The Winter Sisters

by Tim Westover

  “Where?” Sarah got Ouida Bell up the steps of the cabin. Rebecca had already spread a large white sheet across their only table. “Where did it bite you? I don’t see any blood.” Sarah helped Ouida Bell onto the table. “Where?”

  “I’m afeared to show you.”

  “Damn it, girl,” said Sarah, “we’re doctors. If you’re not going to show us, then you can just bleed to death.”

  Rebecca hissed at her sister, “You’ll scare her all the way to death.” Turning to Ouida Bell, she said in a measured tone, “there’s nothing indecent. We need to see.”

  Ouida Bell flushed and lowered the waist of her skirt, revealing her right buttock. Four dull red puncture marks stood out against Ouida Bell’s pale white flesh, but no blood was there. The bite hadn’t broken the skin.

  Sarah whistled. “That’s hardly even a bite. I thought that panther was going to have mauled you to an inch of your life. What’s all the fuss for?”

  Rebecca hissed again, “Don’t you know how to shut your mouth?”

  “But look at it. It’s not even bleeding. Does it hurt?”

  Ouida Bell pulled her skirt back up. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. I was… frightened. I still am.”

  Sarah hopped up onto the table, sitting beside Ouida Bell. “Now, you listen to me. I think you’re just about the luckiest girl that’s ever lived. People have been fearing that panther for months. They know it’s rabid. But it’s only gone after one man, and that was when he shot at it. Didn’t bite him. Only clawed him. Self-defense, you’d say. Then, the panther sniffs you out. Smells your peculiar scent of woman and chocolate.”

  “I won’t stay to listen to this nonsense,” said Rebecca, heading for the cabin door.

  Ouida Bell’s eyes were each wide as the full moon.

  “Chocolate, ginger nuts, molasses,” continued Sarah, “all scents unknown to this wild creature. It only knows rotten flesh and bird shit and moldering leaves. But here’s this girl, this beautiful girl, smelling of all the sweetest smells, and her blond curls like corn tossing in the wind as she flies to Hope Hollow on some—”

  “I wanted to—”

  “Hush up, I’m telling a story.” Sarah held up her hands. “And for a moment, the wild beast comes to its senses. Its waking mind comes out from the terrible demon of hydrophobia. And it doesn’t want to attack. It wants to know. It sees, it smells, it hears, but that is not enough. It wants to taste. And so it reaches out with its mouth and it tastes. Like a suitor. Like a lover.”

  Ouida Bell laughed.

  “And that’s why I think you’re the luckiest girl in the world,” said Sarah. “Because the panther that everyone is afraid of is in love with you.”

  I went to the burned-over lot and cut down the three straw effigies from the willow branch. They’d hung there far too long. Then, I did not know what to do with them. Burning them did not seem right, nor burying them, nor throwing them to the ground to rot. Instead, I took them to the river where the current was fast and shoals turned the water into a froth. There, I untied the thread that kept the effigies together, and I threw the unbound pieces into the current. The water took them away. I wondered if there was forgiveness there, in the places where our unbound pieces go. That, though, was a long time hence, a country from which there was no return, and I meant to find absolution here.

  Diagnosis

  “We must observe his paroxysms, his stools, urine, sputum, and vomit. Observe, too, sweating, shivering, chill, cough, sneezing, hiccough, the kind of breathing, belching, wind, whether silent or noisy, hemorrhages, and hemorrhoids. We must determine the significance of all these signs.”

  —Hippocrates

  7

  THE LONELY PETUNIA IN THE

  ONION PATCH

  June 1822

  Lawrenceville was in a panic over Ouida Bell’s mauling. Of course, Rebecca had told me the truth, that it had only been a little nip that hadn’t even broken the skin. A hangnail was a worse wound than what Ouida Bell had suffered from the panther, but rumor and fear had elaborated the attack into a full mauling, with Ouida Bell, bloody and clinging to life, staggering to the Winter sisters’ door and them knitting her flesh back together so that one could not even see the signs of the mauling upon her. The more fervently Ouida Bell denied that this mauling or miraculous healing had taken place, the more fervently the townspeople believed that it had. Perhaps Ouida Bell could have put the rumors to rest by showing them the actual wound, the little nip on her buttocks, but she was too modest.

