Presley and the Luckiest Turtle Ever

By Glynn Bennion

Presley found a baby turtle crawling in the garden.

“Look, Dad! I found a baby turtle!”

“Oh my,” said Dad.  “That’s nice.  What do you plan to do with it?”

Presley asked, “Can I keep it?  I’d take the best care of it.”

“I’ll keep it in a box with sand and rocks and a little dish for water, and I’m going to call it, “Terry.”

“Well,” Dad said, “Terry’ll be the luckiest turtle ever.”

Presley put the turtle in a shoe box and then drew a picture of what it would look like when she added sand and rocks and a dish for water.

Then she thought out loud, “I bet Terry will be lonely.  I’m going to need a bigger box.”

“I’ll go hunt in the garden and find a friend for Terry.”

“Terry will be the luckiest turtle ever,” said Dad.

“I’ll plant some grass and flowers in Terry’s box,” said Presley.  “And I’ll need a bigger water dish for two turtles.  I’ll name the other turtle, ‘Tuba.’”

“They’ll be the luckiest turtles ever,” said Dad.

As Presley drew a picture of a bigger box with grass and flowers and a larger water dish, an idea came to her.  “Maybe I can build a terrarium and add bugs and insects for Terry and Tuba to eat.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Dad,” asked Presley.

“They’d be the luckies turtles ever,” Dad replied.

Presley kept drawing.  “Maybe we could add a cage on top of the terrarium so that we could add a bird or two.”  Presley was really thinking now and added even more to her drawing.  

“I’m going to need more paper, Dad,” said Presley.  So Dad got up and brought her a sketch pad.  

“Dad,” said Presley, “I think we had better build the terrarium-bird cage in the backyard.”  

Presley drew a large cage with a door that she could walk in whenever she wanted to play with Terry and Tuba.  She drew a tiny pond with a goldfish and a frog.

“See, Dad,” said Presley.  

Dad looked at the drawing and said, “They’ll be the luckiest turtles in the world.”

Presley’s drawing got bigger.  Her head began to swell with ideas.  The tiny pond became a lake with trees and a stream.  There was an owl, and a deer, and a dog, and a bear.  And the cage was as big as a town.  “It’s a zoo, Dad!  It’s a zoo,” Presley shouted as she showed her latest update to the drawing. 

“Oh my,” said Dad.  “They’ll be the luckiest turtles ever.”

The ideas began to come faster and next Presley drew mountains and rivers, hills and streams.  She drew fancy fish from the Orient, and eagles from Iraq.

The cage grew into Africa with zebras and cheetahs and hippopotamuses.  It stretched into the Arctic with walruses, polar bears, penguins, and Yaks.  Presley drew deserts with cacti and lizards and dry riverbeds.  

“See, Dad,” said Presley.  “It’s the world's biggest terrarium, the world’s biggest zoo.”  

As Presley kept drawing, it finally dawned on her that her cage had grown to encompass the entire planet Earth.  “Isn’t it grand, Dad?” Presley asked.

Dad looked up and adjusted his glasses.  Oh, yes.  They’ll be the luckiest turtles in the whole wide world.  Indeed, they will,” he said.

Dad looked at the drawing a little more, and then he looked at Presley.  

“You don’t need a cage, or a box, or a zoo, Presley,” he said.  “What you need is to be a naturalist.  And you can begin by studying Terry in his natural habitat--the garden.”

So Presley took Terry back to the garden and let him go.  She took her sketch pad and drew pictures of him.  

“Dad,” Presley said, “I think Terry is happier now.”

And Dad said, “I think he’s the luckiest turtle ever.”    

Chapter 8: Washed and Clothed

   Gillingham was not the kind to bellow or bluster.   He sat stolidly in a high backed, cushioned,

and upholstered chair.  Gerald spoke.

   “T’were just a few days ago that I came upon this girl poaching a rabbit from your Lordship’s

side of the road.”

