The new year of 1821 arrived without a single dropped stone and without a song from the Being. We had not heard from it since Father’s funeral. I hoped our most welcome respite would be permanent, yet I felt the evil Spirit’s absence and the absence of my father constantly. I also deeply felt the absence of Josh Gardner, for he had obeyed my request at the funeral and had not come calling.
“I believe the Witch’s curses unto Father were its goodbye unto us,” Drewry suggested one evening when he saw me looking anxiously to the window at the sound of a gusty wind. He recognized how I feared the Spirit’s return in every noise.
“I do hope that is the truth,” I answered, but I was uncertain.
“ ’Tis a waste of good energy to speculate regarding what will be, children,” Mother said. “The Lord directs our days. Concern yourselves solely with right actions, and trust God for all the rest.” If Mother felt as insecure as I did she hid it well, and on her advice I tried not to ruminate excessively on all that had happened to us.
We had hosted the town at Father’s funeral but since then, the path to our front door was allowed to fill with snow when it fell, and we were left alone to grieve. I went about the tasks of my former life under Mother’s instruction, continually amazed to find my hands and legs worked just as they had always done, unaltered by the dead weight of tragedy settled in my soul. I missed Father greatly and often woke in the morning thinking I heard the sound of his boots on the stairs, but as the weeks passed I began to feel a small sense of relief, for it occurred to me perhaps the Spirit’s purpose had been accomplished and we would hear from it no more.
One afternoon, our quiet grief was interrupted by the arrival of a man employed to carry the mail from North Carolina. He brought a letter for us from John Jr. and Mother read it aloud in the parlor.
My Dearest Mother, Sister and Brothers,
I have received the news of Father’s passing. The evil demon spoke it to me on the day of the foul event and though I was afraid, I did not believe it, until your letter, dated December twenty-first of our year gone past. I wish to return home at once, yet I must acquire new horses for myself and Isiah, for ours were uncurried and hobbled on the road, and when we reached this destination I found the sides of my animal streaked with dried sweat lather and mud, and this where his ribs were not showing through. I have the funds to replace them, but I have not done so as yet, for I believe it was Father’s desire I bring the affairs of this estate to a close, and many issues here regarding livestock & land & improvements to the land, and many additional items not worthy of the ink required to list them remain unresolved, and until they are satisfactorily brought to a close, I will remain in this place.
I pray constantly for Father at peace in Heaven, and for you, beloved family. May we be delivered from all evil.
Yours always,
John Jr. Bell
Mother folded up the paper and tucked it in her apron, and I could see she was disappointed the news was not of his imminent return. Her general frustration increased, when less than one week later we had word from Jesse and Martha.
Dear Mother, Sister and my brothers,
I hope this missive finds you in good health. I received your message regarding Father’s passing, and I am ashamed to say I had already heard the news from that evil demon that plagues your house, for it visited us announcing its triumph over my father. We prayed it was not so, but alas! How cruel! We would pack our buggy and brave the winter storms to return and comfort you, but for the one happy detail of this letter—Martha is carrying our first child, and already more than half her time is gone, and the midwife cautions against travel.
Mother stopped reading and laid the letter down on her lap.
“Martha? With child?” Joel was amazed to hear he would soon be an uncle.
“Our first grandchild … My first … What does your brother mean about the midwife? It would be no trouble to midwife to Martha.” Mother was annoyed and frowning, and I could see she was upset they did not plan to return.
“Read on,” I encouraged her.
I say this next, hoping you will accept it in love, and will not be offended—Now that Father has passed on, might you consider leaving Adams? We have a homestead much larger than we can fill, and the land is arable as paradise. All crops grow with little effort, as the Being did predict. Apart from the visit we received at Father’s passing, we do not hear from the Spirit that tormented us in Robertson County. Has John Jr. completed his journey? How is Betsy? And Drewry? Richard? And Joel? We should welcome you into our home, at any moment of your choosing, and we pray for you, always.
