All That Lives Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2002 by Melissa Sanders-Self

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.,

  Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: June 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56257-7

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  How it began

  Something unnatural

  The word is spread

  The constant passing of all things

  The mysterious spirit speaks

  The spirit disturbed

  Witch creatures

  The spirit’s treasure

  The strangers on our land, head lice and the summer storm

  My brothers depart

  The accusation of kate

  If god is with you

  Unspeakable

  The rattling thistles

  Mother’s illness

  The gifts of the spirit

  The unknown thrill

  The life of all that lives

  This work is lovingly dedicated

  to my grandmother

  Mary Kathleen Self

  acknowledgments

  I want to thank the Spirit in all of its forms, and my husband Nigel, and my sons Dylan and Luke. Their love and faith in me is a great source of inspiration. Anne Edelstein has encouraged me endlessly and given me smart advice, and Jamie Raab at Warner Books read my manuscript with a rare kind of detailed attention. Without her perceptive editing All That Lives would be a different book.

  My grandmother Mary Kathleen Self is responsible for telling me this story when I was little and for keeping it alive as I grew. My mother, Sharon Mayes, and David, Connie and Henry Katzenstein all helped turn my idea of this novel into a reality. In 1997 I had the good fortune to receive an artist’s residency at the Djerassi Foundation, and I am extremely grateful to that program. I am also fortunate many of my best friends are willing readers: Barbara Joan Tiger Bass, Jim Bier-man, Kit Birskovich, Karen Donovan, Ann Friedman, Lindsey Roscoe and Valerie Rich read my rough drafts, and I owe them. I am also grateful to Jenny McPhee for her early and insightful editing.

  Harriette Simpson Arnow’s work on pioneer life in the Cumberland was invaluable in my research, as were the writings of M. V. Ingram in his Authenticated History of the Bell Witch, published in 1894. I am also indebted to Charles Bailey Bell’s publication The Bell Witch: A Mysterious Spirit and also the investigations of Hereward Carrington and Dr. Nandor Fodor into the psychosomatic possibilities that might explain the recorded phenomena. The Foxfire Books, edited by Eliot Wigginton, provided me with all I needed to know about hog slaughter, spinning, weaving, wild Tennessee plants and herbs and other affairs of plain living. All biblical references in this novel come from the King James reference edition.

  Finally, I want to thank all the people of Adams and Robertson County, Tennessee, those with us and those no longer present, who kept the tale of the Bell Witch alive, passing it down over nearly two hundred years. All those people unknown to me made this book possible.

  how it began

  In the autumn of 1815 when I was nine I walked into the woods past the cornfield near our stream, filling a flat garden basket with leaves the color of cherry skins, rooster necks and Chloe’s boiled corn. My prizes dropped from the gracious limbs of oaks, poplars, maples and elms standing tall as God above me and I was grateful, for we were soon to have our first schoolhouse harvest pageant, and Professor Powell had requested all of us to gather fall leaves for decorations. The stream played a loud song, running high from recent rains, and I searched carefully with my bare toes for round stones I might step to. I felt very content, admiring my beautiful leaves, but I was struggling to keep hold of my pile, for it had grown so large, some flew out on the breeze of my movements and when I jumped to catch them, others sneaked over the edge.

  All of a sudden, I stepped into a cold spot. The air was abruptly brisk and also very damp, the way it is when you progress to the back of a deep cave. The bare skin of my forearms began to tingle and a shiver straightened my spine. I looked about, dusk was falling quickly on the land, the way it does that time of year. I saw the tree trunks turning black with night. In the distance, across the cornfield and up the hill, I could see the back side of our house, faintly glowing with the lamps already lit behind the window glass of the kitchen. Our house was hewn from the finest double logs in Robertson County and though it was far away and partly obscured by the trees in the orchard, it was a sturdy and comforting sight.

  I had the impulse to bolt away but at that moment I felt a pair of icy hands on my shoulders and I cried out in fear, for they were real, yet there was no one there. I started forward, slipping up the bank, and when I reached the field I tore across it and up the hill into the orchard, my precious leaves flying from my basket. I saw a few pretty blood-red maple ones caught in the folds of my skirt. I looked over my shoulder to where I had walked by the stream and there I saw a light flash. I stopped, thinking there must be someone there. I called my brothers’ names, suspecting Drewry or John Jr. of playing a game with me, but I only heard the early hoot of an owl in response. The light did not appear again and I saw no movement in the darkening woods. I stood still by the side of the road, frozen, watching to see what was coming, but then the dark wind of evening brushed my cheek and rustled up under my skirts and I ran, lickety-split, away.

  I was late for the evening meal and when I entered our hall I saw Mother, Father and my brothers waiting to be seated at the table in the dining room. Father frowned at me and I was so ashamed, I said nothing at all about what had happened in the woods. Our entire family was present, and my eldest brother, Jesse, took the chair to the right of Father, who sat across from Mother, and as though we were arranged in order of age, John Jr., Drewry, myself, Richard, and Joel took our seats. Father said the blessing and Mother said Amen, then Chloe began serving boiled hominy, cornbread and sweet potatoes roasted in the ashes. A tense silence reigned at our table, as no one made any effort at conversation, and the only sound was the clicking of our forks on Mother’s treasured china supper plates and from the kitchen came the hissing of the fire.