   Normally Abri would have interjected at this point in an attempt to sway justice, but today she

was quite subdued by the previous night’s revelation about the clan’s cruelty to John.  She
remembered Da’s instructions about Lordings; she looked down at the plainness of her shoes. 

Even the exquisite inlaid pattern in the wooden floor went unnoticed by her.

   Gillingham finally spoke in an even monotone, “Speak, girl.  What have you to say for yourself?”

   Abri wished it were her own tongue that had been cut out.  

   “Pardon, your excellency.  The rabbit was in the fields eating of the cabbages there.  My aim

was off a little and I only wounded it in the hind quarter.  It scampered across the road and hid

in a bush.”  

   At this point Abri would normally have said something to the effect that she thought it no

harm to take the rabbit since it had been legally shot in the fields, but in her depressed state

she closed her remarks by saying, “I took it from your side of the road, and I’m sorry.”

   Gerald spoke, “The punishment for poaching is prison time, six months or three months

labor in the public works.”

   Gillingham then said, “There is a third option.  Out of respect for your...for Mr. McCullough,

who has been a faithful tenant these several years, I will not allow the public works option. 

Nor would I have you thrown in prison.  But, you will serve here, in my household as a maid

for the six month term of your sentence.  If you are satisfactory as a maid, you may find

continued employment following that time.  Mrs. Gentry will be your mentor and you will be

her charge.  Do as she tells you in all things.  Should you in any way bring disgrace upon this

house, you will be cast into prison for your full sentence.”

   Gillingham then ordered, “Gerald, ring for Mrs. Gentry.”  

   Gerald crossed the room and pulled a yellow cord with a gloved hand.  

   Gillingham continued, “You, young lady, will be bathed and given appropriate attire.  There is

no need to return home for your things.  They will not be needed here.”

   Mrs. Gentry, a small woman of about fifty five years, entered the room and looked at Abri

through a pair of wire rimmed spectacles.  “How may I be of service, My Lord?”

   “This girl will be joining our staff as a serving maid for the next six months.  See that she is

bathed, tend to her hair, find her appropriate livery, and put her in room 241.”    

   “Yes, My Lord.”

   “Prepare her in all ways to function as a serving maid, unless you find her to be stubborn

and insubordinate.  I’ll have none of that at my table or before my guests.”

   “Yes, My Lord.”

    “If she is incorrigible, put her to work in the stables.  That is all.”

   “Yes, My Lord.  Come girl.”

      Mrs. Gentry turned and advanced to the door, quickly, but gracefully.  Abri cast a glance

at Da, and a look of bitter pain crossed her face.  

   “Abi Hon, you must go now.  This is for the best.  Be true.  Serve faithfully.”  And with that

Da turned and strode out.  There was nothing more he could say.  

   What Abri needed to hear was “I love you,” or some other sign that she was not cast off,

that she wasn’t a disappointment.  “Abi Hon,” would have to do.  “Hon” was short for “honey,”

a term of endearment.  Abri took some small comfort in that, like trying to keep warm on a

winter’s night with only a baby’s receiving blanket.  

   She turned and followed Mrs. Gentry.   

   Mrs. Gentry led Abri down a flight of stairs to the basement where the cooking, laundry,

and other needful but mundane labors of the mansion were performed out of sight and out of

mind of the Lord and his guests.  It was Mrs. Gentry’s privilege to give orders in the mansion,

and since she was not about to get near this country girl until she had been stripped, washed,

and clothed in clean clothes, she called to a young woman who was pressing linens.  “Maria,

come.”

   Maria immediately stopped what she was doing and followed.  She wore the black skirt

and white blouse that signified a lower cast among the serving women.  The blouse was

buttoned tight at the neck with a collar that rose straight up for another inch.  A small white

apron with tiny pockets that were not to be used was worn over the skirt.  Every bit of this

uniform, or livery, said, “order” and “propriety.”  