  Boatwright pounded from the pulpit in rhythms that grew louder with repetition. The panther was not a natural scourge. It was a demonic familiar of the witches, a symbol of the town’s wickedness. What more proof did they need than that the panther had attacked the most innocent and beautiful of us all? Evil hates beauty the most.

  I was in disgrace. I’d sworn I was not a sawbones, but I’d taken off a man’s arm because of my own mistake, the first amputation in as long as Lawrenceville could remember. No one wanted my medicine, believing that I would slice the patient, lance him, bleed him, and scour him with emetics and clysters so that pain and effluvia ran from every orifice. And for what? An amputated arm, a miserable failure. I’d done my best cure in Lawrenceville with the Winter sisters’ medicine, with ipecac and a frog.

  I went into the Flowing Bowl for supper and found no welcome. The patrons at the counter did not scoot to make room for me. No one would lend me a chair. I ended up eating a cold biscuit while standing in the corner. When Pendleton came in, his sleeve pinned up to his shoulder, I felt two dozen pairs of glaring eyes turn not to the wounded man, but to me, and I made my exit.

  I took my constitutionals around the town square, and each time I passed a sawyer or a farmer or a hunter, he’d cross to the other side of the lane, as if my very aura would separate people from their limbs.

  Thus, no one would come to me for curing. But for fear of the panther, no one would go to Hope Hollow, even with a gun. No one wanted to tempt the panther with another sweet treat nor bet that the Winter sisters, powerful as they were, could work another wonder.

  The ailing and ill roamed the square in Lawrenceville. The streets looked like the wards of the Savannah Poor House and Hospital. If Boatwright was doling out healing through prayer, it was not to the general population. I saw women suffering from summer complaint and men clutching their bellies against the gravel because they’d overimbibed. Parsons had a fearsome sty in his left eye that made it seem as though he were gazing through fire, and children ran from him. The palms of Renwick’s hands sported fat boils that caused him great pain when he tried to grip a saucepan. Any of it I could have treated, but no one trusted me. They trusted only the Winter sisters.

  I did not trust myself, either, and like the townsfolk, I could not contain my own wonder at the Winter sisters. I hadn’t seen the wound myself. What panther would only have nipped at Ouida Bell without pressing the attack? How could a wild and rabid animal have left behind only a few teeth marks, not even breaking the skin? Perhaps the Winter sisters had done something to treat the girl. I believed Rebecca when she said there’d been nothing to treat, yet… I wondered at the power of their medicine, which cured without pain, without amputation, without heroics. Furthermore, its power was proven because, in the absence of its availability, the town descended into the ordinary unhealthiness of its people and climate. The town needed the Winter sisters.

  I returned to Hope Hollow on a gray Wednesday morning. The sky was low, and the tops of the trees disappeared in the descending mist. The sound of a musket shot rattled the air. In response to the thundercrack, a cloud of black wings arose from the grove of a million pigeons. The birds rose no higher than the mist at the treetops and churned and swirled like smoke until their panic settled. Failing memory or exhaustion compelled them to return to their branches, and the crack of a rifle came again. Another hundred birds were slain.

  If I wanted any sort of redemption from this mistake, I would need t
o follow the Winter sisters’ cures, at least for a time. I had to humble myself before whatever skill had kept this town’s limbs intact, its teeth glistening white, its fevers few, and its graveyard empty, save for that sole tombstone for Everett.

  What if, instead of treating Pendleton, I’d taken him to Hope Hollow and presented him to Rebecca, Sarah, or Effie? What would they have done? Would they have taken more care? Would they have put on a poultice or ointment to debride the flesh without the dangers of the lancet? What could I learn from the sisters, and how could I show the townsfolk that I had learned? Only my guilt and humility would atone for my failings and help me to correct them.

  Fording the Alcovy presented no troubles. I moved from stone to stone without conscious thought. I realized I’d crossed it only when I was on the other side. The fields and swept yard around the Winters’ cabin were silent.

  I spent several minutes considering their door.

