By the Light of the Flower Moon
Every now and then, if the moon is just right, the old ones will assemble and take someone back with them.
Weavers Bend, West Virginia, 1980
Cade Weaver woke with a start and turned toward the bedside clock: 1:37 a.m.
Lord God, she thought, rubbing her eyes. Such strange dreams again, all the usual ghosts with their unfinished business roaming these ancient halls. Not that that’s anything out of the ordinary here. But something’s different tonight. A higher restlessness is in the air.
A rising wind moaned against the farmhouse. Newly leafed maple branches filigreed a waning gibbous moon—the Flower Moon, according to Grandmother Provie Bell. Wind and nascent twigs scratched the screens, rallying Cade to pad across the floor and close her bedroom window. Quickly back in bed, she pulled its topmost cover up to her chin and settled into the pillows, shivering against the late chill of this Appalachian spring.
I could go ahead and get on up, she thought, though halfheartedly. I could use the time to fine-tune that approaching thesis defense. Isn’t that why I came all this long way home? I couldn’t bear one more minute on campus. But surely I’ll need the rest before I can deal with all that. I’ll snooze just a little longer.
She was almost back asleep when another moan—now, she was certain, not the wind—slunk into her consciousness. Then another lamentation, more plaintive. Suddenly alert, Cade reached for her robe and stood, breathing deep to still the thumping of her heart. A third low call brought her out into the hall—where an intent not her own gently pulled her toward her grandmother’s bedroom.
She eased open the door and let her eyes adjust to Provie Bell’s supine form, fitfully dozing in the high-backed oak bed she had shared with her dearly departed husband for some seventy years.
The chintz curtains billowed against a breeze. The poor thing’s cold, Cade thought, and moved to close the window. Provie Bell startled.
“Who’s there?” she said. “Why can’t I see who’s there? Why is it so dark?”
“It’s Cade, Grandmother. I heard you from down the hall. Are you okay? Can I get you a glass of water? Or another quilt, maybe?” Cade pulled the armchair from the window closer to the bed and settled into it, gently smoothing the thin hair off Provie Bell’s anxious brow.
Provie Bell relaxed at the touch and began to snore lightly, her mouth drooping open. Cade gazed upon her face, so shrunken now. My goodness, she wondered. Just when did this happen? When did she get so old?
Provie Bell relaxed at the touch and began to snore lightly, her mouth drooping open. Cade gazed upon her face, so shrunken now. My goodness, she wondered. Just when did this happen? When did she get so old? Grandmother has always been such a strong presence, so vital. And of course, she’s almost ninety—that’s ancient, for crying out loud! I never thought of her as an old woman, and yet—dear God! —here she is.
Spooked by Provie Bell’s sharp gasp, Cade craned closer to her grandmother’s faint but urgent muttering.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Why are they all here? There’s certainly no room for all these folks underfoot in my kitchen. There’s barely room to move!”
“But Grandmother.” Cade laid her hand on the old woman’s forehead. “Who are you talking about? There’s no one here.”
Provie Bell opened her eyes and smiled.
“Why, don’t be silly, dear,” she said, looking directly at her granddaughter. “They’re all here.”
A quiver rushed along the back of Cade’s neck. She glanced around the empty room, then stood and retied her robe. “That’s it,” she said. “I’m going downstairs to Mother and Daddy’s room, see about waking them up.”
But Provie Bell grabbed her granddaughter’s arm.
“No, please don’t go,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “You need to help me here. Everyone’s just going to have to wait on the porch until I can fix another pot of coffee. Reuben, take that kettle off the stove and refill it from the pump, would you, please, dear?”
Cade stiffened at this mention of her grandmother’s favorite brother, now long gone, felled in the French countryside in 1918, a casualty of the First World War. Provie Bell always said it was the greatest tragedy of her life. She never understood how their mother managed to carry on.
“Mother!” Provie Bell’s insistent whispers continued. “It’s been so long. Here, let me take Father’s hat and coat and help him into his rocking chair. There’s just so much I want to tell you both.”
Cade—resisting the temptation to glance at the old rocker across the room—continued to smooth her grandmother’s worried forehead.
“But where’s Andrew? That husband of mine should be here to help with all these people. He’ll know what to do.” Provie Bell began to pluck at the coverlet in rising agitation. “Where is he? He said he would be here. I should go check the orchard and make sure he’s all right. Sometimes that bull gets loose in there to gorge on my crabapples! And Andrew just won’t ever ask for help rounding him back up. Andrew?”
Provie Bell began fumbling for her glasses on the bedside table. Cade took the hand into her own and squeezed it hard.
“It’s all right, Grandmother. Andrew is fine.”
“Andrew. There you are, dear.” Provie Bell relaxed and sighed. “I knew there was no need to worry. Why, sweetheart: you’re smiling!” And here a small grin crossed her face. “See? Don’t you wear it well. I always said you should let yourself laugh more! You don’t need to be so serious all the time.
“But you need to help me with all these people, Andrew. Reuben’s been gone too long with the kettle, and I know Mother will want to see him. I made a coconut cake especially for Father, but there’s surely not going to be enough to go around. There’s just not enough time to get ready.” Provie Bell’s hands again moved restlessly across the covers. “There’s simply not enough time,” she repeated. “And I’m just so tired, Andrew; so terribly tired. You’ve got to help me.”
“It’s no wonder you were Mother’s favorite, but that never really bothered the rest of us. We felt quite the same way!” A tear from her cheek dripped onto Cade’s own. “We never ever thought we’d see you again.”
