Listen to the Lambs

by Daniel Black

  Elisha wept. He knew that touch. He’d missed it a lifetime. “You remind me of my mother.”

  “Yes, baby,” she said, and nodded. “I understand. I’m here now.”

  Between sobs, he asked the logical questions: “Where’d you come from? What took you so long? How did you find yourself? Will you stay with us?”

  “Shhhh,” she hissed into his ear. “We’re together now. You’ll never be alone again.”

  Cinderella thanked her, although unsure why. Perhaps it was because she’d brought healing, not only to Elisha but the entire family. Maybe in the previous life she’d been their mother, all of them, and she’d returned to complete what she’d begun. Cinderella sensed that things would be different now, that somehow this woman had come to take their pain away.

  Legion stretched forth hands in total surrender, and when the newcomer, the angel of the Lord, touched them, e collapsed onto the dusty, dry earth, shaking and trembling in the spirit.

  Lazarus peered into the woman’s wide, bright eyes and asked, “Who, in God’s name, are you?”

  She massaged his shoulders sensually, shifting Lazarus’s angst and disappointment to some external place, then whispered in a heavy, dark tone, “Who do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. How could I?”

  “You know. We all know. Never be afraid of knowing.”

  Lazarus relaxed and uttered, “You are our comfort. You are our hope.”

  She smiled. “Yes. That’s right. I am The Comforter.”

  They nodded agreeably.

  When Legion rose, e gave The Comforter bread and a cup of lukewarm water. She prayed over the sacrament, ate it, and took her place at the Welcome Table.

  And it was done. Just like that. Without suspicion or judgment. The first four knew what their hearts were saying. In their own way, they had asked for this soul, this Comforter, this one who loved without inhibition. So instead of wondering about her, they simply made room in the circle and gave thanks. She felt right. They trusted her. They needed her. She needed them. A family.

  Each day thereafter, The Comforter anointed their bodies—faces, arms, legs, hands, feet—with unquestionable spiritual authority. Her energy repaired broken memories. It endowed them with worth—a quality they knew but rarely experienced. She would arrive mostly in the evenings, having spent the day praying for the world and speaking life into the lifeless, and, without reservation, reach out and touch whatever family member was nearby. With eyes shut tightly, she’d move from realm to invisible realm, murmuring and weeping on behalf of those with no advocate. Heat emanated from her presence, leaving The Family soothed and revived, and, in return, The Comforter received all she’d ever wanted—the freedom to be herself among the living. Others mocked them, The Comforter and comforted, as useless street bums who wrongly believed God still cared about them. Yet The Family paid the world no mind. They were being prepared for battle. They knew that now. That’s why The Comforter had come.

  That evening, amidst a torrential downpour, The Comforter shared that she’d recently returned from the Land of Souls. Actually, she’d grown up in Detroit, but she didn’t mean this life. She meant that life, the real life, the one before this life. The Family, wrapped in layers of mix-matched rags, huddled tightly beneath the freeway, waiting for the storm to pass. Her heavy, hollow voice, accompanied by the cacophony of the rain, created an atmosphere of reverence and revelation, so The Family bowed their heads and listened as The Comforter explained who she was.

  “I’m just like you—once you realize you are not who you think you are.”

  The others, lost in rhetoric, kept their heads down and braced for more otherworldly truth.

  “Where I come from, we’re taught who we are. Not who we come through, but who we really are. We’re told our real names—not the names our parents gave us, but the names we chose for ourselves before our conception. Then we’re told our purpose. There’s a great ceremony where this gets revealed. We’re called up, two by two, just like Noah beckoned residents of the ark, and the Great God speaks our destiny. God summon us in pairs because no one is created alone. One other person on earth shares your fate, they explain, and your heartaches. Your exact destiny. Sometimes, if you can find them, they can save you from destroying yourself. Or from abandoning your journey prematurely. That’s all life really is, you know—a journey, a navigation through lessons that teach you how to return to the Land of Souls. It’s all one big test, you might say. No grade. Pass or fail.”

  Lazarus lifted his head. The Comforter laid her palm upon it.