Your loving son,
Jesse Bell
Mother folded his letter and held it in her hands on her skirt.
“What say you, Mother? Shall we prepare to depart?” I could see Drewry was ready to leave at any moment, and he itched with hope that Mother would wish it so.
“I think not, Drewry.” Mother sighed. “This is our home, and our livelihood, we cannot up and leave. What would your father say to that?” She looked irritated, acknowledging our circumstances were not to her liking, but were entirely beyond her control.
“I will be out with Dean then,” Drewry said, clearly disappointed. “The pump at the well is frozen again and needs fixing.” Mother nodded as Drewry left, for she had set him up with the majority of Father’s tasks. If I needed Drew for any reason, I looked first to where the hands were working, as he was certain to be there, the sole white face amongst the slaves. Richard and Joel followed him, as they did most every morning, for they were never bored with sledding down our hill. The snow had not melted, and on one or two occasions, more had fallen, though we had experienced no further heavy storms.
“Betsy, get the loom,” Mother announced, tucking the note away, determined to think on what disturbed her later. “I shall try again to teach you the finer points of weaving.” I was not happy with her choice of how to spend our time and after several hours of constant effort on her part and mine, she admitted my weave had to be torn out and done again, it was so uneven.
“I find this thrusting and shoving motion impossible to master!” I made an excuse for my sorry work.
“Elizabeth, even your spinning, which is not your strength, is better than this weave.” Mother held my efforts up to the light, and the cloth appeared to be a fishnet. “Enough. Retrieve your sewing, child, for ’tis wise to work to your strengths.” I was happy to abandon the clumsy loom for the needle and thread, for my thimble fit just right on my thumb, and through the dim winter afternoons of our mourning, I found I could sew for hours without a tangle.
Toward the end of January, Mother and I sat together sewing in the parlor. The light was at my back and my needle moved smoothly over and through the white cotton shirting of the new tunic I was stitching for Drewry. I was having a moment of thoughtless contentment, absorbed in the repetitive motion, when Mother gave a groan and I looked up, surprised to see she’d dropped the cloth she worked onto the floor.
“Uh, Betsy, I feel unwell. I believe I must lie down.” I studied her face. Her cheeks were flushed and red and small tendrils of her dark hair appeared damp at her forehead. What was the matter? Mother was never ill. I laid my sewing down and stood to help her.
“Mother? What is it? What ails you?” She shut her eyes and leaned farther back against her chair. She did not rise, or immediately reply.
“Dear Betsy, just help me to my bed.” I took her arm and we slowly walked across the parlor. I could not go into her bedroom without thinking on Father’s passing, and I imagined it must trouble Mother also, to sleep each night in the bed where he had died. I wondered if it was in her mind to have Dean build a new one. She had said nothing of it. She sat down heavily and I removed her boots, while she struggled to untie her sewing apron.
“My bedclothes, Betsy. I would have them …” Though it was the middle of the day, I helped her dress in nightclothes. “ ’Tis cold …” she said, shivering. I pulled the quilts up high around her neck for the room was chilly, even with the fire next door in the parlor.
“What may I fetch for you, Mother?”
“Water,” she answered in a hoarse whisper that was frightening, and I hurried to the kitchen. Dean and Drewry had managed to unfreeze the pump at the well, and Chloe had drawn a pitcher, so the water was fresh and cold.
“Mother is feeling poorly,” I told Chloe and saw my hands shook slightly as I poured. I returned quickly, but when I reached her, she was sleeping, with her head at an odd angle, reminding me of the last head I had seen lying askance on that pillow. I set the water on the bedside table, and put my hand against her forehead, pushing back her hair. I found her flesh burned hot as embers from the fire under my fingertips.
“Please, no,” I whispered, wishing I might take away what ailed her.
“Why is Mother in bed?” Richard and Joel asked when they tumbled in from playing out-of-doors.
