John Crow's Devil (22 page)
Go down Emmanuel Road
Gal an boy
Fi go broke rock-stone
Broke them one by one
Gal an boy
Finger mash don’t cry
Gal an boy
Remember a play we deh play
Monday morning come and we waiting for the truck. Is the Lord goin take over now. We waiting with purpose for the Lord give we power. The Apostle give we the sword of the spirit. Him say only evil coming over that bridge, so we stand.
So we wait.
Then it come.
The truck humming and bumming and shaking up the road like earthquake. Yellow and red like the Devil. But we ready. We goin in the enemy camp and take back what he stole. Is not a truck, is a ship from Hell.
Hell.
Hell.
Hell.
The demon come out of the truck and a smile with we like we give him joke. We give him something else. Brother Jakes grab a stone first. We didn’t talk. As the driver open the door and jump out we start pick up stone. The first stone lick him and nearly knock him out and him left eye explode with blood. Him bawl out and manage to climb back in the truck, but not before we buss him head-back and clap him in him shoulder, back, batty, and seed bag.
Damn demon. Him scream. We break him windshield and the two side window. Even the little pickney know how to deal with demon. Him back up the truck and him lick down somebody then drive over him. Nobody never scream or nothing, cause we know say that boy did do God work so is Heaven him gone straight to. The truck screech and speed off, with stone raining pon the roof with a
Bup! Bup! Bang!
Those who had rebelled against the church by pitching tent with Pastor Bligh repented of their sin. They also repented of witchcraft, Devilry, horoscope, bearing false witness, chocolate, perversion, fornication, bestiality, incest, dancing, music listening, wearing short dresses, and washing one’s pokie or cocky too long in the bathtub—anything to make the whipping shorter. The Apostle was firm: Evil had to be driven out. When they cut the youngest and weakest of the sinners loose from the whipping tree, she fell to the ground and did not rise. Anybody who felt to question the Apostle feared The Five after that.
C
larence pulled off the left shoe first, then the right. He cradled the Apostle’s right foot in his palm and tugged the black sock slowly. The robes were tossed to one side of the bathroom with the other dirty laundry for Lucinda to wash the next day. Clarence heard music in his head, a slow song, a foreign one crooned by a white man. He looked up and saw the Apostle’s face. The bathroom was in brilliant light. Clarence pulled the Apostle’s belt buckle and the pants fell. He shut his eyes.
York’s hands were on his shoulders, squeezing. Clarence expected a man’s squeeze, not soft, and the Apostle held him firm. But then he squeezed tighter. He grabbed tighter still, digging his fingers into Clarence’s shoulders as if to pull the bones out. Clarence looked up in shock. The Apostle grunted, his eyes rolled back, and his head jerked.
“Apostle?” Clarence whimpered, trying to pry the hands off his shoulders. The Apostle was yelling now and he shuddered and swayed as if having a drunken fit. Clarence pulled his grip loose and the Apostle staggered, falling into the bath.
“Apostle!”
The shower curtain popped away from its hinges one by one. Water burst from the tap. The Apostle bellowed. Clarence froze.
“Apostle?”
“It’s him! Abba babbaha ricocasrabotok!”
“Apos—”
“It’s him, ricocasrabotok! He’s attacking me! From that goddamn house, the son of a bitch is attacking me! Aahhh!”
“Who? Who attacking?”
“
Him,
you fucking imbecile! Bligh! Bligh!” The shower erupted but York raised two fingers and the water stopped. He was out of breath yet climbed out. Clarence reached to help him and was pushed away. Clarence tried again.
“Get the fuck away from me!”
Clarence felt a punch to his chest that sent him slamming against the door. But the Apostle had not touched him; York was rubbing his scalp.
“Get my Five. Get them now. It ends tonight, goddamn. Tonight! Get me my Five! I want that fucking bastard dead right now, so help me! Right now!”
The Widow’s yard was ridden with carrion; stinking vulture flesh and scattered feathers. Somehow, whenever a John Crow landed on her grass it fell immediately to its death. Or perhaps crow had begun to eat crow. From her window she had seen them fall. She looked behind her to Bligh’s closed door and wondered if he was writing on the wall still. There was a rumble and the window shook suddenly. All the John Crows that waited on Mr. Garvey’s roof took off at once. She turned her gaze to the gate and there they were.
Men and women, some of whom she had known all her life. Some who were neither friend nor enemy. They were all in front of her gate, side by side in a perfect line. At first they were silent and seemed not to blink. Then the throng parted and Brother Vixton came to the front, stroking his whip like an extension of himself. Much younger than the Widow, he waved his youth like his whip. He was the tallest of The Five and he lumbered like a field slave having won freedom and purpose. He saw her.
“Unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?
“Unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?
“Me say if unu remember what Proverbs Seven say?”
Brother Vixton turned his back to the Widow and scolded the crowd. He raised his whip high and they staggered back, some tripping over people who fell behind them.
Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children,
and attend to the words of my mouth
let not thine heart decline to her ways
go not astray in her paths
for she has cast down man wounded
yea, many a strong man have been slain by her
Her house is the way to Hell, going down
To the chambers of death.
“This a the house! This a the house!”
The mighty man of God made one mighty step onto the Widow’s lawn and fell, first on his knees, then on his face, and his eyes went white. The ground shook like Jericho. The whip flew out of his hand and landed in the road like a dead snake. Men and women scattered, some screaming. From Brother Vixton’s eyes, nose, ears, and mouth sprung black blood. The Widow turned away. She was neither frightened nor saddened, but shivered and wept nevertheless. Below the window she collapsed, falling asleep.
