by Daniel Mills
She said: The other night you asked us about Martha Thorndike. I told you she went to meet someone, a man. But that was only half the truth.
She leaned back against the chair & looked to the window. The world beyond had vanished into the haze of rain & wind & a long while passed before she continued.
There are things in this world, she said. Evil things, I suppose is what I mean. Timothy says I’m foolish to believe this but even the Word says it’s so.
And here she quoted a line from Scripture: The Satyr shall cry to his fellow & the screech owl shall rest there & shall find for herself a quiet dwelling.
Five years ago (she continued), I was about your age. My brother Joshua was older than me by eight years & he used to take me with him when he traveled, preaching the Word to all with ears to hear. We arrived here in the summer, about this time, just before Martha Thorndike was taken. There were sheep-killings then, too.
My brother & I were in town three nights when Martha disappeared. Ran away with a man, Mr Batchelder said, a house-painter, but he was wrong. My brother was last to see her & it weren’t a man she was with at all. Joshua was a holy man, God rest him, born with the Gift of Sight. Yet none believed him when he told what he had seen.
It was dusk & he saw Martha walking away toward the pine-wood with her hand out to one side as though it were being held by another though there were none walking beside her—only the old woman riding on her back.
Lilith. The screech owl, the woman in the wood. Old Virginia, I’ve heard her called, though she isn’t always old, for she has such powers over the eyes of men. She sees into your heart, the sin what’s written there, and she makes herself out of it. Those she chooses she calls to the woods & rides them down into hell. Those like Martha Thorndike.
Timothy doesn’t like to think of it—or of Martha. He believes she deserted him & maybe she did in a way. But he won’t visit her grave & it falls to me to keep it tended & clean.
Aunt Sarah fell silent. Her story was finished, but I could think of no response. I told her nothing of what I’ve seen & experienced since coming here. I think it might have given me some solace, the same as this diary, but words spoken aloud cannot be crossed out or blotted away.
She said: You’re trembling.
I did not reply.
She went to the basin & washed her hands, scrubbing the skin raw.
She could not see the table-knife in my hand or feel the weight of it. See me driving the tip through her belly again & again, though the edge is dull & jerks like a saw for to cut the babe from inside her. Then I hold the thing in my hands, still living: the slaughtered lamb, the Body & the Blood. Take, he said, and eat of it
It is not yet dawn.
I slept poorly for dreams of the fields beneath the storm. Again the sun beat down on me, wilting the grass & turning it yellow as I approached the circle where the beasts lay slaughtered, their bodies black & stinking in that heat.
The woman was there. The screech owl, Aunt Sarah called her.
She would not look at me but cradled something in her arms & sang to it as to a small child. Her voice was low & pretty though I did not recognize the melody & soon could hear nothing for the roar of the storm around us.
I came nearer to her. I saw the thing she carried.
not a child but a lamb which she had pulled, half-formed, from its mother’s womb. The small bones were shattered & the face was missing, eaten away, and the un-beating heart sucked out of it
23rd July. Saturday.
The house is quiet. My Aunt & Uncle have not yet returned & this room is empty of all but my thoughts. Visions swim out of the dusk & I can hear her calling, singing to me as to the lamb of which I dreamt—
The morning was clear, the barometer creeping up. Uncle Timothy worked through the morning & in the afternoon we went up Bald Hill. My Uncle was first up the path with Mary laughing on his shoulders while Aunt Sarah followed behind with a mildewed parasol.
The path bent sharply then followed the ridge over the valley. The slopes had been cleared of trees years ago but there were some berry bushes beside the path which blocked our view until we reached the summit. Then the bushes fell away with the landscape & the whole of the valley lay open before us, green & yellow & misted with heat.
Uncle Timothy stopped to admire the view. There was a cliff here & a long drop to the valley below, but Aunt Sarah joined him at the edge, quite un-frightened. My Uncle looked back at me with the wind rippling his beard & Mary's fingers twined in his hair.
Come & look, he said to me. But isn’t this God’s country?
Aunt Sarah asked if I might bring the picnic basket, which I did, though I stopped short of the edge & would not approach any closer. We sat in the grass. My Uncle said a grace. He thanked the Lord for the beauty of His creation & for His Son who saved us with His precious blood. We ate & afterward we lingered near the overlook.
Uncle Timothy produced a psalter from his pocket & proceeded to read some words of praise aloud. He meant them for his wife’s ears, I think, though she wasn’t listening. She stretched out alongside him with her eyes closed & the sweat glittering on her face.
And then I saw Mary. The child had made her way to the edge of the overlook. She stood there, swaying, about to fall & her curls blowing about in the wind.
I leapt up. I ran toward her.
My Uncle, alarmed, shouted for me to stop. I reached the child where she stood & gathered her into my arms even as Uncle Timothy came up behind me, his boots pounding in the grass. The child squirmed & kicked against me, crying out as I turned toward the valley—
And saw the whole of Creation awash in its impurity with man coupling with woman & child & beast & all while the sun poured down upon them, blisteringly hot, blackening the flesh & causing the fat to run, fusing all together in the moment of their ecstasy—a sea of open mouths—and still they did not cease from their depravities.
