The highpoint of a revival service in the big tent came when Preacher Jarvey finally unwound and let his voice hit the sky with the godshout. The longer he postponed it, the more devastating it was.
—Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-d is here!
With that tremendous cry, he unleashed the thunderblast of divinity on the unshriven sheep, and down they came in flocks trembling to the altar.
—I sort of hope he’ll turn loose this morning, one of the ladies in the back row remarked.
It seemed unlikely to Esther that he would, but the Reverend Lloyd G. Jarvey wasn’t easy to fathom.
It was after ten when without warning the flap of the little tent flew up, and Preacher Jarvey appeared in the opening, clad in a long black preacher’s coat, reversed white collar, tightfitting black pants and hookbuttoned black shoes.
A man of perhaps forty, he stood six feet tall, but seemed less because of his great shoulders and arms. His head had a wild, lawless look; hair and beard made one brown shag that nearly buried his ears and mouth. His brown eyes were savagely restless under frowning brows. He had the look of a huge, primitive god, poised on the brink of some tremendous act.
Instead, he reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a pair of spectacles, which he perched on the bridge of his fleshy nose. All the forbidding grandeur of his aspect was undone by the little thick round lenses, through which the Reverend Lloyd G. Jarvey peered, a great strength imprisoned.
Now he walked under the flap of the big tent and up the steps to the platform, leaning slightly backward, heavily swinging his feet and arms but taking a rather short stride for the effort involved.
Once behind the pulpit, he plucked off the glasses. His brows unbent, and his face assumed a look of majestic displeasure mingled with sorrow. He leaned his head farther back. His eyes closed. He paused.
The congregation became raptly still.
—Let us pray.
The lips flapped slowly, as if themselves immobile but moved by the action of the jaws. The voice was a harsh baritone, monotonous and trumpeting, quavering with sanctity. The Southern accent gave it a faintly barbaric sound to Northern ears. The Preacher’s language was a bastard fruit produced by the grafting of Biblical phrase on the speech of Southern hill people.
The introductory services passed with prayer and hymn-singing. At length, Preacher Jarvey opened the black Bible on the pulpit.
—Brothers and sisters, we are celebratin’ today in pomp and pride the birth of our Republic. It’s a beautiful day that God has given us to remember our beginnin’s. Look about you, and see what the Lord has given you. He has given you this green and pleasant valley teemin’ with all good things. The trees drop their abundance on the earth. The kine return at evenin’ with full udders. The corn is as tall as the knee of a virgin. It is a beautiful mornin’, and the day is all before you.
Beware! Holy and terrible is the voice of the Lord. Beware! lest you hear His awful voice at evenin’ in the cool of the garden.
Brothers and sisters, on just such a day as this did the father and mother of mankind wander in that beautiful garden which God in His great beneficence bestowed upon them. On just such a day as this they heard the sound of the clear fountains flowin’ with perpetual balm, and the voice of the lion roarin’ was like the bleat of a lamb. Alas, on just such a day as this they sinned and knew not God and turned from His teachin’.
On this great day of our national beginnin’s let us remember an older beginnin’. I come before you today to remind you of the origin of mankind. If every word made by man were lost and the first leaves of God’s Book remained to us, man would still know his sinful history and his sorrowful heritage. The oldest story in the world is the story of the Creation and the Fall of Man. Hit’s a beautiful story, o, how beautiful it is, for hit is full of the beauty and the terror of the Lord.
As he warmed to his subject, Preacher Jarvey had spoken with longer cadences, the hoarse chant of his voice achieving higher climaxes before the trumpeting doomfall at end of sentence. Now he plucked the glasses from his pocket and put them on his nose. His brows made their ferocious pucker as he easily lifted the big pulpit Bible and held it close to his eyes, his face hidden by the book.
—In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.
Esther listened as the hoarse trumpet of the voice behind the Bible blew on and on. She had often heard these beautiful words, the oldest in the world; they were like a language of her soul, telling her a forgotten legend of herself. As she listened, images of her life in Raintree County crowded through her mind, bathed in the primitive light of myth—pictures of sorrow, love, division, anger.
—And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.
And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
Now, brothers and sisters, I ask you to imagine this primitive garden in the midst of the earth, bloomin’ with the first freshness of creation upon it. How beautiful is the garden before the great crime! Here the first man walks in innocence. He knows not that frail defect called Woman.
Meanwhile, in the midst and middle of this garden two trees are growin’. Some people say that they were apple trees. Some people say that they were pomegranate trees. The Bible does not say what they were. And the reason why the Bible does not say what they were is that they were alone of their kind. Those trees did not bear fruit for seed, after the manner of natural trees. They had no name except the Biblical name. One was the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the other was the Tree of Life.