“She is feeling poorly. Please, be quiet! Play checkers or some other game upstairs.” I ushered them from the room and returned to sit beside Mother all the rest of the day. She continued in a fever, waking only briefly to ask for water, and twice she fell back asleep before I could hold the glass to her lips. I grew ever more concerned and sat in prayer and fear, for it was in my mind the Spirit had not finished with us. Did it mean to murder my family, one by one, before my eyes? I made an effort to cease all thoughts of my own pain and concentrate on Mother’s suffering. I prayed the Lord would care for her, body and soul. The room grew slowly dark and I did not move, but simply listened to Mother’s raspy breathing, hoping any moment she would awake, recovered. Near suppertime, I heard Drewry come in, and Richard and Joel ran immediately down the stairs to greet him.
“Mother is not well!” I heard Joel’s fear clearly in his declaration and I felt guilty having left the two of them alone all day with little explanation. I hurried to the hallway to tell Drewry myself what had happened, and I was there before he’d hung his shot bag on its peg.
“It came on her very sudden, brother. She dropped her sewing and said she wished to go to bed.” I held my hands clasped to my breast with anxiety and Drewry clearly saw my worry.
“Do not distress yourself, dear sister. Most likely she has some minor ailment, requiring simple rest.” He unshouldered his gun and turned away to hang his coat and I stood most surprised, for I had expected him to say he’d saddle his horse, though it was already dark, and ride the cursed ride to Dr. Hopson’s home.
“Drewry, I believe we must call Dr. Hopson,” I said, gripping his arm, most urgently.
“Betsy, has the Witch been here?” Drewry spoke softly to me, raising his eyebrows high, mindful of Richard and Joel beside us. I was silent, thinking how the Spirit had been on my mind, but not present.
“No, no … ’tis not the work of the Being. She has a fever.”
“What does Mother say of fever? A day to run its course, and feverfew for two.” He smiled, reciting Mother’s familiar rhyme regarding when to use the herb feverfew for treatment. “If she is not improved in the morning, I will ride for the doctor.” He cast his glance to Richard and Joel, who listened as though they were nothing but ears. Joel’s eyes were watery, and I realized Drewry would make a good father when his time came, as his voice and reason successfully reassured me and my little brothers.
“Let us eat our supper.”
Chloe had boiled turnips and made squirrel gravy to pour over the biscuits, and we took our places at the table. I was grateful Drewry led the conversation, telling an anecdote he’d heard from Dean.
“There was a slave, working for a farmer we don’t know, outside Robertson County. Someplace far away. Dean said he heard the tale from Aggie, who heard it from her cousin, who knew the wife of the slave.” His opening was intricate enough to force Joel and Richard and me to concentrate, and I suppose that was his intention. “The slave, they called him John. He stole a hog from his master, because his master had so many, he thought the shoats could not be counted, and he thought the master would not notice were there just one less. So, he caught a hog and killed it and put it in a bag and was hauling it down to where the other slaves were waiting to get the fixings for a feast when his master rode up after him, asking, ‘What you got there, John?’” Drewry made his voice momentarily gruff, a bit like Father’s had been when sussing a transgression. “The slave, he answered, ‘A possum, sir,’ for he was brave and hungry, but the master, he paid close attention to all his stock, and he had seen John make every effort to better his lot. ‘Let me see it,’ the master demanded.” I laughed at Drewry’s imitation, for he turned his mouth way down at the corners stretching his jaw in a comical way. “John had to open the bag, but when he did, he jumped back, feigning disbelief, shouting, ‘Whoa! master! It is a shoat now, but it sure was a possum a while ago when I put ’im in the sack!’ ”
Joel and Richard and I laughed at this silly story and after supper when Drewry and I went to check on Mother, I heard the boys playing a game of slave and master, with Joel pretending to act surprised there was no possum in his sack. I heard them laughing, while Drewry and I stood in Mother’s room, observing and assessing her condition.