   Mrs. Gentry spoke as they walked briskly to the staircase at the rear of the mansion.  “This

is Abri.  You are to bathe her, wash her hair, and give her a clean smock to wear.  What she

wears now is to be burned immediately.  Check for lice and treat according to what you find. 

Then take her down to have her hair properly cut.  Finally, you will show her where the clean

livery is kept and help her find her correct size.  Abri will be a server at the Lord’s table; don’t

ask me why.  But you are to assess for me how much training will be needed before she is fit

for the task.”

   Mrs. Gentry never asked any of the maids, “Do you have any questions?” because she

considered her instructions to be complete, and because she expected to be listened to carefully.      

   “Charlie, pour a hot bath for this,” Maria called out to the cellar boy.  The lowest of the
servants, the cellar boy never left the basement, but assisted in managing the great furnace
that heated water for bathing, for the laundry, and for the kitchen.  Because he never left the
basement, his attire wasn’t the spotless livery of the maids and man servants.  But it was clean.  

   In the women’s dressing chamber Maria directed, “Remove those (she gestured at her

clothes) and put them into this basket.  If you’ve any keepsake, remove it from your rags,

but keep nothing cloth, only metal or stone.  Abri’s clothes were only rags by comparison to

the mansion livery.  She retained a small pendant.  Even the leather thong from which it hung

was to be destroyed.  

   “Proceed to the bath,” and Maria pointed back up the hallway.  “The second door on your

left.”  

   Abri had never felt so abashed in all of her life as she felt now walking naked up the hall

and into the bath.  She fully expected to encounter the cellar boy, or some other stranger.  

   “Bathe yourself, and use this.”  Maria reached to a high shelf and tossed her a bar of caustic

lye soap laced with poison for lice.  I’ll be back shortly.  And she strode out of the room. 

When she returned she had a small jar of liquid and a measuring tape.  The liquid was poison

for Abri’s hair.  

   “Work this into your scalp,” Maria indicated the liquid, “and let it set for twenty minutes

before rinsing.  Don’t get it into your eyes if you want to ever see again.”  This was a joke, but

Abri couldn’t tell from Maria’s brisk manner.  “While that’s setting, scrub yourself again with

the soap and this brush.  The bristles are tough, but will soften a little in the hot water.”  With

that, Maria hurried out and back to her interrupted labors.  She hated Abri for having

interrupted an otherwise peaceful day.  She hated her because Abri was assigned to a

position that more than half the maids could never hope for but would give an eye for.  She

hated her most for her deep tan and her naturally curly hair, marks of beauty that Maria felt

certain must be the reason for Abri’s position at the Lord’s serving table.  

Abri had never had a hot bath before that she could remember.  The poison in her hair

tingled and stung a little.  The bristles of the brush didn’t soften much, but she scrubbed until

her tan glowed a dark reddish brown.  She felt like she was melting in the bath like a pat of

butter in a hot bowl of porridge.  The pain and the pleasure of it swirled around her

consciousness, and she thought, “I might not want to leave this.”

   Then suddenly Maria was back  with another woman who wore the smock of a hairdresser

and who banging a leather strop across a table.    Abri startled.  “Rinse that poison out of

your hair, and rinse it good,” Maria ordered.  Abri sunk down into the bath and felt her hair

float about her in the water.  Then she worked it vigorously with her hands.  As she brought

her head back above the water, Maria poured a picher of hot water over her head for a

second rinse.  There was no pleasure in this one which was near scalding.  Abri pinched her

eyes tightly closed in fear of the poison.  

   “Get out.”  Abri stood.  A towel was wrapped around her and she dried herself. Then

Maria took several measurements: shoulders, breast, waist, hips, legs, arms, and feet--all

of which she kept in her head.  “This is JoAnne.  She will cut your hair.”  And Maria left.  

    “Sit here.”  JoAnne indicated a chair.  She draped a thin cape around Abri, fastened it

snugly at the neck, and began to cut her hair which fell in dark ringlets at their feet. 