My parents were there & the Batchelders. My Aunt & Uncle & the baby Mary. And always the Woman passed among them, unnoticed, wearing white like the Lamb & making for the pine-wood. Once she looked back as to make sure I was following, and I was, and I saw the two of us as from a distance, walking hand-in-hand—
My Uncle was behind me.
I heard his breath come quick & gasping & glanced back over my shoulder. Aunt Sarah was on her knees, white with terror: the fear of what might happen, what I might do.
I tried to explain. I said: I wanted to save her.
I know, said Uncle Timothy.
She was going to fall, I said.
Please, James. Give her to me now.
I ran from him & from the sunlit fields & did not stop until I reached the farmhouse where I collapsed at last, hot & panting & dripping with the stink. That was nearly an hour ago.
Now it is nearly night. The cool of the pine-wood waits for me, the woman called Lilith, the screech owl. She knows the thing that is in me but still she beckons & I will go
Lucilla Barton (1857-1880)
From Quebec, Catholic Parish Registers, 1621-1979:
From Quebec, Catholic Parish Registers, 1621-1979:
From the 1869 Town Report, Charlotte, Vermont:
The Town Farm at Thompson’s Point sheltered 41 transients during the reporting period. Permanent residents of the Farm include Mrs. Pearl Livermore and daughter, aged seven […] and Mrs. Orpha Savior and daughter, aged twelve.
From The Burlington Democrat, Mar 16, 1870:
Consumption at the Poor Farm in Charlotte. Mrs. Savior is reportedly in the final stages of the illness.
From Vermont Vital Records, 1760-1954:
DEATH - FEMALE
From the United States Census for the year 1870:
From The Burlington Free Press, Dec 15, 1870:
Overseer T.A. Bingham of Charlotte reports another death at the Town Farm after Mrs. Pearl Livermore fell sick with coughing on December 8. The disease progressed with astonishing rapidity and Mrs. Livermore expired of her illness
in the early hours of December 10. She was buried at the Town Farm. A daughter, Elsie, will be placed with relatives in Burlington.
From The Charlotte Town Report, 1874:
Overseer reports […] payment of $25 to Asa Irish for binding out of Lucilla Savior, aged 17, until she is of age […]
From The Burlington Free Press, Mar 15, 1875:
Mrs. Asa Irish of Hinesburgh died early Wednesday of suspected pneumonic hemorrhage. Her husband noticed Mrs. Irish’s absence Tuesday evening and found her outside beside the watering troth insensible. Mr. Irish carried his wife into the parlor where she recovered her senses and cried out in fright of an unknown woman no one else could see. A neighbor E.A. Barton ran for Dr. Pell, who tended the dying woman in her final hours.
From Vermont Vital Records, 1760-1954:
MARRIAGE - BRIDE
From The Burlington Democrat, Apr 22, 1876:
Defendants due in City Court: […] E.A Barton; drunkenness; fined $15.
From The Burlington Democrat, Aug 1, 1878:
Fines issued to multiple defendants including […] Eber Barton, Hinesburgh, drunkenness.
From The Burlington Free Press, Nov 15, 1879:
[…] Eber Barton of Hinesburgh facing new charge of drunkenness after a young girl happened upon him in the woods while she was gathering beechnuts. Mr. Barton was delirious with drink and raved of ghosts or spirits in his house. The girl took fright and ran. Her father informed a Sheriff’s Deputy leading to Barton’s arrest—his third in as many years.
From The Burlington Free Press, Dec 5, 1879:
An infamous drunk assaulted his wife Saturday morning. Mr. Eber Barton had spent the previous night out of doors, unable to sleep, before returning to the house after daybreak. He entered the kitchen and attempted to bludgeon his wife with a hatchet, believing himself to be under the influence of “a witch’s curse.” Mrs. Barton escaped uninjured to a locked bedroom from which she called for help. The madman was subdued and taken into custody.
From the Montpelier Argus and Patriot, Dec 23 1879
Death of an Insane Man
The 6:55 from Burlington was waved to a halt Monday morning near Middlesex due to an obstruction on the line. One E.A. Barton of Hinesburgh was aboard, traveling to the hospital in Brattleboro in the company of a Sheriff’s Deputy. Mr. Barton suffers from delirium tremens and reportedly became agitated upon realizing the train had stopped. He succeeded in escaping through the window of the car and sprinting down the bank to the Winooski River where he disappeared into the icy waters. His body was recovered the next day.
From Vermont Vital Records, 1760-1954:
DEATH - MALE
From the United States Census for the year 1880:
From Vermont Vital Records, 1760-1954:
BIRTH - FEMALE
From the Burlington Free Press, Oct 15 1880
Less than a year since Eber Barton’s death by drowning, a second tragedy has befallen the Barton family of Hinesburgh. Early Tuesday morning the body of Mrs. Lucilla Barton was discovered in a barn on her property. Suicide is suspected. Mrs. Barton was pregnant at the time of her husband’s death last December and recently gave birth to a daughter. Seventeen year-old Elsie Livermore works at the house as a domestic and found her employer’s body. Dr. H.A. Pell of Hinesburgh attended the scene with Chittenden County Deputy Sheriff J.S. Degree. A hearing will be held later today.
