More Tellable Cracker Tales

by Annette J. Bruce

  Dead! Her lover dead! Poor Weenonah! Will she return to the paternal lodge, and dwell among her people, while her father’s hand is stained with the drippings of her lover’s scalp? No; she hurries away to the well-known fountain. Her heart is there; for it is a favorite spot, and was a trysting-place, where she and Chuleotah met. Its associations are all made sacred by the memories of the past, while on the glassy bosom of the spring the pale ghost of Chuleotah stands beckoning her to come. ‘Yes, my own, my beloved one, I come. I will follow where thou leadest, to the green and flowery land.’ Thus spake the will, if not the lips, of the maiden. It is not a mere common suicide which she now contemplates; it is not because she is sick of the world, or tired of life. Her faith is, that by an act of self-immolation she will join her lover on that spirit-plain, whose far-off, strange glory has now for her such an irresistible attraction.

  The red clouds of sunset had passed away from the western skies. Gray mists came stealing on, but they soon melted and disappeared, as the stars shone through the airy blue. The moon came out with more than common brilliancy, and her light silvered the fountain. All was still, save the night-winds, that sighed and moaned through the lofty pines.

  Then came Weenonah to the side of the spring, where, gazing down, she could see on the bottom the clear, green shelves of limestone, sloping into sharp hollows, opening here and there into still profounder depths. Forty feet below, on the mass of rock, was her bed of death—easy enough for her, as before she could reach it the spirit must have fled. The jagged rocks on the floor could therefore produce no pain in that beautiful form. For a moment she paused on the edge of the spring, then met her palms above her head, and with a wild leap she fell into the whelming waves.

  Down there in the spring are shells, finely polished by the attrition of the waters. They shine with purple and crimson, mingled with white irradiations, as if beams of the Aurora, or clouds of a tropical sunset, had been broken and scattered among them. Now, mark those long, green filaments of moss, or fresh-water algae, swaying to and fro to the motion of the waves; these are the loosened braids of Weenonah’s hair, whose coronet gives us such beautiful coruscations, sparkling and luminous, like diamonds of the deep, when in the phosphorescence of night the ocean waves are tipped with fire. These relics of the devoted Indian girl are the charm of Silver Springs. But as to Weenonah herself—the real woman who could think and feel, with her affections and memory—she has gone to one of those enchanted isles far out in the western sea, where the maiden and her lover are united, and where both have found another Silver Spring, amid the rosy bowers of love eternal.

  Telling time: 8–9 minutes

  Audience: 4th grade–adult

  This legend, taken from Petals Plucked from Sunny Climes, published in 1880, seems so much in keeping with what might have been reality, we have copied it for the benefit of those who are fond of legendary tales.

  The Legend of Bernice and Claire

  About one hundred years ago, among the settlers in the vicinity of Fort King, lived a proud and haughty Carolinian, Captain Harding Douglass. His only son, Claire, fell in love with Bernice Mayo. Bernice’s father had sold his homeplace in Virginia and moved his wife to Florida, hoping her health would improve. They settled near the Oklawaha River, where Bernice was born. When Bernice was eight years old, her mother got “swamp fever” and died. Three years later Bernice and her father moved to Silver Springs. He had spent all his savings and hired out as a lumberjack. Bernice was left alone from before daylight until after dark, with only Aunt Silla, an old black woman, to keep an eye on her. Although Bernice had neither the clothes nor ornaments to enhance her appearance, she was soon turning heads everywhere she went. Her thin body moved with grace. Her blonde hair was her golden crown. Her eyes were the color of—and her features were as delicate and perfect as—a violet.

  Bernice and Claire met when Claire came to Silver Springs, which he often did. From the first time he met Bernice, he was infatuated with her and, from their first meeting, found ways for them to spend time together in and around beautiful Silver Springs. At last, Claire declared his love for her and gave her a gold chain bracelet. She was hesitant to accept the gift, but when he apologized for it not being something better, she accepted it.

