The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “I can see something… a head… lots of hair,” cooed Naddy. Anky sat up, tried to see for herself, but Naddy’s firm hand on her abdomen––and a shooting pain––quickly changed her mind.

  “I’m… real… tired… think I’m gonna throw up,” she moaned.

  “You just hang in there, missy,” Naddy said, patting her thigh. “You’re doin’ fine.”

  Anky reached out, sought Sam’s hand, and squeezed it.

  Sam was so focused that, for a moment, he didn’t feel it.

  When he looked down at her, she smiled; he seemed so scared and confused and dear that Anky laughed. Until another contraction interrupted her.

  She cried out again, more in relief than in pain.

  “I got it. It’s out!” exclaimed Naddy. There were sounds now from where she worked: water being poured, the rustling of material, the sound of flesh slapping flesh.

  And then another, electrifying in the quiet room.

  The cry of a baby.

  “Let me see…,” hesitated Anky.

  “Her,” said Naddy, holding up the squalling infant, wrapped tightly.

  She handed the little parcel to Anky, who held her close to her chest, tears spilling down her face.

  “A daughter,” mused Sam, almost as if not quite believing it. “A daughter?”

  Naddy stood, wiping her hands on an apron covering her dress. She pulled back some hastily erected quilts that had screened off the birthing room from the rest of the slave quarters just enough to poke her head through.

  “It’s a girl. Everyone’s doin’ fine,” she said, abruptly ducking back inside and drawing the curtains closed onto laughter and quiet applause.

  “What you gonna name her?” she asked, returning to her earlier position to clean Anky’s lower body.

  Anky looked up at Sam proudly, her eyes urging him to say it.

  “Her name is Belle,” he said. “Belle. Mr. John says it’s French for ‘beauty.’”

  “Belle,” repeated Naddy. “Why that name?”

  “We have our reasons,” Anky smiled serenely, kissed the top of the baby’s head.

  “Hello, Belle,” cooed Sam, letting the baby take hold of one his fingers in her pudgy little hands.

  Anky lay back on the pillow and watched her husband. As she did, she felt another hand upon her brow, cool and comforting.

  Thank you, the Witch whispered in a voice only Anky could hear. Thank you very much.

  Something wet and warm dropped onto Anky’s cheek.

  A single tear.

  On an impulse, Anky raised her hand to touch it.

  Her fingers found a solid object there, glittering.

  She picked it up, brought it to her eyes.

  It was a diamond, small and tear-shaped.

  It’s for Belle, whispered the Witch. Love her all of the days of this life. And give this to her when she is old enough… old enough to know of me.

  She kissed Anky again, lightly on the forehead, then was gone.

  * * *

  Powell sweated uncomfortably in the sitting room. He tugged at his suddenly too-tight collar, felt perspiration dampen his cuffs and his back.

  That morning, he had met with Mr. Dalton Clydes and Mr. Jonathon Messier, his two backers for the state representative seat for Robertson County. They had good news: the retiring incumbent would support Powell’s bid in the upcoming election. Local politics being what they were, Powell was now assured of winning.

  It was all too heady, too fast, too real––from schoolmaster to politician in less than a year.

  But something larger dominated the landscape of his nervousness.

  He had made a promise to himself that, once assured of the direction and success of his career change, he’d ask Betsy to marry him.

  Here he was at the Bell house on this cold February morning to ask Betsy for her hand. Compared to this, the prospect of playing a role in the government of the State of Tennessee seemed trivial.

  He heard footsteps coming down the hall toward the sitting room, and his tortured stomach lurched in anticipation.

  She turned the corner, her smile radiant, her face flushed.

  “Richard!” she exclaimed. Dashing to him, she nearly bowled him over with the force of her joy.

  They kissed, and Powell was unable to release her; half for the pure pleasure of the act itself, half because, once released, his lips would need to do the job they came here for.

  “Whatever are you here for?”

  “Well, I’ve some good news,” he began, then outlined his plans, the support of his backers, and the final promise from the incumbent congressman. When he finished, she stood before him in near amazement.

  “A representative?” she asked. “Oh, Richard! That’s fabulous news!” She threw her arms around him, and squeezed tight.

  “If you’ll release me,” he grunted, “I’ve more to tell you.”

  “There’s more?” she asked, letting loose only a bit, looking up at him and smiling impishly. “Will you run for president as well?”

  “No,” he said, unwrapping her arms from around his body and gently holding her at arm’s length. “No, this is something different. Something more. I need… to ask you something. And I need a truthful answer from you.”

  “Yes?” she asked, thrown off balance a little.

  Powell drew in a breath, looked at her. “Well, we’ve courted for going on four months now. And I’ll have to move to Nashville soon to campaign a little just prior to the election. I’ll have to leave you then, and I don’t want to. So, I was… thinking… hoping, rather…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well… that you could accompany me… I mean, we could… Oh, hell, will you marry me?” he said in frustration with his own nerves.