“She is burning,” Drewry said and frowned, placing his hand across her forehead. “What did she say of fevers? The strongest folk burn hottest?” I recalled her saying so, when Joel was ill, and yet, I was uncertain again. I shook my head, close to tears with worry. Mother was the one who knew what to do with illness. She knew what tea to make, what herbs to rub against the skin. I realized I had taken her knowledge for granted, and faced with her illness I did not know how to react. I wished I had paid better attention throughout my life, so I might know the cure, but which herb was used to treat what disease was as foreign to me as how to make the shuttle fly through the loom. I felt I was a most unworthy child.
“I know not what she said of fever,” I stammered and Drewry frowned, but seemed to understand.
“I told you, sister, if she is not better by morning, I will ride to fetch the doctor.” He turned the lamp down low, but left it burning on the bedside table, in case she woke in the night.
We rose early the next morning to find Mother much worse than the day before. She was now pale with the fever and would not properly awake. While Drewry and I stood over her, deciding on a course of action, she called out in her sleep.
“Jack, Jack …”
“She is dreaming,” Drewry offered as an explanation, but she thrashed her head on the pillow and I thought it most distressing she believed Father was in the room with us.
“I think you must call for Dr. Hopson.” I squeezed Drewry’s hand and he did not argue, but left immediately, and was gone by the time the boys came down for breakfast.
“Whatever you do, be quiet today,” I told them, forgetting I wished to be nice. “Mother needs her sleep.” The tension of harboring illness in our home again descended and I watched the boys spoon Chloe’s creamed buckwheat quickly into their mouths, as if they could eat their fear.
“Shall we have a sled race, Joel?” Richard understood it was better if they were out-of-doors, and after they had finished their food I helped them put on their winter things. I wrapped their scarves tightly around their necks in the hall, but I felt I was a poor substitute for Mother.
“Will she be made well today, sister?” Joel’s knit hat slid down over his brow, and he pushed it back with a mittened fist.
“The doctor is on his way.” I did not comfort him as I should have, but I could not. I kissed his bare cheek and sent him off to play, and returned to Mother’s bedside, hoping she would wake and instruct me in the means to treat her illness.
“Jack …” His name came forth in a whisper as I crossed the threshold, and her eyelids fluttered, as if she woke.
“No, Mother, it is Betsy, here beside you. What must I do?” She did not answer but a groan and the next moment she had turned her head and lay asleep again.
The hours passed slowly, while I listened closely to her breathing. Several times she mumbled Father’s name, but did not wake, and it was near the dinner hour when I heard hoofbeats on the road and I left her to meet Dr. Hopson and Drewry at the door.
Dr. Hopson entered with his head down, so I saw first the shiny black of his top hat, before his wary eyes met mine in greeting.
“How does your mother fare, Miss Elizabeth?” He looked anxiously toward the parlor, slowly withdrawing his arms from his greatcoat. He removed his scarf and handed it to me.
“She is hot as the fire and will not properly awake.”
“Has your demon visited?” I felt he watched me too closely as I hung his things, as if I knew not how to do it.
“No,” I answered simply, then added, “sir,” with respect, for despite my resentment, he was the doctor and Mother was ill and in need of his services. I saw his shoulders shiver and he hunched forward, as if he walked into a strong wind requiring fortitude as he passed over the thresholds of the parlor and the bedroom. I followed, feeling no sympathy for his trepidation. He placed his leather bag on the chair and proceeded to examine Mother in silence. He felt her head and frowned, then withdrew an instrument from his bag.
“Undo the laces of her nightdress,” he commanded, and I did as I was told, surprised to feel Mother’s chest was hot as the woodstove with a fire within. The doctor stretched his instrument from his ear to her breast, intently listening.
“She has the pleurisy,” he announced, “but the exudation of liquid in the chest cavity has not yet occurred.”
