by Marlon James
He had to piss. Clarence walked out of the room, leaving the door open. The bathroom was two doors ahead. He pissed, flicked himself, and turned to go back, when looking down he saw blood on the floor. Blood, but also slime in the shape of his foot. He looked up and there were more footprints, all with blood and slime that mingled but did not mix. He sat down on the toilet and lifted his right foot to see wet sores. When he rose, there was blood on the seat.
Outside, dust flew forward and dust flew back.
Syphilis, the great imitator, is a symphony in four movements. Like religion, it has no being in itself, but lives in the lives it touches. Like a God or a Devil. There are four movements. The first exists mostly in darkness, hiding more than showing. A spot on the anus, a lesion on the vagina, a corpuscle in the mouth that vanishes as quickly as a miracle. The third movement hides deeper than the first, waiting low in the flesh until time to rise again. The fourth movement comes with madness and blindness, consumption and illness of the breath. This is the trinity. One with soul and body after mind has been rotted. But the second movement is the one that leaves a trail.
A trail of blood and slime oozed from the puss-filled sores on Clarence’s legs and feet. He had thought they were spots or scratches from the birds that were not healing quickly. Clarence ran back into the bedroom gasping, but stopped when he saw the Apostle, who sat up waiting on the bed.
“This is not death, this is life,” the Apostle said. “This is not death. This is life. Any man who believes in me shall never die.”
Clarence’s head spun. He trusted the Apostle to be the center, not the spinner. His bloody footprints seemed to be walking by themselves, around the room in circles upon circles.
“Any man who believes in me shall never die.”
Before the Apostle, Clarence was never really religious, not even when he went to the altar as he always did. God was something learned, never felt. The Apostle taught him new worship at the altar of the human body, communion with sweat and semen. But there was one lesson from church that he now remembered. One thing that the Apostle had said that he never truly believed. Clarence had not noticed this before, for he had no reason to say it himself. But his own blood brought the word back, sparking memory of another’s blood, pricked from the rib with a spear. A name that was erased from Gibbeah with ease. He looked at the Apostle, who was already stroking himself and said, “Jesus.”
The Apostle choked.
“Jesus.”
“Don’t say that word! Don’t say that fucking word!”
“Jesus.”
The Apostle rolled out of bed, yelling. He covered his ears and tried to run but tripped on a bloody, slimy footprint.
“Jesus.”
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I am the Messiah! I am the way, the truth, and the—”
“Jesus.”
The Apostle writhed on the floor. He was still screaming when Clarence walked over to him. The Apostle’s hands swung wildly, fighting off the spirits that he used to control.
“Jesus,” Clarence said again, and watched the Apostle shake. Clarence grabbed the lamp from the table beside the bed and removed the shade. He swung high and clobbered the Apostle in the face. He struck him again and again, smashing his eye back into his skull, bursting his bottom lip, breaking his nose, and cracking the back of his head. The Apostle put up little resistance. Clarence bludgeoned him until his hand fell tired, until the Apostle’s blood consumed him, until York’s skull crushed soft, like a pumpkin. Then he bludgeoned him until the lamp broke. Blood was splattered all over Clarence’s skin. It was a new baptism.
“Jesus,” he said.
THE BEGINNING
The Apostle had not been seen in two days. The rest of The Five believed Clarence when he said that York wanted to rest and not be disturbed, but were surprised when he did not show up for the School of Boy Prophets, given his special interest in children. The village was surprised as well. Clarence knew what was coming. He bolted the door and laid the Apostle in the bathtub filled with water. The water was bloody, soaking the Apostle’s body with crimson. His beautiful face was gone. Clarence wanted to die, but he wanted to live as well. The Five would most certainly kill him once they found out. But he was already dying.
Perhaps he and the Apostle could stay in the room forever. York had known him for who he truly was, and there was nothing to go back to now but lies. He heard a murmur in the wind. As Clarence looked out the window, he saw the crowd, the people of Gibbeah, gathered outside the house. He went to the bathroom. Any minute now The Five would kick down the door and kill him for what he had done. Clarence climbed into the tub, laid on top of the Apostle, the only living thing he ever loved, and embraced him. The Apostle sank underneath crimson water and Clarence sank underneath too.
The people wanted answers. It was not like the Apostle to leave his flock unattended for two days. Tony Curtis stood at the gate while Brother Patrick went toward the door. Just then a woman screamed. The crowd panicked and several fled. On the gate landed a dove, right beside Tony Curtis, who also ran, yelping in terror.
But not everyone left. There were a few who remembered that a dove was a bird of promise, not judgment. The dove flew and they followed his flight, running along Brillo Road until they came to the fence, which was covered in greenery. The river roared as the bird flew over to the other side. Through the spaces between leaves they saw the other side as well. They saw judgment and redemption, rescue and damnation, despair and hope.
She was dressed in a long, light blue dress and men’s work boots laced up to her calves. She wore a wide straw hat that blocked the glare of the sun, but not the view of her face. As the wind whipped itself up and her dress blew like waves, the Widow raised her right hand and pointed two fingers.
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