The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  Johnston looked down at the row of pews the Bells occupied, felt discomfort roll from them in waves.

  Now, Sugar Tongue, that’s all well and good, but I have as much right to be here as anyone. Probably more so than others. And you should be the first to stand up for me, the Witch said.

  “It’s the devil, Reverend!” came Mrs. Spranger’s voice from the rear of the church. “The Bells have brought the devil with them! Just like the niggers have been saying.”

  Shush, Nancy, warned the Witch. I’m no more devil than are you, though you have been known to take the Lord’s name in vain more than any devil I’ve ever known.

  Mrs. Spranger’s face flushed crimson, her mouth swung open unhinged, and she fell back into her seat as if her legs had been cut from under her.

  Were I a demon, wouldn’t that give you even more reason to allow me to attend your fine church services? Even Christ broke bread with the sinners. And let me tell you, just like little Nancy here, plenty of you folks have a lot more reason to be here than do I.

  No one replied or moved for a spell, until Jim Roberts, a local wag, spoke up. “How ‘bout singing us another song? I don’t know if you’re a devil or not, but you sure do sing as pretty as an angel.” His wife elbowed him hard in the gut, and there were a few suppressed gusts of nervous laughter.

  Why, Jimmie boy! You make a girl blush. Sure, I can sing another song. Here’s a new one for y’all.

  “My eyes have seen the glory,

  Of the coming of the Lord.

  He is trampling out the vintage,

  Where the grapes of wrath are stored.

  He has loosed the fateful lightning,

  Of his terrible, swift sword.

  His truth is marching on!

  Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

  His truth is marching on.”

  Unaccompanied by instruments, unhindered by other voices, hers was a thing of beauty, filling the room with glorious sound. The congregation, sat transfixed, caught between fearful amazement at what they were listening to, and rapt admiration at the lovely, disembodied voice and the unknown song it sang.

  The Witch sang another two verses before stopping.

  Now, could the devil have sung such a beautiful song? And so well, I ask you? she asked.

  Johnston cleared his throat. “That was wonderful. What was it?”

  Oh, it hasn’t caught on just yet, but give it another 40 or so years. It’ll be a real barnburner in these parts. Now, enough from me, Reverend Johnston. This is your day, you go ahead and take it from here.

  Johnston looked at a loss as attention in the room shifted back to him. Eyes—so many of them, he noticed—glared at him, beseeched him, looked to him for leadership. He remembered, for an instant, the night at the Bell house when he had quieted the spirit with words from the Bible.

  His brow furrowing, he went to the Bible on the pulpit, opened it.

  “Let me… share with you… some words,” he said haltingly as he searched through the book, “… that may shed some light on what has… just… happened… Ah-hah!” he exclaimed, with a little too much exuberance.

  Blushing, he bent to the words before him.

  “‘And it came to pass in those days, that the Philistines gathered their armies together for warfare, to fight with Israel. And Achish said unto David, Know thou assuredly, that thou shalt go out with me to battle, thou and thy men. And David said to Achish, Surely thou shalt know what thy servant can do. And Achish said to David, Therefore will I make thee keeper of mine head forever.’”

  Oh, Sugar Tongue, you’re brilliant. Simply brilliant! squealed the Witch, then she lapsed back into expectant silence.

  Momentarily flustered, Johnston returned to the text.

  “‘Now Samuel was dead, and all Israel had lamented him, and buried him in Ramah, even in his own city. And Saul put away those that had familiar spirits, and the wizards out of the land…’”

  Put out the wizards! Kill the lawyers! shouted the Witch, and Reverend Johnston looked up again, this time in annoyance. Sorry, Rev.

  “‘And the Philistines gathered themselves together and came and pitched in Shunem: and Saul gathered all Israel together and they pitched in Gilboa. And when Saul saw the host of the Philistines, he was afraid, and his heart greatly trembled. And when Saul enquired of the Lord, the Lord answered him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets.

  “‘Then Saul said unto his servants, Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her and enquire of her. And his servants said to him, Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor.’”

  I think I know who I am and where En-dor must be, but who’s the woman supposed to be in all this, rev? asked the Witch, and both Betsy and Lucy shrank in their pews, afraid the Witch would call them out.

  “Of course,” Johnston said, ignoring her and closing the book. “The Witch of En-dor calls Samuel’s spirit back from the dead so that Saul can question him about what to do. And Samuel says to Saul, ‘Why ask me what to do when God himself has departed you?’”

  A fine reading, Sugar Tongue. But its parallel to our situation is deeper and broader than just the surface admonition you were intending. And it is that deeper meaning that is entirely lost on your audience. For now, at least. But, I appreciate the effort as perhaps no one in this room does.

  Regaining some of his lost composure, Johnston stiffened his back. “Witch, you’re free to worship, as long as you so desire. If God will allow it, then who am I to go against him?”

  This drew gasps and indignant muttering from the congregation.

  Jack Bell glared at Johnston, who looked him squarely back into the eye before proceeding. That one look told Jack what Johnston might never have been able to vocalize.