“What do you mean?” I had heard of pleurisy. Becky Porter’s Aunt Mabel had died of it.
“She may get worse, before she improves. If she improves.” The doctor lowered his glasses, and wrinkled his nose with displeasure.
“What must we do?” I was horrified to hear his prognosis.
“Have your girl prepare sugared slippery elm and mint tea, and broth, and spoon it to her mouth. Dose her every mealtime with a dropperful of this.” From his bag he pulled a tincture labeled butterfly root in his tall script.
“Is this the cure?” I turned the glass bottle over in my hand, trying not to think how it reminded me of the Spirit’s poison.
“What cure there is. It will depend on the strength of the inflammation and the strength of her lungs.”
“What will depend?” I knew I must sound as stupid as the bedpost, but I could not accept his words.
“Her improvement will depend.” He closed his bag and looked away from me, taking up Mother’s hand at the wrist. He pulled a silver watch on a chain from his vest pocket, and stood counting the beats of her racing pulse, and then he sighed. “Her improvement will depend on the strength of the inflammation in relation to the strength of her lungs.” He put the watch away, and I thought I saw pity and some regret in the gesture, so I grew most concerned.
“Mother has more strength than most!” I meant to reassure myself, as clearly he did not intend to.
“Here, she must be propped up on her pillows.” With more kindness in his tone than he had previously allotted me, Dr. Hopson showed me how to arrange Mother so she lay half sitting up. “The exudation will be less in this position.” He stepped back and sighed, as she thrashed her head violently, left and right, when we moved her.
“Jack …” she groaned.
“Good Lord, she calls for him!” Dr. Hopson turned away and busied himself closing his bag, and I thought I saw his hands tremble slightly, tightening the buckle. “I will return tomorrow,” he cast an unreadable eye on Mother, “to examine her progress.” I followed him out of the room and into the hall, where he turned to me, expecting his coat and hat. I froze, thinking he must not leave. What was I to do for Mother?
“Dose her every mealtime, with the tincture. And don’t forget the broth.” He frowned, seeming aware of my confusion. He spoke over loud, as if he meant Chloe in the kitchen to hear his repeated instructions, and I realized he thought I was incompetent. I recovered myself enough to hand him his coat, still cold from his ride to our house.
“Thank you for coming.” I did not feel polite, I was so worried, but Mother occupied my mind, insisting as she would have that I behave responsibly.
“I am a physician, Miss Elizabeth! I took an oath to treat those who are diseased.” Dr. Hopson turned his back on me, and hurried out the door.
I went to the kitchen to tell Chloe what to do, but when I got there I saw the kettle was boiling and the jars of slippery elm and mint were already on the sideboard. Chloe stood by the soup pot, plucking the last feathers from a plump chicken that had only recently lost its head.
“You heard the prescription for her care?”
“I did, and we must get the medicine inside her, for I done seen the pleurisy before, and it is a nasty ill.”
At supper, Chloe served the chicken meat with boiled hominy, and the broth was kept back to spoon to Mother. The meat was most delicious, but I was terribly distracted, for looking around the table, I had the uneasy feeling it was growing larger as its number of attendants shrank. The places once occupied by Jesse, John Jr., Mother and Father sat empty, and I was afraid every one of us would soon be absent.
“We must make Mother well!” I hit my fist down on the table, and Drewry, Joel and Richard jumped, engrossed in the silent tension of illness.
“Sister, let us take turns, and dose her through the night.” Drewry’s concern had greatly deepened after hearing the doctor’s diagnosis.
“Mother will be well again.” Richard refused to think there could be any other possible outcome to her illness.
“We must pray it will be so.” I smoothed my napkin on my skirt, looking down so he could not see my eyes.
“Why not ask the Spirit if it can heal her?” Joel suggested.
“No!” In unison Drewry and I both reprimanded him. “Call not that ungodly entity,” I warned.