  “We all come from there. All of us. And we’re going back. It’s sad how many in this life lose their way. No soul consciousness at all.”

  Peering into her dark pupils, Lazarus searched for something familiar. All he saw was darkness and occasional streaks of light. Cupping his chin, The Comforter spoke as if to someone within him.

  “This world?” She chuckled. “It won’t always be. People spend energy accumulating things and end up with nothing. How smart is that?”

  The Family nodded.

  “We’re the freest people on earth. Us. Right here. You and me. On this little slope of ground. Don’t owe nobody nothin’, no bills to pay, nobody to impress. Not usually. We’re ashamed of our condition because of what we think others think. Otherwise, we’d know how blessed we are.”

  Legion winced from the sting of cold raindrops dripping onto es arms. E lifted es right hand, and The Comforter pressed her palm against es, and, for a brief second, the two saw angels dancing between them, wild and frenzied, draped in solid black. Legion drifted into trance again and heard es grandmother sing:

  O courage, my soul, and let us journey on,

  For tho’ the night is dark, it won’t be very long

  O thanks be to God, the morning light appears,

  And the storm is passing over, Hallelujah!

  Lightning flashed, playing hide-and-seek among black clouds. Thunder growled along. Two feet above The Family, automobiles swished by, forcing streams of dirty water through cracks in the road and onto the covered flesh of the invisible ones. As if summoned to a fuller flow, raindrops combined suddenly and fell in transparent sheets of heavy, frigid water. Tucked away in a corner of sheltered invisibility, The Family watched rain sheets burst onto the ground as liquid particles scattered into cracks, gutters, and crevices only they could find. Cinderella hated days like this. They exposed the place in her heart where no one dwelled. She’d always thought of it, that hollow place, as a still lake, waiting, longing to be disturbed. Whenever rain poured, sadness gathered in that place and dampened her usually vibrant spirit. The melancholy manifested as a bellyache, causing Cinderella, like an expectant mother, to rub her tummy until the pain subsided. Lazarus often found himself massaging her temples as she breathed deeply, contributing what he could unto her transitory healing. When she released the thick, heavy sigh, others knew the storm was over.

  Elisha, however, enjoyed rain. Turbulent winds and dark-gray clouds jolted his otherwise somber disposition, leaving him more energized than usual. As droplets tumbled from the sky, his feet shuffled, conjuring an unlimited flow, and when it came Elisha relaxed and walked amidst the torrent, enjoying heaven’s anointing. He’d saunter sometimes, contemplating his mother’s whereabouts, while the busyness of the world calmed. And that’s what Elisha loved—when the energy of the universe stood still, and lulled him into a self-reflective stupor that, for the moment, let him dream of being a man. Perhaps even being like God, although Elisha rarely thought of God. Not in the way others did. He certainly believed, but he considered belief in God quintessentially arrogant. Who are we to believe in God? Isn’t the question whether God believes in us? Such thoughts consumed Elisha when it rained. That’s why he was most conversant after a storm.

  Legion didn’t care either way. Rain or shine, es vibrant spirit withstood changes in the universe, understanding environmental shifts simply as modifications in God’s natural tem
perament. “Yes, God is perfect,” Legion preached, “but that don’t mean God is the same always. God can be perfect and different.” Legion’s desire was to understand why and when God changed and what in the cosmos precipitated it. Tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, monsoon winds, tsunamis … all exposed different aspects of God’s self, Legion believed. E simply didn’t know what those aspects were. But e hoped to learn.

  When the sky cleared and wind stopped blowing, when rain retreated into the earth and thunder hushed its roaring, Cinderella took a few deep breaths and shook her head. Five minutes more and she would’ve given up the ghost, she thought. The others eased forward, looking around like frightened fugitives. At the moon’s ascent, they relaxed and sat in Lazarus’s living space, grateful now for the coming of The Comforter—one who understood the ways of God.

  She rose unexpectedly and frowned into the distant sky. Taking several careful steps forward, as if walking on water, she narrowed her eyes and listened intently. Legion noticed first, staring where The Comforter stared but seeing nothing. “What is it?” e asked. Everyone studied her worried face, colored with angst and distress. She remained silent awhile, discerning the inaudible, then, with bulged eyes, declared, “We shall soon be tried in the fire. The heavens have declared it. Yet we shall not be consumed. Not if we stay true to what we know.”