  “Please leave the reading and interpretation of Scripture in my hands. And disturb no one while you’re within these walls.”

  Reverend, said the Witch. I surely mean no disrespect, and will do exactly as you would have me. I have one request, though.

  “Yes.”

  As a gift, please allow me to lead the singing on Sundays.

  Johnston mulled this over for a moment.

  “Agreed.”

  Fine. Well, then, if we’re finished, let me sing one last song. She cleared her throat loudly, swallowed unpleasantly.

  “Amazing Grace,

  How sweet the sound!

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost,

  But now am found.

  Was blind,

  But now I see.”

  Her voice wove a spell about the listeners again, and it was not until she finished, fell silent, that anyone stirred.

  Johnston rose, spread his black-robed arms. “Thank you, brothers and sisters, for coming today and offering your thanks to the Lord in this, his new house of worship. May we be blessed with many, many Sundays here in the years ahead. Go now, and spread the word of God.” He lifted his head. “I’d like to invite you all to stay and celebrate a little longer by sampling some of the great food the ladies have made for all of us. God bless!”

  Relieved to be dismissed, people cleared the pews almost before Johnston stopped talking. They spilled outside, gathered in little clutches of two or three or four, all talking, pointing or nodding toward the Bell family, who had gone off to one side of the church.

  “She did have a lovely voice,” said Betsy, somewhat timidly.

  * * *

  The winter had been a wet, snowy one, and the spring melt-off swelled the narrow banks of the Red River with fast, cold water. Its normally rocky, shallow bed was inundated with the gurgle of swift-moving, waist-deep quicksilver.

  In the summer, this would slow to a flat, meandering ribbon of water, no more than a few yards across, no more than a two or three feet in depth, which, for the most part, gathered in placid pools as if seeking protection from the thirsty
sun.

  It was in the spring, then, when the water was at its deepest, when its cold took one’s breath away, that the slaves went to the Red River for baptisms. Just as the spring sun brought new life to the earth, the spring waters of the Red River brought new life to their souls.

  Once Reverend Johnston’s plans to dedicate the new church were well known, Adam chose the same day, weather permitting, for the annual baptisms. That way, the slaves could have the maximum amount of time and privacy for their own celebrations.

  Their songs, loud and joyously raucous, drifted across the fields, echoed off the gentle hills.

  They chose, each year, a small, natural slope of land that slid into the water at a shallow angle, affording easy access to its spiritual touch.

  On this same morning, then, that the Bell Witch raised her mellifluous voice unto the Lord, Adam recited Scripture from a cracked and tattered, dog-eared Bible, with a great chunk of the Old Testament missing.

  Although presented with many opportunities to replace this careworn book, Adam held onto it. He maintained that the missing chapters--Judges through Job, depicted too-punishing a God for his tastes, and therefore, his Bible could just as well do without them. As long as he had the complete New Testament, with its compassionate God, Adam felt he had all he needed.

  “‘In those days, came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judea, and saying, Repent ye: for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the path of the Lord, make his paths straight.’”

  “Amen!” came a chorus of enthusiastic voices.

  “‘And the same John had his raiment of camel’s hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey. They went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judea, and all the region round about Jordan, and were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins.’

  “‘Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him. But John forbad him, saying, I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? And Jesus answering said unto him, Suffer it to be so now: and thus it becometh us to fulfill all righteousness. Then he suffered him.’

  “‘And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the Heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him: And lo a voice from Heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.’”

  “Amen!”

  “Now, brothers and sisters, as John the Baptist did for Jesus Christ himself, let’s wash clean the souls of those who’ve felt the call of the Lord come on them.”

  As Adam said this, he waded knee-deep into the clear, cold water, soaking and darkening his trouser legs. He skimmed the light brown palm of his hand along the water’s surface, cupped a little of it and let it trickle back to the river.

  “The water is ready to clean some souls, so let’s get down to God’s own work,” he said, motioning for the first person to join him in the water.

  As the women slowly sang “We Are Climbing Jacob’s Ladder,” a young girl of perhaps 12 or 13 tiptoed into the water, gasping at its chill contact.

  Taking her in an embrace, her back tucked into the crook of his elbow, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Lord, wash clean the soul of Hannah and make her ready for you to receive into your heavenly kingdom.”

  “Amen” came the group’s answer again.

  Gently, he drew her shivering body to him, dipped her backwards until the dark curls of her hair grazed the water.

  “Hold your breath, Chile,” Adam whispered. As she drew air in, closed her eyes, he quickly lowered her below the surface, paused, then brought her back into the warm world of the air, gasping and sputtering.

  After a time, the line shortened, and there was a group of newly baptized huddled together on the muddied shore, dripping, shivering, glistening, and glowing.

  When Adam looked up to receive the next person, he smiled. It was Sam, shirtless and looking a little nervous about making his entrance into the spiritual community.