“It did like Mother best,” Joel said, shrugging his shoulders at our vehemence. He returned to chewing his meat. I knew he was thinking of the time the Spirit had saved Richard from the whirlpool of quicksand and all the rest of us from the falling tree, but all I could think of was the bottle of poison on Father’s bedside table, and the voice of the Being proclaiming, Jack Bell, off to Hell and Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
Drewry took the boys upstairs after supper, so I might have the first turn by Mother’s side. The fire hissed and sparked in the parlor and Mother’s breath came irregularly. I placed the lamp on the table, and tried my best to coax spoonfuls of butterfly root and broth down her throat, but some of it spilled down her chin and I had to wipe it away with my sleeve. I thought of when I had poured whiskey into Father’s throat. I had not known it would be his last drink. Mother’s skin still burned like fire, and her lips were the red of a tomato in summer, ripe to bursting. I thought of the times she had taken care of me as I lay ill and I refused to think on what our lives would be like without her ever-present caring and concern.
“Jack … Jack!” She twisted her neck, resisting my attempts to feed her medicine. She breathed out heavily, as if she fell more deeply asleep, and I sighed, frustrated, for she had not woken for near three days.
“Mother, it’s me, Betsy, can you hear me?” I decided I would read to her from the good book, an inspiring passage, though I knew not if she could hear.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade on thy right hand.” There was a sound like the flutter of bird wings under a shrub and without cold winds or noise to announce its return, the Spirit spoke in a comforting voice.
Poor Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.
“Please, torment us not!” I cried. “Have mercy on Mother, for ever she was good to you.” The Spirit did not reply and gave no other sign of being present, and though my fingers holding the Bible began to shake, I continued reading.
“The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul.”
Be quiet, Betsy. Let her sleep!
The Spirit admonished me in the most condescending tone, but I prevented myself from responding with anger.
“What is her fate? Can you help her?” I knew it was wrong of me to ask an evil demon favors, yet I feared with Mother in such serious condition the Spirit and its power over life and death was, as Joel had suggested, perhaps our best hope. It did not speak to me again but directed its ministrations solely to Mother.
Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.
“Ohhh,” Mother groaned as though she suffered greatly, “I am too ill to speak with you.” I was amazed to hear her voice.
That’s all right.
The Being’s tone surpassed Mother’s own in soothing tenderness.
I will be back in the morning. Rest, Luce. I promise you will feel better.
I had no reason to trust the Spirit, but its promise entered my heart and gave me hope. I felt comforted, for in all my efforts through the day, Mother had not spoken a word, yet the Being had elicited a response. Drewry arrived to relieve me and I told him all that had occurred. He listened, then put the back of his hand to her forehead.
“I believe her fever has broken.”
“Thanks be to God!” He looked into my eyes and I understood we were both aware we had the Spirit to thank, though neither of us said so.
Mother rested well through the night and in the morning she awoke showing awareness of her situation.
“Betsy, help me to my pot.” She needed my arm to assist her and hold her as she squatted. I could tell she was embarrassed to have me there, but also grateful. “I fear I am most truly unwell.” She moved slowly back to bed, leaning heavily on me, for the journey to the corner of her room exhausted her.
“Dr. Hopson came while you were sleeping yesterday. He says you have the pleurisy, but if you rest and swallow down his tinctures, you will soon recover.”
“What tincture did he leave?”
“ ’Tis butterfly root.”
“Did he leave no milkweed?”
I’ll fetch it.
The Spirit spoke like an eager child, and all of a sudden, a glass jar labeled milkweed, in Mother’s round cursive, appeared on my lap. I clutched it instinctively as it arrived so it did not fall from my knees and break open on the floor. How had it materialized? I knew not! I held up the jar and inside was the milkweed herb, already ground into a fine white powder.
“What am I to do?”
Mix it in a boiling kettle, two parts water to two parts weed.
“Yes …” Mother nodded, weak and fragile, sinking back in her pillows.