The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil—brothers and sisters, hit was no ordinary tree. Hit was God’s tree. Hit was many cubits thicker at the base than the greatest natural oak. The bark of the tree, hit was a thick scale. The leaves of the tree, they were broad and polished. The fruit of the tree, hit was a scarlet cluster of sweetness, burstin’ with juice.
And what was that other tree like? O, dearly beloved, the mind of man is not able to picture hit, and the voice of man, hit is not able to declare hits kind. Hit was called the Tree of Life, and hit grew in the darkest and oldest part of the garden, guarded by dragons breathin’ fire.
And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat:
But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
Disturbed by the sound of a buggy approaching, Esther looked up, but it was not Pa’s buggy.
—And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof,
And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and . . .
Under the great tent filled with the trumpet of Preacher Jarvey’s voice, Esther was sad, remembering
1857—1863
HOW IN HER OLDEST AWARENESS OF BEING ALIVE SHE WAS STANDING
in a field back of the farmhouse. She was very close to the earth as if she had just come out of it. It had a brown soft look in the light, and the light was like early morning in the spring. The earth of the field had been freshly turned by the plow. The ribbed furrows seemed to spread from a point far off and come undulating toward her, widening and widening until they engulfed her where she stood, her bare feet pressed down into the earth. Pa came up the field following the plow, thé horses became bigger and bigger straining at the lines, she heard the heavy shout of Pa as he tugged at the lines, she saw how he swung the doubled reins crashing against the horses. The sharp share of the plow turned the earth with a digging sound, the team and the plow and Pa came up close, Pa’s bare arms bulged from his grip on the
handles, he was grand and terrible in his anger as he made the circle around the place where she stood.
Pa was a black thick beard, a broad pink face streaming with sweat, fierce black eyes, a big nose ending in a delicate tip, a mouth shouting strong words at the horses.
This was a sharp clear memory, but there were a lot of other vague memories of the earth, the plowing, and Pa. She could remember times when Pa would curse the horses so loud and fierce that her mother would shut the back door and cry.
Pa never went to the church on Sundays, but he expected Esther and the other children to go. Her mother got them all ready, and they all went to the church, nine of them after Mollie came along and grew to any size. They took up considerable room in the church. On Sunday Pa dressed in a black suit and left the fields and rested from his work, but he didn’t bother to go to church. It was a thing for women and children and the other people of the countryside, but not for Pa, who was so grandly angry and violent.
When Pa cursed, he sounded a little like the preacher at the church. He swung his arms about and used some of the same words. Only Pa was much broader and stronger and louder even than the preacher.
Of the girls, she liked Ferny the best. She hated Sarah, who was bigger than she and always having it in for her. Sarah was always jealous because she had to work in the house and help their mother. As far back as Esther could remember, all the girls had chores to do in the house except herself. Pa always took her to the field with him, and she would watch him plow. When she was bigger, he would let her help sometimes in little ways.
Her mother told stories to them in the evening before they went to bed. Pa never told any stories but merely sat and listened without saying whether he thought it was a good thing or not. Her mother had round dark eyes and dark hair and skin. She was fat and always a little wistful and tired-looking. But she knew all kinds of stories, for telling or reading. Most of the stories came from the Bible.
The Bible was the big book with stiff covers that lay on the parlor table. It was all full of words that told about the Creation and God and Jesus and many ancient people who did strange things in the earth a long time ago. These things did not happen in Raintree County or even very close to it and did not seem to have a direct connection with anybody or anything she knew. All of the people in the Bible had died a long time ago except God.
God had always been alive. He lived above the earth in Heaven. He had a terrific temper and was big and broad, but his beard was probably white instead of black. He had made the earth a long time ago and had rested from his labors.
All people who died were buried in the earth. There was a place in Raintree County, just a little way down the road from the Farm, where Grandpa and Grandma Root had lived. They had been buried in the earth behind the house on a hill under a tree. Their names were on white stones, and God had them now.
All people that ever lived on the earth, except God, had died and been buried in the ground. Esther was terribly afraid of being buried in the ground like her two little brothers that had never got beyond being babies. But she was very strong, and it did not seem possible that she could ever die.
When they went to school, she proved to be the smartest of the girls. The teacher was a tall, stern man with a bald head. He whipped the ones who didn’t have their lessons or were naughty in school. Esther was afraid of whipping more than anything else, because Pa had said that when they got whipped at school they would get another whipping at home. That was how she happened to remember a Fourth of July when she was six years old.
One day in the spring, one of the older girls at school had teased her about being descended from an Indian.
—I ain’t descended from an Injun, she told the girl. My pa says it ain’t true. We ain’t any of us descended from Injuns.
—My ma says you’re part Injun, all you Root kids got Injun blood in you. Squaw blood. Look at your hair and eyes. Halfbreed! Halfbreed!