  Betsy’s mouth fell open, but no words came out.

  Powell waited, but nothing seemed imminent. “If that’s a no, just give me a sign,” he prompted.

  “No.”

  Powell’s face fell a little. “All right then…”

  “No, what I said didn’t mean no,” she blurted. “I mean, what I didn’t say didn’t mean no. I mean… yes.”

  “Yes?” he lit up.

  “Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”

  He swept her up then in an embrace of his own, carried her feet off the floor and kissed her, then again, again.

  She giggled, melted into his arms.

  “Wait!” he shouted, setting her dizzily back onto her feet. “I’ve something for you… here somewhere. Damn!” he said, searching his pockets.

  “A-ha!” Powell pulled a ring from his pocket with great flourish. “Here.”

  Betsy eagerly held out her hand, allowed Powell to slip it onto her finger.

  It fit perfectly.

  She snatched her hand back quickly, examined it.

  The ring was beautiful. It was a filigreed band of white gold with a small, round diamond in its center.

  “It was all I could afford now. I got it in Boston just last month. I was going to give it to you at Christmas, but––”

  “Shh!” she scolded. “It’s beautiful.”

  Yes, yes it is, came another voice, quiet and sad.

  “Witch?” asked Betsy. “Were you listening? What do you think?”

  You know I’m always listening, the Witch upbraided her. I think it’s wonderful… perfect. You two will have a happy marriage. But that ring…

  “What about the ring?” Powell asked defensively.

  It’s not big enough for one as beautiful as Betsy, she responded. Here, then, is my wedding gift to both of you… a little early.

  A drop of water struck Betsy’s face, and she flinched.

  Powell reached out and brushed it into his hand, held his palm out for her to see.

  It was a single, large, tear-shaped diamond, at least two carats in weight. It glittered and danced in the light.

  “It’s lovely,” breathed Betsy. “But it would be rude to…”

  “No, that’s
all right,” Powell interrupted. “I think I understand. It’s a lovely gift, Witch. And we thank you for it. I’ll get it set soon, and it will look beautiful on her hand.”

  Betsy smiled shyly back at Powell, surprised at his act of kindness to the spirit.

  I’ll leave you two alone to enjoy the beginnings of this new life together, said the Witch, her voice still sad. But I want to be invited to the wedding.

  And with that, she was gone.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Like the funeral of Jack Bell, the wedding of Betsy and Richard Powell moved quickly to fruition. The announcement of their engagement and upcoming wedding caused a great deal of happiness throughout the community.

  Lucy, when told of their plans, was adamant that the wedding should take place soon; the sooner the better, she told them. There simply was no reason for them to postpone their life together another day longer.

  Powell was inclined to agree. The demands of his neophyte political life were increasing, and his time and energy were being drawn more and more to Nashville. Already, he was making the necessary arrangements to secure a house within the city.

  But more, Powell felt it important to remove Betsy, to separate her from what happened in the past.

  To begin her life anew-––with him.

  A wedding and a change in surroundings seemed just the way to accomplish that.

  Just to ensure that things stayed respectable, Powell, unbeknownst to Betsy, did pay a call to John’s house to ask him formally for his sister’s hand, in lieu of asking her father.

  John gave his permission, for, as he laughingly asked, what else could he do? Who could deny Betsy now?

  Since Betsy wanted the wedding to be a simple and restrained affair, limited to family and close friends, the event came together relatively easily.

  On a chilly spring day late in March, when frost still faceted the early morning grass and budding leaves, the wedding took place. Betsy Bell, clothed in a white silk wedding dress that seemed to cast its own shimmering light, stepped outside that morning, as beautiful as a newly bloomed lily.

  Carefully, so as not to damage or mark her dress, she was helped into a wagon and driven slowly to the tiny church by Sam.

  There, she was led inside, where John took her arm, waited for the hymn to begin for escorting her down the aisle. When they reached the pulpit, John kissed her lightly on one of her flushed cheeks, shook Powell’s sweaty hand, then pressed it into Betsy’s.

  Johnston beamed from his perch, secure in his position as head of this congregation in a way he had never been before. He easily led his people in prayer and in song.

  After the vows had been exchanged and Powell’s ring, with the Witch’s diamond mounted in place of his own, was snug on Betsy’s finger, Johnston flipped the Bible open to the reading he had selected especially for this occasion.

  “‘There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say not It is enough: the grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.’

  “‘There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.’

  “‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’” he asked, looking now directly at Betsy. “‘For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.’”

  He held Betsy’s teary eyes for a second more, his own vision blurring, then looked away, closed the Bible.

  Before he could say anything else, the Witch interrupted.

  Excuse me, rev, but I’d like to sing a song for Betsy and Powell, if you don’t mind, she asked. But her voice was no longer the raucously loud, powerful voice it had been. Rather it seemed muffled and weak, as if it had traveled a great distance to reach them.

