The Cigar Box

It looked to be a long night. I had agreed to play the fiddle at a harvest dance in the next county. At first I had shilly-shallied about takin' the job. It were a tedious drive over rutted country roads, and instead of ridin' my horse Rusty, I were, perforce, obliged to hire a cheap buckboard from Silverman's livery stable -- a much slower conveyance and a nuisance as well. It seems I could earn a few much needed dollars by deliverin' a hand carved chair, ordered by a Mr. Riffle, who lived in the county to which I'd be a travelin'. By agreein' to play at old Silverman's daughter's weddin', I had me a free rig for the night. Grumblin', I gave a slap of the reins and a, "giddy up" to the hired horse and set upon my way.

Normally, I enjoyed fiddlin'. I had me an old cigar box fiddle, which my daddy had made back in 1875 from a used wooden cigar box he'd found in an alleyway. I got her for Christmas, and promptly named her Bessie. She felt so good in my hands! From the moment I touched her I knowed we was meant to be together. She seemed to say to me, "I am yours!" and I fell completely in love with her.

She were a beauty, and lands sake could my Bessie sing! She could wail like a new born babe, and make the stubbornest foot begin to tap and stomp, until the floorboards of the sturdiest barn was a thumpin' in time to my sweet Bessie's song. She were my pride and joy, and I never passed an opportunity to show off what she and me could do together. I couldn't figure out why she could wail like she did -- better 'an any fiddle I'd ever heard, but I didn't care none neither. She were mine and that were all that mattered.

Many times, I would play her when we was all alone. I'd go up to the loft of our cabin, hunker down on a old tree stump I'd drug up there, and I'd just play my girl. Sometimes, a feelin' of desolation and malaise would come over me, a feelin' I couldn't understand, but I figured my Bessie had her reasons, so I just kind a flowed with her.

Anways, here we was a bumpin' and a jigglin' over these dad-blasted roads, Mr. Riffle's chair a wobblin' and a bangin' in the back, when we come to the woods. I never did cottin' to this particular patch of woodland. I ain't an imagin'ful man, but on the sunniest of days it were forbiddin'. Dark trees loomed menacin'ly over the road, squelchin' the sun, makin' deep dark patches of dankness; black holes, like some'un had put a red hot poker into the night and left parts that were darker than others; black holes which had burnt away the sky to let in the cold.

It were always cold, even on the hottest days, and now, as always, the chill seemed to creep into my chest. This were the first time I'd taken my Bessie through these woods, and I were concerned lest I would have to high up the horse and make a run through its dark nothin'ness. I grit my teeth and with a somewhat nervous, "Giddy up!" I urged my equestri-i-an companion forward.

We finally left the forest without some kind of terrorizin' happenin', and a cloud seemed to pass beyond the sun allowin' a stream of sunlight to fill the road with relief. I felt better, and knowin' I were close to my destination, my heart lifted as I made my way to first Mr. Riffle's and then on to the dance.

Bessie had endured the ride strapped to my back by a sturdy piece of bailin' twine. I kept her there 'cause she were my girl and I didn't want nothin' to happen to her. Nary a scratch nor a dent were allowed to mar her beauty, so when I reached the barn where we was supposed to play, it were with renewed pride that I brung my Bessie with me down from the buckboard and strutted into the barn.

The barn were as festive a place as you'd ever want to see! Chinese paper lanterns was strung from front to back. Tables a groanin' with pies, cakes and donuts lined each side, and the floor had been scrubbed then sprinkled with sawdust, to give each dancin' foot better purchase. It promised to be a grand night, and I could feel my Bessie a vibratin' with anticipation.

Lots of folks in their Sunday best was there: tight sack coats for the men, colorful calicos, dimities and gingham for the ladies. I seen a couple of right pertty young gals that might require my attention later on in the evenin'. Now, I don't want to say I'm a looker, but I've had my share of eyes made at me, and I've been told I cut a dashin' figure. I'm rather tall, standin' at six-two with dark hair and eyes. I prefer the Jesse James Duster to the tight fittin' sack suit of the times. The long, loose fittin' linen coat do cut a dash as I whirl with my Bessie; the ladies, I've been told, find my Western wear romantic.