  “Here,” Claire said, “let me fasten it around your wrist to symbolize how my love will forever surround you.”

  Bernice was so excited! She had long loved Claire, but she knew that her father was right—that she shouldn’t get her heart set on him. She now trembled with excitement as she waited to share her happiness with her father. He took a good look at the bracelet and said, “Looks like real gold, but, Berny-Baby, I wouldn’t get my heart set on marryin’ him, no matter what he says, for I don’t believe the Captain will let it ever happen.”

  Her father’s reaction caused a cloud to pass over Bernice’s sun, but a few miles away Claire’s sun was in total eclipse. Young Douglass boldly faced his father and declared his love for and determination to marry Bernice Mayo. A terrible scene followed. The proud Captain swore, “Why, I’d rather see you dead than married to that Mayo tramp.”

  When the Captain found that nothing he said could sway his son, he tried a different approach. He said, “Son, I’m glad to see that you’ve got the diplomacy and courage of a mature man. I was undecided, but now I’m convinced that you can handle my pending business deal in England. Go and take care of it, and when you get back, you shall have your wedding with my blessing.”

  Claire, flabbergasted by this long-desired stamp of approval and painfully aware that he could make life easier for Bernice if his father approved of the marriage, agreed to go. The hurried note that he wrote for Bernice and asked one of the servants to deliver was intercepted by the Captain, as were all of Claire’s letters to Bernice. It was a month before Bernice learned what had happened. Then she lived for the day when she would receive a letter from Claire assuring her of his unfailing love and giving her hope that he would return.

  A year dragged slowly by with no word from Claire. Broken-hearted and filled with despair, Bernice slowly wasted away, daily becoming more and more fragile, until, little more than a ghost of her former self, she half staggered, half crept to Silver Springs and fell fainting into the arms of Aunt Silla. Recovering consciousness, the dying girl begged the kindly old woman to grant her last request.

  “I have come here to die,” she said. “Tonight, when the moon rises, row my body to the Boiling Springs and bury me beneath the waters.”

  Aunt Silla did not want Bernice to die, so she pleaded with her not to give up, all in vain. Filled with superstitious fear at carrying out such an eerie mission, she argued that she couldn’t do it. Suddenly Bernice raised her wasted body and gazed with unnaturally bright eyes into the face of Aunt Silla.

  “I am a dying woman,” she gasped. “I have talked with God and He has answered me. Though my love has been taken from me in life, it shall not be so in death. Within twenty-four hours from the time my body lies at the bottom of Boiling Springs, Claire shall join me there. If you fail to carry out my dying wishes, evil will befall you and you will ever be haunted by my dying curse.”

  With chattering teeth and rolling eyes, Aunt Silla promised, and with a contented smile upon her waxen face, Bernice Mayo sank back in death. When the moon spread its soft glow over the waters, Aunt Silla carried the body of the girl to the shore of the pool, placed her tenderly in a small boat, and rowed silently to the spot where, far beneath the surface, the water boiled and bubbled from a great mysterious crack in the rocky bottom of the pool. Lifting the dead girl and muttering a prayer, she placed the body on the calm water, and, with tears streaming down her black cheeks, watched it sink slowly into the depths.

  Then suddenly, as if by some miracle, the bubbling, seething springs ceased, and as the mortal remains of Bernice Mayo reached the crack and disappeared, the rocks slowly closed above the body. Filled with terror at the supernatural scene she had witnessed, Aunt Silla r
owed hastily ashore, ran to her hut, fell to her knees and prayed until morning. When the sunshine was gleaming brilliantly on the waters of the pool and the events of the night seemed more like a dream than a reality, she got to her feet, washed her face, and prepared and ate breakfast. Now, her curiosity was overcoming her dread. She walked down to the water’s edge and, shoving the boat from shore, paddled toward the spot where Bernice had vanished.

  Unknown to Aunt Silla, Claire Douglass had returned to his father’s home during the night. There he had met his richly adorned cousin, whom his father had selected as his son’s future bride.