There was something softer about JoAnne: her voice, her touch, the look in her eye.

   “You’re new here, Child?”  It wasn’t really a question.

   “Yes,” Abri replied 

   “They’re going to hate you for a while,” JoAnne said.

   “Who?”

   “The other servants.  You had best grow a tough skin, and quickly.”  

   Nothing more was spoken as JoAnne finished her work and inspected it.  

   Maria returned with Abri’s livery and told her to get dressed.  

   Abri would have marveled had she had the use of a mirror.  The farm girl was no more.

   “Now, come help me fold the linens,” Maria said.  “I’ve lost half the afternoon to you,” and

she turned and left the room.  “Come on now!”  Abri jerked into motion and followed Maria

like one car following another when a great train begins its journey. 

Chahpter 7: The Visions

   Abri wasn’t born with epilepsy.  The seizures started after a terrible accident when she was only three.  Abri was an
adventurous child who climbed everything.  Nothing in the cottage was safe.  

   Da couldn’t leave off from his work on the farm to care for Abri.  He tried once to take her to the
farm with him, but that was a disaster.  She disappeared into the cornfield where she fell asleep
between the furrows.  It was only by bringing Tom Saunders’s hunting dog that night, giving him a
sniff of Abri’s blanket, and turning him loose that she was found.  Old Rounder let out a full throated
bay when he caught her scent, at which Abri woke and let out a wail of her own.  The two voices
competed on the night air like two cats warming up for a fight.

    It happened on a Sunday, the accident, that is.  Da had built a holding pen for a ram he had on
loan for breeding purposes.  Little Abri amused herself first by bringing blades of the long, sweet
grass that grew along the lane and feeding them to the ram, and then by reaching into the pen to
pet him.  The ram loved the sweet grass, but wasn’t interested in being a feature at a petting zoo.  

   Da scolded Abri and warned her that the ram was a dangerous animal and that she should be
careful.  But, Abri only noted that Da was very busy and would not be paying much mind to what
she did.

   Da was indeed busy.  Afterwards he would say that he only looked away for a moment.  In truth,
that’s all the adventurous child needed.  It only took a moment for her to clamber up the side of the
pen and down in with the ram.  Abri got out one scream before the ram knocked her senseless. 
In less than a moment Da was at the pen.  He had never rehearsed a scenario like this and didn’t
know what to do.  Jumping in with the ram was one answer.  He could shield the little girl with his
own body, and perhaps he deserved the beating the ram would give him.  He could reach over the
side and try to lift Abri out, but that was sketchy at best.  The ram could kill her as he tried to lift her
out--if she weren’t already dead.  But as Da reached the pen the solution came, almost as if a voice
spoke it to him.  Open the pen.  

   Quickly, Da raised the gate at the rear of the pen and the ram made a run for it.  Getting the ram
back into the holding pen is another story, and a worthy one, but not to be told now.  When Da lifted
Abri from the pen, she was bruised black and blue and lay limp in his arms.  He was horrified.  

   “What have I done!  What have I done!” he howled.  

   Da saddled his horse faster than horse has ever been saddled.  Holding Abri in one arm and the
reins in the other, he galloped to Gillingham’s mansion.  The doctor was always hard to find, but the
nurse that tended Gillingham’s father in those days was always there.  

   Gillingham was angry when he saw the condition the child was in, he didn’t wait to send a servant,
but rushed to find the nurse himself.  The bouncing of the horseback gallop had revived Abri some,
but she was stunned and stupefied.  But she was breathing.  The nurse checked for broken bones,
found one, and splinted the left leg.  

   “Her head is likely to swell,” she said, “which could cause damage to the brain.  Since it’s Summer,
and we have no ice or snow, you must apply cool water to her head and keep a cool breeze blowing
to evaporate the water.  This must be done constantly.  I’ve given her a willow bark tea that will
reduce the blood pressure.  I’ll send more with you.  And here’s a jar of clean leeches.  Apply two,
one behind each ear.  This will help keep the blood pressure low.  The tea is bitter, so she may not
take it.  Do not add sugar.  Sugar would counter any benefit of the tea.”