  “Let us retire to the parlor,” Mother said, folding her napkin by the side of her plate. She stood, leaving the lamps for Chloe, to aid with the washing up out back. Some nights Mother and I cleared the plates but most often Chloe managed it alone. I was happy not to do it and I quickly rose and followed Mother across the dark hall.

  Father pushed his chair back from the table and came after us, taking one of the two lamps. I watched him carry the light to his handsome writing desk that occupied the front corner by the parlor window. Reaching inside, he withdrew his silver whiskey flask, his book of accounts in which he documented the running of our farm, and his quill pen and ink. I watched as he took a long drink and prepared to write.

  “Take this candle, Betsy, and bring me out the hairbrush.” Mother passed the light to me before settling in her chair with the velveteen cushion by the fire. I obediently went into the dark bedroom she shared with Father off the back of the parlor. I found the wooden brush with the wild boar bristles on her bedside table and I gripped it tight, hurrying from the room, for the dark shadows in the corners reminded me of the coldness I had encountered in the woods. I wanted to tell Mother what had happened. I returned and knelt in front of her on the hooked parlor rug before the fire, tucking my legs under my skirt.

  “Betsy.” Mother bent forward and whispered in my ear while untying and loosening my plait. “Your father cherishes your yellow tresses and the rest of you, as if you were real gold. He adores you so, try to be
worthy of his affection.” Her hand rested on my spine, warm as the box iron. This was a gentle reprimand, but I drew my chin closer to my chest. I knew Father loved me in a special way and I did repent my lateness, but into the silent atmosphere I could not tell my story. Even Joel and Richard, who often had to be prevented from wrestling after supper, sat quietly on the wooden bench by the entrance to the parlor, swinging their cotton-stockinged feet from their dresses, loath to provoke Father. I focused my eyes on the carpet as Mother gently began to brush my hair. The rug had a bright border of red and blue flowers entwined and I found the pattern lovely to contemplate. Father put his flask, book and pen back inside his desk and closed the writing leaf with a bang. He stoked the fire with another log, then sat beside it in his hickory rocking chair, opposite my mother. He liked to read to us from the good book after supper.

  “Darling daughter,” he looked to me and I saw a certain brightness in his eye that told how he loved me like no other and would protect me always. Maybe I could tell him about the cold place in the woods. “Come and sit beside me, here.” My hair was all undone and fluttered like the yellow flames of the fire when I stood. He bade me turn and kneel and he positioned his chair so the hem of my skirt was trapped under its wide legs.

  “Tonight we shall hear no less than salvation history, for it shall instruct us on the right true path, eh, Betsy?” He placed his hand on my head and pulled my hair gently back so my neck twisted slightly and my chin tilted up. His eyes met mine.

  “Yes, Father,” I answered, feeling his genuine loving concern for my welfare and education. His fingers stroked the line of my jaw and came to rest on the nape of my neck. Perhaps I would not mention why I had been late. I wanted nothing more than to be worthy of his love.

  “God,” he cleared his throat and began to read, “at sundry times and in diverse manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets …” He stroked my hair between the turning of the pages and his fingers grew heavy on my head. My movements were greatly restricted by the trapping of my skirt and soon my legs turned numb to pins and needles, but I did not protest, for it was Father’s will that I should sit that way and I felt blessed to be his darling daughter. The words of the good book in my Father’s deep voice acted like a lullaby on me and I began to feel myself drifting away. As I passed into sleep I wondered if perhaps I had imagined the cold place in the woods, for how could there be such a thing on God’s good earth?

  something unnatural

  Our family was destined to be forever associated with the horrible evil that visited us, and yet it was not always that way, and it was not all we were. For years we lived as the other upright families in our district of Adams, Tennessee, sharing in the wealth and abundance of nature, in accordance with the laws of the Divine. Truly, our troubles simply unfolded, as if God spread a great black sheet across the bed of our lives. Our trials were not anticipated and the harmonious time before did not seem so very special, or precious, as it most certainly was. Four years of bountiful harvests followed that afternoon in the woods before our family experienced any further unusual disturbances.

  It was a mild spring night, near my thirteenth birthday, and a soft breeze blew in my open window, bringing the smell of warmer days to come inside my room. I was lying in my bed curled into a ball with a cramp in my stomach preventing me from drifting into sleep, when I heard a sharp tap on my window glass. I wondered what it was but remained squirming in my position under my spring quilts.

  Tap-tap.

  It came again and I had the feeling it needed my attention, so I got up and went to the window. The moon was new and there was not much light, only the brightness of stars. I looked for a twig caught by the wind, or a squirrel confused, banging a nut against the glass, as that was how it sounded, but there was nothing there.

