All That Lives (24 page)

Old Sugar Mouth, not every act has meaning.

The voice spoke from inside our empty fireplace and the Reverend Johnston turned toward it, clutching his Bible to his chest,
addressing the invisible.

“And yet God’s Will inhabits every action. How is it with you, Spirit? Who are you and why are you here?” The Reverend’s continual
inquiry was made fresh with his eternal optimism, for he clearly believed one day the Being would reply. I sighed and pulled
Joel closer to me on the bench where we had settled, wishing the Reverend would find a new line of questioning, for I did
not anticipate an answer.

I am the Spirit of an early immigrant.

“Listen, Betsy, it has a foreign voice!” Joel’s observation was accurate, and I sat up straighter, interested.

When I came to this country I was rich beyond measure, having inherited a vast amount from my father’s estate in the Old Country.
I had a fine home, but it burned to the ground before your time, and nothing remains of its earlier splendor.

I had never heard a voice with syllables so keen and articulate and I felt transported to the pages of a book where castles
stood on rocky bluffs surrounded by the sea.

I was an unfortunate man, for I was burdened with many poorer relations who wished to benefit from my wealth without any cost
to themselves. I was informed they were to visit me and thinking myself clever as the fox, I hid my gold coins and most valued
treasures in a place not far from here. A place I will reveal to you.

“Sister, when has it told such an excellent story …” Joel snuggled against me, whispering his remark with great excitement,
but I told him to hush so I might better hear the fine and elegant voice continue.

When my relations arrived, they found not the excess they imagined, and a dreadful quarrel ensued, the result being, I lay
dead, by my own cousin’s hand. My riches lay hidden in the earth, and my house was burned to the ground.

I felt a sudden leap under my breast, as if my heart jumped up, for I knew the intention of the immigrant before the Being
spoke it to all present.

I am the Spirit of the immigrant, and I have harassed you this many days only to divulge the secret hiding place, so Betsy
Bell may have the treasures, to live blessed and prosperous all of her days.

I nearly jumped out of my chair, overcome with the possibility that I might finally be the recipient of some good fortune
rather than suffering and misery at the hands of our visitation.

“This cannot be! You demonic spinner of tales. Who has heard of such a man in these parts?” Father objected to the rapt engagement
and wonder seeping into the persons gathered in the parlor.

“There were many men before us, Jack. We know not every history …” The Reverend looked to Calvin Justice, hoping he would
concur, and say something wise to calm my father.

I want you to be the guardian of these riches, Old Sugar Mouth. You must go when it is unearthed, to witness the counting
and take it into safekeeping until Betsy comes of age for it.

“How preposterous! The demon mocks you, Reverend! Do you not see?” Father turned away in disgust, and Mother took up his hand,
speaking quietly.

“Suffer no indignities to a man of God, Jack.”

“Tell us where your treasure is hidden, and we shall most speedily move to investigate the veracity of your claim.” Calvin
Justice spoke his practical suggestion to the empty fireplace in his most commanding tone.

I will tell you, only when all involved promise to adhere to my conditions. Swear it will be so, and I shall reveal the place.

“I shall agree to no conditions put before me by a demon from Hell!” Father shook his head.

“Look, Jack, God’s Will is not meant to be understood at every juncture. Perhaps this is the Being’s final revelation to us.”
The Reverend Johnston was obviously excited, and anxious lest Father refuse to swear. “Mark the accuracy of the immigrant’s
accent and tone in the Being’s speech! It could be what has plagued you and our community speaks to us now in its true form.
Recall, it has previously claimed to be a Spirit disturbed. The early immigrant of whom it speaks could have met his violent
end too soon to be remembered in these parts.” The Reverend paused, and I had a sudden image in my mind of a man in foreign
dress standing alone on the plateau where the thistles grew. Was it possible the Being spoke the truth?

“Mr. Bell, if it is so, we must allow this soul redemption. Pray, give your consent to its conditions.” Calvin Justice urged
my Father to agree.

“I doubt the veracity of this story in its every aspect, and if Frank Miles were in this room I expect he would laugh at you
and all.” Father held his mouth in a sour frown as if he wished to spit.

“But, Father, Frank has gone to check his traps and could not stay.” Joel’s innocence was precious as the imagined hidden
jewels and he did articulate the facts of the matter.

Frank Miles will find them sprung and empty.

Everyone ignored the Being’s comment, for the Reverend was intent on proceeding to discover the whereabouts of the buried
treasure.

“We have heard accurate predictions here already, Jack, and in this your own dear daughter may profit from our action. How
say you?” The Reverend impatiently snuggled his Bible under his arm, insisting on an answer. Father looked not about the room
at our anxious faces, but hard, at the empty fireplace.

None shall dig except Jack Bell, his son Drewry and his man Dean. The Reverend and Betsy shall go, but must promise not to
participate in the excavation. No one else may be present.

“In good faith we agree to adhere to those conditions, in the hope that doing so will allow you to return peacefully to your
own world.” The Reverend voiced the promise and prodded Father, “Eh, Jack? Agreed?”

“So be it.” Father was most solemn, but everyone else seemed to have been holding their breath, as a general exhalation of
relief floated around the room.

Whither I return is not your concern, Old Sugar Mouth.

“Where are they to search?” Calvin Justice was disappointed not to be included in the party but he maintained a keen interest
in the organization of the affair.

On the hill of the most southwestern corner of this property, there is a large flat rock above the mouth of a small stream.
This marks the place and beneath it lies the treasure.

