The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  The other slaves watched her go, then one by one drifted away to follow her back home.

  As Adam turned to go, he heard the Witch again, quiet and despondent.

  Evil woman, I know my fate, she said. I carry it with me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  There was a little shriek from the Widow Gibson as a toy arrow shot by one of the Putnam boys arced up, then plummeted down to the food table to land, quivering and feathers up, right in the middle of her splendidly assembled, but untouched, trifle.

  Mrs. Putnam, embarrassed at the actions of her progeny, chased after the boy, threatening everything from extra chores to a sound thrashing. Gathered around a nearby table and drinking freely, the men cheered the boy on and hooted at Mrs. Putnam—even Mr. Putnam joined in.

  The older boys were busy conducting an Indian foot race--made “Indian” by the fact that none wore shoes. Each heat consisted of three boys, and the winner stood aside to race the winners of the other heats.

  Williams and Zach were old enough to compete, and each won their individual races. Drew, who had rejoined Mike Putnam after his winded mother had returned to make her apologies to Widow Gibson, even called a cease-fire in his Indian war to cheer his brothers on.

  “Come on, Reverend,” urged Jim Roberts. “Have a drink. It’s a special occasion. I’m sure the Lord won’t mind.”

  Johnston finally succumbed to the camaraderie and accepted the glass pushed into his hand. A half-dozen men pounded him on the back, and the amber whiskey sloshed a little as he raised it to his lips, downed it.

  “No more, now. No more,” he gasped, but the men ignored him, pressed another equally full glass into his hands. Johnston caught his wife’s eye at the other table, and she gave him a look that said, in equal measures, “Go ahead, it’s a special day,” and “Watch it.”

  Johnston smiled back at her, already feeling the whiskey on his empty, nervous stomach, and downed the second shot to the whooping of the men.

  Standing apart from the group, Powell, Jack and John maintained an uneasy silence. Jack tightly gripped a glass of whiskey, but left it untasted, though. John sipped at his, and Powell had declined to imbibe this early in the day.

  “Jack, I think you deserve much more thanks than you’ve received for donating the land for the church and overseeing its construction,” said Powell.

  Jack swiveled his head to look at him, but said nothing.

  “I also wanted to tell you how glad and relieved I was to have Betsy well again and back in school. It seemed very touch and go there for a while, and I’m sure you were all worried sick.”

  Jack made a noncommittal grunt, looked sourly down at his glass and took a gulp from it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Powell,” said John quickly, hoping to cut off anything rude his father might come back with. “Bets has seemed to bounce back very well.”

  “She has,” brightened Powell at the chance to talk with someone. “I’ve noticed that, too. Something has changed inside her. She’s much more… much more…”

  “There,” finished John.

  “Yes,” Powell shook his head. “Yes, that’s it. She’s much more there than she was before. The younger boys, though… I’m worried about them.”

  “What about them?” asked John, noticing his father’s ears prick up.

  “They don’t seem to be adjusting too well to the… activities at home,” said Powell, carefully choosing his words.

  “What do you mean, Powell?” Jack rumbled.

  “They seem more quiet than before. Cowed. Scared, if you will.”

  “Are you trying to get at something?”

  “Pa…,” cautioned John, casting a warning glance at Powell.

  “I know you’ve got your hands full with whatever is going on. Your attention has been focused on Betsy, and with good reason. But the boys need support, too,” said Powell, not backing down.

  “How would you know what’s been going on?” demanded Jack. “You have no idea what’s going on, what it is, or what it’s doing to us. Just stay out of our business, Powell.”

  Although stung, Powell noticed that much of Jack’s venom was flat; he didn’t seem nearly as angry as he should have been, would have been a month or so ago.

  “Just wanted to help, Jack,” he offered.

  “We don’t want or need your help, teacher,” Jack sneered, then drained the rest of his whiskey and walked away.

  As he left, there came squeals, then screams from the table the women were gathered around. They threw up their hands to wards off something from above.

