The Healing

Chapter 44





Granada had gone to sleep thinking about the weave of things. Trying to recall all Polly had said about the threads that stitch folks together. About a heaven of stars being like the people. About daughters and mothers and mothers’ mothers touching through time. She tried to find the room next to her heart where the sight for things outside herself was first born. But when she slept, her dreams were black and sightless.

Granada woke to the blunted toe of a shoe nudging her back.

“Polly!” she called out from her pallet.

A familiar voice splintered the darkness. “Get up, quick! Satan is treating Creation like his own tonight.”

Finally able to focus, Granada made out the short, wide silhouette of the cook hovering over her. Aunt Sylvie poked the girl in the leg, harder.

“What happened?” Granada cried, bounding to her feet. “Somebody do something to Polly? She ain’t … is she …?”

Aunt Sylvie grabbed the girl’s hand and began dragging her barefoot across the kitchen.

Granada wore only her shimmy. “Wait,” she protested, reaching for the rain-soaked calico shift that hung over the chair.

“Ain’t got time to dress,” Aunt Sylvie said, gasping for breath. “Got to hurry. Might be too late now.”

When Sylvie headed for the door that led to the great house instead of the one opening into the yard, Granada’s heart gave a leap. Maybe this wasn’t about Polly after all!

They raced through the darkened dining room and to the foot of the winding double staircase. From there Granada could see the lamplit upstairs. Shadows flitted about on the landing.

Aunt Sylvie pulled Granada, stumbling, up the stairs and didn’t let go of her hand until the cook had deposited the girl in Little Lord’s room.

“About time!” Master Ben bellowed.

Panicky, Granada took in the room with a quick glance. Master Ben, in stocking feet and wearing a nightshirt tucked into his riding trousers, stood glaring at her on one side of Little Lord’s tester bed. Glaring at her husband from the other side of the bed was Mistress Amanda in her sleeping cap, arms crossed over her dressing gown in a kind of protest. Granada assumed Little Lord was in the bed, but the footboard obstructed her view. Over in the corner, her face beyond the light of the lamp, stood Lizzie’s darkened figure, cringing like she was about to be hit.

Then Lizzie turned her face to Granada. “Ain’t my fault! He was ailing when I come up to see about him,” the maid whined pathetically.

Granada now saw the red print of a hand on the maid’s face. The mistress had already struck.

“Maybe it was something he ate,” Lizzie whimpered.

Aunt Sylvie stiffened. “Weren’t nothing I fed him,” she declared too forcefully. She quickly changed her tone and added, “But now that Granada’s here, Little Lord will be healed in no time.”

“What are you waiting for, fool!” Master Ben commanded. “Get over here.”

Granada at last found her legs and moved through the fog of her stunned stupidity toward the bed. She couldn’t remember a longer walk, not even the slog to the creek bank to heal Daniel Webster.

Her little friend’s eyes were closed, his pillowcase darkened with sweat. On the floor, she saw a chamber pot. He had been vomiting. Maybe Lizzie was right. He could have been poisoned.

With her thumb, she lifted his eyelid and saw that the pupil was barely a dot in the field of pale blue. The pulse in his neck was so faint it took a moment for Granada to find it.

“Well, what is it?” the master snapped. “What’s wrong with my son?”

Granada bit into her lip to stem her growing panic. The idea of her trying to doctor somebody was madness. And Little Lord himself!

She bit deeper into her lip, seeking the pain, for all her other senses were shutting down. There was no sound but the loud roar of her blood in her ears and her vision was dimming to a quivering dark.

But then she smelled it, and the noxious odor brought her back. It was like rotten fish. Her eyes followed the smell, searching for the source of such a stench. That’s when she saw the thing lowering its stubbed nose from under Little Lord’s bedding toward the carpet. The unhinged mouth was as white and shiny-slick as a fish’s belly. And now it was in striking distance of Granada’s leg.

She sprang back and yelped. “Snake!”