  “How would you young people like to take a row on Silver Springs?” he asked at the breakfast table. “I have a new boat, and if you do not object I’ll join you.”

  At the mention of the spot where he and Bernice had spent so many happy hours, an overwhelming desire to see her swept over young Douglass, and he gladly agreed. As the party reached the shores of the pool and embarked on the boat, they noticed another boat resting motionless near the Boiling Springs, its only occupant Aunt Silla, who ignored their presence and continued to peer into the depths with tear-filled eyes.

  As the Douglass boat reached the spot and the three gazed into the crystal water, the cousin suddenly cried out, “Oh, see, there is something that looks like a hand—a human hand!”

  Staring but not believing what they saw, the two men watched the boiling waters die down to reveal a white hand and arm with a golden chain locked about the wrist. Instantly young Douglass recognized it. His face paled, and dread and fear clutched at his heart. And then his amazement increased when the rocks seemed to part and he saw the body of his loved one resting on the bottom of the pool, a smile upon her face, her golden hair surrounding her head like a halo.

  With a wild, heart-piercing cry, the young man plunged into the pool, diving straight downward toward the form of the girl whose life had been sacrificed to love. Speechless with awe, his father and his cousin watched as Claire swam deeper and deeper into the mysterious cavern, until, reaching the body of Bernice, he seized her in his arms. And then, before their staring eyes, the rocky walls drew together, and from the spot where the lovers had vanished the water boiled and bubbled and hid everything from view.

  Today, visitors to Silver Springs may gaze downward at the Bridal Chamber, where the waters seethe upward from the crack eighty feet beneath the surface, bringing with it a constant stream of tiny, pearly shells. And on the rocky bottom, you may see curious plants with lilylike leaves and waxen, white flowers known as the Bernice Bridal Wreath. Among the young people of the area, these strange underwater blossoms are highly prized, for there is a local belief that any maiden who receives one of the blooms as a gift will be a happy bride within the year.

  Aunt Silla, who lived well into the twentieth century, related this story and told of the part she played in the drama many times. As late as the 1930s, many of the old residents of the area around Silver Springs vouched for the unvarnished truth of the legend of Claire Douglass and Bernice Mayo.

  Telling time: 10–12 minutes

  Audience: 5th grade–adult

  Whirlwind

  Adelbert, or Dell, as everyone called him, hobbled as fast as he could to help his father fold the sheep, for the clouds that suddenly covered the sun portended a bad storm. A jagged bolt of lightning flashed through the atmosphere. A deafening crash of thunder followed. Several small whirlwinds danced through the corral, picking up debris in their paths. A high-spirited stallion, spooked by the commotion, snorted, jumped the rail fence, and raced wildly toward the nearby scrub. The mares followed, and a young colt tried to jump the fence but caught his leg in the rails and fell.

  “Dell,” his father called, “go as quickly as you can, son, to the big house and tell Squire Jowers what’s happened.”

  Dell, crippled since birth, wanted to comfort the colt, but he did as his father told him. Rain, mingled with hailstones, pelted him as he hurried on as fast as he could.

  Squire Jowers looked at the crippled boy, standing at his door with water dripping into puddles around his feet (which always seemed to be going in opposite directions). Realizing the effort Dell had put forth, Squire Jowers was filled with empathy. He thanked Dell and assured him that he himself would come see about the colt. Then he called to his foreman to get some men to round up the runaways.

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it started. Dell hobbled back to the paddock. The colt lay in a mud puddle, his nostrils quivering and his muscles twitching. Reassuring the colt in a low voice, Dell slowly approached him. The colt made a feeble effort to get to his feet but, snorting with pain, lay back down.

  “There, boy. There, boy, take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” Dell sat in the mud, pillowed the colt’s head on his knee and stroked its neck.

  Dell’s father got the sheep secured and quieted. He arrived at the corral about the same time as did Squire. Gently, they examined the colt as Dell continued to stroke and reassure it.