The Widow dreamt of dead men who swung from whips that turned into snakes, scepters, and maypoles, which then spun off several shards of red that turned into knives that shot off in all directions, killing the first born. She awoke.
Outside, Brother Vixton’s body was shiny from dew. The night had the stillness of a painting, which may be why at first the Apostle blended in. She blinked several times and still he was real, and he looked at her, his robes blowing even though there was no wind. Everything in her wanted to run, except her feet, which were planted by the window. York’s face was the only thing that was not black with the night, so when he turned away his hair bled into the dark and he vanished.
n
ot until sundown did the Widow gain courage to step. Nobody had passed by her house since the night before. Another voice, one that she had never heard, told the Widow that no harm would come to her on the grass. Maybe it was the Lord, maybe the Rum Preacher, who had stopped speaking in words but perhaps in thoughts and dreams. The cold, dewy grass slid through her slippers and chilled her feet. As she stepped over John Crows, the Widow’s fear threatened to overtake her. She would kick a bird and it would scream, rising fully formed and malevolent. She stepped wide of Brother Vixton, fearing that the evil spirits that entered him could still cause his body to wake up. Maybe he was not dead or asleep. Maybe he was awake and waiting for her to come close so that he could rip her head off and drink blood from her neck. She stepped wide. The road was empty. Sometimes night church went on until late morning. With cutlass in hand she was ready.
Nobody had seen Mr. Garvey in a very long time. No face looked out from Mr. Garvey’s window, no sound came from his door. His nephews seemed to have all grown up and left. But there were nights when a faint light shone through the door cracks and windowsills.
Him think him too good for black people. Him don’t mix.
But the village was his. He owned every red building including the church. Surely he could drive the Apostle out of the village and put Gibbeah back where it used to be. She thought for a minute about what that meant. Hypocrisy was as much a shield for her as anybody else. Pretense was protection. The Widow pulled the gate, hoping that she was right and that the dogs were dead. She nearly tripped scrambling up the steps.
“Mr. Garvey? Mr. Garvey? Mr. Garvey, sir? Mr. Ga—” She threw herself down on the verandah floor. Two lanterns passed each other in the dark, bidding good night, praise the Lord, don’t be late cause the Apostle have a word bout last night. The lanterns swirled out of sight and the voices out of earshot. Guarding the door was another door with a wooden frame, covered in a tight mosquito mesh like the doors of dusty houses in John Wayne movies. She knocked and whispered his name. The night sucked out her sound.
“Mr. Garvey, Mr. Garvey, sir?
Mr. Garvey
?” she hissed. The cutlass shone in the dark and taunted her. As if she could kill
anybody
. The darkness was stealing her hope. She thought of the man in her dead husband’s room scrawling the last lines of his sanity on the ceiling.
The Widow called Mr. Garvey one last time. In a disappointed silence she turned to leave. She swung the cutlass stronger than intended and hit the door, which swung open a few inches and grated against the rust caked up in the hinges. Curious and desperate, she stepped past the first and found the second door unlocked as well. Before she let herself in, a stench confronted her, an odor far more overwhelming than the one locked up in her house. An odor that was all around her but nowhere near; just like God, she thought. Age, offal, and decay. Things that would weaken a woman. In the dark, the room felt hot and damp. The Widow stepped inside and tripped over something hard and soft, like a tough lump in a carpet. She should have carried a candle. But then she would have been seen. There she was in darkness, blind as a bat. She moved north, unsure why, and tripped again, hissing. Since the Rum Preacher came into her house, she had been wearing blue again. She had also stopped cussing.
The room reeked of spoiled meat. She knew full well the cruel joke of dead flesh. How the stench always crept up like a fragrance only to molest her with putrefaction lying beneath. It was the scent of pork left out too long or a dead batch of baby rats. Mr. Garvey’s refrigerator was closed, but the kitchen window was open. The sounds of church came into the room. She pulled the black curtain to cover the window. This was the kitchen, which meant stove, which meant matches. The pink tip burst into flame and sulphur burnt her nostrils. Light swamped the kitchen, covering the white Formica counter in a sheet of orange. Shadows in the corners of the room danced with the flickering flame. She found candles in the cupboard under the double sink.
“Mr. Garvey?” The living room was in the center of the house. Furniture was tossed out of place. Danger hung like a ghost between upturned chairs and tables. The candle winked each time it passed a broken mirror or painting. There were shattered cups, plates, and bottles on the floor. The smell of piss came from everywhere.
“Mr. Garvey?” The Widow had left the living room, following the candlelight upstairs and down a narrow hallway. The house seemed to be getting smaller. She refused to open doors that were already closed. This was as far as she had gone into anybody’s house. She thought herself no different than the John Crows or Brother Vixton who lay dead on her lawn, two who paid the price for the sin of trespass. But she had come too far and he was her only hope, even if he was a sodomite. The Widow had her opinions about old bachelors, especially those who were well-raised, rich, and still womanless. But to each his own, she sighed; Mr. Garvey wasn’t the only pervert in Gibbeah. The inseparable Scottforth twins who no longer lived in the village had separated when both tried to marry the same goat. In all her life she had known men only at their point of brokenness. The Widow protected herself with bitterness so that no man could disappoint her. To her, men had their use but they were not actually men at all. Only boys who got bigger, taller, and longer, if they were lucky. But men were broken in a way that no woman could fix. The only full man was a dead one, because that was the only time mind and body did the same thing. The corridor seemed to stretch longer.