Master Ben had also seen it. He was already gripping the poker from the fireplace and was on the moccasin like a flash of powder. After several fierce blows, he had mashed the creature’s head into a red pulp. The snake continued to undulate, coiling and uncoiling on the carpet until the master raised it up from its middle with his weapon, carried it through the open door to the gallery, and flung it over the railing into the mud for the dogs.

“He been snakebit,” Aunt Sylvie said in a low, hushed voice. She quickly lifted her skirt and scoured the floor. “That the only one?”

The shock served to clear Granada’s head. She took hold of the coverlet and yanked it off Little Lord.

And there it was. Little Lord’s thin, pale legs were lying in a mushrooming puddle of blood. One leg had ballooned beyond recognition. A few inches above the ankle it was wine-colored and raw, looking more like meat to be hung in the smokehouse than a little boy’s leg.

Granada spied a pair of purpling puncture marks. At least one fang had found an artery, and blood still pumped to the rhythm of the slowing heartbeat.

“How did a snake get up here?” Master Ben stammered. “In his bed? How could it have happened?”

The mistress exploded. “It happened because we live in hell!” she shouted. “How many children do you need to kill before you finally cede that point?”

The master fell back like he had taken a blow. He seemed unable to respond in any way other than stunned silence.

However, Granada now knew exactly what needed to be done and shouted above the fray. “Get Polly! She’s got a remedy.”

“Polly!” Master Ben cried. “She’s half dead. Last I looked she wasn’t even conscious. She’s no use to anybody.”

The words cut like jagged steel. Granada tried to imagine he was talking about somebody else being half dead. “No,” she finally managed, “you got to get Polly.”

“Don’t you dare bring that witch near my boy,” the mistress hissed. “She’d kill Little Lord just to spite me. Besides, you’re bound to know the remedy.”

“Amanda’s right,” the master chimed in. “You’ve got to. I can’t let Polly around the boy, her knowing she’s going to be hung anyhow.”

Granada agreed with the master. She should know the remedy. But it was the only one Polly had kept quiet about. When she asked Polly how she had healed Daniel Webster, Polly had gone hush-mouthed. All she would say was that Daniel Webster had healed himself. Perhaps Polly didn’t have a cure after all. But still …

“Little Lord’s going to die for sure if you don’t get Polly. He might die if you do. Might sounds better than will to my ears.” She pressed her fingers to the boy’s impossibly pale throat. “I can’t hardly find his heartbeat now.”

Master Ben heaved out a furious breath and then took to the stairs, still in his stocking feet.

While they waited, Granada put pressure on the vein below the oozing wound to keep Little Lord from losing any more blood.

To keep from falling apart, Granada focused on a riddle. The one the master had posed. How had the snake got into Little Lord’s bed? The levee above the house had breached during the storm and brought snakes into the yard, and she knew from experience snakes could find their way up trees. But up the stairs to the gallery, across the hallway, up the staircase, into Little Lord’s room, finally nestling in his sheets?

She lifted her finger from the vein and there was only a slight seepage now. What did it matter how he got bit? He was almost gone.

Mistress Amanda perched on the bed next to her son. She leaned over him and tousled his hair. Granada noticed how wooden and tentative the mistress’s gesture was, sadly absent something essential. Granada remembered holding the mistress’s hand and tried to recall her touch. Had it been so empty after all?

Several minutes later, Master Ben strode back into the room, sopping wet, his feet encased in mud. He was followed closely by Chester, who carried the dying woman in his arms like precious cargo.

“What took you so long!” cried the mistress from the bedside. “My God, this is just like Becky … the waiting on you … if you …”

“No!” Master Ben snapped. “It’s not just like Becky. I had to throw a bucket of water on Polly to bring her to. Then she had to go to the hospital. But she’s got the potion, all right. I seen it.”

Chester gently set Polly down next to Little Lord’s bed. She stood for a moment, but then her legs crumpled beneath her. The coachman caught Polly under her arms before her head bashed against the floor.

When he lifted her, Granada gasped. From the light of the lamp by Little Lord’s bed, the rope burns around Polly’s wrists were clearly visible, bloody and raw. The iron collar had bitten so hard into her neck that the skin around her throat was an open wound. Her face was bruised, her lip bloodied.