  “Are you comin’ down to join me, or should we bring the river up to you?” asked Adam as Sam stood waiting on the shore. Adam saw the boy blush as the others laughed, saw the sheepish look Sam cast back to Anky.

  He splashed into the water, stood beside Adam.

  “You ready to have the Lord enter unto you, boy?” asked Adam, wrapping a skinny arm around Sam’s broad, bare shoulders.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lord, wash clean the soul of Samuel and make him ready for you to receive into your heavenly kingdom.”

  Sam bent backward stiffly, collapsed like a child into Adam’s arms. The old man grunted softly as he accepted Sam’s weight, plunged him into the water.

  As Sam’s head rose from the river, shaking away its touch in a spray of cold silver, the Witch’s voice surprised them.

  Dunk him under again, Adam. I can see his soul, and it ain’t clean yet.

  At her words, the singing faded, and silence fell over the gathering. Samuel stopped spitting and stared into the air.

  “What can we do for you, spirit?” asked Adam.

  Nothing, Old Man, nothing at all, she replied. Just go ahead with what you’re doing. I didn’t come to stand in the way of the Lord’s work.

  “Why, then?”

  Just to see how the other side does it.

  “Does what?”

  Receives God.

  Adam turned to Sam, nodded for the young man to return to the shore, gestured for the next woman to come down. As he began her baptism, the Witch interrupted again.

  The white folks need a nice new church to worship in. Why don’t you?

  Adam lowered the woman carefully under the water. “A church is above our means.”

  He brought her up, embraced her, and she looked around apprehensively before splashing back to land.

  “Besides,” Adam continued when further comments from the spirit weren’t forthcoming. “God don’t need no fancy house to live in. The earth is his church. He made it, and it’s good enough for me.”

  That sounds an awful lot like sour grapes, she said, equally as sour. Adam ignored her and finished baptizing the final person in line, an elderly man who grimaced in arthritic pain as Adam submerged him in the river.

  I’ve been watching y’all for some time, you know, she mused.

  “You have? What do you think?”

  I like your songs. The white folks seem to like their god to be vindictive and angry. It’s as if they feel the need to be punished for something. All that singing about blood and wrath and dying on the cross. Yuck!

  That brought a smile to Adam’s face and snickers from the other slaves gathered on the shore.

  Yours is a loving, forgiving God. I like that.

  “Do you know God, Witch?” asked Adam, climbing from the water with the help of Sam’s hand.

  I’m no closer to God than any of you. I’m certainly no farther away, either, if that’s what you’re asking. But I can say that, even though I prefer your views, I think that God really lies somewhere in between; sometimes angry, sometimes forgiving.

  “How can that be? One seems to cancel the other out.”

  I don’t know. But my heart tells me the one thing that my very existence precludes.

  “You’re a puzzle, Witch.”

  I have a surprise for you. Would you like to know what it is?

  “With you, girl, that’s always a loaded question,” he chuckled.

  This is, I think, something you’ll enjoy. You’ve one soul left to baptize. Come out, Saloma!

  There was a rustle in the bushes nearby and a wailing scream. Her arms waving about her head, Saloma stumbled out from behind the undergrowth, and fell to her knees shrieking. “Leave me alone, bakas! Dambella devour you!”

  What do you think, Adam? Do you think there’s enough water in the river to wash clean this dirty soul?
You want to try… or should I?

  It was apparent from her tone of voice that the Witch thought she should.

  “Witch, that old woman’s a tonton macoute. You’d best leave her be,” shouted Adam, careful that Saloma not think he was behind this.

  Bah! spat the Witch, and Saloma was pulled roughly to her feet.

  Adam heard the Witch’s voice again, and it dropped an octave or more. Deep and throaty, it spoke a few words, barely recognizable to Adam, in the old African tongue.

  Saloma drew in a sharp, surprised breath, and the color spilled from her face. Without warning, she was lifted into the air, five or six feet over the river, suspended limply there, then thrust under the water with great force. It seemed a long time before she reappeared, soaking wet, her face a study in hatred.

  Adam and several other men raced into the water to get her, but as they neared, she was forced under again, the scream poised on her lips turning into a stream of bubbles.

  I think she’s not quite ready, yet, laughed the Witch. Wow, she’s really struggling. I don’t know if her gros-bon-ange is ready to receive the Lord or not, Adam.

  Just then, she bobbed to the surface again, floated there like a stunned fish. Adam and the men took the opportunity to grab her, lift her from the water and carry her to shore.

  As her feet made contact with the land again, Saloma seemed to return to her senses. She shrugged free of the men—who needed no further encouragement to unhand her—and hissed at the empty air.

  The others look like newborn souls. You, Saloma, just look like a drowned cat, laughed the Witch.

  Saloma turned to glower at anyone with even the flicker of a smile on their faces.

  Straightening herself with as much dignity as she could muster, she squished away. When she was several paces from the group, she turned back toward them. “Bakas, no matter what you do to anyone here, your fate is the worst of all.” Haughtily, she spun around and resumed her wet path back to the slave quarters.