From The Burlington Free Press, Oct 18. 1880:
Suicide in Hinesburgh
Young Mother Killed Herself, Hearing Concludes
Burial in Village Cemetery
An inquiry into the death of Mrs. Lucilla Barton of Hinesburgh determined the young mother ended her life by suicide on the evening of October 11.
The deceased was a widow of less than one year, aged twenty-three, and mother to an infant child. Her body was discovered early Tuesday by the hired girl she employed. Friday’s hearing sought to establish the precise manner and circumstances of Mrs. Barton’s death and to exclude any suspicions of foul play.
Justice Erasmus Smith opened the hearing at around one o’clock followed by testimony from the hired girl who discovered the body. Her statement is presented in full along with those of the various witnesses. Among these was Deputy Sheriff J.S. Degree who submitted into evidence a letter in Mrs. Barton’s hand. The text of this letter is also reproduced below.
Elsie Livermore testified: I am eighteen years old; first met Lucilla Savior at the Town Farm in Charlotte; was sent there with my mother; remember very little of those days. Lucilla was five years older; very shy; spoke hardly at all. My mother loved her; took her in after Mrs. Savior’s death from consumption. We were almost like sisters. Then mother died of consumption and I was adopted by a great-aunt; did not see Lucilla for 10 years.
Last spring I learned of a position in Hinesburgh with a young widow; arrived at the farm May 18th; recognized Lucilla straightaway. She remembered my mother and called me Miss Livermore; said I must call her Mrs. Barton.
My room was next to hers. I made the fires; dusted, swept, starched; baked the bread and cooked for her, though she rarely ate; could see the baby moving under her skin.
She was always formal, even cold; asked me once about my mother. I told her what I remembered; asked about her own mother but she wouldn’t answer. The child came that night. I ran to fetch the midwife; helped with the birth and held the baby afterward.
Mrs. Barton couldn’t bear to look at the child; was frightened, I thought; closed her eyes but was not asleep. I heard her rapid breathing.
The weeks went by. Summer turned to fall and she never sang to the baby; did not comfort her when she fussed; left Helen with me during the day but slept beside her in bed as though she worried what might happen.
The 11th was Monday. I was up at six to prepare breakfast; called to Mrs. Barton around seven. She put the baby in the cradle and went out; returned around mid-day. Helen heard her mother’s voice and reached for her. Mrs Barton looked distressed; would not pick up Helen; asked me if I thought the baby loved her. I told her she did.
She went to her room; did not take supper; looked tired when I saw her again at eight o’clock. Goodnight, she said, and put Helen to bed. I did not hear her come out. Around ten o’clock I locked both doors and went to bed; did not sleep well; was disturbed by frequent coughing from Mrs. Barton’s bedroom. The baby woke before dawn. I heard Mrs. Barton whispering but could not make out the words; heard Helen fall quiet, the bed creaking.
I slept until half-past-six; dressed and went toward the kitchen; passed Mrs. Barton’s bedroom. Helen was asleep. The bedclothes were disordered, I noticed; assumed Mrs. Barton woke early and went out; proceeded to the kitchen and kindled a fire in the stove. The wood-box was nearly empty. I opened the back-door, which was bolted; believe the front door also locked; walked to the woodshed which overlooks the barn.
The doors were open; recalled Will [Barton] closing them; called out to Mrs. Barton but had no answer. I returned to the house briefly. Helen was not awake. I took down my coat; walked to the barn; went inside. Mrs. Barton, I said, and my own voice came back to me. I crossed the barn but did not see her; turned back toward the door as a shadow appeared at my feet; looked up. She hung from a beam high above me. Her arms were at her sides and head tilted; face black and swollen; hands the color of snow.
William Barton testified: Mrs. Barton was my brother’s wife. Eber met Lucilla Savior when he worked for Asa Irish; took a liking to the girl, who was bonded there from the Farm; tried talking to her but she wouldn’t respond; didn’t speak to anyone except Mrs. Irish. The old woman died suddenly; had doted on Lucilla. They were going to send Lucilla back to the farm, but Eber said he’d marry her, if she were minded. She said she was.
The trouble started soon after. Eber thought the house was haunted; heard footsteps at night; voices in rooms that were empty. I lived close-by; worked for Mr. and Mrs. Barton; walked over most mornings from [Miles] Patrick’s. Last winter I hear
d a commotion from the house and went inside. Eber had a hatchet, which I took from him. He had to go to Brattleboro, they said; died along the way.
I left Patrick’s at half-past-seven on October 12; arrived at Barton’s before eight. Elsie was outside with Helen; told me Mrs. Barton was dead; had killed herself. I walked down to the barn; found her hanging ten feet up; climbed to the hay-loft; stepped down to the beam she hung from; knelt to cut through her apron. The body dropped to the straw. Her limbs were stiff; skin cold; eyes open and staring. I covered her face with my coat; went back to the house where Elsie waited; told her to take the baby inside.