  The Family examined her face more closely. Elisha moved to where she stood, searching for the origin of this foretelling, and took her hand. She squeezed it. He still didn’t understand. None of them did. If only she could translate what, in the spirit, she had seen clearly.

  “A time shall come when we will have to fight for one another, to fight for what we have. This”—she waved in every direction—“won’t be enough to sustain us. Our only possession will be each other. Nothing else will matter. We’ll stand for one another or die as individuals.”

  Lazarus felt more than he comprehended. A tickling sensation like the brush of a soft feather grazed his arms. What she’d said would come to pass. He knew that much. She was the real deal. He just didn’t know how he fit into the prophecy. If he fit at all.

  “Our success will be collective. None of us will survive alone. Covering yourself only will be the doom of The Family.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Cinderella whispered.

  “That I do not know. But I saw us, among the trees, weeping and crying. Then, in an instant, I saw us rejoicing. It can go either way.”

  “Did you see when the”—Lazarus couldn’t think of a word—“event might occur?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “But it shall happen. And it won’t be long. The flowers will still be in bloom.”

  With that, she stepped back slowly, retracing steps and time, and collapsed as if suddenly drained of life. Elisha buffered her fall and laid her softly on Lazarus’s bed. No one uttered a sound. Minutes later, she revived and begged The Family’s pardon. “Please don’t apologize,” Legion said, then extracted from a torn paper sack a stale loaf of homemade Italian bread around which The Family gathered and gave thanks. Legion broke it and blessed it, and they all ate while drinking cups of living water. Elisha tried to imagine what The Comforter had seen, but his head held only images of a manic, demented mother. The others didn’t try. They simply hoped to be ready when the time came.

  Chapter 4

  And weeks later when it came, it came unannounced, like a sudden whirlwind on a clear, calm day. Cinderella had forgotten the forewarning, having had little experience with prophecy, so she was most shaken on the day of revelation. The Comforter merely closed her eyes and murmured, “The time has come.” Legion and Elisha gasped. All except Lazarus stood huddled together as Cinderella held the newspaper and read aloud: “Atlanta socialite Elizabeth Dupont was found murdered Saturday evening in her Buckhead home. She was forty-eight. Her husband, the well-known attorney Steven Dupont, found her bloody body sprawled upon the kitchen floor. The coroner estimates that she’d been dead several hours before she was found. A million-dollar reward is being offered to anyone who knows anything about this case. As of now, the only person of interest is a homeless man the family hired recently to perform yard duties. Attorney Dupont said he thinks the man’s name is Lazarus.”

  Cinderella screeched and covered her mouth. “Lazarus? Our Lazarus? This can’t be!”

  Legion huffed angrily and shouted, “The devil is a liar! And a fuckin’ deceiver, too!”

  Without emotion, Elisha grabbed the article and sprinted toward the state capitol building. He surveyed the environment, to the right, to the left, with the scrutiny of an owl, seeking the only father he’d ever known. He knew Lazarus lingered at Five Points sometimes, watching people scramble to and from work, grateful that that phase of life was behind him. Occasionally people gave money, and often he took it—unless the gesture accompanied that look, which he loathed, of pity and disgust. If you’re gonna give, give dammit! But keep your judgment to yourself! Lazarus thought, but never said. He simply closed his fist and looked away. Their resulting expression, of how dare you refuse my kindness! was equally insulting, perhaps more so, because obviously folks thought he should take whatever he could get, regardless of their attitudes. As if homelessness meant he could be treated any kind of way.

  After scouring Five Points and Underground Atlanta, Elisha marched Peachtree Street, zombied, obsessed, determined to find the family patriarch. Elisha had not considered life without Lazarus, and now the thought petrified him. Maybe there’s another Lazarus, Elisha considered. It could be possible, right? Couldn’t two women have had the same premonition at the same time? Anything’s possible! But he knew better. There was only one Lazarus, and Elisha had to find him—before authorities began their hunt.