Esther had turned and run at the girl, and in her desperation hunting for a word she had called the girl the worst word she knew.
—You’re a nigger, she said.
In their part of the country, that was the worst thing you could call anyone. The niggers were black people and slaves. The War was being fought in those days to free the slaves, and a lot of the men had gone off to the War.
When she called the girl a nigger, the girl had gone and told the teacher.
—Esther, did you call Mabel Coombs a nigger?
The teacher had a switch, and his voice was thin and dry in his throat. The other children sat listening, and the whole room was quiet.
—Yes, Esther said and began to cry.
What she had said and done now seemed so evil that she had forgotten to mention the provocation.
The teacher struck her a few times lightly on the arm with the switch, and it had hardly stung at all. But that was not what worried her.
When they were outdoors, Sarah said,
—Wait till Pa hears. You’ll catch it good.
She begged and pleaded with Sarah not to tell on her.
—Promise you’ll do the dishes in place of me, Sarah said, and anything else I ask you, or I’ll tell Pa.
—I promise, Esther said.
She was very unhappy for weeks after that, afraid that Pa would find out about the whipping she had got at school. Pa had a big black buggy whip. It was terrible to see how he would lash at the horses when he became angry. She had heard him whipping the boys in the barn a few times, and it had made her white and weak so that she would go off and cry to herself.
For weeks, she did everything that Sarah asked her to do. She washed the dishes for her and carried things for her.
—Just you fail to do one little thing I ask you, Sarah said.
Then one day at supper table, Pa had called Sarah down for something, and Sarah had talked nasty and said that their father favored Esther and everyone knew it.
—Sarah, don’t let me hear you say that again, Pa said, standing up, so that they all shrank in their chairs.
His face was red and his little moist red mouth worked inside his beard. He reached a hand across the table toward Sarah.
—I don’t care, Sarah said. I never been whipped in school, and Esther has. She called a girl a nigger, and the teacher whipped her. She made me promise not to tell, but she done it, and he whipped her.
Esther became very still, and her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst.
—Is that true? Pa said.
—Yes, Pa.
—Why did you call the girl a nigger?
—She said we had Injun blood in us, and I called her a nigger.
—Did the teacher whip you for that?
—Yes, Pa. And I promised Sarah I’d do her work for her if she didn’t tell. But she told anyhow.
She was crying now, and she thought she had never seen Pa that angry before. He grabbed Sarah and dragged her out of the house and took her to the barn. Esther ran off to the stormgrove and hid, and she could hear Sarah screaming and Pa whipping her. She thought it would surely be her turn next.
Later on, Pa came out and found her there. The sweat stood out on his head, but he didn’t seem angry with her.
—You done right to call that girl whatever you wanted, he said.
There ain’t any Injun blood in our family. That’s a lie. That teacher ain’t in the County any more. If he was, I’d tear him limb from limb. Did he hurt you when he whipped you?
—No, it didn’t hurt a bit.
—If he had hurt you, I’d of gone to find him no matter where, and I’d of taken the hide off of him with a rawhide whip. Anybody ever goes to whip you or hurt you, you let me know.
—Yes, Pa.
The next day was the Fourth, and Pa took her to Freehaven with him, just the two. It was the first time she ever remembered being at the County Seat. She was dressed in her Sunday best, and Pa had on his black suit and looked very fine and terrible and strong. He only cursed a little bit driving th
e horse into town and seemed to be in a good mood.
In town, it was a big day. Everybody talked about there being a battle in a place called Pennsylvania. Esther walked all around the town with Pa. It was fun to see their faces in the windows of the big stores on the south side of the Square. There were orations and fireworks, and Pa took her around to see everything.
In the evening, Pa put her in the buggy and told her to wait for him. She must have gone to sleep, and when she woke up, there were a lot of people running past the buggy and yelling fire. She got out to see, and there was a big house close to the Square—it was on fire, burning like a tall torch in the night. Pa came and found her and took her hand and led her down to where they could watch the fire. People said that a woman and a little boy had got burnt in the fire.
On the way home, Pa told her never to play with fire, or she might get burnt like the little boy in the house at the County Seat. She felt awfully sorry about the fire, but it had been a wonderful, exciting day, the town was so full of new strange faces and beautiful women in long dresses and handsome men, some of them almost as big and strong as Pa. She went to sleep wondering how they would ever bury the little boy if he was burnt completely up, and
HOW HE COULD GO TO HEAVEN AND GOD HAVE HIM,
IF HE HADN’T
ANY
—BODY and soul, the Woman was made out of Man. Body and soul the Woman belongs to Man. God made her to be Man’s partner and helpmeet, and o, sisters of the congregation, how woefully she betrayed His trust!
Preacher Jarvey shook his shaggy head and bent his brows sternly against the good ladies of Raintree County, who made up the major part of his audience.