The Being went on giving directions to the spring through the surrounding area on the high bank of the Red River, describing
the paths so minutely there could be no mistaking the way. I closed my eyes and the powers of description the Spirit possessed
transported me through a stand of blooming dogwood beside the rushing river. It was a curious feeling, for though I certainly
remained sitting on the wooden bench in the parlor, rays of sun touched my arms and the gentle breeze swayed the many beautiful
green leaves about my eyes.

“Listen, sister!” Joel clutched my dress in his fists and we both heard the bubble and trickle of the stream at the base of
the flat rock where the Spirit said the treasure lay.

“I want to go …”

“No, Joel, we know not what will be found on this expedition.” Mother turned to him but still gripped Father’s hand.

“What, if anything,” Father snapped, withdrawing from her grasp, standing abruptly. “I believe I know the place and I should
like to make an early start, so I will now retire. Gentlemen, I bid you a good night.”

“Are you certain you have heard enough?” The Reverend’s round face had a dreamy expression and I believe he was greatly enjoying
the Spirit’s recitation of our upcoming journey through the woods, but Father gave him only a cursory nod.

“I am certain I have heard more than enough, Reverend.”

I followed his example and hurried upstairs, and Drew ran after me, catching my hand on the landing.

“An adventure …” He smiled at me before we separated to our rooms, and I could tell he shared the general feeling of excitement
born of faith in the Spirit’s tale.

I did not undress, for I knew I would be up early. I crawled under the quilts of my bed and lay there listening to the sound
of the Reverend and Calvin Justice arranging their pallets in the parlor. I did not think I could sleep and I wished morning
would quickly come. What if the secret of the treasure was revealed in town and someone beat us to the spring? That was impossible,
I knew, for all who had heard of it, apart from the creature itself, were sleeping here at our house. The Spirit could broadcast
the news, only why would it, if it truly meant for me to have it? I lay worrying about many silly things like that, until
I reached the most legitimate fear of all. What if the evil Being was lying and meant only to torment me with impossible hopes?
Unable to accept that was the most likely outcome, I fell asleep.

At the break of day we set out from the stables in a line, Father and the Reverend Johnston in front, followed by myself and
Drewry in the double saddle, and Dean in the rear, leading the mule laden with tools and the luncheon Mother and Chloe had
packed for us. The farm dogs ran ahead, down the path, wagging their tails and yapping at the birds, as if to tell the world
we were off hunting treasure. It was more than an hour’s ride through the woods above the river to the head of the southwest
trail, but once there, no one wished to take a break, as the ride was exhilarating and we desired to proceed directly to the
spring. The sun shone favorably on us, and the skin of my arms grew warm with it, as they had the night before in the parlor
during the Spirit’s recitation. I leaned lazily against Drewry, rocked by the rhythm of our trotting horse.

Soon we turned into the hill and as we progressed deeper into the woods, the green leaves formed a thick canopy above our
heads and the light became the color of moss. The trees were suddenly taller and thicker and rose on all sides so we were
cramped, even in single file.

“ ’Tis an excellent location for hiding,” the Reverend observed, twisting about in front of us and I looked to him, for his
voice was nervous. By straining my head I could see Father, up ahead. He had brought his machete, had unsheathed it, and was
hacking at the vines and saplings clogging the path before us. Some snapped back and others flew out in every direction, and
the Reverend’s horse backed up, skittish, with good cause. Drewry expertly guided our mare back, shouting, “Back, Dean,” over
his shoulder to successfully avoid a disturbance from the animals.

“I’ll wait with the children,” the Reverend called to Father, who had disappeared from our sight into a wall of green bramble
and vine.

“Ride assured, we are nearly there,” Father called back and the Reverend reluctantly kicked his mare forward, instructing
us to keep our heads down, for it was narrow. Leaves and vines raked at my hair as we clopped through what seemed to be a
never-ending tunnel of bramble.

At the end of it we found ourselves at the top of a hill in a most wondrous location, for the wooded area was actually the
back side of a high rock outcropping. We had a marvelous view of the twisting Red River far below us on our right, and spreading
to our left was a small meadow of young trees. A great flat stone marked the mouth of a spring that bubbled up near us, flowing
down over the rock outcropping toward the river. I dismounted the moment I realized it was indeed the place of the treasure.
Without pause, I ran and jumped up on the stone and spread myself flat across it. With my arms stretched out and my toes pointed,
it was just the size of me, some five feet in diameter. The stone was hot, warmed by a morning in the sun, and I realized,
absorbing the delicious heat through my stomach, it was impossible that anyone other than the hand of God could move such
a rock. The treasure could not be dug from under it. All this way, for nothing. I sat up and saw Father and the Reverend and
my brother, still mounted on their horses, staring at me, clearly thinking the same thing.

“This will not be an easy task,” Drew spoke, breaking the circle of silence. The men dismounted, led the horses to drink at
the spring, then tied them to trees in the woods, but spoke not another word. I sat on the stone watching the pretty lacy
patterns made by the sun filtering through the trees. The Reverend shifted his feet and sighed a few times, contemplating
the project. I imagine he was turning over in his mind the right words to speak, such as, “be not defeated before you begin,”
or “strong as Samson are the righteous.” He cleared his throat, but said nothing. There was a terribly solemn tension in the
air and no one seemed able or willing to break it. I expect the thought was in their minds, as it was in mine, that apart
from the strength of the Spirit itself, nothing was going to move that rock. After a few minutes, Father sighed and kicked
the boulder with the heel of his boot.

“Break out the tools,” he instructed. They’d brought three spades, a mattock and the maul, and Drewry exchanged a woeful glance
with me while rolling up his sleeves. With noticeable fortitude, Father set to thrusting his spade in the dirt and the Reverend
cried encouragement.