  No, this is a mistake.

  I took two steps backward and hit something moving and soft: a sheep. I tumbled into confusion, getting tangled up with wool. As I tried to find my footing, I sensed more shoes than I anticipated from an ovine altercation, and the smell was better.

  “Aubrey, Aubrey, wait!” said Rebecca.

  We were in a frightful knot. She twisted her torso to release my legs, and by turns, we untangled our ribbons, cravats, bonnets, and shoelaces and found ourselves half-sprawled, half-seated on the hard-swept red clay.

  “I was coming back from gathering.” Rebecca’s bonnet had come loose in the tumble. She tucked her hair up under it, and dust fell into her face. “I saw you in the yard. I didn’t want to shout. I thought I might startle you.”

  “Well, good you didn’t,” I said, straightening myself. “It seems I’m not too steady in the best of circumstances. Quite a comedy.”

  “Yes, quite a comedy.”

  I saw no use in backing away then. “Seeing as how we did run into each other… I have an important question for you, Miss Winter. A proposal.”

  “A proposal?” she said, her voice sharp with surprise.

  “Yes, and if you will permit—”

  “Aubrey, please, let’s consider this somewhere, anywhere other than the dirt?”

  I clambered to my feet and stooped to aid Rebecca. The fingers of her ungloved hand wrapped around my proffered wrist. I felt the warmth of the blood in her veins.

  Rebecca led me up to the cabin, where two chairs sat in the breezeway between the halves of the dogtrot home. We settled into this comfortable, sheltered passageway.

  “Now,” said Rebecca, “this proposal?” Her legs were crossed at the knees, and she leaned forward in her chair.

  “Yes.” I had to present myself scientifically. “I’ve considered at length.” I did not want her to think a rush of humors had led me to rash action. “I haven’t known you long, but I’ve had occasion to observe your character and habits, and I think them excellent.”

  Rebecca nodded. She kept her expressions hidden.

  “And though we have different beliefs, I believe that we are of similar temperament.” I cleared my throat. “To the crux of the matter, then. What I want to ask is… would you consider joining up with me?”

  “Joining up? Is that the city term?”

  “A partnership,” I clarified.

  “Aubrey.” Rebecca exhaled, a slow deflation from pursed lips. “I am not the kind who believes in instantaneous attraction, and I don’t believe that you are either. People are not magnets. Their polarities are not plain. Attractions and repulsions have to be tested.”

  “But what better way to experiment?” I leaned forward, gaining excitement. “If you are in Hope Hollow and I am in Lawrenceville, it’s more difficult—”

  “But what about my sisters?” Rebecca looked down at her feet. I saw the top of her hat, which had been sullied by my bootprint.

  “Your sisters are welcome, too,” I assured her. “I want to know you all.”

  Rebecca lifted her eyes straight up to mine. She glared, and I felt like a bug, impaled. “That, Dr. Waycross, is most untraditional.”

  In a flash, I reheard what I’d said. “Oh, hell.” My bilious humor drained to my feet, and blood rushed to my cheeks. “A proposal, yes, but not that sort of proposal. Miss Winter, I’m so sorry.”

  She continued to glare.

  “I’ve heard the frontier demands hasty courtships in some circumstances. Not our circumstances. We are rational people and don’t find ourselves in such straits.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks flushed. My churning biles and phlegms turned me insensible. “Miss Winter, I do not suppose that you harbor any affections toward me. I am not worthy of them, and I would not propose to claim them. That is, I may wish it, but I meant—”

  Rebecca held up her hand. “Suppose you tell me about your proposal.”

  “I want us to share a medical practice. In town. Waycross and Winters, physician and healers. Your cures are not without merit. The loyalties of your patients prove it. Their good health. Their intact limbs. I cut off Pendleton’s arm. You wouldn’t have done that. You would have saved him.”

  “Aubrey—”

  “I don’t understand your cures. I don’t know why they work or how much good they can do. But I won’t stay ignorant.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks were fading from scarlet, at which I took heart.