  Johnston frowned, but knew it would be useless to argue with her and spoil the ceremony. He looked down at Betsy, who shrugged her shoulders slightly in response.

  “One song, Witch,” he answered, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. Because, when she answered, she seemed wounded and a bit offended.

  One song, Reverend.

  She cleared her voice and began.

  It seemed as if the very stuff of sunlight had condensed into melody, dripped from the golden air like honey. The music seemed to hover around Betsy’s figure, suffusing her with a warm, radiant light.

  It was a song never heard before. When it was finished, no one could remember the words, as if they had melted into the too-substantial air upon utterance

  There was a profound silence in the church, marked only by the sniffling and quiet crying of the worshipers.

  “Thank you,” Johnston offered, clearing his throat.

  I’ll see you all back at the house, the Witch replied.

  FORTY

  As spring took a firmer hold on the land, the sun pushed its heat down into the earth and pulled up new plants, deepening the emerald cast of the hills. Crops began to fill in the brown fields, and the trees wrapped their naked limbs in cloaks of glorious colors—from the whites and pinks of dogwoods to the showy purple-crimsons of the redbuds.

  Life on the Bell farm continued much as it had in the past, with early mornings and late evenings and plenty of work in between. John now directed the work, and the slaves found that things went much easier. There seemed to be more hours to the day under his supervision, or at least more eagerness to eke out all there was of the hours that had always been.

  John was not proving hesitant in his decisions regarding the farm. He had directed that the old smokehouse be demolished, and already the new one was going up. He’d ordered repairs to the well and the dairy, and was seriously considering the addition of another barn and enclosing the whistle walk so that the slaves would have an easier time getting from the kitchen to the dining room in bad weather.

  One thing he was unable to do was cut down the pear orchard near the front of the house. It was a choked and intergrown mess, he contended, and he wanted to rip it out and replace it with apple trees or even a flower garden for his mother.

  Lucy would not allow it.

  Since her husband’s death, she had moved out of their bedroom, swapping with a guest room down the hall. She spent much of her time in that room now, looking out the window onto the pear trees, watching the green leaves conceal the voids between the gnarled, intertwined limbs, the wind stir through the opening blossoms.

  And she wanted it left just as it was. Lucy explained to John that it reminded her, for reasons John couldn’t—or wouldn’t—fathom, of Betsy.

  That was the last discussion of any import concerning the farm and its operations that John had with his mother. She left him to run the farm as he saw fit, and he left her to her own thoughts, her own guilt, however real or imagined it may have been.

  Betsy and Powell had been gone for nearly a month, and the reality of their absence, and the death of Jack, had begun to dominate Lucy’s thoughts. Sometimes, John or Naddy or one of the boys caught Lucy in her room talking quietly as if to Betsy.

  She became reclusive, quiet, distant, withdrawing physically inside the house and mentally within her mind. She lost weight, began to look older than her years.

  The Witch had not been heard from at all since her song at Betsy’s wedding. Gone for more than five weeks, the memories of her presence had begun to fade, becoming cloudy and ill-defined.

  During the last week, John had laid in bed many nights wondering if she had been real at all or just a figment of their imagination. The only things he really knew for sure was that his father was dead, his mother wa
s flirting with madness, and his sister had moved away.

  It seemed to him that she had taken with her the last bit of joy left in the house, packed in the meager baggage she took to accompany her husband.

  John wondered, in his darker moments, if she had also taken the Witch with her.

  * * *

  After a long evening, the sun had finally begun to set behind the hills. John sighed in relief when he saw it; he had begun to think the mechanism that moved it through the sky had broken, and that they’d be damned to working and eternal afternoon.

  He’d just returned with Sam and the three other men from repairing a section of fence, what seemed a never-ending chore on the large farm.

  “Good work today, Sam, men,” he said to the group. “Nothing more tonight. Get fed and rested up for tomorrow.”

  John clapped Sam on the back as the others dispersed toward the slave quarters. A chorus of weary “Goodnights” drifted lazily from them.

  John watched them go, began unloading unused railing and other equipment from the back of the wagon.

  “You sure you don’t need no help with that, Mr. Bell?” asked Sam, hanging behind.

  “No,” John laughed, turning to him. “Go see to that baby of yours, Sam. You’ve done enough for today. I’ll finish up here.”

  Sam thought about it for a minute, flashed a smile at John before he followed the others inside.

  When he was finished, and the barn was snugly closed, John stood for a moment looking at the main house. Through the windows, he could see his mother sitting downstairs knitting, his younger brothers playing on the floor around her.

  From this distance, all looked as it had a year ago or more––peaceful, untroubled, normal.

  He thought about going inside to say hello, have a cup of coffee, and relax. But he knew that it wouldn’t really be as he saw it from here.

  Tonight, he preferred the way it looked from outside, through the window.

  He climbed aboard the wagon, snapped the reins and set out for his own home.