  Several of the men rushed over to find the cause of the commotion; what they saw brought them to a stop.

  From an invisible point in the air, fruit rained onto the table, spilled to the ground: bananas, pineapples, grapes, oranges, grapefruit, mangoes, and papaya. When the last pineapple thunked to the ground, the Witch cackled.

  Sorry I’m late, she apologized. But I didn’t have anything to bring, so I went out shopping. It took me a little while, because I had to go all the way to the West Indies. Did I miss supper?

  Silence answered her question as everyone gawked in wonder at the profusion of fruit that lay scattered across the table, and littered the ground.

  While others were amazed, Jack was embarrassed that his private demon was becoming more and more public. Upon seeing the cause of the uproar, he fell back from the crowd, and drifted away to get another shot of whiskey.

  Now, what kind of games do we have today? the Witch asked.

  “I fear you’ve missed all of that,” responded Lucy when no one else seemed willing.

  You mean to tell me that I missed the whole cussed event?

  Reverend Johnston pushed his way to the front of the crowd, threw his head back to look up at the sky—where he perceived her voice to emanate from. He did this with such vigor, however, that his alcohol-clouded reflexes sent him falling backward. Only the application of a few hands from those nearby prevented this from occurring.

  “Witch!” he yelled.

  Yes, Reverend. I’m right here. There’s no need to shout.

  “I want to… where are you anyway?” he asked, spinning around with his head thrown back. Members of the congregation closest to him wisely kept hold of his shoulders.

  Right here, Reverend, laughed the Witch. Say, you’re acting a little strange. Someone pickle you up while I was away?

  “I’ve taken a drink or two in celebration today, yes,” he answered, drawing himself up smartly. “I wanted to thank you.”

  Why, Sugar Tongue, whatever for? she asked, genuinely pleased.

  “For making my first day in my new church something special. Your voice is beautiful, and I don’t know that the Lord makes anything that isn’t pretty.”

  Sugar Tongue, that is the kindest, most inaccurate thing anyone’s said about me since I’ve been here, she gushed.

  “I’d like to shake your hand, if I could,” he said, reaching up into the air.

  Huh? asked the Witch, just as genuinely taken aback by his request.

  “I’d like to shake your hand, Witch,” he said, his skinny, outstretched arm wavering like a slender branch in a high wind.

  Shake my hand? she laughed. Oh, Sugar Tongue! You’re too clever. Of course you can’t shake my hand.

  “But why not?” Johnston asked, his faced screwing up in exaggerated confusion––and not a little dizziness, either.

  You’re just trying to get a hold of me, that’s all. Grab me up. And in front of your wife and everyone. Shame on you!

  “Oh, no,” he said, snatching his hand back and looking around the crowd trying to find his wife’s face. “No, no, that’s not it at all. You’ve got me all wrong. I really do just want to thank you.”

  The Witch considered this. And you’d let go?

  “Of course. Just a quick shake, that’s all. Just to thank you.”

  You promise?

  “Dear lady, you’re speaking to a man of God,” he said.

  The W
itch chuckled. Excuse me for forgetting. Oh, all right. The things I do for you, Sugar Tongue…

  He thrust his hand straight up into the air.

  No, no, dear, just pretend I’m right before you, she whispered in his hear, and Johnston marveled that he could feel her warm breath tickle his lobe.

  Those standing nearest him swore for years after that they could see the flesh of his palm dimple as if something pressed into it. Others saw amazement register on the reverend’s face at the touch of that otherworldly hand.

  It lasted for only a second or two, his hand chopping shortly through the air clasping an invisible partner. Then, his flesh smoothed, and Johnston lifted his head to the sky again as he felt her presence depart.

  Thank you, Reverend, she whispered into his ear again, softly enough that no one but him heard it. You don’t know what you’ve just done, but I’ll treasure it.

  Johnston stood there for a few moments, drunk and dumbfounded, as the crowd closed in around him, looking in awe at his curiously unmarked palm.

