Whom the Gods Destroyed

by Josephine Daskam Bacon

If it were hours or minutes she did not know, but she opened her eyes with pain upon a quiet world. The storm had passed, the leaves were dripping, the sun was just beginning to brighten the blue, the birds were twittering again. She got up heavily, but with a certain fitful strength. She turned around and dragged herself further into the wood. Then, in dread of the thicker foliage, she struck off uncertainly to the right. To her the vengeance of God was only delayed; there was only a momentary escape, but it was precious. She was confused, terrified, beaten. She had no notion in what direction the house lay. She felt her legs tottering and reached painfully down to pick up a large, gnarled, broken bough. The effort all but stretched her beside it. But she leaned on it, and turned her shaking head from one side to another. All was thick, wet, glistening, confusing. Only the twitter of the birds and the drip, drip of the wet leaves broke the deadly stillness. A nameless horror caught her. She felt alone in the world.

"O Lord, O dear Lord, show me the way home!" she prayed. "Let me die at home, Lord; don't let me die out here—a poor old woman like me! Sixty two, Lord, an' a believer all my life! Send me home!"

There was a little rustling noise in the tree near the tiny clearing just before her; a low, soft heavenly sound.

"I know I'm goin' to die, Lord, only let me die at home! Don't do it here! I'm scairt, an' I'm weak, an' I'm too old to die in the woods! Jus' send me home, Lord; show me where the house is!"

The great sun suddenly sent a long, bright ray down across the open space, and as she looked at it, there hovered, full in the brightness, a gleaming silver dove. With wings outspread, motionless, too bright to look at with steady eyes, it hovered there. It never fluttered its wings; it made no sound; in a ray from heaven it held its quiet position serenely and glistened from every tiniest feather.

The old woman's knees tottered beneath her. She held with both hands to the gnarled staff, and shuddered as she gazed.

"The Holy Ghost! The Holy Ghost!" she panted. The bird's eyes met hers, and she could not take her own away. To her blurred, smarting vision it seemed that an aureole of glory outlined its head. She had no thoughts; only a confused sensation of immediate and inescapable doom. Death, death here, with this grave and moveless vision was her part. She closed her eyes and waited. A second, and she opened them, to see the vision changed; the bird had turned around, and was slowly guiding down the little clearing before her. Just above her head it flew, with steady pace, and with it went all the brightness of the sun.

Her lips moved. She took a step forward, and the bird advanced. "Glory be to God!" she whispered, "It'll show me the way!"

She never took her aching eyes for one second from the wonderful white thing. She scorned to watch the ground. With a magnificent faith she walked, her head lifted, her heart too full to know if she stumbled. In the clear places, always where there were no branches, the white guide flew and Harriet walked after with her staff. A few moments took them out of the wood, but she never looked for the house. In the full glare of day, against the blue, the bird looked only snowier, and to her dazzled, burning eyes the aureole grew only brighter and bigger. She could not see its wings move; it hovered steadily and floated serenely upon the clear air, and the old woman saw it, and it only.

She did not see the anxious crowd on the porch, she did not hear their exclamations, she did not know that her lips were moving, that her voice, low, husky, but distinguishable, repeated over and over, almost mechanically: "Forgive me, Lord! forgive me, Lord! O Lord, forgive me!"