I tucked my Bessie agin' my shoulder and blew upon her gently. "Play fair, sweet Bessie," I crooned, and as I walked the length of the barn, I resined up my horse hair bow and drew it agin' my girl's strings in a long, drawn out note, leadin' into a dramatic piece that showed off what my Bessie could do. As I played, I made toward the platform at the back of the buildin', stoppin' now and then to appreciate a nubile young lady, then movin' on, gettin' in a bit of fancy foot work as I went. It were my own particular style of enterin' a dance. Folks seemed to like it, and it made me and Bessie feel right proud. I leapt upon the platform at the end of the barn, and commenced to regale the folks therein with Bessie's sweet, ulalatin' music.

The dancin' became frenzied. The floor boards thumped and bowed as the weight of hundreds of feet stomped. The air became warm and close. Bessie were out doin' herself ,and the room seemed to swirl and spin about in a frenzied combination of howlin' music, swirlin' skirts and petticoats. Sweat run into my eyes, my heart raced and Bessie seemed to throb agin' my arm where she lay. Then I seen -- her.

The rest of the room seemed to fade into a mist except for this one gal. She would have stood out in any case. Her clothin' were rather old fashioned, it havin' no bustle nor puffy sleeves, and it were trimmed in pink lace at neck and hem, but her eyes was what drew mine to her -- burnin' green eyes like beacons; eyes that trapped me, imprisoned me in a green pool of promise. Bessie faltered in my hands. Her wailin' ceased, breakin' the spell and I, released for a second, almost fell from the platform as I leapt to the floor. Had the girl spoken to me? I could a sworn I'd heard her say, "I am yours."

Removin' my large white hankerchif from my coat pocket, I mopped my streamin' forehead and eyes. I searched the room for the girl, but she were gone. Someone shoved a cup in my hand and I swigged, then choked. Strong corn liquor burned my throat; I felt obliged for the drink. My head felt light and empty; my stomach churned and tilted.

I don't rightly remember much more of the dance. I guess maybe me and Bessie played some more, and maybe we didn't. The next time I recollected myself, I were in the rattley buckboard, headin' towards the woods. Bessie, once agin across my back, seemed to thrum as we drew nigh the woods. "Now, Bessie, it'll be all right, my girl," I crooned. We entered and blackness fell.

I heard what seemed to be a Bobcat; unnatural for these parts, but not unheard of. I heard a hiss. I looked up and there were a gruesome sight! It were a woman -- gaunt, pale, with eyes like burnin' coals! I seen a fallin' shadow and it were upon me. At first I were too flummoxed to realize what were a happenin', and then I realized I were being attacked by some Thing from the trees.

I grabbed for the whip, hopin' to drive my attacker from me, when it wrapped its arms around my neck and hissed agin. It's breath were fetid, as if blowed out by a rottin' corpse. Matted, black hair blew in my face and my open, screamin' mouth. It tasted squirmy and dead, as if a decayin' animal had entered that howlin' cavity. Taloned nails begun to rake my skin, and sharp teeth dug into my neck.

I fought! I grabbed its arms and tried to release its stranglin' hold, but I were quickly weakenin' from loss of blood. I heard it screech, an eerie, manic cry, and once agin' I thought I heard, "I am yours!" My head begun to swim. I wrastled with the fiend, tryin' to tear it from my back, and finally, leapt from the careenin' buckboard to the ground, rollin', rollin', tryin' to free myself from its deathly embrace. The last thing I remember was hearin' my Bessie crunch beneath my weight.

They never found my body. The horse and buckboard returned to the stable, and a search were commenced forthwith. All they found were my Bessie, layin' in the road in the middle of the forest. She had splintered and were now a shattered skeleton of wood shards and strings. Only one part of her remained all of a piece: the bottom of the fiddle, which had once been the lid of the cigar box. Attached to it were a scrap of pink lace, and lettered upon it were one word:

Bessie

Debra Shiveley Welch

©2005

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