  Farther along, Elisha passed Woodruff Park, at the corner of Peachtree Street and Auburn Avenue, where corporate folks ate lunch and played quick games of chess on their lunch breaks. He asked around, but no one had seen Lazarus. Not even Jake the Snake, who was legendary for seeing things, especially in the dark. A master thief, Jake slept two or three hours a night, using the bulk of his time watching others and stealing what folks wouldn’t give him. If Lazarus had come that way, Jake definitely would’ve seen him. But Jake hadn’t.

  Neither had anyone else, so Elisha moved on. Unable to mask his anxiety, he smiled awkwardly and walked away, inciting casual curiosity about why he looked so … so … troubled. For the time being, though, he couldn’t worry about that; he’d hold himself responsible if he didn’t find Lazarus in time.

  Passing the Crowne Plaza on his right, he studied the faces of residents and tourists alike, as if, somehow, Lazarus might be hiding behind their eyes, or as if perhaps he’d become one of them. Some scowled that this bum actually had the nerve to look them in the eye, but again Elisha had no energy to spare. In front of the Westin, he paused and huffed, leaning upon his knees like a distance runner, then walked on, pass the Hard Rock Cafe, Fire of Brazil, and all such places he had never seen inside. Once, having found a twenty-dollar bill near a gutter, he entered the Hard Rock Cafe, and the hostess asked, unsmilingly, what he wanted. “Something to eat,” Elisha said. She disappeared and returned seconds later: “Go around back. They’ll bring you some scraps when we get some.” For an instant he wanted to slap the shit out of her, to scream, I can pay for myself!, but not wanting a scene, he slivered through the exit and went to McDonald’s, where people didn’t care what you looked like. At least not as much.

  Within minutes, Elisha stood before Crawford Long Hospital. An ambulance arrived from which four medical professionals extracted a body much longer than the stretcher. Long, thick black feet, pointing toward the sky, dangled off the end of the platform. A man, undoubtedly. Could it be him? Had someone else found him first? Elisha squinted hard, then shook his head and relaxed. No. No way. Of course not. Homeless folks don’t get the dignity of an ambulance. Even if they’re dying.

  Eventually he found himself at Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homel
ess, at the intersection of Peachtree and Pine, the one place Lazarus loathed. Had someone murdered him and disposed of his body there, he swore before the heavenly host he’d resurrect and walk away. What he hated about the place was that desperate people lingered, by the hundreds, waiting for a place to sleep and a serving of dirty water called soup. And while they waited, cloaked in gray, black, and brown rags, they slumped and slouched on the sidewalk and in an adjacent parking lot, more wretched and despondent than any human ever should be. Lazarus scowled that people, his own people, American people, came like refugees to beg for their lives. Their very lives! He would never enter the dead zone, as he called it, but he frequently scrutinized it from a distance, murmuring beneath his breath about the shame of people starving when privileged others ate so well. They didn’t see him, but he saw them, talking loudly and sharing bottles of cheap liquor or lighting cigarettes with already-lit cigarettes, then blowing smoke into unified clouds of rejection and emptiness. It was all a stage, Lazarus thought, where everyone was on display for the world to mock and pity. He shrugged. Perhaps they didn’t care. Maybe their lives were too empty to be concerned with the opinions of others. Lazarus lifted his hands and thanked God he wasn’t one of them.

  Elisha scouted Lazarus’s spying place but found no signs of him. It was a small cluster of dogwood trees, on the other side of Courtland Street, from which he stood in judgment. It wasn’t his alone. Used condoms, empty potato chip bags, and strewn whiskey bottles exposed others’ presence there. It was almost a violation, Elisha thought, of a sacred, holy place. But then again, who would expect homeless people to respect a sense of place? After all, they have nothing, so how can they?

  Looking around again, Elisha discovered a battered copy of Louis L’Amour’s Rider of Lost Creek. Lazarus loved westerns, for some reason, and thought L’Amour a genius at describing the West. He’d probably read everything the man had in print—twice!—wishing only that he’d included something about the Buffalo Soldiers. But that was probably asking too much.