The mistress stood up from the bed and took a step back, putting her hand to her throat. “My God, Benjamin, is she still breathing?”

Granada feared the same, but then she heard her name spoken in a barely audible voice.

“Granada, you come hold me up.”

The girl rushed to Polly and carefully took her from Chester. Granada had a hand around the tiny waist and draped a skeletal arm over her shoulder. Polly’s legs were bent at the knees. Her muscles had to be cramping from all her time kneeling in the stall.

Polly tried to laugh. “I guess I’m needing more than a walking stick today, Granada. Now step me close to the boy’s wound.” Polly craned her neck a bit, but even that movement seemed to exhaust her. Her weight fell back on Granada.

“Yes, snakebit,” she said wearily. “That’s the sad truth of it.”

“What can you do, Polly?” It was the master. His tone had softened like a man who knew his dictates went only so far.

“He’s nearly dead now,” Polly said, shaking her head. “The poison already squeezed most the life out your boy.”

“You got that remedy!” Master Ben cried. “Aren’t you even going to try it?”

Polly again shook her head. “No, Master, I’m sorry. Your poor boy can’t be saved.”

“You can’t just let him die!” Master Ben was frantic now.

“For God’s sake, Benjamin,” the mistress snapped, “don’t stand there arguing with a slave. Cut out her tongue if she won’t obey.”

Polly grew heavier on Granada’s arm by the minute. The old head fell against the girl’s chest. The breathing was shallower, raspy.

“She’s hurting bad, Master Ben,” Granada cried. “Let me tend to her, please, Master.” Both Polly and Little Lord were slipping away from her, and she could do nothing!

Polly took a sharp intake of breath. “I’m all right.” She managed to lift her head. “Just my legs, mostly. I’ll get them to working directly.”

Master Ben was pleading now. “Polly, if you know to try anything, anything at all, there’s nothing to lose. Granada said something about the way you healed Daniel Webster.”

Granada saw the mistress stiffen, scalding her husband with her stare. The girl wondered if the woman was more upset at her husband for begging a slave for her son’s life or for suggesting Polly use monkey medicine to save him.

“Master,” Polly said, “I only tried it that one time. I just can’t take that chance with a flesh-and-blood boy this far gone.” Polly looked up into Master Ben’s face. “I’m not going to kill your son.”

“You’ll be killing him if you don’t try!” Master Ben blurted. “Why … I’ll kill you myself if you don’t try. I’ll hang you before you ever get to Delphi.”

She went quiet again. Granada was afraid Polly was losing consciousness. Her body was going limp.

Her voice seemed to come from the grave. “All right, then. If I try,” she said, her speech halting, as she rationed her breath, “and if the boy dies, you have to hang me. You got to promise it. I can’t have it on my head that I killed your son.”

For a moment Master Ben was at a loss for words. “Have you gone mad?” he finally blurted.

Granada was in agreement. This was not like Polly at all. She was delirious. The girl looked into Polly’s face. Then she saw it. The old woman’s expression might have been one of near-death exhaustion, but the devil was in her eyes.

“Promise it!” she rasped.

“Promise her!” the mistress implored. “For God’s sake, Benjamin! I’ll promise her if you won’t.”

“My God, yes! I promise,” Master Ben sputtered. “We’re wasting time with this foolishness.”

But Polly gave no indication that she was ready to lift a hand to heal the boy. Granada could tell the woman was gathering her strength. Her breath was becoming deeper, more regular.

“And by the same turn,” she said at last, life seeping back into her voice, “if he was to live …”

“Yes, go on,” the master urged. “If he was to live … what?”

“If he was to live,” she said, her voice reclaiming some of its old vinegar, “I can’t let it be said that your precious white child owes his life to no nigger slave.”

“Goddamn, you are mad!” the master snapped. “I don’t care who he owes his life to.”

Polly held her tongue now. Granada couldn’t help but grin, amazed at the old woman’s gumption.