Cade, thinking of no other way to offer comfort, lifted the bedclothes and climbed into the high bed alongside her grandmother. She wrapped her arms tightly around Provie Bell, who finally quieted and fell back into slack-jawed slumber. Calmed somewhat by the familiar faint whiff of lavender from the old woman’s flannel gown, Cade grew drowsy—despite her heart lightly thudding with dread. I really should go rouse Mother and Daddy, she thought. They’ll know what to do.
No, Cade. Cade felt, more than heard, her grandmother speak. Please stay. Leave your parents to themselves. You’ve always been my favorite, after all.
Cade closed her eyes against a sudden welling of tears. You have always been my favorite, too, dear Grandmother, she thought. I’ll stay as long as you need me.
Then, despite her best intentions, she drifted off to sleep.
It was a low chuckling that finally wakened her, as the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chimed the three o’clock hour. A strange and muted glow now surrounded Provie Bell’s bed. Cade blinked in confusion. A host of shadowy figures, seemingly oblivious of her presence, milled about the room. Curiously unafraid, Cade felt only a calm sense of detachment and watchfulness: whatever was unfolding here had no bearing on her.
“You were always such a funny little boy, Reuben.” Provie Bell’s voice was low but clear. “It’s no wonder you were Mother’s favorite, but that never really bothered the rest of us. We felt quite the same way!” A tear from her cheek dripped onto Cade’s own. “We never ever thought we’d see you again.”
Provie Bell beheld the hazy apparitions of loved ones, all long passed. Ever the proper hostess, she struggled to call each by name lest they disappear without a proper greeting. A long list of siblings, cousins, grandparents on all sides, childhood friends: she whispered quickly to each one as her eyes darted around the room.
Finally, though, she inhaled shakily and relaxed back into her feather pillows. “Oh, Andrew. There you are. Thank you so much, my dear, for helping with all these folks. I think I’ll just rest here a moment. I swear I’ve never been so tired in my whole life. Can you stay a bit? I’ll make us some fresh coffee.”
Provie Bell coughed and weakly shook her head. “No, please don’t leave, dear—my heart simply won’t bear that again.” She slowly lifted a tremulous hand off the coverlet.
Cade glanced towards where her grandmother pointed, then sat up in a quick and quiet horror. For there, at the foot of the bed, stood Grandfather Andrew—a smiling youth in wedding garb, his own hand extended. Provie Bell’s visage transformed into that of a much younger self as she reached further this time, her arm stronger. “Oh, I see. Yes. Now I understand. I’m not afraid. And I think I’m ready—I’ll just need your help getting out of this bed.”
Suddenly, the old woman shot upright, her outstretched arm ramrod straight. Panicked, Cade threw off the covers and leapt from the bed. Provie Bell began to pant, her other hand pressed to her heart.
An otherworldly luminosity filled the room. Cade, unable to tear her eyes away from Andrew’s shimmering form, leaned down and laid a protective arm across her grandmother’s shoulders. She halfway expected the very ceiling to open against a firmament lit with Jesus rays; could almost swear to an approaching chorus of angels.
“Why, Andrew!” Provie Bell’s eyes flew open in a shock of wonder and sudden revelation; a beatific smile slowly spread across her face. “Why, it is Glory, my angel!” she managed to say. “’Tis Glory after all!”
Provie Bell remained motionless, radiant, a deer in holy headlights. She clutched her heart for the few seconds ticked off by the downstairs clock, then collapsed against her granddaughter with a final small wheeze. The glow surrounding the bed vanished as abruptly as if someone had turned off a lamp. Cade shuddered against the instant gloom and eased her grandmother back atop the lace-encased bolsters, pulling the covers snugly across her shoulders. Shivering in the quick chill, she tightened her own robe and leaned forward to gently lower the lids of those aged eyes, so bright a minute ago, now gone opaque. Cade stared down at the old woman’s tranquil form for a few seconds—then turned to look carefully around the room. For what, exactly, she couldn’t say—nor seem to find. She bent and kissed Provie Bell’s forehead, smoothed the disheveled curls back off her face.
The glow surrounding the bed vanished as abruptly as if someone had turned off a lamp. Cade shuddered against the instant gloom and eased her grandmother back atop the lace-encased bolsters, pulling the covers snugly across her shoulders.
“Goodbye, dear Grandmother,” she said. “This house won’t be the same without you.” Cade reached across the bed and switched on Provie Bell’s reading lamp, straightened her small silver bowl of peppermint candies.
“Godspeed, Providence Bell Edwards Weaver. We’ll see you on the other side.”
Cade sank back into the armchair, bone tired. Well, she thought. That’s that, then. Downstairs the grandfather clock testified to four o’clock; somewhere across the barnyard a fledgling rooster began rehearsing for dawn. Cade gazed out the window where the last of the Flower Moon’s light swept across the beds of peonies—Provie Bell’s favorites—overladen with buds swollen tight. Maybe enough of these will open in time for the funeral, Cade thought—and swallowed against the sudden tightening in her throat. Come on, Cade: it’s time to pull yourself together. The sun will be up soon enough. You’d best head downstairs and put on the coffee, finally wake up Mother and Daddy.
Though, really—she reconsidered—what’s the rush now?
And so, as the moon settled further behind the hay barn, Cade lowered her face into her hands and gave over to a spell of solitary weeping before the business of caring for the newly dead overtook the house.
About the author
Jean K. Dowdy is a hopefully-soon-to-be-retiring horticulturalist who lives and works in the relative wilds of northeast Florida. Aside from gardening columns featured in local periodicals over the years, her poetry has appeared in Oberon Poetry Journal and SWWIM Every Day online.
- Jean K. Dowdyhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/jean-k-dowdy/
- Jean K. Dowdyhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/jean-k-dowdy/
