered the room on the crack and spark of the flames Drewry built up in the fireplace.
“Oh goodness, you must be the Bell Witch!” Sallie Barton smiled, as if pleased to be introduced.
I am many things. No longer will I lie to you. I am none other than a witch of Kate Batts’s making, here to torment Jack Bell out of his life!
There was a general intake of breath amongst the gathering, for though none present, excepting Calvin Justice and my family, knew Old Kate, all knew the name of the master of the house they visited, and they turned their eyes to Father, who had taken a seat in the hickory rocker next to me. His chair commenced rocking so unnaturally fast, Father had to grip the arms to keep from being flung from it. Before us his limbs grew stiff and he was seized with sudden contortions of his face. His flesh twitched and danced as if invisible hands attempted to rearrange his features. It was horrible to see, and it was made worse knowing there was nothing we could do to help him. The Being laughed, and magnified the crunch of the wooden rocker striking the floorboards, apparently enjoying its torment of Father tremendously. One of the strangers jumped to his feet.
“Who is this Kate Batts? In what direction lies her home? Let us bring her to justice tonight for the torture of this good man!” There were murmurs of enthusiasm for the suggestion rising from the strangers and I was abruptly unable to take a breath. I felt my body grow cold, for as much as I disliked Old Kate, I was as certain as ever the evil menace was not of her making, despite the Spirit’s claim.
Calvin Justice stood, and raised his hands high, so all would look to hear him above the noise of the rocking.
“Good people, if the Devil speaks to you, believe him not! For he will lead you down the path of no return.”
“Yea, but Preacher Justice, look, it is as the Witch proclaims!” The speaker gestured to Father, rocking madly in his chair, bits of white frothlike spittle appearing in the corners of his mouth. He did not look well.
“Friend, indeed we all are witnesses to the sufferings of John Bell, and his family, on this occasion and on many others, but to believe such as the pain they have endured could be magicked by a woman in our district whose only sin is in her strange eccentricities, is to give credence where none belongs.” Calvin Justice spoke with passionate authority and managed to quiet the impulse building to hunt down Kate and drag her from her bed. The grip on my lungs was loosened and I gasped for air.
I shall torment Jack Bell out of his life!
“I beg you, cease at once this torture.” Mother spoke in a quiet but desperate tone. “Let us join hands together and pray the eyes of God will look down on us here and take pity on our troubled souls.”
“Repent, Jack Bell, if you have sinned, is my advice,” urged the stranger who had previously denigrated Kate, but Miss Sallie Barton gave him such a look he should have put his tail between his legs, were he a hound. She took up Mother’s hand and with an earnest glance at Father’s seizing form, began the prayer.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven …”
Your prayers mean nothing. I am a witch of Old Kate’s making, here to torment Jack Bell out of his life!
“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done …” All our voices in unison continued the prayer, watching, hopeful of a change in Father’s fearsome twitching, but the attack carried on until I felt again the heavy stone fall in my chest, as though my heart had turned to lead and dropped down along my spine, exactly as I had felt with Josh. No one seemed to notice, but I found I could not speak, my throat was closed, strangled with a weighty darkness. I knew, as I had known with certainty the night the Being first spoke, the Spirit would accomplish the evil deed of which it spoke. The light of the flames in the fire filled my eyes, and I had just a glimpse of Father released from his shaking, before I saw darkness and found I could no longer breathe. I fainted onto the floor but remained oddly present, though I could not speak or open my eyes. I felt Miss Sallie Barton kneel beside me, crying as though I were a sister to her.
“I beg you, whatever you may be, cease the torture of this pretty innocent!”
Who ever perished, being innocent?
“Do not quote Job to us, for gathered here, we are the faithful,” said Calvin Justice, kneeling beside Miss Sallie Barton. I felt a twinge in my chest as though the Being stabbed a needle at my heart.
“O my God, I trust in thee: Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.” Calvin Justice spoke the Psalm of David. The Spirit opened our great cedar door and slammed it, sending a cold blast of air into the parlor.
Miss Sallie Barton squealed in fear and jumped to her feet, and her uncle spoke to her firmly.
“Sallie, this excitement is more than I find necessary for any day.”
I stayed frozen on the floor, unable to move. The Being slammed the door a second time, shaking the house.
“Prayer is the only recourse,” Mother spoke into the silent room, realizing the Spirit had gone.
“Are you fit, Jack?
” “I am, but I do seek some recourse.” Father’s voice was strange and tight.
“Jack Bell, you appear to have triumphed in your struggle with the Being,” Calvin Justice exclaimed. “I am glad of it, but I feel you ought to take some rest, and I will take my leave.”
“Mr. Justice, would you be so kind as to carry our Betsy up to bed before departing?” Mother spoke of me as though I were merely resting on the floor, not choked and stiffened by unnatural forces.
“Of course,” Calvin Justice said, taking a step toward me, but Father interrupted his movement.
“No, Mr. Justice, I will carry my darling daughter myself.” Father’s tone was deeper than before and I felt his strong hands cup my bottom and my back.
“Jack …” Mother was concerned he could not manage it. “Are you certain?”
“Of course,” Father answered, and with great effort he lifted me and held me to his chest, staggering only slightly.
“Is sleep possible under such circumstances?” Miss Sallie Barton spoke nervously.
“If you are weary, as we are,” Mother tried to reassure her, giving over the brand-new pallets we’d made, with fresh sheets and a stack of quilts. Father carried me through the hall and up the stairs. He paused when he reached the landing, breathing hard, and I heard Mother escorting Calvin Justice to the door.
“It would be my wish to keep quiet the recitation uttered here tonight, and I thank you for your voice of reason.”
“My pleasure, and of course, I will not speak of it.”
I nuzzled my forehead into Father’s neck and felt it slippery with sweat. The underside of his beard prickled my nose.
“Betsy,” he grunted, crossing the threshold of my room. He shut the door with my foot and I shivered, for the air upstairs was as cold as the outdoors. He lay me down on my bed and collapsed beside me, exhausted. “Darling daughter, all will come out right,” he whispered, but seemed too spent to say more. His skin beneath his shirt was soaked with perspiration and some of the frothy spittle that had issued from his mouth was drying on his neck.
“Dear Father,” I whispered. I curled into his arms and found him hot and comforting, though his breath stank of whiskey and he held me in a slightly painful posture, with my hands trapped between his legs.