How do you fare today, Luce? Are you much recovered?
“Yes, thank you, but I am not yet myself completely.” Mother was honest with the Being and seemed to bear it no malice.
What can I do for you? I wish to be of service.
“You are kind.”
I do not like to see you ill or disconsolate, dear Luce. I will make you well.
“God gives us health and strength.”
Speak not. You must rest and I will sing to you.
I sat with the milkweed on my lap, unable to move from my spot, mesmerized by the sweet music of the Spirit’s song.
This day God gives me strength of High Heaven
Sun and moon shining
Flame in my hearth
Flashing of lightning
Wind in its swiftness
Deeps of the ocean
Firmness of earth
This day God gives me strength as my guardian
Might to uphold me
Wisdom as guide
Your eyes are watchful
Your ears are listening
Your lips are speaking
Friend at my side
The song was so profoundly moving, I felt I might shed tears from the pure beauty of it, or perhaps it was just my relief over Mother’s turn for the better that made me weepy.
“Thank you,” Mother mumbled, polite even in illness. She gave the slightest smile and I saw she too had tears gathering in the wrinkles at the corners of her fevered eyes. She closed them, as though she would return to sleep, and in my ear the Spirit whispered.
Betsy, make the milkweed!
I had forgotten I was meant to do it, I was so absorbed. I almost asked, why did you not provide it ready-made? Yet I thought twice before questioning the Being. I went to do the task and in the kitchen questioned Chloe instead.
“I must make a milkweed tincture for Mother and the Being has returned to sing her lullabies, promising she will improve. Just now, did you feel the Spirit in the kitchen? The jar it brought came from the pantry, here.” I looked up on the shelf and saw the place where the jar usually stood between marjoram and mint was empty, and I turned to Chloe, who had her back to me, busy at stoking the woodstove so I might set the kettle on to boil.
“Miss Betsy, I do say, I feel that ’haint all the time, all the time, and everywhere.” She looked around the kitchen and rolled her eyes to the corners of the ceiling, as if she feared it listened even as we spoke.
“If it heals Mother quickly …” I did not know what to say, or what to think. If it saved our mother’s life, must it be redeemed in my affections? I made the tincture of milkweed as instructed and returned to wait silently at her bedside to dose her with it. Before long, her eyes fluttered open and her head shifted forward off her pillows. Immediately the Spirit spoke.
So, Luce, how do you feel now? Are you much recovered?
“Oh yes, thank you,” she replied in a hoarse whisper, but she did not look at all well to me. Her lips were swollen with white blisters and her skin was pale and dry where before it had been flushed. She was recovering, but clearly she was still unwell.
The doctor is on his way, Luce, and he will be most impressed.
“Betsy dear, help me.” Mother tried to raise herself with an elbow and found she could not lift her own weight. I pulled her up to sitting and she whispered she would need the chamber pot again.
I will be silent while he visits for I make him quite uncomfortable.
The Spirit spoke like a gossiping woman, though its intentions appeared kind.
I will be of service to you, dear Luce, in every way.
I wondered if it could be trusted, as I helped Mother to the corner and back.
I will fetch whatever the doctor prescribes for you.
True to its prediction, Dr. Hopson soon arrived. I heard the hoofbeats in the yard and a greeting shouted out to the boys who played on their sleds up and down the hill. I rose from Mother’s side and went to meet him at the door.
“How fares your mother?” he inquired, removing his greatcoat and top hat, inspecting me as before, from his lowered glasses. He looked as if he doubted I had properly cared for her.
“The inflammation is not so strong as her constitution, Dr. Hopson. You will find her much improved.” I turned away, hiding a small smile as I hung his coat, and he quickly went to Mother’s bedside.
“Hello, Lucy Bell, how do you fare?”
“I am weak, but feeling better than before.” She looked up at him with wide eyes and he placed a hand on her forehead.