  * * *

  As Reverend Johnston stumbled through the gathered congregation to thank the Witch, Betsy Bell wandered away, unaware of her father departing, too, in another direction.

  She leaned against the side of the church, lingered in the cool shade, feeling more apart from her friends and family than ever—and feeling more than a little jealous at the Witch’s innate ability to attract attention.

  As she contemplated the hollowness that seemed to be expanding inside her, a hand fell on her shoulder. She drew in a breath, prepared to scream, when she was spun around. A mouth clamped down on hers. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she didn’t even close her eyes.

  “Hank,” she said, catching her breath. “You scared me.”

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” he grinned, his face very near hers. She could feel his breath, hot and moist, upon her face. The distinct tang of alcohol made her eyes water.

  “You told me you weren’t coming,” she said, smiling a little nervously and looking over his shoulder to see if anyone had seen them together.

  “I changed my mind,” he said, continuing to stare at her, until he noticed her glancing behind him. He turned quickly, half-expecting to see her father bearing down on him.

  Turning and flashing another hungry grin, he grabbed her forearm, pulled her around the church, to a wooded copse on the other side. There, the pine trees stood close, their high, dense canopy shielding the soft, moist floor below from the sun. The air was heavy, redolent with the scent of pine trees and the damp earth. It was cool and sheltered from noise and eyes.

  Betsy didn’t resist, didn’t even think of it. She barely noticed when his hand slipped down the front of her dress, pushed aside her undergarments to clutch at her breasts.

  Hank’s mouth became insistent, forcing her head back, seeking something that Betsy was unable or unwilling to give him.

  Pulling his lips away from hers, he trailed kisses, rough and dry, down her throat to the neckline of her dress. As he did this, his hands sought the buttons along her back, pulled and tugged at these until the top portion of the dress slid from her shoulders. His efforts exposed one breast, as pale as the sunlight that fell through the ceiling of branches and pooled at their feet.

  He groaned at the sight of it, lowered his head.

  Betsy did not resist, did not stir.

  Emboldened by her lack of resistance, he ripped the dress and slip lower––careful yet not to damage her clothing—revealing more of her smooth skin, as untouched and unblemished as new snow. His hands were shaking as they tugged the slip down over her hips, stopped just as they bared the verge of another, more profound border.

  He yanked her to her knees, laid her out before him. His hand hovered over her, barely touching, and he marveled at her firm smoothness and the series of tiny electric shocks that raced up his arm.

  Frowning, Hank noticed that Betsy was not stopping him, protesting, or covering herself as she usually did. She didn’t stay his hand, push him away or turn her lips from his.

  Yet, neither did she share the same hitch he had in his breath, the same trembling in his hands. She wasn’t looking at him, didn’t even have her eyes closed. She just stared into and through the foliage above them.

  Hank saw the way her flat, alabaster belly slipped sensuously back into the confines of the dress as it gathered around her thighs. The shadows cast by the towering pines fell across her hips, hid and revealed mysteries enough to make his mind race and his palms sweat.

  He wanted to fall upon her, tear her clothes, mark her flawless skin. But these thoughts, that once made his blood boil, their fruition now within his easy reach, merely made his stomach flop and twitch like a wounded thing.

  Something was not right, not the same as before.

  He noticed—dimly, yet with some concern—that his own body, too, was not responding as it should. “Betsy,” he said suddenly, the sound of his voice loud and startling even to him. “Marry me. This fall. I can’t wait any longer.”

  Without blinking, without much more than a slight smile, she looked at him. “Yes, Hank. I’ll marry you,” she said from far away.

  Feeling his gorge rise, Hank stood quickly. “Get dressed,” he moaned, slumping against the nearest tree trunk and not bothering to help her.

  He turned away as she rose, slowly pulled her slip and dress back around her. The woods became darker than before, as if clouds had eclipsed the sun. He waited while she buttoned up, smoothed the material, wiped the smudges of earth from her dress.