  The pain in my stomach distracted me and I thought as long as I was standing I would take the opportunity to use my chamber pot. I felt something warm and sticky on my legs and smelled blood where I had never smelled it previously and I grew frightened. Tap-tap came again at the window and with my legs shaking and trying not to cry from fear, I hurried down the stairs through the dark parlor and off the back into Mother and Father’s room.

  “Mother, help me, for I am ill.” I bent over her sleeping form and whispered urgently into her ear.

  “Shhh, Betsy. Pray, what is the matter?” Mother woke easily and I gave her room to rise.

  “There is a tapping at my window and blood between my legs!” She took me in her arms, and I could not prevent myself from crying. She smelled of sleep and held me close, tucking a stray lock of hair loosened from my braid back behind my ear.

  “There, there, Betsy, hush. You are not ill, no, you are a young woman now.” I had no idea what she meant, but I allowed her to lead me from her bedroom through the parlor, the hall and the dining room, back to the kitchen, so our conversation would not disturb Father’s sleep. Her composure calmed me and I waited patiently in the chair by the wood-stove while she stoked the embers and fed the kitchen fire to get it going. When the flames began, she disappeared into her pantry, returning with a jar of bark and a brick, which she placed inside the stove.

  “Chew this willow for the pains.” Mother handed me a chip of bitter bark and proceeded to explain to me the way it is for women. By the end of her speech I was not frightened, but proud to know I was no longer a little girl. I was a developing young woman who could someday carry a child in her own womb. I forgot about the tapping at the window completely until Mother left to fetch the thick red flannel petticoat and cotton cloths she had already stitched in anticipation of this certain occasion, and abruptly it came again, tap-tap, this time against the door. I went immediately and opened it, confident there would be someone there, though who at this hour would dare knock at our back door I did not try to guess. I need not have bothered, for there was no one.

  “What are you about, Betsy? Close the door and come see how to fold these cloths.” Mother carried the red flannel petticoat over her arm and a tower of white cotton squares were stacked in the crook of her elbow.

  “There is something outside tapping! I heard it in my room and just now, at the door.”

  “Well never mind, it will be wind or rodent and no cause for alarm. Let me help you with your undergarments.” There was blood on my nightdress and Mother helped me change it.

  “You must launder your own cloths and soak them in cold water, to get the blood out.”

  “Could you explain the rest tomorrow, please?” I knew she had more to tell me, but I had begun to feel quite queasy. I clutched my hands across my stomach while she loosely tied the red petticoat around my waist.

  “Of course, dear child.” She gently held me to her and kissed my hair at the top of my head. “Miss Betsy, how fast you have grown.” With her iron tongs she withdrew the brick from the woodstove and wrapped it up in another flannel, then led me back upstairs, fussing with my covers and the warm brick across my stomach until I was properly settled in my bed.

  “Will you stay with me? The tapping at my window …” I was already drifting in my mind as it was very late, but I grasped at Mother’s hand.

  “Quiet, Betsy.” Mother did stay. I shut my eyes on her loving face, glowing in the light of the single candle. I do not know if the tapping came again, for I fell solidly asleep.

  In the morning my pains had gone and though I felt encumbered by the new cloth I wore between my legs, I decided to keep to the plan I had made the day before to accompany Father and my brothers John Jr. and Drewry on horseback down to the fields to inspect the progress of the newly planted tobacco seedlings. Drewry and I had to forsake a day of school to do it, which would have been no matter, except Father had recently paid Professor Powell for our lessons and Mother felt it was important for us to get our learning in. We understood her desires, but begged and pleaded desperately to be allowed to go. Father gave us his consent, overruling her concerns.

  “Lucy, tobacco lessons ar
e as valuable as book learning to our children.” He winked at Drewry and me as he gave his final comments on the matter. “But before we depart, I will have a quick game of judge and jury with the little ones.” Richard and Joel were disappointed they were not to be included on our outing and this was Father’s attempt to cheer them up.

  “I want to be judge!” Joel was fast with his request.

  “Judge or juror, you must strive to be a rational man, a consciously disinterested weigher of evidence.” Father smiled, outlining the rules.

  “I will be!” Joel’s enthusiasm for the game caused Father to laugh outright, aware his youngest son knew not the meaning of rational.

  “Your brother Richard will be judge today and you shall join Drewry and myself as jurors in the case.” Father led them into the parlor, giving Richard his special chair. In a matter of minutes he had them decide the fate of a man accused of stealing land from his neighbor. “Remember, we need bold, brave judges who can see the truth,” he advised when Richard wavered in his adjudication.

  “The thief must build the fence anew, in its proper location, and perhaps pay the neighbor some monies for his trouble.”

  “Well done, Richard. Now, boys, as men of prominence, in the future you will undoubtedly be called on to act in public. You will cut fine figures with sound knowledge of justice and with skills for settling differences amongst your neighbors and friends.” Father ran his hand through Joel’s blond curls, well pleased.

  “Can we play again?” Joel begged. “

  Tell me, what law is the law above all others?” Father put his hand to his ear, encouraging their loud response.

  “God’s law!” Both the boys repeated in unison, practiced at the finale of the game.