“The fever has broken, indeed, a good sign.” He took his instrument out and listened to her lungs, nodding, postulating, “I expect the tincture is the cure.” He looked on the table to see how much we had used and noticed the bottle of milkweed.
“What is this? Milkweed? Who made this?” He turned to me, inquiring.
“The Spirit told me to,” I answered truthfully, knowing he would not like it.
“So you have had a visit from your demon friend, Miss Elizabeth?” He shoved his spectacles down his nose with impatient annoyance.
“It was not a demon this time, doctor. It sang a gentle song and spoke the recipe for the milkweed tincture at Mother’s request.”
“At your request?” The doctor raised his eyebrows at my mother, who nodded an affirmative reply, but spoke no explanation.
“How odd, your demon is an evil murderer one day, and a ministering angel on the next.” Dr. Hopson shook his head, unwilling to investigate the matter further. I knew he was implying something, but I could not say exactly what. I wished the Spirit would speak, for I felt it was my defense against the doctor’s doubts. But the Spirit was not at my beck and call. There was silence, except for Mother’s quickened breathing, until the doctor sighed.
“ ’Tis a good sign the fever has lifted, but the illness is still a danger. You must drink a broth to improve your strength, and prevent a worsening in your chest.”
“I have no desire for food.” Mother spoke softly, but Dr. Hopson heard her.
“You must eat, desire or no. Your body is weak with affliction. If you do not wish to leave your children orphans, rise not from this bed for the next month.” I was surprised by the severity of Dr. Hopson’s warning, surprised and displeased he could imagine such a horrible outcome to her illness.
The next day I stood by her bedside attempting to discover what I might fetch from the kitchen, or the storehouse even, that she would like.
“I have no appetite,” Mother lamented and I was greatly frustrated, as I felt Dr. Hopson’s orders must be strictly adhered to, despite the Spirit’s assurance she would improve.
“There must be something, Mother. Chloe’s sage cheese? Clotted cream?”
“Betsy, there is nothing I desire. Save, perhaps, a sweet summer cherry.” She looked down at the quilt, dismayed she could think of nothing I could possibly bring to her.
Ah, Luce, a cherry is a pure delight.
The Spirit spoke from the ceiling and I looked up surprised to see a rain of cherries falling as stones had fallen down our stairs. They appeared from nowhere, a darker, more purple-red than any off our trees in the orchard.
Taste them!
Mother and I exchanged a glance, was it safe? Were they poison, and a trick? The skin of the cherries gleamed like Dean’s arms at work in the fields of summer.
Dear Luce, they will heal and help you. I cannot bear to see you ill! Eat them!
Mother obediently plucked a cherry from the pile and dangled it briefly over her lips before biting into the sweet meat of it.
“ ’Tis like a beam of sunlight in my wintry soul.” She licked her lips with her dry tongue. “Thank you.”
What else would you like, dear Luce? Speak its name and I shall fetch it for you.
The Spirit pressed her for more information as to her cravings.
“The fruits of summer are my favorites,” Mother ventured, hesitant as a child, receiving undeserved gifts.
’Tis summer now in many tropical environs.
Again, from the ceiling fell a rain of fruit: sweet plums, peaches, large purple grapes, green figs and hazelnuts, in such abundance I was forced to gather them off the floor into my skirt.
“How lovely!” Mother graciously accepted the offerings. “But I am much too weak for cracking nuts.”
Hold out your hands.
I stopped collecting when I heard the sound of nuts splitting apart. Mother stretched out her palm and the meat of the hazelnuts dropped straight into it, while the shells dropped over the floor, clattering at my feet.
Fetch a basket, Betsy.
The Spirit ordered me around like a slave and I nearly shouted, I do not belong to you! Only the look of gratitude on Mother’s face and the ripe peaches at her fingertips silenced my urge to anger. I told myself I must thank the Being for the luscious gifts it brought to my dear mother, for rather figs and hazelnuts rain down on us than we become orphans.