   The nurse looked at Da, then at Gillingham who hadn’t left their side.  “Do you have any questions?”  

   Da had indeed, but none for the nurse.  How was he going to tend the girl? was the question that
he couldn’t ask and for which he had no answer.

   As the two men left the nurse, Da carrying Abri, Gillingham did a curious thing, a deed of
compassion though no compassion showed in his countenance or aspect.

  “McCullough,” he said, “you’re going to need a girl to tend the child until she recovers.”  He handed
Da a silver coin and said, “This should cover it.  See that the child receives the best care and keep
me informed of her progress.  Ben Tanner has a daughter that should serve.  Darcie, I think her
name is.  Call at the Tanner’s on your road home and task her to tend the child. Give this coin to
Tanner and he’ll gladly send the girl with you.”      

   Abri had been (to this point) bright eyed and active.  She had a look that bespoke intelligence. 
But for three days following the accident, she either lay or sat in her bed in a profound stupor.  Da
felt sick every time he saw her bruised face.  They say that tragedy will drive even a reprobate to
his knees.  David McCullough was no reprobate, but he wasn’t attentive in his church pew either. 
But for the next while no one prayed more fervently nor made more promises to reform than Da.

   Darcie never left Abri’s side.  The Nurse’s instructions were followed to the letter, and on the fourth
day the light began to return to Abri’s eyes.  

   On the fifth day the doctor called.  He changed the splint for a brace that held the leg at an angle,
not that the angle would help the leg heal correctly, but that the angle would make it difficult for Abri
to put her weight on the mending leg.  And that would help the leg to heal correctly.  

   After two months the brace came off.  The muscles took their time remembering their full range of
motion, but Abri was soon moving stools and climbing to get at Da’s hidden stash of candy. 
Everything seemed back to normal, even to the extent that Da was again finding it hard to pay
attention in church.  Everything was normal except the seizures.

   Abri’s seizures were grand maul.  In other words, her body would contort as an electrical storm
in her brain sent wild commands to contract random muscles.  The contracting muscles caused
her body to writhe and her limbs to jerk spasmodically.  The nurse instructed, “place a pillow under
her head so that she doesn’t hurt herself.  Don’t try to put anything in her mouth.  She’s capable of
biting off a finger or a stick.  These, she might choke on.”

   The seizures usually lasted from five to seven minutes.  Abri’s contorted face looked to Da like
she was possessed by an evil power.  Over time they became less severe and less frequent. 
The visions didn’t start until Abri was eight or nine.  She didn’t remember when for sure.  

   The visions weren’t like dreaming.  There were no pictures, only feelings.  Once when she was
about nine, Abri woke from a seizure and began sobbing uncontrollably and inconsolably.  Usually
a seizure left Abri exhausted and she would sleep for a few hours.  But this was different.  Da wasn’t
sure how to respond or what to do.  

   Finally, Abri spoke.  Haltingly between sobs, “Da,” sob, “do--n’t” sob “go.”

   Da tried to be reassuring.  “I’m not going anywhere, Abi.”

   “Do--n’t go,” another sob and a struggle to breathe and talk and cry at the same time.

   “Don’t go where?” Da asked.

   “Tonight,” sob, “don’t go,” sob, “to town.”

   How do you reject that kind of a plea?  Da didn’t know.  So he answered, “Sure Abri hon.  I won’t
go.  Why not?”  

   Abri didn’t know why; she just had a very bad feeling and kept pleading with Da not to go to town
as he usually did when the farm work was done. So on this night, Da stayed home.  That evening,
Wallace Jones lost his mind, took a crowbar to the pub, and smashed up the place, broke three
men’s arms and killed a fourth. 

   Not every seizure brought a vision.  These came only once or maybe twice to a year.  Abri never
had reason to doubt them...until now.