The mistress grasped the meaning before her husband. “Fool!” Mistress Amanda cried. “She wants her freedom. Promise it to her.”

Master Ben clenched his fist and his eyes flared. “I won’t be blackmailed!”

“I swear, if you let your pride kill another child—”

“Enough, Amanda!” The forked vein in the master’s forehead throbbed. Granada could tell he was still considering his options, but there was no other move to make.

“Fine!” he said, glaring at the woman. “You have my word. You go free if Little Lord lives. Is that what you want? Now can you see to my boy?”

“You swear it on your boy’s life,” Polly said, making things plain. The old woman began to straighten, shifting more weight to her own legs.

“I swear it on my boy’s life,” the master said, speaking the words like they were acid in his mouth.

Almost as an afterthought, Polly said, “And the girl, too.” She turned her face to Granada and gave her the faintest of grins.

Master Ben nodded his promise. “Now, will you do something before it’s too late?”

“All right, then,” Polly pronounced, standing on her own two feet now, still a little wobbly. “We understand each other. Now both of you get out of my way so I can save your boy. Go stand in that corner.”

Granada was astounded. Red-faced, both the master and the mistress followed Polly’s pointing finger.

Polly limped over to an armchair and fell back into the deep cushion with a groan. She reached into her apron pocket and retrieved a small vial and began rolling it between her palms, warming the liquid.

“Granada,” she said, “you should have already had that boy’s leg cleaned. First, get him laid so his heart is higher up than that bite. Chester, you lift him to where Granada says. Sylvie, rip me three long strips of the mistress’s fine linen to bind the boy’s leg. Long enough to tie a good knot. Lizzie, you get ready to help me to my feet when I tell you.”

The room came alive with activity, everybody following their orders. Granada began by looking for more pillows to prop under Little Lord. She knelt to retrieve one off the floor that had somehow been kicked partway under the bed. She was in such a hurry she didn’t give what she saw there, lying wadded under the bed, a second thought. The sight registered only a vague unease, but it was something that could be attended to later when the immediate crisis had passed.

In a short time Lizzie had Polly standing over Little Lord, forcing some kind of potion down his throat. The boy gagged, managing to swallow only a tiny amount of the dark liquid.

Master Ben jumped to his feet. “He’s choking! What are you giving him?”

“Something that works better when I ain’t got nobody standing over my shoulder.”

The master took two steps back. It was obvious that no one was up to arguing with even a severely weakened Polly.

The old woman kept at it, giving Little Lord a small dose at a time, and then massaging it down his throat. After several repetitions, the boy swallowed without resistance. It was only then she bothered answering the master’s question.

“It got some skullcap and some snakeroot and some black sampson. Some other things Daniel Webster whispered in my ear. I’ll show you how and you can write it in one of your books. I reckon you done paid for it.” She looked at his wife and chuckled. “It even got a drop or two of monkey blood. I calls it my monkey potion. Course you can name it what you want to.”

Granada had never heard of such a remedy. And how strange Polly would have it freshly made, ready to go. That’s when the nagging discovery from before forced itself into the forefront of her mind. She knelt down to look once more.

Her eyes had not been playing tricks. There it was. But it made no sense. How did Polly’s herb sack get under Little Lord’s bed?

Granada was certain Polly hadn’t brought it into the room with her. In fact, the sack should still be in the hospital, where it was when Bridger had dragged Polly to the stables. It should be where she had left it when she came in that last morning, tied at the neck and dropped in an iron washpot by the hearth. Granada had thought it strange at the time. The early hour. Polly being out in the weather. And why had she tied it off? She had never done that before.

Granada shivered when she remembered how the muddy bottom of the sack had sagged with the weight of its contents.

But how? she thought as she reached for the sack.

“Silly me!” a voice from behind announced as a hand snatched the sack from Granada’s fingers. “That’s where my mop rag got off to.”

Granada swiveled around to see Lizzie stooped behind her, grinning and clutching the muddy sack close to her chest. In the light of the lamp it was clear that her good eye shone as brightly as a brand-new day.