  With bitter disappointment evident in his voice, Squire concluded, “His leg is definitely broken, he has two nasty gashes in his sides, and he is badly bruised. He may have internal injuries as well. You might as well get him out of his misery.”

  “No. No,” cried out Dell. “Please … please don’t kill him. I’ll care for him. Please, kind sir, let me. I’ll bind his leg and anoint his bruises, feed and care for him till he’s able to walk again.”

  “Son,” said his father, “you don’t understand. He will probably never walk again, and if he does, he’ll always limp.”

  “But, Papa, please let me try to make him well. Limping is not all that bad!”

  Squire looked at Dell’s twisted legs and, in a voice that broke with pent-up feelings, said to Dell’s father, “I’ll leave the decision to you. Do what you think best.”

  “Please, Papa, help me get him home. Mama will make a sling for him, and you can set his leg like you did that ewe’s. I’ll take care of him. You won’t have to turn your hand.”

  Against his better judgment, Dell’s father and two other farm hands got the colt on a sled and took it to the small combination-barn-and-stable in back of the four-room house in which Dell and his parents lived.

  “I guess I should not have given in to him,” he said to his wife. “But he pleaded so hard. I’m afraid caring for the colt will place a needless burden on you. The colt will probably suffer and eventually die. Letting the boy get more attached to it will just make the medicine more bitter for him to swallow, and he surely has had his share of it already.”

  “I understand your concern, but I’m glad that you gave in. It will be good for the boy to care for the colt, and if it dies, he will have to learn to accept that too,” Dell’s mother said as she finished securing the braided strips to the old mattress ticking that she had made into front and back slings.

  When the colt was supported with the slings, his wounds and bruises treated and his broken leg carefully splinted and bound, he seemed to be comfortable.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Dell said. “I’m so glad that you didn’t kill this beautiful colt. See how he’s breathing easy. He’s going to live and run again. You’ll see. What’s his name?”

  “Son, I don’t know that Squire had named him. He was especially proud of this colt and wanted a name to suit his personality.”

  “I’m going to call him Whirlwind. That’ll always be my name for him,” Dell said as he made a pallet of old quilts and corn shucks.

  Dell slept in the corn crib, close to Whirlwind, every night for weeks. Whirlwind continued to heal, and, when the binding was taken from the broken leg, it was evident that the set had been good, for it was healing straight.

  “Son,” said his father as he rewrapped the injured leg, “you must be careful now that he doesn’t rebreak it.”

  Dell was ever so careful. He walked the horse slowly about each day, gently massaged the lame leg, and put him back into the slings each night. At last Whirlwind w
as taken to the pasture, where his recovery hastened. Dell’s parents were still fearful and kept reminding him not to get his hopes up too much. It was not until all the swelling was gone from the lame leg and Whirlwind was cavorting around the pasture that they allowed themselves to bask in the delight of victory.

  One day as Dell watched Whirlwind running around the pasture, he fell to wondering if Whirlwind would let him ride on his back. When Whirlwind came up to eat his favorite clover, which Dell gathered each day for him, Dell led him to the silo steps and scampered onto his back. Dell’s mother looked up from her work and saw what Dell was doing. She started to cry out a warning, but it was too late. She choked the scream—it would only excite the colt and increase her son’s chances of being hurt. To her surprise, Whirlwind walked around as if he knew what precious cargo he had on his back.

  Dell’s spirits soared.

  When Dell’s father saw him on Whirlwind’s back, he knew that it was time to return the colt to its rightful owner. Joyful pride was dampened with tears as Dell rode Whirlwind up to the big house. He would see him again, he was sure, but it wouldn’t be the same. He wiped his eyes and nose on his shirtsleeve and knocked on the door.

  “Squire, sir, I have come to return your colt.”

  Again, Squire Jowers looked at the crippled boy standing at his door, and then he saw the beautiful sorrel colt at the hitching post. He was speechless. He walked out and examined the colt’s leg, looked at his sleek coat and classical features, stroked the beautiful mane. Then, he trotted him around in a circle.