  “Do I enjoy letting blood?” I continued. “Get a spiritual lift from giving enemas? Do I want to lop off arms? That is medicine, as proven by the great forefathers of the profession. But even they have their limitations. And if we can ascertain the mechanisms of your healing, separate substance from superstition…”

  A tangle of hair came loose and fell across her face. Rebecca tucked it back. I knew she was either weighing my proposal on its merits or crafting a gentle rejection.

  “Are you staying for supper, Aubrey?”

  In the center of the table was an enormous roasted potato. It was the largest specimen I’d ever seen. Five or six must have unified underground. The amalgamation resembled a human form. It was a trick of the brain but unnerving, a giant potato that looked like a little man, served up for dinner.

  “Sisters, Dr. Waycross is joining us for supper,” said Rebecca. She scavenged an extra, mismatched place setting: a tin plate, a wooden spoon, and a fork with the handle twisted.

  Sarah stood over the vegetable homunculus, holding an ornate knife with a bone handle. Effie occupied three inches of space at the end of a bench. She glanced toward me, and that time, her eyes did not put me in the mind of my sister. Effie’s were gray, true, but the light of the room was different, and the intelligence behind them was strange.

  “Sometimes, this gets messy,” said Sarah as I laid my place setting next to Rebecca’s.

  “Messy?” I asked. “How—”

  Sarah made an incision, and skin peeled back from the wound. The potato writhed and squealed with the escaping steam. “This one didn’t explode,” she said. “Sometimes, they explode.”

  “One exploded.” Rebecca glared at her sister. “I told you it would explode. The skin was too thick. It got too hot. Will you never leave it alone?”

  Sarah made a farting noise. “I’d rather talk about the one that exploded than the thousand that didn’t. Much more interesting, isn’t it, Aubrey?”

  I made a noncommittal noise.

  Sarah slapped a crosswise slice of the roasted potato onto my plate. Its flesh was a vibrant purple, a strange hybrid. Three hot droplets of sauce splattered on my shirtfront, and I wiped them away, leaving grease on my fingertips. Sarah dished out equal portions to her sisters and herself, and then she took a seat nearest the fire. They waited for me to take the first bite because I was the guest.

  “Sarah, may I borrow your knife?”

  Sarah considered my request for longer than I’d anticipated. Then she took the knife from the table, spun it in her palm, and offered me the handle. “Don’t cut yourself, Aubrey. I’m serious. Do not cut
yourself with this knife.”

  “Or what?” I asked, shocked. That was my first impression of gravity from her.

  “It’s Effie’s,” said Sarah.

  I wasn’t sure why that would make any difference. Ownership does not imbue a blade with spirit or poison. I held my portion of the potato fixed with my fork and drew the knife across its surface, making a crosshatch of pieces. All the sisters watched me work, Rebecca judging my skill as a surgeon by the way I handled my cutlery. Thus, I tried to make a show of it, cutting very close to the skin of the potato. Suddenly, the table lurched—a kick from underneath, I thought, though I could not see who’d done it. The knife scratched across my plate, and the blade bit into the skin of my left index finger.

  “Aubrey!” said Sarah with a sharp inhalation.

  “Nothing, nothing. A clean nick is all. Look, not even any blood.” I extended my hand to her so that she could reassure herself by inspection, but I could not see the wound. The pain was quickly fading, the cut already invisible, as if it had never been there at all. Sarah studied Effie with a fixed stare.

  “It appears that Effie’s knife is rather kind,” I said, aiming for levity. “Especially to clumsy folks like me.”

  Rebecca frowned. Sarah watched Effie, riveted. Effie sat still.

  “But you cut yourself with it,” said Sarah. “I told you not to do that.”

  “Why? What’s one knife instead of another?”

  “Aubrey, it’s no matter,” said Rebecca, picking up a biscuit. “It’s only Sarah playing a trick on you. Eat before it gets cold.”

  I picked up my fork, ordinary and less dangerous. The potato would fill the stomach of a hungry laborer, but it would never become a culinary rage in Savannah. “It’s good,” I said.

  Rebecca recognized the diplomacy and appreciated it more than undeserved praise.

  “Nightshades are full of hate,” said Effie into her water glass.

  “Yet you eat them.” Rebecca did not look at her sister.