Rochester Knockings. Hubert Haddad

to do with their father, Mr. Fox . . . At the first clap of thunder, I started to tremble like tree branches in a tornado. My sister, on the lookout, was silent. The beetles of her pupils ran back and forth across her face, which seemed to me at that moment pale as death. The son of the widow in High Point, a tall youth who’d come to watch us moving in, sitting on the roadside under the pretext of having brought us the keys of Mr. Weekman who had parted in a hurry with his horses and cows, found a way to take my sister’s side. He wanted to spare this darling the habit of big chores because of her fragile lungs. With his sealskin face, Samuel Redfield, the widow’s son, took the opportunity to tell her that the house was cursed, that it moved all by itself at night, with moaning and scratching on the walls and floor and some sort of floating lights or apparitions; the ex-occupant had to have been scared yellow several times before deciding to leave the place. And I, hardly more educated than our mother or even Old Billy the horse, laughed to the brink of tears. Those are the superstitions of the Iroquois, or the Scots, nothing more. That’s what I told myself at the beginning. A new house always makes you worry a little; you think about the people who lived and died there. The dead always outnumber the living, and if you could see them all, it would be dreadful, like the huddled crowds at the rodeo. A new house must be broken in like riding a bull or a wild horse so as not to be thrown off in eight seconds. Our father didn’t really seem to like it here. He came home later and later from the pastures or the bar, where he drank much more than he had before, and one could often hear him grumbling about who knows what. It was actually because of his reputation as a drinker that we’d had to leave Rapstown. Every drunk in the area was his friend. He couldn’t go anywhere without a cowboy grabbing him by the arm and leading him off for a drink. Here in Hydesville, based on what I could observe, it seemed like men were watched much more closely by their spouses or mothers, all those sanctimonious devotees of Reverend Gascoigne. The

      Methodist church preached moderation in all things, that’s what I learned last Sunday. One shouldn’t be beholden to anyone, above all the seller of rum and whiskey, and we should love one another, that was the doctrine the pastor gave us to digest, always pointing his finger in the air, himself a widower with large coal-colored eyes. Sturdy in his boots, he wore starched collars and a black hat. When he speaks, you’d swear it was thundering. His eyes blaze and then flash with lightning. A magistrate who was ordering us all to hang wouldn’t sound any fiercer.

      Miss Pearl, his daughter, in no way resembles her father, as blonde as he is dark-haired, all rose petals. Her hair, her lips, even her eyes gleamed like honey. But at eighteen, she doesn’t lack authority in the classroom: that’s because of the minister. It is said that her mother suffered from melancholy. Such a pretty word seems so innocuous. Could that be when, under the weight of being sad, one takes a kind of pleasure in one’s sadness? Just like how a drinker starts to acquire a taste for his misfortune. Yet Violet, the minister’s wife who was by turns elated and depressed, was found one winter morning in the pond. One night she threw herself in wearing just her nightgown, that’s what they say. Alerted by Samuel Redfield, the High Point widow’s son, stuttering with emotion, some hunters who headed for the woods didn’t take long to identify a human form. Mrs. Gascoigne lay suspended in the water under a pane of ice. Her gown had risen up to her face, leaving her naked like one of those large freshwater fish without scales. Lily Brown, the eldest of Miss Pearl’s pupils, told me that the minister was publicly accused of having lacked charity for the unfortunate woman. He had performed the act of repentance while preaching the Sunday after her burial. Then, having become easily offended over time, he turned against the faithful parishioners and began to threaten them with hell on Earth, the affliction of those without ideals, since eternal life begins at our birth. Every Sunday for months, Lily Brown claims, he threatened the entire village with damnation. That was his way of grieving. Finally one Sunday, terribly emaciated, his black hair standing up on his head and cheeks, he proclaimed the remission of sins, swearing that all men were resurrected in Christ.

      We arrived in the village without knowing any of its dramas. But children are quick to reveal everything to you. Lily told me of the unfortunate Joe Charlie-Joe, the son of a former slave of a Mansfield ranch, who was hung from a great oak in Grand Meadow for taking a walk in the valley with the beautiful Emily. Before committing their crime, the lynchers would have obtained her vow that he had kissed her. If every stolen kiss of the young warranted the rope, there’d be none of us left to marry. It’s true, not everyone is black. The beautiful Emily Mansfield was full of remorse. Because of her, a black man hardly twenty years old went to heaven with a kiss for his last rite of Viaticum.

      If my dear Lee had been a Negro, the people of Rapstown would’ve had more than one occasion to put a rope around his neck. Tears come now just from thinking of him. Lee and I had promised to write each other every day. My letters were scented with lavender and decorated with petals. I grew tired after a week: there was nothing in return, not a single word. I dream of Lee almost every night. How can I describe him? He’s blond and tan from the sun, with brown eyes, a spice-colored mixture. In my dream, we’re riding bareback on a blazing thoroughbred and, impossibly, both of us are holding on by its long mane as if seated side by side. The stallion gallops so fast that it catches up with the setting sun and, suddenly, as if our mount were disappearing into a precipice, it’s Lee metamorphosed in flight that I’m astride. I feel that soon, in a convulsion, we are going to melt into each other, rider and mount, and that we will reach the sun while crying out our joy. At that final moment, I wake up in a sweat with a feeling of happiness mixed with dissatisfaction. What could a dream like that mean?

      Tonight the old bones of this house are creaking. Undoubtedly because of the north wind. The north wind seeps in between the boards in the walls and in the cracks in doors and windows, it rushes down the chimney flue. It also causes sudden death, they say. Especially in autumn. It’s the great sweeper away of leaves and souls. Disturbed by its howling, Katie talked in her sleep. She was saying something about a devil with a cloven foot. And then she started to sing in a soft funny voice:

       Oh! it’s a boy!

       Super! it’s a boy

       It’s a leprechaun, it’s a demon!

III.

       From a Drinker’s Point of View in the Saloon Across the Street

      In the sole company of a whiskey bottle, Robert McLeann, the Hydesville marshal, was celebrating the departure toward the Great Lakes of a band of bounty hunters, headed up the trail of the famous “Underground Railroad,” as they call the rescue and support network of fugitive slaves from the southern states to the Canadian border. These thugs didn’t hesitate to recuperate their losses with the free Negroes of the Union entirely capable of proving their emancipation before underhanded judges who were paid ten dollars a head. There was a barn that served as a “station” on the side of the reservoirs. But the family of eight kids and three wives hidden there by Mormon pioneers, themselves escaped from the Missouri killings, had managed to take the marked trails to other shelters, while the Mormons in their turn went to the port of New York like their predecessors from the Brooklyn, in the vain hope of reaching, via Cape Horn, the other side of the Rocky Mountains. To the marshal, hostile to this absurd law of compromise passed by Congress, there was no question of giving the least service to the slave hunters on his piece of land. He already had enough to handle with passing adventurers, the continual stream of starving immigrants in search of Eden, ruined families returning from the West or Indian killers converted into arms traffickers.

      At the hour when the hills of the Iroquois disappear beneath the fog, the October sun finished reddening alongside the brick and wooden façades and in the dust stirred up by carts returning from the fields. From his office window, head foggy from alcohol, McLeann saw Mr. Fox get off his horse, fasten it to the ramp above the drinking trough, and proceed to limp into the saloon. Both man and horse were thirsty. He could see the rider’s beleaguered air and remembered the previous renter of the farm by the pond, old Weekman, who walked every night to the bar in an uneven step. That ex-buffalo hunter turned farmer who, after settling down beside Long Road, after the death of his wife, and then after several years with