  Taking her hand, stomping down the impulse to wrench her from the woods behind him, Hank walked with his fiancé back to the church.

  * * *

  The Witch held the entire congregation enthralled and entertained with her talk—mostly gossip concerning people who weren’t there. Whatever she was—demon, angel or something else—it didn’t matter. Everyone wanted to talk with her, to be noticed by her.

  Go ahead and eat up! I got that fruit in the West Indies, like I told you. It’s fresh as fresh can get, she urged.

  “Did you steal it from a market or a ship?” someone in the crowd asked.

  Good grief, no, she laughed. I picked it all myself. I don’t steal. It’s wrong to steal, ain’t it, Perry?

  For a moment, no one knew who she was talking to; then heads turned to look at Lewis Perry.

  “It ain’t wrong to steal when you’re hungry,” the large, red-faced man mumbled, embarrassed at having been singled out by the spirit.

  Then, I hope that sheep skin went down well, she laughed, referring to an old scandal about a missing sheep skin he’d been accused of stealing—and had vigorously denied.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, broken by Jim Roberts laughing quietly. Shamed, Perry lowered his head and plowed through the throng, heading for his horse.

  I expect he’s experiencing some indigestion from all that wool, she hooted, loud enough for him to hear.

  Perry increased his pace, slung himself onto the horse and galloped away, chased by peals of laughter from the Witch and the crowd.

  “Where else have you been ‘sides the West Indies?” asked another woman after Perry was out of sight.

  All over. What do you want to know?

  “What’s going on in England?” she asked.

  Well, the Witch said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. Y’all know how good King George III died a few months ago? Well, the Redcoats would never have you know that His Highness spent the last few years of his life blind and mad, talking to imaginary friends and pissing his own pants. His hated son, now crowned King George IV, was his regent for the last decade of his pitiful reign.

  ‘When from earth the Fourth descends,

  God be praised, the Georges end.’

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  Just think, y’all might still be British had old George been playing whist with a full deck. But, not to worry, this is your
time, America’s time. The Age of England is coming to a slow and grinding end, the Witch said a little wistfully.

  “What about Washington?” someone yelled.

  Still dead, as far as I know, and this, too, produced a ripple of laughter.

  “No, the capital city.”

  Oh, the same old thing. President Monroe’s sailing through his first term of office, she said, a trifle bored.

  “Will he be reelected?”

  Yes, the Witch sniffed. Though, in the scheme of things, his eight years will be rather unremarkable. Only his Doctrine will keep his name on students’ lips.

  The questioner looked confused at the answer, prepared to ask for clarification.

  If you’re going to treat me like the damned Delphic Oracle, she interrupted the man, at least allow me to be mysterious. Anyway, your next president, unlike England’s new king, will be a keeper.

  “Who?” the questioner persisted.

  Oh, Lord, already. John Quincy Adams, if you must know. Vote early, vote often. Next question, please.

  “What are you, anyway?” asked Jim Roberts, and the crowd fell silent again.

  What? Not Who? she laughed. How rude. Well, I’m not supposed to tell, and I’m sure you’ll all keep this to yourself, but Kate Batts sent me to torment the Bells.

  Stunned silence met this claim. The Witch couldn’t have produced a similar reaction if she had decided to appear from thin air before them.

  Out of the corner of her eyes, Lucy—stunned, too, at this revelation, but not quite accepting it—saw Jack straighten. He had heard the Witch, and moved toward the gathering.

  “Kate Batts?” repeated Lucy, mortified even to say her name, much less in public. “Kate Batts sent you?”

  The Witch ignored Lucy’s query, waited for the buzz of flabbergasted conversation to reach a crescendo. Why is that so hard to believe? she finally asked. She lives, for all purposes, alone. Unmarried, unless you count her invalid husband. With 50 or so Haitian and Jamaican slaves, trained in the magic of vodoun. Does she ever come to church?